Redwall by Brian Jacques
One hour later they both sat on the stone floor, drinking October ale to quench the dust whilst they admired their handiwork.
‘It’s written in the old hand,’ said Methuselah, ‘but I can read it clear enough.’
Matthias jostled him boisterously. ‘What does it say, old one? Hurry up and read it to me.’
‘Patience, you young scallywag,’ chided the ancient mouse. ‘Be quiet and listen. It takes the form of a poem:
Who says that I am dead
Knows nought at all.
I – am that is,
Two mice within Redwall.
The Warrior sleeps
’Twixt Hall and Cavern Hole.
I – am that is,
Take on my mighty role.
Look for the sword
In moonlight streaming forth,
At night, when day’s first hour
Reflects the North.
From o’er the threshold
Seek and you will see:
I – am that is,
My sword will wield for me.’
Matthias blinked and scratched his head. He looked at Methuselah. ‘Well, what did all that mean? It’s a riddle to me.’
‘Precisely,’ said the old mouse. ‘It is indeed a riddle, but don’t worry, Matthias, we will solve it together. I have sent for food and drink. You and I will not move from here until we have the answer.’
Shortly afterwards, Cornflower arrived bearing a tray of breakfast for them both; nutbread, salad, milk, and some of Friar Hugo’s special quince pie. She was about to strike up a conversation with Matthias when Methuselah sent her packing.
‘Shoo! Away with you, little fieldmouse. I need Matthias with a clear brain to help me solve an important problem, so run along.’
Cornflower winked at Matthias, shook her head at Methuselah and walked off with mock dignity, her nose high in the air. Matthias watched her go until Methuselah tweaked his ear. ‘Pay attention now, young mouse. We must study this bit by bit. Let’s take the first two lines:
“Who says that I am dead
Knows nought at all”’
Matthias waved a paw. His mouth filled with salad, he mumbled, ‘But we know that Martin is dead.’
Methuselah took a sip of milk, pulled a wry face and reached for his October ale. ‘Ah but, if we suppose that he is dead, then the words tell us we know nothing at all. So, let us assume that he is alive.’
‘What? Do you mean Martin, alive and walking about?’ said Matthias. ‘We’d recognize him! Unless, that is, he was disguised as someone else.’
The old gatehouse-keeper choked, spluttering ale over his habit. ‘Good grief! I never looked at it that way. Very good, young one. Maybe the answer is in the next two lines. What do they say?
“I – am that is,
Two mice within Redwall”’
Matthias repeated the words, but he could make no sense of them. ‘“I – am that is”. What is? “Two mice within Redwall.” Hmm, two mice it tells of.’
‘Of two mice in one,’ replied Methuselah.
They sat silent awhile, both racking their brains. Matthias mentioned something that was bothering him as he looked at the graven lines. ‘What I cannot understand is that sort of dash. Look: “I – am that is”. Do you see, there is a small dash between the words “I” and “am”. In fact the same dash occurs three times throughout the rhyme: here, here and here.’ Matthias pointed.
Methuselah adjusted his glasses and peered closely. ‘Yes. You may have something there. It could be the key to the whole thing … “I – am that is”. Let’s say that the dash separates the line, so that we will look at the last three words, “am that is”. Suppose we took that part out, then it would read, “I, two mice within Redwall”.’
Matthias shook his head. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘Complete nonsense,’ replied the old mouse. ‘Let’s stick with, “am that is”.’
‘Sounds all mixed up to me,’ Matthias grumbled.
Methuselah looked up sharply. ‘Say that again.’
‘Say what again?’
‘You mean that it sounds all mixed up to me?’
Methuselah executed a little jig of delight. He patted the wall with his paw, shouting, ‘That’s it! That’s it! Why couldn’t I see that? It’s all mixed up, of course!’
The old mouse took a great draught of ale. Cackling with glee, he pointed a paw at Matthias. ‘I know something that you don’t know … “am that is” … Matthias.’
The young mouse frowned. So, the old one had finally cracked. He was in his second infancy.
‘Methuselah,’ he said kindly, ‘hadn’t you better lie down awhile?’
But the old gatehouse-keeper kept pointing. He began to chant.
‘Matthias, I that am,
Matthias, you that are.’
The young mouse stood tapping his tail in exasperation.
‘I wish you’d tell me what you’re so excited about,’ he said severely.
Methuselah wiped tears of laughter from his eyes as he explained. ‘When you said it was all mixed up, that got me thinking. Martin was talking of two mice, himself and another. Ergo, Martin is represented by the word “I”. The other mouse is “am that is” all mixed up. Now do you see?’
Matthias leaned against the wall. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’
‘Oh, you young booby,’ Methuselah giggled. ‘I mixed the letters up and re-arranged them. It’s your own name … “am that is” … Matthias.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Matthias in astonishment.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ replied Methuselah. ‘It couldn’t mean anything else! Your name has eight letters in it. So has “am that is”. An M, two A’s, two T’s, an H, an I and an S. Whichever way you look at it, Matthias or “am that is”, it comes out the same.’
‘Methuselah, do you realize what this means?’
The old mouse sat down beside him, nodding gravely. ‘Oh yes, indeed I do. It means that Martin somehow knew that one day he would live on through you.’
Matthias was staggered. ‘He knew about me! Martin the Warrior knew my name! Can you imagine that.’
The enormity of it overwhelmed them both. For several minutes they sat, no word passing between them. Suddenly Matthias leapt to his feet. ‘Right, let’s get on with it. Look at these lines:
“The warrior sleeps
’Twixt Hall and Cavern Hole.
I – am that is
Take on my mighty role.”’
‘Well, the last two lines are pretty clear,’ said Methuselah. ‘They mean that Martin, carrying on through you, has a great task to perform.’
‘What about the first two lines?’ Matthias said. ‘They seem fairly obvious, too. Between Great Hall and Cavern Hole there is a flight of stairs. Come on, old mouse.’
In spite of his advanced years, Methuselah gripped Matthias’s paw and ran so fast that the younger mouse had difficulty in keeping up.
Between Great Hall and Cavern Hole there were seven stone steps. The problem was, which one held the answer?
‘Thinking caps on again,’ said the old mouse. ‘Let’s make a close inspection of these steps.’
Together they examined the stone steps minutely, going back over each one several times. Matthias sat on the bottom step. He shrugged. ‘They appear to be seven, ordinary, broad stone steps; nothing special; quite the same as any other set of stairs in the Abbey, wouldn’t you say?’
Methuselah was forced to agree. After sitting awhile and letting his eyes roam about, Matthias remarked, ‘I’ve just noticed something. The name of our Abbey is carved into the wall as you go up the steps on the left-hand side, and also as you descend on the right-hand wall. It reads “Redwall”, either way.’
Methuselah walked up and down the steps, testing what Matthias had said. ‘Yes, so it does. Do you see that each letter is one step’s width? Hmmm. Seven letters for seven steps. Surely that must be some kind of a hint?’
Again the
‘I know something you don’t know.’
Methuselah pursed his lips in annoyance. ‘You know, Matthias, for a mouse that claims affinity with Martin the Warrior, you can be singularly foolish sometimes.’
‘Huh. No more foolish than you were when you were saying the same thing to me not so long ago,’ Matthias retorted.
Methuselah coughed and cleaned his spectacles on his habit. ‘Harrumph. Er, yes, well, I apologize. Now please tell me what you have discovered.’
Matthias explained. ‘If you place the word “Redwall” running both ways as it does here, you will notice that only one letter occurs in the same place, the letter W. Furthermore, if you were to turn a W upside down it becomes a letter M, which stands for Martin, Matthias, oh, and also for Methuselah, my old friend.’
‘Well, curl my whiskers! The young scoundrel has a brain, and it works too. It’s got to be the fourth step, the middle one up or down.’
The step in question proved to be as solid and unmoving as its counterparts. Even with their combined strength, the friends could not budge it a fraction.
Matthias wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Take a breather, old one. I know who can handle this. The Foremole and his team.’
The moles were not long in arriving. They gathered around the step, sniffing and scratching. The Foremole exercised his authority, clearing them out of his way.
‘Yurr moles, get outten loight. Let’n um dog at bone thurr.’
Foremole paced the length of the step then shuflled sideways over it. He tapped it with his great digging claws. He sniffed it, licked it, and rubbed it with his velvet head.
‘Ummm, worra you’m gennelbeast know abouten this yurr step?’ he asked.
Together they related all the information to the attentive Foremole. He blinked short-sightedly as he ruminated.
‘Arr, fourth’n uppards, same down’ards. Yurr, Walt, ’ark, Doby. B’aint that same as your grandmum do find when she’m rooten about olden toim fortications?’
‘What’s he saying?’ whispered Matthias.
Methuselah translated the curious mole dialect. ‘Foremole said, the fourth step upwards is the same as the fourth step down, that much we already know. Then he consulted the two mole brothers, Walt and Doby. It seems the step is the same as one found by their grandmother when she was exploring an old-fashioned castle or fortification. Moles are very sensible creatures, you know, and I think they have the answer to our problem.’
‘Good old Foremole,’ said Matthias.
‘Hush. Let’s hear what Walt and Doby have to say,’ whispered Methuselah.
The two mole brothers respectfully tugged their noses to the Foremole before answering:
‘Urr, that be true, zurr.’
‘Our grandmum she’m foind lots o’ them.’
‘Aye, that she do. Never diggen or breaken, just turn ’em after dustin’.’
Methuselah interpreted to Matthias. ‘Apparently their grandmother was somewhat of an authority on steps such as these. The clever old mole would neither dig nor break them. Evidently she could turn the step over, once she had brushed it.’
Matthias addressed the Foremole courteously. ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know how to deal with this step now? If you do, then my friend and I would be only too willing to help you.’
Foremole smiled, his whole face almost vanishing into dark velvet wrinkles. He clapped Matthias on the shoulder in a chummy way. The young mouse was amazed at the weight and strength of Foremole’s paw. He was glad that it was a friendly pat.
Foremole chuckled deeply. ‘Nay nay, bless your li’l ’eart, Mattwise, you’n owd Methuselam be but mouses, best leave ’er to Foremole, oi’ll deal with’n.’
‘He says he can cope adequately without either of us,’ said Methuselah.
The Foremole produced a thick, fine-haired handbrush from his tunnelling kit. Bending close, he brushed furiously at the upper and lower insteps of the fourth stone. As he swept, he snuffled and blew, following the path of his brush. It soon became apparent that the stone had been cunningly jointed. The dust came away to reveal a continuous hairline crack which ran around the edges of the step.
Next Foremole rummaged in his kit and came up with a tin of grease and a strong thin bar, one end of which was flattened like a spatula. Smearing the grease liberally on top of the third step, Foremole inserted the flat metal tip against the base of the fifth step. He dealt the blunt end of the bar a smart blow, setting it firmly into the crack. With a swift movement he levered the fourth step an inch forward, exposing a long dark gap.
With a grunt of satisfaction Foremole called out to his team, ‘Yurr moles, gather round an’ set your diggen claws in um crack.’
The mole team dug their claws into the gap, chanting together as they heaved with a will.
‘Hurr she come, if’n you please,
Movin’ bowlder, sloid on grease.’
To the astonishment of the watching mice, the step slid smoothly outwards on the greased stone. It turned completely over to reveal a dark opening with a downward flight of stairs running off into the blackness below.
OLD SELA THE vixen muttered her charms and spells in a singsong voice. Sometimes she did a hopping little dance around the sick-bed. Cluny was not fooled!
He watched as the fox sprinkled ‘magic herbs’ on the pillow, reciting another strange spell as she did so.
The old fraud, Cluny thought. All that mumbo-jumbo and magic nonsense. Why does she need it when she knows that she’s a perfectly good doctor?
Sela had placed herb poultices and healing salves on all the Warlord’s wounds. After bandaging them neatly she had administered a potion that would deaden the pain and induce sleep.
Cluny was satisfied. He had been treated by healers many times before. Sela was the best; all the added muttering, dancing and trickery was done merely to enhance her reputation, to pull the wool over the eyes of stupid ignorant creatures.
She may be a fox, but she’ll never outfox me, Cluny thought to himself. Sela had assured him that with three weeks’ rest, combined with her healing skills, he would be fighting fit once more.
‘Three weeks!’ At first the rat leader had raged and sworn. He had never been out of action that long in all his life. But secretly he knew that the fox was right. Without her, Cluny would have been dead or permanently crippled.
Like all of her kind, Sela was a slippery character. What did she expect to gain from all this?
Loot and plunder from Redwall!
Sela had never been allowed past the Abbey gates. She was certain that if Cluny’s army overran Redwall, there would be enough treasure to keep even the greediest creature happy for life.
Now, as the potions took effect, Cluny felt himself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the ceaseless chantings and murmurings of Old Sela. He would have come awake like a scorched tiger had he known what the fox was actually up to!
Old Sela had lived on her wits for many years. She was a counterspy by nature – in any dispute or conflict she invariably sold secrets to both sides. It was a dangerous game, but one that she had played well thus far. Her crafty, golden eyes had not been idle for a second since entering Cluny’s camp.
Sela knew exactly how many rats, weasels, stoats and ferrets were able-bodied enough for combat. Also, she had seen the working party gnawing industriously at the base of a tall poplar. If that wasn’t going to be used as a battering ram then Sela was a trout, and by her own diagnosis of three weeks, she knew to the day when the date of the next attack on Redwall would be.
The vixen watched Cluny’s eyes closing under the influence of her medicine. These warlords were all the same – they never gave credit for brains to anyone except themselves. There the big oaf was, snoring like a fox cub in his earth on a winter’s night.
She turned to the armed rats who guarded the sick room. She issued orders in a con
She made her way to the door. Fangburn and Redtooth stood barring it.
‘Where do you think you are off to, fox?’
Sela licked her lips. She tried to look kindly but earnest. ‘Actually I was going back to my den to replenish my stock of herbs, that’s if you wish me to treat your leader properly, of course.’
Redtooth prodded her with a spear. ‘Cluny gave strict orders that you must stay here until he’s better.’
The sly fox blustered. ‘But my good rats, surely you must realize that I can do nothing without my stock of herbs? Now please let me pass.’
Fangburn shoved her roughly. ‘Sit down. You’re not going anywhere.’
Sela seated herself. Her mind was racing. ‘Er, then at least let me go out into the churchyard. I’ve got to have some fresh air. Besides, I can tell my young assistant what herbs I require and he can fetch them for me.’
Redtooth was not convinced. ‘But the Chief said you’d got to stay here.’
Sela smiled inwardly. She had them where she wanted them now.
She put on a serious expression, shaking her head gravely. ‘Then you had better let me have your names. That way I can tell Cluny when he awakes full of pain with festering wounds. No doubt he’ll want to know who it was stopped me trying to cure him.’
This crafty statement did the trick. After a few whispered words between the two rats, Redtooth turned to Sela. ‘Listen, fox, you can go out into the churchyard and tell your assistant to run this errand, but Fangburn here will be right beside you with a cutlass in your ribs. One false move out of you, and you’ll be a dead healer. Is that clear?’
Sela smiled ingratiatingly. ‘By all means. Let your friend come along. I have nothing to hide.’
Out in the churchyard Chickenhound, who was the son of Sela, sat sunning himself upon a tombstone.
Fangburn did not see the secret wink that passed between the two foxes. Chickenhound was as devious as his mother in matters of espionage. His face was the picture of blank innocence as he listened to Sela’s instructions.