Contents
Cover
Title Page
Map
Epigraph
Prologue
Book One
The Wall
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Book Two
The Quest
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Book Three
The Warrior
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
Also by Brian Jacques
Copyright
Lord Brocktree
Martin the Warrior
Mossflower
The Legend of Luke
Outcast of Redwall
Mariel of Redwall
The Bellmaker
Salamandastron
Redwall
Mattimeo
The Pearls of Lutra
The Long Patrol
Marlfox
The Taggerung
Triss
Loamhedge
Rakkety Tam
High Rhulain
Redwall Friend & Foe
A Redwall Winter’s Tale
The Tribes of Redwall: Mice
The Tribes of Redwall: Badgers
Click onto the Redwall website and find out more about
your favourite characters from the legendary world of
Redwall, and their creator, Brian Jacques!
www.redwall.org
REDWALL
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 446 45317 9
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Random House Group Company
This ebook edition published 2013
Copyright © Brian Jacques, 1986
Illustrations copyright © Gary Chalk, 1986
First Published in Great Britain
Red Fox 9781862301382 1986
The right of Brian Jacques and Gary Chalk to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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.
(Rhyme from beneath the Great Hall tapestry)
It was the start of the Summer of the Late Rose. Mossflower country shimmered gently in a peaceful haze, bathing delicately at each dew-laden dawn, blossoming through high sunny noontides, languishing in each crimson-tinted twilight that heralded the soft darkness of June nights.
Redwall stood foursquare along the marches of the old south border, flanked on two sides by Mossflower Woods’ shaded depths. The other half of the Abbey overlooked undulating sweeps of meadowland, its ancient gate facing the long dusty road on the western perimeter.
From above, it resembled some fabulous dusky jewel, fallen between a green mantle of light silk and dark velvet. The first mice had built the Abbey of red sandstone quarried from pits many miles away in the north-east. The Abbey building was covered across its south face by that type of ivy known as Virginia creeper. The onset of autumn would turn the leaves into a cape of fiery hue, thus adding further glory to the name and legend of Redwall Abbey.
Matthias cut a comical little figure as he wobbled his way along the cloisters, with his large sandals flip-flopping and his tail peeping from beneath the baggy folds of an over-sized novice’s habit. He paused to gaze upwards at the cloudless blue sky and tripped over the enormous sandals. Hazelnuts scattered out upon the grass from the rush basket he was carrying. Unable to stop, he went tumbling cowl over tail.
Bump!
The young mouse squeaked in dismay. He rubbed tenderly at his damp snub nose whilst slowly taking stock of where he had landed: directly at the feet of Abbot Mortimer!
Immediately Matthias scrambled about on all fours, hastily trying to stuff nuts back into the basket as he muttered clumsy apologies, avoiding the stern gaze of his elder.
‘Er, sorry, Father Abbot. I tripped, y’see. Trod on my Abbot, Father Habit. Oh dear, I mean. . . .’
The Father Abbot blinked solemnly over the top of his glasses. Matthias again. What a young buffoon of a mouse. Only the other day he had singed old Brother Methuselah’s whiskers while lighting candles.
The elder’s stern expression softened. He watched the little novice rolling about on the grass, grappling with large armfuls of the smooth hazelnuts which constantly seemed to escape his grasp. Shaking his old grey head, yet trying to hide a smile, Abbot Mortimer bent and helped to gather up the fallen nuts.
‘Oh Matthias, Matthias, my son,’ he said wearily. ‘When will you learn to take life a little slower, to walk with dignity and humility? How can you ever hope to be accepted as a mouse of Redwall, when you are always dashing about grinning from whisker to tail like a mad rabbit?’
Matthias tossed the last of the hazelnuts into the basket and stood awkwardly shuffling his large sandals in the grass. How could he say aloud what was in his heart?
The Abbot put his paw around the young mouse’s shoulders, sensing his secret yearnings, for he had ruled Redwall wisely over a great number of years and gained much experience of mouselife. He smiled down at his young charge and spoke kindly to him. ‘Come with me, Matthias. It is time we talked together.’
A curious thrush perching in a gnarled pear tree watched the two figures make their way at a sedate pace in the direction of Great Hall, one clad in the dark greeny-brown of the order, the other garbed in the lighter green of a novice. They conversed earnestly in low tones. Thinking what a clever bird he was, the thrush swooped down on the basket that had been left behind. Twisters! The basket contained only hard nuts, locked tight within their shells. Feigning lack of interest, lest any other birds had been witness to his silly mistake, he began jauntily whistling a few bars of his melodious summer song, strolling nonchalantly over to the cloister walls in search of snails.
It was cool inside Great Hall. Sunlight flooded down in slanting rainbow-hued shafts from the high, narrow stained-glass windows. A million coloured dust-motes danced and swirled as the two mice trod the ancient stone floor. The Father Abbot halted in front of the wall on which hung a long tapestry. This was the pride and joy of Redwall. The oldest part had been woven by the founders of the abbey, but each successive generation had added to it; thus the tapestry was not only a priceless treasure, it was also a magnificent chronicle of early Redwall history.
The Abbot studied the wonderment in Matthias’s eyes as he asked him a question, the answer to which the wise mouse already knew. ‘What are you looking at, my son?’
Matthias pointed to the figure woven into the tapestry. It was a heroic-looking mouse with a fearless smile on his handsome face. Clad in armour, he leaned casually on an impressive sword, while behind him foxes, wildcats, and vermin fled in terror. The young mouse gazed in admiration.
‘Oh, Father Abbot,’ he sighed. ‘If only I could be like Martin the Warrior. He was the bravest, most courageous mouse that ever lived!’
The Abbot sat down slowly on the cool stone floor, resting his back against the wall.
‘Listen to what I say, Matthias. You have been like a son to me, ever since you first came to our gates as an orphaned woodland mouse, begging to be taken in. Come, sit by me and I will try to explain to you what our Order is all about.
‘We are mice of peace. Oh, I know that Martin was a warrior mouse, but those were wild days when strength was needed. The strength of a champion such as Martin. He arrived here in the deep winter when the Founders were under attack from many foxes, vermin, and a great wildcat. So fierce a fighter was Martin that he faced the enemy single-pawed, driving them mercilessly, far from Mossflower. During the rout Martin fought a great battle against overwhelming odds. He emerged victorious after slaying the wildcat with his ancient sword, which became famous throughout the land. But in the last bloody combat Martin was seriously wounded. He lay injured in the snow until the mice found him. They brought him back to the Abbey and cared for his hurts until he regained his strength.
‘Then something seemed to come over him. He was transformed by what could only be called a mouse miracle. Martin forsook the way of the warrior and hung up his sword.
‘That was when our Order found its true vocation. All the mice took a solemn vow never to harm another living creature, unless it was an enemy that sought to harm our Order by violence. They vowed to heal the sick, care for the injured, and give aid to the wretched and impoverished. So was it written, and so has it been through all the ages of mousekind since.
‘Today, we are a deeply honoured and highly respected Society. Anywhere we go, even far beyond Mossflower, we are treated with courtesy by all creatures. Even predators will not harm a mouse who wears the habit of our Order. They know he or she is one who will heal and give aid. It is an unwritten law that Redwall mice can go anywhere, through any territory, and pass unharmed. At all times we must live up to this. It is our way, our very life.’
As the Abbot spoke, so his voice increased in volume and solemnity. Matthias sat under his stern gaze, completely humbled. Abbot Mortimer stood and put a wrinkled old paw lightly on the small head, right between the velvety ears, now drooping with shame.
Once more the Abbot’s heart softened towards the little mouse. ‘Poor Matthias, alas for your ambitions. The day of the warrior is gone, my son. We live in peaceful times, thank heaven and you need only think of obeying me, your Abbot, and doing as you are bidden. In time to come, when I am long gone to my rest, you will think back to this day and bless my memory, for then you will be a true member of Redwall. Come now, my young friend, cheer up; it is the Summer of the Late Rose. There are many, many days of warm sun ahead of us. Go back and get your basket of hazelnuts. Tonight we have a great feast to celebrate – my Golden Jubilee as Abbot. When you’ve taken the nuts to the kitchen, I have a special task for you. Yes indeed, I’ll need some fine fish for the table. Get your rod and line. Tell Brother Alf that he is to take you fishing in the small boat. That’s what young mice like doing, isn’t it? Who knows, you may land a fine trout or some sticklebacks! Run along now, young one.’
Happiness filled Matthias from tail to whiskers as he bobbed a quick bow to his superior and shuffled off. Smiling benignly, the Abbot watched him go. Little rascal, he must have a word with the Almoner, to see if some sandals could be found that were the right fit for Matthias. Small wonder the poor mouse kept tripping up!
The high, warm sun shone down on Cluny the Scourge.
Cluny was coming!
He was big, and tough; an evil rat with ragged fur and curved, jagged teeth. He wore a black eyepatch; his eye had been torn out in battle with a pike.
Cluny had lost an eye.
The pike had lost its life!
Some said that Cluny was a Portuguese rat. Others said he came from the jungles far across the wide oceans. Nobody knew for sure.
Cluny was a bilge rat; the biggest, most savage rodent that ever jumped from ship to shore. He was black, with grey and pink scars all over his huge sleek body, from the tip of his wet nose, up past his green and yellow slitted eye, across both his mean tattered ears, down the length of his heavy vermin-ridden back to the enormous whiplike tail which had earned him his title: Cluny the Scourge!
Now he rode on the back of the hay wagon with his five hundred followers, a mighty army of rats: sewer rats, tavern rats, water rats, dockside rats. Cluny’s army – fearing, yet following him. Redtooth, his second-in-command, carried a long pole. This was Cluny’s personal standard, and the skull of a ferret was fixed at its top. Cluny had killed the ferret. He feared no living thing.
Wild eyed, with the terror of rat smell in its nostrils, the horse plunged ahead without any driver. Where the hay cart was taking him was of little concern to Cluny. Straight on the panicked horse galloped, past the milestone lodged in the earth at the roadside, heedless of the letters graven in the stone: ‘Redwall Abbey, fifteen miles’.
Cluny spat over the edge of the cart at two young rabbits playing in a field. Tasty little things; a pity the cart hadn’t stopped yet, he thought. The high warm sun shone down on Cluny the Scourge.
Cluny was a God of War!
Cluny was coming nearer!
Beneath the Great Hall of Redwall, candles burned bright in their sconces. This was the Cavern Hole of the mice.
What a night it was going to be!
Between them, Matthias and Brother Alf had caught and landed a fully-grown grayling. They had fought and played the big fish for nearly two hours, finally wading into the shallows and dragging it to the bank. It was nearly two pounds in weight, a tribute to Brother Alf’s angling skills combined with the youthful muscles of Matthias, and their joint enthusiasm.
Constance the badger had to be called. Gripping the fish in her strong jaws, she followed the two mice to the Abbey kitchen and delivered the catch for them. Then she made her farewells; they would see her at the Jubilee feast that evening, along with lots of other Mossflower residents who had been invited to share the festivities.
Brother Alf and Matthias stood proudly beside their catch amidst the culinary hustle and bustle until they were noticed by Friar Hugo. Busy as he was, the enormously fat Hugo (who would have no other title but that of Friar) stopped what he was doing. Wiping the perspiration from his brow with a dandelion which he held with his tail, he waddled about inspecting the fish.
‘Hmm, nice shiny scales, bright eyes, beautifully fresh.’ Friar Hugo smiled so joyfully that his face disappeared amid deep dimples. He shook Alf by the paw and clapped Matthias heartily on the back as he called out between chuckles, ‘Bring the white gooseberry wine! Fetch me some rosemary, thyme, beechnuts and honey, quickly. And now, friends, now,’ he squeaked, waving the dandelion wildly with his tail, ‘I, Hugo, will create a Grayling à la Redwall that will melt in the mouth of mice. Fresh cream! I need lots of fresh cream! Bring some mint leaves too.’
They had left Friar Hugo ranting on, delirious in his joy, as they both went off to bathe and clean up; combing whiskers, curling tails, shining noses, and the hundred and one other grooming tasks that Redwall mice always performed in preparation for an epic feast.
The rafters of Cavern Hole rang to the excited buzz and laughter of the assembled creatures: hedgehogs, moles, squirrels, woodland creatures and mice of all kinds – fieldmice, hedgemice, dormice, even a family of poor little churchmice. Kindly helpers scurried about making everybody welcome.
‘Hello there, Mrs Churchmouse! Sit the children down! I’ll get them some raspberry cordial.’
‘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 awestruck 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 slackened off.
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 forward 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!’
‘What in heaven was it?’
‘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, tracers 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.
‘Three-Leg and Scratch are dead, Chief.’
‘Dead as dirt. The cart crushed ’em, Chief.’
‘Stupid fools,’ snarled Cluny. ‘Serves them right! What about the rest?’
‘Old Wormtail has lost a paw. Some of the others are really hurt.’
Cluny sneered. ‘Aah, they’ll get over it and suffer worse by the time I’m done with them. They’re getting too fat and sluggish, by the tripes! They’d not last five minutes in a storm at sea. Come on, you dead-and-alive ragbags! Get up here and gather round.’
Rats struggled from the ditch and the cart – frantic to obey the harsh command as quickly as possible. They crowded about the undamaged gatepost which their leader had chosen as a perch. None dared to cry or complain about their hurts. Who could predict what mood the Warlord was in?
‘Right, cock your lugs up and listen to me,’ Cluny snarled. ‘First, we’ve got to find out where we have docked. Let’s take a bearing on this place.’
Redtooth held up his claw. ‘The Church of Saint Ninian, Chief. It says so on the notice board over yonder.’
‘Well, no matter,’ Cluny snapped. ‘It’ll do as a berth until we find something better. Fangburn! Cheesethief!’
‘Here, Chief.’
‘Scout the area. See if you can find a better lodging for us than this heap of rubble. Trail back to the west. I think we passed a big place on the way.’
‘Aye, aye, Chief.’
‘Frogblood! Scumnose!’
‘Chief?’
‘Take fifty soldiers and see if you can round up any rats that know the lie of the land. Get big strong rats, but bring along weasels, stoats and ferrets too. They’ll do at a pinch. Mind now, don’t stand for arguments. Smash their dens up so they won’t have homes to worry about. If any refuse to join up, then kill them there and then. Understood?’
‘All clear, Chief.’
‘Ragear! Mangefur! Take twenty rats and forage for supplies. The rest of you get inside the church. Redtooth, Darkclaw, check the armour. See if there are things about that we can use as weapons: iron spike railings – there’s usually enough of them around a churchyard. Jump to it.’
Cluny had arrived!
Matthias had never stayed up all night in his life. He was just a bit tired, but strangely excited. Great events seemed to have been set in motion by his news.
Immediately upon being informed of the hay cart incident, the Abbot had insisted upon calling a special council meeting of all Redwall creatures. Once again Cavern Hole was packed to the doors, but this time it was for a purpose very different from the feast. Constance and Matthias stood in front of the Council of Elders. All about them was a hum of whispers and muttering.
Abbot Mortimer called order by ringing a small bell.
‘Pay attention, everyone. Constance and Matthias, would you please tell the Council what you saw tonight on the road to Saint Ninian’s.’
As clearly as they could, the badger and the young mouse related the incident of the rat-infested hay cart.
The Council began questioning them.
‘Rats, you say, Matthias. What type of rat?’ inquired Sister Clemence.
‘Big ones,’ Matthias replied, ‘though I’m afraid I couldn’t say what kind they were or where they had come from.’
‘What about you, Constance?’
‘Well, I remember that my old Grandad once knew a sea rat,’ she answered. ‘Going by his description, I’d say that’s what they looked like to me.’
‘And how many would you say there were of these rats?’ Father Abbot asked.
‘Couldn’t say for sure, Father Abbot. There must have been hundreds.’
‘Matthias?’
‘Oh yes, Father. I’d agree with Constance. At least four hundred.’
‘Did you notice anything else about them, Constance?’
‘Indeed I did, Father Abbot. My badger senses told me right off that these were very bad and evil rats.’
The badger’s statement caused uproar and shouts of ‘Nonsense. Pure speculation,’ and ‘That’s right! Give a rat a bad name!’
Matthias silenced the hubbub. Raising a paw, he shouted aloud, ‘Constance is right. I could feel it myself. There was one huge rat with a ferret’s skull on a pole. I got a good look at him – it was like seeing some horrible monster.’
In the silence that followed, the Abbot rose and confronted Matthias. Stooping slightly, he stared into the young mouse’s bright eyes. ‘Think carefully, my son. Was there anything special you noticed about this rat?’
Matthias thought for a moment.
‘He was much bigger than the others, Father.’
‘What else? Think, Matthias.’
‘I remember! He only had one eye.’
‘Right or left?’
‘Left, I think. Yes, it was the left, Father.’
‘Now, can you recall anything about his tail?’
‘I certainly can,’ Matthias squeaked. ‘It must have been the longest tail of any rat alive. He held it in his claw as if it were a whip.’
The Abbot paced up and down before turning to the assembly.
‘Twice in my lifetime I have heard travellers speak of this rat. He bears a name that a fox would be afraid to whisper in the darkness of midnight. Cluny the Scourge!’
A deathly hush fell upon the creatures in Cavern Hole.
Cluny the Scourge!
Surely not? He was only some kind of folk legend, a warning used by mothers when youngsters were fractious or disobedient.
‘Go to sleep or Cluny will get you!’
‘Eat up your dinner or Cluny will, come!’
‘Come in this instant, or I’ll tell Cluny!’
Most creatures didn’t even know what Cluny was. He was just some sort of bogey that lived in bad dreams and the dark corners of imagination.
The silence was broken by scornful snorts and derisive laughter. Furry elbows nudged downy ribs. Mice were beginning to smile from sheer relief. Cluny the Scourge, indeed!
Feeling slightly abashed, Matthias and Constance looked pleadingly towards the Abbot for support. Abbot Mortimer’s old face was stern as he shook the bell vigorously for silence.
‘Mice of Redwall, I see there are those amongst you who doubt the word of your Abbot.’
The quiet but authoritative words caused an embarrassed shuffling from the Council Elders. Brother Joseph stood up and cleared his throat. ‘Ahem, er, good Father Abbot, we all respect your word and look to you for guidance, but really . . . I mean. . . .’
Sister Clemence stood up smiling. She spread her paws wide. ‘Perhaps Cluny is coming to get us for staying up late.’
A roar of laughter greeted the ironic words.
Constance’s back hairs bristled. She gave an angry growl followed by a fierce bark. The mice huddled together with fright. Nobody had ever seen a snarling, angry badger at a Council meeting.
Before they could recover, Constance was up on her hind legs having her say. ‘I’ve never seen such a pack of empty-headed ninnies. You should all be ashamed of yourselves, giggling like silly little otter cubs that have caught a beetle. I never thought I’d live to see the Elders of Redwall acting in this way.’ Constance hunched her heavy shoulders and glared about with a ferocity that set them trembling. ‘Now you listen to me. Take heed of what your Father Abbot has to say. The next creature who utters one squeak will answer to me. Understood?’
The badger bowed low in a dignified manner, gesturing with her massive blunt paw. ‘The floor is yours, Father Abbot.’
‘Thank you, Constance, my good and faithful friend,’ the Abbot murmured. He looked about him, shaking his head gravely.
‘I have little more to say on the subject, but as I see that you still need convincing, here is my proposal. We will send two mice out to relieve the gatehouse. Let me see, yes . . . Brothers Rufus and George, would you kindly go and take over from Brother Methuselah? Please send him in here to me. Tell him to bring the travellers’ record volumes. Not the present issue, but the old editions which were used in past years.’
Rufus and George, both solid-looking sensible mice, took their leave with a formal bow to the Abbot.
Through a high slitted window, Matthias could see the rosy-pink and gold fingers of dawn stealing down to Cavern Hole as the candles began to flicker and smoke into stubs. All in the space of a night events had moved from festivity to a crisis, and he, Matthias, had taken a major role in both. First the big grayling, then the sighting of the cart; large happenings for a small mouse.
Old Brother Methuselah had kept the Abbey records for as long as any creature could remember. It was his life’s work and consuming passion. Besides the official chronicle of Redwall he also kept his own personal volume, full of valuable information. Travelling creatures, migratory birds, wandering foxes, rambling squirrels and garrulous hares – they all stopped and chatted with the old mouse, partaking of his hospitality, never dreaming of hurting him in any way. Methuselah had the gift of tongues. He could understand any creature, even a bird. He was an extraordinary old mouse, who lived with the company of his volumes in the solitude of the gatehouse.
Seated in the Father Abbot’s own chair, Methuselah took his spectacles from a moss-bark case, carefully perching them on the bridge of his nose. All gathered around to hear as he opened a record book and spoke in a squeak barely above a whisper.
‘Hmm, hmm, me Lord Abbot Cedric. It is Cedric, isn’t it? Oh botheration, you’ll be the new Abbot, Mortimer – the one who came after Cedric. Oh dear me, I see so many of them come and go, you know. Hmm, hmm, me Lord Abbot Mortimer and members of Redwall. I refer to a record of winter, six years back.’ Here the ancient mouse took a while to leaf through the pages. ‘Hmm, ah yes, here it is. “Late in November, Year of the Small Sweet Chestnut, from a frozen sparrowhawk come down from the far north . . .” – Peculiar chap, spoke with a strange accent. I repaired his right wing pinfeather – “. . . news of a mine disaster, caused by a large savage sea rat named Cluny. It seems that this rat wanted to settle his army in the mine. The badgers and other creatures who owned the mine drove them out. Cluny returned by night, and with his band of rats gnawed away and undermined much of the wooden shoring. This caused the mine to collapse the next day, killing the owners.”’
Brother Methuselah closed the volume and looked over his glasses at the assembly. ‘I have no need to read further, I can recite other misdeeds from memory. As the hordes of Cluny the Scourge have moved southwards over the past six years, I have gathered intelligence of other incidents: a farmhouse set alight, later that same year . . . piglets, an entire litter of them eaten alive by rats . . . sickness and disease spread through livestock herds by Cluny’s army. There was even a report brought to me two years ago by a town dog: an army of rats stampeded a herd of cows through a village, causing chaos and much destruction.’
Methuselah halted and blinked over his spectacles. ‘And you dare doubt the word of our Abbot that Cluny the Scourge exists? What idiotic mice you are, to be sure.’
Methuselah’s words caused widespread consternation. There was much agitited nibbling of paws. Nobody could doubt he spoke the truth; he was already old and wise when the most elderly among them was a blind hairless mite, puling and whimpering for a feed from its mother.
‘Oh my whiskers, what a mess.’
‘Hadn’t we better pack up and move?’
‘Maybe Cluny will spare us.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear, what shall we do?’
Matthias sprang to the middle of the floor brandishing his staff.
‘Do?’ he cried. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll be ready.’
The Abbot could not help shaking his head in admiration. It seemed that young Matthias had hidden depths.
‘Why, thank you, Matthias,’ he said. ‘I could not have put it better myself. That’s exactly what we will do. We’ll be ready!’
Cluny the Scourge was having nightmares.
He had lain down in the Churchmouses’ bed for a well-earned rest while his army were going about their allotted tasks. He should never have tried to sleep on an empty stomach, but weariness overcame his hunger.
In Cluny’s dream everything was shrouded in a red mist. The cries of his victims rang out as barns blazed, and ships foundered on a stormy red sea. Cattle bellowed in pain as he battled with the pike that had taken his eye. The Warlord thrashed about, killing, conquering and laying waste to all in his dream.
Then the phantom figure appeared.
At first it seemed a small thing, a mouse in fact, dressed in a long hooded robe. Cluny did not relish meeting with it – he could not tell why – but the mouse kept getting closer to him. For the first time in his life, he turned and ran!
Cluny went like a bat out of hell. Glancing back, he saw all the carnage, death and misery he had caused in his career. The big rat laughed insanely and ran faster: on and on, past scenes of desolation and destruction wreaked by him, Cluny the Scourge. Floating through the red mists he could still see the strange mouse hard on his heels. Cluny felt himself filled with hatred for his pursuer. It seemed to have grown larger; its eyes were cold and grim. Deep inside, Cluny knew that even he could not frighten this oddly-garbed mouse. Now it was wielding a large bright sword, an ancient weapon of terrible beauty. The battle-scarred blade had a word written upon it that he could not make out.
Sweat dripped from Cluny’s claws like stinging acid. He stumbled. The strange figure was closer; it had grown into a giant!
Cluny’s lungs felt as if they were bursting. He realized that he had slowed up and the mouse was getting closer. He tried to put on an extra burst of speed, but his legs would not obey. They ran more and more slowly; more and more heavily. Cluny cursed aloud at his leaden limbs. He saw he was trapped in deep icy mud. For the first time he knew the meaning of mindless fear and panic.
He turned slowly. Too late. The enemy was upon him; he was rooted helpless to the spot. The avenging mouse swung the sword up high; a million lights flashed from its deadly blade as it struck.
Bong!
The loud toll of the distant Joseph Bell brought Cluny whirling back from the realms of nightmare to cold reality. He shivered, wiping the sweat from his fur with a shaky claw. Saved by the bell.
He was puzzled. What did the fearful dream mean? Cluny had never been one to put his faith in omens, but this dream . . . it had been so lifelike and vivid that he shuddered.
A timid paw tapping on the door snapped Cluny from his reverie with a start. It was Ragear and Mangefur, his scavengers. They slunk into the room, each trying to hide behind the other, knowing that the poor results of their search were likely to incur the Chief’s wrath. Their assumption was correct.
Cluny’s baleful eye watched them as his long, flexible tail sorted through the paltry offerings which had dropped from their claws. A few dead beetles, two large earthworms, some unidentifiable vegetation, and the pitiful carcass of a long-dead sparrow.
Cluny smiled at Ragear and Mangefur.
With a sigh of relief they grinned back at him. The Chief was in a good mood.