Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Twilight tinged Mossflower Wood. Sela sniffed the breeze. She glanced up at the sky. It would soon be dark and she could keep her rendezvous with the mouse Abbot at the old stump.

  Redtooth and Fangburn were both unhappy and uncomfortable. For the last hour Sela had led them through stinging nettles, swarms of midges and marshy ground. They blundered along, hacking at the undergrowth with cutlass and spear.

  ‘I think we must be somewhere near the mouse Abbey,’ Fangburn said.

  ‘Stow the gab! Keep your eyes on the fox,’ Redtooth snarled.

  ‘I wish I’d brought some lanterns along with us,’ Fangburn whined.

  Redtooth’s already dangerously-thin patience snapped. He grabbed hold of his snivelling crony and started shaking him. ‘Listen, thickhead! If you don’t stop your moaning I’ll chop your tongue out with my cutlass! D’you hear me?’

  Fangburn struggled free. Angrily he jabbed at Redtooth with his spear. ‘You dare try anything with that blunt old breadknife, and I’ll spear your gizzard before you can blink an eye!’

  ‘Oh you will, will you?’

  ‘Yes, I will, smarty rat!’

  ‘Then take that, big mouth!’

  ‘Ouch! Punch me, would you? I’ll soon show you!’

  Together the rats crashed into a prickly bush, kicking, biting and pummelling each other. Claws, tails and teeth came into play. They went at it hammer and tongs for several minutes until Redtooth emerged the victor. His nose was bleeding and he had lost a tooth, but he was in better shape than his opponent.

  Fangburn crawled miserably out of the wrecked bush. Both eyes were blacked, a chunk of his left ear was missing, and his whole body was covered in long raking claw marks and prickles. He bent painfully to retrieve his spear. Seizing the opportunity Redtooth landed him a mighty kick on the bottom. His nose ploughed up a furrow of soil.

  Panting furiously, Redtooth berated Fangburn: ‘You half-witted fool! Now see what you’ve done! While you were busy assaulting a superior officer, you let the fox escape.’

  Fangburn sat up. He winced through discoloured eyes. ‘I let the fox escape? Me? Oh no. You’re the one in charge! You let her get away, not me. Wait’ll I report this to Cluny. I’ll tell him that you—’

  ‘Will you shut up?’ Redtooth yelled. ‘It’s no use us standing here arguing. We’d better get searching for the fox. I’ll go this way and you go that way. The first one to find her keeps shouting until the other arrives. Have you got that? Now get moving.’

  The two rats stumbled off through the woods in different directions.

  Meanwhile, in another part of Mossflower Wood, Sela sneaked along looking from left to right. There was the three-topped oak, there was the Abbey Wall. Ah, here it was, the old stump.

  The moonlight illuminated the scene clearly. She was alone. Where was the mouse Abbot?

  A heavy paw clamped itself around Sela’s neck from behind. Her tongue shot out. Struggling uselessly, she gagged and choked.

  Constance’s gruff voice growled into her ear, ‘Be still, fox, or I’ll snap your neck like a dead twig!’

  Sela froze. There was nothing more dangerous than a fully-grown badger. Their strength and ferocity were renowned.

  Constance’s free paw snapped the herb pouch from the fox’s belt. She shook the contents out on to the stump. Grabbing the copy of Cluny’s invasion plans she studied it briefly, then stuffed it into her belt.

  ‘Your Abbot was supposed to meet me with a reward,’ Sela whispered.

  The badger’s eyes blazed with contempt as she spun the vixen around. ‘Here’s your reward, traitor!’

  Whump!

  Constance dealt Sela a sharp blow between the ears. The fox fell in a senseless heap. Constance ducked behind a tree and called out in a high-pitched voice, ‘Over here! I’ve got the fox! Quick, over here!’

  Redtooth was first to arrive. He came dashing through the bushes and halted at the sight of the unconscious fox among the ferns.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, fox. Where’s Fangburn? What the devil do you mean slinking off like that? Get up on your feet and answer me.’

  Constance emerged from behind the tree. ‘I don’t think she’ll wake up for a while yet. Fancy meeting you here, rat.’

  Redtooth got over his surprise quickly. Seeing the badger unarmed, he swished his cutlass through the air and smiled menacingly.

  ‘Well, well. It’s the friend of the mice! So, we meet again, badger!’

  Constance stood tall, her huge paws folded. ‘Redtooth, isn’t it? I see you still remember me from your defeat at the wall. I told you then we had a score to settle.’

  Redtooth bared his teeth and snarled. ‘I’m going to enjoy this, badger. I’ll make sure you die slowly.’

  The rat leaped at Constance, swinging his cutlass expertly, but for a heavy badger, his adversary moved light and skilfully. Neatly sidestepping a cutlass-thrust, she cuffed the rat smartly on the point of the nose. Stung into retaliation, Redtooth charged Constance with the point of his blade.

  A fierce kick in the ribs and a swift chop to the claw sent the rat and the cutlass in opposite directions. Redtooth lay winded upon the ground. Constance leaned over him.

  ‘Get up and retrieve your weapon,’ the badger gowled.

  As Redtooth stood, he grabbed a handful of earth and flung it into Constance’s eyes. The big badger staggered back, rubbing at the grit which clogged her vision. The rat picked up the cutlass and swung it, slashing wildly at his enemy’s thick fur. He scored several hits.

  Suddenly panic gripped him. The wounded badger had seized the blade regardless of its keen edge. Constance pulled Redtooth in close. She gave a sideways push, snapping the cutlass blade in two pieces. Kicking the rat over on his back, she flung the broken blade away and grabbed the rodent’s tail tightly with both paws.

  Redtooth screamed in terror as he felt himself leave the ground to go spinning aloft over the badger’s head. With his tail pulled taut and the wind whistling through his fangs, Redtooth howled as the trees went by in a green blur. Like an athlete throwing the hammer, Constance whirled on her hind legs, faster and faster, until suddenly she threw her burden with a colossal heave.

  Redtooth would have flown a record distance had there not been a stout sycamore tree several metres away ….

  Ignoring her injuries Constance called into the surrounding woods, ‘Over here, he’s over here!’

  Then she limped swiftly off in the direction of Redwall with the captured plans.

  Only moments later Fangburn came blundering through the ferns. He tripped upon the groaning fox who was just coming round.

  ‘Here, what’s happened? Where’s Redtooth?’ he asked anxiously.

  Sela sat up, rubbing her head, trying to recognize her surroundings. She saw the old stump littered with her herbs and potions. The pouch lay nearby. Holding her head with both paws she tried to halt the thumping ache.

  Damn that badger’s hide! She’d taken the plans from Sela as if she were confiscating acorns from a baby mouse. So much for the ‘rich rewards’.

  Fangburn prodded Sela with the spear. ‘Hey you, pay attention! I asked you where Redtooth is.’

  Sela probed a loosened tooth with her tongue. ‘Leave me alone. How should I know?’

  Fangburn persisted. ‘Now listen, fox. I want to know what’s been going on here. I’m sure I heard Redtooth calling out. Hell’s whiskers, wait until Cluny gets to hear about this!’

  Sela pointed a shaky paw. ‘There’s your rat, by that big sycamore yonder. Huh, looks like he’s had a spot of bother, too.’

  Fangburn touched Redtooth with his foot. ‘Aaaaargh! He’s dead. Look, this sword’s been broken in two.’

  The fox and the rat stood looking at each other, their thoughts running on parallel lines. It was fairly obvious what must be done if they were to save their skins.

  ‘Right,’ said Sela. ‘We’d better work out a good story to tell Cluny when we get back. He’s not stupid, so we’d better get it
right.’

  The unlucky pair stumbled off through the nighttime woodland, gesticulating and muttering together, weaving a fabric of lies that they hoped would satisfy Cluny the Scourge.

  ONCE AGAIN THE Abbot’s room was the scene of a late repast. The news that Constance had brought showed without a doubt that Cluny would soon be on the attack again.

  Abbot Mortimer was the first to admit that he had been mistaken. ‘The intelligence brought to us by our friend Constance is conclusive. Cluny will never rest until he has Redwall under his heel, therefore I feel that I must apologize for my misjudgement of the situation. You, my commanders, were right, and now, thanks to Cluny, we know the secret details of the enemy horde’s next attack.’

  The Abbot slapped a paw down on the plans. ‘It is all here, but as I have said before, I will not concern myself with the fighting of a war. It is my task to heal the injured and give sustenance to the defenders. It is the duty of you, my generals, to plan the repulse of this invasion.’

  Matthias held up a paw. ‘Father Abbot, it is our duty not only to defend but to retaliate.’

  There was a strong murmur of agreement from around the table.

  The Abbot bowed and placed his paws within his wide habit sleeves. ‘So be it,’ he said with great solemnity. ‘I leave the salvation of Redwall to you, my commanders.’

  The Abbot bowed once more then retired for the night, leaving Matthias, Constance, Winifred, Foremole and Ambrose Spike.

  The meeting continued. They were joined by Basil Stag Hare and Jess Squirrel. Methuselah also attended to act as mediator and counsellor, approving some ideas whilst discouraging others, calming the hothead and encouraging the timid. Much good sense was talked and the tone of the meeting was that of creatures who were determined to win at all costs. The discussion, running on sensible lines, went on until it was nearly dawn. It was a confident and satisfied group of friends who shook paws as the meeting ended.

  Basil insisted on taking Constance to the infirmary to have her wounds treated. The badger tried to shrug him off.

  ‘Pah! Such a fuss over a few minor scratches,’ she grumbled.

  The hare chuckled admiringly. ‘A few minor scratches! Will you listen to the heroine? Why, my dear badger, those are honourable wounds, gained on the field of combat. I say, Jess, lend a paw here. Have you seen the dreadful gashes that friend Constance has collected? By the left, old gel, you should be hors de combat. Not even a stag could put up with slashes like that. Come on now, let’s have you, there’s a sensible bod.’

  Constance was led off muttering by Basil and Jess. All the rest retired to their beds, with the exception of Matthias and Methuselah. They strolled around the cloisters, savouring the peace of the midnight hours.

  ‘You know, old one, I can’t help thinking that a victory would be assured if only we had the Warrior’s sword,’ Matthias said.

  Methuselah nodded wistful agreement. ‘Indeed it would. But, alas for all our efforts, the trail is as cold as a midwinter night. I’m afraid we must resign ourselves to the fact that the sword is lost or hidden somewhere forever.’

  The old gatehouse-keeper leaned upon the young mouse’s arm as they walked along, talking of this and that. Eventually the conversation came around to the sparrows’ attack upon Jess.

  Methuselah shook a warning paw. ‘Extremely dangerous birds, sparrows. Very warlike and quarrelsome. Luckily they keep to themselves and will only attack if their territory is intruded upon as you saw today. By the way, did you see that young one who was brought down by the archers?’

  ‘I certainly did,’ Matthias replied. ‘Constance has got the bad-tempered little wretch imprisoned under a wash basket. What a nasty young villain. The arrow only scratched her really. It was shock more than anything else that brought her down. Says her name is Warbeak.’

  Methuselah was taken aback. ‘Do you mean to tell me you’ve talked with her? Remarkable! The sparrow language, or “Sparra” as it is called, is very difficult to comprehend.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Matthias casually. ‘I didn’t find it too hard, and at least the little hooligan seems to understand what I’m saying to her.’

  Methuselah’s curiosity was aroused. ‘And what has she been saying to you, this, er, Warbeak?’

  ‘Pretty much what you’d expect,’ Matthias replied. ‘Either she, or the leader King Bull Sparra, is going to kill me. Evidently she looks on anything that can’t fly as an enemy.’

  They strayed over by the gatehouse. The old mouse invited Matthias in for a late nightcap. Methuselah appeared very interested in sparrows. He leafed through his record books.

  ‘Let me see, “Summer of the Big Drought” … “Winter of the Deep Drifts” … yes, I thought I’d find it here. Do you remember I told you of a sparrowhawk who I treated about four years back? Well, here is my report, some small notes I made at the time. This hawk talked of the sparrows. She called them winged mice, though for the life of me I cannot see any comparison between highly civilized mice and those primitive savages. Point was, though, this sparrowhawk said she’d been told that the sparrows once stole an object of great value to our Abbey. She didn’t say what it was. I thought the bird was merely trying to impress me with idle gossip: I should have questioned her further. We may have found out just what that object was.’

  Matthias looked pensive. ‘Then you think as I do. It could have been the sword.’

  The old mouse sat tapping his paw upon the record book. ‘It could have been, Matthias, it could have been. You see, the sparrows never communicate or bother with us. They never fly into our Abbey. But, up on the roof, well, that’s a different matter. They consider that to be their territory. As I see it, the sword was the only object of value we had up there, although we did not know it at the time. So who else but another bird would know that the sparrows had stolen it?’

  ‘By the whiskers, old one,’ Matthias said excitedly, ‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. Do you think that our bad tempered captive might know something about the rumour?’

  Methuselah grinned mischievously. ‘Lend me your dagger. I have a simple experiment that I wish to try on our prisoner. Come on.’

  Matthias escorted his friend to where the basket lay by the Abbey walls. There was no sound from within. Methuselah tapped the basket sharply with the blade of the dagger.

  Warbeak had been caught napping. She came to life in an irate mood. ‘Worms, all worms, you old mouseworm! Stay ’way, Warbeak killee!’

  Methuselah tried his level best to act tough. ‘Be silent, you little baggage, or I’ll spike you on this dagger, and your King too, if he dares to come down.’

  In a fury, Warbeak smashed her small body against the sides of the basket, causing the old mouse to take a step back.

  ‘Ha, go on, you killee Warbeak with um dagger! Wait see! You not get King Bull Sparra with little worm knife. King have a big sword! Chop all mouses up! Killee pretty quick, you betcha.’

  Methuselah laughed with delight. ‘You see! The Sparrow King owns a big sword!’

  Matthias did a cartwheel. He whooped with joy. ‘Methuselah, you’re a magician, an ancient wizard.’

  The old mouse shook his head modestly. ‘Oh, dear me no. I like to think of myself as an aged but extremely erudite scholar.’

  SITTING COMFORTABLY PROPPED up upon pillows, Cluny sipped a beaker of barley wine as he listened to the improbable tale spun by Sela and Fangburn. They both fidgeted nervously during the course of their deceitful narrative, trying desperately not to contradict one another, while at the same time avoiding the cold, impassive eye of the Warlord.

  ‘Er, it was like this, Chief,’ Fangburn stammered. ‘Me and old Redtooth were keeping our eyes on the fox here, when suddenly Redtooth hears a noise in the woods, so off he goes to investigate.’

  ‘Where was the noise coming from?’ snapped Cluny.

  The deceivers spoke together.

  ‘North,’ said Sela.

  ‘West,’ said Fangbu
rn, simultaneously.

  ‘Er, er, it was sort of north-west,’ Sela gulped, realizing how foolish she sounded. Knowing that Cluny was smarter than either of them, she wished she didn’t have this big dumb rat to corroborate the story.

  ‘So Redtooth went off to see what the noise was,’ Sela faltered. ‘We told him not to go, sir, but he insisted.’

  Cluny watched Sela’s legs shaking.

  ‘Go on, what happened then?’ he murmured.

  Fangburn took up the tale again. ‘Well, you see, Chief, he was gone an awful long time. We both called out to him but there was no answer.’

  ‘So we both went to look for him,’ said Sela.

  Cluny toyed with the beaker. His eye bored into the fox.

  ‘We searched and searched, sir,’ Sela mumbled, ‘but all we could find was this big stretch of marshland and bog….’

  ‘Which poor old Redtooth had wandered into and been sucked down never to be seen again,’ Cluny supplemented.

  Sela kept wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.

  Fangburn sobbed brokenly. ‘Our poor friend Redtooth, gone forever!’

  ‘Yes, our poor friend Redtooth,’ Cluny agreed sympathetically. Suddenly his voice hardened as he shot a question at Fangburn: ‘You! How did your face get knocked about, and where did you get those long scratches from?’

  Sela jumped in hastily. ‘Er, er, he walked into a big thorn tree, didn’t you, Fangburn?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. I was dashing about and I didn’t see it, Chief. The fox can tell you. She saw it, and if she didn’t, well, I already told her,’ said Fangburn, his voice trailing off miserably.

  Cluny laughed mirthlessly, his fangs showing yellow and sharp. ‘So, you walked into a big thorn tree and got two black eyes, a torn ear and your whole hide covered in long scratches?’

  Fangburn stared at the floor. He had to swallow twice before he could answer, his voice subdued, ‘That’s what happened, Chief.’

  Cluny’s tone was laden with sarcasm. ‘And then I suppose that three little pigs with wings flew down and gave you a toffee apple each?’