Redwall by Brian Jacques
‘Why, Mr Bankvole! So nice to see you! How’s the back? Better now? Good. Here, try a drop of this peach and elderberry brandy.’
Matthias’s young head was in a whirl. He could not remember being so happy in all his life. Winifred the otter nudged him.
‘I say, Matthias. Where’s this giant grayling that you and old Alf hooked, by the claw! I wish that I could land a beauty like that. Nearly a two-pounder, wasn’t it?’
Matthias swelled with pride. Such praise, and from the champion fisher herself, an otter!
Tim and Tess, the twin Churchmouse babes, felt Matthias’s strong arm muscles and giggled aloud in admiration. He helped to serve them two portions of apple and mint ice cream. Such nice little twins. Was it only three months ago that he had helped Sister Stephanie to get them over tail rickets? My, how they had grown!
Abbot Mortimer sat in his carved willow chair, beaming thanks as one by one the new arrivals laid their simple home-made gifts at his feet: an acorn cup from a squirrel, fishbone combs from the otters, mossy bark sandals made by the moles, and many more fine presents too numerous to mention. The Abbot shook his head in amazement. Even more guests were arriving!
He beckoned Friar Hugo to his side. A whispered conference was held. Matthias could only hear snatches of the conversation.
‘Don’t worry, Father Abbot, there will be enough for all.’
‘How are the cellar stocks, Hugo?’
‘Enough to flood the Abbey pond, Father.’
‘And nuts? We must not run short of nuts.’
‘You name them, we’ve got them. Even candied chestnuts and acorn crunch. We could feed the district for a year.’
‘Dairy produce?’
‘Oh that, I’ve got a cheddar cheese that four badgers couldn’t roll, plus ten other varieties.’
‘Good, good, thank you, Hugo. Oh, we must thank Alf and young Matthias for that magnificent fish. What fine anglers they are! There’s enough to keep the entire Abbey going for a week! Excellent mice, well done.’
Matthias blushed to his tail’s end.
‘The otters! The otters!’
A loud, jolly cry went up as three otters in clown costumes came bounding in. Such acrobatics! They tumbled, balanced and gyrated, cavorting comically across the laden tabletops without upsetting as much as a single sultana. They ended up hanging from the rafters by a strand of ivy, to wild applause.
Ambrose Spike the hedgehog did his party piece. He amazed everyone with his feats of legerdemain. Eggs were taken from a squirrel’s ear; a young mouse’s tail stood up and danced like a snake; the incredible vanishing-conker trick was performed in front of a group of little harvest mice who kept squeaking, ‘He’s got it hidden in his prickles.’
But had he? Ambrose made a few mysterious passes and produced the conker, straight out of the mouth of an awe-struck infant mouse. Was it magic?
Of course it was.
All activity ceased as the great Joseph Bell tolled out eight o’clock from the Abbey belfry. Silently, all the creatures filed to their allotted places. They stood reverently behind the seats with heads lowered. Abbot Mortimer rose and solemnly spread his paws wide, encompassing the festive board. He said the grace.
‘Fur and whisker, tooth and claw,
All who enter by our door.
Nuts and herbs, leaves and fruits,
Berries, tubers, plants and roots,
Silver fish whose life we take
Only for a meal to make.’
This was followed by a loud and grateful ‘Amen’.
There was a mass clattering of chairs and scraping of forms as everyone was seated. Matthias found himself next to Tim and Tess on one paw, and Cornflower Fieldmouse on the other. Cornflower was a quiet young mouse, but undoubtedly very pretty. She had the longest eyelashes Matthias had ever seen, the brightest eyes, the softest fur, the whitest teeth….
Matthias fumbled with a piece of celery, he turned to see if the twins were coping adequately. You never could tell with these baby churchmice.
Brother Alf remarked that Friar Hugo had excelled himself, as course after course was brought to the table. Tender freshwater shrimp garnished with cream and rose leaves; devilled barley pearls in acorn purée; apple and carrot chews; marinated cabbage stalks steeped in creamed white turnip with nutmeg.
A chorus of ooh’s and ah’s greeted the arrival of six mice pushing a big trolley. It was the grayling. Wreaths of aromatic steam drifted around Cavern Hole; it had been baked to perfection. Friar Hugo entered, with a slight swagger added to his ungainly waddle. He swept off his chef’s cap with his tail, and announced in a somewhat pompous squeak, ‘Milord Abbot, honoured guests from Mossflower area and members of the Abbey. Ahem, I wish to present my pièce de résistance—’
‘Oh get on with it, Hugo!’
After some icy staring about to detect the culprit, and several smothered sniggers from around the room, the little fat friar puffed himself up once more and declaimed firmly: ‘Grayling à la Redwall’.
Polite but eager applause rippled round as Hugo sliced the fish, and placed the first steaming portion on to a platter. With suitable dignity he presented it to the Abbot, who thanked him graciously.
All eyes were on the Father Abbot. He took a dainty fork loaded precariously with steaming fish. Carefully he transferred it from plate to mouth. Chewing delicately, he turned his eyes upwards then closed them, whiskers atwitch, jaws working steadily, munching away, his curled up tail holding a napkin which neatly wiped his mouth. The Abbot’s eyes reopened. He beamed like the sun on midsummer morn.
‘Quite wonderful, perfectly exquisite! Friar Hugo, you are truly my Champion Chef. Please serve our guests your masterwork.’
Any further speech was drowned by hearty cheers.
CLUNY WAS IN a foul temper. He snarled viciously.
The horse had stopped from sheer exhaustion. He hadn’t wanted that: some inner devil persuaded him that he had not yet reached his destination. Cluny’s one eye slitted evilly.
From the depths of the hay cart the rodents of the Warlord’s army watched their Master. They knew him well enough to stay clear of him in this present mood. He was violent, unpredictable.
‘Skullface,’ Cluny snapped.
There was a rustle in the hay, a villainous head popped up.
‘Aye, Chief, d’you want me?’
Cluny’s powerful tail shot out and dragged the unfortunate forward. Skullface cringed as sharp dirty claws dug into his fur. Cluny nodded at the horse.
‘Jump on that thing’s back sharpish. Give it a good bite. That’ll get the lazy brute moving again.’
Skullface swallowed nervously and licked his dry lips.
‘But Chief, it might bite me back.’
Swish! Crack! Cluny wielded his mighty tail as if it were a bullwhip. His victim screamed aloud with pain as the scourge lashed his thin bony back.
‘Mutiny, insubordination!’ Cluny roared. ‘By the teeth of hell, I’ll flay you into mangy dollrags.’
Skullface scurried over on to the driver’s seat, yelling with pain. ‘No more! Don’t whip me, Chief. Look, I’m going to do it.’
‘Hold tight to the rigging back there,’ Cluny shouted to his horde.
Skullface performed a frantic leap. He landed on the horse’s back. The terrified animal did not wait for the rat to bite, as soon as it felt the loathsome scratching weight descend on its exposed haunches it gave a loud panicked whinny and bucked. Spurred on by the energy of fright it careered off like a runaway juggernaut.
Skullface had time for just one agonized scream before he fell. The iron-shod cartwheels rolled over him. He lay in a red mist of death, the life ebbing from his broken body. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the sneering visage of Cluny the Scourge roaring from the jolting backboard, ‘Tell the devil Cluny sent you, Skullface!’
They were on the move again. Cluny was getting nearer.
DOWN IN CAVERN Hole the great feast had slacke
So had a lot of belts!
Redwall mice and their guests sat back replete. There were still great quantities of food uneaten.
Abbot Mortimer whispered in Friar Hugo’s ear, ‘Friar, I want you to pack up a large sack with food, hazelnuts, cheese, bread, cakes, anything you see fit. Give it to Mrs Churchmouse, as secretly as you can without attracting attention. Poverty is an ugly spectre when a mousewife has as many mouths to feed as she does. Oh, and be sure that her husband doesn’t suspect what you are doing. John Churchmouse may be poor but he is also proud. I fear he might not accept charitable gifts.’
Hugo nodded knowingly and waddled off to do his Abbot’s bidding.
Cornflower and Matthias had become quite friendly. They were young mice of the same age. Though their temperaments were different they found something in common, an interest in Tim and Tess the twin churchmice. They had passed a pleasant evening, joking and playing games with the little creatures. Tess had clambered on to Matthias’s lap and fallen asleep, whereupon baby Tim did likewise in the velvety fur of Cornflower. She smiled at Matthias as she stroked Tim’s small head. ‘Ah, bless their little paws! Don’t they look peaceful?’
Matthias nodded in agreement.
Colin Vole tittered aloud and remarked rather foolishly, ‘Ooh, would you look at Matthias an’ Cornflower there, a-nursin’ those two babbies like they was an old wedded couple. Well, crumble my bank!’
Brother Alf reprimanded him sharply. ‘Here now, you keep a latch on that silly tongue of yours, Colin Vole! Don’t you know that some day Matthias will be a Redwall mouse? And don’t let me hear you slandering young Cornflower. She’s a decent mouse from a good family. Mark my words, Master Vole, I could say a thing or two to your mum and dad. Only last evening I saw you playing “catch the bulrush” with that young harvest mouse. What was her name now?’
Colin Vole blushed until his nose went dry. He flounced off, swishing his tail, muttering about going outside to take the air.
Matthias caught a nod and a glance from the Abbot. Excusing himself to Cornflower, he deposited the sleeping Tess gently upon his chair and went across to him.
‘Ah, Matthias, my son, here you are. Did you enjoy my Jubilee Feast?’
‘Yes, thank you, Father,’ Matthias replied.
‘Good, good,’ chuckled the Abbot. ‘Now, I was going to ask Brother Alf or Edmund to go on a special errand, but they are no longer young mice and both look quite weary at this late hour. So, I thought I might ask my chief grayling-catcher to carry out this special task for me.’
Matthias could not help standing a bit taller.
‘Say the word and I’m your mouse, sir.’
The Abbot leaned foward and spoke confidentially. ‘Do you see the Churchmouse family? Well, it’s such a long way back home for them on foot. Good Heavens, and there are so many of them! I thought it would be a splendid idea if you were to drive them home in the Abbey cart, along with any others going that way. Constance Badger would pull the cart, of course, while you could act as guide and bodyguard. Take a good stout staff with you, Matthias.’
The young mouse needed no second bidding. Drawing himself up to his full height he saluted in a smart military fashion. ‘Leave it to me, Father Abbot. Old Constance is a bit slow-thinking. I’ll take complete responsibility.’
The Abbot shook with silent laughter as he watched Matthias march off with a soldier-like swagger. Flip flop, flip flop; he tripped and fell flat on his tail.
‘Oh dear, I’ll have to get that young mouse some sandals that aren’t so big,’ the Abbot said to himself for the second time that day.
Well, what a stroke of luck. Fancy Cornflower’s family living so close to the Churchmouse brood! Matthias was only too glad to offer them a lift home.
Would Miss Cornflower like to sit next to him?
She most certainly would!
Cornflower’s parents sat inside the cart, her mum helping Mrs Churchmouse with the little ones, while her dad chatted away with John Churchmouse as they shared a pipe of old bracken twist.
Friar Hugo came out and dumped a bulky sack next to Mrs Churchmouse. ‘Abbot says to thank you for the loan of bowls and tablecloths, ma’am.’ The fat friar gave her a huge wink.
‘All comfy back there?’ called Matthias. ‘Right, off we go, Constance.’
The big badger trundled the cart away as they called their goodnights. She nodded at Methuselah, the ancient gatekeeper mouse. As the cart rolled out into the road a sliver of golden moon looked down from a star-pierced summer night. Matthias gazed upwards, feeling as if he were slowly turning with the silent earth. Peace was all about him; the baby mice inside the cart whimpered fitfully in their small secret dreams; Constance ambled slowly along, as though she were out on a night-time stroll pulling no weight at all; the stout ash staff lay forgotten on the footboard.
Cornflower dozed against Matthias’s shoulder. She could hear the gentle lull of her father’s voice and that of John Churchmouse, blending with the hum of nocturnal insects from the meadow and hedges on this balmy summer night.
The Summer of the Late Rose … Cornflower turned the words over in her mind, dreamily thinking of the old rambler which bloomed in the Abbey gardens. Normally it was in full red flower by now, but this year, for some unknown reason, it had chosen to flower late. It was covered in dormant young rosebuds, even now, well into June – a thing that happened only infrequently, and usually heralded an extra-long hot summer. Old Methuselah could only remember three other such summers in his long lifetime. Accordingly he had advised that it be marked on the calendar and in the Abbey chronicles as ‘The Summer of the Late Rose’. Cornflower’s head sank lower, in sleep.
The old cart rolled on gently, down the long dusty road. They were now over halfway to the ruined church of Saint Ninian where John Churchmouse lived, as had his father, grandfather, and great grandfather before him. Matthias had fallen into a deep slumber. Even Constance was unable to stop her eyelids drooping. She went slower and slower. It was as if the little cart and its occupants were caught in the magic spell of an enchanted summer night.
Suddenly, and without warning, they were roused by the thunder of hooves.
Nobody could determine which direction the sound was coming from. It seemed to fill the very air about them as it gathered momentum; the ground began trembling with the rumbling noise.
Some sixth sense warned Constance to get off the road to a hiding place. The powerful badger gave a mighty heave. Her blunt claws churned the roadside soil as she propelled the cart through a gap in the hawthorn hedge, down to the slope of the ditch where she dug her paws in, holding the cart still and secure whilst John Churchmouse and Cornflower’s father jumped out and wedged the wheels firmly with stones.
Matthias gasped with shock as a giant horse galloped past, its mane streaming out, eyes rolling in panic. It was towing a hay cart which bounced wildly from side to side. Matthias could see rats among the hay, but these were no ordinary rats. They were huge ragged rodents, bigger than any he had ever seen. Their heavy tattooed arms waved a variety of weapons – pikes, knives, spears, and long rusty cutlasses. Standing boldly on the backboard of the hay cart was the biggest, fiercest, most evil-looking rat that ever slunk out of a nightmare! In one claw he grasped a long pole with a ferret’s head spiked to it, while in the other was his thick, enormous tail which he cracked like a whip. Laughing madly and yelling strange curses, he swayed to and fro skilfully as horse and wagon clattered off down the road into the night. As suddenly as they had come, they were gone!
Matthias walked out into the road, staff in hand. Stray wisps of hay drifted down behind him. His legs trembled uncontrollably. Constance hauled the Abbey cart back on to the road. Cornflower was helping her mum and Mrs Churchmouse to calm the little ones’ tears of fright. Together they stood in the cart tracks amid the settling dust.
‘Did you see that?’
‘I saw it, but I don’t believe it!’
‘W
‘What in hell, more like.’
‘All those rats! Such big ones, too.’
‘Aye, and that one on the back! He looked like the Devil himself.’
Seeing Matthias still stunned by what had happened, Constance took over the leadership. She wheeled the cart around.
‘I think we’d best head back for the Abbey,’ she said firmly. ‘Father Abbot’ll want to know about this straight away.’
Knowing that the badger was far more experienced than himself, Matthias assumed the role of second-in-command. ‘Right, Cornflower, get in the cart and take charge of the mothers and babies,’ he said. ‘Mr Fieldmouse, Mr Churchmouse, up front with Constance, please.’
Silently the mice did as ordered. The cart moved off with Matthias positioned on the back providing a rearguard. The young mouse gripped his staff tightly, his back to his charges, facing down the road in the direction the hay cart had taken.
THE HORSE HAD got away safely.
It was the hay cart that suffered most damage. Bolting recklessly from side to side down the road, the blinkered animal failed to see the twin stone gateposts on its right – skidding crazily, the cart smashed into the uprights. There was a loud splintering of shafts as the horse careered onwards, trailing in its wake reins, traces and shattered timber.
His lightning reflexes serving him well, Cluny leaped clear. He landed catlike on all fours as the hay cart upended in the roadside ditch, its buckled wheels spinning awkwardly.
Feeling braced after his mad ride and the subsequent narrow escape, Cluny strode to the ditch’s edge. The distressed cries of those trapped beneath the cart reached his ears. He spat contemptuously, narrowing his one good eye.
‘Come on, get up out of there, you cringing load of catsmeat,’ he bellowed. ‘Redtooth! Darkclaw! Report to me or I’ll have your skulls for skittles.’
Cluny’s two henchrats pulled themselves from the ditch, shaking their heads dazedly.
Crack! Slash! The whiplike tail brought them swiftly to his side.