Categories > Books > Redwall > The Wicked Ground
The otters were starting to wonder. Their jobs on the ships lining the coast of Mossflower Country were usually fairly stress free and without complication, but they usually were not bored by the work. Passing ships in the open ocean as well as smaller crafts coming in and out of the channels and harbors of Mossflower country usually provided interest and interaction enough. Over the course of the past week, however, virtually no ships had come into view even from the crows' nests - only one distant freighter to the west, and not a single vessel within the demarcated waterspace of Mossflower. At first, the border ships' captains came to their own independent conclusions that the slowed traffic was due to the Nameday celebrations, but as the lull hung on past the customary three days of the festival, the captains began just as independently to get suspicious.
On the evening of what would have been two days after the festivities ended, Leika Lutrovna steered the Ruddaring down the coast toward the next ship in the row. The Watercrest was the flagship of Mossflower Country, and its master, an otter named Streamrunner, was considered the Admiral of the proper Navy, even though that Navy had not needed to engage in any manner of warlike acts for years. The crew of the Watercrest was not becoming warlike in its boredom with the lack of traffic, but they were becoming tense and snippy, which was increasingly making Streamrunner want to retreat to his cabin rather than dealing with it all. It was his duty to stay on deck, though, but he felt quite relieved from that duty when the Ruddaring steamed up beside the Watercrest, bringing fresh creatures onto the scene, though worried ones.
Leika Lutrovna crossed over onto the Watercrest's deck, saluting Streamrunner as she did. The Admiral responded with a far more casual wave, setting the tone for the conversation despite the fact that the subject matter was, in all actuality, quite serious. "Wonderin' about the quiet, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," Leika responded, a formal address in a more conversational tone.
Streamrunner flicked his whiskers. "I've been thinkin' on and off about it and I just can't fathom a reason at all. Sure never happened like this before."
Leika squinted out toward the shore. "Could it have anything to do with that bump, you think? That little storm without the actual weather?" The captain of the Ruddaring had sent word to the Watercrest later on the day of the disturbance, and Streamrunner reported the odd waves as well, but neither otter had any idea then either, so they had taken to referring to it as the storm without a storm.
"Really only one way to know," Streamrunner noted with a shrug. "And I'd been thinkin' it was about time to pay the folks on land a little visit about this fishy business anyway. You bring that funny record of yours along and we'll ask if anything came up around the same time."
"Admiral Streamrunner, I was not expecting to go..." Leika began, but Streamrunner cut her off.
"Relax, it'll be good t' get off the water a bit. The Speedwell can take on as temporary flagship and lighthouse, and it's not as if we're expectin' to be inundated with ships all of a sudden!"
Leika Lutrovna could not argue with Streamrunner's point, and as the two otters rowed toward shore early the next morning, the captain of the Ruddaring had to admit that the change of scenery was nice. Even though the scenery was odd. A fine layer of stirred-up dust lay over much of the stable undergrowth in the woods, muting the color in a sense that neither otter could feel good about attributing to mere glorified memory of the place.
As the two walked and chatted about those memories, they were halted momentarily by a flicker of a wriggle against their footpaws, enough to cause a minor trip-up but not so large as to instigate a fall. Leika and Streamrunner looked at each other and scuffed at the ground, not able to even properly describe what the thought they had felt, and thus agreeing to write that off as mere exhaustion. The pair continued toward Redwall, taking no note of the leaves that had been dislodged by the wiggle and were drifting downwards.
Midway into the morning, as Streamrunner was commenting to Leika that there was something decidedly odd about the path being as undisturbed by recent pawsteps as the sea had been from ships, he stopped in his tracks and thumped his rudderlike tail heavily on the ground. One side of the otter's face scrunched upward, whiskers bristling out, teeth partially exposed, one eye narrowed into a squint as he faced the abrupt end of the path.
Leika Lutrovna came up beside the Admiral and felt her jaw practically unhinge at the discovery of the sharp cut of exposed soil that ended the road right there. "By my whiskers..." she murmured.
A scan of the ground ahead revealed the continuation of the displaced road, nearly twenty feet to the right. As soon as Streamrunner's eyes caught on it, he grabbed Leika's paw and tugged her over to the continuation of the path and down it, grave urgency determining his pace. "This is far more than just fishy now," he barked. "We can't waste any more time."
The otters sprinted along the second leg of the path, forcing themselves to keep up the pace despite the fact that their muscles were screaming at them to slow down. Streamrunner started to flag, though, as the spire of Redwall's bell tower failed to materialize above the trees as he was used to. Leika did not try to speed him up again. It was ultimately fortunate that their motion had decreased in its potential energy, so that their very abrupt halt upon coming upon the site of Redwall Abbey did not cause collisions or thrown-out knees.
Both the spectacular damage and the recognition of the beasts of the Northridge Horde hit Streamrunner like a weighted hammer from behind, one blow right after the other with no reprieve. He scanned the area for an explanation and very nearly felt a third blow upon noticing his comrade from the Northern War, Rakarde, hauling stones alongside several hordebeasts. The blow of feared capture was intercepted, though, as he drew in closer and realized that there was a genuine, though quiet, cooperation as the beasts worked to clean up what was left of Redwall.
Streamrunner approached Rakarde and rested an uneasy paw on the block of red sandstone that the fox held. "What in the seas and skies happened here, mate?" the otter queried.
Rakarde looked at his compatriot, sadness and disbelief flickering in his amber eyes. "An earthquake, Streamrunner." His tone was a comparable mix of solemnity and incredulity to his expression. "How did you not know?"
"An earthquake," Streamrunner repeated, peering down at the soil between his footpaws. "I don't know how we couldn't know! But the ship barely rocked, solid vessel that she is...An' I still don't know. Blast it...an earthquake!" The otter shook his head.
"Be glad you missed it. Doesn't get you glory like the battlefield does." Rakarde's gaze did not leave the otter's face.
Streamrunner scuffed his footpaws and made the same confused and mistrusting face that he had made upon discovering the displaced road. "But how do the vermin come into it all, eh?"
Rakarde shrugged, the gesture made smaller by the weight of the sandstone in his paws. "They're working with us. Their leader - not the one we fought against, mind you - just showed up and proposed truce and we're working together. She offered up the whole horde's services, call them what you will, and even offered their ships to clear out of here if it heads that way." The fox did not sound entirely trusting.
"Leave? The word sounded foreign even as Streamrunner spoke it, but at as he looked about the devastated scene and at the chunk of Redwall in Rakarde's arms, the otter's face took on a cast of understanding. "Well, if it heads that way," he declared, stiffening in military fashion, "my ships are up for the service as well, safely bound for wherever the case may be, servin' Mossflower as always. I'll let that be known!"
-----
Crysantema had already received herbal remedies for her fainting spells. Enruso had already been shown breathing exercises designed to counteract impending panic attacks rather than to optimize vocal production. Therefore, when the marten Maestro Liedswelt approached the makeshift infirmary for a third time, it was all the workers could do to not comment on how they did not wish to deal with any more operatic and melodramatic pseudo-trauma. Most of them were quite relieved when the ferretmaid Aetantim came forward to deal with the conductor.
"What's the concern now?" Aetantim asked, trying to smile as best she could, considering the circumstances. "Have your stars been ignoring their instructions?"
Liedswelt squinted at the ferret, shaking his head slowly. "No, no, they're fine. I'm here for myself this time."
Deeper concern crept into Aetantim's expression. "What do you need?"
"Well, for one, I can't see well without my spectacles," the marten began with only half of what could be considered conviction. But then he let out a long and ragged sigh. "I just don't know. I just can't deal with it! But I am supposed to be the rock, the steady example of support and guidance for my ensemble!"
Aetantim winced at Liedswelt's poor choice of metaphor. "Even rocks aren't always solid. Even rocks break down and move. It's...natural." She sounded unconvinced on the last word, or perhaps more that she wished that she were not so convinced of it.
"I don't want to have to be the strong one right now," Liedswelt confessed. The normally hard and bright countenance flickered with silent sobs. "It makes no sense to me. I've lived always for my music - music is beautiful, music is natural, natural beauty is music! I hear every environment I enter just as much as I see them, maybe more. I play music to enter an environment. I write music to create environments! It is the purest natural process for me! But this? It made noise, but I do not hear this. This is not music! How can this be natural? How can such a beautiful world do this?! I don't understand it! How can the world itself choose to take so many lives on its own discretion, with no reason - so many productive and innocent lives? I don't understand it!"
Liedswelt let out another heavy breath and looked at Aetantim, the fur around his myopic eyes damp. "How can I be any sort of leader in that when I feel that Nature has caused this hurt?"
"I think you do not have to be strong right now," Aetantim offered, tentatively placing a paw on the Maestro's shoulder. "It would be just as unnatural for you to try."
Liedswelt sniffled, then spoke again, pleasing. "But you must find Jacinth! I know she must be dead, but you still must find her! I cannot bear to think of all those beasts I never knew trapped under those piles of stone, but to know of her face in there? That would be too weak of me to let that pass. You must find her, for her family and hometown, for the Opera, for my troubled thoughts that I was not strong enough to protect her from Nature no matter how well I know Music...please?"
Aetantim regarded the little marten in silence for a moment, then noted, distant at first, "It takes many creatures to run this clinic...but we are getting more each day." The ferret reached out and gently clasped her paws around Liedswelt's trembling ones. "I can go find her."
On the evening of what would have been two days after the festivities ended, Leika Lutrovna steered the Ruddaring down the coast toward the next ship in the row. The Watercrest was the flagship of Mossflower Country, and its master, an otter named Streamrunner, was considered the Admiral of the proper Navy, even though that Navy had not needed to engage in any manner of warlike acts for years. The crew of the Watercrest was not becoming warlike in its boredom with the lack of traffic, but they were becoming tense and snippy, which was increasingly making Streamrunner want to retreat to his cabin rather than dealing with it all. It was his duty to stay on deck, though, but he felt quite relieved from that duty when the Ruddaring steamed up beside the Watercrest, bringing fresh creatures onto the scene, though worried ones.
Leika Lutrovna crossed over onto the Watercrest's deck, saluting Streamrunner as she did. The Admiral responded with a far more casual wave, setting the tone for the conversation despite the fact that the subject matter was, in all actuality, quite serious. "Wonderin' about the quiet, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," Leika responded, a formal address in a more conversational tone.
Streamrunner flicked his whiskers. "I've been thinkin' on and off about it and I just can't fathom a reason at all. Sure never happened like this before."
Leika squinted out toward the shore. "Could it have anything to do with that bump, you think? That little storm without the actual weather?" The captain of the Ruddaring had sent word to the Watercrest later on the day of the disturbance, and Streamrunner reported the odd waves as well, but neither otter had any idea then either, so they had taken to referring to it as the storm without a storm.
"Really only one way to know," Streamrunner noted with a shrug. "And I'd been thinkin' it was about time to pay the folks on land a little visit about this fishy business anyway. You bring that funny record of yours along and we'll ask if anything came up around the same time."
"Admiral Streamrunner, I was not expecting to go..." Leika began, but Streamrunner cut her off.
"Relax, it'll be good t' get off the water a bit. The Speedwell can take on as temporary flagship and lighthouse, and it's not as if we're expectin' to be inundated with ships all of a sudden!"
Leika Lutrovna could not argue with Streamrunner's point, and as the two otters rowed toward shore early the next morning, the captain of the Ruddaring had to admit that the change of scenery was nice. Even though the scenery was odd. A fine layer of stirred-up dust lay over much of the stable undergrowth in the woods, muting the color in a sense that neither otter could feel good about attributing to mere glorified memory of the place.
As the two walked and chatted about those memories, they were halted momentarily by a flicker of a wriggle against their footpaws, enough to cause a minor trip-up but not so large as to instigate a fall. Leika and Streamrunner looked at each other and scuffed at the ground, not able to even properly describe what the thought they had felt, and thus agreeing to write that off as mere exhaustion. The pair continued toward Redwall, taking no note of the leaves that had been dislodged by the wiggle and were drifting downwards.
Midway into the morning, as Streamrunner was commenting to Leika that there was something decidedly odd about the path being as undisturbed by recent pawsteps as the sea had been from ships, he stopped in his tracks and thumped his rudderlike tail heavily on the ground. One side of the otter's face scrunched upward, whiskers bristling out, teeth partially exposed, one eye narrowed into a squint as he faced the abrupt end of the path.
Leika Lutrovna came up beside the Admiral and felt her jaw practically unhinge at the discovery of the sharp cut of exposed soil that ended the road right there. "By my whiskers..." she murmured.
A scan of the ground ahead revealed the continuation of the displaced road, nearly twenty feet to the right. As soon as Streamrunner's eyes caught on it, he grabbed Leika's paw and tugged her over to the continuation of the path and down it, grave urgency determining his pace. "This is far more than just fishy now," he barked. "We can't waste any more time."
The otters sprinted along the second leg of the path, forcing themselves to keep up the pace despite the fact that their muscles were screaming at them to slow down. Streamrunner started to flag, though, as the spire of Redwall's bell tower failed to materialize above the trees as he was used to. Leika did not try to speed him up again. It was ultimately fortunate that their motion had decreased in its potential energy, so that their very abrupt halt upon coming upon the site of Redwall Abbey did not cause collisions or thrown-out knees.
Both the spectacular damage and the recognition of the beasts of the Northridge Horde hit Streamrunner like a weighted hammer from behind, one blow right after the other with no reprieve. He scanned the area for an explanation and very nearly felt a third blow upon noticing his comrade from the Northern War, Rakarde, hauling stones alongside several hordebeasts. The blow of feared capture was intercepted, though, as he drew in closer and realized that there was a genuine, though quiet, cooperation as the beasts worked to clean up what was left of Redwall.
Streamrunner approached Rakarde and rested an uneasy paw on the block of red sandstone that the fox held. "What in the seas and skies happened here, mate?" the otter queried.
Rakarde looked at his compatriot, sadness and disbelief flickering in his amber eyes. "An earthquake, Streamrunner." His tone was a comparable mix of solemnity and incredulity to his expression. "How did you not know?"
"An earthquake," Streamrunner repeated, peering down at the soil between his footpaws. "I don't know how we couldn't know! But the ship barely rocked, solid vessel that she is...An' I still don't know. Blast it...an earthquake!" The otter shook his head.
"Be glad you missed it. Doesn't get you glory like the battlefield does." Rakarde's gaze did not leave the otter's face.
Streamrunner scuffed his footpaws and made the same confused and mistrusting face that he had made upon discovering the displaced road. "But how do the vermin come into it all, eh?"
Rakarde shrugged, the gesture made smaller by the weight of the sandstone in his paws. "They're working with us. Their leader - not the one we fought against, mind you - just showed up and proposed truce and we're working together. She offered up the whole horde's services, call them what you will, and even offered their ships to clear out of here if it heads that way." The fox did not sound entirely trusting.
"Leave? The word sounded foreign even as Streamrunner spoke it, but at as he looked about the devastated scene and at the chunk of Redwall in Rakarde's arms, the otter's face took on a cast of understanding. "Well, if it heads that way," he declared, stiffening in military fashion, "my ships are up for the service as well, safely bound for wherever the case may be, servin' Mossflower as always. I'll let that be known!"
-----
Crysantema had already received herbal remedies for her fainting spells. Enruso had already been shown breathing exercises designed to counteract impending panic attacks rather than to optimize vocal production. Therefore, when the marten Maestro Liedswelt approached the makeshift infirmary for a third time, it was all the workers could do to not comment on how they did not wish to deal with any more operatic and melodramatic pseudo-trauma. Most of them were quite relieved when the ferretmaid Aetantim came forward to deal with the conductor.
"What's the concern now?" Aetantim asked, trying to smile as best she could, considering the circumstances. "Have your stars been ignoring their instructions?"
Liedswelt squinted at the ferret, shaking his head slowly. "No, no, they're fine. I'm here for myself this time."
Deeper concern crept into Aetantim's expression. "What do you need?"
"Well, for one, I can't see well without my spectacles," the marten began with only half of what could be considered conviction. But then he let out a long and ragged sigh. "I just don't know. I just can't deal with it! But I am supposed to be the rock, the steady example of support and guidance for my ensemble!"
Aetantim winced at Liedswelt's poor choice of metaphor. "Even rocks aren't always solid. Even rocks break down and move. It's...natural." She sounded unconvinced on the last word, or perhaps more that she wished that she were not so convinced of it.
"I don't want to have to be the strong one right now," Liedswelt confessed. The normally hard and bright countenance flickered with silent sobs. "It makes no sense to me. I've lived always for my music - music is beautiful, music is natural, natural beauty is music! I hear every environment I enter just as much as I see them, maybe more. I play music to enter an environment. I write music to create environments! It is the purest natural process for me! But this? It made noise, but I do not hear this. This is not music! How can this be natural? How can such a beautiful world do this?! I don't understand it! How can the world itself choose to take so many lives on its own discretion, with no reason - so many productive and innocent lives? I don't understand it!"
Liedswelt let out another heavy breath and looked at Aetantim, the fur around his myopic eyes damp. "How can I be any sort of leader in that when I feel that Nature has caused this hurt?"
"I think you do not have to be strong right now," Aetantim offered, tentatively placing a paw on the Maestro's shoulder. "It would be just as unnatural for you to try."
Liedswelt sniffled, then spoke again, pleasing. "But you must find Jacinth! I know she must be dead, but you still must find her! I cannot bear to think of all those beasts I never knew trapped under those piles of stone, but to know of her face in there? That would be too weak of me to let that pass. You must find her, for her family and hometown, for the Opera, for my troubled thoughts that I was not strong enough to protect her from Nature no matter how well I know Music...please?"
Aetantim regarded the little marten in silence for a moment, then noted, distant at first, "It takes many creatures to run this clinic...but we are getting more each day." The ferret reached out and gently clasped her paws around Liedswelt's trembling ones. "I can go find her."
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