Mattimeo (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Never gives up, does he?’ Jess muttered to Sam from the side of her mouth. ‘You watch, he’ll be the first to break ranks and charge if anybeast throws a pie over that wall.’

  The hot morning sunlight shafted down on the brown dust rising between the green and gold leaves of Mossflower as the main doors of the old red sandstone Abbey burst open.

  The Abbot walked out at the head of the Abbey dwellers. They lined the path facing Matthias at the head of his army.

  There was complete silence as they stood looking at each other.

  The warrior mouse unslung his great sword. Stepping forward, he laid it flat in the dust at the paws of Mordalfus.

  ‘Father Abbot, we have come home.’

  There was a mighty cheer which shook the timbers of the main gate frame, then the ranks broke as every creature dashed forward to greet old friends and meet new ones.

  So it was the young ones returned to Redwall.

  It took the whole of that day in the Abbot’s study for the full story to unfold from both sides.

  Matthias, Jess, Basil and Orlando, with Mattimeo, Tim, Tess, Sam, Cynthia and Auma, crowded in alongside Cornflower, Constance and Ambrose Spike.

  Food was brought in to them as the young ones related all that had happened from the night of the feast to Malkariss’s cells. Matthias, Orlando, Jess and Basil related the hunt for the young ones from the same night up to the death of Slagar.

  It was late afternoon before they were done. The Abbot had listened intently to the harrowing narrative. He shook his head sadly.

  ‘In the midst of all our joyous reunion we must never forget fallen friends, particularly Queen Warbeak and Log-a-Log. I will hold services for all our fallen friends at the first sunrise of spring, and they will remain dear to our memories for all the seasons to come.’

  In the sad silence that followed, Matthias decided to lighten the mood of the proceedings a little. He slapped his paw down on the table.

  ‘Well then, Mordalfus you old twig, I suppose you’ve been sitting here twiddling your paws while we’ve been away. Tell me, how did you manage to keep busy?’

  The Abbot chuckled. ‘Oh, we managed, I suppose. However, I’ll let Cornflower tell you about that.’

  Cornflower took her paw from around Mattimeo’s shoulder for the first time that day. She stood up and grinned mischievously.

  ‘Hmmm, it was as dull as ditchwater without our warriors and young ones about. Then one fine day we had a visit from some birds. Let me tell you about it. . . .’

  They listened spellbound, fuming with indignity at the thought of baby Rollo being held hostage, cheering for Sister May and her drugged strawberries, laughing aloud at the warrior ghost mouse and the terror it caused among the rooks, and finally applauding Constance and Stryk Redkite at the final struggle.

  Mattimeo picked up his father’s sword and offered it to Cornflower.

  ‘Here, Mum, you should be the Champion of Redwall!’

  Matthias shook his head in amazement. ‘By the claw and the fur! What a brave bunch we have at our Abbey. I would dearly like to meet this Stryk Redkite.’

  Constance gazed fondly at Auma as she stroked the young one’s headstripes. ‘You will, Matthias, you will, someday. Now, we must find quarters for our new friends. Sister May and Brother Rufus will open the infirmary to all, for sore paws and old wounds must be treated. I’m afraid there’s no supper tonight. You’ll have to go straight to bed. Anyhow, you lot look as if a long rest will do you good.’

  Basil’s ears flopped with disappointment. ‘What, no supper? I say, Constance old fruit, the only thing that’s kept B. Stag Hare on his paws for nearly a full season was the hope of a good old scoff at Redwall. I mean, what’s a chap to do if he’s had the old nosebag cut off, wot, wot? Bad form, old gel, t’ say nothin’ of rank bad manners to our guests. No supper. I don’t believe it!’

  Mrs Churchmouse slapped Basil smartly upon the paw. ‘Mr Stag Hare, will you kindly give your overworked jaws a rest and be quiet! Thank you. Now let me explain. The reason that we are not cooking supper is that the season is to be named first thing tomorrow: the Autumn of the Warriors’ Return. All our Abbey dwellers have volunteered to work through the night, but new arrivals must sleep and keep out of the way. Starting at sunup, we are going to hold a feast in the orchard.’

  Basil’s ears stood up like two signals. ‘A f-feast, y’ say, marm. Will it be a big un?’

  Cornflower spread her paws. ‘The biggest one you’ve ever sat down to, Basil.’

  ‘Golly! Bigger than the summer feast?’

  ‘Far bigger!’

  ‘An’ you’re all goin’ to cook right through the night?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s why we don’t want you under our paws. Otherwise we might not have it ready on time.’

  ‘Got it, marm. All the weary warriors sleep while you sportin’ creatures cook up a whackin’ beanfeast. Right?’

  ‘Right!’

  Basil shot out of the Abbot’s study like a rocket, calling over his shoulder as he went, ‘Last one in bed and fast asleep’s a rotten egg. Yaaaah!’

  Foremole entered the study, rubbing his nose. ‘Oi jus’ bin a-runned over boi a mad creatur’. Hurr.’

  Orlando laughed so hard he hurt his jaw.

  54

  THE FEAST OF the Autumn of the Warriors’ Return began just after dawn. Mist rose in the orchard as the sun began to mount in the sky, and rosy apples dripped dew on to the heads of the creatures who sat beneath the trees. There were far too many for tables, so the entire party sat on the grass.

  Chestnuts were baked and roasted on the fire pit dug by the moles; cheeses were rolled from the larders; fresh fruit lay in heaps between honeycombs and small hillocks of new baked bread.

  Ambrose Spike tapped the casks of cider, October ale, berry wines and various fruit cordials which stood on trestles around a thick-boled beech tree.

  The liberated slaves sat transfixed. They had never seen such an abundance of fare. Moles called for gangway as they trundled deeper’n’ever pies out on trolleys; long poles slung between otters wobbled under the weight of cauldrons of watershrimp and hotroot soup: hazelnut and acorn scones were laid out in rows to cool by the raspberry canes.

  Mrs Churchmouse and Cornflower barely managed to stop baby Rollo diving from a pear tree into a maple and mint cream trifle, while Mattimeo and his friends were recapturing their lost season with other young ones from the slave pits. They dashed about, plucking wild cherries from the tops of iced cakes, and sneaking candied chestnuts from an arrangement which Sister May was making. She scolded them tongue in cheek as the intricate heap fell apart for the umpteenth time.

  Jabez Stump and young Jube were discovering the delights of strawberry cordial cold from the cellars. They lay beneath a trickling barrel with their mouths open wide, only stopping to munch celery and young onion flan.

  Basil Stag Hare was instructing his protégé young Cheek in the art of trencherbeastship.

  ‘No, no, m’lad. Don’t grab it all at once. Watch me. A smidgeon of fruit cake on the plate, a slice to eat now; a pawful of honeyed blackberries for yourself, and one for your plate; a quick swig of elderberry wine, and fill your beaker with beetroot port; now, some of the Abbot’s Redwall pie; lots of Brother Trugg’s celery and woodland herb dip; compliment the old mole fellers on the deeper’n’ever pie an’ they’ll give you an extra-large helpin’. Right, tackle that lot, and we’ll start again!’

  Sir Harry was perched among the sparrows.

  ‘Now listen and mark my words

  As I eat this delicious cheese.

  You’re really quite lucky birds,

  To live in surroundings like these,

  Woodland nutcrunch, gooseberry pie,

  Honeybaked apples too.

  Billberry pudding, my, oh my,

  Just swallow, don’t bother to chew.’

  The Abbot looked apologetically over his glasses at Matthias. ‘There’s a very nice fish baking in
the pit, a grayling, like the one we caught together many seasons ago. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you up to go fishing, but you were sleeping so peacefully.’

  Matthias shook his head regretfully as he watched the moles take the dockleaves from the steaming white fish which lay on the pit embers.

  ‘Hmm, I’ve missed our fishing trips, but I forgive you. By the way, who did help you? It’s more than a one-mouse job, landing a fish that size.’

  Sister May tugged shyly at the Warrior’s habit.

  ‘Beg pardon, Matthias, it was me. We hooked it, played it and landed it together, the Abbot and I.’

  ‘Well, I never! Sister May, you’re getting a dreadful name around here. Knocking birds out with herbs and cooking pots, helping ghosts to walk, now fishing half the night after grayling on the Abbey pond. What next?’

  ‘Taking my paw to your young Mattimeo’s ear, if he keeps upsetting my candied chestnut display. If you’ll excuse me,’ Sister May said, and hurried off.

  Baby Rollo had finally succeeded in diving from the pear tree straight into the centre of an oversized sliced apple and wild plum crumble. He sat smiling and eating his way out, a mass of sweet acorn crumbs and sticky fruit.

  Basil Stag Hare wagged his ears in admiration. ‘Now there’s a buck with the right idea. Here, Rollo old messmate, chuck Uncle Basil a helpin’, will you? I say, marm, this Mossflower salad is outstanding. Is that fennel you’ve grated in with the carrot? Excellent. My, my, what a pretty pattern of parsley and cucumber around the edge. Talented gel!’

  Sister Agnes blushed at the compliments. ‘Oh, Mr Stag Hare, have you tried my orchard fruit cake with the buttercup cream centre?’

  ‘Lead me to it, marm!’

  Jess and Sam had taken the young squirrel Elmtail in tow. They laughed at his curiosity as he sampled everything put in front of him.

  ‘What’s this one called?’

  ‘Blueberry cream tart.’

  ‘Mmmph, great! What’s this nice drink?’

  ‘Oh, that’s cold mint and apple tea. D’you like it?’

  ‘I’ll say I do! Can I have some of that funny-looking pie?’

  ‘Ssshh! Don’t let the Abbot hear you, that’s his new invention, wild cherry and glazed plum gateau with elderflower cream. He’s very proud of it.’

  ‘Mmmm, so he should be, tastes marvellous. D’you use paws or a spoon?’

  ‘Try using your mouth. Hahaha!’

  Morning slid into afternoon. A gentle breeze drifted small white clouds across the serene blue expanses of sky, and the autumn sun shone down kindly upon the happy scene as the creatures of Redwall feasted through noontide, across the balmy evening until the night fires and lanterns in trees illuminated the joyous scene below. The half moon came out to watch for the sun. It shed pale light upon baby Rollo, fast asleep on Orlando’s lap. The big badger’s battleaxe hung from a beech tree nearby. He turned to Matthias, who was drifting off into sleep, holding Cornflower’s paw.

  ‘Warrior, I have never seen such a wondrous place as this. Look at the beautiful building, those huge safe walls, the fruit and food growing from the ground; and that pond, it glows like a silver plate in the moonlight. Aaaahhh! These contented old ones, peaceful, wise, and your young ones too, they look so happy and good. Even when I lived out on the Western Plains with my Auma, we never knew such wellbeing as this. Can you explain it to me?’

  Matthias let his eyelids droop until they shut.

  ‘Orlando, my good friend, the explanation to it all is merely one simple word: Redwall.’

  The badger turned to reply, but Matthias and Cornflower were asleep. He looked down at baby Rollo slumbering on his lap without a care in the world. Settling himself down, Orlando turned his face to the night sky which surrounded Mossflower. He repeated the precious word aloud to the moon:

  ‘Redwall!’

  55

  EXTRACT FROM THE diary of Tim Churchmouse, Recorder of Redwall Abbey:

  It is the summer of the Rosebay Willowherb!

  Great masses of the pink mauve flowers nod their heads by the sides of our Abbey paths. Seven seasons have passed, counting the Autumn of the Warriors’ Return, and this will be my second season as Recorder. John, my father, retired. He is now helping the Abbot to compile a great volume of Mossflower recipes. Strange, when I was young our Father Abbot was an old mouse, yet still he carries on changeless as ever. I think he will outlive us all.

  The slaves who were freed from the evil of Malkariss have all settled here. They are our Brothers and Sisters now, and a happier band you could not meet. The Sparra colony is growing and flourishing in our roofspaces, though now it is called Warbeak Loft. Sir Harry the Muse lives up there with them. He was elected Leader and Poetry Instructor. Several times now he has resigned in despair at the Sparra language, though his love of authority always leads him to be re-elected.

  Redwall is surely a place of curious happenings, not the least of which is the adoption of Cheek by Basil. There was much amusement three seasons ago when he became officially the hare’s young one. Now he calls himself Cheek Stag Otter, and the impudent rascal has also adopted all Basil’s mannerisms (and his appetite too).

  Stryke Redkite is at present paying us a visit. She has a mate, a huge fellow named Skine, and they have their first eggchick too. Sister May was delighted at their announcement that the young one is to be named after her. However, she insists on the little female being called May and not Sissimay.

  Ambrose Spike is revelling in his latest title, High Keeper of Cellar Keys, and the entire family of Jabez Stump – Rosyqueen his wife and their ten hungry daughters – are living in the wine cellar with Jube. Ambrose has put in an order to the Foremole for the cellars to be extended, and it will be attended to immediately after the mole crew finish enlarging and lining the tunnels they dug during Ironbeak’s seige. They are a useful underground system, particularly in deep winter snow.

  The Guosim marched off into Mossflower again; they were born to wander. Flugg is a strong Log-a-Log, wise too, and he brings them to winter here every fourth season. They are good allies.

  Rollo and Cynthia Bankvole are bellringers, just as Tess and I once were. Rollo’s latest yearning is to become a squirrel and join the band of Sam and Elmtail to become part of the Mossflower Patrol. That Rollo, he will probably want to be a badger next.

  Constance is getting ready to sit out in the sun and take things easy. She is teaching Auma all she knows, and some season soon Auma will become the Mother of Redwall. She is dearly loved by every creature in our Abbey. Orlando is Constance’s firm friend and they are seldom apart. His axe hangs in Great Hall. As Lord of the Western Plains he only has to stand on the west battlements to survey his lands.

  Last summer the Churchmouse family was united to the Warriors, much to the delight of my mother and Cornflower. Mattimeo and my sister Tess were married. Our parents like to sit out in the sun a lot, my mother and father, Cornflower and Matthias. Like all life, they are growing no younger. They prefer to talk of the old times with friends, and that is good. They deserve a little rest and peace after bringing us up, though Matthias still joins Basil and Orlando to train the defenders.

  It is difficult to believe that we have all grown from young scamps into responsible creatures. But I am rambling. I will finish my writings and go outside into the sunlight, to the ceremony and the feast at the main gate. Forgive me for not telling you earlier, but today we have a new Redwall Champion and a naming party. Matthias is to place the great sword in the paws of his son Mattimeo, and he will be our Abbey Warrior from henceforth; there is one scamp who made doubly good. Did I not tell you? Tess and Mattimeo have a little son and I am an uncle! My mother and Cornflower chose the new baby’s name; he is to be called Martin.

  So the legend of Redwall has come full circle, through Martin to Matthias, from Matthias to Mattimeo, and finally back to the little life we are all so proud of: Martin, Son of the Warrior. The bells are tolling for the ceremony, so you will have t
o pardon me for hurrying off like this.

  May your lives be as full and happy as ours, and may the seasons be kind to you and your friends. The door of our Abbey is always open to any traveller roaming the dusty path between the woodlands and the plains.

  Tim Churchmouse (Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country).

  About the Author

  Brian Jacques was born and bred in Liverpool. At the age of fifteen he went to sea and travelled the world. He worked as a stand-up comedian and playwright and hosted his own programme, Jakestown, on Radio Merseyside. His bestselling Redwall books have captured readers all over the world and won universal praise. He died in 2011.

  THE TALES OF REDWALL

  Lord Brocktree

  Martin the Warrior

  Mossflower

  The Legend of Luke

  Outcast of Redwall

  Mariel of Redwall

  The Bellmaker

  Salamandastron

  Redwall

  Mattimeo

  The Pearls of Lutra

  The Long Patrol

  Marlfox

  The Taggerung

  Triss

  Loamhedge

  Rakkety Tam

  High Rhulain

  Redwall Friend & Foe

  A Redwall Winter’s Tale

  The Tribes of Redwall: Mice

  The Tribes of Redwall: Badgers

  Click onto the Redwall website and find out more about