"Fret! Come back! Skipper just overreacted a litt-"
"A LITTLE!" Fret snapped, rounding on the small mouse.
"Okay-a lot, but-"
"BUT NOTHING!" The ferret yelled, gesticulating wildly. "They hate me." He whined. "They all do, they always have! I'm just-just vermin!"
"You're not vermin." Connington soothed, trying to pull his nephew into a hug.
Fret pulled away. "I'm going ho- to Redwall. I'm going to Redwall."
"Well that's fine. We can get this whole incident smoothed over before anyone can get you into any more trouble." Jon said, relief flooding over him.
"Uncle… Can you just… Leave?" Fret asked, biting down the urge to yell 'leave me alone'.
Connington paused, considering the situation. On one paw it was best to get Fret home safe and sound. On the other his nephew had just had a traumatic ordeal… The small mouse sighed.
"Okay Fret, but don't go running off now. And- stay out of trouble and-are you sure you don't want me to come?"
Fret nodded.
He sighed again. "Just… Go home and tell your momma I'm sorry."
Fret nodded again and scampered off back the way he came, until Connington was out of earshot. The ferret made sure he wasn't being followed, then took a different path.
He was sick of it all. They all lied and made him out to be a villain, they hated the very sight of him. The Skipper had tried to kill him... And the root cause of it all was that he was 'vermin'. He was not vermin, but that was all they saw when they looked at him. If that was all they would ever see him as, why should he go back to scrubbing pans and falling asleep in lessons? He could learn to fight, become a travelling warrior-a tourney knight. He could wear steel so thick nobody would know what he was. Suddenly an image came to his mind. Fret, all clad in armour, winning a tourney at Redwall, being respected by the other dibbuns, getting cheered for by the grown-ups… And best of all was the look on their faces when he removed the helm. He could almost hear Constance yelling through the din. 'That's my son! That's my son!' Then as thoughts turned to his mother the image vanished. What would become of her if he left? A part of him wanted to yell that she didn't love him, that it was all a lie- but the other part refused to listen. So much of her life had been dedicated to him.
He lay against a tree, his arms crossed over, fuming. He didn't want to go back to the stupid abbey, but he couldn't just abandon Constance-then he was no better than the vermin everyone thought he was.
"I told him he shouldn't come, but Connington refused." Abbot Martin wheezed, trying to relax the tense atmosphere that surrounded the otter captain.
"Aye, he's a stubborn one. Since when did he have a pet varmint anyways?" The Skipper agreed.
"He's not a pet." The small grey mouse snapped-sounding remarkably like his nephew. "As I told you before, he's my nephew."
Both Abbot Martin and the Skipper humphed.
"Tell me Jon, how many ferrets have besieged Redwall?" The old brown mouse asked.
"More than I care to count, but Fret was not one of them, nor will he ever be." The grey one shot back.
"Aye, mayhaps he'll just be a cutthroat." The otter captain remarked darkly.
"If you treat him like one what do you expect? You tried to kill him."
"He harmed one of mine!" Skipper replied, a low growl building up behind his throat.
"Oh yes, good graces, look at them splashing-oh the scars! Certainly more traumatic than staring death right in the face." He pointed pointedly at the youngsters, currently laughing and splashing in the river. "They don't look very 'harmed' to me!"
"Bugger you and your sarcasm." The burly otter snapped, for he had nothing better to say.
"Where is the boy now, Connington?" Abbot Martin asked, once again trying to lighten the mood.
"On his way back to the abbey."
"Unaccompanied, alone and on his first outing to Mossflower woods. Tsk, tsk and you expect him to go home? Well, your faith is commendable. Shall we give him a little test? If he returns to the abbey then he is as you say, a good lad-if not then I suppose it was better this way."
Connington looked like he was about to explode. "Fret is going to go home and if he doesn't I will personally march through the Dark Forest and back, dragging him if I have to. He is my nephew!"
"Perhaps we ought to change the subject." The old mouse managed to squeak.
"Have you forgotten Jon? What the varmints done to me? And Rowland, you remember Rowland don't you?"
"I haven't forgotten." The small mouse snarled.
"I think you could do with a reminder."
What was that noise? It was a continuous compilation of grunting and labored breath that cut through the pleasant noise in the forest. Curiosity made Fret want to investigate, but he proceeded with caution. There were many legends of Mossflower Woods. Of cats, and owls and snakes. He crept close to the river, and peered cautiously from the bushes. It was not a cat, an owl or a snake.
A dark grey rat-for no mouse would hold a weasel- was holding a weasel, who was pulling on a thin shaft of wood with an even thinner rope poking into the water.
Fret realized what would happen a second before it happened. The shaft snapped loudly and the two fell into a tangle. Curiosity tightened it's grip on Fret, who had never seen either kind before.
The weasel slipped free of the tangle with practiced ease. "Dammit Grey! I told you the stick wouldn't last!" The weasel scurried over to the river. "I'll get you next time you bloody kipper!" In response the water splashed over him. "Ack!"
The rat had sat up, and was sniffing madly. When he spoke Fret was surprised by how mellow his voice was. Soft and gentle. "Do you smell that?" The rodent stood up, and crawled around, his nose sniffing the shore.
"All I can smell is defeat." The weasel commented, drawing a dirk and picking at yellowing teeth with it, before spitting into the river.
The rat stopped in front of Fret's bush, giving a wide grin that showed off his unevenly sized buckteeth. "Hullo!"
His cover blown Fret stood up. "H-hello." The rat's eyes were wide and warm, and his face looked familiar.
"Ah, a ferret." The weasel interjected.
"I'm Fret." The ferret said politely. Neither seemed to be any older than he was. The weasel was small and thin, about the size of his uncle, yet more elastic. His fur was a bright oramge, but looked like it could redden easily. The rat was taller, but not quite as tall as Fret. He was wider though, and his tail a fat, pink worm.
"He's Grey, I'm Sharpie." The weasel seemed bored and walked back to the river.
"I never smelt you before." Said the grey rat, Grey.
"Me...neither." It felt strange, talking to a pair of strangers. There were rarely any strangers in Redwall, and even less who would speak with him.
"Do you live here?"
"More or less." Fret responded, still unsure.
An awkward silence descended, and was broken by loud splashings of water as Sharpie hurled pebbles into the river. "I'm gonna starve to death!" He whined, falling dramatically to the floor.
"But you had breakfast-"
"Grey, I'm starving now!"
"There are nuts in the woods." Fret offered, trying to be helpful.
Both vermin burst out laughing. Sharpie got to his feet, cackling like a clown."Do I look like a bloody squirrel to you?" He fell back to the floor, his legs kicking wildly as he laughed half-madly.
"No, you don't." Fret said, not knowing why they were laughing so hard. Nuts were nice...When the weasel was left only chuckling occasionally he supplied the reason.
"A few seasons ago, when I was a dibbun, a squirrel maid with twelve kids and no eyes thought I was one of hers-until she tried to shove an acorn down my throat. I put up a good fight and all, but in the end I had to swallow. I bet she would have kept me if her kids didn't point out how fluffy my tail wasn't! After that she kicked me outta a tree, lucky I landed on Grey really."
The squirrel maid sounded like Blind Agatha-who had once called him cute-before she learned that he was a ferret. After that she had whacked him on the head for 'lying'. Connington had covered his eyes while Constance dealt with the squirrel. Blind Agatha had since avoided their cottage.
"What about you tubby, tell him a funny story." The weasel chided, poking his friend in the belly.
"Er okay. Well I don't have any parents and stuff, but Sharpie's family took me in. His ma makes good soup-"
"I said funny! Make us laugh Grey, laugh!"
"Well once we tried to go fishing with my tail, coz he said it looked like a worm. It was a good idea I suppose, but the fishes weren't interested. Then an otter bit it and Sharpie dragged him onto land. I don't know who was more surprised really."
"Well that was progress." The weasel said, patting his friend on the back. "How old are you Fret?"
"Er ten seasons, roughly."
"Me too!" The rat said, grinning again.
"Ha, I'm ten and a half!" The weasel exclaimed.
"That's coz you've got your family to celebrate with you." The grey rat pointed out, sounding sad.
"My family celebrates your one too-remember that giant cheese tart we got off that mole!"
They both started laughing again.
"What about you Frettie? Who looks after you?" The weasel asked.
"Well I live in Redw-er wood. Redw-"
"You live in that cursed abbey?!" They exclaimed, though the rat had left out 'cursed'.
"No, nononono, that place is baaaaad news." Sharpe began, Grey nodding feverishly. "I mean, sure the food's good, but that place is full of woodlanders! There's a badger as well I heard! Do you know what badgers do to you when they're angry?"
"They go all crazy and rip out your bones and use your skull as a drinking cup!" Grey supplied, sounding worried just thinking about it.
"Exactly!" Hissed the weasel. "And it's haunted."
"Haunted?" Fret sniggered. "The badger makes us scrub dishes when she's angry, anyways she'd need a bigger cup than your skull. And now you're just trying to scare me."
Both looked dead serious. "That crazy mouse who built the place. Matinn or something, he still walks around the abbey, and lashes out on any and all verminfolk who enter. They say the sword he weilds burns any vermin who so much as touches the blade."
"You're better off coming with us." Grey supplied. "You can share our room even. We share everything, except for his dirk, that's his and-"
"I've lived in the abbey all my life, and I was never attacked by anyone...Called Martin." Everyone inside Redwall hated him, yet here he was, refusing to go with two strangers, who had in five minutes treated him better than almost everyone he had ever met. How come rats are the vermin, when an otter tried to kill me for no reason and the rat's offering a place to sleep?
"C'mon." Whined Grey Claw. "He'll let you use it from time to time, he lets me use it. And his ma makes good soup and she's really sweet and doting and I can get you a-"
"I have my own momma and I don't give a fig about whatever you can get me!" Fret snapped. Grey looked like he was about to cry.
"Now you've done it!" Sharpie hissed. "Look tubby it's okay, he didn't mean to snap at you. Right Frettie?"
"Right." Fret supplied, the weasel's glare was enough to kill, but the dirk was somewhat more threatening. "I didn't mean to snap it's just that-" Everyone in Redwall hates me and I'm here snapping at relatively nice vermin. "It's been a long day. I should really be getting back right about now." He faked a yawn. "Nice meeting you two." And he scampered off, utterly confused as to why his feet were taking him back to the abbey.
"Well... To put it bluntly we'll never see him again." Sharpie summarised. "Nononono don't cry Grey. It's okay. Ghosts can't get to us because they can't swim."
"Er, neither can you." Grey added.
"I was comforting you, you fat oaf." The weasel murmured
Footnote: Haha, I love vermin. Who doesn't? You'll be seeing plenty more of Grey and Sharpie and more vermin, and Skipper's backstory of course!. Though introducing them takes a while I think these characters are almost as important as Fret himself.. Still I think this relatively happy chapter can stop the angst in it's tracks!