Hawthorn paced around the small, dismal cell. The cannibals had brought them to a village of cannibals and placed them in one of the many empty huts dotted around. Two of the savages were guarding their hut, spears in paw. They were dressed in rugs of fur and had a small, smokeless fire crackling like laughter in front of them. All Hawthorn had was Sharpfur who was whining and whimpering in one corner, and Grollo who was out cold and lying on his front. But she still had her brain and hope-and that had been enough for many-a-hero. She just needed to think.
Sharpfur whimpered.
She just needed to think...
Sharpfur whimpered loudly.
She just needed... to think.
Sharfur whimpered even more loudly.
"I can't think!" She exclaimed, advancing on the weasel. "Stop whining and do something productive!"
"Like what? You can go mad with your pacing, thanks. I'd rather wallow in my misery." He snapped, and for a moment she was reminded of Fret. Were all vermin alike?
"I'm not going mad!" She exclaimed indignantly, pushing thoughts of Fret away. "I'm just thinking of a way to get us out of here!"
Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, Sharpfur laughed. "Escape? You? You've been held captive half a dozen times in the same fortnight! Good luck escaping this mouse!"
"I'm a vole." She said coldly. "And I don't need your luck."
"Humph. Sure ye don't princess. Just keep waitin' fer rescue and maybe all your woodlander friends will make it out in one peace. And all the meanies will run into a ditch and die. Life doesn't work that way sweetheart!" He said matter-of-factly.
"Maybe it doesn't. But it would be easier to think of a way out if I wasn't the only one doing it."
"I am thinking of a way out!" The weasel corrected scrambling to his feet so that Hawthorn had to look up at him rather than down at him. "And it involves the three Ws. Whimpering, whining and-"
"Wetting yourself? Because, that's what you've been doing for the last couple of hours."
"Why you little-" He took a step forwards and advanced with outstretched claws.
"Little what? At least I'm not smaller than the rest of my kind."
That was the final straw. Sharpfur pounced, Hawthorn dodged and the weasel landed on Grollo's back.
"YEEEEEEEOW!"
The hedgehog woke with a start, while Sharpfur tugged himself free of the spines, rubbing at the multitude of cuts all over his body. "You evil mouse-thing-y-you spoilt brat-" He was shaking all over and had tears in his eyes, but Hawthorn felt no pity.
"Shut up weasel! You got violent first!"
"Violent?! I'll give you violent woodlander!" The threat would have been scarier perhaps, if he wasn't sobbing while he said it.
Hawthorn released a long cry of frustration. "Just be quiet."
Sharpfur slunk back to his corner, whimpering quietly. "I just want to go home."
Hawthorn tried very hard to act like she hadn't heard that. The stupid weasel, who had taken them away from home to begin with, who had denied them freedom...now wanted to go home. The vole was tempted to strangle him.
"We wouldn't have been in this mess if you had run while we had the chance." Grollo pointed out grumpily. "Instead you went and begged for your life."
Sharpfur continued whimpering. "I was scared! Happy? I didn't want to die."
"Cowards die a thousand times-"
"Shut up! Stupid hedgepig! I should have slit your throats while ye slept!" Again the threat would have been substantially more threatening if Sharpfur didn't sound as pathetic as he did.
Hawthorn interrupted before Grollo could even open his mouth. "Can you pick a lock?"
Sharpfur whined. "What's it to you-oh..."
Whimper sat up to a sudden swaying of the boat. The book was plastered firmly to his face. He placed his claws on either side of the great tome and gave a hard shove. In the task of freeing himself his head bounced and hit the wall. Blinking the dizziness away he stared forwards.
The candle was flickering weakly, but what really drew his eyes was the large, burly mouse, standing with arms crossed over his chest. Perhaps the scariest thing about him was the otherworldly paleness and ghostly glow. It was a miracle he did not piss himself. A fear like nothing he had ever felt crept through him and bound him in place more surely than any mortal chain. The flickering candle went out, and the only light left was the ghost's. He stood there, his eyes peering into the ferret's soul, his arms crossed as if in disappointment. Moments that felt like millennia came and went.
At last, Whimper sucked up enough courage to open his mouth, and then the ghost vanished as suddenly as it came and the candle flickered back to life.
Whimper blinked in confusion, then managed a sigh of relief, while he let his body untense and relax. He shook his head. He was just drowsy. A ghost couldn't walk up to him and do whatever it wanted, that wasn't the way ghosts worked. Right? Though the mouse had looked familiar... Perhaps it was just that all mice looked the same. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked again. Nothing. No ghost. He repeated this until he was quite certain there was no ghost. He was safe. And hungry... He wondered what the time was.
There was a barrel of apples on the deck below. He doubted anyone would mind if he went for a small bite-anyhow it wasn't like anybeast would see him. Deciding to pursue this course of action he set the book down onto the table, picked up the candle and went for an apple.
He passed the silent cabins, one after another. As he turned left he heard the sound of laughter from another cabin and overwhelmed by curiousity slunk over to hear what was being said.
"My lord. Please allow me humble self to kiss thy feetpaws until I have washed them free of dirt and dust." It was the flourishing ferret speaking to a small audience. There was the gold-toothed rat Whimper could not remember the name of and Darkhide. Both were laughing uproariously. "Oh and if yer bottom is just a tad filthy I will lick it till it shines."
Whimper wrinkled his nose in disgust and slunk off again. That 'joke' was truly unworthy to be called one.
Turning back to his goal, the young ferret stopped suddenly as the mouse ghost appeared before him once more. The same fear clutched hard at him and held him in place like an overly large paw. He wanted to scream, to call for help or better yet, plead for mercy, but his throat was blocked and his muzzle shut. The candle died in his paws. Once again the moments passed, and once again the spirit vanished. But the fear did not. Whimper stood there, shaking like a leaf in a high wind. He shook himself severely, all he needed was an apple, maybe two. Yes, two sounded better than one. And Clogg wouldn't mind. Or wouldn't notice.
Determined once more, he set off. As he walked through the maze of cabins, he came to a halt outside of one. Clogg was there, lovingly caressing a portrait. For a moment he was tempted to barge in and tell him all about the ghost-but Whimper was no weakling and anyhow it was just him being drowsy. Ghosts couldn't get to him. He continued on the way to the apple barrel. It would be morning soon, he realized with a shiver. But that was a good thing, spirits of the undead hated sunlight and the day. He scrambled down a ladder. The barrel of apples had never looked more appealing. Until, the mouse shot out from behind it, sword in paw.
Sharpfur stood, just barely reaching the lock. His claws wriggled to and fro within, and sweat trickled from his brow. The inside of the hut was as quiet as a funeral, but the tension within was unmatched in all of Mossflower history. Each one was secretly, silently praying that this might work. Hawthorn and Grollo out of a desire to return to the safety of their abbey, and Sharpfur out of a strong desire to not end up boiled in a soup. The guards outside had fallen asleep, though their fire still mocked them with a noise like laughter. It would soon be morning, but if Sharpfur was correct they'd have a good head start on the cannibals. In truth the weasel was planning on using this as his way out. The woodlanders would go one way, he would go another, and if the hedgepig and mouse got caught again it really wasn't his problem.
Then the lock gave a loud click. And in the silent night it was especially loud. They heard grumblings in some distant language, and the ound of crunching snow coming closer.
The three could only share a look of horror as the door was pushed open, and in walked the savage with the saber. He blinked groggily, not expecting them to be awake or crowded round the door. Then all three seized their one chance of escape. Sharpfur pounced on the slack arm loosely holding the saber, Grollo turned round and shoved his spines right in the vermin's face and Hawthorn had the common sense to go for his muzzle. She held it closed tightly, so that his screams were muffled, while the other two fought him tooth, claw and quill.
Sharpfur managed to prize the saber free from the cannibal's grip, and reared back, before swinging at the savage's leg. With a great muffled cry of anguish the creature keeled over, shoving Grollo's spines deeper into his front. Then with no mercy, the weasel pulled the saber free and brought it down, again and again, with each blow the beasts struggles grew weaker and weaker, and his cries more and more desperate. Blood splattered across the saber, and Sharpfur's face, and Grollo's and Hawthorn's. Then at long last the cannibal stopped struggling.
Grollo pulled himself free of the corpse, Hawthorn let go of the muzzle, and Sharpfur for good measure brought the saber down one more time.
All three were wide-eyed and breathing deeply. And all three refused to find each other's eyes. A strange kind of guilt washed over Hawthorn. For a moment she wanted to undo what had been done-to wipe away the ghastly scene. She wanted to put the blood back inside him, to hide the white of the bones.
Grollo felt sick-and if he had had anything to eat he'd have been sick on the spot. Sharpfur was shaking severely. This was his second kill... and it seemed there was even more blood here than in the first one.
Wordlessly the trio backed away from the murder. It had been self-defense... but that did not make any of them feel any better. And in their states of shock and horror, all three forgot about the second guard beast, who glowered at them with enough hatred to melt a pan of butter.
Connington knocked his nephew to the ground, raised the sword, then dropped it with a clatter. Relief, joy, hope and horror at what he had almost done all washed through him, and in a sudden rush of emotion he hugged his nephew as tight as he could.
Whimper was stunned by the sudden change of heart. Wasn't he going to run him through a moment earlier?
"Fret. Oh my Fret. I am so glad you're alright-you are alright, right? It doesn't matter, when we get back to the Abbey we can patch you all up. Now I don't know what happened, but it doesn't matter. Constance will be so glad to see you-I'm glad to see you. Now come on, let's get out of-"
Faster than someone his size should have been allowed to move, Clogg hopped down from a higher deck and landed behind the mouse. With great force he forced a spear into his back. There was a clang, and Connington stumbled forwards. Whimper pulled free from the mouse and backed away. What on earth was going on?
"Sorry mouse. But he isn't going anywhere. And neither are you." The rat growled. His face softened. "Whimper, matey are ye all ri-"
Connington whirled around, sword in paw, the metal blade sliced a long line down Clogg's cheek. "Sorry. But he's coming home. You on the other paw..." Before he could finish his sentence the rat's tail flew at him, and it was only out of instinct that Connington evaded the blow. The two dived for one another, the spear tip crashed into Connington's mail, but failed to cut through. Clogg wore no armour and as a result got a long cut along his chest. Hissing in pain the rat let the spear drop and dodged the next slash, before pouncing forwards, his claws sunk into the paw and Connington's sword clattered to the floor of the deck. A swift punch sent the mouse sprawling.
Whimper watched the duel with a pounding heart. What was going on? Why had the mouse acted like he'd known him? Whimper knew no mice! And what had he called him? Fr-Fre? Why? And the hug... It had felt so real but-how could it have been?
Connington rolled out of the way of the rat's first kick, but got the wind knocked out of him by the second one. No doubt he'd have huge bruises when this was all done. The mouse spat, and caught the rat in the eye, before he could recover, Connington had knocked him off balance by rolling into his foot. The mouse got up, kicked up the sword and lifted it to end the rat. He brought the blade down with extreme force, but Clogg managed to catch it with the shaft of his spear.
"Whimper!" The rat yelled in desperation.
Whimper was frozen in fear and shock. What was he supposed to do?
Connington looked at Fret's confused, frozen features, and realized with mounting dread that something was wrong. "Fret. It's going to be allright."
Clogg had gotten his feet up and shoved them into the mouse's chest, knocking him off balance. He followed up with a swing that sent spit, blood and a tooth flying out the abbeydweller's snout. "Whimper. Hold still and don't ye move." Clogg ordered, bringing his foot down on the mouse's sword arm.
With a strength Connington rarely felt, the mouse brought his other paw into the rat's leg. Clogg stumbled, and Connington struck again, freeing himself completely. Fret still looked so utterly lost. "Remember me? I'm your Nuncle!" He was forced to avoid the captain's next attack.
"He's lyin' Whimper! Don't listen to him!"
"No Fret! He's lying! Don't listen to him!" Connington paused briefly to contemplate on how ridiculous he sounded-before slamming his head into the rat's gut, and bringing a clenched fist into his chin. The mouse fumbled for something under his mail-but dropped it when Clogg's tail whipped him hard on the leg. The mouse took a step backwards and with extreme force, brought his footpaw down on the rat's tail, before kicking with all the hatred he could muster.
"Whimper!" Clogg pleaded pathetically.
"Fret." Connington corrected icily, landing another kick to the rodent's prominent gut. The mouse picked up his sword and raised it-
The ferret did not think-he acted. He knew Clogg-but not the mouse. His name was not Fret. And he was home. Pouncing forwards he gave his attacker a mighty shove. There was a yell of surprise, followed by a look of shock, then a great splash, and then the night was silent once more.
Clogg got up, panting. One woodlander meant others. "All paws on deck!" He bellowed.
Whimper stood there, stunned and stared down at his paws in horror. What had he done? He was shaking, and the spirit was glaring at him. The young ferret backed away in fear from the ghostly apparition, and tripped over what the real mouse had tried to show him. A round metal bob with a string attached. Whimper picked it up and hid it under his cloak. The mouse vanished with a final, disappointed shake of his head. But Whimper stood there, scared and cold, while Clogg yelled indistinctly.
Footnote: Predictably everything has just gotten a lot worse for everyone involved. Things always seem to do so in my fics... I really need to write a comedy soon... Book I of this fic is almost complete now. Which is good news, as Book II is a hellofalot juicier :) (No spoilers but when Fret gets him memories back- :P
Now because most of my usual followers (not any I may have picked up for this fic) are uninitiated in most things Redwall I will explain the ghost a little, though I think you may already know. It's essentially the spirit of the original founder of Redwall, who comes along every book to help out the abbeydwellers when some new villain shows up to cause trouble. His role in this story will be very minor, and I'll even leave it up to you whether he's actually there or Fret's hallucinating. (Though personally I like the mystical side of things so in authorial canon, it is the ghost).