Tibbers came to slowly. His eyes cracked open slowly. His shoulder hurt more than ever and his whole body ached. He had been swimming most of the night, making sure Jack-is-lucky didn't go under. He had no idea how he managed to do it, but he and the hare had made it to the riverbank before passing out. He didn't know about the others.
Rising slowly to his feet he stretched weakly. He moved to where Jack had been to check on the hare.
His and Grey's eyes met and both yelled in surprise. Tibbers lost balance stepping backwards and fell on his rump, Grey tried to bury himself into the nice winter jacket he'd dragged to the riverbank.
Jack sat up suddenly as a cold, wet thing shot itself down the front of his coat." Gaaaaah! Cold! Cold! Cold!" He tore open the front and Grey spilled out like a ragged doll. Jack screamed in surprise and jumped a foot in the air, his fur standing on end.
Grey heard the battlecries and curled into the sand, his paws over his head. "I surrender! I surrender!" He whimpered, waiting for an axe to end him.
Jack calmed his heart rate and steadied his breathing. "My hearts! Oh my... Oh my..." Then he shook himself dry and shivered. He coughed to regain his composure and straightened up. "Well chappie, you have surrendered and shall now be spared on my honor as a hare of the Long Patrol."
Grey sat up and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then he remembered all of Sharpfur's survival plans and began grovelling. "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!"
"But! You may be useful to us a hostage in the case that one of ours is still on board your vessel, therefore you are now a captive of the Long Patrol!"
Grey opened his mouth dumbly. He had no idea what that meant. He decided more grovelling was in order. "No! Pleeeeaaaase! Anything but that! Mercy!"
Well I say... Vermin must have quite a high regard for the Long Patrol. "It is the only way! Now, on your feetpaw! Chop chop!"
"Wait! We should tie him up!" Tibbers squeaked nervously. "In case he tries to run away."
"Nooooooo! Please! I'll do anything! Anything!" Grey pleaded. He hadn't even heard the shrew's suggestion.
"Now now chap! It's not too bad, wot. Just an extra precautionary measure!"
"Nooooooooooooooooooooo!"
Tibbers undid his bandages clumsily. His shoulder was a mess. The wound had a nasty shade of green around it, and the poked flesh was beginning to smell bad. "We can use this," the shrew suggested, holding the soggy bandage.
"Your shoulder looks bad. You should put some dockweed on it." Grey provided helpfully.
Tibbers gave his shoulder a glance and looked away again. "It's not important right now. Well, er, hold your paws out."
"And no funny business, wot!"
Grey nodded and did as he was bid. "Why are you bandaging my paws together? Your shoulder needs it more than I do."
Jack-is-Lucky blinked. Then regained composure once more. "Right well, uhum. Our comrades should be along this riverbank somewhere. We just have to... Find 'em. Right, Tibbers climb on my back., give the bandage here. Rat with us, wot. Now... Um... Don't try anything."
Grey nodded, then remembered something. "Where's Sharpfur?"
"The weasel, wot? Well, he's er-" The hesitation made Grey decide that it was something bad.
"Is he dead?" The rat's eyes were wide and quivering. Jack did not have the heart to hurt such a sweet little- kidnapper. He's a kidnapper. Remember that, Jackie. Now, we need to get him moving!
"Aye, he is, and you'll be dead too if you don't start moving." The hare said in as angry a voice as he could muster. "Now-"
Instead of cowing the rat into submission as he'd hoped to do, Grey Claw burst into tears and bawled like a newborn.
The dingy crashed into a stony bank, knocking sweet, blissfull sleep away from Hawthorn. The vole's eyes snapped open, and suddenly she was wide awake. Grollo was sprawled on the deck, half-awake himself. But the others weren't there. With a sinking feeling in her gut last night's hazy events returned.
Fret that cold-footed scum and Matiya the dumb fool. We'd have gone home if you hadn't tried playing the hero for that dumb ferret. She hissed angrily to bite back tears. They had been so close to going home. Away from the stinking vermin. She climbed up to the back of the dingy, where a bit of rope dangled weakly.
There's no point crying now. She thought. This is the river Moss. If we follow it against it's course we'll get to Mossflower woods. From there we'll find the abbey. They will help. We should be fine. We should be fine.
Then she caught sight of him, with bleared eyelids, barely clinging on to the rope, Sharpfur's claws tried desperately to fight the mounting exhaustion and retain his grip. Then he caught sight of her, and in desperation, redoubled his efforts to scramble onto the wood and escape the freezing current.
"Help me! Help! I can't swi-ack! Help!" He missed a scramble and almost disappeared into the water.
Hawthorn felt three things simultaneously. The first was a stab of pity at the pathetic sight of the desperate weasel, the next was anger, for he had been one of their captors and had prevented them from returning home. The third was a sense of justice. Sharpfur didn't talk half as tough in the water as he did on dry land. She remembered his stunned look at having ended a life and felt pity again.
"And why should I? You'd push me in quick as a flash." A small part of her wanted to cut the rope off entirely and be rid of him.
"N-no!" Unable to add anything he continued begging. "Please! Please! I can't swim. Please!"
"What happened to 'a good enemy is a dead enemy'?"
A large wave made him slip to the very edge, his claws only just holding on. "H-E-E-E-ELP ME!" He sobbed in panic.
Hawthorn hesitated a moment longer. He was their enemy. He'd have sold them without a second thought. "Why should I?" She snapped, all her anger coming to a boil.
"B-because I-I I know Mossflower! I can lead you b-back to your abbey! Just DON'T LET ME DIE!" Another large wave weakened his grip. The next would take him down the river, most likely to his death.
Hawthorn tugged at the rope, the weasel clinging on for dear life. With some effort the albino vole managed to get the little weasel onto the boat, where he shook himself mostly dry and wringed the water free from his tail, shivering madly the entire time.
"You'd have let me drown." Hawthorn complained.
The weasel scowled at her. "Yes I would have. Got a problem with that?"
"I should throw you back into the river." She growled, approaching him with clenched fists.
The weasel straightened up to his full height. Being a runt he was not much bigger than her. "Such a pity you can't pretty-face." He stuck his tongue out at her as he slapped water out of his ears.
"Yes, but he can." Sharpfur realized too late that Grollo was now fully awake. The hedgehog grabbed him by the back of the neck and raised him into the air.
"H-hey put me down! I w-was joking! Joking! Haha, come on, you can take a joke!"
"Answer my questions." The vole demanded, straightening up. "Is this the River Moss?"
"Um, no-yes! Yes it is!"
The vole glared at him. "Are you lying?"
"No! No I swear it's not the River Moss! This is the River S-styx!"
"There is no river Styx-"
"No there is-you woodlanders just d-don't call it that, yeah! You say some other name I-I dunno what that is!"
Hawthorn frowned and Sharpfur seized his advantage.
"Look, the river bends downstream, we just have to travel further down river and we'll be right back to where we started. Now put me down!"
He could be lying. But that made no difference. It was him against her and Grollo and his precious dirk wasn't there. In the end Hawthorn relented. "Leave him be Grollo. And weasel-if you so much as think of betraying us, we will dump you into the river, understood?"
Right, find the others and go home. Shouldn't be too difficult.
Sharpfur nodded feverishly, and as the two turned away he scowled, his fur bristling in anger. I hate woodlanders. Still, it wasn't all bad. He just needed to get his bearings and then he could ditch them.
Right, find Grey and go home... If there is a home to go to. If not make new home. Good plan.
Connington felt anxiety dance inside his stomach like a nest of sparrows. He hated boats enough when there wasn't a strong likelihood of death. But after the wreckage they had spotted...he was worried what they would find.
The shrews had made good speed, and One Eye had been sure they'd catch up with the vermin 'before a weeks crossed'. Well they had caught up to the vermin, but it wasn't what they had been expecting to find.
The ship had been torn apart, and floating lifelessly in pools of fading blood were countless bodies. Black rats lay lifeless more than any other beast, but vermin of every shape and colour were strewn about.
"Shrews! Dive!"
With an unnecessary cry of 'Logalogalogalolalog' the shrew dived into the water, dragging out still-twitching bodies by the dozen. A ferretmaid with a huge axe-head buried into her skull begged for mercy and Connington hardly dared refuse. It was horrible.
"Check every ferret." He asked, and as the Log-a-log conveyed the order he found he couldn't stomach the thought of Fret even being here, let alone being amongst the dead.
He had found the round metal bob he had gifted his nephew. There were no marks of fur, no blood, but no Fret either. He merely hoped the ferret didn't die.
Nothing. Dead rats. Dead weasels. Dead ferrets. But no Fret.
And a mole. It took three shrews to drag her above the water, and it took one quick kiss from a bashful hare to get her coughing and shivering.
Connington knew her. Well... He knew her father, who had most venomously objected to Constance's raising of Fret. But he doubted the Foremole would be gutted by his daughter's safe return. Though mayhaps the other parents would...
"There's one still breathing." A shrew called. "Don't look too good, weasel-fellow."
"Bring him here." The hare Captain commanded, he then fixed the others with a cold look. "Leave the interrogation to me! I've prized answers from spies, assassins, thieves, rogues-"
"Here ya go! There's three more like that." It was none other than Cheesenibbles, who looked shrunken and scared. The baby weasel's fur was dripping wet and how he had stayed afloat was a serious mystery.
"Well...have you ever interrogated a baby before?" Connington asked dryly, hoping that some humour could kill the sparrows as they fluttered up and down.
"No." The shrew proceeded to dump three more, slightly older but just as scared weasel-pups.
"I can't interrogate this! Porridge oats! I forgot they were young once."
The weasels stared with wide open eyes.
"Captain, what's the orders?"
"Well... Continue forwards for now. When she's well we'll ask the mole what happened. And then we should be able to send her back to Redwall."
Tibbers had grown up believing that vermin were heartless backstabbers. But he had also been taught that Redwall was a safe haven for all goodbeasts. He was surprised at having seen the ferret in Redwall, but hadn't let assumptions get to him. Then the ferret had apparently betrayed his friends, the people he had grown up with and that belief was rising again. And he was doubting them again.
The rat was apparently inconsolable, and though by now he had run out of tears, he walked alongside them in sullen silence. Jack had made one joke about the shape of rivers in general-which hadn't been funny- and Grey had been bawling again, whimpering about how 'Sharpie always hated water'.
He felt sorry for the rat. Especially since Jack's backtracking had failed miserably. He now believed that his weasel friend was dead, and any thought that reminded him of him sprung fresh tears.
Heartless indeed!
Footnote: Hopefully my next 'monthly' update won't be too far off. See things aren't all bad...yet. I warn yee though, the next chapter is quite large.