Mattimeo (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Again and again the cane rose and fell, striking the young prisoner indiscriminately. In his excitement Vitch was jumping about as he wielded the thin willow.

  ‘Haha, there’s no silly badger to stop me now, is there? I won’t have to scrub floors and dean saucepans now. Take that and that and th—’

  He danced in too close. Under the stinging rain of blows, Mattimeo saw Vitch’s paw step within his reach. Crossing both paws tightly, the young mouse tugged hard, bringing the little rat crashing down. Mattimeo bit, butted and belaboured away at his tormentor with the slack of the chain.

  ‘Help, help! Murder! He’s killing me!’ Vitch screamed in panic.

  Threeclaws the weasel hauled them roughly apart. He kicked Mattimeo down and flung Vitch against the far wall.

  ‘Hell’s teeth! Stop screeechin’ and shoutin’, will you? What’s going on here?’

  Vitch was quivering with indignation. ‘You stop shoving me about, Threeclaws. Slagar said I could take my revenge on that one when we had him chained up.’

  The weasel looked at him disgustedly. ‘Huh, you weren’t makin’ a very good job of it, were you? From what I saw, this mouse was givin’ you a good hidin’.’

  Vitch dashed forward swinging the cane. ‘I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget this time!’

  Threedaws caught the cane and pulled it from Vitch’s grasp, then grabbed the struggling rat firmly by the neckfur.

  ‘No you won’t, snotnose. I’m in charge while Slagar’s not here. There’s to be no noise, see. We don’t want any creature who’s out searching to hear anything. Now you just behave yourself, or I’ll lay this cane across your back, rat.’

  Vitch slumped against the windowsill, snivelling, but he obeyed the weasel’s order.

  Mattimeo looked about. There were others chained up around the walls: mice, squirrels, hedgehogs, all of them young creatures. He saw Tim and Tess and Sam Squirrel chained against the far wall. Fetters clanking, he waved to them.

  ‘Sam, Tim, Tess, how did we get here?’ he asked.

  ‘Silence there!’

  Halftail the stoat shouted, and pointed a dagger warningly at Mattimeo. ‘Shuttup, mouse. You’ve been told once. Save your breath, you’re going to need it for marching.’

  When Halftail moved out of earshot, a young badger chained next to Mattimeo whispered, ‘That’s Halftail. Watch him, he’s a cruel one. My name is Auma from the west plains. What’s yours?’

  ‘Mattimeo, son of Matthias the Redwall Warrior.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re the one that Slagar was after.’

  ‘Slagar?’

  ‘Yes, the sly one, the hooded fox,’ Auma explained. ‘This lot are a band of slave traders. Though where they’re taking us I don’t know.’

  ‘Ooh, where am I? Take these chains off me. Boohoohoo, I want to go home, boohoohoo!’

  It was Cynthia Bankvole. She had just awakened, chained to the other side of Auma.

  Threeclaws came hurrying over. He thrust his villainous face right up against Cynthia’s tearful whiskers.

  ‘One more peep out of you, missie, and I’ll really give you something to cry about. Now cut out the whimpering.’

  Cynthia was struck dumb with terror.

  Slagar came bounding in through the broken south window, the silken hood plastered wetly against his muzzle. He shook himself vigorously, showering rainwater about him.

  ‘By the claw, it’s bouncing down in torrents out there. Still, all the better for us. If we get going fast then there’ll be no tracks to cover. They won’t know which direction we’ve taken. On the other side of the leaf, that lot at Redwall will have been wakened by this downpour, so we can’t afford to hang around. The false trail to the north should keep them busy for a while. Deadnose and Fengal have taken the cart up that way, then they’ll circle around and meet us in the forest south of here.’

  Bageye lounged in a pew. ‘What if they don’t, Chief? Suppose they miss us? That wood out there is a big place, y’know.’

  The face beneath the hood seemed to grin. ‘Well, hard luck on them. It’ll mean bigger shares for all of us.’

  Bageye had to think about it for a moment, then he gave a slow smile.

  ‘Oh aye, huh huh, so it will.’

  A long running chain was brought out, and the prisoners were made to stand as it was run through their manacled front paws and locked at either end. Mattimeo found himself standing between Auma and Tess, Tim and Sam were behind them. Slagar paced the line, checking links and shoving the captives into place. Satisfied that everything was in order, he pulled forth a strange-looking weapon and began twirling it about. It was a short wooden handle, from which ran three braided leather thongs, and at the end of each thong hung a round metal ball. They whirled and clacked sharply as he manoeuvred them expertly.

  ‘I am Slagar the Cruel. You are my slaves now.’ The silk sucked against his face as he spoke. ‘When I say walk, you walk. If I say run, you run. If I decide you may live, then you will live. If I take it into my head that you may not live, then I will see to it that you die. If ever you should get the chance to escape or make a run for it, my little toy here will bring you back.’

  The fox swung the weapon and hurled it. Flailing viciously, it wrapped itself around an oak upright at the end of some pews. The three metal balls slammed hard into the timber, snapping it off like a dead twig.

  As Fleaback retrieved the weapon, Slagar shrugged carelessly at the captives.

  ‘If you had any back legs left at all after my little toy hit you, I’d have to dump you in the nearest ditch because a slave that is crippled for life isn’t much use to anyone.’

  Mattimeo swallowed hard. The cruel one clearly meant every word he said.

  Slagar turned to his aides. ‘Threeclaws, Halftail, we strike south. Keep ’em moving fast. I want a day and a night’s forced march to put as much distance as we can between us and Redwall. Wartclaw, Tornear, bring up the rear. If it stops raining then cover our trail. Use your canes if they start hanging back or turning the waterworks on. Right, quick march!’

  The door was pushed aside as the straggling column made its way out into the torrents of rain that shook the leaves of every tree in Mossflower Woods.

  13

  IT WAS EARLY evening and the rain hammered down relentlessly. Abbot Mordalfus stood with Sister Agnes on the site of the feast. The roasting pit was a mass of soggy black embers. Mordalfus threw a scrap of parchment into it.

  ‘This was how the fox knew all about us,’ he explained. ‘It was Little Vitch who wrote all the information about us. We gave him a home and he was a spy in our midst. John Churchmouse saw him running with those ruffians when they fled.’

  Sister Agnes’s whiskers shook with indignation. ‘The little hooligan! To think that we took him in, sheltered and fed him, and that’s how he repaid us, by spying and noting it all down for the fox. Young Mattimeo should have give him a bit more of what he gave him in the orchard, Father Abbot, that’s what I say.’

  ‘I agree with you, Sister,’ the old mouse sighed. ‘Sometimes violence can be fair when it is used as a chastisement against badness. Is that Brother Sedge waving to us from the Abbey? Come, sister, there may be some news for us.’

  As they walked over to Great Hall the Matthias and Methusaleh bells rang out. They were out of sequence and not tolled with their usual vigour. Agnes pointed to the bell tower.

  ‘That will be Cornflower, teaching baby Rollo to make our bells speak. How good of her, she’s keeping little Rollo’s mind off his mother. He still doesn’t know she’s dead.’

  Sister Agnes wiped a tear away with her habit sleeve.

  In Great Hall Matthias was drying himself off, in company with Basil Stag Hare, Warbeak and several of her sparrow scouts.

  The Abbot shook a stern paw at them. ‘Where did you go off to without as much as a word to me?’

  Matthias tossed the towel aside wearily. ‘We’ve been up the north road. Warbeak and her sparrows flew ahead
of us. But the rain was too heavy, so there are no tracks.’

  Basil blew droplets of rain from his whiskers. ‘Tchah! Bally old rain. They’ve either travelled up that road a lot faster than we thought they could, or else cut off east into the woodlands or west out on to the plains. Couldn’t make out a confounded thing with the old skyjuice pouring down like that.’

  Warbeak fluttered her wings irritably. ‘They worms, no can travel faster’n us with cart to pull. We catchem, you see.’

  Abbot Mordalfus gathered up the wet towels. ‘So, they could have travelled anywhere in three directions from the road. One thing is certain, no creature can track them in this rain, so what can we do?’

  Thunder rumbled outside, a vivid lightning flash streaked across the windows of Great Hall. Basil twitched his ears miserably.

  ‘No signs of this little lot lettin’ up, old sport,’ he said to Matthias. ‘We’re really at sixes and sevens, laddie. Can’t sit around and twiddle our paws and can’t get out and track ’em.’

  Matthias wiped his sword dry, gritting his teeth angrily. ‘Track them or not, we can’t let them get away with our young ones.’

  The Abbot folded both paws into his wide habit sleeves. ‘We’ll bury our dead and think hard while we’re doing it.’

  Ambrose Spike and Cornflower kept baby Rollo at their side as they tolled the bells that evening. The sky was leaden purple-grey, and rain poured ceaselessly as the procession of Redwallers marched solemnly to the burying place. Dressed in his ceremonial robe, the Abbot stood over the twin graves, at the foot of which two weeping willow saplings had been transplanted.

  Tearfully the woodlanders passed in single file, each leaving a small memento to their fallen friends, a young mousemother and a fat little Friar. Some brought flowers, others carried offerings of fruit and nuts, or a treasured object they thought might please, a paw-worked purse, a carved wooden ladle, a dockleaf made from green felt.

  Matthias stood alongside Mordalfus, dressed in his full armour, bearing the sword. Together the warrior and the patriarch intoned the prayer for those who would rest for ever in the Abbey grounds.

  ‘Suns that set as seasons turn,

  Flowers grow and wither yet.

  Who can say what flame may burn,

  Friends that we have known and met.

  Look into the young ones’ eyes,

  See the winter turn to spring,

  Across the quiet eternal lake,

  Ripples spreading in a ring.’

  The rain continued unabated as they filed back to the Abbey, leaving Foremole and his crew to replace the earth gently over their fallen companions.

  Supper was served in Cavern Hole. Many had no appetite for food, Matthias least of all, yet he forced himself to eat his fill. So did Cornflower, as she fought back tears for her son and tried gallantly to cope with baby Rollo.

  ‘Eat up, come on, all of you!’ the warrior mouse urged his companions in a tight voice. ‘There’s nothing to be done except eat and store energy. Night has fallen and soon we must rest. But first thing tomorrow I will choose a rescue party. Rain or no rain, we strike north again. I will make that masked fox wish that he had never arrived at our gates, and we will bring our young ones back home to Redwall where they belong.’

  Rain slashed down through the bushes and trees, drenching slaves and slavers alike. Tess Churchmouse stumbled against Mattimeo and fell heavily into the churned-up mud, causing the line of chained prisoners to come to a bumping, clanking halt.

  Halftail scurried up, swinging his cane. ‘Gerrup! Up on your paws, you little backslider.’

  Mattimeo threw himself forward, catching the stinging blow that was aimed at Tess. Auma lent a paw to help the churchmouse.

  ‘Up you come, quick, back into line and keep going. It’s the only way to stay out of trouble,’ the badger advised her.

  Between them, Mattimeo and Auma hauled Tess upright and shunted her forward.

  ‘Thanks for your help, friend,’ Mattimeo said.

  The young badger shook rain from her striped muzzle. ‘Listen, I’ll give you a tip to pass on to the others. Don’t let the running line drag. Hold it in your paws like this, not too tight, and give yourself enough slack to move easily. That way you won’t be tripping up so often.’

  Mattimeo gratefully passed the information to his friends. It worked well. However, Mattimeo was growing impatient with Cynthia Bankvole. She was constantly weeping, stumbling and dragging at the fetters. ‘Why am I being kept prisoner and made to march through the rain and the wet like this?’ she wailed piteously. ‘I’ve never harmed any creature. Look, my habit’s all muddy and soggy. Oh, why don’t they let us sleep? I’m so tired!’

  Mattimeo could stand it no longer. ‘Oh, stop snivelling and whingeing, Cynthia!’ he snarled angrily. ‘You’ve done nothing but moan and cry since you woke today.’

  Tess Churchmouse interrupted his ill-tempered tirade. ‘Mattimeo, don’t speak to Cynthia that way! I’m sure your father wouldn’t talk to another creature like that.’

  Mattimeo tugged the chain rebelliously. ‘Well, how am I supposed to talk to her? She’s nothing but a whining nuisance. And another thing, why have I got to be like my father all the time?’

  ‘Because you are the son of the Redwall Warrior, weak ones may look to you for defence and protection,’ Tess replied in a level tone. ‘Cynthia isn’t as strong as you and she doesn’t realize the danger we’re in. No one has ever treated her in this cruel way before, and to add insult to injury, you start snapping and shouting at her. I know she’s only a silly little vole, but that doesn’t entitle you to be nasty to her.’

  Mattimeo was dumbfounded. Tess was right, of course, but she had no reason to start shaming him within hearing of the others. He was about to start a justifying argument when Vitch strolled up, swinging his cane with a malicious grin on his face.

  ‘Come on, you dozy Redwall lot, keep marching. Be strong like Mattimeo. After all, he’s the one you can thank for all this. Slagar wouldn’t have chanced within a mile of your precious abbey if he hadn’t wanted to steal the famous warrior’s son. Ha, just think, you’d all be sleeping safe and dry tonight in your dormitories if it weren’t for Matt the brat.’

  Tim Churchmouse ducked under a whippy aspen branch. He caught hold of it, swung it forward and let it go suddenly. It swiped Vitch across the chest, sending him sprawling in the wet grass.

  The undersized rat sprang up. ‘Think you’re clever don’t you?’ he said, his voice dripping hatred. ‘Let me tell you something to cheer you up. Me and Slagar took care of the stupid fat Friar, Mrs Bankvole too, and that dozy father of yours. Haha, we did them good and proper, killed ’em. You won’t be seeing them any more.’

  Ignoring his chains, Tim sprang forward, dragging the others with him. He was on top of Vitch, biting through his ear before any creature could stop him.

  ‘You filthy lying little ratscum, I’ll kill you!’ Tim shouted.

  Slagar, Halftail and some others came bounding through the rainy curtain and flung themselves into the fray, laying about viciously with their canes, trying hard to pull the furious Tim off Vitch. Mattimeo, Sam, Tess and Auma hurled themselves into the melee, kicking and scratching madly. Even Cynthia Vole managed to get a few nips in.

  It did not last long. Finally overcome by slavers, the captives were beaten back into line. Slagar blew mud and stormwater through the mouth aperture of his silk mask as he prodded the cane hard against Mattimeo’s chest.

  ‘You started this. You’re the troublemaker. Well, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget before you’re much older.’

  Vitch lay in the mud, holding his ear to staunch the flow of blood. He pointed at Tim.

  ‘It was that one, he tried to bite me ear off, I was only walking along mindin’ my own busi–’

  The masked fox struck the rat’s outstretched paw with his cane. ‘I’ve told you once before, ratface. Now stop slobbering down there and get up on your paws, or you’ll fi
nd yourself chained in line with these others.’

  For long, weary hours the slave line staggered and stumbled through the rain-battered forest. Mattimeo and his friends took turns napping as they marched, each keeping the other moving straight as they snatched a small respite. Brambles tore and tugged at their saturated habits, which clung tightly about them, making an extra burden to carry. Chain manacles rubbed and wore, cutting through fur to sore and chafed limbs. Paws that had been accustomed to soft Abbey sward soon became raw and pierced by thorns, stung by nettles. Caked with mud and drenched in rain, they staggered onward. No one was allowed to walk. The slavers drove them hard and fast, dogtrotting through woodlands and speeding up when passing through open clearings. Slagar was anxious to get as far from Redwall as possible while the rain kept covering their trail.

  Dawn broke over the column. Sullen grey-black skies rumbled thunder, occasionally flashing forked lightning and keeping up the remorseless deluge of rain. Slagar shielded his eyes as he looked upward. Truth to tell, he was as weary as his slaves or slavers, having to lead, run up and down the length of the line all night and keep a constant vigil against trouble breaking out. He signalled to Wedgeback.

  ‘We’ll rest for a while. String ’em out between that beech and the big oak yonder. Keep them under that low fringe of shrub growing between the trees. Better feed ’em first.’

  The captives were thrown an assortment of edible roots and plants. Water was everywhere, so there was no need to dish it out. After the lines were wound around the two broad treetrunks the captives were allowed to slump down. Half sheltered from the driving rain, they lay exhausted beneath the low bushes.

  Mattimeo was jerked roughly out of his slumber as the chains were loosened.