Mattimeo (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right here on this stone,’ Cornflower explained. ‘Come and look. I didn’t notice it until I watched Rollo passing his paws over the writing. Watch him, you’ll see he stops his paw every time he finds a letter in green.’

  The Abbot hurried over to watch Rollo. ‘By the fur, you’re right, Cornflower. Good baby, Rollo. Mixed up letters evergreen. Come on, little one, show me. Your eyes are better than mine. John, get that charcoal and parchment. Take the letters down as I call them out to you.’

  Obligingly Rollo began dabbing at various letters with his chubby little paw. Mordalfus relayed them to John Churchmouse. ‘First one letter B, second one letter B.’

  Ambrose Spike scratched his snout. ‘Will somebeast tell me what in the name of acorns is going on here? Two green bees, letters graven in stone, I always thought bees were yellow and brown.’

  The Abbot looked skyward patiently. ‘Come here, Ambrose, let me show you. Look at the poem. Can you see that certain letters have been filled in with green vegetable dye? Right. I’ve just given John the first two, they are letter Bs not actual bees. See, here are more green letters.’

  It was still all a bit above Ambrose. He stared at the letters, shook his head and trundled off. ‘Huh, I’ve got work to attend to in the cellar. I can’t hang about playin’ word games. You can’t drink stone messages, but good October ale, that’s a different matter. You lot’d look sick without my casks of berry wine, mark my words!’

  John Churchmouse glared over the top of his glasses at the retreating cellar keeper.

  ‘Now, where were we? Two letter Bs. What’s next Abbot?’

  ‘Two letter Os, John. Wait, I think Rollo has found more. Yes, there’s a letter C. Well done, young un. Any more?’

  Baby Rollo was enjoying himself. He waved his paw dramatically, stabbing it down as the Abbot called out the letters he indicated. ‘Take these down, John. T, A, P, W, E, R, and a letter Y. There I’ve translated the old letters pretty well. Is that the lot, Rollo?’

  The infant waved to them and pursued Ambrose to the wine cellar.

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ Cornflower chuckled. ‘What have we got, John?’

  ‘B, B, O, O, C, T, A, P, W, E, R, Y. Twelve letters in all, though they’re fairly well jumbled. I can’t make head nor tail of it. Why couldn’t Abbess Germaine have written what she meant clearly?’

  The Abbot stood up and stretched. ‘Because then it would not have been a secret. Those letters are the key. Once we get them in the right order, we’ll know what the next move is to be.’

  In the darkness of the cave, Orlando choked and coughed as he sought wearily about until his paw touched Matthias.

  ‘Listen, friend,’ Orlando said, keeping his voice low so that the others would not hear, ‘I don’t know how much rubble has fallen across this cave mouth, but I think we both know it’s far too much for us to move. We’re becoming weaker, Matthias. The air is running out in here. I keep feeling dizzy and wanting to lie down to sleep.’

  Matthias clasped the big badger’s paw. ‘Same here, Orlando. But don’t let the others know. Young Cheek will only panic and Basil will start jumping about trying to think up schemes to get us out. I know it’s hard, but we’ll just have to sit here and try not to fall asleep.’

  ‘Do you think there’s anybeast outside?’

  ‘The only ones I can think of are Slagar and his gang. We’d be in no condition to fight them, even supposing we could get out.’

  ‘I wish we had a strong mole with us.’

  ‘Aye, and if wishes were fishes there’d be no room in the river for water.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Matthias. I was only thinking aloud.’

  ‘Pay no heed to me, Orlando. It’s this terrible darkness, the heat and the lack of air—’

  ‘And this confounded dust in me ears, laddie buck!’

  ‘Basil! You were listening to us.’

  ‘Say no more, old lad, say no more. Backs to the wall and all that, I say, I don’t suppose anyone’s got a bite to eat stowed on ’em?’

  Even young Cheek managed a faint laugh. ‘Trust you to think of food at a time like this, mate.’

  ‘Sorry, Basil, we left the supplies outside so they wouldn’t hamper us in the ambush,’ Jess Squirrel called from the far side of the cave.

  Jabez Stump yawned. ‘Some ambush, eh? We’ve got ourselves rightly scuttled, you mark my spikes. Best thing is to sit quiet, think hard and breathe light.’

  A gloomy silence fell as they acted on the hedgehog’s good advice.

  Mattimeo dug and scrabbled wildly at the huge ever moving landslide. The sun was reaching its zenith and the digging was becoming more heated and futile. Grunting with exertion, he straightened up and passed a paw across his brow as a pile of loose earth rattled around his ears. Mattimeo’s quick temper snapped. He seized a pawful of pebbles and flung them at Tim, who was digging higher up the pile.

  ‘By the fur! Can’t you stop loading muck down on top of me every chance you get?’ Mattimeo grumbled.

  Tim straightened up. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sony’s not good enough,’ Mattimeo snorted. ‘Just watch where you’re chucking that stuff, will you!’

  Tess passed Mattimeo a broad leaf containing water she had scooped from the stream. ‘Here, drink this and cool down. We’ll get nowhere yelling at each other.’

  Mattimeo dashed the leaf from her paw, his face livid with anger. ‘It’s all right for you to talk, your father isn’t buried in there, is he? Where in the name of the claw has that hedgehog got to? It’s going to take him half a season to find a branch so we can lever these rocks out—’

  ‘Over here, little hero. We’ve got your friends over here!’

  Bageye and Skinpaw had Jube and Cynthia tied by their necks on a rope.

  Still flushed with temper, Mattimeo grabbed a chunk of rock. ‘Come on Auma, Sam, let’s charge them!’

  They had reached the lower edge of the rubble when Slagar’s voice rang out mockingly behind them, ‘My, my, aren’t we the bold ones? Go ahead, try it.’

  Mattimeo whirled about to face Slagar and half a dozen others who had circled round to join him. They were all heavily armed. The young mouse, still driven by rage, hurled a rock. Slagar dodged it easily and drew out his fearsome weapon. The three leather thongs whirred as he swung them in a circle, the metal balls at the ends of the thongs clacking together viciously. The masked fox pointed at Tess Churchmouse.

  ‘Drop that rock, mouse. Any of you runaways make a move and I’ll smash little missie’s skull to a pulp. I never miss.’

  Tess closed her eyes tight and clasped her paws together. ‘Run Mattimeo! Run for your life back to Redwall. Bring help!’

  ‘Go on, do as she says,’ Slagar sniggered with glee. ‘After I’ve killed her, I’ll kill you. To slay the Warrior of Redwall and his son in such a short time would make my revenge complete.’

  The rock fell from Mattimeo’s open paw. Hot tears sprang to his eyes as he hung his head in defeat.

  They were roughly herded together by Bageye and Skinpaw. The rope was looped about the neck of each of the friends as Bageye bound their paws in front with thongs.

  Slagar nodded towards the south woodland fringe. ‘Right, let’s go. Oh, you can take your time now, there’s nobody following us any more. Hahahaha!’

  Auma made a strangled noise, halfway between a growl and a sob. Dragging the captives with her, she fell back upon the huge mound of rubble and began digging furiously. It took all the slavers to drag her off.

  Beating with canes and rope ends, they bludgeoned the little group off along the south trail through the summer woodlands.

  Realization of what had taken place hit Sam Squirrel like a bolt, and tears trickled from his eyes. They all cried.

  All except Mattimeo. His eyes were dry. Jaws clenched tight, he strode upright, ignoring all about him but Slagar. Never once did his gaze leave the figure of the masked fox.

  Slagar dropped back a
pace to talk to Skinpaw.

  ‘How far off are the others?’ he asked.

  ‘Within two marches of the great cliffs. I’ve told them to wait at the foothills until we arrive, Chief.’

  ‘Good. It shouldn’t be too difficult to catch them up. What are you staring at, mouse?’

  ‘You should have killed me back at the canyon.’ Mattimeo’s voice was flat and contemptuous.

  Slagar eyed the bold young mouse and shook his head. ‘I’ve killed your father. His sword is buried with him. That’s enough for one day’s work. You, I will let live to suffer.’

  Mattimeo stopped marching. His friends stopped also. The young mouse’s eyes were hard with scorn.

  ‘Then you’re not only a cowardly murdering scum, you’re a fool. Because from now on I live with one purpose only: to kill you.’

  Slagar was taken aback by the determination and loathing that emanated from Mattimeo. He glared savagely at him, trying to frighten the young mouse into submission. Mattimeo glared back, completely unafraid. He was a different mouse altogether.

  Snatching the willow cane from Skinpaw, the Cruel One struck out, lashing Mattimeo several times. The cane snapped. Slagar stood shaking, breathing hard through the silken mask.

  Mattimeo curled his lip defiantly. He had not even felt the blows. ‘Get yourself another cane and try harder, half-face!’

  ‘Skinpaw, Bageye! Keep this one marching up front with you. Move!’

  Mattimeo was dragged off to the front of the column. Slagar marched behind, visibly shaken, glad that he could not feel the young mouse’s eyes boring into him from behind.

  24

  AFTERNOON TEA IN Cavern Hole was served amid a great buzz of excitement. Copies of the twelve letters discovered by baby Rollo had been distributed, and there was a prize of a pink iced woodland plum and spice cake baked by the Abbot himself. John Churchmouse was strongly fancied to win it, though Abbot Mordalfus was having a serious try. Being the proud maker of such a cake, he wanted to keep it and admire it awhile. Baking was the Father Abbot’s latest accomplishment. Ever since the making of his Redcurrantwall Abbot Alf Cake, he had been longing to try his paw at cake-making again. The moles formed a joint crew, and they sat scratching their velvety heads as they gazed at the twelve letters.

  BBOOCTAPWERY.

  ‘Burr, all oopside backways, if’n you arsken oi.’

  ‘Hurr, quit talken an’ get thinkin, Jarge, or you’ll never win yon pinkice cake.’

  Cornflower had joined up with baby Rollo and Mrs Churchmouse. Winifred, Brother Sedge and Ambrose Spike sat together. In various corners of the room small groups kept hard at it, trying to solve the mystery of the twelve letters. Every once in a while some creature would approach the Abbot with a possible solution. Mordalfus in his position as judge looked each one over with a discerning eye. ‘Hmm, Baby power to be. Sorry, Sister May. As you see, there’s only two letter Bs in the puzzle and you’ve used three. Next. Ah, Winifred, let’s see your entry. Coop Water Byb? What in the name of acorns is that supposed to mean? No, I can’t accept that one. Ah, John, well now we’ll see who has won my beautiful cake.’

  John Churchmouse peered expectantly over the top of his glasses as the Abbot read out his solution.

  ‘Cot Abbey prow. Strange words, John. Have you any reason for your answer?’

  John polished his glasses, looking slightly sheepish. ‘Not really, Abbot. I tried several combinations, but this looked the most likely.’

  Mordalfus put John’s entry to one side. ‘Well, who knows? We’ll keep it as a possibility. Thank you, John.’

  ‘Thank you, Abbot. Er, have you tried to solve it yet?’

  ‘No, I think it only fair that I stay as judge. However, if it isn’t solved tonight then you can be judge tomorrow and I’ll have a try then.’

  ‘We gorrit! We gorrit!’ Baby Rollo ran forward, waving a parchment. He stumbled, fell, scrambled up and placed the crumpled entry in the Abbot’s lap.

  The kindly old mouse’s eyes twinkled as he lifted Rollo on to the arm of his chair. ‘You’re a clever fellow, Rollo. Did you solve this all by yourself?’

  Cornflower and Mrs Churchmouse winked at the Abbot. ‘Of course he did. We couldn’t have done without him.’

  Mordalfus nodded wisely. ‘Well, let’s see what you’ve got. Abbey top crow. Ha, now this really looks like something we can investigate. Abbey top craw, eh? Good. Well done, baby Rollo, not to mention your two helpers, of course. I think the cake goes to the three of you.’

  Cornflower, Mrs Churchmouse and Rollo went into whispered conference, finally emerging with the decision that everyone be given a small slice, much to the delight of all.

  After tea, the Abbey dwellers gathered on the sward in front of Redwall. Shading their eyes, they gazed up to the high roof. Queen Warbeak and her Sparra warriors were circling the spires, turrets and crenellations at the Abbot’s request. There was not long to wait. Shortly Warbeak came zooming down at great speed and perched on a windowsill to make her report.

  ‘Round top of roof, fourbirds, fourbirds,’ she told them.

  The Abbot could hardly suppress his excitement. ‘What sort of birds? How high? Where?’

  The Sparra Queen closed her eyes, remembering the locations and types of bird. ‘Backa roof, hawkbird. This side, gooseflier. Other side, owlbird. That side, crowbird. All wormbird stone, you see.’

  Cornflower took a few paces back and pointed upwards. ‘I can see a wild goose carved this side. I can just make it out. Look, it leans outwards with its wings spread. Funny, I’ve never noticed it before.’

  The Abbot settled his paws into his wide sleeves. ‘There are a great many things about Redwall that we do not know. It is an ancient and mysterious place. The longer I live here the more I see how everything our ancestors built into it has a story or a reason. It is all part of the Mossflower tradition and history. The goose is facing west towards the sunset and the great sea. That is the way they travel each late season. I think the hawk must face north. It is a warlike bird, and the northlands were always troubled by war. The owl, I guess, will face east to the dense forest and the rising sun. That only leaves one way for the crow to face.’

  The party walked round to the remaining side of the Abbey. John Churchmouse adjusted his glasses and pointed.

  ‘South, the crow points south! What can’t fly, yet has a beak? The crow made of stone, of course. We’ve found it! If only Jess or Sam Squirrel were here, they could climb up and investigate it.’

  Queen Warbeak puffed out her feathers. ‘Why squirrel climb? Sparra fly, me ‘vestigate um crow stone.’

  The Sparra Queen was off like an arrow. From below, she looked like a small black speck as she hovered around the crow statue, which protruded from the high eaves. Warbeak did not stay long. She fluttered about, then winged down, landing with a sprightly hop on the gravelled path.

  ‘Much wormsign, go this way, go that way, up, down, round, round.’

  ‘Just as I thought,’ John Churchmouse groaned. ‘There’s writing on the statue, but sparrows cannot read at all.’

  Mardalfus nudged him. ‘Hush, John. We don’t want to offend Queen Warbeak. She’s doing all she can to help. We’ll just have to think of a way to get a copy of that writing down here.’

  Warbeak watched them talking. She knew what they were discussing. Cocking her head to one side, she winked her fierce bright eye. ‘How you do that. Sparra no can carry um mouse, too wormfat, too big. Sparra no read um wormsign like old mouse Abbot do with book. Plenty problem.’

  The Abbot stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘Indeed it is, Queen Warbeak, but we must help Matthias.’

  ‘Teach those birds to do a rubbin’.’ Ambrose Spike stepped forward with parchment and charcoal sticks. ‘I’ve often done it meself on some of the old barrel carvin’s in the wine cellar. Pretty patterns they got carved on ’em.’

  Cornflower clapped her paws together. ‘Of course, that’s the answer. I’m sure Queen Warbeak co
uld rub over a parchment with charcoal if her Sparras held that parchment flat upon the writing. Here, give me a moment or two with Warbeak. I’m sure I can teach her.’

  With no sense of night or day, it was impossible to tell how long they had been trapped inside the cave. The air had become thicker, more rancid and hotter. Matthias felt his head throbbing with pain. He tried to stop his leaden eyelids closing in sleep and all around him he could hear the shallow, ragged breathing of the others. He had tried talking to them several times, but it was little use, they were all in a deep sleep approaching a state of coma. Gripping the handle of his marvellous sword tightly, he tried to concentrate on a way out. There was little hope. They were entombed in a cavern of virtually solid rock with a massive slide of earth and stone sealing the entrance.

  The warrior mouse could stay awake no longer. He leaned back against the gently heaving bulk of Orlando and let his resolve drift. At first it was quite a peaceful feeling, save for the lack of air, which made breathing difficult and painful, but gradually his senses began to numb and he breathed shallowly in short pauses. As blackness enveloped him, the warrior mouse began dreaming.

  He was in the Great Hall of his beloved Redwall Abbey. Sunlight streamed through the high windows in a coloured cascade, filtering through the stained glass, weaving patterns on the cool stone walls. Matthias was walking towards the long tapestry. He knew where he was going: to see Martin the Warrior. Yes, there he was, the great Founder Warrior and Champion of Redwall, standing proud in the centre of his tapestry. Matthias was not at all surprised when Martin stepped out of the woven cloth and confronted him. He went forward to shake paws with Martin, but the figure backed away. His face was scowling and he picked something up from the floor. It was Orlando’s huge battleaxe!

  Matthias was shocked. Martin advanced upon him and prodded the axehead into his side. It nipped him painfully.