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Chapter 16. It's the End of the World as We Know It
by Aras
Aras followed the servant down a corridor, through a door, and up a groaning staircase. The old mouse scooted along with a curious slant, as though his greying head was being dragged forward and it was all that his paws could do to keep up.
Aras cursed the scuttling peon. The interruption could not have come at a more inconvenient time. Brull was a hotheaded fool, and doubtless would take the opportunity to preach his views unopposed during Aras' absence. If the rat managed to sway the other fugitives his way, they all stood to miss out on a great opportunity.
Cresting the steps, the second floor hallway loomed before them. Aras regarded it cautiously, trepidation pushing back his residual irritation.
The corridor was long, panelled with a strange dark wood. Impassable doors lined the walls, great carved things with a foreboding countenance. The carpeting was thick and red, with strange swirly designs embroidered along the edging. As his eyes roamed along it, Aras couldn't help getting the impression that he was being pulled into the throat of a colossal serpent. With a deep breath, he padded along after the servant.
"Study's just down this way," mumbled the mouse, turning abruptly into a passage on the right.
This hallway was smaller, and lit by a series of small wrought-iron lanterns. For some reason, they had been spaced slightly too far apart, so that the pool of light from the first didn't quite reach to that of the second, resulting in a series of pitch-black gaps across the floor. The mouse scurried on ahead, melting into a patch of darkness.
Eventually, the mouse stopped at an imposing door, and rapped twice. The faint bong-ing sounds echoed through the cavernous hall.
"Wolverine is here as you requested, master," the old mouse called.
"Ah, wonderful! Send him in, Dahlen."
Dahlen grinned through crooked lips, and motioned Aras through the door. It briefly crossed Aras' mind that the mouse seemed to be perhaps the only beast completely at ease with being in the same room as a beast of his size.
Though it was still twilight, the study was shrouded in black. Sarkleyet was silhouetted in candlelight, hunched over a large writing desk. Light glimmered faintly off the bindings of several bookshelves adjacent to it. Without turning around, Sarkleyet waved Aras towards a squat cushioned stool.
The seat groaned beneath his weight as the wolverine settled onto it, and then there was silence.
"The Fates have been most kind," the marten finally said, apparently remaining enthralled by his desk.
Aras took the bait. "How so, sir?"
"Well, you, of course!" beamed Sarkleyet, swivelling about in his chair. "Of course, 'you,' meaning 'all of you'. Who could fathom that one liberation raid could possibly bear such exquisite fruit?"
Incredible, Aras thought. Even when he's sitting still, he struts. "Which particular fruits might those be, sir?"
"Oh, I dare say there are few. Take the rather fetching Sybil, for starters. Pine martens as a species have a tendency to be gifted climbers. Her youthful agility and acrobatic prowess ought to come in handy during the coming events."
"Perhaps," he agreed.
"And there's the snake, who could prove to be useful in any number of situations. Just think of it! A serpent can squeeze into places the rest of us would never think possible. Rescues, retrievals, spying, the possibilities are boundless!"
"Boundless," Aras agreed.
"As well, there's the stoat, and the rat, the wildcat who's been attempting to stare you to death all evening, and the rather vile lizard. Miss Pearl's connections in Evnakt could prove very useful, should she choose to join us, but I must confess a nagging doubt. As for the other one..."
"She'd make a wonderful doorstop, sir."
Sarkleyet blinked at him awkwardly. "Was that a joke?"
"Er... sort of." No. Not really.
The marten rallied, and continued his monologue. "Amusingly, we have a wolf in our midst. And, wonder of all wonders, there's you, an actual flesh-and-blood wolverine. Wolf and wolverine, who could fathom it? When Kione reported today's events to me, my first reaction was to believe that I had heard incorrectly. But, to my surprise and delight, Red Dusk is indeed playing host to two natives of The Circle."
This was surprising. "You know about The Circle?"
"I consider it the duty of any intelligent thinker to know as much about the world we live in as it is possible to discover. Historical documents, in particular, are a distinct passion of mine. Tell me, Aras, what do you recall of the history of the wolverines?"
"Not much, I'm afraid." This was, unfortunately, true.
The marten made a scolding tch sound. "Unfortunate. It is my belief that to know about oneself, one must know where one comes from." Sarkleyet continued talking, one paw idly stroking the arm of his chair. "It really is quite a fascinating tale. Permit me to enlighten you, if you don't mind."
The marten reverently lifted a tome from his desk, smiling as though recounting the accomplishments of a favored child. "This volume is indeed a treasure. I acquired it from a tribe of seafaring wolves from The Circle known as the Kota. It is, to my knowledge, the only existing account of The Circle's history in the whole of Mossflower. Including, I might add, fascinating details about your species."
Aras felt an icy claw of dread pierce his heart. He knows. He knows the wolverines eat meat, and he's toying with me.
Sarkleyet adjusted the lantern, spilling light onto the book. The marten's paw turned the pages delicately, almost reverent. "Ah, here are... 'Thoughout the history of the Circle, for the longest memory of the quill, the lands of ice and snow had been a monarchy, serving under the beasts known as the wolverines. The wolverines had ruled over us in The Circle, maintaining their power by the strength of claw and fang. Their strength unrivalled, their power uncontested, it seemed that the wolverines were invincible.'"
"'But!'" Sarkleyet held up a finger, "'Every dynasty must have their pariah, and the wolverines found an impressive one in Gulo the Savage. Following the death of their father, Gulo's brother treacherously stole the legendary Walking Stone. Outraged, Gulo assembled the strongest fighting force in the northlands, and vanished over the horizon in pursuit. Did he ever catch up with his brother, or reclaim the Walking Stone? It is possible. All things are. But the days streamed past, and the season of blizzards came and went. Still the Savage failed to return. The great seas had swallowed up our leader, our strongest warriors, and our symbol of power. Nobeast knows what happened to them.'"
Sarkleyet's voice took on a sardonically piteous tone. "Of course, anybeast chancing to read the histories of Mossflower's Redwall Abbey would discover the answer. Their recorders detail the mysterious appearance of a ravenous goliath from across the sea. They go on to relate how a series of tactical blunders led every last one of the Circle's warriors and, ultimately, the Savage himself to the slaughter. Most unfortunate."
The marten turned his attention back to the book, and continued to read. "'And so, the Circle awoke from our collective delusion, and for the first time we realized the devastation caused by our monstrous rulers. Taking up arms, the beasts of the Circle united, and rebelled. The wolverines were killed or driven out, as one beast their species was fractured and scattered to the cold northern winds.'"
"'And thus,'" the soft voice continued, "'ended the reign of the meat-eaters.'"
The book thumped closed, fracturing a deafening silence.
"I believe that we have an understanding, Aras. It's an elementary deduction from your stony countenance that you'd rather not have the populace of Evnara aware of your dietary concerns, and while I personally find the idea of consuming my fellow creatures deplorable, I see no reason to sound the alarm. And I strongly suggest, Aras, that you do not give me one."
The wolverine's heart sank as the pieces fell into place. Of course. That's what this meeting is all about. Keeping the big players in line. Aras couldn't believe the irony.
"Wonderful," Sarkleyet grinned. The marten began slowly rubbing his paws together, slipping one over the other in a silent victory celebration. "I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have a beast like you assisting with the recovery of the Red Brandy. Now, please, enjoy the remainder of your evening. Tomorrow is sure to be an eventful day."
Aras nodded curtly and excused himself. As he stepped back into the hallway, he suddenly remembered the round bulge in his pocket. On an impulse, he wrestled it out and held it up. By the lantern's light he brushed some of the acquired dirt and grime from the stone in his paw. It was roughly disc shaped; about the size of an apple. The jewel was dark red in color, as though a large drop of blood had frozen in midair.
The stone had ridden unnoticed in his pocket for the duration of his serial imprisonments, apparently. It wasn't too surprising. His tunic was frayed and completely caked with filth; Aras might never have discovered the gem had it not fallen from his pocket earlier in the evening, during Sarkleyet's impassioned plea for everybeast's assistance.
Sybil had snatched it up first, her eyes shining as she turned it this way and that.
Aras had reached forward, hesitantly. For a brief second before passing the stone over, the pine marten's paw had clenched around it, as though not quite willing to release it.
"It's beautiful," Silisk had purred.
No. His instinct spawned the words in his head. No, it's not. It's not beautiful at all. It's... treacherous.
There had been something... foreboding, about the stone. Still was.
But it was no matter. It was only a stone, after all. Aras crammed it back into the pocket of his tunic, and headed for the stairwell.
The floorboards creaked reproachfully as Aras slipped into the bedoom.
It was dark, save for the dull yellow wash of a candle. The room was curiously empty, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Aras sat on his bunk, his head spinning. He felt conflicted. It was as though everybeast had latched their claws into him, and they were all pulling away in different directions. Major Calderon wanted information. Sarkleyet wanted the all-important Red Brandy. Just now there had been the ermine Antonio, questioning him with absurdly pretentious warmth. Others wanted him to fight, to protect. It seemed that quite a lot wanted him to die.
And all he wanted to do was remember.
He thought back to the dream he had had on the ship, the one with Narkus and the gull. His only concrete memory of... well, anything. In some ways, he resented it. If one piece of his past could be recovered, that meant it was possible that the other memories were still there somewhere. His mind had locked them away, and Aras was powerless to find them. Aras loathed the feeling of powerlessness.
The wolverine stretched out along the bed. The cot was too narrow, and the blanket was rough and scratchy. Though, he would begrudgingly admit, it was far superior to any of his recent sleeping environs. He closed his eyes, poring through the events of the day.
Underneath the binding, the wolverine's arm still stung, bringing to mind unpleasant recollections of the battle.
When the fighting broke out, Aras had purposely hung back, hesitant to get involved. He was walking a very fine line with Major Calderon's trust, and it was vitally important that he avoid doing anything to upset that balance.
He had watched impassively as the wolf Rea had collapsed against the wall, beaten aside by Jibe's polearm. The otter continued lashing out at her, fuelled by pure rage.
One of the other prisoners, he'd never know whom, had shoved him.
"Do something! Anything!" the stranger had screamed. The voice had sounded hollow, as though the words were reaching out to him from far away.
The wolverine had stumbled forwards, unsure of himself. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't a warrior. He didn't know how to fight!
The words reverberated in his mind, over and over. "Do something!"
So, Aras did something. Rushing forward, the wolverine brought his arm up and around, striking downwards as the hammer pounds the nail. He recalled how warm the otter's fur had been, the crushing, snapping sound of bone breaking beneath his fist. Jibe had slammed backwards, crashing to the floor. Within seconds thick, scarlet blood had begun to seep. It ran down Jibe's muzzle in a thick dark ribbon, pooling on the hallway floor.
Aras' heart had begun to pound in his ears, faster and faster until it was a steady roar. His breath had become ragged, uneven. The instinctual beast within screamed at him to leap forward, finish the job. His mouth had watered, craving the succulent meat and blood it had been denied for far too long.
Oh, the blood...
But the part of him that was still Aras, the part that could think and reason, had held him back, restrained the primal instinct and shamed it into submission.
The Long Patrol had had him unjustly imprisoned, interrogated, drugged, and finally coerced into this insane situation, because of murder. The worst thing Aras could do now was to throw away his chance at absolution. He would never give the cottontails an excuse to believe they'd been right all along.
So he had torn his gaze away, forcing himself to check on the huddled wolf.
After the battle, the vixen called Pearl had insisted on bandaging the gash on his arm. The mistress had been gentle, delicately binding the cloth. She had called him brave.
He tugged off the bandage. The fur underneath was sticky and red, matted with drying blood. The vixen was wrong. Aras wasn't brave. Brave beasts led the charge at the start, and fought to the finish. He had had to be forced into action, and had fled for his life.
By candlelight, Aras scraped away the faint beginnings of a scab. Sweat began appearing on the wolverine's brow as he wiped the gummy pus from his claws.
Aras gently applied pressure to the torn flesh, wincing hard. The cut was deep. A rivulet of blood quickly welled up between his claws, trickling down his arm.
Aras had lost his memories, and along with them, his life. He had lost the experiences, lost all of the faces and the sounds and the pictures. Along with them, he had effectively lost his family, his friends.
And now, he would gladly lose his blood, because he could not afford to lose his mind.
He craned his neck, suckling at the wound. He felt the warm, wet liquid spilling onto his tongue, mixing with his saliva. The wolverine swallowed gratefully again and again, revelling in the oasis.
Finally quenched, he tried clumsily to re-tie the bandage. This was only a temporary solution, he knew. Soon, very soon, he would require a proper meal.
But for tonight, Aras would sleep. And as he slept, perhaps he would dream, and as he dreamt, perhaps he would remember.
And soon the blissful waves of rest overtook him.