Mossflower (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Martin sat up, he felt wet but unhurt. ‘My name is Martin the Warrior. There were three others with me – a shrew, a mouse and a mole. Where are they? Have they been rescued from the water?’

  The other bat shuffled over. ‘I am Rockhanger. This is Wingfold. We have found the angry one and the strong tunneller, but no other creature, no other creature.’

  Martin stood and leaned against the rocks. His head was aching and he felt a large bump between his ears.

  ‘The other mouse is called Gonff. You’ll know him easily. He’s a cheeky little thief who loves to sing. He’s my friend, and we must find him,’ he said anxiously.

  Rockhanger felt with the edge of his wing across Martin’s face and body. Martin recoiled and then stood still. Rockhanger was blind.

  The bat chuckled; it came out like a dry hiss.

  ‘No creature is blind who sees by touch. If I tried hard enough I would see you with my eyes, but the tribe of Bat Mountpit gave up the use of eyesight long ago. We can feel in the dark, feel in the dark.’

  The bats led Martin away from the ledge with its constant sound of falling water. They made their way along a network of caves connected by a series of passages. In the first cave they entered Martin found Log-a-Log and Young Dinny.

  ‘Yurr, Marthen. Woip wet off’n ’ee.’ The mole tossed him a heap of soft dried moss.

  The warrior mouse dried himself vigorously, bringing the warmth back to his body.

  ‘Has there been any news of Gonff?’ he asked his friends.

  Log-a-Log squinted in the pale light which diffused throughout the regions of Bat Mountpit.

  ‘None at all,’ he said sadly. ‘We’ve lost Waterwing too, after all the work I put in on that boat.’

  Dinny wrinkled his snout. ‘Ho urr, c’n allus make ’nother bowt, but thurr be on’y one Gonffen.’

  A bat came in carrying food for them. ‘I am Darkfur. Eat, eat. Our tribe are searching for your friend, for your friend.’

  The three companions took the edge off their hunger with the food of the bats. There was hot mushroom soup and a drink made from some salty-tasting waterweed. The rest was not easy to identify, though it was quite palatable.

  Martin ate automatically. A great weight hung upon his spirit. He could not imagine life without his mousethief friend at his side.

  After the meal they rested awhile to recover from their ordeal. When Martin awoke, Log-a-Log and Dinny were still sleeping. There was an enormous bat standing over them. The stranger touched him lightly with a wingclaw.

  ‘You are Martin the Warrior. I am Lord Cayvear, High Chief of the dark places. Welcome, welcome.’

  Martin stood up and bowed. ‘Thank you for looking after our safety, Lord Cayvear. Is there any news of our friend Gonff?’

  ‘Not yet, not yet, but sometimes no news is good news,’ Lord Cayvear said reassuringly. ‘My scouts are searching, searching.’

  Martin paced the cave anxiously. ‘Lord Cayvear, I cannot stay here feeling helpless while my friend may be in great danger.’

  The great bat folded his wings. ‘I know, I know. You would not be a true friend if you did, Martin. Come with me. We will search together. Let these two sleep on; it will do them good, do them good.’

  Mask strode down to the cells with a businesslike air, his Captain’s cloak swirling splendidly.

  ‘Hey, where d’you think you’re off to?’ a weasel on sentry duty in the corridor challenged him insolently.

  The disguised otter rounded on the unfortunate guard, stamping his paw down hard in fine military fashion.

  ‘Stand to attention when you address a Captain, you scruffy idle mud-brained scum.’

  The weasel gulped, coming swiftly to attention. ‘Sorry, Captain. I didn’t realize. . . .’

  Mask stood, paws akimbo, sneering contemptuously. ‘Chin in, chest out, eyes front, spear straight, shield up. Up, I said. So, you didn’t realize. It strikes me there’s been quite a bit of “not realizing” going on down here. You probably didn’t realize it when the prisoners escaped. Well, let me tell you, my mangy-furred laddo, things are going to be different around here. You’ll learn to jump when you hear the name of Captain Patchcoat in future. Either that, or you and your cronies will find out what double duties in full pack on half-rations means. Do I make myself clear?’

  The weasel banged his spearbutt resoundingly against the floor. ‘Very clear, sah!’

  ‘Right. Lead me to the wildcat’s cell, then get back about your duties,’ Mask ordered sternly.

  ‘Follow me, sah!’

  Gingivere heard the rapid paws marching down the passage. With practised ease he slung Ferdy and Coggs up into their haversacks and sat on the floor, looking forlorn.

  The wildcat gaped vacantly through the bars at the evil-looking fox on the other side of the door grille.

  When the sentry departed, Mask held up a paw to forestall questions. ‘I am the Mask. The Corim sent me to free you. Are the hedgehogs with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Then be ready tonight.’

  ‘You mean we’re getting out tonight?’ Gingivere asked incredulously.

  ‘Aye, if I can swing it. Tell Chibb there must be a good force of woodlanders waiting in the thickets on the east side. I’ve got to go now. Be ready tonight.’ Mask strode off down the passage, every inch the Captain of Kotir.

  Ferdy and Coggs made the haversacks dance and wriggle.

  ‘Hooray, we’re going home tonight!’

  ‘Who was that, Mr Gingivere? Was it a fox?’

  ‘You tell me, little Coggs. How the Corim could employ any creature so evil-looking is beyond me.’

  ‘Look at me, Mr Gingivere. Do I look evil?’ Ferdy called, sticking his snout out of the haversack. ‘I can, you know. All I do is shut one eye and pull my snout to the left, like this.’

  ‘By the fur, you’re frightening the life out of me, Ferdy. Best leave your snout alone or it’ll stick like that.’

  ‘Can we come down to play Mr Gingivere, please,’ Coggs pleaded.

  ‘Not right now. Try and get some sleep up there. I’ll call you when Mr Mask gets back tonight. We’ll need to be bright and alert if we’re to make it back to your friends and family in Mossflower.’

  Martin was astonished by the size of Lord Cayvear’s domain. Bat Mountpit was vast and impressive, with chasms, tunnels, streams, caves, waterfalls and underground lakes. Lord Cayvear pointed out his tribe. Those not searching for Gonff were farming great areas of edible roots, mushrooms and subterranean plants, while others fished the lakes.

  But there was still no trace of Gonff the mousethief. Having climbed upward in the search, they spanned the high cave galleries, leading off a central pathway that rose steeply. At the top Lord Cayvear stopped. He turned, barring the path with outstretched wings.

  ‘We go no further, no further,’ he stated.

  Martin pointed upward. ‘But, Lord Cayvear, I’m certain I can see the glimmer of daylight up ahead.’

  The great bat was unmoved. ‘So you can, Martin. So you can. The outside world may be reached from up there, but none may venture further. There is a large bird of prey roosting higher up, far bigger than any bat. It is a killer. Many of my bats who went up that way were never seen again, never seen again.’

  Martin gave one last dejected look at the slim shaft of light and turned back.

  The little bats were curious and delighted with Dinny. They were under the impression that the mole was a fat bat without wings. Dinny liked the idea.

  ‘Ho urr, batmousen. Oi do fly under ’ee soil. That’s as ‘ow oi wore moi wings out wi’ all that diggen.’

  The little bats laughed. ‘Mr Dinny, you are funny, funny!’

  Martin called Dinny and Log-a-Log together to discuss their position.

  ‘As I see it there’s one way into Bat Mountpit, and that’s the way we came in. As for the way out, it’s a high passage with an opening, but it’s barred by some large bird of prey. Even Lord Cayvear fea
rs to go up there.’

  ‘Burr, do ’ee say wot sort of burdbag it be?’ Dinny asked.

  Martin shrugged. ‘That I don’t know, Din. I only hope poor Gonff wasn’t taken by it. Listen, we must find a way past that bird to continue the quest. Gonff would have wished it.’

  Log-a-Log was not optimistic. ‘If the big bird could kill Lord Cayvear, what chance would we have?’

  Martin unwound his sling. ‘Still, we’ve got to give it a try.’

  ‘You’m caint do it wi’ slings, Marthen. But if yon burdbag is ’igh up, then oi knows an ole mole trick to cave ’im out,’ Dinny promised.

  Lord Cayvear materialized out of the gloom. ‘How would you do it? What is your plan, your plan?’

  ‘Urr, oi get’n b’neath ’im an’ dig away ’ee nest, then push so it fall out’ards down ’ee mounting,’ the mole explained.

  Lord Cayvear flapped his wings and flew upward, hanging upside down by his claws.

  ‘Can you do it, do it?’ His voice was an excited hiss.

  Martin patted Dinny on the back. ‘Lord Cayvear, if this mole says he can do it, then rest assured, he can. Come on, we can give him some assistance.’

  Darkness had scarcely fallen over the woodlands. Treetops were touched by the fires of the setting sun, and evening birdsong was thinning out to the last few warblers. The thickets at the east side of Kotir were packed with squirrels and otters, each one personally paw-picked by Skipper and Lady Amber. The two leaders listened to reports coming in.

  ‘Squirrels ready, marm; archers in the low branches. Beech and Pear along with Barklad and Springpaw, waiting to whirl the young uns off through the treetops to Brockhall.’

  ‘Full crew standing by, Skip. Bula and Root to one side in case we need decoys. All otters fully loaded – slings and javelins. We’ll give ’em plenty to think about if it comes to a fight.’

  They lay in wait, watching the night grow older.

  Bella and the Stickles, plus the Loamhedge mice, had stayed behind at Brockhall, the Corim decision being that this was a mission for the swiftest and most warlike.

  Inside Kotir, Mask made his way down to the cell areas. Inwardly, the otter shuddered after his interview with the wildcat Queen. Tsarmina’s grisly plan for victory over the woodlanders did not bear thinking about: enslavement, death and imprisonment. Nor did the expression of fiendish delight upon her face every time she talked of separating woodland families, locking infants in cells as hostages, wreaking a murderous revenge on otters and squirrels, putting the old and infirm out to the fields as enforced labour.

  Mask went about his perilous game with a new determination.

  Torches guttered in the brackets on the walls of the dismal cell passages. The stoat on sentry duty had been warned of the bad-tempered Captain Patchcoat. He had prepared himself well, even sweeping his part of the passage with a broom.

  At the sound of the Captain’s approach, the stoat came smartly to attention, awaiting orders. Mask came briskly along the passage.

  ‘Hmmm, that’s a bit more like it. Straighten that spear up a touch,’ he said, inspecting the sentry. ‘Good, anything to report?’

  ‘All in order, Cap’n.’

  ‘Right. Get your keys out. The Queen wants a word with the traitor Gingivere.’

  ‘But Cap’n,’ the sentry gulped nervously, ‘Her Majesty gave strict orders that he was never to be mentioned again, only fed and kept under lock and key. That’s what she said.’

  ‘Well, she’s the Queen, mate,’ Mask chuckled, patting the stoat’s paw. ‘If she decides to change her mind, who are you and I to say different? We’re only common soldiers. But I like your style; you’ve a lot more sense than the buffoon who was on duty here earlier. You take your orders from me, soldier, and I’ll see to it that you wear a Captain’s cloak before long. Tell you what: you give me the keys. That way I’ll take all the responsibility. You go and get your supper and have a game of shove acorn with your mates.’

  The stoat surrendered the keys willingly to Mask. Who said this new Captain was a bad-tempered fox? He saluted smartly.

  ‘Thanks, Cap’n. Give me a call if you need help.’

  Mask marched off down the passage, calling over his shoulder, ‘No need, mate. You carry on. I can take care of a crazy half-starved cat anytime, or my name ain’t Patchcoat.’

  Gingivere was ready with Ferdy and Coggs as the key grated in the lock. The door swung open to reveal the strange fox with the evil countenance.

  ‘Quickly, now,’ he whispered, holding a paw to his muzzle. ‘There’s no time to lose. Gingivere, you walk in front of me, I’ll have my dagger out as if I’m marching you up to the Queen’s chamber. Ferdy, Coggs, get behind me, under my cloak, and keep as close to me as possible. Don’t make a sound; your lives depend upon it.’

  To the casual observer, it looked as if there were only two creatures walking along the passage, Gingivere and Captain Patchcoat. Ferdy and Coggs were completely hidden beneath the long Captain’s cloak. They negotiated the cell area successfully. Twice they passed guards who, knowing Captain Patchcoat’s reputation, saluted smartly, keeping their eyes to the front. Mask nodded curtly to them. The escapers carried on up two flights of stairs and into the main entrance passage.

  Cludd strode out of the mess hall with another weasel named Brogg just as Mask and Gingivere were passing. Cludd was still smarting from his demotion. ‘Watch this, matey,’ he winked cunningly at Brogg. ‘I’ll make old clever-whiskers jump through the roof. You’ll see.’

  Mask’s bushy imitation tail protruded from the bottom of the cloak that had once been Cludd’s pride and joy. Sneaking up behind Mask, Cludd stamped his paw down hard and heavy on the tail, expecting to see Mask leap in the air and roar with pain. Instead, Mask carried on walking. The tail had fallen off; it lay trapped under Cludd’s paw. The weasel stared open-mouthed at the false tail, its end covered with pine resin and two cunning twine fasteners.

  It took the slow-witted Cludd a moment to catch on.

  ‘Hey, you, Patchcoat! Stop! Stop him. He’s no fox!’

  Cludd ran forward. Mask tore down a wall hanging, throwing it over the head of his charging enemy. Cludd fell, stumbling and wriggling to unhamper himself. Gingivere swept up the two small hedgehogs and dashed for the main door, with Mask close behind. Together they charged the main door, both creatures slamming their weight against it. The door flew open, bowling Ashleg over as he stumped in.

  The fugitives sped across the parade ground as the hue and cry was raised behind them.

  ‘Escape! Escape! Stop them quickly. Kill them if you have to!’

  The upper galleries were crowded with the tribe of Lord Cayvear. Martin stood ready with a heap of rocks and his sling. Log-a-Log was beside him, his shrew dagger drawn.

  It was a tense moment as Dinny went up silently, paw by paw, until he was directly under the crack of light.

  ‘What is your friend doing now?’ Lord Cayvear whispered to Martin. ‘There is soil and moss up there, but many rocks, many rocks.’

  Martin watched the soft earth and small rocks beginning to slide down the incline. ‘He’s digging inwards then downwards. That way, whatever is above will collapse and hopefully fall outwards.’

  More moss, rock and earth came down in a moving scree. Dinny came with it, sliding on his back and keeping an eye on the light shaft. The young mole dusted his coat off.

  ‘Hurr, hurr, clever oi. Marthen, see if ’ee c’n get summat to lever your ’ole with.’

  Martin turned to Lord Cayvear. ‘Have you got a long stout timber we could use as a lever?’

  The bat chieftain conversed quietly with a band of his followers. They saluted and winged off from the high galleries.

  ‘Be lot quicker an more suproisful wi’ a gurt lever,’ Dinny explained to Lord Cayvear.

  There was not long to wait before the bats returned bearing a stout piece of wood.

  Log-a-Log fondled it, with tears in his eyes. ‘It’s the keel of Waterwing
, my lovely boat!’

  Sure enough, the stout curving timber was the original birchwood keel of Waterwing; the bats had salvaged it from the falls.

  On Dinny’s instructions, it was borne upward by an army of bats. They waited until he had clambered up and positioned himself at the hole, then slowly they fed the strong timber in, under the mole’s guidance. When the timber was fixed to Dinny’s satisfaction, he wedged it on either side and underneath with three rocks. Then the mole slid back down to his friends. Martin looked up; what Dinny had accomplished was a deep hole beneath the light shaft, with the boat keel sticking out of the excavation at a slightly upward angle.

  Log-a-Log scratched his chin. ‘What happens now, Dinny?’

  ‘Hurr, now ’ee baths fly oop thurr soilent loik and perch on yon lever’s end.’

  Lord Cayvear began signalling his legions. Two by two the bats flew silently as cloud shadows, then perched on the end of the lever.

  When eight of them were perched securely, the keel grated, moving fractionally downward. They shifted and tightened clawholds.

  Two more bats landed on the keel. It stayed still.

  Yet another two landed. This time it moved visibly.

  Dinny turned to the assembly. ‘Hoo arr, arf duzzen more’ll do ’ee. Best coom out o’ way whurr it be safer.’

  Another two bats had landed, then another two. There was more shale and rock sliding down as the final two bats landed on the end of the overcrowded keel, proving Dinny’s calculation totally accurate.

  Suddenly the hole gave way and collapsed, pushed outward by the keel bearing down. The entire rock face shifted under the leverage. Bats flew in all directions. Through the dust the small shaft of light widened into a hole as big as a fair-sized cave entrance.

  There was a screeching and hooting, and through the debris Martin glimpsed a huge tawny owl winging its way west then south.