Mattimeo

Chapter 18

Baby Rollo was singing again.

“Seeker Flounder inner stones, oho,

I know where da lickle folks go.”

Cornflower was searching along the ramparts of the eastern wall. The old redstone was warmed by the

sun and shaded by the quiet green heights of Mossflower. She looked around distractedly.

“Baby Rollo, hush! We won’t find anything with you singing aloud like that, it’s very distracting.”

Rollo gave her a winsome smile. He held a paw to his chubby face. “Ssshhhh, ’stracting!” he echoed.

Cornflower could not help laughing at the infant vole. “Go on with you, you rascal. Why don’t you pop

down and see Mr. Spike in the cellars and lend him a paw? He’ll probably give you a drink of nice cold

strawberry cordial.”

Rollo sang lustily as he made his way down the wallsteps.

“Seeker Flounder inner stones,

I catch a rat an’ break his bones,

Give Mr. Spike a good hard strike,

For good ol’ strawhawhaw beherreeee corjullllll!”

He tottered momentarily on the bottom step but was caught firmly by Winifred the Otter, who

happened to be passing by in the nick of time.

“Gotcha, you villain. Oof! You’re a great lump of a baby bankvole. Hi, Cornflower. No luck? I think

we’re all in the same boat. Come down off there. It’s getting too hot to be searching now. Let’s go and have

lunch. They’ve put out a picnic spread on the grass.”

As Cornflower and Winifred sat with their backs against the Abbey wall, they were joined by Foremole.

“Yurr, missis, oil just see’d li’l Rollyo agoin’ off down’t cellars, hurr hurr. Ambrose’ll be a-nappen. Due

for a rude awaken, oi shouldn’t wunner.”

The meal was simple: fresh summer salad, cold cider, and gooseberry crumble with nutmeg cream.

Foremole munched thoughtfully, wrinkling his snout and blinking his eyes a lot.

“Hurr, gotten uz proper flummoxed, ’as yon puzzle. Nor a one yet a cummen up wi’ no clues.”

Cornflower passed him the cider. “It’s difficult, I agree, but we must find the solution soon if we are to

help Matthias. It’s hard to know where to begin. ‘ Seek the Founder in the stones where the little folk go. ’ Do we

begin by seeking out the stones, the Founder, the little folk, or all three?”

Baby Rollo came running towards them with a small canteen of strawberry cordial tied about his fat

waist. Winifred laughed. “Look out, here’s the terror back again. I’ll bet Mr. Spike gave him what he

wanted just to be rid of him while he takes his nap.”

They carried on eating and discussing the riddle. Baby Rollo sat between Cornflower and Foremole,

continually butting in and trying to show them something he had in his paws. Winifred patted the baby

vole’s head.

“Yes, yes, very nice, Rollo. But please don’t interrupt. Can’t you see we’re talking?”

Rollo would not be put off. He cut a comical figure, muttering away as he wriggled his paws this way

and that as if trying to hold on to something.

“Cornflow’, lookit see, lookit,” he persisted.

Cornflower fed him on a piece of gooseberry crumble and wiped his face on the corner of her apron.

“Drink up your cordial like a good little vole now, Rollo. Please don’t speak with your mouth full.

Remember your manners. Oh dear, what is he so excited about?”

Rollo opened his paws wide, gurgling at the insect that ran backwards and forwards across them.

“Lookit, li’l folkses!”

All three stared in amazement. The infant was showing them something they had not thought of so far.

“It’s an ant!”

“Of course, the little folk. That’s what Methuselah and old Abbot Mortimer always called ants: the little

folk.”

“Yurr, clever li’l Rollyo, guddbeast, young zurr!”

“Tell us where you found him.”

Rollo pointed a paw with the ant still roaming across it. “Mista Spike’s cellar.”

Across the lawn they hurried, into Great Hall, down the stairs to Cavern Hole, through the small corridor at

the far side and down the sloping ramp into the wine cellars. Ambrose Spike lay snoring gently, an empty

jug beside him. At a nod from Foremole they tiptoed past the slumbering hedgehog and followed baby

Rollo through the dim cellar. He led them to a tun barrel of preserved damsons, a huge old oaken affair

which had stood there longer than any creature cared to remember. There was a crack between the staves

where the withe had perished, causing a slight leak. Rollo pointed to the floor where a tiny pool of the dark

sticky juice was congealing. Ants busily collected the sweet residue, trooping in a continuous column.

“Lookit, see, li’l folkses.”

Cornflower clapped her paws in delight. “Good vole, Rollo. Come on, let’s follow them and see where

they go.”

The procession of ants marched busily along, hugging the wall, deeper into the cellars, where they took

a right turn, following an old passage.

“Wait a moment,” Winifred said. “I’ll go and get a torch. It’s very dark in here.”

They paused, watching the line of ants industriously plodding along, with other ants passing them on

their way back to the juice. Winifred returned, and the light from the blazing faggot torch she held aloft

helped greatly.

They continued down the old passage, which twisted and turned, dry, dark and musty. The light

revealed a heavy wooden door barring the way. The ants, however, marched straight on, under the space at

the bottom of the door. Between them the others tugged on the tarnished brass ring handle. The door

opened slowly, its iron hinges creaking rustily. This frightened the ants. They dispersed, breaking the

continuous trail.

“Be still and quiet now, give the little folk time to settle,” Cornflower advised.

They waited until the ants had forgotten the intrusion upon their line and continued progress.

They were in a small cavelike room, full of forgotten barrels, tools and old benches. The ants wove a

tortuous path, around crumbling and broken casks, firkins and butts, across the room to another passage

which was little more than an unpaved tunnel. With baby Rollo still leading, they crouched and followed.

The going began to get steep.

“This looks like some kind of disused working, maybe a mistake in the digging plans of the

foundations that was left abandoned,” Cornflower remarked.

“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 the larger of the sandstone

blocks until lettering was revealed.

“Aha! It’s the very foundation stone of Redwall Abbey. Let’s see what it says,” Constance 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 closed, 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 steep, you lot, you’re making me hungry. Right now I

wish I had a bowl of my father’s mountain foothill stew, full of leaks 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 hard.

“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!