And the
Tale Continues…
By Geo Holmes
“What’s a pine marten?”
I paused from reading to look at my brother’s quizzical
face. “Er…you mean Ashleg?”
“Yeah, what is he? What does he look like?” my other brother
piped up.
I knew, at that horrible moment, that I had no clue how to
answer. I never pondered the appearance of the villainous marten; my
imagination just inserted a blurry outline of a vermin with a peg-leg, and then
moved on.
Quickly I scanned the pages in front of me, searching for
any kind of description, then through the chapters for a defining portrait of
the elusive Ashleg. Nothing. In a last ditch effort I
glanced at the back and front of the book jacket; not even a paw. Time to
attempt an ‘educated’ guess: “Well, he’s sort of like a stoat…”
“What’s a stoat look like?”
Defeated, I rubbed my temples. Only one
way to uphold a shred of my big brother dignity. “How ‘bout you look it
up at school?”
O O O
It all began on a dismal, dank, clouded day, while I sat
inside looking particularly bored on the living room couch. I must have been
pretty desperate, because it came to mind that today could be when the rare
occurrence happened—I could clean my room. My clean-up rampage didn’t last
long. Soon, I came across a certain book with a sword-clad mouse on its front,
and I considered introducing the tale of Redwall
to my brothers.
And just as quickly doubts jumped into my mind.
In public speaking I tend to fumble. My sentences flow from
my mouth like a bubbling fountain, then words start to tumble into each other
and the break between mind and tongue widens. Soon, instead of a small
fountain, my words come like rapids, faster and more stuttered as I continue,
until what I was trying to say becomes a series of melded sounds.
Lack of the elusive attention span is the other hindrance
that plagued my oral reading. As I read longer stories before, my brothers were
distracted easily, by a piece of thread on their jeans, a scab on the arm, a
stuffed animal’s fluffy disposition. When I tried to quiz on the story, they
shrugged and continued their business.
Three times I had undertook the
ill-fated quest of opening this world to them. Three times I read a few
chapters into the story. And three times I’d let the book return to the
bookshelf to be encased in dust.
I stared at the cover; the small mouse gazed back with an
unreadable expression. Eventually it seemed to answer, giving me a response to
my doubt:
“Why not?”
A new sense of confidence flowed into me; I tucked the book
under my arm and set off again to try at the quest, not sure exactly sure what
I was getting myself into, yet convinced that this time I’d succeed.
O O O
One of my brothers is a kid who knows how to hold himself
up, a competitive soul; he’s an avid fan of
At the edge of bedtime, I entered their room, and, seeing
their questioning looks, I held up the book.
“I’m reading to you tonight.”
I set up a seat between them on the bed with the pillows,
and made sure to separate them on opposite sides of me to avoid conflict.
“What is it?” my action-minded brother asked.
“Ah, this is the tale of Redwall. It’s really good, and I think you’ll like
it.”
Both my brothers had skeptical faces.
“It’s a story of how mice, otters, squirrels, and moles
fight against evil rats, ferrets, foxes, and stoats to defend a huge building
called Redwall Abbey.”
They still appeared unsure.
“It’s humorous, and…and it’s got great characters,
impressive description—well, that wouldn’t—oh, its got
huge battle scenes, and…blood and such,” I added.
There was a twinkle of interest in my brothers’ eyes then.
“Shall I continue?”
They nodded vigorously.
I opened the cover and began again onto the path, bringing
my siblings along, introducing a small mouse named Matthias…
O O O
Questions can rise from the bright mind of a child and wrap
around your neck in a weird lukewarm grasp. Questions can drive you mad. Yet
questions also have a bright side to them that illuminate the ponderments that
lie in the shadows. Unfortunately, there’s also a limit to my patience.
That included the infamous ‘Who is that?’ question that
popped up near the end of the tale, when the particular novel’s story takes
place in the grand chronology scale, and why some of the pictures are
so…strange. (“I imagine it a lot differently.”)
On the other hand, there are the good questions: “How big
are the mice?”, “What’s the Abbey look like?”, and “Why are the vermin always
bad?”
Sometimes when they asked the inevitable question, “Does he
die?” I tortured them by giving a very vague clue, and then when they inquired
further I gave a winning smile, closed the book, and said, “We’ll just have to
see what happens tomorrow, won’t we?”
I will admit, there were some
points in reading where I couldn’t stand it; there were some points I yelled in
exasperation; sometimes I fumbled on words; there were areas of disinterest;
some brotherly hits; and those periods of confusion.
Sometimes I doubted whether it was worth it.
Why did I continue?
O O O
The adventures of storytelling.
The snickers arose as I attempt molespeech. Confusion came from Basil and other hares’
disjointed dialogue (and the use of ‘what’ instead of ‘wot’ made me wonder). There was the simple speech of the Dibbuns;
the pantomime antics and paw-sucking of Silent Sam; the mystery of who Martin
is; the captivation of the rich descriptions, the feasts that make the mouth
water; the baited breath as the climax and conflicts ensue; the entertaining
new characters introduced and the new locals found; the always-evil vermin and
the grand leaders whose actions make us cringe and who, for some reason, always
seem to lose their marbles near the end; the quests that are traveled; the
poems and ditties that made us grin; the riddles that we can’t figure out until
the answer is read; the various tribes met; the wonder as we wander through
Mossflower.
O O O
Intently listening, they leaned on both my shoulders, one on
each side, eyes drooping as the minutes went further into the night. I sensed
the tiredness, and quietly inquired, “Should we stop for now?”
They urgently grasped my arms. “No, no, it’s getting to the good part—just one
more paragraph. Please?”
I smiled I looked upon their now-animated faces, begging their
older brother to continue; and I realized how much I actually love my siblings,
no matter what they may do. I repositioned myself, pulled my brothers tighter
to me as they snuggled down to get comfortable, and I continued to read.
O O O
Everywhere on the ROC there is talk of BJ’s talent in
decline, the whispers of overused plots, watery characters, lines
too fine between good and evil. Plus, what seems to be the sinking of the ROC.
Yet these two kids knew nothing of these conflicts. All they
knew was the simple, lovable tale of Redwall
and the feelings of excitement, hope, anticipation, joy, laughter, tears,
and the warmth of exploring a great book.
The next generation.
O O O
“George, look what I got,” my pondering brother called as he
ran to me after school, and handed me a white book. Confused, I opened it, then gasped in amazement. There on the pages was a picture
of long, dark creature with a masked face and fish in paw, labeled underneath, Pine Marten. I looked back at my
brother, who smiled in triumph. “That’s what Ashleg looks like!”
A rush of a feeling I couldn’t place flowed over me; a grin
formed on my features.
This is the reason that I continued the tale.