Mattimeo (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  ‘O if I feel sick or pale,

  What makes my old eyes shine?

  Some good October ale

  And sweet blackcurrant wine.

  I’d kill a dragon for half a flagon,

  I’d wrestle a stoat to wet my throat,

  I’d strangle a snake, all for the sake

  Of lovely nutbrown beer. . . .

  Nuhuhuhut broooowwwwwnnnnn beeeeheeeyer!’

  Upstairs in the vegetable store, Mrs Lettie Bankvole was remonstrating with her young offspring Baby Rollo. He had learned the words after his own fashion and was singing uproariously in a deep rough gurgle,

  ‘I strangle a snake an’ wet his throat,

  I wrestle a dragon an’ steal his coat—’

  ‘Baby Rollo! Stop that this instant. Cover your ears and help me with this salad.’

  ‘I wallop a snake wiv a old rock cake—’

  ‘Rollo! Go and play outside and stop listening to those dreadful songs. Strangling dragons and swigging beer – where will it all end?’

  Mattimeo was finding out that roses had sharp thorns. For the second time that day he sucked at his paw, nipping out the pointed rose thorn with his teeth. Tim Churchmouse had gone off shrimping with the otters, Tess stayed behind out of pity for the warrior’s son.

  ‘Here Matti, you stack those baskets on the cart for your mum. I’ll arrange the roses for you. You’ve got them in a right old mess.’

  Mattimeo winked gratefully at her. ‘Thanks, Tess. I’m about as much use as a mole at flying, with all these flowers. I never thought it would be such hard work.’

  ‘Then why did you volunteer for it?’

  ‘I never volunteered,’ he explained. ‘Dad said I have to do it as part of my punishment for fighting with Vitch.’

  Tess stamped her paw. ‘Oh, that little rat. It’s so unfair, it was he who provoked you into that fight. Look, there he is now, over by the tables, having a sly snigger at you.’

  Mattimeo saw Vitch, leaning idly on a table. He sneered and pulled tongues in the young mouse’s direction.

  Mattimeo felt his temper rising. ‘I’ll give him something to stick his tongue out at in a moment,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I’ll throttle him so hard it’ll stick out permanently!’

  Tess felt sorry for her friend. ‘Pay no attention to him, Matti. He’s only trying to get you into more trouble.’

  It was difficult for Mattimeo to ignore Vitch. Now the rat was wiggling a paw to his snout end at his enemy.

  The young mouse straightened his back from the pile of baskets. ‘Right, that’s it! I’ve taken all I can stand of his insults.’

  Quickly Tess dodged past Mattimeo and ran towards Vitch, who was still grimacing impudently. Angrily the young churchmouse picked up the first thing that came to her paw. It was a pliant rose stem. She ran toward Vitch, calling out urgently, ‘Look out, Vitch, there’s a great big wasp on your tail. Stay still, I’ll get it!’

  Startled by Tess’s warning cry, Vitch obeyed instantly, turning and bending slightly so she could deal with the offending insect. There was no sign of a wasp behind Vitch.

  Tess swung the rose stem, surprised at her own temper but unable to stop the swishing descent of the whippy branch. It thwacked down hard across Vitch’s bottom with stinging speed.

  Swish, crack!

  ‘Yeeehoooooowowow!’ The rat straightened like a ramrod. Leaping high in the air, he rubbed furiously with both paws at the agonizing sting.

  Cornflower came hurrying over. ‘Oh dear, the poor creature. What happened, Tess?’

  The young churchmouse looked the picture of innocence, though she felt far from it. Blushing deeply she stammered an excuse.

  ‘Oh golly. Vitch had a wasp on his bottom, but I couldn’t brush it off in time. I think he’s been stung.’

  Vitch was thrashing about on the grass, tears squeezing out on to his cheeks as he rubbed furiously at his tender rump.

  Cornflower was genuinely concerned. ‘Oh, you poor thing. Don’t rub it, you’ll make it worse. Go to Sister May at the infirmary and she’ll put some herb ointment on it for you. Tess, show him where it is, please.’

  Scrambling up, Vitch avoided Tess’s paw and dashed off, sobbing.

  Tess turned to Mattimeo. ‘Aaahhh, poor Vitch. It must be very uncomfortable,’ she said, her voice dripping sympathy.

  Mattimeo tried hard to keep a straight face. ‘Indeed it must. It’s a terrible thing to be stung on the bottom by a churchmouse, er, wasp, I mean.’

  Cornflower put her paws about them both. ‘Yes of course. Now you two run off and play. There may be other wasps about and I don’t want either of you stung.’

  ‘Come on, Matti, let’s go water-shrimping with Tim and the otters,’ Tess suggested.

  ‘Great, I’ll race you over there. One, two, three. Go!’

  Cornflower shaded her eyes with a paw as she watched them run.

  ‘What a lively young pair,’ she said aloud.

  Mrs Churchmouse arrived, carrying a pansy and kingcup bouquet. ‘Yes, but you watch your Matti. He’ll let her win, he’s very fond of my little Tess.’

  ‘Bless them, that’s the way it should be,’ Cornflower nodded, smiling.

  7

  IT WAS LATE afternoon on the common land at the back of Saint Ninian’s. Slagar had marshalled his band of slavers. Threeclaws the weasel and Bageye the stoat stayed inside the ruined church, together with the wretched little group of slaves, who had been manacled to a running chain. They were to await the return of Slagar and the others that night.

  Now the sly one reviewed his force. They were dressed as a band of travelling performers. None looked evil, Slagar had seen to that. Every ferret, stoat or weasel had a silly grin painted on its face with berry stain and plant dyes, and all wore various types of baggy comical costume. The fox swept up and down the line, adjusting a ruffle here, affixing a false red nose there.

  Dressed as the Lord of Mountebanks, Slagar the Cruel looked neither comical nor amusing. There was a mysterious air about him, hooded and caped in swirling patterned silk which showed the black lining of the moon and stars motif at every turn.

  ‘Right, listen carefully. Throw down any weapons you are carrying. Right now!’ His voice was a warning growl, flatly dangerous.

  There was an uneasy shuffling. The slavers were apprehensive of entering the Abbey without weapons. Slagar paced the ranks once more.

  ‘Last chance. When I say throw down your weapons, I mean it. Next time I walk around I will search you, and anyone carrying a weapon – anyone, I don’t care who – I’ll kill that creature with his own armoury. I’ll gut him, right here in front of you all. Now, throw down your weapons!’

  There was a clatter. Knives, hooks, swords, strangling nooses, daggers and axes fell to the ground like a sudden shower of April rain.

  Slagar kicked at a saw-edged spike. ‘Wartclaw, gather ’em and sling ’em into the church until we get back. The rest of you, form up around the cart, ten in front pulling, the rest at the sides and back shoving. We’ll take the path nice and easy now, travel at a steady pace. That’ll bring us there in the early evening.’

  As they trundled along the path, the Sly One said to his minions, ‘Leave all the talking to me. I know these creatures and I can handle them. Nobody talks, is that clear? I don’t want any loose-tongued addlebrain blowing the gaff by mistake. If anyone speaks to you then pull a silly face, smile and turn a cartwheel. Act the goat. You’re supposed to be a travelling entertainment, so look amusing. If they ask us to share their food, which they probably will, then mind your manners and don’t go piggin’ it down. Take a slice or a portion of whatever and pass the bowl to your neighbour. If there’s ladies present, then be polite and offer them the food first, before you start wolfin’ it down your famine-fed gobs. Be friendly with the little ones and keep your eyes out for any likely looking youngsters, straight-limbed, sturdy. Don’t for the claws’ sake recognize Vitch. You’ve never set eyes on him before. R
ight, any questions?’

  Fleaback held up a paw. ‘Er, how’ll we know when the moment is right, Chief?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, dunderhead.’

  Halftail was a little puzzled. ‘But how will you know, Slagar?’

  The sly one looked at him pityingly. ‘Because they’ll be asleep, nitbrain.’

  ‘How will you know that they’re all going to go asleep together at the same time?’ Halftail persisted.

  Slagar patted his belt pouch. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see to that. Oh, and after we’ve put on our performance, don’t drink anything, whatever you do. When you are sitting at the table you can drink what you like, but not once you’ve left the table to perform.’

  ‘Duh huh huh hu!’ Skinpaw laughed oafishly. ‘Yer goin’ to drug ’em, aren’t you, Chief?’

  Slagar looked down from his perch on the cart. ‘I’ll drug you if you don’t shuttup, turniphead.’

  Halftail piped up again. ‘But if we drug ’em all, what’s to stop us taking over this Redwall place ourselves?’

  The sly one nodded. ‘I was wondering when somebody was going to ask me that one. Well, I’ll tell you. I think the place is bad luck. Others have tried and failed, and I mean real warriors, not like you dithering lot. No, all I want is slaves and revenge. A mere pawful of rabble could never hold a place like that. You’ll know what I mean when you see the big badger, or the otters. They really know how to fight. They’re not afraid of death if their precious Abbey is threatened.’

  ‘And we’re going in there unarmed?’ Halftail’s voice sounded shaky.

  ‘Of course we are, halfwit,’ the fox said sarcastically. ‘You can bet they’ll search us, and we wouldn’t last a second if they found arms on us. That Matthias the Warrior would go at us like a thunderbolt.’

  ‘Matthias the Warrior? Is that the badger?’ Halftail asked.

  ‘No, he’s a mouse.’

  ‘Haha, a mouse,’ Skinpaw sneered.

  ‘Yes, a mouse. But you won’t laugh when you see him. That one’s a born warrior. He has a sword too, and I think it’s magic.’

  ‘A magic sword! Hoho, I might just borrow that for meself,’ Halftail howled.

  ‘Stop the cart!’ Slagar commanded.

  Immediately the cart ground to a halt. The silken mask puffed in and out furiously with savage temper.

  ‘Don’t dare touch that sword. Its magic is only for the Redwall mice, there’s probably a spell on it. It would be the death of us. Stick to the slaving, do you hear me? It’ll be bad enough stealing his son, but if you follow my plan we’ll get away with it.’

  There was an ominous silence. Dust rose off the path where the cart had stopped. The slavers looked doubtfully at one another, the unspoken question hanging like a rock in their mouths.

  Steal the son of such a warrior, so that was Slagar’s revenge. A fearsome warrior with a magic sword, strong enough to protect a whole abbey.

  ‘Who told you to stop? Come on, stir your stumps and get this cart moving,’ Slagar told them.

  They pushed and pulled with mixed emotions.

  ‘Do as you’re told and I’ll make you rich,’ Slagar egged them on with his sly tongue. ‘You all know me, Slagar the Cruel, the sly one. Nowhere is there a cleverer slaver than me. I am the Lord of double-dealing, and my plan will easily confound an abbeyful of honest woodlanders. There’s not a stoat, weasel, rat, ferret or fox among them; they’re too noble for their own good. They’ll never find us. I will have my revenge on Redwall and you will all be rich, when we go to sell them where none can follow.’

  Scringe the ferret asked the question, dreading the answer as the words tumbled out.

  ‘Where’ll we sell the slaves, Chief?’ He swallowed hard and wished he had not spoken.

  ‘In the Kingdom of Malkariss!!!’

  A moan of despair arose from the slaving band.

  Slagar was talking of the realm of nightmare.

  8

  NADAZ, THE PURPLE-ROBED Voice of the Host, led a party of black-robed rats up from the depths of the underground construction. The causeway steps wound their way around the sides of the abyss, from the green misted deeps to the broad torchlit ledge. The blackrobes halted, and Nadaz came forward until he stood before the statue of Malkariss. Sometime in the distant past it had been carved from a column of limestone which stood near the brink of the ledge. The thick column was the result of stalagmite meeting stalactite, and it reared from the ledge to connect with the high arched cavern ceiling. It was carved into a monstrous effigy of a white polecat with teeth of rock crystal and eyes of the darkest black jet. The torchlights from a large wheel-shaped chandelier illuminated the terrifying idol. Nadaz bowed his head and began chanting,

  ‘Malkariss, Ruler of the pit,

  Lord of the deep and dark,

  I am Nadaz, the Voice of the Host

  To which your servants hark.

  Hear me, O Ruler of eternal night,

  Whose eyes see all we do,

  King of the void beneath the earth,

  we bring our pleas to you.’

  ‘Speak, Nadaz. Tell me that my Kingdom is ready.’ Malkariss’s voice was a laboured hiss which echoed around the rocks as it emanated from between the unmoving crystalline teeth of the statue.

  The purple-robed rat stretched his claws in supplication. ‘Lord Malkariss, the rocks will not haul themselves, nor will they be cut into blocks to be laid one on another. Four more slaves have died of late. We need more workers, strong young woodland creatures who can labour for many seasons until they finally drop.’

  Nadaz stood awaiting his master’s answer, not daring to look up at the awful glittering jet eyes.

  ‘Are there no more new captives lying in my cells?’

  ‘Lord, the cells have stood empty for a long time now.’

  ‘What of the longtails at the river, have none passed this way?’

  ‘None, Lord, who dares to climb the high plateau and risk the pine forest.’

  ‘Hmmmm. Then you must carry on with what you have and work them harder. Get word to Stonefleck. Tell him to watch for the masked fox. He has been gone two seasons now.’

  There was a prolonged silence. The torchlights flickered and winked from the flecks of mica and crystal which studded the cavern walls as the blackrobes stood impassively at the head of the steps, waiting upon the Voice of the Host. Finally Nadaz bowed.

  ‘Malkariss, I hear and obey!’

  Turning, he swept through the ranks of blackrobes, leading them back down the causeway steps. They were soon lost in the green mist that arose from the depths. From below, there came the sound of chiselling and hammering, the scraping of great stones being dragged and the crack of whips, intermingled with the weak anguished cries of young woodland slaves imprisoned beneath the earth into a life of forced labour.

  The statue of the immense white polecat stood alone in the torchlight. A sigh emanated from the mouth.

  ‘Aaaaahhhhh, my Kingdom!’

  9

  AT REDWALL, SPORTING events for the youngsters had been going on since early afternoon. Matthias woke refreshed. He sat on the west wall steps with John Churchmouse, Abbot Mordalfus, Basil Stag Hare and old Ambrose Spike. They drank cider and watched the antics of a young mole trying to shin up a greased pole to retrieve the bag of crystallized fruits from its top. The little fellow was over halfway up, further than any had got, and the watchers on the steps yelled encouragement:

  ‘Dig your claws in, Gilly. You’ll make it!’

  ‘Take it easy, old lad. A bit at a time, that’s the way!’

  ‘Stay still! Stay still! Oh he’s slipping!’

  Gilly slid slowly earthward, his face a picture of longing.

  ‘Gurr, sloidy owd greasepole, ee be loik tryin’ t’ rassle wi’ a damp frog. O shame on oi, ee carndy’s still thurr.’

  They applauded loudly. ‘Good try young un, well done!’

  Constance the badger came ambling over towards them. As she passed near to the gre
ased pole, young Sam the Squirrel moved like lightning. He dashed a short way, bounded on to Constance’s back, sprang up on her head and gave a mighty leap. It carried him over the top of the greased pole. He snatched the candied fruit bag as he went, without a backward look.

  ‘I say, was that fair?’ Constance blinked owlishly.

  Gilly and Sam sat laughing on the grass, sharing the fruits between them. The young mole patted Sam with a greasy paw as he stuffed a sugar plum in his mouth.

  ‘Hurr hurr, bain’t nuthin’ in ee rules agin it, no zurr.’

  ‘Look out, gangway, here come the runners!’

  On the second lap of the Abbey grounds, the runners came by, Tess Churchmouse in front by a whisker and a tail. They sped by, jockeying frantically to be among the front runners on the last lap.

  John Churchmouse puffed at his pipe between chuckles. ‘She’s a one for the running, my young Tess is.’

  Mattimeo came dashing across, wearing a coronet of dripping duckweed on his head.

  ‘Look what the otters gave me, I won, I won!’ he shouted.

  Streamsleek, a powerful young otter, followed in Mattimeo’s wake, along with a group of young creatures. The otter slouched down on the steps, shaking water from his coat.

  ‘Crimp me sails, but he did that, Matthias. Three circuits of the pool on a log. I had me course well charted to keep up with him.’

  The warrior mouse handed Streamsleak the cider flagon and ruffled his son’s damp back.

  ‘Well done, Matti. You’d better let that duckweed tiara dry out a bit before you wear it, though.’

  ‘Balderdash, spoils of war, wot?’ Basil Stag Hare said through a mouthful of summer vegetable pastie. ‘You wear it, young feller me bucko, ’twas honourably won.’