| Subject: Part of Chapter 19 inside, don't have time to finish the rest, I just want to see what you guys thought of it. |
Author:
Jessie Oakshade
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Date Posted: 22:32:24 11/21/02 Thu
In reply to:
Jessie Oakshade, Ex-Fort Storyteller
's message, "IRHL, attempt #2940294292944810" on 22:19:05 11/03/02 Sun
Er, yeah. I have 329484082 or so history projects due tomorrow, so Mr. McLaren is going to kill me for doing this, but who cares? Anyway, I just wanted to see what you think.
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Chapter Nineteen: Reunited
Santhe woke at the sound of somebeast entering her tent. She was hungry, tired, and depressed after her tirade with Bowfleg, not to mention frustrated.
It was a young vermin Captain named Greenclaw. He was new in Bowfleg’s horde, yet seemed to have appointed himself Official Captain of the Armies, and enjoyed bullying everybeast about. He sneered at Santhe.
“Wake up, worm, y’might as well meet the others you’d be spendin’ the rest o’your life with.”
The mousemaid bristled at this and threw a punch at Greenclaw’s head, which he deflected easily with a sweep of his spear. He threw her off balance, sending her tumbling into the back of the tent. Greenclaw cackled, and left, to order the armies to forage for food.
Santhe felt the prescence of other creatures.
“Hello?”
A voice with immense wonder and relief answered.
“Santhe?! Is that you?”
“Jorell! How did you-“
“Shhh! Not so loud, we’ve all been captured, we were trying to look for you!”
“You make it sound like it’s my fault.”
“I know it’s not your fault, but we were worried sick over you. So is your mom.”
“Oh no, she’d be heartbroken to know I’ve been captured!”
Jorell shook his head sadly. “She already is. The problem right now is, how to get out of here. Only all of us in this tent and the vermin outside know what happened.”
Santhe thought. “How many of us are there?”
Jorell counted. “Well, there’s me, you, Bungo, Dallum, Dammy, Nytestripe, two mice, four moles, three squirrels and an otter. That would make, er, lessee... sixteen. But I don’t recognize any of them from Noonvale.”
The young mousemaid whistled. “Wow, how did the rest get captured?”
Dallum shrugged. “Same as us. Weren’t given ‘arf a chance.”
The otter stepped foward. He stood as tall as Nytestripe, and was of strong build, with determination emanating from his very prescence.
“I’ll do anything to escape from here. I’ve always hated Bowfleg, and Greenclaw too, at that.”
Santhe matched the young otter’s piercing stare. “You know these vermin? Who are you? Do you live around here?”
The otter lowered his gaze, as if ashamed. “My name is Tungro. My holt is much farther south, but I ran away, seeking adventure. I’ve been here awhile, spying on Bowfleg’s horde, and aye, I’ve seen your Noonvale. I’ve thought of goin’ down there to stay with your folks, but then I figured I’d never want to come back to my holt....’cause I always planned to go back there when I was older....”
Nytestripe felt sorry for Tungro. “Don’t worry, I think you did the right thing. We’ll get through this together, and we’ll all stay friends till we grow old!”
One of the squirrels shook her head and remarked quietly. “Considerin’ we live that long, o’course.”
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Bowfleg wasn’t stupid. He knew there was no army, but even the greatest vermin warlords of all time knew not to fool with silly peace-loving beasts. What would he benefit from it anyway? Slaves he didn’t need when he had his own servants and foragers, food he didn’t care for, and acres of land he didn’t need anyway. It was too much trouble. His plan was to keep traveling west, but take a north curve around the goodbeast settlement. That way, he felt, was the best way to keep his army happy.
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Outside, Wildag spotted Greenclaw running back from the prisoners’ tent after securing them in.
“Hoi! You there, stoat! What d’you think you’re doing, runnin’ around before daybreak?”
Greenclaw whirled upon Wildag, authority tainting his voice. “I was followin’ Lord Bowfleg’s orders, an’ I don’t take orders from you, cause I’m a Captain, and I only take orders from the Warlord. What he wants done is none of your stinkin’ business.”
The ferret was taken aback by the way this newcomer took advantage of him. He tried to snarl back and take control of the situation, even if he had to lie. “Well, I’m Head Captain. That means I’m higher than you, and you should be tellin’ me what you’re doin’!”
Greenclaw was young, but he was able to stare straight into Wildag’s eyes despite this. “I wasn’t aware of any Head Captain.”
Wildag was about to argue back but the stoat was already walking away, cackling under his breath.
The poor ferret stood confused and uncertain what to do for a moment, then ordered some nearby soldiers to begin the foraging party.
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Santhe looked around the tent. This certainly was an odd assortment of prisoners. There was Jorell, who kept to himself most of the time. Dallum and Bungo, who mostly kept each other company. Dammy and Nytestripe, who were always fighting. That otter, Tungro, who was young, but he was of solid build and was always ready. The moles were no more than dibbuns, and slept most of the time. Both mice were about Santhe’s age, but neither looked like they had fought in their life, and looked terrified at their predicament. Two of the squirrels seemed to be lovesick with each other, and were always sitting next to each other. The last squirrel, a red squirrel with a violet-colored cloak, seemed rather independent of herself, and didn’t seem to take her situation very seriously. Santhe noticed a black raven feather quill tucked in her tunic cord like a rapier, and also her face, dark brown and silent eyes with an easy-going smile. The young mousemaid stood and walked over to sit next to her.
“Hello.” She said quite simply.
The squirrel turned towards her and winked. Santhe was taken aback. This squirrel was not as old as she thought; they were both around the same age. “Hey there. Nice to have to somebeast to talk to at this kind of time.”
The mousemaid spoke. “Why aren’t you worried? Your family must miss you.”
The squirrel’s eyes flashed briefly, and Santhe wished she hadn’t spoken, but then the squirrelmaid’s eyes softened with her voice. “I have no family.”
Santhe bowed her head. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
The young squirrel’s subtle smile returned as she replied, “My name? My full name is Jessie Oakshade, but y’can always just call me Jessie. I’m a writer. No, I’m more a traveler than a writer.”
Chrysanthemum asked another question. “How did Bowfleg capture you?”
Jessie rolled her eyes. “Oh, him. I was east when some of his filthy weasels spotted me eating my lunch by the river. Otherwise, the dumb fools would never have noticed me.”
Santhe was still puzzled. “But why aren’t you thinking of escape?”
The squirrel never changed her expression. “Escape? We’re all thinkin’ of escape, missie.”
Santhe felt like she wasn’t getting anywhere with Jessie. “But then surely you must have a plan. All warriors have plans.”
Jessie turned to face the mousemaid. “Did I say I was a warrior? Not me.” Santhe was about to blurt out what she felt about being talked to like this, but the squirrelmaid spoke again. “But, I can feel the beginnings of a warrior in you. There is something...something about the way you talk, move, think, and feel, that almost make me positive you are a continuation from a line of extraoridinary warriors and courageous fighters. I have fought before, and I am not afraid to do so again. What’s your name, mousemaid?”
Santhe was deep in thought, but answered with her real name. “My mother named my Chrysanthemum, but my friends call me Santhe.”
Jessie placed her paw over Santhe’s. “Then I promise, that together, all of us, will escape from here, and according to the warrior’s code, no one will be left behind. Do you understand this, Chrysanthemum of Noonvale?”
The mousemaid had heard every word. “Y-yes, I think.”
“Good! You’re in charge.”
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Martin of Noonvale, Gonff the Mousethief and Dinny the Mole were, at this time, still pursuing Bane’s defeated horde. The going was rather uneventful, unless you could count the time when some foxes were attacked by nesting swans, which was very amusing for our three travelers to watch. But other than that, they couldn’t say anything interesting happened.
Martin still kept the hilt of his sword, using Columbine’s girdle cord strung around his neck. He would never part with it, no matter how rusted or cracked it got. His father gave him that sword, and he didn’t take it back from Badrang for nothing.
The warrior was silent for most of the journey, thinking about various things, like his wife Rose, Santhe, Brockhall, Tsarmina, and many other things. Gonff and Dinny however, were having the time of their lives.
“Oi Dinny! Martin’s missing a raspberry scone!”
“Hurr, an’ you’m be a’tellin’ thiz t’oi becuz?”
“Hah! What do you think, grabbyguts?”
“Oi tink you’m an orful and drefful loir, zurr Gonffer, burr aye indeed!”
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I hope you don't think I'm too selfish for including myself in my story. That's not my character's personality at all, though, I'm bad at trying to recreate personalities through my stories.
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