Mattimeo (Redwall) Read online

  ‘Burr, could be, missus,’ Foremole called from the rear. ‘Oi b’aint been yurr afore. We’m a-goen uphill by moi reckernen. Oi spect they arnts knows where they be bound, tho.’

  Sometimes old roots got in their way. With often a boulder they had to climb over, their heads scraping the earthy roof above, both Cornflower and Winifred began to wish for the sunny warmth of the afternoon above ground. Rollo was too excited to think of other things. He followed the line of ants eagerly. Foremole, who was used to the dark underground places, followed stolidly in the rear. They finally emerged into what was neither a room, passage or cave, it was a low, dim area supported by stone columns with a wall blocking the way at the far end. The torchlight showed the ants were climbing in between the mortared spaces of the lower courses, until three layers up they disappeared into a crack between two of the heavy redstone blocks.

  Winifred went to the place and held the torch up. ‘Well, that’s where they’re going, but I’m afraid we’d have to be the same size as an ant to follow. Hello, what’s this . . . Look!’

  Rollo and Cornflower rubbed dust and dry earth away from the surface of a sandstone block until lettering was revealed.

  ‘Aha! It’s the very foundation stone of Redwall Abbey. Let’s see what it says,’ Cornflower exclaimed. She urged Winifred to hold the light closer as she read aloud:

  ‘Upon this stone rest all our hopes and efforts. Let Redwall Abbey stand for ever as a home for the peaceful and a haven for woodlanders. In the Spring of the Late Snowdrops this stone was laid in its place by our Champion, Martin the Warrior, and our Founder, Abbess Germaine. May our winters be short, the springtimes green, our summers long and the autumns fruitful.’

  They stood in silence after Cornflower had read the beautiful inscription, the history and tradition of Redwall laying its kindly paw on each of them.

  Foremole broke the silence with his mole logic. ‘Aroight, you uns bide yurr awhoil, oi’ll goo an’ fetch ee diggen teams. This be a job fer mole skills.’

  When he had gone, they sat gazing at the stone in the dwindling torchlight. It was Winifred who voiced their thoughts.

  ‘What’ll we find behind the wall, I wonder?’

  The late afternoon sun shimmered and danced on the broad waters of a deep-flowing stream that ran through the rock-shelved floor of the canyon between two hills. Gratefully the chained captives drank their fill before lying down to rest on the sunbaked stone. Wedgeback the stoat sat nearby. He glared at them, pointing menacingly with his cane.

  ‘Right, you lot, heads down, get a bit of sleep while you can. And just let me hear one move or murmur from any of you, by the fang! I’ll have your tails for tea.’

  As the stoat moved off, he slipped on a wet patch of rock. Jumping up quickly, he wagged the cane again. ‘Remember what I said; eyes dosed, lie still, and no chain-clanking, or you’re for it!’

  Most of the other prisoners stretched out so they could be alone, but Mattimeo and his friends huddled close together. The young mouse lay with his head against Sam’s tail, and as they rested they whispered quietly among themselves.

  ‘Wonder if old Ambrose Spike’s down in his cellar having a snooze among the barrels.’

  ‘Aye, d’you remember that day we sneaked down there and drank the strawberry cordial out of his barrels with hollow reeds?’

  ‘Do I! Haha, good old Spike. Wish I had a beaker of that cordial right now.’

  ‘Hmm, or a big apple and cinnamon pie with fresh cream poured over it, or maybe just some good fresh bread and cheese.’

  Auma gave the chain a slight tug. ‘Oh, go to sleep, you lot, you’re making me hungry. Right now I wish I had a bowl of my father’s mountain foothill stew, full of leeks and potatoes with gravy and carrots and onions and—’

  ‘Huh, we’re making you hungry? I thought your father was a warrior. They aren’t usually good at cooking.’

  ‘No, but my father Orlando is, though he told me never to tell any creature in case they thought he was getting soft, but he always cooked wonderful things for me to eat. S’pose it was ’cos I never had a mother. Or at least I can’t remember her.’

  There was silence as the young captives thought of their own parents. Mattimeo began to wish that he had never caused his father and mother any trouble. He looked down at his chains and resolved that if ever he got free and returned to Redwall he would be a good son.

  ‘Matti, are you asleep?’ Tess’s urgent whisper broke into his thoughts.

  ‘No, Tess. What is it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you but you must keep calm. When Wedgeback slipped and fell, he lost his little dagger. You know, the one he always carries tucked in the back of his belt. I’ve got it.’

  Mattimeo tried to remain still, but his senses were alert. ‘Great! Well done, Tess. Do you think we can use it to open the locks of our chains?’

  ‘Ssshh, not so loud. I’m sure of it. I’ve just opened mine. It’s only a simple twirl lock and the dagger point works perfectly. Stay still, I’ll get it to you.’

  Tim and the others had heard Tess.

  ‘Good old Tess, this is the chance we’ve been waiting for!’

  ‘We’ll have to leave it for a bit. I can see the slavers lying down in the mouth of a cave over there. Wait for a while, until they’re asleep.’

  Mattimeo felt Tess sliding the dagger slowly under his outstretched paw. He slipped it up his habit sleeve. Yawning loudly, he turned over and huddled up so he could inspect the weapon. It was a small double-edged blade that ran to a sharp point. Mattimeo inserted it into the keyhole of his paw manacles and twisted a few times. The simple mechanism gave a small click and opened, and he had one paw free. It was only the work of a moment to open the other. He raised his head carefully and looked over towards the guards, but they were not yet fully asleep.

  ‘Auma, can you and Jube keep an eye on those guards and let me know when you think they’re well asleep? Tim, I’m going to pass you the dagger. Work quietly, try not to rattle the chains.’

  ‘Mattimeo, it’s all very well getting our chains unfastened, but there are seven of us, where will we go?’ Tess worried. ‘Besides, I can’t see seven escaping from here without some noise.’

  Mattimeo unfolded his plan. ‘Listen, all of you. There’s only one way we can go, and it’s the best way: straight into the river. We can slide off the bank one by one. There must be an overhang, if these rocks are anything to go by. We hide underneath an overhang, maybe upriver, going south. Slagar will think we have tried to go in the other direction, towards home. Besides, we can’t be tracked if we stay in the water. We must find somewhere to hide under the bank and stay there. When all the fuss dies down, they’ll have to continue to where they’re going. When they’re gone, then we can come out and make our way back to Redwall. Agreed?’

  So it was agreed. The escape plan was to be carried out.

  With Matthias’s sword point at his throat and Orlando’s axe resting delicately upon his tail, Scurl told the best story that his agile mind could think up.

  ‘They be woodlanders. Scurl tried to helpem. Please be easy with your longblade, warrior mouse. I see Slagar and his villains with slaves, so I say to me, I must helpem, helpem. But no good, weasels drive me off, stoats, ferrets chase Scurl. I could not help woodlanders.’

  Matthias relaxed the sword point a fraction. ‘Where did you get all these things: robe rope, seasonday gift, tail bracelet, blue flowers? The creatures that gave them to you, three mice, a squirrel and a young badger, are they all alive?’

  Scurl nodded vigorously. ‘Oyes oyes, woodlanders all alive. I throw food to them when Slagar not watching. They give me these and say; “Tell others to follow us.”’

  Orlando watched the crested newt. He did not like or trust the creature.

  ‘Think carefully lizard,’ the big badger said in a low, dangerous tone, ‘because if I think that you are lying, then you have seen your last sunset. Which way did they go?’

  Scurl swallowed har
d.

  ‘S-south . . . Straight south.’ His voice was little more than a nervous whisper as he pointed the direction.

  Orlando and Matthias looked to Jabez Stump. The hedgehog nodded.

  ‘He speaks truth,’ he confirmed.

  Jess Squirrel gathered up the possessions that her son and his friends had parted with, and stuffed them into her backpack. ‘I’ll keep hold of these. If you’ve been telling the truth, you can have them back when we return this way. If you haven’t, then we’ll find you anyway and make you wish you’d never been born.’

  With Basil and Cheek in the lead, they strode off south through the woodlands, leaving behind them Scurl the frilled newt, who without a moment’s hesitation started running north, hoping that the grim-faced searchers would never again cross his path.

  Towards evening, the shadows began lengthening. Above the treetops, Orlando spotted twin hills.

  ‘Tracks heading straight there, old lad,’ Basil said, reading his thoughts. ‘Betcher the jolly old young uns are somewhere up there right now, wot?’

  Cheek had begun to adopt Basil’s mannerisms. He struck a pose and tried hard to waggle his ears. ‘Oh, wot, wot. Definitely, old feller. Let’s jolly well follow the jolly, jolly old rascals, wot, wot?’

  A hefty cuff from Orlando’s blunt paw sent the impudent young otter head over tail. ‘Mind your manners, waterdog. Don’t make fun of your elders and betters.’

  Silently and with great care they approached the twin hills that reared from the forest floor in the failing light, Matthias and Orlando with weapons drawn in the lead, Cheek rubbing his head as he followed up the rear with Basil.

  Slagar’s keen eye had picked them out. He lay on the summit of the hill, watching their progress, a cunning idea forming itself in his fertile mind.

  Bageye, Skinpaw and Scringe watched the masked fox. They too had seen the searchers and were anxiously wondering what their leader would do about the warlike warriors who were getting closer by the moment. Slagar turned to them, his good eye glinting evilly from the mask as it sucked in and out with his excited panting.

  ‘Right, here’s the plan. Listen carefully now, I want no mistakes. Scringe, run down and tell Threeclaws and Halftail to march the prisoners into that cave at the foot of this hill. Make sure they leave plenty of tracks. Then march them straight out again, cover the tracks coming out and head them south at full speed. Bageye, Skinpaw, you come with me. We’ll move further along this hilltop until we’re above the cave. There’s plenty of boulders and rocks lying about. We’ll make a great heap on top of here, right above the cave.’

  Bageye and Skinpaw looked quizzically at Slagar, but they knew better than to ask questions, even if they did not understand. Slagar the Cruel gave orders to be obeyed, not questioned.

  Slagar led them along the crest of the hill, giggling wickedly to himself. Tonight he would have all the fish in one net and his revenge would be complete. They would die slowly, oh so slowly!

  19

  LATE EVENING SHADES turned the stones of Redwall Abbey to a dull crimson, the last rays of the sun sending slender slivers of ruby and gold from behind a purple-blue cloudbank. Beneath the ground, Cornflower sat holding baby Rollo as they watched the Foremole and his team working expertly to remove the great foundation stone. They had bars, wedges and timber props, besides chisels and hauling ropes. The mole leader gave directions as he scuttled here and there surveying the job.

  ‘You’m a-finisht chisellen thurr, Rooter?’

  ‘Aye, that’ll do et, zurr.’

  ‘Jarge, set they wedgin’s in. Gaffer’n oi’ll sloid these yurr greasy planks under. You’n Rooter set they ropes’n’ooks in’t stone. Stay a-clear, missis, an’ moind yon hinfant.’

  A large solid implement which the moles called a ‘gurtpaw’ had been set up. It was a strange affair resembling a sideways block and tackle. The busy mole workbeasts attached the ropes to a big round treetrunk bobbin and began cranking a long stout beech handle. Baby Rollo gazed wide-eyed. He whispered to Winifred the otter. ‘What they doin’?’

  ‘Hush now, little un, and watch. See, the slack’s bein’ taken up on those ropes the more they work that handle.’

  Gradually the ropes tightened and began to creak and strain. The massive stone block moved a fraction, and its base was now resting on three flat well-greased sycamore planks. The moles began shouting in an even chant:

  ‘Yurr she coom!

  Hurr she doo!

  Yurr she coom!

  ’eave, mole crew!’

  The Founder’s stone began sliding out of the place where it had been set long ages ago. It moved at an angle, leaving Foremole room to scurry in and jam two upright sections of green pine as props.

  ‘Look Rollo, see, the big stone is moving!’ Cornflower was almost dancing with excitement.

  Ants dashed this way and that, stone ground against stone, rope hawsers creaked and groaned as the mole crew chanted their rock-moving song, with Baby Rollo’s gruff little voice singing in time with them. More props were brought up as the stone block slid ponderously forward, leaving a large square hole in the wall.

  ‘Cease’n’alt, moles, the job be dun!’ Foremole’s announcement set his crew to leaning and panting against the gurtpaw, their tongues lolling out as they passed a canteen of cider from one to another. The mole leader stood to one side and bowed low.

  ‘Thurr it be, gennelbeasts, take they torcher an’ ’ave a gudd viewen insoides.’

  Smiling happily, Winifred and Cornflower congratulated the moles. ‘Well done, Foremole. Thank you, team, you did work hard. We could never have moved such a stone without you.’

  If a mole could have blushed, it would have been the Foremole. He and his crew stood about, awkwardly kicking the loose earth with their blunt digging paws.

  ‘Hurr, bless ee, marm, it wurr a nuthin’, glad to be o’ survice.’

  With Cornflower in the lead, they made their way through the hole. The torch was guttering low. Winifred bade them stand still. Moving around the walls the otter found dried brushwood torches in rusting metal sconces. She touched each one with her own torch as she passed, and she soon had the whole place illuminated.

  It was a large square rock chamber with an earthen floor. In one corner there was a massive anthill reaching halfway up the wall. They skirted it, taking care not to disturb the little folk. Cornflower’s breath caught in her throat at the sight that confronted them. It was a beautiful redstone statue of a wise old mouse, sitting on a simple chair of wrought stone, one paw upraised, the other holding open a stone book which lay in her lap.

  Winifred gazed at the kindly old face. It had a wrinkly smile, small square spectacles perched on the end of its nose and drooping whiskers which gave it a homely look. ‘By the fur! She seems to be watchin’ us. I wonder who she was?’

  Cornflower instinctively knew. ‘That’s old Abbess Germaine, the designer of Redwall. I’m sure of it. She looks so peaceful and gentle sitting there.’

  Foremole brushed dusty earth from the base of the statue. ‘Lookit yurr!’ he called.

  In the flickering torchlights, Cornflower stooped to read the inscription carved on the base plinth:

  ‘Germaine, first Abbess of Redwall. I came from home to find a home. The seasons were good to me. Here I will rest with the little folk.’

  Winifred nodded in admiration. ‘That’s how it should be. She looks a nice old cove, sittin’ there with her specs an’ her book.’

  Foremole mounted the base and ran heavy expert paws over the statue. ‘Creatur’ oo carven this’n were a maister, mark moi word. It be a gurt piece o’ work, hurr.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Cornflower agreed. ‘Look, there’s even a little stone ant crawling up the pages of the book. But what are we supposed to be looking for?’

  Winifred shrugged. ‘Blowed if I know. Seems we’ve gone to a lot of trouble just to find a wonderfully carved statue. Very nice, but not much help.’

  They began searching t
he chamber carefully from earthen floor to stone ceiling, checking each stone in the walls without success.

  ‘Ho hummm!’ Cornflower yawned. ‘I think we’d better leave it for tonight and come here again tomorrow. It must be late night now. Come on, baby Rollo, or we’ll miss supper. Come down here, you little terror.’

  The infant bankvole had climbed up on the statue. He was sitting on the knee of the Abbess, alongside the stone book she held in her lap. Winifred went after him. He tried to wriggle away, but she caught him and lifted him off the statue’s lap. As she did, Rollo grabbed at the replica of the tiny stone ant crawling upon the open pages of the book. Much to Winifred’s annoyance, it came away in his paw.

  ‘Naughty Rollo! Ooh, you little scallawag, you’ve broken the lovely statue.’

  Rollo held the stone ant up to show Winifred that he had not broken it. There was a copper pin beneath it which had been holding it in place upon a small hole drilled in the stone pages. ‘Not broke, Win, look.’

  ‘Moind ee, missis!’ The team mole Gaffer pawed Cornflower swiftly to one side and threw himself flat at the foot of the statue. When baby Rollo had picked up the stone ant on the copper pin, something happened to the book which lay sloping downward from the lap of the Abbess Germaine.

  The pages of the book, which looked for all the world like a solid slab cunningly carved to represent a block of pages, slipped. A thin section slid out from the block and fell towards the floor. Luckily, Gaffer had noticed it beginning to move, and the fragile tablet of stone landed on his soft furred back as he lay beneath the statue. Fortunately it was not damaged. Patting him gratefully on the head, Cornflower reverently picked up the delicate tablet in both paws.

  ‘Well saved, Gaffer! This is what we were looking for. Who would have thought it. A stone page from a stone book, covered in writing too!’