Mattimeo (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Ouch! Martin, it’s me, Matthias. Why are you attacking me?’

  Martin jabbed Matthias in the side again, this time calling out in a loud accusing voice, ‘Why do you sleep, Warrior? You must save your son and his friends.’

  Matthias tried to reach his sword to defend himself as Martin thrust at him again, but his paws felt lifeless. They hung limp by his sides. He winced with pain as the great axe seared his side again. ‘A warrior who sleeps in time of danger is no warrior but a coward!’

  ‘Ouch, stoppit!’

  Matthias awoke to find he had somehow rolled off Orlando and was lying on the head of the axe. Each time he moved, it dug painfully into his side. Sitting upright, he rubbed the spot, realizing it had all been a fevered dream. But it was also help and a warning from his fellow warrior spirit.

  Forcing himself upright, he held the axe by the twin blades, and by staggering about in the dark he located the blocked entrance. With agonizing slowness he pulled himself as high as he could up the sloping hill of debris until he was at its topmost point. Breathing hard, sweat starting out all over beneath his habit, Matthias began probing the rubble heap with the long axe handle. Pushing and shoving laboriously, he felt the long axe haft sink into the hill. Sometimes it struck a rock, but with a bit of manoeuvring he thrust it past the obstacle. Almost the full length of the haft was buried in the pile. With a final effort he gave one last painful shove, and fell forward as the haft buried itself entirely. Slowly, wearily, he started waggling the shaft by pushing the twin blades from side to side, then very carefully he began withdrawing the axe from the hole he had made, with painstaking care sliding the axe back until it came all the way out.

  Matthias knelt paw-deep in the rubble, hardly daring to draw breath.

  Like the first kiss of sun upon ice in spring, he felt it on his whiskers. . . .

  Fresh air!

  Tears of gratitude flowed freely through the dust upon the Warrior’s face. Cool, clean, fresh air and a shaft of daylight poured in.

  ‘Thank you, Martin. Thank you for our lives, my long-dead warrior friend.’

  Scrambling down off the heap, Matthias located Basil. Rubbing the hare’s limbs and tugging at his ears, he pummelled and massaged as best he could. It took quite a while before there was any response, then Basil soon proved he was his old self.

  ‘Owch ooch! Steady on, laddie. Tchah! Why’d you wake me, I was halfway through a leek and lettuce pastie and just gettin’ ready to demolish a summer salad as big as a house. Huh, could’ve done it too if you hadn’t come along. I say, my old head’s burstin’. It must’ve bin that cask of elderberry wine me and old Spike drank together. Haha, I got more than him, though. Bigger swallow, y’see.’

  Matthias ruffled Basil’s ears gratefully. ‘Come on, up on your paws, you old glutton. See to young Cheek, while I deal with Jess. It’ll take three of us to bring Orlando round. I hope he hasn’t stopped breathing altogether.’

  It took them a considerable while to wake the others. Fortunately they were all still alive, though Orlando gave them a few anxious moments, and heads still ached. However, they were uplifted and heartened by the small flow of fresh air and the shaft of daylight that penetrated their tomb. Finally Orlando sat up, nursing his head.

  ‘Ooh! I’ve got a headache big enough for ten badgers. I never knew fresh air could taste so good, though. It’s like drinking from a cold mountain stream in midsummer.’

  ‘Steady on, old chap. Don’t start talkin’ about cold drinks, it’s more than a body can stand, doncha know. Why, I remember the best drink I ever ha—MMMMFFF!’

  Jess had stifled Basil’s reminiscences with her thick furred tail. She held up a paw for silence. ‘Ssshhh listen!’

  In the sudden stillness they could faintly hear noises from outside.

  Cheek danced up and down. ‘There’s some creatures out there, I’m sure of it!’

  They listened intently. Sure enough, faint sounds filtered in with the air and light through the hole.

  Jabez Stump voiced his feelings: ‘Could be friends, or mayhap they could be enemies.’

  Orlando stood in the shaft of light. ‘Who cares, as long as we get out of here. Friend or foe, we can sort out later.’

  Matthias picked up his sword decisively. ‘Orlando is right, we must get out of here. Now, we must take a chance. It’s a double risk because we may destroy our air supply. Are you with me?’

  There was an immediate call of agreement.

  Taking Orlando’s axe, Matthias tied his swordbelt to the end of the handle, then he gave it to Basil. ‘Here, you’ve got the longest limbs, old fellow. Push that through the hole and waggle it about to attract attention.’

  Taking the battleaxe, Basil shinned up she rubble and pushed the improvised pennant into the hole. Darkness fell as the light was blocked out. Cheek whimpered a bit then fell silent. All that could be heard was Basil grunting with exertion as he strove to gain attention, waving the handle to and fro by means of twisting the twin axeheads round and round.

  ‘Anything happening yet, Basil?’ Jess Squirrel called out hopefully.

  ‘Can’t tell yet, Jess. . . . Wait, I think someone has hold of the other end. Yes! They’re pushing the axe back. Oof! Steady on. Think I’d better pull the handle back in so we can parley through the jolly old hole with thingummybobbins, whoever they are.’

  Matthias scrambled up beside Basil. Luckily the hole was still open, even slightly wider when the axe handle was withdrawn.

  Matthias put his mouth close to the hole and shouted, ‘Hello out there. We’re trapped. Can you help us out?’

  They waited.

  From outside came the faint sound of many voices. They seemed to be squabbling and arguing. One voice came clearly to them down the narrow aperture. It was gruff and commanding.

  ‘Who are you? State your name and tell us if you are of the Guosim?’

  Matthias leaned back and gave a sigh of relief. ‘The Guosim! Thank goodness, they’re friends.’

  Orlando climbed up the rubble beside Matthias and Basil. ‘Guosim, who in the name of stripes are they?’

  ‘Careful what you say,’ Matthias cautioned the big badger. ‘Leave the talking to me. Guosim are the Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. They can be very touchy and argumentative, and everything they do is governed by their own union rules and laws. Keep quiet now and let me be spokesbeast.’

  ‘If you are the Guosim, then let me talk to your Log-a-Log,’ Matthias called down the hole.

  Several voices came back at him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘How do you know we have a Log-a-Log?’

  ‘Are you a friend or foe?’

  There was a scrabbling noise and more sounds of dispute. This time the voice that came through was strong and louder than the rest.

  ‘Out of my way! Give me room. Stand back, I say! Hello down there. I am the Log-a-Log. What do you want of me?’

  Even in the urgency of the situation Matthias could not help smiling as he answered. ‘Log-a-Log, you old bossywhiskers, it’s me, Matthias of Redwall!’

  The reply was a gruff chuckle. ‘Well, crumble my cake! Matthias, you old swordswinger, I should have known that Redwall accent. Ha, you’re in a pretty pickle, no mistake. Don’t worry, friend, I’ll soon have you out of there, but first I’ve got to settle a small dispute out here. Some of these shrews seem to think they know more about Guosim rules than their Log-a-Log. Leave it to me, I’ll soon straighten them out. Meanwhile, you just sit tight. We’ll need digging tools and rocks and timber for shoring. This rubbish keeps sliding and moving. It’ll be a tricky task, but don’t worry, I’ll have supper ready for you when we haul you out of there. How many are you?’

  ‘Six altogether, Log-a-Log, a hedgehog, a badger, a young otter, Jess Squirrel and Basil Stag Hare.’

  ‘What? That old scoffin’ windbag. I’m sorry I mentioned supper.’

  Basil’s ears stood up indignantly. ‘I say, steady on, you scurvy littl
e log-floater. Scoffin’ windbag indeed!’

  Jess Squirrel stifled a giggle. ‘I’d say he wasn’t far wrong there, eh Matthias?’

  It was late afternoon when the shrew digging party broke through. The friends had sat in darkness most of the day, listening to digging and shoring interspersed with orders and arguments. Suddenly they were showered with rubble as a small head broke through framed by light.

  ‘Flugg, stop bickerin’ and pass me that branch. There! That ought to do it. Hello, cave dwellers. I’m Gurn, the best digger the Guosim have got. Some say my grandad was a mole.’

  Orlando thrust forward a huge paw and patted the shrew. ‘Well, Gurn, I can’t tell you how glad we are to see you. I’m Orlando the Axe.’

  ‘Hmm, big feller, aren’t you? I hope this tunnel’s wide enough to take you. You’d better go last, Orlando. Smallest first.’

  It was a painstaking and bruising operation, as one by one the friends were attached to a rope and forcibly pulled through by scores of shrews. Orlando waited until last. The tunnel caved in behind him as he was hauled and tugged along the makeshift rescue shaft.

  In the early evening sunlight, Matthias and his friends laughed and splashed in the shallows of the river as they bathed away the dust and dirt of their imprisonment. Sunlight, clean air, fresh water and the sight of green growing things combined to make them realize how lucky they were to be alive. Even Jabez Stump chuckled happily as he splashed water into the air.

  ‘Hohoho, if’n my old family could see me now. It’s many a long season since this beast risked a bath, I can tell you.’

  Later that evening they sat around a shrew campfire, eating oatbread baked on flat rocks and drinking fresh river water with herbs crushed into it. Matthias told Log-a-Log all that had taken place from the night of the feast celebrating the Summer of the Golden Plain, up to the incident of the cave.

  The shrew leader shook with rage. ‘Slavers! The slime of Mossflower, treacherous murdering rogues. Our Guosim scouts have heard reports in Mossflower since the end of spring about that masked fox and his dirty crew. I’m with you and your friends, Matthias. We’ll track ’em and put an end to their evil trade. Taking young ones from their homes and families. I tell you it makes my blood boil just to think of it.’

  Basil had been munching his oatbread and gazing around the shrew camp. ‘’scuse me, old Log-a-thing, I know it’s not unusual for you shrew fellers to argue a bit, but by and large you usually stick together. So tell me, what are that small group over there sittin’ on their own around a separate fire for?’ the old campaigner wondered.

  Log-a-Log sniffed and threw a dead root on the fire. ‘Oh, that lot. They’re trouble, Basil, particularly that young feller Skan. He’s been challenging my leadership lately. It’ll all come to a head tonight when I announce our new plans. When it does, I’d be grateful if you could keep your friends out of it, Matthias. No offence, but this is Guosim business.’

  Matthias nodded. ‘As you wish, Log-a-Log. Anyhow, I’ve no desire to be caught in the middle of a shrew argument. I’ve seen ’em before. But please don’t let us be the cause of your trouble. You freed us from the cave and we are thankful for that. We can carry on our hunt alone, old friend.’

  The Guosim leader’s eyes were bright and fierce. ‘Matthias, we are going with you, and that is final. Mossflower needs to be kept free of evil if woodland families are to live in peace. It is no less than our duty to help. As for the coming trouble, you leave that to me.’ Log-a-Log took out a round black stone from his sling pouch and stood up. A smile hovered about his face momentarily. ‘Besides, life’s not much fun to a shrew without trouble.’

  The slavers caught up with the main party two hours after nightfall. Mattimeo and his friends found themselves locked and manacled back on to the slave line. They slumped down wearily, tired and sore and hungry.

  ‘None for you escapers,’ little Vitch sniggered evilly as he fed the other slaves. ‘Slagar said so. A taste of real hunger’ll make you a bit more obedient. Slagar says that when he’s got a bit more time he’s going to deal with each of you personally, especially you, little Redwall pet. Heeheehee.’

  Matrimeo bared his teeth and went into a crouch. Vitch hurriedly backed off and left them alone.

  They looked around, trying to take stock of their surroundings in the dark of night. One thing was obvious: they were camped in the foothills of an immense cliff range. The huge high plateau reared up behind them, blocking out the night-time sky. Sam craned his neck backwards as he gazed up.

  ‘I wonder how we’re supposed to get up there?’

  Jube lay back, closing his eyes. ‘We’ll find out tomorrow, on an empty stomach too.’

  They lay down to sleep, but Mattimeo sat up, staring in the direction of Slagar. Tess watched him. He was different, older, tougher and something else she could not quite put her paw on.

  ‘Mattimeo, what is it?’ she asked. ‘You’ve changed since we were recaptured.’

  The young mouse patted Tess’s paw. ‘It’s nothing, Tess. Go to sleep. I’m sorry I got angry at Tim today. In fact, I’m sorry for a lot of things. Perhaps you were right when you said that I should be more like my father. Maybe it’s a bit too late now, but I’m certainly going to try. From now on Redwall must live on through Martin, my father and me. I was born the son of the Redwall Warrior, sword or no sword, and that is what I intend to be, to myself, and most of all to you and to my friends.’

  It was then that Tess Churchmouse realized Mattimeo was no longer the wild and wayward young mischief-maker he had always been. Sitting next to her was a mouse who looked like Martin and Matthias. Despite the fact that they were captives in a strange place, she felt suddenly safe and protected in his presence.

  The young one had become a warrior!

  25

  CORNFLOWER, ABBOT MORDALFUS, Foremole and Queen Warbeak were in the gatehouse cottage. It had long gone midnight, but they sat around on the hearthrug with the parchment before them. It was covered by the markings of the charcoal stone-rubbing taken from the stone crow high on the south wall of the Abbey.

  The Sparra Queen preened herself proudly. ‘Verree good, eh? Sparra no missee thing, get all um wormsign.’

  ‘Hurr Hurr, that you’m ’ave, clever ol’ burdbag,’ Foremole congratulated her.

  The Father Abbot folded back his sleeves. ‘Thank you, Queen Warbeak. Well, let us see what we have here. A map, by the look of it, and a poem to translate. I can do that. Watching John brought it all back to me.’

  They scanned the parchment.

  ‘Those who wish to challenge fate,

  To a jumbled shout walk straight.

  Sunset fires in dexteree,

  Find where Loamhedge used to be.

  At the high place near the skies,

  Look for other watchful eyes.

  Sleep not ‘neath the darkpine trees,

  Be on guard, take not your ease,

  Voyage when the daylight dims,

  Danger in the water swims.

  Make no noise with spear or sword,

  Lest you wake the longtail horde.

  Shades of creatures who have died,

  Bones of warriors who tried.

  Shrink not from the barren land,

  Look below from where you stand,

  This is where a stone may fall and make no sound at all.

  Those who cross and live to tell,

  See the badger and the bell,

  Face the lord who points the way

  After noon on summer’s day.

  Death will open up its grave.

  Who goes there. . .? None but the brave.’

  The Abbot nodded wisely. ‘It’s a lot clearer now. This is a crude map and a poem that tells a bit more than the last one. In fact, it’s a key to the rhyme that was found beneath the Abbey.’

  Cornflower was puzzled. ‘How so, Father Abbot?’

  The old mouse tapped his paw upon the design in the bottom corner. ‘There. “Thorn”, “s
hout”. That’s only north and south mixed up. . . . A jumbled shout, as in: walk straight to a jumbled shout.’

  Cornflower smiled as recognition dawned. ‘Of course, it means go due south.’

  Foremole wrinkled his nose. ‘Whoi didden oi think o’ that? If you’m a-walken south then sun must be a-setten in dexteree.’

  ‘Where is dexteree?’ It was the Abbot’s turn to look puzzled.

  Foremole chuckled and pointed at the Abbot’s left eye. ‘That’n thurr be sinistree.’ Moving his paw, he pointed at the Abbot’s right eye. ‘An’ that’n be yurr dexteree.’

  The Abbot smiled and scratched his head. ‘Foolish of me. Sinister and dexter, left and right. In the old language of Loamhedge, sinistree is left eye, dexteree right eye. So you must be travelling south with the sun setting in your right eye. Thank you, Foremole.’

  ‘Moi pleasure, Abbot zurr.’

  ‘So one thing is apparent,’ Cornflower interrupted, ‘keep travelling south, straight south, no matter what. I hope Matthias is doing that, wherever he, Jess and Basil are now. Oh, Father Abbot, if only we could get this information, this map and poem to them right now. They mean very little to us sitting here in Redwall, but to my Matthias, why, he might be able to see the very places the map and poem tell of.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the Abbot shrugged sadly. ‘Not only that, but it tells the exact route and even clues to the dangers they will encounter: the woodland trees, the water, when to cross it, the longtails, the place where stones fall and make no sound – it’s all here – badgers’ heads, bells, Lord of Mossflower. Cornflower, you are right, it’s about as much use to us as a snowfall in summer, but to them. . . .’

  ‘Then you make copee. All Sparra fly, all Sparra, much long, fly plenty, find um my friend Matthias with old longears and treejumper. We find um, you see.’

  Cornflower was taken aback. ‘Queen Warbeak, I don’t know, but how. . .?’