Redwall by Brian Jacques
‘Now listen carefully, my son. We have a very sick rat inside that church. He is in urgent need of my special remedies. I want you to run as quickly as you can back to our den. Bring me back some snakewort, cuckoo spit, a medium eelskin, three fine strips of willow bark … oh, there’s so much to remember, I’d better write it all down for you.’
Sela turned to Fangburn. ‘Do you carry any writing materials with you, sir?’
Fangburn spat scornfully at the fox’s feet. ‘Are you trying to make fun of me, healer? What d’you think I am? Huh, writing materials! The idea of it!’
Sela smiled disarmingly. ‘Ah, I thought not. Sorry, no offence. I’ll just make do with some bark and a burnt twig. Where could I obtain such things, please?’
Fangburn pointed sullenly with his cutlass. ‘Over there by the cooking fire. Be quick about it.’
A few minutes later Sela had presented Chickenhound with a scroll of bark that she had written upon.
‘There, that should do it. Now hurry along, my son. Don’t stop for anything on the way. Isn’t that right, Captain?’
Fangburn puffed out his chest, proud that the fox knew his rank. He pointed a claw at Chickenhound.
‘You listen to what your mother tells you, young feller. Get back here with the stuff on that list as soon as possible. Be off with you now.’
The young fox took off like a rocket. Fangburn leaned on his cutlass. ‘That’s the way to deal with young uns.’
Sela looked at him admiringly. ‘Indeed it is, sir. He never goes that fast for me. It’s obvious that you’ve got an air of command about you.’
Fangburn coloured slightly. This vixen wasn’t such a bad creature after all. He gestured modestly to the church with his cutlass. ‘Er, I think it’s time we went back inside. Orders, you know!’
‘Oh quite. Can’t have you getting in trouble, can we?’ said Sela in her best smarmy tone.
As soon as he was out of sight of Cluny’s stronghold, Chickenhound slowed to a leisurely walk. He unfastened the bark scroll and read his mother’s message.
To the Abbot of Redwall Abbey.
I know exactly when, where, and how the hordes of
Cluny will attack your Abbey. What price will you
give me for this important information?
Sela the Vixen
Chickenhound sniggered noisily. He knew precisely what his mother required him to do. He recalled Sela’s favourite saying: ‘I’ve sold hens their own eggs back and stolen the whiskers from farmyard dogs.’ The young fox ambled along the dusty road to Redwall, the hedgerows echoing with the sound of his sly chuckles.
CORNFLOWER WAS HAVING a very busy day.
Having delivered food to Matthias and Methuselah, she went out on the ramparts accompanied by her helpers. They fed the sentries and took back all the dishes. Next she found herself making an extra two trays of food up for Silent Sam’s parents. The two squirrels thanked her politely and set to with an appetite. Little Sam stood watching them, sucking his paw. Cornflower had a special soft spot for the baby squirrel; she made up a tray for him too. She had no sooner finished than Constance called to ask a favour of her. Would she mind making up another four trays? Three for the Vole family who had just returned, and an extra large one for Basil Stag Hare. Cornflower cheerfully obliged.
Standing by, her eyes grew wide with amazement. She had never seen anyone shift such vast amounts of food, not even Constance or Ambrose Spike. They were huge eaters, but mere amateurs compared with Basil Stag Hare.
Basil wiped his mouth daintily on a napkin. He had impeccable manners to match his insatiable appetite. He gushed forth praise for the Abbey victuals. ‘Oh excellent! Absolutely top hole! D’you know, I’d forgotten how good the old tiffin at Redwall could be. I say, m’ dear, would you mind refreshing an old bachelor hare’s memory? Another tankard of that fine October ale, and perhaps one more portion of your very good summer salad. Ah, and I think I could manage another few slices of Friar Hugo’s quince pie. Superb! Ahem, don’t forget the goatsmilk cheese with hazelnuts. I’m very partial to that. Cut along now, you little charmer. My word, what an attractive young fieldmouse gel.’
Cornflower sent two of her helpers. They had to go the long way around to reach the kitchens. Abbot Mortimer had declared the Great Hall and Cavern Hole out of bounds to all creatures, with the exception of those helping Matthias and Methuselah.
Below the newly-discovered steps, a pair of lanterns cast pools of golden light into the inky blackness. The two mice made their way gingerly down the secret staircase. The moles stayed outside, ready to help if they were needed further.
The air was chilly but dry. Deeper and deeper the two friends went until the steps ended at the beginning of a downward-winding corridor. It had been neatly dug and shored up with wooden supports. Matthias suppressed a shudder. How long had it been since any creature trod this silent musty passage? He brushed away cobwebs which disintegrated at the touch of a paw. Methuselah held on to his habit. Now they turned left, now right, then another left turn, left again, then right. Methuselah’s voice sounded hollow and eerie. ‘The passage was probably dug like this to give it extra strength. Have you noticed, Matthias? We seem to be going downwards still.’
‘Yes, we must be nearly underneath the Abbey foundations,’ Matthias replied.
The friends pressed onwards. They could not estimate how long they had been following the course of this ancient, winding corridor. Methuselah had ventured slightly ahead. Now he halted.
‘Aha, this looks like the end of the line,’ he squeaked.
It was a door.
Together they inspected it. Built of stout timber, banded with iron, beset with florin spikes, the door did not appear to be locked. Yet it would not budge.
Matthias held his lantern high. ‘Look, there’s some writing on the lintel over the door.’
Methuselah read it aloud:
‘The same as the steps ’twixt the Hall,
Remember and look to the centre.
My password again is Redwall,
Am that is, you alone are to enter.’
The old mouse did not hide his disappointment. ‘Humph! After all the help and assistance that I’ve given, countless hours of study and valuable time. Really!’
His words fell upon deaf ears. Matthias was already counting the florin spikes that were driven into the door.
Methuselah feigned indifference, but his natural curiosity soon overcame any chagrin he felt at not being allowed to pass the doorway.
‘Need any help, young mouse?’
‘Forty-two, forty-three, hush! Can’t you see I’m trying to count?’ came the reply.
The old gatehouse-keeper put on his glasses. ‘Well, have you solved the riddle all by yourself?’
Matthias winked at his companion. ‘Yes. At least I hope I have. There are three clues in the rhyme you see, the same as the steps. Look to the centre, and the password is Redwall. Now, we must remember that Redwall has seven letters. If you look at these old-fashioned nails—’
‘Florin spikes,’ Methuselah corrected.
Matthias continued, ‘Yes, if you look at these florin spikes, you’ll find that they are in rows of seven, the same as the number of letters in Redwall. There are seven rows of spikes going from side to side and seven rows from top to bottom, forty-nine spikes in all. Therefore, the twenty-fifth spike up, down, or across is the exact middle spike. The rhyme says, “look to the centre”. That’s this one here.’
As Matthias placed his paw on the spike in question, the door swung creakingly inwards.
Both mice could feel the hairs standing on their backs as the door opened with agonizing slowness.
When it stood fully open, Matthias put his paw around Methuselah’s thin shoulders.
‘Come on old friend, we go in together,’ he said.
‘But the rhyme,’ Methuselah protested. ‘It says that only you may enter.’
Matthias answered in a strange, full voice. He seemed to gr
Methuselah felt himself in the presence of one many times older than he. Lanterns held high, the two mice advanced through the doorway.
It was a small, low-ceilinged chamber. A stone block rested squarely in the centre.
The tomb of Martin the Warrior!
All around the sides of the stone were detailed carvings, depicting scenes from Martin’s life: deeds of valour and works of skilful healing. Lying along the top of the stone was a life-sized effigy of the Warrior. He was clothed in the familiar habit of a Redwall mouse, plain, with no trimmings.
Matthias stood reverently, gazing upon the calm features of his own legendary hero in the silence of the small chamber.
Methuselah whispered in his ear. ‘He bears an uncanny resemblance to you, young one.’
As the old mouse spoke, the door behind him creaked shut!
Feeling no panic, Matthias turned to look. On the back of the door hung a shield and a sword belt.
The shield was a plain, round steel thing of the type carried by the warriors of old. The years had not dulled its highly-burnished front. As its centre was a letter M.
The sword belt was in pristine condition, soft and as supple as if it had newly come from the tanner’s bench; shiny black leather with a hanging tab to carry sword and scabbard; its broad silver buckle gleamed in the lantern light.
Without a word Matthias undid his novice’s cord girdle. Handing it to Methuselah, he took down the sword belt and buckled it about his waist. The belt fitted as if it had been made for him. With great care he lifted the shield from the door and tried it on his arm. It had two grips, one below the elbow, the other for the paw to grasp. It felt oddly familiar to Matthias.
There was more writing where the shield had hung upon the back of the door. Methuselah read it:
‘By the moonlight, on the hour,
In my threshold space lay me.
Watch the beam reflect my power,
Unite once more my sword with me.
I – am that is, stand true for all.
O warrior mouse, protect Redwall.’
As in a dream, Matthias gave the door a gentle tug. It opened. By the lantern lights the two mice made their way back from the lonely chamber. Back to the familiar warmth and cheer of Redwall Abbey. Back to the hot June noonday sun.
CONSTANCE STOOD ON the ramparts. She leaned over the parapet, watching as a young fox approached along the dusty road, bearing a stick with a white rag of truce tied to it.
The big badger was uneasy. She knew this one, a fox from Old Sela’s brood. You needed eyes in the back of your head to watch that lot!
‘Stop right there and state your business, fox,’ Constance called gruffly.
Chickenhound sniggered, but seeing the badger’s stern expression, he quickly took control of himself.
‘I want to see your Abbot,’ he called.
The reply was abrupt. ‘Well, you can’t!’
The fox waved his flag, squinting up at Constance. ‘But I must see the Abbot! I come in peace. I have important information for sale.’
The badger was unmoved. ‘I don’t care if you’ve got the rumbling foxtrot, you aren’t getting inside this Abbey. If you want to speak to anyone, then speak to me.’
Constance watched the crestfallen fox, then added as an afterthought: ‘And if you don’t like it, well, you can sling your brush back up the road.’
Chickenhound was dismayed. This last insult had taken the wind completely out of his sails. He tried to think how Sela would have handled a situation like this. Eventually he unrolled the bark scroll and waved it up at Constance.
‘This message is for the Abbot’s eyes only. It’s important.’
The badger eyed him coldly. ‘Then chuck it up here. I’ll see that he gets it.’
No amount of wheedling and blandishment would cause the cynical badger to change her mind. She was adamant. In the end, Chickenhound had to throw the scroll up. He made several puny attempts, each one weaker than the last. As the scroll fell back down into the road yet again, Constanee called aloud, ‘Put some energy into it, you little milksop. I’m not hanging about here all day.’
Chickenhound heaved the scroll with all his strength. He was gratified to see Constance lean out and catch it. Hopefully he called, ‘I’ll wait right here for the answer.’
The badger grunted noncommitally. She sat down below the parapet out of sight of the fox, and scanned the message. Constance stayed where she was until a reasonable time elapsed, then stood up, panting heavily for effect.
‘Tell Sela that the Abbot will see her two days from tonight at ten o’clock in Mossflower Wood. She must come to the old tree stump; and mind you tell her – no tricks!’
Chickenhound waved the flag. He went into a bout of uncontrollable sniggering. ‘Right, I’ve got the message, fat one! Be sure your Abbot brings lots of valuables with him. Goodbye, old greyback.’
Constance poked an angry snout down at the insulting young fox. ‘You’d better get running, frogface! I’m coming down there to put my paw behind you right now!’
Again Constance dropped behind the parapet. She hammered her paws loudly against the stones. Standing up, she watched the terrified Chickenhound racing off down the road in a cloud of dust.
‘Snotty-nosed little upstart!’ she muttered.
There was no need for the Father Abbot to concern himself with the underhand dealings of traitor foxes. Constance would be well able to deal with the situation herself.
Matthias was famished. He sat down and took his lunch with Mr and Mrs Squirrel, the Vole family, Silent Sam, and Basil the garrulous hare. The young mouse ate mechanically. He did not really want conversation. This latest discovery of a new and baffling rhyme concerning moonlight, the north and an unknown threshold nagged at his brain. Methuselah had gone off to seek the solitude of his gatehouse study, where he claimed he could think more clearly.
Matthias was not the liveliest of table companions. He smiled and nodded, paying little attention to the chatter of the Voles and Squirrels. He was not even distracted by Silent Sam who sat upon his knee, stroking his whiskers with a sticky paw. Basil Stag Hare eyed the food which Matthias had hardly touched.
‘Beg pardon, young mouse, old chap, but if you can’t finish that blackberry muffin or that redcurrant tart….’
Matthias absently pushed his plate across to the hare. Basil needed no second bidding.
Abbot Mortimer entered. Seeing the look on Matthias’s face, he leaned across and murmured in his ear, ‘All work and no play makes Matthias a dull mouse. Cheer up, my son.’
‘What! I mean, sorry, Father Abbot, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was trying to solve a problem, you see.’
The Abbot patted Matthias indulgently. ‘I understand, my son. Methuselah has told me of some of the difficulties facing you both. My advice is, don’t let it get on top of you. Relax a little. Time provides all the answers. You’ve done splendidly so far, Matthias. Meanwhile you must not forget your manners at table with the guests of our Abbey.’
Matthias snapped out of his reverie. Silent Sam was admiring his sword belt. He laughed. ‘Do you like that, Sam? It’s the sword belt of a famous warrior.’
The little squirrel leaped upon the table. He darted up and down, thrusting out his paw as if he held a sword in it, stabbing away at thin air. He pointed at Matthias. The young mouse gave him a hug. ‘No, bless you, Sam. I haven’t got a sword of my own yet, but I will have some day.’
Silent Sam pointed to himself, cocking his head on one side. Matthias prodded his fat little stomach. ‘A sword for you too, Sam? Well, I don’t know about that. Your mum and dad might not want you going about armed to the teeth.’
Basil Stag Hare had the answer. He produced a beautifully made knife. It was very small, encased in a cunningly crafted willow bark sheath. The hare beckoned Sam. ‘C’m
Basil picked up a worn and discarded sandal. He undid the foot strap. Threading the dagger and sheath along the strap, he fastened it around Sam’s waist.
‘There, by the left, you look a regular little swashbuckler now,’ chuckled the kindly hare.
Bounding up and down with delight, Silent Sam cut a comical figure as he fenced his way along the tabletop, thrusting and parrying at cruets and candlesticks with his new ‘sword’, sucking furiously on his free paw.
Matthias joined in the laughter as Mr and Mrs Squirrel thanked Basil for the generous gift to their tiny offspring. Forgetting his immediate problems, Matthias passed a happy hour in the company of the friendly woodlanders. He enjoyed it even more when Cornflower appeared. She shared Matthias’s seat, glad to be off her feet for a while. Basil nudged Matthias.
‘Excellent little filly, that gel! D’you know, she can produce more tuck in the twinklin’ of an eye than you could shake a stick at. You mark my words, young feller-my-mouse. A body would be lucky to settle down with her. I say, have you noticed the way she looks at you? Hinds look at stags like that. Noble creatures, stags. It strikes me that you could be just the stag for her. Why, I remember when I was only a young lancejack….’
Cornflower was pulling faces so much that Matthias was about to silence Basil, when Methuselah popped in at the door. He beckoned urgently to Matthias. Hastily the young mouse excused himself and left. Basil leaned closer to Cornflower. He smiled roguishly.
‘You didn’t know I was a lancejack, did you, m’dear? Ah those were the days of the old Forty-Seventh Hare Border Rangers! That was the first time I ever clapped eyes on a stag! I say, I’m not boring you, am I? Nod’s as good as a wink to old bachelor Basil, y’know.’
Methuselah was in a ferment of eagerness as he led his young friend over to the gatehouse.
‘Matthias, I’ve found out where the threshold is!’