Chapter Three
Creatures were stumbling about everywhere, trying to be at all places at once. In the orchard, vegetables and fruits were being gathered. In the kitchens, the cooks were hard at work making a large variety of delicacies: pasties, crumble, puddings, cheeses, breads, and more. At the pond, two creatures were hard at work, reeling in a giant fish.
Brother Renim heaved on the fishing rod he had clasped firmly in his grip. Pulling him back so that the mouse would not get flung into the water, Munglo the squirrel strained against the force that wanted to pull him in the water with the Brother.
"Is it coming closer, Brother?" Munglo grunted, peering over Renim's shoulder to get a better view of the pond.
"Afraid not, young lad," Renim replied, arching his back as the fish caught on his line gave another jerk. "This un's a fighter, to say the least."
"Pull harder, then! The Friar wants to have a fish to roast for the feast by noontide, and it's already nearly midmorning."
The Brother clenched his teeth and pulled backwards. He placed one of his footpaws against the bow of the boat the two companions were standing in, straining backwards with all his might. "Well, mayhap he'll just have to wait then – Oh, would you look at that! The fish is giving in, it seems."
Munglo smiled grimly and continued to pull Renim. "I hope so. My muscles are getting weary every second that passes."
"Well, how do you think I am, an old windbag like me, eh?"
"I don't know, Brother Renim, why don't we switch bodies for a season? You seem fit and fresh."
Renim sniffed and heaved on the line. "Wish I could, youngster. Wish I could." He grunted heavily and gave one last great tug to the pole, then the fish – a grayling – shot out of the water and landed at the pond's edge.
It was then that Foremole, the leader of Redwall moles, came trundling by. Breathlessly, Munglo whipped around and called to him, waving a paw, "Foremole, could you hold down that grayling until we get to you?"
The mole blinked his beady eyes once at the squirrel and waved a heavy digging claw back, putting on extra burst of speed as he went toward the flailing fish. "Boi okey, thoi gurt fish be a big 'un! Doan't ee worry naow, maister Munglo; oi'll 'old et down." With another spurt of power, Foremole ran to the grayling and blocked its path to the water, pushing it as well.
Grabbing an oar apiece, Renim and Munglo paddled back to dry land and hopped off, Renim bringing the fishing pole with him. When the grayling had leaped from the water, the line that was connected the hook to the pole had snapped. Together, they aided Foremole to push the fish to the entrance of the kitchens.
Friar Trepin was just putting the finishing touches on a batch of mushroom pasties. When he looked out of a window to check the time of day, the otter's eyes flew wide open in shock to see the grayling being lugged around by the three creatures. Immediately leaving his task, he bounded out the kitchen's entrance and slapped his rudder on the ground appreciatively as he scrutinized the fish.
"Ahah, wot a beauty this'n is! Renim, mate, Munglo, mate, and Foremole, ol' matey, ye caught this all on your own?"
Foremole tweaked his snout respectively to the lean chef. "Hurr, oi on'y helped to get ee gurt fish yurr, zurr Trep'n," he informed.
The Friar whistled in delight. "Well, 'tis still a job well done, mate. Come on then, the Abbey needs a fish for the Spring feast, eh?"
Together, the four beasts carried the fish inside. When they passed the door, willing paws were lent, making the workload for the friends lighter.
When they finally came to rest the grayling on a huge countertop, there were dozens of paws scrabbling and many creatures abandoning their work for a moment to see the colossal fish that had just been brought in.
"Whoa now, that's a big fish, so 'tis!"
"I'd stamp me rudder on it that ol' Brother Renim caught it!"
"Boi okey, that bee's gurtly huge!"
The sound of Trepin's rudder smacking on the ground brought everybeast to attention. "The feast's tonight, mates, get back to work or yore pals an' ye won't have anything to eat!" The Friar chuckled as every on of the cooks scrambled back to their duties midst startled cries.
He turned to Brother Renim, Munglo, and Foremole. "My thanks to ye all, now we'll 'ave a great feast tonight, mates."
Munglo flashed a smile at the Friar. "Come now, every feast you make is good, Trepin," he argued.
"Well, can't argue with that, eh?" Trepin patted the young squirrel on the back heartily. "You goodbeasts go outside and be about your tasks. I'll have this grayling unner my control and ready for the feast tonight, slap my rudder, so I will."
Calling goodbyes to the otter, the threesome shuffled out of the hot kitchens and into the peaceful sunlit lawns.
Brother Renim stretched his paws as he walked, addressing his two companions. "Well, it looks like it will be a successful feast tonight, isn't that right?"
Foremole's head bobbed up and down in agreement. In his rustic mole dialect, he replied, "Boi okey zurr, that 'twill be, ho aye!"
Munglo scoffed airily. "Better be. We worked our paws to the bone reeling that grayling in. I can't wait to see how it turns out, Brother!" His bushy tail flicked with excitement.
Renim chuckled. "Neither can I, Munglo," he admitted, casting a wink to Foremole. "Neither can I."
Foremole worked to suppress a fit of laughter.
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In Mossflower Woods, a cloaked form sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily. Porran had been running in a straight line since he had left the vermin camp, never stopping to take a break, to even catch his breath. He had to get away from Vartun and his horde before they came awake.
Even after the sun had broken the horizon to announce a new day, even after it started to get to its highest point, he continued running. Only after his own legs gave in from weariness and fatigue did he stop, collapsing on a bed of moss and half-conscious. The heaviness he felt in his heart for abandoning his mother started to crash down onto him, and tears formed in the young stoat's eyes. He sniffled softly and dug his snout into the moss he was lying on. Nothing had gone right since he left the horde. It was too late when he realized that he forgot to pack any provisions for his trip. It was too late when he realized that he had strayed too far from the direction he was supposed to be going in. It was too late to turn back. If he did, Vartun was sure to behead him.
The first thing he realized was a sharp blow to his left flank. He moaned in agony and glanced up. "Eh?"
His vision was blurred, and he could not see the creature who had struck out at him. Before he could blink away the tears that were still gathering up behind his eyelids, he received another blow to the other flank. This time he recoiled and groaned, rubbing his new sores.
"Yep, he's alive alright," a voice sneered. The poke of a weapon hilt met the side of his head.
"Would be better if 'e 'twas dead," another voice muttered. Following this came a chorus of agreement. Biting back a shocked yelp, Porran realized he was surrounded by at least threescore beasts. He assumed they were all armed.
The first voice chimed up again. "Well, best take 'im prisoner for now, see where the rest of his group is." Porran heard the sound of paws brushing the woodland floor. "Hoi, help me bring this'n back, mates!"
The stoat's eyes flew wide open as firm paws grabbed at his arms and hauled him roughly upwards. In a blubber of sobs and words, he pleaded his case.
"Please, mates, I didn't do nothin' wrong, 'ave mercy on me! I don't mean anybeast no 'arm, honest, honest!"
"Many a vermin have said that to the Guosim, but none have ever meant it, stoat!" Porran found himself staring into the hard, stern eyes of a shrew. "Now, where are your cronies, and ye'd better talk quick!"
Porran gulped audibly. "I already told ye, sir, I mean no 'arm, I 'ave no cronies, no nothin'! I ain't bad like the others, promise!" He stared, wide-eyed, at the shrew beseechingly.
The shrew narrowed his eyes in contempt, but seemed to consider the stoat's plea. Scratching his chin with his free paw, while the other held a rapier, he called to the Guosim behind him without taking his gaze off of Porran.
"Ahoy mates, d'ye think we kin trust this stoat?"
The shrews answered with gusto. "Nay, Log a Log, 'tis a vermin!"
"Don't ye go soft-'eaded with this'n, Log a Log, 'tis an obvious trick!"
Porran's heartbeat started to race as his fate became more and more defined as the shrews spoke their piece. Everybeast seemed to agree on one thing: the vermin cannot be trusted. More likely than not, they would kill him given the chance.
It took him a moment to realize he was hyperventilating. Biting his lip, he tried to calm down, still staring into the unblinking eyes of Log a Log, who, after hearing the Guosim's remarks, went deep into thought; the shrew chieftain's eyes were misted over as he continued to stare into Porran's eyes.
Finally, the shrew tore his gaze from the stoat's, towards the other waiting shrews around them. Without turning back to look, Log a Log pointed a paw towards Porran.
"Do ye all remember the story of the makin' of Redwall Abbey? The fall of a wildcat, Tsarmina, was required. Now, she had a brother, Gingivere. He was not like the rest o' them; in fact, he was kind, carin', and helped the woodlanders. Do you think there can't be any more of those types of vermin about, that they became some kind of extinct species?"
A heavy silence followed, and nearly all eyes turned to Porran, who drew his breath in sharply. His fur started to prickle, and he felt uneasy, squirming in the grasp of the two shrews that held him up.
Finally, one of the shrews broke the silence. "Aye, guess yore right, Log a Log. But, how do we know this'n is one o' those?"
"Simple," the chieftain replied. "Everybeast, paws off yore weapons, cross yore arms across yore chest."
Everybeast was reluctant to do it, but, after much dark murmuring and uneasy paw movements, all the shrews obeyed their leader. Every pair of eyes now were on Porran, eyeing him tensely as Log a Log waved to the two shrews who were holding him captive. They let him go and backed away hurriedly, folding their arms over the other across their chest as they did.
"Now then, yore free, mate. We're not gonna do no 'arm to you, see. Our weapons are in their sheathes, and we can't reach 'em with our paws like this."
Porran gazed about, looking at all the shrews about him. Each one seemed more tense than the last he looked at.
"Look, I'm not gonna do anything to 'arm you," Porran promised, unbuckling the belt off his waist and laying it on the ground. Still thrust through it was his scimitar and dagger. "That there's me only weapons."
The shrews were clearly hesitant to leap up and believe him, so he flung off his cloak and threw it on the ground before him, right next to the belt. "There, d'you see anything else on me, eh? I'm not about to 'urt nobeast, trust me!"
Log a Log inspected the young stoat from bottom up, circling around him repeatedly. Then he inspected the cloak, taking his paws from their position to spread the cloak out. The black fabric coughed up plenty of dust, but other than that, nothing came out of it.
"Well, stoat," Log a Log murmured after a long moment of speculation, "I guess we kin trust you on yore word… For now. Where are ye going?"
Only when Porran exhaled in relief did he realize he was holding his breath from the tension. "Anyplace away from the horde I ran away from," he answered.
"Horde?" The shrew chieftain's stern eyes settled on Porran abruptly, burning a bit at the word.
"Um, um, yessir, but they were on the beaches away from 'ere, an' I covered my tracks nice an' good-like, as best I could. I promise on me oath, sir!"
Log a Log sighed. "Well, there's naught we can do to make sure o' that, unless we go to the shores to find out ourselves. So, stoat, ye said you were running away from the horde. Why so?"
Porran fidgeted a bit. "'Cause I didn't like 'ow the others treated otherbeasts, sir," he said. "I don't like to 'arm nobeast, but Vartun – he's the Warlord – forces me to."
"Aye then. I'll send two of my shrews to take ye to Redwall Abbey, where ye'll be safe under the Abbot's watch. An' we're trustin' ye on yore word, stoat, so don't go escapin' without somebeast to keep an eye on you. Agreed?" Log a Log stood up and turned towards Porran, holding his belt and his black cloak in his paws.
Porran received them, buckling on his belt again and slinging the cloak loosely over his shoulders. He clasped paws with Log a Log, grinning gratefully. "Aye, sir, thankee, sir!" he exclaimed, shaking the shrew's paw with gusto.
"Hoi now, don't wring my paw off," Log a Log chuckled, pawing his rapier hilt, just in case he had made a mistake. "Remember, some of us still consider ye as a bad vermin, evil, conniving."
At once, Porran released his grip. "Oh, er, sorry there sir." He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and coughed politely. "By the by, name's Porran."
Log a Log nodded and waved to a few shrews. "Nice t'meet ye, Porran. I'm Log a Log, chieftain of the Guosim, Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower as it stand for. These three'll be yore escorts."
The three shrews introduced themselves while Porran was tightening the cloak around his neck. Their names were Nurano, Welfin, and Veria.
The young stoat shook his paw with each of the three, observing that they were still uneasy about him. Only moments later, they were striding off through the Mossflower Woods towards Redwall Abbey, where Porran was surely destined to go.