Marianne and the Song of Redwall

by ifeelmad

Two young ferrets have fled from their dying tribal settlement. But now, although they are not aware of it, they are fleeing from vengeful paws.

25. Chapter 25

The head of the Great Hall cleaning crew had, at last, declared it safe to enter.
The Hall had been dusted out and scrubbed down as thoroughly as possible. Though Marianne and her ferret companions had managed to slow the spreading of the fleas somewhat, and had killed a considerable number, the task had not been finished by far. The members of the cleaning crew had clothed themselves from head to toe, hoping that the fabric would afford them some protection from flea bites; the fleas, however, had attacked regardless, biting through the garments, a thing that had left the Redwallers utterly confounded.
Before Great Hall's cleaning was over, they had been forced to resort to thick winter wear, including mittens, which had offered more protection, but had made for many difficult, slow and uncomfortable hours of cleaning.
The barricade between Cavern Hole and Great Hall had been removed now, however; the Hall was drying, and, as the cleaners ran baths for themselves, their coats and mittens were also being laundered thoroughly so that any fleas they had collected would be drowned.
Now, Abbess Elinor made her way across Great Hall, stepping carefully, for the floorstones were still quite damp. Martin the Warrior greeted her with a radiant smile and an upraised sword.
The Abbess could not help but to return the smile. Coming over to stand before the tapestry, she caressed it with a reverent paw.
"My dear friend. You look as if you have been watching all of this, watching us run hither and thither, fretting and fearing, saying to yourself all the while, 'Look at these silly worrywarts. Can't they see that everything will be all right in the end? I am still here to protect them from all harm.'"
She rested her head against the bottom of the tapestry, as if it were a soft pillow or the shoulder of a close confidant.
"And yet, weak as I am, I can only worry and fear. Several of my creatures have been bitten by diseased fleas. I do not believe they have suffered many bites, but how many is too many? I know nothing of this Black Death.
"I sent my best scouting squirrels out to gather information regarding these Walking Deadbeasts of Mossflower; they have not yet returned. The Abbey is divided - some are prepared to fight these creatures if they return, and others are eager to surrender. And in the center of it all is a pair of young vermin, with whom we have not been acquainted for four days, and of whom we know little."
She lifted her head, gazing up into the storm-grey eyes of the Warrior.
"I have never given up hope; I have faith in you. I know that someday, when the time is right, He Who holds all of Redwall in His Hand will send us a clue or a sign through you that will lead us to our little Fainlie.
"Will you tell me, my friend, what you would do, were you in my position? Would you fight to protect two vermin? Would you ask them to sort the conflict out with their own kind?"
A voice from behind startled her. "Excuse me, Abbess Elinor."
Abbess Elinor spun about to find Samuel standing there, staring not at her, but at the tapestry, just as she had been doing.
"Master Samuel." Immediately she composed herself, and, with a pursing of the lips, donned the air of aloof regality that she always wore when in the presence of other creatures. "What brings you to Great Hall, and what do you mean by sneaking up on me as you did?"
It was then that Samuel gave her his full attention. There was a glint in his dark eyes that the Abbess found unnerving.
"Beg pardon, Mother Abbess, marm. Wasn't intentional. I was 'opin' t' find you 'ere, though."
Abbess Elinor nodded curtly. "You wished to speak with me?"
"Aye - t' tell you somethin', actually."
"And what is that?"
"I thought you might want t' know that there is no 'orde of Walkin' Dead outside o' th' Abbey. There's only a dozen mad ugly creatures whose deaths ain't far off, though they've still got rat's fleas."
A wrinkle of confusion appeared between the Abbess's eyes.
"And why, Master Samuel, did you not tell us of this before?" she demanded. "You allowed us all to believe that there WAS a horde - are you being truthful now?"
Samuel directed his gaze, once again, to the tapestry. "I didn't know myself - till I dreamt of it, that is."
Abbess Elinor folded her paws into her habit sleeves. "You are telling me that you had a vision of Martin?"
"No, Mother Abbess, marm. Queer an' daft as it sounds, it was a friend that went t' Dark Forest seasons back."
Abbess Elinor shook her head.
"I offer my condolences, Master Samuel. It does not sound at all 'queer' or unusual to have dreamt of a friend who passed away long ago, especially at a stressful time such as this one - if you did indeed dream of him or her. However, I am afraid that we cannot rely upon these dreams of yours as a source of intelligence regarding the creatures who call themselves the Walking Dead. We must wait for the squirrel scouts to return with their information."
"In that case, Mother Abbess, marm, I'm afraid you'll be waitin' for a long time. Yore scouts were slain."
The furrow between her eyes deepened. "And how do you know this?"
"'Cos I dreamt of it."
Abbess Elinor fixed him with a frosty stare. "I will hear no more of this nonsense - not another word! Have you come for anything else, Master Samuel?"
Samuel stood upright now, straight as an arrow, shoulders squared. That strange, hard luster had not left his eyes, though his tone did not change.
"I wanted t' ask if you'd get my dagger an' a bow with arrows for me from th' Skipper."
"Your dagger, a bow and arrows? Whatever for, young ferret?"
"I'm goin' off t' th' walltops with th' others t' see that none o' Rashe's creatures get near th' Abbey!"
Surprise made a brief appearance upon the Abbess's face, before she erased all expression from it.
"That won't be necessary, Master Samuel. Please, sit down in Cavern Hole and eat your breakfast."
"With respect, Abbess Elinor, marm, I 'ope yore not forbidding me t' keep watch."
"It is not necessary for you to guard the Abbey; the otters and squirrels are sufficient."
"On that, I can't agree with you, Mother Abbess, marm - I think it's very necessary, if you'll give me permission." Samuel met her eyes. "I know you an' th' Abbeybeasts voted on whether or not you'll fight Rashe an' 'is cronies. I 'ope it ain't 'cos of any sort o' guilty feelin's that you won't let me stand guard or defend yore Abbey; it'd be of more 'elp t' me if you didn't stop me. I was th' one wot started 'alf of this, any'ow, in a way, by settin' off Miz Muryet's ailment, since it was my sister who meddled about with her.,"
Again, Abbess Elinor had to conceal her surprise.
"No, Master Samuel, I do not ask you not to keep watch because I felt 'any sort of guilt,' but because you are needed inside of Redwall. And how did you come to know about the vote? Surely Salome did not mention it to you; you've been in your chamber, with the door locked, from duskfall yesterday until this morning, so that your sister was forced to sleep in the kitchen."
"My friend mentioned it, Mother Abbess, marm. What was it you needed me for?"
"How knowledgeable are you about this Black Death?"
"I've watched creatures die of it, marm, but that's all o' th' knowledge I've got. I'm no Herbalist or 'ealer. Why?"
Abbess Elinor, who was never one for touching or making direct, fur-to-fur contact with other creatures, caught hold of the edge of Samuel's tunic.
"That is what I wanted you for. Many of the creatures who cleaned this Hall were bitten by fleas!"
The stiffening of Samuel's body, and the draining of color from his face, went unnoticed by the Abbess, who began to steer him off with firm tugs.
"If you will not have breakfast, you must come with me to the infirmary and tell me whether the matter is severe or whether they look as if they will be all right."
Samuel suppressed the urge to wrench free of the Abbess's grip or push her away.
"I can't tell you that by lookin' at 'em, Mother Abbess, marm. Somebeasts that've been bit by fleas 'ave been all right, an' others fall ill. I can only tell you that creatures that were bit many times tend t' end up with th' plague more often than th' creatures that only got bit once or twice - but I can't promise anythin'."
"Then all of the creatures who have been bitten by a flea are at risk of death." Abbess Elinor lifted her paws to heaven, near despair now. "God save us all! How will we know whether any of the creatures have got the plague?"
Samuel's voice was tight as a bowstring. "'Cos they'll start t' moan about 'eadaches, fever an' pain before th' black bumps appear."
"How long it would take for a creature to begin to feel this feverishness?"
"I can't say for certain - haply a few days!" The edge in Samuel's voice grew sharper. "I don't mean t' offend, Abbess Elinor, marm, but if'n yore afraid of th' rest o' yore creatures gettin' bit, there's naught t' do but t' keep Rashe's rat fleas away from th' Abbey. That's wot I mean t' do, an' I'd like t' do it soon as I can! Can I 'ave th' weapons?"
Abbess Elinor drew herself up to full height, matching his stare. "I'd thank you not to adopt that tone with me, young ferret; I know very well that the Abbey must be guarded against the vermin outside. I have told you already, though, that you are not needed for this purpose. No, you may not have weapons; no creature in this Abbey, with the exception of the otters and squirrel archers, will have weapons till I've made my decision regarding Rashe. I will not argue the point with you. If you have nothing more to ask me, you may take your breakfast in Cavern Hole or return to your room. Your younger sister is in the kitchen - still sleeping, I assume. Wake her and take her with you when you go."
Samuel seemed to realize that, for the moment, he had been defeated.
"As you want, Mother Abbess."
As he turned to leave Great Hall, Abbess Elinor followed him with her eyes.
He was one of the strangest creatures she had ever met, this Samuel, son of Matt. From the moment he had arrived at the gates of Redwall, he had shown himself to be brusque-mannered and taciturn, providing information only when questioned - brief answers that told the Abbess almost nothing about where he had come from and what had brought him to Redwall. He was a creature who did not like to communicate and he had made no effort to hide this trait of his.
Thereafter, meetings with him in Cavern Hole had made it apparent that he was in possession of a temper that could, if ignited, rival that of the Skipper. The Abbess had also learned that he was capable of dishonesty. The fact that he was not a native of Mossflower Woods, as he had claimed, and that he had not come to Redwall because a storm had destroyed his home, had come to light - and God only knew how much truth there was in any of his other claims.
Was there a chance that Samuel could be in cooperation with this Rashe, plotting to harm the Abbey from the inside somehow, while pretending to fear for his life?
Abbess Elinor's gaze returned to the face of Martin.
To her, only two things were certain to be true - the first being that this would not be over before somebeast had died.
She knew, also, that before long, she would be forced to make a decision, and, in the end, regardless of which decision she made, she would never feel at ease with it, nor would she ever forgive herself, till the end of her days.

ooooooloOoooooooooOooooooooooooooo

Because Samuel had no desire to eat, he skipped Cavern Hole and headed for the kitchens.
Friar Jerome worked alone this morning, ladling oatmeal into bowls, arranging trays of toast and fruit. At the sight of Samuel, he gestured toward a corner of the kitchen.
"Yore sister's be'ind that stove with Miz Marianne, fast asleep."
"Thank you. An' sorry for puttin' her off on you. Should never 'ave locked that door. I'll keep her with me from 'ere on."
Samuel took a step toward the indicated corner, but the Friar set his ladle down.
"You're a good creature, Samuel." He spoke quietly. "You're 'avin' a hard time of it, and the Lord knows that t' be true. Though it troubles me t' no end t' 'ear yore sister clawin' an' scratchin' at 'erself in her sleep, it ain't no bother t' me t' 'ave her in 'ere."
Samuel did not turn to face Friar Jerome.
"That's a kind thing t' say, Friar. But I think th' Abbess'd prefer t' 'ave us out o' th' way. I'll be seein' you when she decides what's goin' t' appen."
Making his way over to the stove, he stooped down to lift a sleeping Salome out from behind it and into his arms.
God's name, if she ain't out like a wet candle; she 'asn't stirred. Must've been up 'alf the night, worryin'.
The Friar watched him as he shifted Salome's head to rest upon his shoulder.
"Were I in your shoes, Master Samuel, I'd take yore sister an' leave. You ain't tradeable goods, for Rashe or for th' Abbess; nobeast 'ere would be in th' right t' stop you."
Samuel froze, allowing Salome to slide out of his grip a fraction.
He scanned the face of the Friar, which was as quietly reserved in its expression as ever. He wiped his flour-dusted paws upon his smock.
"If you 'ad to, haply you could say you were goin' off t' sort matters out with Rashe yoreself, talk t' him, then you could try t' find someplace t' 'ide, soon as you got clear o' th' Abbey, till Rashe and his creatures leave Mossflower Woods or get defeated. I'd say there's no better time t' try it than now, while th' coast looks clear. I'll pack you some vittles."
For a long while, Samuel was silent ,absorbing and contemplating all of this.
"Where in th' name o' Vulpuz would we run off to, if th' Abbess let us go? Where would we 'ide - in a bush? S'pose th' scum ain't far off from th' Abbey an' we walk right int' their paws - what then?"
Friar Jerome came over and touched his shoulder. "S'pose they ARE far off, there's a tree 'ollow or someplace outside o' th' Abbey for you t' 'ide yoreselves in, an' you're missin' a chance t' get away right now by standin' about, doubtin' an' 'esitatin'? Suppose you stay 'ere an' th' Abbess votes t' 'and you over t' Rashe tomorrow?"
Samuel moved away from the Friar's touch. "I'd try it if I didn't 'ave Salome t' worry about. It's too risky - if we land int' Rashe's paws, there's no turnin' back."
Friar Jerome held out his paws. "At least give it a moment o' thought, for yore sister's sake. "
Salome was beginning to stir in her brother's arms. Samuel, gathering her closer, turned to leave the kitchen quarters, but not without a parting comment.
"I'll think it over, as you say, Friar - but as I see it, th' only thing that'd save my sister is th' Abbess realizin' her scouts are dead an' there's naught but a dozen o' th' Walkin' Dead out there, then keepin' them from gettin' close t' th' Abbey an' slayin' them t' th' twelfth one!"

ooooooloOoooooooooOooooooooooooooo

Salome woke to find herself in bed, with Samuel sitting at the head, facing the window, staring out at the sky as he was prone to do.
As she sat upright, she felt vaguely troubled, and tried to recall the reason. At once, memories of all that had taken place the night before returned to her.
Pushing the blankets aside, she scrambled out of bed. Samuel turned, jolted out of his reverie by the sound of shuffling.
"Where are you off to?"
Salome halted halfway between the bed and the door to claw at the flea bite on her arm. Vulpuz, these little bumps itched infernally!
"I've got t' talk t' Marianne!"
"You can't talk t' her - for a while, leastways. Th' Abbess wants us in 'ere, like we were before."
"But I've got t' see her!" Salome cried. "She got cross with me last night, an' I didn't get t' explain wot I meant t' her properly before th' Friar came for us."
"Explain wot you meant by what? What was she cross about?"
Salome realized that perhaps she had disclosed too much already. She shrugged.
"It wasn't nothin', really. We just 'ad a quarrel an' I don't want her t' stay cross - especially if we . . .if th' Abbess . . .well . . ."
Samuel understood. Salome sensed that he was not unsympathetic towards her, but he refused to show it openly.
"I can't change th' Abbess's orders, Baby Sister. Wotever's made yore squirrelmaid friend mad, she'll 'ave t' come back 'ere if she decides t' mend things with you. Stop rakin' at those bites, for God's sake, or you'll tear them open."
Salome returned to the bed, throwing herself down on it with a snort of anger. "Ugh! I can't stay in this chamber - shut up like some sort o' prisoner! It ain't fair!"
Samuel came over to sit beside her. He tweaked her ear. "Shut up with yore moanin'. We've got more things t' worry about than sittin' in a chamber."
Salome fell silent.
Outwardly, she was sullen, but, unbeknownst to Samuel, her mind was a cyclone of thoughts.
She had told Marianne, "I ain't hiding, and I ain't running away" - but only now did she feel the full weight of the words she had spoken, the promise that she had given, a weight that, of a sudden, she felt too small and too alone to bear.
If I don't 'ide or run off, then if th' Abbess won't fight th' Walkin' Dead . . .she'll 'ave them slay me. Against her will, her throat tightened, and her eyes grew damp. Why do I go around sayin' daft things?
But she knew, though she tried not to think of it, that anger with herself, her "daftness," was not the reason that she was on the verge of tears.
But I remember why I said I wouldn't run or 'ide . . .'cos I made some o' this 'appen by botherin' Muryet, an' it's because of us th' Walking Dead creatures ever came 'ere. They'd never believe th' Abbess if she tried t' tell them we'd run away an' they didn't 'ave us - an' if'n they'd decided t' fight an' I'd run off or 'id somewhere before they 'ad a chance t' tell me, instead of stayin' t' try an' 'elp . . .it'd be like I was a big fat coward who takes creatures for all they've got, gets them slain or 'urt an' goes dashin' off. Marianne swears t' God an' back that she's goin' t' fight if th' Abbess allows it - s'pose she's shot, or gets th' Black Death? I wouldn't never see her again.
She hastened to wipe her eyes before Samuel could notice the approaching tears. Any'ow, where would we run off to if we tried?
She wanted nothing more than to reconcile with Marianne, to confide in her, or even in gentle Sister Jane, for she could not exasperate Samuel with these things.
"Salome, quit clawin' yoreself or I'll pull all yore claws out!" Salome froze - she had been lost in thought, unaware that she had been scratching.
Samuel inhaled deeply, then heaved a sigh.
"Look, Baby Sister, I'm sorry. It ain't you I'm cross with . .
You're all right, aren't you?"
The apology surprised Salome, who, for a moment, could not decide how to reply.
". . . I'm all right, I s'pose."
"Do you 'urt?"
Salome blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Just that. Does anythin' ache?"
Salome shrugged. "No - nothin' 'urts. S'just th' itchin'."
"Good."
Samuel cast another glance in the direction of the window, and Salome thought he would begin another staring session. Then, without warning, he stood.
"Wash yore face. We're goin' t' get out o' here."