Brian Jacques owns the details you recognize. The new characters, concept, and idea are mine. What you draw from this is yours. Read and review. And please- do not flame me about the style of narration (confusion intentional), or the ending. It's meant to be like that. And, in the same state, would you be any more lucid?

No one notices the smaller details. Calls to war are grand, but that duty is taken. Cryptic riddles? That's right up my alley, but someone else already does that. Protection is a broad field better left to the living, I guess. I'm a ghost, but not even a proper one. I'm a wisp of a spirit, and I barely have the awareness left to think, let alone remember.

I was someone. I suppose you'll argue that everyone is someone, but I know that I was a someone that did something that was somewhat important. That sounds ridiculous, even to me. Such a lack of detail is most vexing. This proves that I'm from an older time- not one of the living around me would say such a word, vexing. The residents in this place of soft red stone just put some kind of stream through the pond this morning, and clapped when a turning wheel created a tiny light in some metal contraption. I wasn't interested in their inventions. Instead, I stayed in the gardens, letting the dominant spirit of this place revel in attention that wasn't meant for the dead.

I don't know if the other spirit knows what an effect such things have on me. There's a wall only I can feel in place, surrounding certain areas of the large place, and attacking me if I go too near. I can't climb over it, can't go through it, and can't go under it. The one wall I actually want to get through, and it's impermeable. I'm fading again. Some seasons, I have a rush of strength, and even can be seen by the brightly lit days are the best times, when I can comfort someone. Comfort isn't limited to those necessary for the safety of this place.

I wander. I don't walk, I don't fly, I don't float- I just move. I have no form. The stone walls are too much for me, too much like something else. I don't like stone, for reasons I can't explain, but can go through most of it. I'm half a puff of smoke, invisible to all except the few who can see me. It's on one of these long treks that I find my new purpose.

The top floor has a room that's like no other. It has bright windows, it usually has a pleasant feeling, and the rows of beds are always neat and quiet. Best of all, the other spirit never comes here. That spirit has such a presence in the main floor and a few parts of the grounds that I can't even go near the select places, except for the briefest of lapses. For all my efforts, I never have seen the thing that all the living here treasure, a cloth weaving. That was why I came to the cool, quiet room, to recover after yet another botched attempt to look at that object.

Inside, there was a little one. A dubbin, or something of the sort. Words are usually distorted, here, and I only hear one word in hundreds clearly. Those come from those who see me, even as just some distortion of light. I hear them like someone whispered into my ear, speaking to me even when they address someone else, alive or dead.

She's a tiny mouse-maid, pretty and fragile and with the saddest face I've ever seen. I drift over to her, deciding that I would try to comfort her. Before I am in her field of vision, I hear the trundling steps of the keeper of the room. The healer is a- what's it called, likes dirt, digs holes- mole. I know a little herbery, but that wasn't me. Someone else was a herbist. I was someone who did something somewhat important, and I know someone I knew was a healer. That's the sharpest thoughts get, and they're still in a haze. Confusion- a permanent staple in my existence. If it could be worse, I can't imagine how. Perhaps the other spirit might force me to leave, but I want to stay here. This is home, after all my wanderings.

The mole shuffles in. The little mouse-maid has curled on her side, hands prettily clutching a light blanket, small smile softly in place as she breathes- in, out, in, out- evenly and near silently. I know she is faking. The mole-man doesn't, it seems. "Tia," he says, too quietly. That's all. The word is perfectly clear. He can see me.

All he sees is a shadow of a shadow. I reach out with what should be hands- they're only mist connected to a fog of arms that reach the near-transparent cloud of torso, and touch the little maid's cheek, feeling a fever. I know her name is Tia, as sure as I have no idea who I am, what I am. I hope I'm a mouse- I have no head for heights and tree-climbing, I don't like swimming under water, I can't even think in the mole dialect very well, I don't feel like I ever have flown, and hedgehogs just seem. . . prickly. Others come to visit- sly foxes, bumbling rats, cruel stoats, jeering ferrets, noble badgers, dashing hares, and once- a monstrous wolverine was near, but I am not that big, and never was. I only feel . . . plain, like a mouse.

He says nothing, but bows his head gravely,out of respect to me. I smile. I think he knows. So few people see me. Most that do either blame me to be a trick of the light, the mind, some living person. Some scream. Some make an elaborate show of not seeing me. But a few- they know I'm there, and have no problem with me. He leaves. As soon as the sound of blunt claws scrabbling on stone stairways is gone, as he leaves the mouse-maid some privacy for her sleep, the little one sits up. She's looking directly at me.

"Who are you?" She is older than I guessed. I thought ten seasons. She's sixteen if she's a day, and her eyes- they make brown the richest color imaginable, and saddest. She looks too fragile, but has no symptoms of a real sickness.

I can't answer. Instead, I back away, holding up my not-hands in the universal gesture of showing harmlessness. She stands, unsteadily but with enough determination that she forbids help. She reaches out to me.

In disbelief, I watch as my not-hand touches hers. Through the mist, I see the beginnings of delicate translucent fingers with light fur, dainty enough for tricky work but with the calluses of a fighter. So I wasn't one of the spoiled creatures to lounge around and wait for someone to save me. Good. That is all that develops, but it is enough. I know what the hand means. I was young, I was pretty- I think, and I was a mouse. Female, or male? I'm not sure. Does it matter?

"You're not Martin," she said gravely in her pretty voice, one made for song. She has the smile of a soprano.

Martin. I remember the name, storing it away. That was the dominant spirit around here with enough people seeing him that he could easily shove me away from his places. He let me haunt the rest of the place, the tame areas- gardens, this cool room, bed rooms. I shake my vapor of a head, wishing this mouse-girl would reveal all of me. It's greedy, but I want to know if I was pretty. I feel vain, but maybe, if I saw my face, I would remember.

She sees that I'm puzzled. I don't know how. She just does, and it the most adept I've ever met at seeing me, the maid of the I even a maiden? This wasn't the time- she was speaking to me, about the other spirit."He was a warrior, a great one. He founded this place. Redwall Abbey, home of peace, gardening, and healing." She smiled on the last word, bittersweet. "I need healing- well, I'm waiting for someone else to recover. From all accounts I'm not to hear, I'm to be recovering. I'm not really sick. I just- Nathaniel should be home, but he's went with the otters to learn how to swim. A mouse swimming, can you imagine? He's taken sick, though, bad sick, and I can't be with him. So, I stay here, where no one bothers me. I haven't spoken to anyone in days, but you won't ask enough questions to make me puke on the abbot's new robes. Not talking is safer, and means I don't have to answer at all."

That was it. She was empathetic, and was sickening herself just thinking of someone ailing. I wish that she was still happy and smiling and laughing with other maids her age, but she can talk to me- so few see me, I've gotten greedy for notice. I look at her, watching the way she stands, before pointing my perfect facsimile of a hand at the bed. She needs rest. The paw (well, what word to use? It hardly matters) fades back into a haze of mist, but I have priorities. She'll only die sooner if she won't rest. She protests- she's curious about the shadow of a mouse-maid, someone who died. . . somewhere.

I don't know if it was here. I've seen my grave, though I couldn't understand the words. I looked at the slab of stone, and the one creature I needed to see wasn't there. All I remember since that little valley of green are flashes- tiny swords, ships, sails, woods, plains, jungles, deserts, mountains, caves, rivers, streams, and, finally, this place. Redwall Abbey, the girl had said. I had been feeling the need to move on, to keep searching for . . . someone, but I'll stay here. Tia might need me, and being seen is a joy far beyond song.

I only point at her bed until she relents. She tucks herself in, after my immaterial hands fail. I brush a not-hand against her forehead, the one that hadn't been real. On my left paw, there's a promise-knot on the appropriate finger. She sees and struggles to wake, but I'm humming, the one sound I've managed to produce. It isn't real humming. It's whispers and murmurs and quiet tones blended together, a soothing sound. I never have found my voice, but my not-voice sometimes work.

I wait the night dreaming while awake, watching over the girl. The mole is there again, this time glad to see her really sleeping. He had known the difference. He winks at me. I would wink back, if I had eyes. I see without them, an odd sensation. Instead, I nod, a more visible expression. He leaves. There is a sudden rush of fear, emotion without form. He could tell their ghost, this warrior, that I am here, and I could lose this place once and for all. The fear vanishes as I think of leaving this girl, the little Tia with a dying love.

I will not leave. Starting today, no one will push me around. I may not have a form, I may not be known to all- I don't even have a name, a voice, a way to really communicate- but I will fight. There is no real way for me to fight a stronger ghost- I don't even know how to go about such a business- but I'll try. I have a reason now. I have Tia.

She wakes early, just as sunlight begins to stream through the window to gently brush her face. She looks around, convinced that I may have been a dream. I'm a little gratified to see that she's happy to find me beside her bed, neither standing nor floating. I'm just there, and it's enough.

"Your paw, please?" she asks eagerly.

I give her my left paw. I know what she meant. She takes it, smoothing away the mists until I can see part of myself, all in shades of white and gray. There is a promise ring. I frown, even if it can't be seen. There is no memory behind it. Whoever I'm looking for, they are not connected to that ring. Maybe- someone else gave it for the other. Maybe I died before such a thing could be given. Or maybe I'm just wandering this world, staying away from the Dark Forest because I'm not good enough for paradise, not because who I seek isn't there. For all I know, I belong in Hellgates. Not knowing is a terrible thing. Well, the ring shows one thing. It's too detailed for a male's promise ring, invariably smooth and plain. Mine has carvings of tiny flowers across coral, beautiful and strong roses in a pale orange-red.

She can tell that I'm thinking sad thoughts. "Do you know who you are?" She can't see me- I'm the slightest bit clearer in the dark. "Just hold up one finger for yes, and two for no." She takes her hands away to give mine room. There's only time for two fingers before my hand fades. I glare at it. I know what my hands look like. They can just stay there. They slowly appear, like a recalcitrant fish reeled in on a line. I smile with triumph, and so does Tia, sharing in my victory.

"Are you from here?" No fingers. "You don't know?" One finger. "Are you about my age?" I hold up one finger, rocking it back and forth. "Not sure?" One finger. "Do you know anything about yourself?" I make a gesture- a little. "What's it about?" I point to the herbalist's cabinet, elated with my small success. "You were a healer?" Two fingers. "You knew a healer?" One finger. "Well, that's a start." One finger again.

The mole interrupts, bringing in a tray of breakfast. "Mornin', mizz Tia." He sees me and nearly drops the tray. Well, more correctly, he sees my hands. Tia catches it for him, moving faster than he had guessed, by the look on his face. "Mizz Ghostie. Have toim to stay awhoile?" I hold up a finger. Tia interprets. He's charmed when she relates the bit about the healer.

He lists famous healers from everywhere. Badgers and foxes and hedgehogs and moles and hares and mice and squirrels and the few otter healers- I don't feel a particular connection to any. I point at my own cloud of a body, then to Tia. Whoever my healer was, that soul is at rest. The healer was a mouse- don't ask me how I know, but I do.

A crowd of Dibbuns (Tia explains only infants are Dibbuns, not Dubbins) raced into the infirmary (as the mole calls it, after introducing himself as Herb, short for Herbert). They surrounded Tia, begging for a song. She obliges, with a husky, sweet soprano. She wasn't the best, undoubtedly, but she sang like she meant it. It was a silly song, a child's ditty. I knew it, and hummed along in my own odd way, a counterpart. The Dibbuns heard it, and stared wide-eyed at each other- except a little squirrel lad, who looked directly at me before being herded away.

"You can hum," Tia told me, smiling. I recognize that look. She has a distraction, something to focus on. Conceited as it may be, I don't mind at all being the center of attention, however small of a center it may be. "Can you say anything?" The mole only watches, smiling a crinkly velvet smile that the mouse-maid is speaking without any hint of awkwardness. Tia never had been one for content silence.

Two fingers. I'm afraid to try anything else. Making little gestures is safe. Tia isn't as cautious as I am. She takes my arm, smoothing away fog from my arms until I can see them, up to just past my elbows. I pull away, nervous. She reaches out, but Herb stops her. He understands. "You be nervousing the ghoster, mizz Tia." I held up a finger, agreeing instantly. I feel naked without my fog. I let that slip back into place, keeping the memory of arms. I leave wrists and hands uncovered, watching them like they belong to someone else. I can hardly believe that after so much time, there might be a me beneath layers of time and age and amnesia.

What if- I wasn't a good person? What if I died old, and only think that I'm young? What if I never was a mouse? What if everyone hated me? What if- Herb puts a hand on my shoulder. I feel that I have a shoulder. When I move the arm, I feel muscles flex. He leaves clouds and fog in place, and I stop thinking my spiral of ifs. "You'm could do it, if'n you wanted to troi." His voice was calm, assuring, steady- I'd try, for him and for Tia.

"Alone," a disembodied voice whispered. I blinked eyes that weren't there. That was me. I said that. I tried again, heartened. "For long time, no one sees- those do that scream, pretend or not see to." My grammar was horrible, but I had the idea. The words were a hopeless jumble, but they were there. They existed. So did I.

"I knew you could!" Tia is fairly leaping about the room. "Do you know who you are? At all? Any idea?"

"I'm- a mouse-maid. I was a fighter. I am always wandering, for years and years and years, always looking for someone. I don't know where, who, when, or why I died, or lost that other. I think it has to do with the ring. I-" I closed eyes that weren't there, looking beyond the current scene. I heard a few fragments of words, took in an ear and a shoulder and a wounded footpaw. "Him. I'm looking for him. I never got to say good-bye."

"Who?" Herb prompted gently.

"I- I don't know. But I was someone who did something somewhat important. I knew a healer. I'm looking for someone I love. I would have been promised to him." I gained strength with the recitation. "And, Tia, I will help you if it is at all possible."

"You'm can't," Herb said, shaking his head. "Lessen yer up to healin'."

"What is it?" I asked, after forgetting for a moment that I could speak. So much in so little time- something larger than me was happening.

"Nathaniel the spotted sickness, which only mice will catch," Tia said quietly. Herb blanched. She wasn't supposed to know. "Contagious as anything, hard to cure, and the cure kills half the time. I just- can't handle everyone staring so, but there's nothing for me to do. He's sick, and no one knows the old ways to cure."

I smile, and a ghost of the expression shows through obscuring mists. "Eat your breakfast and then come with me. I'll . . . meet you outside." I disappear before they can ask why I won't stay. I would listen, but for one fact. To get to the gardens from the cool room- infirmary- I'd have to go by the weaving. The strong ghost wouldn't let anyone near there. I would stay away, saving my strength. I would help Tia. He helped with warfare and fighting and cryptic poetry. I would plain old help, no subtlety this time. Tia could use the help, and I could give it to her.

The gardens were the best I could remember, which isn't saying nearly enough for the vast expanses of flowers and fruits and vegetables and grains and trees.I looked over most every offered herb and plant ever used for medicinal purposes, but nothing struck me as important. Tia was known to all, and free to wander in all areas. I followed, a set of eyes. We spent all of that day searching. To put her at ease, I gradually remembered myself from the waist down, showing that she wasn't stepping on my tail, not that I'd feel it. I was odd, half a body and hands and wrists protruding from a nebulous cloud. What can I say? Ghosts don't go for fashion.

There were odd sights in the garden. They were pleased with their contraption, and spreading lines to inside the abbey. They call it elektrissity, or something of the sort. It's silly, when candles work just as well and without the work of cables. They sing songs written for the occasion, all about progress and moving forward. They rely less and less on the simple, striving for the modern. Next they'll stop needing ghosts. The Champion stalked away from a corner of the garden where metal tubes and black powder and little cylinders of metal were being put together, saying that the things would mean the end of honest warfare. The builders simply retorted their musk-its would mean less casualties for Redwall. I watched them, but couldn't understand why they wouldn't fight hand-to-hand. That seemed more honorable.

She is sleeping. I can see that her breathing is heavier. My having her trek all about the infernal gardens couldn't have helped. Nothing was striking me as being helpful. If only I knew- what was I good at? I had sung a song with Tia after a banquet spread about the lawns that made me want to eat for the first time in eons- only a select few besides the dibbuns could hear that Tia's solo was also a duet. Everyone knew that something had happened, that the mouse-maid had a new purpose. Not one gave falsely comforting statements, probably because I would "accidentally" pass through them if they looked ready to try when Tia wasn't paying attention. Having a ghost move through you doesn't seem to be a pleasant experience- my victims said they took a chill to others near them. Herb saw me, but he wouldn't betray my secret.

I had wandered the banquet as they ate. I had seen all kinds and sizes bantering playfully, and watched several unintended exhibitions of gluttony. I passed the Champion, seated at Abbot Josef's right (Herb supplied the name). The sword he always carried nearly cleaved me in two during a demonstration aimed at the musk-it makers- well, it would have if I had substance. The pommel is worn, set with a ruby or something of the sort, but the blade is new, but old. It has a feeling of oldness to it, an acknowledgement of many battles, but the metal shone as if it had been minted that morning.

Herb hadn't left the infirmary. He slept on the bed closest to the door, snoring quietly and using the oldest quilt. I keep a silent vigil. The other spirit isn't awake tonight. He is away, with someone on a quest. Herb had told me about their newest case of wanderlust, a squirrel and a mole that wanted to see the ocean. For tonight, the place was mine.

I was tantalizingly close to the weaving (tapestry, Herb called it) when the other spirit returned. As always, he sent up walls of pure power derived from all that believed in him. For the first time, I shoved back. I could feel the power building, my power building- Tia and Herb believed in me and their precious Martin. We could both exist. There was a new mouse in the Abbey, ladies and gentlemen. Me.

It was close to dawn. I left, fair flying through the halls to be at Tia's side when she woke. This was her last day. I hadn't thought of a thing to do. He couldn't die. She wouldn't get over it- she was too tied to those around her. She would go to the Dark Forest, after grieving- she had no pressing business to mean that she had to haunt someone. As she woke, I noticed something slip from the sleeve of her dress- a locket on a chain. It was engraved, with an elaborate rose and a single word. Aubretia. The name meant little to me, but I glimpsed the portrait within.

Tia woke as I stared. "What is it?" she asked, sitting up quickly. Herb was up the next instant. I was staring for another moment. I was out the window, calling back . . . something. I don't know what I just said a few moments ago. It doesn't matter. I know what the answer is. And I know the one plant I haven't looked at, a rose grown for dozens of generations.

As I guessed, the warrior-ghost claims this area, as well. I have to get there. Rosehips were the cure for the spotted sickness, rosehips crushed with the petals of the laterose. My brother had found it. His name was on the tip of my tongue, but wasn't yet ready to be remembered. This time, I didn't back down at all, not for an instant. I knocked on the wall.

A warrior shrouded in cloying mists and garbed in old battle armor stood beside the bush, not letting me any closer. I couldn't see a face, but I could see the sword that he carried at ease. I wasn't that much of a threat. "None shall intrude. This place is special to me and the entire Abbey." He was a solemn guardian, with a voice like thunder. I was not impressed or intimidated at all, for the first time.

I rolled my eyes, not that he could see. I waved a hand, promise-ring glinting in the light, reclaiming my own shroudings until I was smoke incarnate, with veils of mist surrounding me like some ghost of Salome. "I'm not afraid of you, Martin Warrior-Mouse. Brandishing a sword to save a rosebush from one who would pick a flower to save a life isn't something I'd expect from a son of Luke, one known to be a hero against tyrants." What? No one told me that.

His face hardened, even behind the haze. "This is the Laterose. No one takes a flower."

"To save the life of a mouse-maid's love? What is so special about the rosebush that it is worth more than Aubretia's Nathaniel?" I knew her full name now. It was pronounced Aw-brie-shia, but Tia was her short-name for common use. Aubretia was a bit formal, I supposed. She muttered something about her great-great-grandmother's name when a few confused friends learned her full name for the first time.

He didn't answer. Instead, he began to close me from the place. I wouldn't have it. I uncloaked my hands, taking off the ring. "I will give this to the bush, then. It is nothing but a representation of what I should have had, an empty promise that would have been made." I knew that it was so, as sure as I knew that-

"Your mother was Sayna. Winifred was with you, when Badrang struck." I don't know who was more surprised when I said that, but he threw the helmet aside to look at me. I had no idea what I was saying, but it was striking some chord, and I couldn't stop. Memories were bubbling to the surface, but I couldn't understand them. Everything was a jumble of thoughts and words and pictures and events, hopelessly garbled and completely incomprehensible. Was this what it was like, to recover from not knowing? I can't tell which is worse- the fog, or the knowing.

I heard Tia and Herb behind me, but all my attention was on their precious mentor-spirit who had kept me away for so long. "That sword has a new blade, one that wasn't there before, but the pommel is the same." I still wasn't done. I knew so much about him, but I couldn't tell why. When had I seen him? No armored allies came to mind- had he been an enemy? That shield he held was ridiculous, with the embossed M. I remembered a short sword, one too small for a mouse, made for- something. It was nearly coming to mind, lurking beneath the thin layer of consciousness. I could feel something in my sleeve, a tickle of solidity, the coolness of metal.

"How do you know this?" He didn't sound impressive at all. He sounded young, vulnerable. "Who told you?" I remembered that voice. I remembered that face. I knew him. I knew Martin, the will-be warrior, not the impassive legend of years gone by. I knew Martin, son of Luke, who, with help, had freed the slaves of Marshank and killed a Tyrant. From a defiant unarmed mouse saved from an early death by an eagle's cry to a savior of the coast to the founder of this place- I knew him.

"Pallum. Grumm. Brome." I remembered my brother. My brother the healer- he had been working on the cure for spotted sickness when I haunted him, but it hurt him too much to think that I might not be at rest, so I left Noonvale and wandered south, away from the Northlands Brome wrote Martin had avoided, through desolate country. I hadn't needed to eat. I still didn't.

"A ladle and hobble-logs and pigmy shrews and squidgees and gulls and tyrants and slavery and fighting and Polleekin and players and Rowanoake and her cart and Gawtrybe savages and the Warden and otters and Guosim and owls and fighting and Noonvale and roses and Felldoh and tunnels and singing and rain and seeing someone in the darkness in need of a rescue, between two poles and in a storm and alone." All memories came in a rush, and I felt the last haziness torn away, leaving me fully revealed. I was ethereal, and could feel myself glowing a shade of soft pink that looked perfect on the roses, an odd sight to see by a rosebush. I felt walls slip away, and knew exactly who I was. "Don't keep roses as a shrine. Roses are for everyone to share. Herb, grind petals in the tang of a rosehip- that will do it." He left quickly- the living were moving in a blur, it seemed, and I was standing still.

The last of his armor was gone. He dropped his sword into the ground- no one would steal it. He was young again, and I knew him. "Who gave you that ring?" he asked, voice choked.

"Brome and Grumm and Pallum, because they thought you might have given me one." I didn't have to say who I was. He knew. The others did, and I felt myself slowly fade into focus until I was less solid, but everyone in the abbey could see two ghosts standing in the orchards. They saw their Guardian free of armor and young again, and Aubretia called me her many-greats aunt- she descended from Brome. I heard it in whispers, cascading all around me. Laterose. Laterose is here.

"Are- are you really?" he asked. I understood. He had to know. I had to make sure that he was real- everyone else had.

I smiled, and gave the eagle's cry. Half the audience gazed into the sky fearfully, but his eyes didn't waver. "Let the living tend the living, and the young go on journeys with counsel of elders in their minds. Let your Champions guide the warriors."

"They- the abbey can't count on a spirit forever. The Dark Forest's gates were always just in my reach, promising rest. I couldn't leave, though, and I didn't know why." He spoke in a rush, just like any young male talking hurriedly to one he was nervous about loving. That was the one thing to scare Martin- love. "And- they didn't mean to, but no ghost of the old times can live among such things as muskets and electricity and progress. I know the way of the sword, and the way of the peaceful brother. I don't know . . . this."

"I'll go with you. We can have an adventure, a proper one- you'll have your sword, this time."

"Are you armed?" he asked, already sheathing his sword and checking his belt in the businesslike fashion I remembered so well, hiding any nervousness with action.

I pulled a small sword from my sleeve, one I remembered. It was from Queen Amballa- I wonder if her tribe still remembers me. Martin had used this sword to defeat Badrang. It hadn't been there a second before. I hadn't needed it. The whole ghost-business isn't too bad, once you know who you are. "All set, Martin." I put the sword (long dagger, to one of my size) through my sash, then pulled a slingshot from my pocket, along with a few hard stones, perfect river rocks. One still had a bit of blood from my attack on Badrang- well, no time to think of past mistakes.A little long-range fighting never hurt anyone, and I didn't think I'd be getting too close to a foe in the immediate future. Maybe after I could remember other fights, ones that had gone my way. I glanced at the crowd- all of Redwall was there, staring or jostling for a glance.

"Goodbye, everyone," I said politely to a watching crowd. There was no need to wait around- I could feel time slipping by. The Dark Forest didn't wait.

"Listen to the elders, young ones. Elders, listen to the young. Never stop listening. Even if the old dislike progress, as I do, it just may save the young. The days of the sword are past, for better or for worse. Never use guns except to defend, or Rose and I will return to teach you manners. Fareweel." Formalities had never been his strong suit, but it was a nice enough speech. And- he was dead, a great time to pick up a sword again. Abbess Germaine would understand. Maybe, in the Dark Forest, they could start again, in an Abbey where no one would ever leave for death.

Martin smiled, the reckless smile that I can't remember forgetting. "Shall we go together, Rose?"

I smiled, equally dangerous. "Of course." We both knew there was no other way. I held out my right hand. He took it in his left- I left his sword-arm free. We wouldn't be apart again, and we'd be with everyone. I'd meet a few of his friends- he had already met mine.

Together, we charged the east wall-gate, which opened into a world the living could only glimpse. We were going of our own free will, but no one ever said we had to go peacefully. After all, if the Dark Forest is paradise, we'll need a few battles to fight. We yelled a final war-cry for all watching and listening and sniffling into handkerchiefs, a last cry for them to remember us by. I knew exactly what to say.

"Redwall!"

And as we passed through the gate, side by side and whisker to whisker, it occurred to me that-