Mossflower was endless, or so it seemed to Fret. The trees rustled gently in the breeze and sent golden leaves floating slowly downwards to pave the path in front of the group. The floor was soft and crunchy and there seemed to be no greater pleasure than to kick at a large pile of the leaves and watch them scatter.
It was cold in a refreshing sort of way and the colours gleamed and shivered endlessly on. The trees were like beasts, all gnarled and wisened and old brown wood that seemed to smile as they passed.
Fret felt the wind blow lightly into his face, his fur rustling in the breeze. He felt the leaves crunch under him as he walked, trying to take in everything, to remember everything from the wind to the wood. He felt the hood of his cloak get pulled up above his face, throwing him into shadow.
"Uncle!" He snapped, trying to take the cloth off of his eyes so that he wasn't walking blindly.
"Sorry, but we wouldn't want you catching a cold now would we? Best keep the hood on."
Abbot Martin was talking about history again, but nobody listened to him.
The albino and the mole maid were giggling continuously. Connington was whistling and occasionally stealing looks in his nephew's direction. Momchillo, Matiya and Grollo were singing like drunk soldiers and laughing at what the trio probably thought were the best jokes in the world, but Fret knew was dull, unsophisticated humour.
Then, every now and then the ferret would spot a nut. A hazel or an acorn or a wallnut. He would pick it up and smash it into a tree until it cracked and he could enjoy the goodness within at a leisurely pace.
Abbot Martin was going on about some Lutra-lady who had misplaced her pearls, and Fret was bringing a hazel into a tree with sufficient force to dent an axe. Naturally the hazel stood still. He was going for the fifth hit when he heard someone behind him.
"Tsk, tsk. You abbeybeasts always were a shade too slow, if I might say so. Here lad, give it here."
He stood with a long, streamlined form, well-toned with muscles. He had a long, jagged scar along his gut, and was missing a finger on his right paw. But he still looked charming.
Fret handed the otter the hazel, which was crushed in a strong paw in less than a second. The shell cracked apart and the otter handed the ferret the nut.
"Skipper! Long time no see, old friend!" Came Connington, stepping in front of Fret and holding out his paw for the otter.
Skipper roared with delight at the sight of him. "Ah Jon, you old rogue! It has been too long? What, three seasons?"
"Indeed! I'd have come sooner, but my sister insisted I stay close to home after that business up north."
Skipper laughed so hard spit flew through the trees, a bit of it landed on Fret's hood, and he was now glad his uncle had gifted the cloak to him. It would have taken forever to wash that off his fur.
"Do you 'member that shrew? The one that became the Log-a-log after he barged that varmint off the cliff." The Skipper wiped his eyes. "And little Queens, oh bless her soul, remember when she caught that rat, barged him into the tree until he pis-"
Abbot Martin thought it best to intervene, so as not to damage his pupil's ears. "Skipper, it's nice that you could come and join us." His voice had an edge to it Fret thought had only been reserved for him. Evidently not.
"Oh, of course. You know how much I love little'uns. Ah, bless my soul. You're adorable, the lot of you." He was staring at them all, and the majority found themselves blushing. Fret frowned instead, nobody in their right mind described him as adorable-except his mother and uncle, but they were never in their right minds anyways, but his look went unnoticed. Matiya had not blushed either, instead he had scoffed and muttered something along the lines of 'I won't be so 'adorable' when I'm splattered in the blood of my enemies', or at least that was what Fret had imagined he would have said. The hood was hampering his hearing. He was about to remove it when Connington whipped out a handkerchief and rubbed the spit off properly.
"My my Skipper, you ought to be more careful. At this rate you could get us all infected!"
Skipper was annoying, Fret realized. He was full of stories of chivalry and gallantry, and daring odds he had narrowly managed to save himself from. Naturally the other children listened eagerly to the tales, asking constant questions such as 'how did you know the sword would break through his armour?' or 'was she really as pretty as you say?'. He looked and sounded like a hero, but Fret found himself having a large dislike of the otter chief. It felt the same as all the stories he hated in history, too nonsensical. With ridiculous odds, and the victory of Redwall and the Abbey undoubtable. It was just the same story with different faces.
To his surprise though, his uncle wasn't listening either. He felt like asking why, but decided he wasn't bothered enough. There was an itch behind his ear, and he bent his paw back to scratch it, and tripped over his uncle's tail. He fell face forwards, and climbed back up, his hood still on, but the itch forgotten. Connington looked sheepish, but wasn't looking him in the eye. Fret supposed it must have been an accident.
He stayed at the back, cracking his wallnuts and listening to the others enjoying themselves.
Eventually, after his head had begun to throb of the Skipper's appalling musical talent, they came upon a settlement. Otters everywhere greeted them, and many had an eye for Fret, in his large hooded cloak. But he ignored them and kept cracking his wallnuts. It was an odd place to live, with tents made of blankets and old sails, or upturned canoes from which came snores and peaked out the occupant's long, slender tail. Otter spears lined the place like a fence, their infamous javelins racked up against trees. There were a pair of younger ones who were hurling rocks at a target with their slings. The target, however, had not been hit once.
"So who's hungry?" The Skipper cried to raccuous roars of 'me', 'me', 'me'. He chuckled, and whistled. The two otters who had been playing with the slings raced over. "Angus, Andrew, give the kids some stew, I have plenty to catch up with me old abbeydweller pals."
The Skipper took the two mice with him, Connington weakly protesting that he 'ought to do something'.
"Ah, abbeydwellers." Said the otter that was Angus or Andrew, Fret could not tell them apart.
"Blessed lil' dibbuns."
"Right. After you m'lady." The otter held out his paw for the molemaid, who blushed, took it and then they were all skipping away, Fret trailing behind the group. There were no wallnuts here.
The twins took them to a large stream, where crystalline water rushed past small, shining stones. There, already smoking, was a cauldron over a flame, with little pots piled around.
The stew smelled strong, and peppery. Fret sneezed audibly. Momchillo peaked inside the cauldron, tip-toeing on Grollo's head so that he could look into it.
"It's not ready yet, but I expect there shan't be a problem with that. So abbeybeasts, we are Angus and Andrew, young un's of the otters and the bes' slingers you'll ever know."
Matiya scoffed arrogantly. "A sling is a weak weapon. Bows are better."
The otters shared a sly smile, then launched into a story. "We knew a varmint once upon a season."
"Aye, an' he said the same pretty thing."
"They was also the las' words that came out his mouth before two rocks flew into his head."
"An' the ferret breathed no more."
"Why did you kill him?" Fret snapped, annoyed. These two were worst than the redwallers, and dumb as dirt if they thought they could hand feed them all their rubbish.
Angus shrugged. "He was up t'no good. All varmint are."
"Oh really, he insulted you so you killed him?" Maybe this was why his mother never let him leave the abbey. If this was the fate that befell all ferrets...
"Well if we hadn't, he'd have killed us."
"Yeah, listen lad, I get it might be too gory for you, but all ferrets are rotten to the core. The best thing for them is to be killed." The other children were silent as the grave, watching Fret and the otters uncertainly.
The words stung so strongly it was as if the otters had both slapped him. He knew they hadn't killed anyone, he knew it was just another dumb story. But he was sick and tired of dumb stories and dead vermin. He rose to his feet and threw off his hood.
Both of their jaws fell open. Fret glared at them. "We're all bloody rotten, eh? You're just too bloody stupid to think! If you had killed a ferret then how come neither of you could hit a larger target?
Angus stammered inelligibly, but Andrew managed to form words. "You-you're a af-ferret."
Fret clapped for them, slowly and deliberately. He felt stronger now, from the shocked looks on their faces. He felt invincible. Then Matiya started laughing at the otters.
"What's the matter? Scared of this little'un?"
The other children laughed too, as if Fret was nothing to be scared of at all.
The otter twins went beet red. "Just haven't met one who could talk."
"Yeah, most are dumb as dir-"
"But still sufficiently dangerous to warrant killing them? Or did you just sit there wetting yourselves?" Fret snapped again. The dibbuns were laughing at the otters, Fret was making them laugh. He felt like he was flying, untouchable, soaring above them all.
Then Angus rose and glared down at him, and courage flew out faster than a candle in a storm. "Your kind are nothin' but bloody butchers and angry lil' people who steal things you can't make for yourselves."
Fret found courage in the urge to defend himself. "And you're so scared of lil' black and white people that you kill them so that you don't wet yourself!"
Andrew was growling, but Fret ignored the danger signs, such was his need to defend himself.
"I'm not a thief. I'm not a vermin. I am a ferret. You are just a stupid, slimy-"
Andrew lunged, leaping over the cauldron pot. He fell on top of Fret, his fist raised. Instinct made the ferret lash out first and his claws sliced through the otter's skin and fur on his cheek. Blood dribbled down, and the otter forgot his anger at the pain, and rose, touching his cheek with his paw.
"You scratched him." Angus muttered, dumbfounded.
"He went for me first!" Fret snapped, but there was a pleading tone to his voice, he hadn't meant to lash out it has just… just happened. He felt dread rush into his stomach. Noone was laughing now, the camp was quite, save for the crackling of the fire. He knew the way this would end. He started it. He always started it. No matter what he said he was going to be punished for attacking Andrew. The others would lie and he would be made to scrub the roofs. But that wasn't the worst part. His paw was still coated in otter blood, the faces around him were shocked, fearful even. "I-I-I didn't. I'm sorry, I just.. I couldn't" His throat was choking up, the pressure in his chest had never been stronger. He needed to lash out, to explain, to, to-
"VARMINT!" The Skipper thundered forwards, and charged at the ferret. Fret froze in fear. He whimpered weakly, he wasn't vermin, he wasn't, he wasn't… Then why had he attacked Andrew? The otter raised his spear. I'll die. He's going to kill me. I'm going to die. The thought made his heart hammer and his eyes wetten, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He was so scared.
Then, before the spear could hit him, Connington's small, grey form flung into the otter's side, and the sharpened wood missed by an inch. Fret was still frozen in place, his eyes watering. He was shivering. He was so scared.
Connington, despite his smaller size, had the Skipper down. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!" He was bouncing on the otter's chest.
"What!? What on earth!?" Abbot Martin had joined the screaming. "Skipper!? What? This is madness, madness!" He looked like he was having a heart attack, his brown fur standing on end.
"Varmint! Varmint! Var- Connington! What are you-doing?!"
"Stop! You insane lunatic! Think! He's a child! Look at him!" The little mouse slapped the otter chief hard across the face.
That brought Skipper to his senses. He took a deep breath, glanced briefly at Fret, who looked utterly petrified and then glared at the older mice. "What in the seven seas are you playing at?"
"Well, you see he's a member of our-" Martin began, eyeing Fret with what looked like pity.
Connington cut him off, and hopped off the otter, placing a firm paw on the ferret's shoulder, and patting his nephew on the back. "He's my nephew."
The Skipper opened his mouth, closed it and then tried to form words. "Bu-wha-wh-your sister, and who did you, how on earth-"
"He's Constance's son." Connington replied firmly. "And my nephew."
"I-I, he's a varmint!" The Skipper replied, baffled.
"He's not!" Connington snapped, sounding a lot like his nephew.
"He's a ferret!"
"So?" The mouse was becoming more and more firm with every word.
"So he's varmint! What do you think you're doing with him over here?!" Skipper barked, spit flying out his mouth.
"He's my nephew and may go wherever he pleases!"
"Not if I say so. Have you forgotten everything Jon? What his kind do?"
The mouse hesitated. "I believe judging someone based on their species is wrong."
"Truly? Your nephew's different, eh? He has blood on his paw, I see."
Connington was not ready for that, he had been so caught up with the whole situation he hadn't even noticed the blood.
Andrew explained. "He attacked me, sir."
Connington opened his mouth, and closed it again.
"Aye, we was just joking and he went mad-"
"Liar!" Fret snapped. "Liar liar liar liar liar!" He was crying. The tears were rolling down his face, thick and fast. He pulled out of his uncle's grip and trudged away, sobbing incoherently. He tripped on the hem of his cloak, got up and continued walking away.
He could scarcely see ahead of him, with the salt water falling down his face. The clearing was silent, but for his receding footsteps and occasional sobs.
Connington glared so fiercely Angus and Andrew had the grace to look abashed. "Yes, I'm sure that is exactly how it happened." Andrew bit his lip. Then the small, grey mouse scampered away. "Fret! Fret, it's alright. Fret!"
Footnote: Poor Fret, am I right?