Redwall by Brian Jacques
A motley collection of evil-looking implements was framed by the cloudless sky as wild cries rang out from the newly-inducted recruits.
‘Cluny, Cluny, Cluny the Scourge!’
ABBOT MORTIMER AND Constance the badger meandered through the grounds together. Both creatures were deep in thought. Had they spoken and voiced their thoughts, they would have mentioned the same subject, the safety of Redwall.
Down long ages the beautiful old Abbey had stood for happiness, peace, and refuge to all. Diligent mice tended the neat little vegetable patches which every season gave forth an abundance of fresh produce: cabbages, sprouts, marrows, turnips, peas, carrots, tomatoes, lettuces and onions, all in their turn. Flowerbeds, heady and fragrant with countless varieties of summer blooms from rose to humble daisy, were planted by the mice and husbanded by the hard-working bee folk, who in their turn rewarded Redwall with plentiful supplies of honey and beeswax.
The two friends wandered onwards, past the pond. Early morning sunlight glinted off the water, throwing out ripples from the fish caught by the overnight lines which were baited and left to drift each evening by Brother Alf. Ahead of them lay the berry-hedges – raspberry, blackberry, bilberry; and the strawberry patch where every August sleepy baby creatures could be seen, their stomachs full after eating the pick of the crop. Gradually they made their way around the big old chestnut trees into the orchard. This was the Abbot’s favourite spot. Many a leisurely nap had he taken on sunny afternoons with the aroma of ripening fruit hovering in his whiskers: apples, pears, quince, plums, damsons, even a vine of wild grape on the warm red stone of a south-facing wall. Old Mother Nature’s blessing lay upon a haven of warm friendliness.
Now with the threat of Cluny upon Redwall, the two old friends assessed the beauteous bounty of their lifelong abode. Sweet birdsong on the still air tinged Constance’s heart with sorrow and regret that this peaceful existence would soon pass. Gruffly she snuffled deep in her throat, blinking off a threatening teardrop. The Abbot sensed his companion’s distress. He patted the badger’s rough coat with a gentle paw.
‘There, there, old girl. Don’t fret. Many times in our history has tragedy been forestalled by miraculous happenings.’
Constance grunted in agreement, not wishing to disillusion her trusting old friend. Deep within her she knew a dark shadow was casting itself over the Abbey. Furthermore, it was happening in the present, not in bygone days of fabled deeds.
Matthias seated himself to an early breakfast in Cavern Hole: nutbread, apples and a bowl of fresh goatsmilk. Cornflower, along with other woodland creatures granted sanctuary, was sleeping in makeshift quarters provided by the good mice of Redwall. Matthias felt that he had grown up overnight. Duty was a mantle that he had taken willingly upon his shoulders. If there were a threat to Redwall from outside it must be dealt with. The mice of Redwall were peaceful creatures, but that must not be taken as a sign of weakness. Stolidly he munched away as he confronted the problem.
‘Eat heartily, Matthias. No point in facing trouble on an empty stomach. Feed the body, nourish the mind.’
The young mouse was surprised to see that old Brother Methuselah had been watching him, his eyes twinkling behind the curious spectacles he invariably wore. The ancient mouse sat down at the breakfast table with a small groan.
‘Don’t look so surprised, young one. Your face is an open book to one of my years.’
Matthias drained the last of the milk from his bowl, wiping cream from his whiskers with the back of a paw. ‘Give me your advice, Brother Methuselah,’ he said. ‘What would you do?’
The old mouse wrinkled his nose. ‘Exactly the same thing as you would – that is, if I were younger and not so old and stiff.’
Matthias felt he had found an ally. ‘You mean you would fight?’
Methuselah rapped the table with a bony paw. ‘Of course I would. It’s the only sensible course to take.’
He paused and stared at Matthias in an odd manner. ‘Hmm, y’know there’s something about you, young feller. Did you ever hear the story of how Martin the Warrior first came to Redwall?’
Matthias leaned forward eagerly. ‘Martin! Tell me, Brother, I love hearing about the warrior monk.’
Methuselah’s voice dropped to a secretive whisper. ‘It is written in the great chronicle of Redwall that Martin was very young to be such a warrior. He could have been the same age as yourself, Matthias. Like you, he was impulsive and had a great quality of youthful innocence about him when he first came to our Abbey. But it is also written that in times of trouble Martin had the gift of a natural leader, a command over others far superior to him in age and experience. The chronicle says that they looked to Martin as some look to a strong father.’
Matthias was full of wonderment, but he could not help feeling puzzled. ‘Why do you tell all this to me, Brother Methuselah?’
The old mouse stood up. He stared hard at Matthias for a moment, then, turning, he shuffled slowly off. As he went, he called back over his shoulder, ‘Because, Matthias … he was very like you!’
Before the young mouse could question the old one further, the Joseph Bell tolled out a warning. Sandals flapping, Matthias dashed out into the grounds, nearly colliding with the Abbot and Constance, who, like everyone else, were heading for the gatehouse.
Brothers Rufus and George had an incident to report. A large evil-looking rat, covered in tattoos and carrying a rusty cutlass, had turned up at the gate. He had tried to gain entry by pretending he was injured. Limping about, the rat explained that he had been in a hay cart which overturned into the ditch. Would they come with him and render assistance to his friends, many of whom were lying trapped beneath the cart, crying out for help?
Brother Rufus was no fool. ‘How many rats were travelling in the cart altogether?’ he asked.
‘Oh, a couple of hundred,’ came the glib reply.
Then why, reasoned Brother Rufus, did the rats not give aid to their own companions? Surely all two hundred were not trapped? The rat evaded the question and made a great show of rubbing his injured leg. Could they not take him in and dress his wound and perhaps give him a bite to eat at least?
Brother George agreed, on condition that the rat surrendered his weapon.
The rat made as if to do so, then suddenly lunged at Brother George, only to be sent sprawling by a blow from Brother Rufus’s staff. Realizing that he was up against two big competent mice who would stand no nonsense, he became abusive and foul-mouthed.
‘Ha! Just you wait, mice,’ he raged. ‘There’s a whole army of us camped down in the church. When I tell Cluny how you treated me, ho ho, just wait, that’s all. We’ll be back, by the fang we will.’ With that he slunk off, cursing all mice.
The grim news was digested in silence by the assembled creatures. Mrs Churchmouse began sobbing. ‘Oh dearie me. Did you hear that, m’ dear? They must be living in our home at Saint Ninian’s church. Oh, whatever shall we do? Our dear little home, full of dreadful rats.’
Mr John Churchmouse tried to comfort his wife as best he could. ‘There, there, hush now, Missus. Better to lose a house than lose our lives. A good job we’ve been given sanctuary here at Redwall.’
‘But what about the other creatures in the area?’ cried Matthias.
‘Sensible mouse,’ said Constance. ‘Is Ambrose Spike anywhere about? He’d better do the rounds and tell them to take sanctuary here at the Abbey as quickly as possible. Spike’ll come to no harm. Once he curls up, there’s nothing can touch him.’
This idea was greeted with enthusiasm. Brother Alf went off to find the hedgehog.
The Abbot suggested they all go inside the Abbey and await further developments. Matthias piped up again, ‘I think we’d best mount a guard on the walls.’
One of the older mice, Sister Clemence, chided Matthias as an upstart. Her voice was stern and condescending. ‘Novice Matthias, you will be silent and do as your Abbot commands.’
Much to everyone’s surprise, the Abbot
All eyes were turned on the young mouse. Boldly he outlined his plans for the defence of Redwall.
It was eleven o’clock on that glorious June morning. Mossflower Woods and the meadowlands stirred to the brazen voice of the great Joseph Bell. John Churchmouse heaved on the bellrope as he had been told to by Constance and Matthias.
Bong! Boom! Bong! Boom! Even the small creatures in wood and field who could understand no language save their own, knew what it meant. ‘Time of danger, place of sanctuary.’
Carrying what simple belongings they needed, woodlanders and their families hurried from far and near to gain the safety of the Abbey before the storm of Cluny broke upon them – squirrels, mice, voles, moles, otters, all save the birds of the air, who were safe anyway. Up the long dusty road they came, mothers protectively herding young ones whilst fathers provided a rearguard.
Brother Methuselah stood at the gate with the Abbot. He translated fully to each group of creatures the Abbot’s message, in turn construing back to the Father Abbot their grateful thanks with pledges of help and loyalty to Redwall Abbey. For what creature had not been freely given the aid and special knowledge of the kindly mice? All knew that they owed their very existence to the Abbot and his community.
Healing, aid, food, shelter, and good advice were granted to all. Now was the time to unite and repay, to give any help that was possible. Before much longer Redwall would require the skills and knowledge of all its woodland allies. It would be gratefully given!
Matthias and Constance stood on top of the high perimeter walls, watching the road. It was noon, and the sun shone directly overhead. Despite the heat, Matthias had ordered all the mice to put on their hoods. It served a double purpose, to shield their eyes from the sun and create a camouflage effect. Silently each one stood, aimed with a stout staff. The high red sandstone walls were far too lofty to be scaled by any normal creature. Instinctively Matthias knew this was a good defence and a formidable deterrent.
Constance could feel her hackles beginning to prickle. She sniffed the air and shivered despite the heat that shimmered in waves across the meadowlands. The big badger nudged Matthias.
‘Listen to that.’
Matthias pricked up his ears and looked at her, questioning.
‘Even the birds have stopped singing,’ Constance said quietly.
The young mouse gripped his staff tighter. ‘Yes, it’s the silence we can hear. The grasshoppers, too, have gone quiet.’
Constance peered down the road as she spoke. ‘Strange for a summer day, little friend.’
Bong!
Every creature standing on the ramparts twitched with fright as the loud voice of the Joseph Bell rang out, and John Churchmouse shouted from his position high in the belfry, ‘They’re coming, down the road! I can see them. I can see them!’
CLUNY’S ARMY HALTED at the sound of the Joseph Bell. As the dust settled, Fangburn looked to his leader for approval.
‘They’re ringing that big bell again, Chief. Ha! ha! Maybe they think it’ll frighten us off.’
The Warlord’s eye rested balefully on his scout. ‘Shut your mouth, fool. If you’d done as I ordered and come right back to report, the way Cheesethief did, we might have been inside that Abbey by now!’
Fangburn slunk back into the ranks. He hoped Cluny had forgotten, but Cluny rarely forgot anything on a campaign. The element of surprise had been lost: now he must try another ploy, the show of force. The mere sight of a fully armed horde had worked before, and he had little doubt it would prove effective now. Ordinary peaceful creatures were usually panic-stricken at the sight of Cluny the Scourge at the head of his army. The rat was a cunning general, except during the times when his mad rage took control of him, but what need of berserk fits for a bunch of silly mice?
Cluny knew the value of fear as a weapon.
And Cluny was a fearsome figure.
His long ragged black cloak was made of batwings, fastened at the throat with a mole skull. The immense war helmet he wore had the plumes of a blackbird and the horns of a stag beetle adorning it. From beneath the slanted visor his one eye glared viciously out at the Abbey before him.
Matthias’s voice rang out sharp and clear from the high parapet, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’
Redtooth swaggered forward and took up the challenge in his Chief’s name, as he called back up at the walls, ‘Look well, all creatures. This is the mighty horde of Cluny the Scourge. My name is Redtooth. I speak for Cluny our leader.’
Constance’s reply was harsh and unafraid, ‘Then speak your piece and begone, rats.’
Silence hung upon the air while Redtooth and Cluny held a whispered conference. Redtooth returned to the walls.
‘Cluny the Scourge says he will not deal with badgers, he will only speak with the leaders of the mice. Let us in, so that my Chief may sit and talk to your Chief.’
Redtooth dodged back as his request was greeted by howls of derision and some loose pieces of masonry from the ramparts. These plump little mice were not as peaceful as they first looked.
The rats looked to Cluny, but he was eyeing the Abbot who had joined Constance and Matthias. They appeared to be consulting quietly. Cluny watched tensely; there seemed to be some disagreement between the old mouse and his two advisers. They conferred a while; then Matthias came forward to the parapet. He pointed at Cluny and Redtooth with his staff.
‘You there, and you also. My Abbot will talk with you both. The rest must remain outside.’
A rumble of protest from the horde was silenced by a crack from Cluny’s tail. He lifted his visor.
‘We agree, mouse, let us in.’
‘But what about hostages for safe conduct?’ hissed Redtooth.
Cluny spat contemptuously. ‘Don’t talk wet. D’you imagine a load of mice in funny robes could take me captive?’
Redtooth gnawed anxiously on a split claw. ‘Maybe not, Chief, but have you cast a weather eye over that badger?’
Cluny answered quietly out of the side of his mouth, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been watching her. A real big country bumpkin. No, these are mice of honour, they’d sooner die than break their word to anyone. You leave this to me.’
As Cluny and Redtooth made for the gatehouse door, Constance shouted, ‘Put down your weapons, rats. Throw off your armour to show us that you come in peace.’
Redtooth spluttered angrily. ‘Hell’s teeth! Who does that one think she’s ordering around?’
Cluny shot him a warning glance. ‘Quiet. Do as she says.’
Both rats took off their armour and placed it in a pile on the road. Matthias cried down to Cluny, ‘If you really are Cluny the Scourge, then we know of your tail. It is a weapon. Therefore you will knot it tightly around your waist so that it cannot be used.’
Cluny laughed mirthlessly. He squinted at Matthias and cracked his tail dramatically.
‘Young mouse,’ he called. ‘You do right to ask this thing, for truly you are looking at Cluny the Scourge.’
Having said this he took his tail in his claws, and pulled the poison war spike from its tip. Tossing it on the armour pile, Cluny hitched his tail in a knot around his middle.
‘Now will you let us in, mice? You can see we are unarmed.’
Ponderously the heavy gate inched open. The two rats passed through a bristling forest of staves. The gate slammed shut behind them.
Cluny mentally estimated the walls to be of immense thickness as he and Redtooth, ducking their heads, emerged from the tunnel-like arch into the Abbey grounds, where Constance and Matthias were waiting in the sunlight. The defenders followed the two rats closely, menacing them with staves.
Matthias rapped out a curt command, ‘Leave us, mice. Go back to your duties on the wall.’
Unhappy at leaving the Abbot unguarded, the mice hesitated to obey the order to withdraw. Cluny addressed Matt
Suddenly he whirled upon the apprehensive creatures. The single eye rolled madly in its socket as Cluny bared claws and fangs, snarling, ‘Ha harr! I’ve got a powerful hunger for mice! You’d best get aloft on those walls. Haharr!’
Cluny leaped into the air. The mice scattered in panic.
Constance stopped the proceedings with a loud angry bark. ‘Here now. Enough of that, rat. You are here to talk with the Abbot. Get along with you.’
Matthias was glad he was walking behind the rats; he blushed with shame. Cluny had sent the defenders scattering like butterflies in a whirlwind. Matthias was furious; the enemy now knew he was dealing with untrained and untested soldiers.
As the party walked towards Cavern Hole, Cluny could sense hostility emanating from the young mouse who flip-flopped behind him in over-large sandals. Strange for one so young to be counted as a Captain, he thought. Moreover, the little fellow didn’t seem to fear him. Ah, but enough of that. Cluny would deal with him when the time came. Meanwhile, the big rat gazed about his surroundings in secret admiration. What an astounding place!
He allowed himself a peek at the future. One day this would be called Cluny’s Castle. He liked the sound of that. Secure from attack, living off the fat of the land, in his mind’s eye he saw it all: those mice and the woodland creatures enslaved, living just to serve him. He would hold sway as far as the eye could see; power; an end to his rovings; a dream come true; King Cluny!
Entering the Abbey, the party stopped to make way for a pretty little fieldmouse bearing a tray.
‘Oh, Matthias,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought some refreshments for you and—’
‘Thank you, Cornflower. Put them down on the table,’ said Matthias abruptly.
Redtooth nudged Cluny. ‘Cornflower, eh. Satan’s nose, she’s a pretty little one for you!’
Cluny remained silent. He stood insolently watching Cornflower set the table in Cavern Hole. A pretty one indeed!