Mattimeo (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Sam nodded. ‘That’s fair enough, Scurl. Wait there a moment, will you.’

  They huddled together, whispering.

  ‘What do we use to bargain? I’ve got nothing,’ Mattimeo said.

  Auma produced some pressed blue flowers. ‘They’re mountain flowers. My father used to find them for me. They might not be worth anything, but they’re pretty. Bet he’s never seen mountain flowers.’

  Tim spat something out and dried it on his habit sleeve. ‘My lucky green stone, though it’s not brought me much luck. I’m always sucking it. Look, it’s quite flat.’

  Mattimeo looked from one to another. ‘Anything else?’

  Tess took an object on a thong from about her neck. ‘This is my seasonday gift from Mum. It’s a carved beechnut shaped like a bell.’

  Sam reluctantly undid something that was hidden by the long brush of his tail. He tossed it in with the pitiful collection. ‘Mum’s champion climber tailbracelet. It’s made from baked clay and reedgrass, painted three different colours too. I borrowed it to wear for the feast that night.’

  Mattimeo unfastened his soft white habit girdle. ‘Suppose I’d better throw this in too. Dad said it belonged to old Abbot Mortimer before my time. It’s a nice one.’

  ‘Let me do this,’ Tess offered. She gathered the objects up and signalled to the newt.

  Cynthia Bankvole hissed a warning, remaining frozen in her upright position on watch. Immediately the newt dropped out of sight and the companions lay flat as if asleep.

  Wartclaw strode over. He tickled Cynthia under her chin with his cane.

  ‘Not sleepy, eh, missie?’

  ‘Er, no sir,’ Cynthia gulped. ‘I can’t seem to get any sleep.’

  ‘Well, you ought to take lessons from your little pals yonder. Look, they’re snoozin’ like a pile of bees trying to last out the winter.’

  Cynthia was too petrified even to look. She sat staring at Wartclaw with the cane pressing painfully into her throat. Wartclaw gave the cane a hard shove, sending Cynthia flat on her back, both chained paws clutching her neck.

  ‘Get to sleep before I tuck you in with this cane, vole, and don’t let me catch you napping when we start to march again,’ Wartclaw’s voice hissed dose to her ear.

  He strode off, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. ‘Must’ve had a featherbed life in that Redwall place before we got our claws on ’em. . . . Huh, can’t sleep, sir!’

  Cynthia sat up partially. ‘He’s gone now. Oh, do hurry up!’ she said, her voice trembling.

  Scurl scampered swiftly up and seized the things.

  ‘Hmm, notmuch, notmuch. Funny bell, though. Nice ring, soft white rope, nice on Scurl.’ He held the white habit girdle against his red underside.

  Tess gave a look of mock admiration. ‘Oh, that does look nice on you. Now put the bracelet on your tail. No, like this. Let me see . . . oh yes, hang my beechnut bell around your neck. Very handsome. Tuck the blue flowers in the thong up by your frill. There! You can carry the green stone.’

  Auma placed a paw upon Scurl’s back. ‘Just a moment, where’s the keys?’

  The newt gave her a scornful glance. ‘Don’t carryem. Huh, wouldn’t carryem, gotter gofor em.’

  Auma kept her paw firmly on Scurl. ‘How do I know you’ll come back?’

  Scurl stood upright, his eyes wide and a dignified expression upon his face. ‘Stripedog, you be no woodlander, right?’

  Auma nodded glumly. ‘No, I’m from the western plain. I’m a flatland badger.’

  ‘I be woodlander, tellem ’bout woodlander rule, mouse.’ Scurl smiled disarmingly.

  Tess turned to Auma. ‘He’s right, we have a woodland code. All honest and true woodlanders are pledged to help each other and never to harm a living creature.’

  Scurl removed Auma’s paw and patted it in a friendly way. ‘You see, stripedog.’

  Before anyone could lay another paw on him, Scurl was away like a streak. He dashed back into the long grass, far from where the chained-up captives could reach him. They could see the red flash of his underside as he danced and pranced about.

  ‘Sillybeast, sillybeast, trusting me.

  Made you think I had a key.

  Stupid you, clever me,

  Scurl has pretty gifts for free.’

  Angrily Auma tore up a huge sod of earth and flung it with all her strength.

  Clumph!

  It struck Scurl, knocking him flat. The crested newt lay for a moment then pulled himself up, spitting out gritty black earth and rubbing soil from his eyes.

  ‘Might have adda key, might have letcher free, but you’ll never know now, willyer.’

  He scampered off into the night forest.

  ‘What’s all the shouting about here?’

  Slagar and Threeclaws stood over the captives. Between them they had a small hedgehog. Threeclaws stooped to manacle the hedgehog to the running chain.

  ‘I said, what’s all the noise about?’ Slagar repeated.

  Tim grunted wearily. ‘Oh, nothing really. That great lump of a badger was rolling over in her sleep and pulling me about on the chain.’

  Slagar kicked at Auma. ‘Well, you won’t have to worry about sleeping right now, we’re marching again.’

  A groan arose from the prisoners. Threeclaws ignored it, and glanced across his shoulder into the woodlands.

  ‘Come on, let’s get moving. We can be well away from this place by morning,’ he said.

  Slagar called Vitch. ‘You and Browntooth stop at the rear and cover the tracks. I don’t want that hedgehog’s family knowing which way we’ve gone.’

  Sleepily they ploughed onward through the night-time woodland. A crescent moon above winked at them through the softly swaying treetops. Mattimeo caught a glance of Tess. She was brushing away a tear.

  ‘Tess, what’s the matter?’

  The little churchmouse sniffed and dried her eyes.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Only that seasonday present was the last thing I had to remind me of Mum and Dad and Redwall. Do you think we’ll ever see them again, Matti?’

  Mattimeo suddenly felt grown up and responsible. ‘Of course we will, Tess. Take my word for it, I promise you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mattimeo.’ Tess managed a small smile. ‘The word of the Redwall Warrior’s son is good enough for me.’

  ‘Stop that talking down there and get in line. Keep moving, d’you hear!’

  The little hedgehog nudged Auma. ‘Where are they taking us? Do they always shout like that?’

  ‘Hmm,’ the badger yawned. ‘They’re always shouting about one thing or another, though where they’re taking us, well, your guess is as good as mine. I’m Auma. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jube.’

  ‘That’s a good name.’

  ‘Glad you like it. I don’t. It’s short for Jubilation. I’m the only male in a family of ten females. You should see my sisters, great big bullies they are. When I was born Mum said to Dad: “It’s not a female. What’ll we call him?” My old dad was so pleased he shouted: “O Jubilation!” But you can call me Jube. I’d dearly hate to be this Slagar fox when my family catches up with him and these rascals.’

  For the first time in a long while the friends found themselves chuckling at the young hedgehog. He seemed quite unconcerned that he had been made captive, looking on it as only a temporary measure until his family caught up with the slavers.

  Mattimeo dearly wished he could share Jube’s optimism.

  16

  CHEEK THE YOUNG otter was never still. He kept bounding ahead of Jess, Matthias and Basil and running back to chide them.

  ‘Come on, it’ll be the middle of next season before we get anywhere, the way you plod along.’

  Basil sniffed and shot a frosty glare at Cheek. ‘Out of m’way, scallawag. We’re following a trail and you’re jumping over the pawprints. See, Matthias, here and here. I’d stake me reputation there’s two of ’em. Weasels, prob’ly.’

  Cheek wrinkled his wh
iskers impudently. ‘Oh, for goodness sake! I know that, I’ve found their weapons up ahead.’

  Jess grabbed Cheek by the paw. ‘Where? Why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘Huh, ’cos you never asked me, that’s why. You’re always too busy tellin’ me off. “Don’t run, come here, go there. . . .”’

  Jess released the young otter. ‘Right, show us.’

  They ran behind Cheek as he bounded and scampered between the trees in the early morning sunlight. Suddenly he stopped and pointed.

  Matthias was hurrying forward when Basil pulled him back as his paws began sinking.

  ‘Steady on, old chum, it’s a bally swamp. Now then, young feller m’laddo, see the danger of dashing ahead?’

  The Warrior hopped to the firm ground, aided by Basil. ‘Wait, I’ll cut a long branch and we’ll fish those weapons back.’

  It was the work of a moment for Matthias to lop off a long larch branch. Jess held tight to Cheek as the young otter fished the weapons on to solid earth. They stood looking at the shattered spear and the curved sword which had been snapped clean through the centre of its blade. Basil gave a low whistle of amazement as he turned the ruined weapons over with his paw.

  ‘Blow me down, what sort of creature has the strength to do this?’ he wondered.

  Matthias tossed the larch branch like a spear. It hit the bogland and disappeared like a stone in water.

  ‘Well, whoever it was, there were two weasels who were so terrified that they ran the wrong way.’

  ‘Yukk!’ Cheek shuddered. ‘What a horrible way to die, swallowed up by a swamp.’

  ‘Aye,’ Basil Stag Hare nodded grimly. ‘Though ’twas all the villains deserved. Hmm, doesn’t help us much, though. If we’d got to those two stinkers first we might have found out exactly where they were heading for. Now the bally old trail’s completely cold.’

  Matthias silenced his companions with a wave of his paw. ‘Ssshhh! Don’t say anything, just listen. What can you hear?’

  Basil’s ears twitched this way then that. He faced south with his whiskers aquiver. ‘Battle, fighting, some sort of old barney goin’ on over that way, I think.’

  The warrior mouse unloosed the great battle blade from its back sheath.

  ‘Cheek, stay behind. Jess and Basil, come on, let’s take a look!’

  Throughout the night Abbot Mordalfus had tossed and turned on his simple bed in the dormitories above Great Hall. Sleep had eluded the old mouse. With the arrival of dawn’s first light he rose and crept quietly between the sleeping ranks of woodlanders. Ambrose Spike snored gently, pausing to snuffle and mutter in his dreams as the Abbot stole past him and carefully lifted the door-latch.

  The rising sun flooded through the high east windows, sending a cascade of golden light to wash the west side of Great Hall, turning the old red stone to a dusty rose pink. Mordalfus stood facing the wall, allowing the warmth to caress his back. Through half-closed sleep-weary eyes, he looked upon the figure of Martin the Warrior at the centre of the huge tapestry, bold and fearless. Swaying slightly on his paws, the Abbot spoke quietly to Redwall’s first warrior.

  ‘It’s not easy for the body to sleep when the mind is working all night. The hours pass like seasons. Tell me, my friend who never grows old, where are the answers to be found? It is a peaceful and glorious morning in the Summer of the Golden Plain. Who would think that evil is abroad on a day like this? Redwall is safe, yet it is in great danger if the future of its young ones is threatened. Help me to help Matthias. Which way will he go? What paths must he travel? Where is the hooded fox and his band bound for? I am the Abbot, but at heart I am only Brother Alf the pond-keeper. At times like this the burden of our Abbey and its creatures is too much for my old back to bear.’

  Mordalfus groaned slightly as he sat down upon the floor, an andent mouse in his nightshirt. The rays of the warm sun caused his eyes to droop lower as he strove to concentrate upon the picture of Martin the Warrior. Gradually the likeness began to waver and sway in front of Mordalfus. Was it Martin he was gazing at? Or was it Matthias? Though it looked a lot like young Mattimeo. Strange, the tricks that two tired old eyes can play on their owner. His head drooped lower. Now he had no need to look up at the tapestry, for Martin was right in front of him. From far away, as though it were through the mists of summers long dead and gone, the Warrior’s voice came softly across the roof of time:

  ‘Seek the Founder in the stones where the little folk go.’

  ‘Father Abbot, I’m surprised at you, sleepwalkin’ in your nightshirt!’

  ‘Eh, what, who?’ Mordalfus came awake to find Constance the badger shaking him.

  ‘Better not let Sister May catch you dressed like that, or she’ll dose you with herbs against the cold. Come on, old feller, up on your paws now.’

  The Abbot rubbed his eyes with shaky paws as he allowed Constance to stand him upright. ‘Constance, oh, it’s you! Ooh, I’m stiff. Couldn’t sleep a wink all night, so I wandered down here at dawn to have a word with Martin.’

  The badger chuckled as she escorted the Abbot to breakfast at Cavern Hole. ‘Yes, I often have a word or two with our Warrior myself, though he never says anything to me. Still, it’s a comfort sometimes to think that he’s probably listening.’

  The Abbot halted. After cleaning his tiny spectacles on his sleeve he donned them, looking over the tops at the badger.

  ‘Ah, but he spoke to me, just before you woke me.’

  Constance felt a cold prickle along the back of her neckfur. ‘Indeed, and what did he have to say to you?’

  ‘Seek the Founder in the stones where the little folk go.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘Every single word.’

  ‘I wonder what Martin meant by that,’ Constance mused.

  ‘So do I, friend. Let’s have breakfast and think about it.’

  Ambrose Spike and Brother Rufus had prepared the breakfast. The Abbot and Constance took their place at the large table with other Redwallers. Gossip flowed freely as bowls were passed to and fro, butter, oatcakes, fresh fruit, cinammon toast, honey and pitchers of fresh cold milk. In the bell tower, baby Rollo and John Churchmouse had begun tolling the twin bells. Cornflower passed toast to Mrs Churchmouse.

  ‘Your John is a far better teacher than you or I. Listen, baby Rollo’s actually pealing in time with him,’ she remarked.

  Mrs Churchmouse toyed with the toast and honey. ‘It’ll take them some time to be as good at it as my Tim’n’Tess, though. Poor mites, I do hope that fox isn’t making them suffer.’ A tear fell into the bowl of milk alongside the little mousemother.

  Cornflower put a brave face on. ‘What, those two rascals! If I know anything, they’ll have him run ragged. The things they get up to with my Matti and Sam Squirrel!’

  ‘Seek the Founder in the stones where the little folk go.’

  Silence fell upon the table. Ambrose Spike turned to the Abbot. ‘Funny thing to say. What does it mean?’

  Constance shrugged. ‘We don’t know. Martin the Warrior spoke to the Abbot a short while ago, and that’s all he said: “Seek the Founder in the stones where the little folk go.”’

  Mordallus stood up. ‘I’m going to get dressed. See if any of you can make head or tail of it. It may be a message to help us find our young ones.’

  Winifred the otter shook her head. ‘But Matthias, Basil and Jess are out looking for them. They must be far away by now. Supposing we did find any dues, how would we let them know, when we don’t even know where they are?’

  Constance wagged a toast crust thoughtfully. ‘Good question. I’ve had an idea. The rain has cleared now and the weather is good, so why don’t we send Warbeak and the Sparra warriors out? There are enough of them, and if they fly off in different directions following the general path Matthias took, surely they must find them sooner or later.’

  Cornflower poured milk for herself. ‘Sooner I hope.’

  Mrs Churchmouse got up busily from the table. A look of resol
ution had replaced the sadness upon her face. ‘Well, at least we can be doing something instead of sitting around moping and leaving it all to Matthias, Basil and Jess. Everybody search, hunt, seek, high and low. Try and find something out about Martin’s words. What were they?’

  ‘Seek the Founder in the stones where the little folk go,’ Constance repeated.

  A short time later, Cavern Hole lay deserted. Paws sounded upon stairs, doors slammed, walls were tapped, and all round Redwall Abbey voices echoed:

  ‘Seek the Founder in the stones where the little folk go.’

  17

  THOUGH THE CAPTIVES were hurried along, the going became easier. Thick forest gave way to grassy clearings, and rocks were much in evidence now, with here and there a large stony hill rearing out of the woodlands. As they marched, Mattimeo and his friends were able to gather fair quantities of cloudberry and pennycress, supplemented with hard pears and crab apples. Slagar was becoming more cautious, forever watching ahead and detailing guards to cover their tracks from the rear.

  Vitch caught up with Threeclaws. ‘What’s the fox watchin’ out for, more slaves?’

  The weasel curled his lip at the undersized rat. ‘What he’s lookin’ out for is his own business and none of yours, noseywhiskers. You just keep your eyes on those prisoners.’

  ‘Ha, you’re only sayin’ that ’cos you don’t know yourself,’ Vitch sneered. ‘Bet you don’t even know where we’re going.’

  Slagar had heard Vitch. He stood still until the unsuspecting rat caught up with him. Then the sly one stepped on the rat’s tail, stopping him short.

  ‘So, you want to know where we’re going, eh, Vitch?’

  The rat gulped and shrugged nervously. ‘Er, no, not really.’

  The silken mask sucked into a hideous grin. ‘Then that’s good, Vitch, good. Because it’s no use asking this thick shower of tramps and scavengers. They don’t know. Only one creature knows where we’re going, me. When we get these slaves to their destination, you’ll either end up very rich . . . or very dead, if you keep asking about things that don’t concern you.’