…Well, you can’t!
That’s all I wrote folks. Other things came along and I just never got around to finishing it.
I know what happens next, in my head, but I do still need to work a few details out before I would be happy committing the rest of the story to paper. If you really care, or have ideas of your own, do drop me a line! Thanks for reading!
“All I am saying is that we’ve been here four seasons now, and we still haven’t seen any real action! I’m tired of patrolling up and down for no reason, back and forth, here and there…the monotony is killing me!”
Heidi, Arnica and I sighed; we’d heard this rant of Lynum’s before. The hall where the leverets and officers took their meals was full of hungry hares breaking their fast. Lynum and I were gearing up to go on another costal patrol duty.
“I mean-”Lynum continued, waving an oatmeal laden bowl around. Beside him, Heidi started to mimic his actions over-comically, dodging splats of oatmeal as she did so. Arnica and I tried to hide our giggles as she gestured and made funny faces. Lynum seemed not to notice. This state of affairs continued for some time. (more…)
That was my first encounter with Salamandastron hares, and lead to my entry into the recruits programme a bit later on. Within four seasons I was fully trained and had done enough field work with the Long Patrol to become an Honourable Lieutenant. I was now living permanently in quarters at the mountain, but still saw Mitzi and Eepee from time to time since they lived close. Their household had changed dramatically in the course of four seasons, losing one load of orphans and gaining another. Shortly after my departure, Yan had taken to wandering, going further and further each day. Then, one day, the mole brother and sister came home to find all his things gone and a note saying that he wasn’t going to be back for some time. No beast knew where he had gone or has heard from him since. I often wonder about him; where did he go, and indeed, where had come from in the first place? (more…)
His name was Lynum. After apologising profusely for running into me, he built a fire so we could both dry off, and also started rummaging about in his haversack for anything still edible after its dip in the sea. Food is a wonderful peace offering. I was soon laughing about the whole thing and chatting away as if I’d known him for years.
I told him a tailored version of my story, simply saying that my parents had died when I was young and the moles had adopted me. He seemed keen to meet Patrice and Yan, who I had totally forgiven by now, of course. I promised to introduce them if he came by the burrow sometime.
Time passed. He told me he was a Salamandastron runner in training. His father had been a colonel and a lot of his family had been in the service. He talked of his sister, Saithe, who was a healer and his bold brother Captain Tammo. I found it all fascinating. (more…)
When I was sixteen seasons old, and I had lived with the mole family longer than I had my actual parents, my life changed once again. This time however, the change was positive.
I had reached that stage where I couldn’t seem to go for five minutes without having an argument with someone. No matter what I said or did, someone found offence in it and would take it personally. Equally, they only had to make a comment in the wrong tone of voice and I’d explode in their face. Patrice, Yan and I, normally such good friends, seemed to constantly be angry with one another, or irritable or upset. Mitzi and Eepee had been half driven out of their minds by our fighting. Their once peaceful burrow had been transformed into a battleground as three young individuals tested the water of adulthood. (more…)
And so it was that I came to live with the mole siblings Mitzi and Eepee. To make a long story short, they soon put two and two together with my disjointed story over biscuits and the decimated camp that Eepee had passed on his way home. They very kindly offered that I come and stay with them. I had no other options, and the biscuits were nice so I agreed.
Mitzi was a kind soul, really a wonderful beast. She was continually happy and it wasn’t uncommon to hear her singing as she went about her work. A neat freak, she cleaned the burrow everyday from top to bottom and she was also a wonderful carer, making sure that everyone had clothes that fit and weren’t torn, keeping the place warm and, most of all, seeing that we were well fed. Redwall’s cuisine may be revered the length and breadth of the land, but I would trade any dish from there for just one of Mitzi’s plum cakes, or her turnip ‘n’ tater ‘n’ beetroot pies. I suppose being raised by moles helped, but I came to love that recipe as much as any of them. (more…)
Mother did the only thing she could, grabbed my sister and I and shoved us into the relative safety of a nearby hedge while pandemonium ruled around us. The three of us then watched with horror as our entire family was slaughtered. The gang of bandits ate our feast, made use of our den and destroyed the whole place. The weasel that Mother had hit on the head revived and joined in the fun. I watched, my hatred for him growing as he finished off in just a few mouthfuls all the strawberry flans we had so lovingly baked.
We didn’t run; I don’t know why. I guess my mother was frozen with fear, or didn’t want to abandon her home, or was waiting to be rescued. So we crouched in that hedge, all day, and just watched. By the time night fell, it was very clear to us that help – my father – was not coming. We saw the scouts returning with news of our male relatives, dead, all of them. Mother and Arbara cried silently, but I was young and didn’t understand the full implications of what I was hearing. (more…)
Well guys, I have a bit of a treat for you this week. I have decided to share some of my earlier attempts at writing with my loyal readers here.
Whenever they do interviews with writers, they always ask them when and how they started writing. Usually the answer is that they wrote a play for their dolls when they were a child, or entered a short story competition. In my case, the first original story that I ever wrote all off my own back was about a young girl hunting with a Saluki dog in Arabia. But the first thing that I ever sat down and properly produced was Redwall FanFic entitled, imaginatively, Lupwa’s Story. (more…)
Memory is a strange thing. The earliest memory I have – I must have been about three seasons old – is of my grandfather teaching me to play a paw clapping game at the fireside in our family den. I also remember, in about the same year, my mother scolding me for climbing rocks and letting me eat the apple peel when she baked a pie, and my sister knitting me a green jumper with brown trim. None of these memories are really related in any way, except that they are the only real memories I have of my family.
I can remember their names and details, of course, and what they smelled like; Grandfather smelt of tobacco, Mother of spices and my brothers of sawdust from their workshop. I can remember that we were happy, a tight extended family unit, and that we loved each other.
When I try to recall their faces though, it’s as if someone has drawn a gossamer curtain around my brain. I can vaguely recall their facial features, but they start to get smudged around the edges or mixed up with other beasts’. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get a clear image. I know what they looked like, I just can’t see them in my mind. But I remember them.
Because the only other recollection I have involving my family is one that is branded on my memory forevermore. I remember the day they died. (more…)
Dear sister Kitty,
It is such a shame you did not choose to stay longer in Hertfordshire, for our Uncle Phillips has hired a new clerk, and Mother declares he is just the sort of man she would like for another son in law. I dare say she will tell you all about him in her next letter. His name is James Alcott, and he is a handsome enough fellow I suppose; if I should be forced to reflect on his appearance. He would do very well for you, Mother declares, if only you were here to have him, and she begs you cut your trip short so that you might meet him before Maria Lucas sets her sights on him. I personally cared little for the man, though I confess I spoke to him little. My father asks to be remembered to yourself, and he says you’re to behave yourself while you’re from home.
Regards, Mary (more…)
