Mattimeo

Chapter 13

It was early evening and the rain hammered down relentlessly. Abbot Mordalfus stood with Sister Agnes

on the site of the feast. The roasting pit was a mass of soggy black embers. Mordalfus threw a scrap of

parchment into it.

“This was how the fox knew all about us,” he explained. “It was Little Vitch who wrote all the

information about us. We gave him a home and he was a spy in our midst. John Churchmouse saw him

running with those ruffians when they fled.”

Sister Agnes’s whiskers shook with indignation. “The little hooligan! To think that we took him in,

sheltered and fed him, and that’s how he repaid us, by spying and noting it all down for the fox. Young

Mattimeo should have given him a bit more of what he gave him in the orchard, Father Abbot, that’s what I

say.”

“I agree with you, Sister,” the old mouse sighed. “Sometimes violence can be fair when it is used as a

chastisement against badness. Is that Brother Sedge waving to us from the Abbey? Come, sister, there may

be some news for us.”

As they walked over to Great Hall the Matthias and Methuselah bells rang out. They were out of

sequence and not tolled with their usual vigour. Agnes pointed to the bell tower.

“That will be Cornflower, teaching baby Rollo to make our bells speak. How good of her, she’s keeping

little Rollo’s mind off his mother. He still doesn’t know she’s dead.”

Sister Agnes wiped a tear away with her habit sleeve.

In Great Hall Matthias was drying himself off, in company with Basil Stag Hare, Warbeak and several of

her sparrow scouts.

The Abbot shook a stern paw at them. “Where did you go off to without as much as a word to me?”

Matthias tossed the towel aside wearily. “We’ve been up the north road. Warbeak and her sparrows

flew ahead of us. But the rain was too heavy, so there are no tracks.”

Basil blew droplets of rain from his whiskers. “Tchah! Bally old rain. They’ve either travelled up that

road a lot faster than we thought they could, or else cut off east into the woodlands or west out onto the

plains. Couldn’t make out a confounded thing with the old skyjuice pouring down like that.”

Warbeak fluttered her wings irritably. “They worms, no can travel faster’n us with cart to pull. We

catchem, you see.”

Abbot Mordalfus gathered up the wet towels. “So, they could have travelled anywhere in three

directions from the road. One thing is certain, no creature can track them in this rain, so what can we do?”

Thunder rumbled outside, a vivid lightning flash streaked across the windows of Great Hall. Basil

twitched his ears miserably.

“No signs of this little lot lettin’ up, old sport,” he said to Matthias. “We’re really at sixes and sevens,

laddie. Can’t sit around and twiddle our paws and can’t get out and track ’em.”

Matthias wiped his sword dry, gritting his teeth angrily. “Track them or not, we can’t let them get away

with our young ones.”

The Abbot folded both paws into his wide habit sleeves. “We’ll bury our dead and think hard while

we’re doing it.”

Ambrose Spike and Cornflower kept baby Rollo at their side as they tolled the bells that evening. The sky

was leaden purple-grey, and rain poured ceaselessly as the procession of Redwallers marched solemnly to

the burying place. Dressed in his ceremonial robe, the Abbot stood over the twin graves, at the foot of

which two weeping willow saplings had been transplanted.

Tearfully the woodlanders passed in single file, each leaving a small memento to their fallen friends, a

young mousemother and a fat little Friar. Some brought flowers, others carried offerings of fruit and nuts,

or a treasured object they thought might please, a paw-worked purse, a carved wooden ladle, a dockleaf

made from green felt.

Matthias stood alongside Mordalfus, dressed in his full armour, bearing the sword. Together the

warrior and the patriarch intoned the prayer for those who would rest forever in the Abbey grounds.

“Suns that set as seasons turn,

Flowers grow and wither yet.

Who can say what flame may burn,

Friends that we have known and met.

Look into the young ones’ eyes.

See the winter turn to spring,

Across the quiet eternal lake,

Ripples spreading in a ring.”

The rain continued unabated as they filed back to the Abbey, leaving Foremole and his crew to replace

the earth gently over their fallen companions.

Supper was served in Cavern Hole. Many had no appetite for food, Matthias least of all, yet he forced

himself to eat his fill. So did Cornflower, as she fought back tears for her son and tried gallantly to cope

with baby Rollo.

“Eat up, come on, all of you!” the warrior mouse urged his companions in a tight voice. “There’s

nothing to be done except eat and store energy. Night has fallen and soon we must rest. But first thing

tomorrow I will choose a rescue party. Rain or no rain, we strike north again. I will make that masked fox

wish that he had never arrived at our gates, and we will bring our young ones back home to Redwall where

they belong.”

Rain slashed down through the bushes and trees, drenching slaves and slavers alike. Tess Churchmouse

stumbled against Mattimeo and fell heavily into the churned-up mud, causing the line of chained prisoners

to come to a bumping, clanking halt.

Halftail scurried up, swinging his cane. “Gerrup! Up on your paws, you little backslider.”

Mattimeo threw himself forward, catching the stinging blow that was aimed at Tess. Auma lent a paw

to help the churchmouse.

“Up you come, quick, back into line and keep going. It’s the only way to stay out of trouble,” the

badger advised her.

Between them, Mattimeo and Auma hauled Tess upright and shunted her forward.

“Thanks for your help, friend,” Mattimeo said.

The young badger shook rain from her striped muzzle. “Listen, I’ll give you a tip to pass on to the

others. Don’t let the running line drag. Hold it in your paws like this, not too tight, and give yourself

enough slack to move easily. That way you won’t be tripping up so often.”

Mattimeo gratefully passed the information to his friends. It worked well. However, Mattimeo was

growing impatient with Cynthia Bankvole. She was constantly weeping, stumbling and dragging at the

fetters. “Why am I being kept prisoner and made to march through the rain and the wet like this?” she

wailed piteously. “I’ve never harmed any creature. Look, my habit’s all muddy and soggy. Oh, why don’t

they let us sleep? I’m so tired!”

Mattimeo could stand it no longer. “Oh, stop snivelling and whining, Cynthia!” he snarled angrily.

“You’ve done nothing but moan and cry since you woke today.”

Tess Churchmouse interrupted his ill-tempered tirade. “Mattimeo, don’t speak to Cynthia that way! I’m

sure your father wouldn’t talk to another creature like that.”

Mattimeo tugged the chain rebelliously. “Well, how am I supposed to talk to her? She’s nothing but a

whining nuisance. And another thing, why have I got to be like my father all the time?”

“Because you are the son of the Redwall Warrior, weak ones may look to you for defense and

protection,” Tess replied in a level tone. “Cynthia isn’t as strong as you and she doesn’t realize the danger

we’re in. No one has ever treated her in this cruel way before, and to add insult to injury, you start

snapping and shouting at her. I know she’s only a silly little vole, but that doesn’t entitle you to be nasty to

her.”

Mattimeo was dumbfounded. Tess was right, of course, but she had no reason to start shaming him

within hearing of the others. He was about to start a justifying argument when Vitch strolled up, swinging

his cane with a malicious grin on his face.

“Come on, you dozy Redwall lot, keep marching. Be strong like Mattimeo. After all, he’s the one you

can thank for all this. Slagar wouldn’t have chanced within a mile of your precious abbey if he hadn’t

wanted to steal the famous warrior’s son. Ha, just think, you’d all be sleeping safe and dry tonight in your

dormitories if it weren’t for Matt the brat.”

Tim Churchmouse ducked under a whippy aspen branch. He caught hold of it, swung it forward and

let it go suddenly. It swiped Vitch across the chest, sending him sprawling in the wet grass.

The undersized rat sprang up. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” he said, his voice dripping hatred. “Let

me tell you something to cheer you up. Me and Slagar took care of the stupid fat Friar, Mrs. Bankvole too,

and that dozy father of yours. Haha, we did them good and proper, killed ’em. You won’t be seeing them

anymore.”

Ignoring his chains, Tim sprang forward, dragging the others with him. He was on top of Vitch, biting

through his ear before any creature could stop him.

“You filthy lying little ratscum, I’ll kill you!” Tim shouted.

Slagar, Halftail and some others came bounding through the rainy curtain and flung themselves into

the fray, laying about viciously with their canes, trying hard to pull the furious Tim off Vitch. Mattimeo,

Sam, Tess and Auma hurled themselves into the melee, kicking and scratching madly. Even Cynthia Vole

managed to get a few nips in.

It did not last long. Finally overcome by slavers, the captives were beaten back into line. Slagar blew

mud and stormwater through the mouth aperture of his silk mask as he prodded the cane hard against

Mattimeo’s chest.

“You started this. You’re the troublemaker. Well, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget before you’re

much older.”

Vitch lay in the mud, holding his ear to staunch the flow of blood. He pointed at Tim.

“It was that one, he tried to bite me ear off, I was only walking along mindin’ my own busi—”

The masked fox struck the rat’s outstretched paw with his cane. “I’ve told you once before, ratface. Now

stop slobbering down there and get up on your paws, or you’ll find yourself chained in line with these

others.”

For long, weary hours the slave line staggered and stumbled through the rain-battered forest. Mattimeo

and his friends took turns napping as they marched, each keeping the other moving straight as they

snatched a small respite. Brambles tore and tugged at their saturated habits, which clung tightly about

them, making an extra burden to carry. Chain manacles rubbed and wore, cutting through fur to sore and

chafed limbs. Paws that had been accustomed to soft Abbey sward soon became raw and pierced by thorns,

stung by nettles. Caked with mud and drenched in rain, they staggered onward. No one was allowed to

walk. The slavers drove them hard and fast, dogtrotting through woodlands and speeding up when

passing through open clearings. Slagar was anxious to get as far from Redwall as possible while the rain

kept covering their trail.

Dawn broke over the column. Sullen grey-black skies rumbled thunder, occasionally flashing forked

lightning and keeping up the remorseless deluge of rain. Slagar shielded his eyes as he looked upward.

Truth to tell, he was as weary as his slaves or slavers, having to lead, run up and down the length of the

line all night and keep a constant vigil against trouble breaking out. He signalled to Wedgeback.

“We’ll rest for a while. String ’em out between that beech and the big oak yonder. Keep them under that

low fringe of shrub growing between the trees. Better feed ’em first.”

The captives were thrown an assortment of edible roots and plants. Water was everywhere, so there

was no need to dish it out. After the lines were wound around the two broad treetrunks the captives were

allowed to slump down. Half sheltered from the driving rain, they lay exhausted beneath the low bushes.

Mattimeo was jerked roughly out of his slumber as the chains were loosened.

“Come on, mouse, on yer paws. The Chief wants a word with you.”

The young mouse allowed himself to be dragged, half awake and pawsore, by Wedgeback and

Threeclaws. Slagar sat awaiting him in a makeshift den at the base of a big spruce.

“Come in, Mattimeo. You two, get about your business. I have something to tell our little friend which

concerns only him and me.”

Wedgeback and Threeclaws departed. Slagar leaned back, the silken hood quivering and twitching as

he watched his captive through the twin eyeslits. “Come and sit here, Mattimeo,” he said, his voice

sounding almost friendly. “Try to keep your eyes and ears open. I don’t want you dropping off to sleep just

yet. I’m going to tell you a little true story, so pay attention.”

The dusty path outside Redwall Abbey had been churned into mud by constant rain. Gloomy puddles and

stretches of water lay in the depressions of the road. Matthias pulled his hood up over his ears and

signalled to the party waiting at the threshold of the main gate in the watery dawn light.

“We march north!”

Overhead, the Sparra patrols took off into the driving rain. Matthias, Jess Squirrel and Mrs.

Churchmouse headed the march. Mr. Churchmouse was still too unsteady on his paws to be in the

vanguard with the others who had lost young ones to the fox.

Basil Stag Hare joined them, still nibbling breakfast from a haversack tied about his narrow chest.

“Reminds me of the great rains ten seasons ago, or was it eleven? Filthy stuff, rain. Isn’t much fun to

drink, either. Sooner have October ale any day.”

Matthias could not resist a smile, despite the seriousness of the mission. “Stop chunnering, you great

old feedbag, and get tracking for signs.”

“What, er, righto sir. No sooner a word than a sniff, quick’s the word, sharp’s the action, eyes front and

all that.”

Progress was painfully slow. The ditch to the west and the flatland one side of the path had to be

searched, the path itself and the woodland fringe on the opposite side were carefully scrutinized. Whether

it was the continuous rain or the oppressive sky Matthias could not tell, but an air of hopelessness seemed

to pervade the search.

At midmorning they left the path to shelter beneath some trees on the woodland side, squatting to share

bread and cheese, passing a canteen of blackberry cordial from one to another. The atmosphere was

decidedly suppressed as they crouched gazing out at the western plain, the horizon lost in a veil of

rainwater, listening to the ceaseless pitter patter of raindrops on woodland leaves. Each creature had his or

her own feelings of sorrow, grief, loss, regret, or just puzzlement as to why this sudden misfortune had

been visited upon their peaceful Redwall home.

As always, Basil was first to shake things up. The gangling hare bobbed back upon the rainy road once

more.

“Wallopin’ weasels,” he called. “What’s all this? Layin’ about under the trees like a load of saturated

stoats, fillin’ your faces like a pile of moonstruck moles, squattin’ there with your great jaws flappin’ like

frogs at a flychasin’. Come on, let’s be havin’ you! Form up here, chins in, chests out, shoulders straight,

paws at the correct angle to the fur of the hindlegs. Last one in line’s on a fizzer. Jump to attention like

this!”

Basil leapt high into the air, landing squarely on splayed hindpaws. No sooner had he hit the path with

a squelch than he shot into the air again with his face squinched tight in pain.

“Yowchaballyhoop!”

Quickly Matthias was at his side. “Basil, what is it, are you hurt?”

The hare held up a hindpaw. “Hurt? I’m bally well near speared to death, old lad. Take a gander at me

flippin’ paw, will you? I’ve been skewered by a tree trunk.”

Matthias inspected Basil’s hindpaw. “Hmm, it’s a large splinter, quite deep too.”

“Ha, splinter?” The retired regimental hare puffed his cheeks out indignantly. “Splinter, y’say. My life,

if that’s not an enemy spear or at least a rusty dagger stuck in there m’ name’s not Stag Hare, sir!”

Matthias tried to keep a straight face. “Righto, Basil, hop over onto the grass under the trees here. Jess,

lend a paw, will you? You’re good at getting splinters, er, tree trunks out. The rest of you, carry on north up

the path. We’ll catch up with you as soon as we’ve dealt with our wounded warrior here.”

Mrs. Churchmouse hefted a copper ladle she had brought along to deal with the slavers. “Right, form

up and follow me. Search both sides of the road and the path as well. See you three later.”

Basil shook his head in admiration. “That’s the good old style. You give ’em mud and vinegar, marm,

just like my old mum used to give me. Yowch! Whatcha doin’, Jess? Tryin’ to hack me old paw off?”

“Keep quiet, you big baby,” the squirrel snorted. “Matthias, hold him still while I dig this splinter out.

Hold steady now, I think I’ve got the end of it.”

“Ahoo ahah! Easy there, old tree-walloper. Oohooh!”

“Tree-walloper! I’ll give you tree-walloper, you flop-eared foodbin. Be still, here it comes. Aha, gotcha!”

Jess drew forth a long sharp wood splinter. “Now suck your pad and spit out awhile, then I’ll tie a few

dockleaves round it. What d’you make of this, Matthias?”

Matthias peered closely at the splinter. “Blue paint, it’s got blue paint on it. I’ll bet a bushel of acorns to

a cask of ale it’s from that cart.”

“See the trouble and pain I go to findin’ clues for you buffers,” Basil sniffed nobly. “I say, chaps, is that

a piece of torn cloth on that bush behind you?”

Jess bounded over and retrieved the scrap of material. “Indeed it is. Red and yellow, just like that

covering the fox ducked under as we came out of the Abbey gate.”

They investigated, searching deeper into the woodland.

“Here’s a broken branch. Rain never did that.”

“Some bark’s been scuffed from this willow here.”

“Look, axle grease on the long grass!”

Matthias straightened up. “That’s it. They did pass this way, cutting off the road and striking east

through the forest. If we hurry we may catch them up before night. They can’t travel fast in woodland

pulling a cart.”

“But what about the others?”

“Can’t spare the time to fetch ’em, I’m ’fraid. Besides, they’d wander all over the show and hold us up.”

“You’re right, Basil, we can deal with the fox and his band if we take them by surprise. Let’s leave a

message at the roadside for Mrs. Churchmouse and the others in case they come back looking for us. Here,

I’ll write on this haversack with some charcoal and we’ll stand it on a stick by the side of the path.”

“Capital wheeze, laddie buck. Right, forward the buffs and don’t worry about B. Stag Hare esquire. It

takes more than a splinter to keep a good scout down, y’know.”

A short while later, the trio had struck off east into the wet woodlands of Mossflower.