In a side hall in the Abbey over the Cellar, a small squirrel child stood tall on the tiles, waving his paws around in fluid and wild (yet precise and coordinated) motions of fantastical nature; the world seemed to bend, twist, and return to place at his will, the reaction being amused innocent cute giggles from the master of the creative enchantments.
Tremendous ripples vibrated on the walls and ceiling, sending giant waves of unimaginable wonder around the area. Gradually guiding fingers to the floor, on command it split perfectly in half, uncovering the underground beneath; it afterwards mended itself properly as the child snapped his index fingers and thumbs. He erected and propelled his arms forward, fingers bent and wrists turned in opposite directions clockwise or counterclockwise, pulling aside the divider before him, but not by force. As it contracted and expanded, a portal his size opened leading to the Abbey Gardens. The sheer image caused the tyke to laugh proudly. Paws curled into gentle fists and said magical gateway was gone in a millisecond.
All within his imagination, obviously.
For young Alan, neither parents nor adult superiors inhibited his boundless creative insight. In fact, he owned no such things whatsoever. He only remembered being taken in by the kind, generous, and loving creatures of Redwall at 4 years old, during the harshest winter ever known. Standing in the snowbank at the Front Gate, chilled to the bone in only a small belted tunic, wicker closed-toed shoes, and a purple leather hood, with holes cut for ears to stick out. Redwall took compassion on him, putting his physical well-being as top priority, immediately lighting a fire and preparing to nurse him back to health. Presently, now 8 years of age, and wearing a light green Abbey habit, little and less still was thought or known about the background of this boy. Nevertheless, Alan considered Redwall Abbey to be his invaluable irreplaceable home.
No questions asked, no inquires posed, no books turned to. Just silence, shadows of memories long since lost in time long since forgotten.
Alan knew the stoat in the Abbey, the one by the name of Devro, and even tried to befriend him at past points in time. But the vermin never displayed interest or care – instead, always busy with his clocks and caring for nothing else. Every effort left Alan slightly discouraged, and his inquisitive and childlike imaginings were all that comforted him. Where this fascination with incredible world-turning power came from, that itself a mystery never solved. But a child had every right and inborn privilege to hope, dream, and believe, right? Hope never faltered; perhaps today things could change. Optimism, love, selfless care, and patience were always rewarded. The otter friend Bomboar in particular treated Alan like a beloved and doted-on son.
Calming his mind, Alan made sure to restore the Abbey to its proper form. Another proud innocent laugh issued forth, and the boy lay down at ease beneath a windowsill, basking in the sunlight. A long time later, the sounds of pawsteps came into the hallway. He recognized them and promptly stood up.
“Hello, Mr. Devro and Mr. Bomboar! Good morning! It’s me, Alan!”