Sharpfur waited until he was quite sure his companions were asleep. Grollo was snoring softly to his side and Hawthorn was as dead to the world as... Well... A deadbeast. Armed with a candle, the mysterious book and a dick-sigh-on-airy he was determined to discover what lay within the pages of his discovery.

''Dear Diarry,'

The writing was big and messier than his. Each word took half a page and had to be carefully taken apart and deciphered. For a moment he wondered what poor vermin had been forced to write it down. Then he remembered that he was probably the first poor vermin who'd been forced to learn the squiggles.

The weasel's face was the very image of concentration. His brow furrowed, forehead creased, eyes fixed rigidly at the scribble in front of him. Sharpfur paused to flick through the en-sick-o-ped-ya of words to find out the meaning of 'diarry'. No 'diarry' to be found... There was another word with two 'r's though...

'Diarrhea are loose, watery stools-'

The weasel slammed the book shut viciously. "Ew, ew, ew, ew! That is dis-gusting! Even for me!" He regretted the outburst when he heard Grollo roll in his sleep and Hawthorn muttering at him to 'go to sleep'. He paused to make sure both his companions were fast asleep once more. He would proceed more cautiously from now on. Cracking the book open with the tips of his claws, Sharpfur went to the next line.

''Today I saw a taddy-pole in the lake. It was big and black and slimy."

The weasel sniffed at the parchment, before turning to the next page. He was no longer entirely sure a child had written this...

"I can't wait forit to grow into a beautiful froggy. He will have very long legs and be very kind. We will hold hands and play and dance and sing and daddy says he can join my tea-party."

Sharpfur yawned widely. Sixteen pages in and he had yet to discover anything of interest. And it was making him sleepy too, that was not good.

"Spike says that froggies are meanies. He says they're worse than vermin. But I don't think vermin are so bad."

Sharpfur snickered. Silly woodlanders everywhere he looked. Frogs and vermin were equally despicable. Though the weasel had never met a frog... And had no inclination to do so either. He'd probably have to kill it.

"I've never met vermin. But daddy says that they're not so bad to us poor folk. He says if we were rich, however, that they'd murder us. I hope froggy never tried to murder me."

There was an unfamiliar squirming in his stomach. He could not quite place it, it being a never-before-felt sensation. Was this what the weak called pity? It was uncomfortable to say the least.

"Anyways Diarry I have to be back afore Nightfall. Goodnight."

"That's it!?" Snapped Sharpfur, surprised by his own reaction. There was the sound of a door opening and the weasel shot into action. He blew out the candle and kicked it under his bed. Then hopped around clutching his footpaw in pain. The footsteps were coming closer. He slammed the dick-sigh-on-airy shut and slipped it under his pillow. He then shot into bed, the blanket disgarded, and lay still in the most uncomfortable sleeping position ever, the 'Diarry' flat against his stomach.

The door creaked open and Sharpfur hastened to snore. His heart was pattering wildly but he tried to make his breathing sound as normal as possible.

"Poor thing. Must have fell asleep with the dictionary." The hedgepig retrieved the fat book from where it jutted out under his pillow. Gently she arranged his limbs into a comfortable position, before placing a blanket over him. His snores were momentarily interrupted by the disgust he felt when she kissed his forehead.

It was only through his powers of extreme patience that he waited until the door to her own room had closed before he started desperately wiping the spot clean off the face of the world. Disgusting soft woodlanders! His mother hadn't kissed him in seasons! Why couldn't everybeast else be normal like her? The book had been a waste of time it seemed... No matter, there were others... Hopefully one had a way off this infernal island.

Of course... he needed to get the rest of the books first.

Hawthorn was surprised the next morning when she found Sharpfur enthusiastically assisting the old hedgehog in the kitchens, chattering endlessly about his mother.

"Oh my mammy was a good cook. Very good. Could make almost anything edible! If there weren't any fruits or borrowed veg she'd grind bark in a bowl and mix it with mushrooms an' some herbs. Boil it in water and ye've got the best soup fer miles an' miles. Ye'd be surprised, I swear on me tail everybeast in our crew would ask fer more an' more an' more until me mam started hurlin' back the bowls at 'em. Hehehehehehehehehe!" His paws scrubbed viciously at the dirty dishes.

"Good...morning." Said Hawthorn slowly.

Sharpfur turned to her, a wide grin plastered on his face. "Good morning!"

She blinked and pinched herself.

"Oh, good morning dear. Sharpfur was just telling me about his home."

"And helped with the dishes." Said Grollo, entering dumbstruck.

"Ye bet I did woodlanders!" Said Sharpfur, placing the last squeaky clean plate on a pile of others. He marched forwards between them, spun on his heel and threw his paws about their shoulders. "C'mon now, breakfast's packed and there are strawberries te collect!" He said, throwing his paws into the air in celebration.

"I just woke up." Grollo complained.

"Can't we go after breakfast?" Agreed Hawthorn. For a split second Sharpfur looked murderous, but then he smirked.

"Why ever not?" He turned to the old hedgepig. "You don't mind of course?"

"Don't be silly dear, of course you can have breakfast. Go and sit yourselves down, I'll be with you in a minute."

Sharpfur looked murderous for half a second, but switched into a smile before anybeast noticed. He could not blow this opportunity.

Breakfast was boring, simply put. It was most likely only ten minutes of noisy chewing, but to the impatient weasel it felt like a full season. Then after Grollo the Greedy had finished his third bowl of porridge the kindly old hedgepig had offered him even more- confirming the weasel's suspicions that she was trying to fatten them up!

"Well... I am a growing beast, mam. I need lots of vittles to grow big and strong." The hedgehog replied cheekily, holding his bowl out for more.

"More like short and fat." Muttered Sharpfur contemptuously.

"Look who's talking about short."

"Now, now boys, there's plenty for everybeast." The old hedgepig chided, dipping her ladle into the bowl of porridge.

Grollo licked his lips in anticipation, when Sharpfur got in the way. "NOOOOOOO!" He gave a great cry and rose to his feet adding an impressively small amount of height to himself. He raised a single claw and closed his eyes as he released a powerful statistic he'd made up on the spot. "One bowl of porridge is good for a snack. Two bowls of porridge are good for breakfast. Eat three and you'll end up fat. Four and you'll walk no more!"

The old hedgepig hesitated. "Perhaps... it shan't be too long before lunch anyways."

Grollo was too well-trained to argue and withdrew his bowl with an air of not caring. "I suppose Sharpfur's right."

The weasel clapped his paws together in triumph. "Alrighty, time fer pickin', coz those strawberries won't eat themselves!"

"Since when did you like collecting strawberries?" Grollo cocked his head to the side, his jaw slightly agape.

"Since I read about the health be-nee-fits of the fruit." The lie came easily and confused the hedgepig even more. The weasel was now putting on a coat several sizes too big for him.

"Sharpfur is good at reading now." Said the old hedgehog with fierce pride.

"Abbot Martin would be delighted to meet you." Said Hawthorn. The familiarity of an annoyed Sharpfur would have helped make sense of the scene.

As always, Sharpfur disappointed. "It would be me pleasure! First person I greet when we get back te yer abbey will be the Father Abbot!"

Hawthorn and Grollo shared a stunned look, but it was the old hedgehog who Sharpfur kept track of. Sure enough she had stiffened at the mention of Redwall.

"Well then... I suppose, we'll be back afore lunchtime."Started Hawthorn slowly.

"Yes my dears! Of course yes, as soon as your baskets are full." She smiled, but Sharpfur could tell that the mention of leaving had shook her.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the cottage he turned to his companions, his face dark. His pretense forgotten.

"She'll never let us leave."

"Relax man, you're going from all vermin-ey to cheerful to serious too quickly for me to keep track of." Grollo joked, clutching the sides of his head.

Hawthorn frowned. "What is up with you?"

"Nothing! But look, Spring is here and we're not going anywhere! All we get is 'back afore this-time' and 'back afore that-time'. And that's when we're even allowed outside her vis-i-on."

"Snow is still piled up everywhere in case you haven't noticed." The hedgehog pointed out grumpily.

"Yer an idjit and I am going to prove it to ye. Just wait." He stomped off grumpily, rounded a large pile of trees, then broke into a run.

It had been so easy! Almost too easy! First he pretended to be kind so that the dumb old hedgepig didn't know what he was up to. Then he did it just to tick off the abbeybeasts. It had been difficult at first, but he needed to get the rest of the books. For... reasons...

He slowed down when he thought he reached a familiar looking place. First he had to find them.

"He's up to something." Grollo murmured, staring at the direction the weasel had taken. It was like the time Fret had come on the otter trip. His stomach twisted painfully. That had been a disaster. From what he'd seen the Skipper had nearly run the ferret through. That would have been horrible... Suddenly he had a very bad feeling about whatever it was Sharpfur wanted to do.

Hawthorn frowned. "I agree that the dish-washing and 'good morning's were a bit suspicious but he can't really do anything." She shrugged. "Should we follow him?"

Grollo shook his head. "It's like you said, he can't really do anything."

They fell into silence as they picked at the sweet, red berries. Hawthorn let her mind wonder. She and Grollo would probably be the last to reach Redwall Abbey. The others were probably worried sick. Poor Bella, she had always been the Badgermum's favourite. And the kindly Friar who was Grollo's father. The food was probably not very good these days.

But when they returned all would be well. There would be a feast to celebrate. Momchillo and Matiya would hug Grollo tight despite his quills, and Roseheart would probably cry. And Sharpfur would... Replace Fret as resident vermin? There was a small jolt in her insides. Fret... She had forgotten about Fret. Well... She supposed Fret was back too. Sharpfur would like that. He wouldn't be the sole vermin in the abbey. Though perhaps it was best if Fret did not come back...

As far as vermin were concerned however, the weasel was not bad. Yes, he stunk. Yes, it would be foolish to trust him. Yet... The three of them had had fun together. The snowball fights, the food fights, the endless bickering... A lot of it had been strangely... Endearing.

"Do you think we'll ever get back?" Grollo's question snapped her back into reality.

"Of course we will!" She said, far too quickly. "Sharpfur's just being worried. Don't worry Grollo, we'll be back soon."

The hedgehog did not seem convinced. "I don't know Hawthorn. It's... been a long time. And it's not like anybeast's looking for us."

"Don't say that! Of course somebeast's looking for us! Your parents are worried sick! And Bella and Abbot Martin!"

"Well... they haven't found us yet, have they?"

The vole looked stricken. "We... well... the others are back!" She said fiercely. "And just because they haven't found us yet doesn't mean they're not looking!"

He blinked, then went a delicate shade of pink. "I know they're looking... I know. It's just..."

"I know what you mean." She said, cutting him off. "But if we loose hope now Grollo, we'll never get back."

"I suppose." He drifted off into sullen silence.

Hawthorn hated looking at anybeast- let alone Grollo, who was ever so kind- sad. "Come on, cheer up. Imagine er- what Abbot Martin's teaching now?"

Abbot Martin sat cross-legged in front of the young weasels. The four had proven... Difficult. So far, he had been met with silence, snarls and death-threats, usually in reverse order. He had of course faced difficult students before but... Matiya and Grollo were distracted by swordsbeastship and food respectively. Fret was lazy and disinterested. Roseheart was half-blind like most moles. But at the end of the day a single scolding, a stern glance, and the occasional candied chestnut was enough to push them into the right track.

The weasels? Not really. They clung to each other like a pack, and the old mouse had never seen them separated from one another. Scold one and the others would start biting. Throw a stern glance at one, the rest would glare. Give one a candied chestnut... and (as the Abbot had learned the hard way) they would try and choke you with it. He had yet to learn their names. He doubted that would help. Three were indistinguishable and one was a babe.

They slept in an empty cellar, the door was not locked but was too heavy for them to push open from within. They had been given blankets and pillows and clean habits, but refused everything given to them. Feeding them had been difficult at first, purely because nobeast had particularly wanted to do it. And because they had tried to stab the Recorder with a fork when he had eventually started doing it. Abbot Martin had since taken over (and stopped bringing forks). Of course they had mellowed slightly- or at least they stopped trying to chew his tail off whenever he showed up.

This time he was equipped, not only with lunch, but with a book. It was a History book, as was to be expected, and yet aside from Fret nobeast had failed to be enthralled by it. The ferret had fallen asleep over it at least... twice a day. Though the Abbot would not mind a pack of sleeping weasels at this point. They were sweeter when asleep.

"What do ye want?" Snapped one.

"Well I brought you your supper." He pushed the tray forwards slowly. The quartet crept closer and sniffed suspiciously at the food. Finding no issue they cautiously began nibbling a bun each. "And er- I was hoping you would allow me to read to you."

"We don't need a bedtime story." Snapped another.

"Yeah! Go boil in puddin' abbotmouse!"

The Abbot flinched. Still boiling in pudding seemed superior to 'go flay yourself'. This, he took, to be another hallmark of progress. Even if... Only very slightly. "Now, now. Be reasonable. You may have food and er-comfort, but surely you miss some form of, shall we say entertainment?"

"We don't need your help having fun!"

"Aye! We have lotsa fun!"

"Widout the stupid mice!"

"Please. Surely your parents read- er, told you stories."

"Yer not our papa!"

"Or mammy!"

"I never said-" He protested.

"Let's hit him."

"Aye, t'would be mighty en-tur-tainting."

The old mouse knew better than to take such threats lightly and rose to his shaky old feetpaws. "Very well then. Enjoy your supper." And with that he turned and left.

As the cellar door creaked shut the four were left in semi-darkness, having refused candles of every sort before-paw.

"I wouldn't have minded a story." Mumbled Cheesienibbles.

"Shut it Cheese! Only the weak, ugly, stupid and pathetic wear spectacles."

The Abbot was unsurprised to find Roseheart- or was it Rosebrush? He had always gotten the names mixed up. Still he found the young molemaid waiting for him.

It was to be expected, with all her peers gone and the present, dull mood of the abbey, that she would cling to her elders for hope. Yet most turned her away, too busy with their own problems. A steady decline in the richness of the food showed, clearer than anything to the old Abbot, that most beasts had lost hope of reuniting with their young. After all, nearly a dozen weeks alone and out in the snow could kill grown beasts, what to speak of those still growing? Constance was guilty, that her son had caused so much misery. The Foremole was guilty, for having a daughter safe and at home. The others missed their children. Those that did not have children had gradually stopped trying to cheer the others up. The Recorder wrote sad poetry on the few days he could muster the desire to write anything. The words 'I am sure they are all right' were just an empty promise now.

He himself had given up hope a long time ago... Yet the Abbey needed to continue, as it always had. And he would be damned if Redwall crumbled under his bespectacled gaze.

So he smiled. It was only half-faked, for despite his inner misery he was glad that at least sweet young Rose had come home. The search party were still looking of course, but every time they returned it was empty-pawed. "Rose, cheer up now. What's troubling you?" He already knew what troubled her. Every time she closed her eyes she remembered it all, being tied to a mast, the pack of vermin, being on the dinghy... They had been so close to coming home. Then Matiya had turned back and the ship had lurched...

"Oi bin tryin' ter sleep Father Abbot zurr. But oi... can't."

The old mouse shook his head. "Rose, you know I can't help with that."

"Oi knows it zurr, it's just everybeast else's busy."

The Abbot harrumphed. "Busy moping, as per usual. If only there was a way to smack everybeast out of this sorrow!" The molemaid flinched, and the Abbot lowered his ears guiltily, he hadn't meant to sound so harsh. "I mean, naturally, this is a great tragedy but we must rise above it. Throughout this Abbey's history there have been countless such tragedies, and yet do you think we would be here now if those that came before us failed to pick themselves up and rise to the challenges life hurled at them?"

Once more the mole seemed to stir guiltily. "I am not talking about you." The old mouse explained, holding out his paw. "You have been through a lot Young Rose, you have every right to peace and rest. It is our responsibility to look after you, and so far most of us have failed miserably."

"Oi don't think you failed zurr." She said, very quietly. Yet she gripped his paw as tightly as possible.

"Well, that remains to be seen. Come child, let us find a book to read and drown our sorrows in hope."

"You'm ought ter do speeches."

The Abbot's ears perked up considerably and now his small smile was entirely genuine. "That is nice of you to say."

The books had been easy to find- almost too easy. And indeed it had only been too easy because Vulpuz, the cruel lord of fate, had decided to mess with him even further. So when he found them most of the pages were soaked through. The crayon was still read-able, but only the first page of each book. The second he tried to turn it he was greeted with torn paper and a glimpse of jumbled paw-writing.

"Useless, useless, useless!" He hissed, hurling another old book as far as he could. It hit a tree and seemed to explode into a thousand pieces of old parchment. At this rate he'd never get home. He'd never see Grey Claw, Blizzard, Heartrip and Redtail or his little sisters... and little Cheese, and his mother and father. Threeclaw would never spar with him. Gulash would not chase him to Hellgates over a thrown snowball. Sick-Eyes would never-

Then he remembered that they were all dead and his hopes fell even further. Still... there was the possibility he could make a living for himself. He was good with a blade and robbing unwary woodlanders was not difficult. He could hide out somewhere in Mossflower and lay in a bed with stolen jewels and eat food pilfered from half-blind picnickers. He could build a collection of hideouts even! So that when somebeast went looking for him he could just hide out and pig out!

Only... He'd do it all alone... Without the Honest Bunch. He'd be singing to himself and laughing at his own jokes and lulling himself to sleep. He'd steal all his own food. He'd steal all his own treasures. He'd...

He realized that he was crying and slammed his head against the trunk of books. It was not fair, not fair, not fair! He'd be alone and- and... "I hope you can hear me Grey- you great, dumb, stupid ugly rat! Because I hate you! I hate you!" Tears were rolling down his cheeks but he did not care. His miserly weakness hurt him... but his heart hurt more. "I hate you for leavin' me! We had... so much more! Te do! Te talk about te- I hope yer burnin' in Hellgates coz ye know how ye was always scared we'd go an' ditch ye like whatever idiot whelped ye- well now I know what it feels like! Coz ye done it to me ye dumb, dumb bloody rat!"

The weasel's foot lashed out in a vicious kick. He hit something very hard, and felt spasms of pain shoot through his whole form. Yet this time he did not hop around in rage. He lashed out again, and again and again... hoping against hope that somehow Greyclaw could feel his pain. By the time he was done the trunk of books and every dumb diary inside it was torn to pieces. Save for one. He lifted it, ignoring the painful throbbing of his footpaw, and found something inside that briefly made his heart soar. It was a map! Of a small island right bam splat in the center of the River Moss. And drawn roughly into a part of it, was what was unmistakably a boat!

The weasel raced along the ground in what was the wrong way. He paused briefly to get his bearings, checked that he was heading in the right direction, and then doubled his speed, the remains of the old books, and his grief forgotten.

"He'd say that the vermin ate his homework." Both vole and hedgehog collapsed in a heap of laughter, and laughed still more for a long amount of time.

"We should probably be getting back soon." Grollo huffed at last. The two had spent a rather long amount of time laughing and joking, and were both nearly breathless. Their baskets were full and the berry bushes empty, save for those little green ones that would not turn red until summer.

Hawthorn smiled. "You're right. We wouldn't want to be late for lunch, now would we Grollo?"

The hedgehog frowned a little. "I don't eat so much. Sharpfur eats just as much as me. Only he's little so nobeast notices."

"He's little but wishes he was big. Where is he anyways?"

The little weasel came to a halt in front of a small, dilapidated old shed. He grinned and pushed open the old door. He was unsurprised to find that it was not locked. What he saw next was not surprising either. It was so much better! A boat! An actual boat with an oar and- he raced back outside and around the shed and grinned at the sight of running water. A small stream yes, but it would lead to larger water. The River Moss.

"I am outta here!" He whooped in joy. The weasel barged past the door and lay eager claws on the wood of the little boat. He pulled and pushed and... it failed to budge. "Oh come on! Just! Move!" After tugging and shoving from every possible angle, the weasel collapsed into a panting heap on the ground. "Can nothing just go right! Is freedom too much to ask for? Is it!?" He fell back into panting when his ear gave an involuntary twitch. Far in the distance he could hear his name being called.

Was it lunchtime already? He shot to his feetpaws. He couldn't show the woodlanders this! Not now! Not when- his eyes widened in awe at the sight of the chains tying it to the ground. He darted forwards, searching for a lock. He found it swiftly, and shot his claw inside it. A few moments of frantic wriggling and the lock came free. He threw himself into pushing the boat now and to his immense relief it moved forwards ever-so-slightly.

"Shaaaaaaaarpfur!" The sound was closer now and made him jump, as if what he was doing was wrong and he was about to be caught in his mischief. He paused briefly. He did not have much time before they found his trail, which would surely lead them right to him. Would he manage to get the boat out to the stream before then? And if he did... would he ever see the woodlanders again? His stomach growled slightly. He hadn't had anything for breakfast and... his feetpaw suddenly refused to budge. "Move stupid feet we got to go! We have to... go..." Go where? He did not have anybeast waiting for him. He did not have anywhere to be. Sickletail was not there to welcome him home.

He sighed heavily, growled, kicked the boat as hard as he could, hopped on one foot, pulled himself together and stomped out the door. The map and the book he tucked into his sleeves and slowly he trudged up the ground he'd come from.

Sharpfur told himself it was because he needed to get supplies first. Because he needed help pushing the boat into the stream. Because he couldn't just go traveling alone. There was safety in numbers! Yet ultimately he had to admit, no matter how much he resented it, that he was not the type of beast who could live alone. Dumb and stupid they might be but... the woodlanders were his only friends left.

"Shaaaaaarpfur!"

"Right behind ye." The weasel snapped, bursting through a small bush that had just begun flowering.

"What happened to you?" Asked Grollo. The weasel's glasses were askew, his large coat disheveled, his left footpaw red and swollen.

"Nothin'. Now quite yer shoutin' and let's go eat! I ain't sure about you numpties, but I'm starvin'!" Adjusting his spectacles he proceeded to lead the way back towards the cottage. He disappeared behind a tree as Grollo leaned down towards Hawthorn.

"He's up to something." The hedgehog whispered to the vole from out the side of his mouth.

"I know. But what can he do?" She whispered back.

"Ye'd be surprised. I've got pretty good hearing." He said, reappearing between them. He threw his paws round their shoulders and now guided them all forwards. "I'm goin' ter be honest with ye, I've grown..." He seemed to be struggling to say the last word, till at last it burst out from him. "Attached."

"Attached?" Hawthorn turned to him, perplexed.

"Te ye lot." The weasel explained.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Grollo with a frown.

Sharpfur shook his head. "Eh forget it. Let's go grab some lunch."