All Matiya could feel was a hard lump in his stomach. Everywhere he looked he could see Fret on the wall, yelling wildly. Did I hate him? I didn't hate him... I never did... I don't.
The air around the abbey was solemn and serious. Mother Constance was broken. She was pale, quiet and frozen. She didn't move, nor did she speak. Her heart was weak they said, in worried voices. Brother Jon had gone mad, it seemed. He had stayed by Constance's side constantly, until someone had brought him news of Fret's absence. Then he had run around the abbey like a madbeast, as if in a panic, searching for his nephew. He had circled the walls so often that Blind Agatha had brought him meals up there, not that he ate much. All they had found of Fret was a piece of his habit. No body, no prints, no scent. The snow had covered the last two, but they had dug for the first. Matiya wondered whether or not that was a good thing. Then the small mouse had cracked like an egg, and lost himself in despair, after having searched Mossflower so thoroughly his paw-prints could be seen in every inch of snow. He ate nothing for a while, and had grown sick and cold. Then the badgermum had physically forced him to eat something.
Tibbers the shrew was practicing with Jack-is-Lucky, the hare. His thin rapier was faster than the hare's axe, but packed less of a punch, and the hare had made him surrender several times over. Momchillo and Grollo watched with solemn faces, though Momchillo had the ghost of a grin on his face. Then again he hadn't heard Fret that night. None of them had. Jack-is-Lucky had hopped back into the hall, unable to find him. But then they had heard Rosebrush's cries and had come running. The Long Patrol had scouted the area in search of the culprit... But they had not found anyone there.
"Yield!" The hare demanded good-naturedly, his axe barely held above the shrew's chest.
Matiya had a wooden sword hanging from a scabbard at his side. What would Martin have done? Or any other warrior in his position? They would have convinced Fret that they didn't hate him. They'd have some way to tell him the truth. All he had done was look stupid. But if they had failed, like him... They'd have found Fret by now. Then Matiya grinned as the guilt left him. He would bring the ferret home if it killed him! Like a true hero!
Fret realized three things before he woke up. One, his head was sore and throbbing. Two, he was on a somewhat soft floor. Three, Grey was sniffing something.
"What are you doing here?" Fret snapped, sitting up and making his head spin like a toy.
"Hullo Frettie!" The rat responded, good-naturedly, waving at him.
"What are you doing here? Who let you in? What about the ghost?" He was in a dimly lit room, lying on a carpet of silk.
"This isn't your bloody abbey!" The weasel said, shrieking with laughter at his confusion.
"B-but-" It made no sense. One moment there was the feast and then Matiya had caught him at the wall and then he had slipped on something cold, and fell off the abbey.
"You fell down the abbey, almost flattened me, then me and Grey took you back home." Sharpie explained, catching his dirk as it fell through the air.
"What were you doing at Redwall?"
"Vittles!" Grey exclaimed, chewing on a slab of cheese he had been sniffing a moment ago.
Disorientated as he was Fret didn't know how to react to that.
"You were meant to bring some to me too you greedy lump!" Sharpfur snapped, making Grey look sheepish.
"I told you, a mouse walked in and fell down. Then somebeast was coming and I ran away! It wasn't like I ate... Much."
"Grey, you ate enough food to last me the whole of winter! And you licked all the soup off of him!"
"I offered to let you have some." Grey pointed out, staring at his feetpaws in shame.
"I wasn't going to lick soup off a dead body!"
Fret tuned them out, his head still turbulent and dizzy.
"Do your feetpaw work?" Grey asked him suddenly.
"I guess..." He tried to get up, and a black spot covered his vision, but after a while his eyes readjusted and aside from the constant throb of his brain he felt no pain. "Where am I?" Fret asked, clenching and unclenching his claws to bring some sense of feeling back into them.
"Mossflower Woods. Do you want to see our camp?" Grey offered.
"Camp? There's more of you?"
Sharpfur giggled. "Welcome matey, to the humble camp of the Honest Bunch!"
"It's cold." Hawthorn complained, as she trailed behind the band, shivering madly.
"Aye, it's winter." Jack-is-Lucky replied, not noticing the underlying tone of a whine.
But the albino vole would not be disuaided. She had heard the boy's mad rush to go in search of Fret and had in turn followed them out to attempt to stop them from getting lost. "Brother Jon failed to find him, what chance do we have?"
"Your mouse went alone. In the Guosim we know that we must work together."
"Fret's our... Neighbour." Grollo summarised awkwardly. "We can't abandon him."
"What he said." Momchillo added, with a cheeky grin, before giving a loud, fake sigh. "Hawthorn, my beautiful queen. Do not fear, when we have spotted his black and white hide we will drag him back to Redwall-and all before supper!"
"Oi thunk he moight hab run awaywards." The mole, Roseheart, who was her constant companion, suggested.
That was what Matiya feared most of all. That Fret had ran off into the night, hating them all. What if some monster had come out of nowhere and made the ferret his dinner? What if he had sworn vengeance on the abbey and had ran off to make his horde? No...That...wasn't Fret. He wasn't evil. He couldn't be evil. The group was quiet, save for the crunching of the snow.
"Why can't you just accept he might be dead?" She sighed in frustration. She had never liked Fret. He smelled funny and was rude and scary. And in the tales of old his kind attacked Redwall ever-so-often.
Matiya paused and looked at her with deep-rooted confusion. "Do you hate him?"
"Hate? No, that's a bit much..." Ladies never hated anyone, not unless their family had been harmed. "But he's not worth risking our lives for!"
"Anybeast is worth risking your life for my fair lady." Jack-is-Lucky finished. To which the other boys said 'aye'.
"Noit Frettie." The molemaid bristled, shivering.
"''Aye!' Mes amigos, bonjour and welcome to Mossflower!" The children turned to the new, accented voice.
It belonged to a large and slender stoat, pale white fur glittered and red eyes glinted with amusement. From a belt hung a rapier, two daggers and one short, straight sword. He was accompanied by a shorter, chubby and pouchy-faced pine marten who had no weapons on his own belt.
"Ah mates, how nice of you to come along! We're looking for a friend of ours. Black and white fur, about yay-high, sort of on the snappy side?"
"Friend or foe? What is a hare wanting with a ferret?" The stoat asked, leaning against a tree.
"How do you know he's a ferret?" Matiya asked, fear prickling down his spine as he glanced repeatedly at the silent marten.
"A squirrel sees things his companions do not. Bravo, mais you must permit me to tell you half the truth. Your amigo dropped down for a visit."
"You kidnapped him." Momchillo gasped.
"Oh, non non, monsieur if it weren't for us your ferret would be a frozen corpse. We saved his life, and now we may even take you to him!" The Long Patrol's teachings kicked in, and noticed the underlying threat.
"Ho-ho mate, if you think we'll come quietly then I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, wot. But no hare of the Long Patrol will be taken by the likes of you." Jack-is-Lucky freed his axe, Tibbers drew his rapier and Matiya, feeling slightly abashed, drew his wooden sword. "Give us our companion, friend, neighbour and you will be left with your lives."
"Long Patrol? Hum hum, do you know a monsieur with one eye? He owes me a few fingers, you see." And he held up, half his paw was missing, and he had two claws and his one thumbclaw left.
"Why, he's my father matey!" The hare roared as he dived forwards. Tibbers was just as quick on his feetpaws and dived forwards, rapier pointed at the stoat's chest.
The white-furred fiend lazily swerved away from the axe-swing that would have split his skull open, and parried the shrew's blade with his own rapier. His rapier's flat blade rapped the hare's knuckles, and his grip on the axe weakened slightly. Then he deftly parried another swing from the little shrew and sparks flew. He drew his straight sword, and parried both weapons with his own pair. Then the flat of the sword and rapier dealt a stunning blow to the hare's skull, making his head ring like a bell. Then Tibbers was thrown onto his back, and in a spray of red, with a cry of pain, the rapier pinned him to the ground through the shoulder.
Hawthorn screamed in terror, and the molemaid fainted clear away. The stoat grinned widely.
"Tsk, tsk I thought the Long Patrol was better than this." Then he drew the rapier free and spun both blades in a circle around him.
Matiya ran at him, swinging his wooden sword madly around him. The stoat sliced the wood clean in two and pressed the rapier's point against the squirrel's throat.
"Nobeast moves!" He ordered. "Or are you wishing for more spilled blood? Deathglare, get the rope out."
The silent pine marten withdrew a rope.
"So you just do whatever you want?" Fret asked, perplexed by the freedom his companions had. T
The camp was small-ish, with twenty patchwork homes. There were holes in the trees, with blankets draped over the entrance. Overturned boats made strange sights, and one pine marten, whom Grey had described as 'scarier than Hellgates' lived in a newly made home of piled snow. They were all vermin here. An elderly pine marten called Sick-eyes who was the resident seer, and so wrinkled and old she looked akin to a folded paper. Gulash, a huge rat that had chased all three of them after Sharpfur had hurled a snowball at his back. Sickletail who was the weasel's mother, and had tried to make Fret eat an extra portion of food. Sharpfur had three elder and four younger siblings, the last one was just a babe, the others mere dibbuns. But older than him he had Heartrip, Redtail and Blizzard, vicious, argumentative and just as snappy as Fret. There was Deathglare, the seer's cousin, whom Grey had warned him about. He never spoke, but his pouchy face could not hide his eyes, which made you shiver just to look at them. Then there was Threeclaw, the blade master, who Sharpfur had insisted could turn anything into a weapon.
Here he was everybeast's 'mate', and when somebeast said something mean it was considered weak to not snap back with your own well-chosen insult. Here, Fret fit right in. Nobeast cared what he smelled like or what Mattimeo's son's uncle's nephew was called. Nobeast cared that he was a ferret. Yet he knew, deep down, that he couldn't stay. Connington and Constance would be worried sick about him, and he couldn't just leave them. Yet every time he thought of the abbey, he couldn't help but feel a twist of his innards. If only Redwall treated him like vermin did...
"Well, I suppose so, so long as we stay away from the otters, the shrews, the abbey and come back alive than yes, we do what we want." Grey was different though. To Fret at least, the chubby rat was different. He didn't snap, he didn't argue, he was soft-hearted and sweet, and scared to death of being alone.
"Ma found him in the river. He was just a dibbun, trying to tread water and ma took him in. I reckon his parents dumped him off some boat. First while he didn't even sleep at night, too scared we just left him behind. That's why he started sharing my room." Sharpfur had explained.
Indeed the rat followed the weasel everywhere. No matter how bitter, rude or snappy he could be, Grey did as he was bid, sometimes wrongly, sometimes with uncertainty, but he did it all anyways.
Fret rubbed at his temple, trying to think of a subtle way to return to the abbey. The largest issue he was faced with was the abbeybeast's reactions. What was he meant to tell them? That he had been nursed back to normal and saved from a snowy burial by vermin? They hated him enough as it was, and would probably throw him out if they heard it put that way. So he ought to lie, right? But what lie? What could satisfy the badgermum?
"So, are you sharing our room, or do we have to make one for you?" The sudden question twisted a knife in his gut. How was he meant to break the news to simple-hearted, simple-minded Grey Claw? Mayhaps he ought to be blunt...
"I-I can't stay Grey." He explained slowly, desperate not to snap at him.
"Why not?" Sharpfur demanded. The little weasel had a habit of demanding things. "Your precious abbey threw you off the wall. Listen to me mate, that ghost got you I swear it. If ye go back then yer a deadbeast."
"And why would you care?" Fret snapped loudly, he had not meant to at first-but he had had to protect himself from the weasel's tone.
"Because Grey here doesn't want to see your hide hanging for the birds!" The weasel retorted.
"They're not going to kill me. Anyhow you can't stop me leaving!"
Grey sat in the snow, sniffing loudly. And Fret felt a mix of guilt and anger. Why was the rat so hurt by the one fact. They barely knew each other.
"Blood runs thicker than water, ferret." Sharpfur scowled, hovering protectively over the rat. "Remember that."
"What does that mean?" Fret snapped. Why was such a big deal being made about all this? He had a family in Redwall, even if he had nothing else.
Before Sharpie could open his mouth to respond a pair of vermin approached. A brown, chubby pine marten with a pouchy face made Fret shiver. The other vermin was a white stoat with red eyes, humming a tune.
And tied by their paws to a rope were the abbey young'uns, wearing confused and frightened expressions. Matiya looked directly at him with visible pain and a look of betrayal.
"Haha, was I not telling you we'd bring you to your amigo?" The stoat asked.
Matiya slipped free of the rope around his paws and dived for Fret. The squirrel and the ferret rolled through the snow. Matiya ended up on top, a fist crashing down into his face. Each punch was punctuated by an angry yell. "Traitor! You evil! Lying! Son of a-"
Deathglare freed Fret from the squirrel's wrath, and threw Matiya to the ground, where Sharpfur pointed a dirk at his throat. The ferret was a mess. His face was dark and blotchy, a tooth had been knocked free and blood was flowing freely from his nose. Grey Claw helped him up timidly. And Fret stumbled on his feet, lost completely in all thoughts, though there was one that swam near the surface of his mind.
He couldn"'t go back to Redwall...