It was a sweltering day to be outside. Tamar wasn't.
"Tamar, be a dear and bring me the kettle," Merrill said, and Tamar put down the laundry he had been folding. Pivet and Flora's loose shirts joined his jerkin.
"Coming, grandma," he said. Tamar retrieved the kettle from the window ledge. Outside, there was sunshine and riverside. Steam boiled out of the kitchen, and Tamar walked back to it with the kettle in hand and the smell of beans and broth in his nose.
Merrill's hip hadn't been feeling good as of late, and as a result, neither of them had been on longer jaunts than to the end of the lawn. Tamar handled all the heavy lifting, as usual, but he made an effort to retrieve things that were out of the way for her. Some sores healed better with sucking up and moving on. Age was not one of them.
"Good," Merrill said when Tamar ducked under a pillar of steam and joined her at the oven. The stone slab atop it had been removed and replaced with a grate, and it had easily turned into an open stove. "We can have tea brewing, and right in time for lunch."
She stood on a stool and stirred a pot of green beans as big as she was. Her spectacles fogged with steam. Even in the sweltering summer heat with the door and windows propped open, Merrill was wearing a shawl.
"Skipper should be along soon to help us carry this pot to the holt, and then Mrs. Fieldmouse is coming by there with her twins- Pivet and Flora are excited to see you, and we have to return their clothes; the babes did wonders at getting jam stains on their shirts, almost as well as you did at their age- and then Logalog will be swinging along by the holt at that time, and we'll get to drop the second pot off."
Merrill gave the spoon another stir and fished a bean out of the pot. She sniffed it with her speck of a dried raspberry nose before she nibbled half of it. Merrill dipped the spoon into the pot again and swiveled it over her shoulder.
"Second opinion?"
Tamar bent down before any hot water could run down the spoon and Merrill's arm. His crooked incisors clacked against the wood.
"Perfect, grandma," he said.
"Wonderful," Merrill said. She set the spoon down, and with a burst of effort from her wiry body, shoved the huge pot of beans aside. She bent and reached for the second pot filled with beans and water on the floor. "Now if you could catch any of those fish you saw flirting with the cattails yesterday afternoon, I might be able to fry some for you before we have to leave."
Tamar grabbed the pot before Merrill could reach it.
"Grandma, I've got it," he said. The pot weighed more than Merrill and the stool combined, and there was no question which one looked more fragile.
"Don't worry. I can handle this," Merrill said, reaching again. Tamar began lifting the pot onto the stove.
Merrill smacked his paw with the spoon.
"Tamar! I said I could handle it. I've been cooking for all sixty seasons of my life, if not more, and I don't need a young'un showing me how to lift a pot," she chided.
Tamar slowly put the pot down. Merrill couldn't see five feet in front of her, but she would definitely know if he accidentally set the pot on the stove before she could stop him.
Merrill bent and grabbed the pot again. Her paws didn't cover half of the handles. She straightened, somehow, and mid-movement, Tamar feared she would snap in half.
"See, Tamar?" she said. "Easy."
The stool tipped back and stood on its two hind legs. Merrill and her shawl twisted and wavered, the giant pot heaved and threatened to spill a tsunami of beans and water, and Tamar dove for the stool. Merrill caught her balance and set the pot on the stove right as the stool's foot clunked onto Tamar's paw. A silent omph floated up from the floor.
"There we are," Merrill said. She dusted her paws. "A second pot of Guosim-feeding legumes on the way. You can go leagues on a pawful of beans. Grandson, why are you on the floor?"
"I like it down here," Tamar said.
"Well, I'm sorry to ruin your experience, but I need you up here," Merrill said. "Do you mind grabbing some kindling from the back lawn? The stove is running short."
Tamar headed out the door into the furnace. Heat poured down his fur and trickled down the skinny rings of his tail. He came back into the cottage with an armful of kindling and a leaf-sporting twig poking into his arm.
There was a stoat in the cottage.
Tamar froze. So did the stoat. For a long moment, they stared at each other, Tamar in the doorway and the ribby stoat behind the table. Tamar's shadow blocked the light and little swirls of gnats from coming in with the heat. He felt numb and didn't hear their buzzing in his ear at all.
The silence broke when Merrill's voice piped from the kitchen.
"Tamar! Are you there?" she said, and both Tamar and the stoat started and whipped their heads to stare at the steam-filled doorway. "We have some fire in the stove yet, but I need the kindling, dear. Losing heat and too little salt has spoilt many a pot."
"Yes, grandma," Tamar said. When he regained his voice, it broke the spell, and reality crashed back in. Tamar headed for the kitchen and put the kindling in. When he returned, the stoat was leaning on the back of a chair.
"This is a tidy n' nice little place," she said. Her voice was light. "You live here?"
"Yes," Tamar said. The unfamiliar accent, thick and light as fingers skimming a wallet, made his stomach twist. He didn't see a blade on the stoat. "My grandma and I."
The stoat took stock of the cheesecloth curtains, hanging herbs, and buckets of laundry pins next to drying flowers and jam jar rings. She moved like a sentient frayed rope made of muscle.
"Nice. How'd you keep this place hid from the otters and shrews?" she said.
"We manage," Tamar said.
The stoat curled her lip at the cheesecloth curtains.
"This looks like a little more than managin' to me. My grandmother would've killed ta have a fourth of this curtain to carry her spoils in. This looks so prim and done up, it's almost woodlander."
Before he could answer, Merrill's voice cut the steam alongside the whistling of a tea kettle.
"Tamar, dear, who are you talking to?"
"Myself," Tamar said. The stoat choked slightly at 'dear.'
"Now, Tamar, we've talked about this before," Merrill's voice said. Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen. "Don't speak about yourself in such a derogatory tone. It's unhealthy to say those rude things, even in jest. You know what they say: a few is fine, beyond that's unkind."
The stoat looked mystified. Tamar took the opportunity to put himself between her and the kitchen.
"Yes, grandma," he said.
"Your grandma sounds flakier than whittled wood," the stoat said. She shrank as Tamar looked at her. "Not that it's a bad thing. 'M sure she deserves to sound flakey if she's made it that far past middle age. ...three times."
"Lunch!" Merrill called. "I have the tea and a bowl of beans ready. Hurry up, Tamar. You need to eat."
The stoat's stomach growled. For a moment, her gaze darted to the kitchen, and she looked at it with hollow, pleading eyes.
"You're livin' good," she said. "It wouldn't hurt you to share any, would it?"
Tamar was going to reply before the chaos in the kitchen stopped. He heard the click of Merrill's cane on the floor, and the petite shuffling which meant she had hopped off the stool and adjusted her shawls.
"I hear another voice. Do we have company, or is that robin who lives across the river getting sassy again?"
Tamar looked at the skinny, pleading vermin's eyes.
"...we have a visitor," he said. The stoat's face lit up when she heard the clatter of bowls and silverware.
"Well don't be rude," Merrill said, nearing the curtain of smoke at the kitchen door; "invite them in. I'll be right with you!"
The stoat grinned as Tamar looked at her. Sharp teeth whittled on nothing filled her smile.
"Thank ye greatly for the invitation."
"You're welcome. I gave it fondly," Tamar said.
He and the stoat remained standing and staring at each other as the clinking of Merrill's cane came closer. When the stoat saw her figure clarifying in the column of smoke, she shrank. Tamar swore she jammed her paws by her sides and flew back from the table with one jump. He glimpsed a glimmer of silver. Merrill jabbed Tamar in the side.
"You're still standing. You didn't offer her a chair, grandson. I thought I taught you better than that," she said. "I bet she's traveled far, and for her to end up in the only house that wouldn't offer a place to put her feet up won't do. I'm sorry," Merrill said, turning to the stoat, who tensely lingered against the wall. "My grandson forgets himself sometimes. Take a seat. I'll have the other bowls out in no time."
"That's very kind of you… m'am," the stoat said, and she slipped into a nearby chair like she was treading on thin ice. Tamar thought she could've walked on eggshells and not broken them. She scrutinized Merrill's white whiskers and fogged up glasses, but her sharp gaze disappeared when Merrill set the bowl of beans and cup of tea in front of her.
"We get plenty of visitors but not many strangers here," Merrill said as the stoat scarfed the soup. She picked up the bowl and half drank it. Merrill clicked her teeth in knowing disapproval. "Seeing how far the holt has been traveling lately, I'm not surprised they strung you out. Were you with the other Skipper's group? Redwall is far from here."
"What?" the stoat said, startled. She looked her sleek brown paws and the way her bunched tail laid behind her and quickly came to a realization. "Why yes, m'am. I'm from there. I'm not really with 'em, but my cousins are in the holt."
Tamar heard the imitation of an otter accent sing-songing its way through her voice. He stayed where he was as Merrill rounded the table towards him.
"I'd recognize that way of eating anywhere. All of Skipper's holt tend to disdain silverware, no matter which one they're following. What's your name?" Merrill said.
"Skintslip," the stoat said. She wolfed more of the beans.
"I'm Merrill," Merrill said. "You don't have to call me m'am. Pleased to meet you, Skintslip. This is my grandson, Tamar."
"I'll take care of the guest, grandma," Tamar said. "You can take care of the beans."
Merrill patted him on the side in approval, and with her cane swinging and fringed shawls icing her slender shoulders, she headed back into the kitchen.
Skintslip waited until she was out of sight.
"Dark Forest Gates," she said. Skintslip whistled. "She's old as sin but seven times more helpful. Yer a sly one. Tamar, was it? Where'd you find her?"
"She found me," Tamar said. "I showed on the riverbank more than ten seasons ago. She took me in."
"Candt imagine anyone else who would," Skintslip said, looking Tamar up and down. She scraped a claw on the inside rim of her bowl and licked it.
"Why are you here?" Tamar said. "Where did you come from?" He didn't like the foreign feeling of someone inviting themselves in without reason. Woodlanders talked plenty and gave nothing but reasons. The stoat had showed up in his and Merrill's home out of nowhere with no explanation. One out of two, Tamar thought, was tolerable. Two was not.
"I came fer the same reason anybeast goes anywhere: I smelled food," Skintslip said. "And, y'see, when a male stoat and a female stoat get fond of each other, and get very close in a particular sort o' fashion-"
"I know that," Tamar said. "But where did you travel from?"
"Northern Mossflower," Skintslip said. She relaxed. She considered her fingers before she picked up and licked the inside of the bowl. Her pink tongue flicked and caressed her teeth after she put it down. "'Least that's where I started. I've been around everywhere since then. Recently came from the south. There are some broken hordes wanderin' around there. It's easy to fall in with someone and get goin'."
Tamar hesitated. The stillness and smallness of the cottage was palpable.
"I hope we haven't kept you waiting too long," Merrill said, and she trotted back to the table with bowls for her and Tamar.
Tamar pulled out a seat for her as far away from Skintslip as possible. Merrill's glasses had been fogged up the last time she approached Skintslip, but now, they weren't. Merrill was blind. She wasn't that blind. And nor did he want her next to the stoat. Merrill perched in her seat, her spoon poised over what barely constituted as a cup of beans.
"Dealing with the kitchen can be quite an undertaking. How has the holt been treating you?"
"Well, m'am," Skintslip said, winking at Tamar.
Merrill hmm'd. She adjusted her useless spectacles. "You're very slender for an otter. Somebeast hasn't been feeding all you young 'uns enough. I ought to give Skipper's uncle a smack for that. Both of them are Skippers, but neither of them seem to know how to take care of growing beasts, forward or backwards."
"Oh, no, m'am, you don't have to do that," Skintslip said. She relished in sounding as wheedling and touched as she'd ever been in her whole life, Tamar thought. "I might be a bit skinny 'round the middle, but I'm quite fast. I'm a dart in the water."
"Tamar, your food is getting cold. You need to eat. Did I forget to give you a spoon?"
"No, grandma," Tamar said. "I'm just thinking about travel. I don't think I could swim on a full stomach. I bet Skintslip could."
"Most otters can, dear. Us mice aren't cut from that cloth. It's only the nature of things. Don't you agree, Skintslip?"
"Of course," Skintskip said. "Mice tend to be far more attentive. Otters, we've got the swimmin' pat down. Even full, I swim as fast as I do empty; faster, even."
"You should see her," Tamar said.
Merrill was about to reply when she noticed the empty bowl. "Goodness, you cleaned that out in short order. Would you like seconds? I wouldn't want to send a traveler off any less fuller than they ought to be. It's a vast world out there."
"I'd love it," Skintslip said. She leaned back and sunk into her chair with the air of someone set on not moving.
Tamar noticed a tiny tremble to Merrill's cane, and a stiffness in her motions as she got up. She braced herself against the table with one paw. Her whiskers quivered.
"Wonderful. I'll be right back."
Tamar stood. The chair skittered back.
"She can have mine, grandma," he said. "You don't have to get up."
"This is wholly unnecessary, grandson," Merrill said as Tamar tidied her shawls and made her sit down. He preened the fringes so they weren't dripping over the chair's sides. "There are enough beans for everyone, and a badger besides. You don't need to give her yours."
"It's fine," Tamar said. He slid his bowl over to Skintslip. She eagerly dug in. "I'll eat later."
Merrill's whiskers drooped. Her paw fluttered over Tamar's arm.
"Tamar, are you feeling alright?"
"I'm fine, grandma," Tamar said, and in the background, the sound of crunching beans went on. "Don't worry."
"You always eat. You usually put away twice as much food as our guest, and twice as fast. The times you haven't eaten anything, you've always been ill," Merrill fretted. She touched Tamar's cheek. Tamar had to bend to let her reach it. "I don't think I overcooked the beans. You haven't been letting those horrible comments about you being a rat or untrustworthy get to you again, have you?"
Skintslip choked.
"Because they're not true. You're a wonderful grandson. You matter very much."
"No, grandma, I haven't," Tamar said, and he gently patted her paw on his cheek. His paw could have covered both of hers. "You didn't do anything. I'm fine, I promise. I'm not hungry right now. I'll eat before we leave. You don't need to be worried."
"Good," Merrill said. Her spectacles quivered on her nose and resumed their balancing act anew. "Since it's just come to my mind, Tamar, dear, could you empty the rain barrel before we leave? It's been getting rather full, and I don't want to forget it. You know how my old head gets sometimes."
"Of course, grandma."
Throughout the whole exchange, a look of realization was dawning on Skintslip's face. When Merrill got up to retrieve more tea and to check the beans- without any trembles in her walk- she waited for her to leave. Tamar watched Merrill enter the kitchen.
"...you really believe it." Skintslip said. "That you're her grandson."
"I've had no one contradict me," Tamar said.
Skintslip laughed. It was a slick bark full of thorns, and it escaped from the room faster than the smoke.
"You're a rat," she said. "A big, honkin', ugly rat with teeth to make a pike scram for it and a corsair start second-guessin'."
"I never denied that," Tamar said. "It doesn't make me her grandson any less."
A hot breeze wafted through the room. Skintslip's face slowly darkened as she looked at Tamar.
"I know what you are," she said. Tamar glimpsed a hint of fang. He hadn't seen many beasts with sharp teeth like those other than the otters. Skintslip settled into her chair, indulgently. "You're one of those vermin who think they're a woodlander."
Tamar said nothing.
"You always see 'em," Skintslip said. "Sixclaw Sickness. They grow up in a woodlander home, and they think it makes them one. They iron out any accents if they've got 'em. They dress themselves up with any trimmings they can grab, and refuse to help somebeast do what they've gotta do to get by, and look disgusted with them,'cause it's beneath them. They're too good for us."
"I've never claimed to be better than anyone," Tamar said.
"You're sittin' in here in a cottage, friends with a Skipper, while half of us starve," Skintslip said. "You don't need to say it."
"You've been sitting here long enough not to be starving anymore," Tamar said. "Do you want thirds before you leave? If you can fit in fourths, you can have them."
"This ain't your house," Skintslip said. "This is a nest. You're a cuckoo chick. You pushed somebeast else out to get here, and now you're eatin' your way through before you're gone."
"Skipper will be here soon. You need to leave."
"You think her sayin' you're her grandson makes you something? When the rest o' the world looks at you, they see what you are and always will be. A vermin."
"There are jam jars in the pantry if you want one."
"If she could see what you are, she'd think differently of you," she said. "She woulda dumped you seasons ago or never picked you up."
"You're a vermin, but you're a stupid vermin if you're turning down free food," Tamar said.
"Never said I was," Skintslip said. She set down her thoroughly cleaned bowl. Skintslip scratched the back of her ear in satisfaction. "I don't think I'm the only one who needs fed more. You could fit a whole band o' vermin into this little cottage. Might have to tell the others ta ease up," she said, grinning, "since they ain't fond of mice, and the old lady might snap in half if you grabbed her too hard-"
Tamar grabbed a chair and brought it down on Skintslip's head.
Skintslip's eyes rolled up, and without finishing her sentence, she thudded to the floor. Tamar paused and looked down. She was laid out, and likely had her brains rattled, but otherwise, she was completely fine. Tamar set the chair down. He picked up Skintslip and carried her to the backyard.
"Tamar, what was that?" Merrill said as Tamar came through the kitchen door with their cups and bowls. Her spectacles were steamed up again as she craned over the pot. "I heard a thunk. Does our visitor want thirds?"
"It was the wind," Tamar said. "The visitor left, grandma."
"Really?" Merrill looked mildly wounded. "And without a goodbye!"
"No, grandma. She left after you went back to the kitchen," Tamar said.
Merrill stirred the beans. "Well, I hope she's in fine spirits, wherever she is. Young 'uns. She could've at least done with a farewell."
"I'm sure she is," Tamar said.
After Merrill had resumed cooking, and managed to press a few spoonfuls of beans on Tamar, he went back outside. He grabbed a few nails, a rock, and a board. Tamar found the big, pockmark-riddled barrel that stood behind the cottage. A clear, deep pool of rainwater filled it. Tamar grabbed the barrel by the top and tipped it over. The stagnant water rushed out onto the ground.
When the barrel was empty, Tamar stood it back up and placed a floppy, still unconscious Skintslip in it. Using the rock and nails, he boarded a plank over the open barrel so she wouldn't fall out. Then Tamar rolled the barrel across the lawn to the river, and without much hesitation on the pebbly shore, he pushed the barrel in.
For a minute, the barrel flopped in the shallows, threatening to do nothing but fall over. But gradually, as Tamar gave it another push, it began to spin in the current and pull at its invisible tether. With one last shove, it reached the breaking point. Tamar waded out of the river and stood on the shore as the barrel floated away. He waited until it was a brown cork in the distance. The barrel bobbed around the river bend, and with a wink, it disappeared.
Good riddance, Tamar thought.
That done, Tamar went back inside in time to help Merrill with the bean pots. He hefted one in his arms as Merrill began pulling on her traveling shawl.
"Skipper is late," she said. "Imagine that. We have one otter that leaves early, and another that comes too late. Skipper better be ready when he shows. Are you ready to go, Tamar?" She waved her cane.
"Yes, grandma," Tamar said. Merrill poked at his tough haunch with the end of her cane.
"Did you track water in the house? For shame, Tamar. You aren't an otter, or a Guosim, and chastise all of those silly beasts when they think they can walk wet into my cottage. It isn't polite. Go dry yourself off, and grab Flora and Pivet's clothes while you're there, please," Merrill said. "The twins have too few unspoiled shirts already."
Tamar retreated, and returned dried with the laundry. Merrill clucked with pride. She patted his chest, ruffling some of his scruffy brown fur and showing its black underside.
"Now there's my grandson," she said.
"If she could see what you are, she'd think differently of you. She woulda dumped you seasons ago or never picked you up."
Merrill beamed at Tamar with nothing but love.
"I know," Tamar said.