Author:
Mossyra of the II
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Date Posted: 23:07:23 09/10/07 Mon
Small Tim was a ferret. He was fast and agile, quicker than any other beast in the land, but he didn't have a long endurance over flat ground; hills and forests were preferred to open plains, as well as mountains and long-abandoned tunnels. Plains simply didn't have the appropriate cover and mystery to suit him. However, none of his skill or hidden strength helped him when the vermin came.
They sailed from a far-away land on ships; he watched them arrive from a tall dune, sheltered by a sand-covered cloak. As the seasons went by they established a firm hold, conquering Redwall and ruling Mossflower. He hated seeing good-beasts enslaved, for he himself was not evil. But he could do nothing, so he continued with life as always.
Until a time almost eleven seasons later, when he was no longer a small dibbun. Now he had reached seventeen seasons and was still small, thin and short, looking much younger than he actually was. He was sighing over this early one morning when he heard a twig snap nearby. Leaping from his seat among the roots of an oak, he whirled around and darted for a low branch, hoping to lose the foes by escaping into the treetops.
It didn't work. Fast as he was, they had closed in too far and he was grabbed by the footpaw just before he could pull himself up. A strong weasel had caught him and now jerked him back down, holding a dagger to his throat.
"Well well, what have we here," the weasel chuckled. "A little woodlander panicked by us. That's down-right insulting, don't you think?" His companions, five other assorted vermin, grinned and drew their weapons, a few licking their blades in anticipation. Tim gulped.
"Don't worry, little woodlander, we won't hurt you. At least, not if your mommy and daddy come out nice and easy like and let us take them back to Juntil's fort." A few of the vermin laughed, and Tim drew himself straighter. Even so, he still didn't reach the weasel's shoulder.
"I'm not a woodlander and I don't have any parents." Wonder of wonders, his voice seemed to be steady. Inside, he felt like he had swallowed a mountain full of butterflies. "In fact, I'm a lot older than you think." Some stared at him incredulously, but the weasel only pressed his knife closer. "Clever little fellow, aren't you? Well don't worry, Juntil will soon decide what to do with you." Tim bit back a groan. His brother was the last beast he wanted to see right now.
Rose smiled at the young hare serving her and he practically skipped away, a silly grin pasted on his face. Sam grinned and leaned toward her, whispering, "His face looks like he got kissed instead of smiled at, eh, Rose?" She blushed.
"Oh, be quiet, you lop-eared excuse for a squirrel. Bury your face in that soup before I bury it in the sand!"
A pace-stick rapped the table in front of them, causing them to start with surprise. In front of them was an old hare squinting through his monocle. "Come on, missy, let's here a song from you. Young Sam says you could charm the stars out of the sky with your singing, and we all want to see if he's a rotten face liar or not, wot wot!"
Shooting Sam a murderous glance, Rose stood up and complied.
"Sun rises o’er the treetops,
And sends us day’s first welcome,
Shining down upon ripe crops,
And burning mist away.
It lends the strength to fight night’s fears,
And dispels all damp and gloom,
It wipes away little ones’ tears,
With each and every ray.
So come now, young one, watch the sun,
As it brings good cheer and faith,
Forever smiling ‘till it’s gone,
And burning through the day."
For a moment after she finished the song, all was hushed silent. Then the Long Patrol broke out in hearty cheers. Sam grinned and waved a paw at the hares. "Come on, Rosey, you have to give into that. Sing us another one!" With much coaxing, Rose finally relented and began an old favorite of hers, singing cheerily,
"'Twas on midwinter's eve,
That I joined the Long Patrol,
And soon I learned to my dismay,
That they didn't have so much as a hardtack roll!
They starved an' fought an' starved some more,
Then cooked fat trees for lunch,
An' ran as far ole Redwall,
To beg for something to munch.
See, the corporal was the cook as well,
But he burned all of their salad,
And toasts grit for them to drink,
Even as I sing this ballad.
The sergeant roared to toss the soup,
Right at the foebeasts faces,
An' they gave way to the purple liquid,
Before we took three paces!
So the Long Patrol do not join,
I warn you all right now,
For once begun you cannot stop,
And the scoff is awful foul.
We march until our paws drop off,
An' watch the green sun rise,
An' every night the captain sings,
So shrill it hurts our eyes!
Stay home and feast, I tell you sure,
Do not come to join us,
The cook bakes like a thrice-dead stone,
An' the dust does like to coat us."
Amid the laughter and chuckles, Rose sat down, but only after hitting her squirrel friend with an onion and garlic flan.
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