Mattimeo

Chapter 42

There was dissension and mutiny in the camp of Slagar. The slavers woke to find the slaves and their

leader gone. Worse followed when Drynose the weasel found the lifeless body of his comrade Damper.

“The filthy murdering fox, he’s stabbed my mate Damper,” he cried out.

Halftail attempted to pacify him. “Rubbish! Slagar wouldn’t kill one of his own.”

“Hah! Well, what about Hairbelly and Wedgeback? He done ’em both in.”

“Drynose is right. You keep out of it, Threeclaws. I’ll bet you that lousy masked murderer has even

killed little Vitch. Look around. Can you see Vitch?”

“Vitch isn’t dead,” Scringe butted in. “Slagar’s taken him along somewhere.”

Halftail brandished a dagger at Scringe. “Somewhere? What d’you mean, somewhere? You’ve been

spying and listenin’ to things that don’t concern you, Scringe. I think you’re a dirty traitor.”

“Dirty traitor, eh? Listen who’s talkin’. You’re the turncoat, bucko. Slagar told me to keep my eye on

you. And don’t you start waving that dagger at me, snotwhiskers. I’ve got a sword twice as big as that.

Look!”

Halftail rushed Scringe as he tried to draw his sword. Taken unawares, the ferret was easy prey to the

stoat’s dagger. He fell mortally wounded. Halftail turned upon the rest.

“That’s what spies and traitors get. Anybeast want some? Come on!”

Threeclaws pulled out a vicious-looking hook. “Hey, Halftail. You’ve got a lot to say for yourself. Who

do you think you are, the Chief?”

“I am, as far as you’re concerned, weasel; Slagar left me in charge when he told me he’d be gone for a

while.”

Threeclaws brandished the hook, nodding to Fleaback and Drynose, and all three advanced slowly

upon Halftail. Threeclaws grinned wickedly.

“Slagar left you in charge? Whose paw do you think you’re trying to pull? He would have left one of us

weasels in charge, wouldn’t he, mates?”

Halftail snatched the sword from the dead Scringe. He swished it at them and jabbed with his dagger.

“Get back, weasels, leave me alone or there’ll be real trouble when Slagar returns.”

Threeclaws circled slowly, swinging the hook. “You must have bread for brains if you think the fox is

coming back, you idiot. Why do you think he took the slaves with him? He’s got no intentions of coming

back. Ha! No wonder they call him the Sly One.”

Drynose made a rush at Halftail. The stoat leapt to one side and spitted the weasel with his sword. He

shouted an appeal to Bageye, the only other stoat in the group:

“Come on, Bageye. Slagar left me in charge, help me out, mate.”

Before Bageye could rise to his paws, Wartclaw and Snakespur, two other weasels, jumped on him.

Their iron hooks flashed once. “We’ve got this one, Threeclaws, go on, finish Halftail!”

Halftail fought like a mad creature, he wounded Skinpaw and was about to finish him when Snakespur

struck him from behind with his hook. Halftail was dead before he hit the ground.

The survivors of the mutiny sat about licking their wounds and eating any provisions they could find. Out

of the crew that had taken the young ones from Mossflower there were only five weasels remaining,

Skinpaw, Fleaback, Threeclaws, Wartclaw and Snakespur. Undecided, they lounged about the camp.

Threeclaws fancied himself as leader, but after the slaughter that had taken place he decided to stay in the

background lest one of the others challenge him for supremacy. Besides, who knew? Slagar might come

back, and then there would really be trouble.

As if reading Threeclaws’ thoughts, Snakespur grumbled aloud, “Deserted, that’s what we’ve been

mates, deserted. That scurvy fox has left us in the lurch and gone off to get the reward for the captives

himself. What makes me so mad is that we’ve followed him like a pack of fools all this time. ‘Yes, Chief,’

‘No, Chief.’ Huh! Now where are we? Half a season’s journey into the middle of nowhere, with empty

paws and empty bellies too, by the look of those slack ration bags.”

“But what about little Vitch,” Fleaback interrupted. “I wonder what’s happened to him?”

Snakespur slashed at the grass with his iron hook. “Dead as a pickled frog, for all I care. What’s one rat

or more got to do with us? We’re weasels, mate. Oho, I tell you, I’d like to have that fox’s guts at the end of

this hook right now.”

“Brave words from the scum of the earth!”

A large male badger had walked quietly into the camp. He stood testing the edge of a big double-

headed battleaxe with his paw. The weasels leapt up, unsure of what to do against the huge warrior,

without a leader to galvanize them into action.

Orlando gave a cold smile.

“Run or fight, eh, baby stealers?” His voice was deceptively calm. “I know you haven’t the courage to

fight. There’s only five of you and not a gang. Ah well, if you’re not going to fight then you must run like

the cowards you are. But even then you won’t get far, because you’re surrounded.”

Matthias and his friends stepped from the bushes and the rocks.

Wartclaw began trembling violently. “It was Slagar. It was his idea. We don’t even count. Look at the

way he’s deserted us.”

Matthias pointed at the bodies of the fallen. “Tell me, weasel, what happened here?”

“It was the masked fox. He did it!”

“You lie! We lay hidden and watched it all. You murdered your own comrades. Listen to me. If you do

not speak the truth then you will all join them. Is that clear?”

The weasels nodded vigorously.

Jess Squirrel faced Skinpaw. “Where has Slagar taken the captives?”

“I know you’re not going to believe me,” the weasel moaned in despair, “but when we woke this

morning he was gone. The prisoners too, and a rat named Vitch.”

Matthias drew his sword. The five weasels began pleading:

“It’s true, it’s true!”

“Please, sir, believe us!”

“See that dead weasel there? He’s Damper. We found him slain when we woke. He must have tried to

stop Slagar leaving.”

Log-a-Log drew Matthias aside and whispered, “He’s probably telling the truth. My scouts have

discovered tracks. They’ve been well covered, but there were rats here. Matthias, I’m not just speaking

about a group; this was a horde, a mighty army.”

The warrior mouse nodded. He turned to the five weasels.

“I believe you. Now try to remember, did any of you wake last night and see who was here?”

“No, sir, no.”

“We were asleep.”

“Slagar took the watch alone.”

Basil picked up a rope and made five loops in it.

“Right, c’mere, you wicked weasel types. Put these nooses around your dirty necks. Stop blubberin’, we

ain’t goin’ to string you up. Though it’s all you richly deserve, wot? Wretches! Now, we’ll let you march up

front. Isn’t that good of us? That way you’ll get the benefit of any bally old traps that’ve been laid for us:

poison arrows, swamps full of mad frogs, great eagles that rip your jolly old eyes out, an’ suchlike. Cheer

up, chaps, it’ll be fun!”

Cheek found Threeclaws’ willow cane and gave it to Basil. “I say, a blinkin’ flogger. Is this what you

keep the slaves goin’ with, sort of give them the odd whack. Like this, and this, and this! Whack! Swish!

Thwack! ”

Matthias stopped Basil. There was a sound from the bushes, and the old rabbit tottered out, still

wrapped in his sack. He walked round the captured weasels, staring at them with rheumy eyes.

“Death, death, is this all he left? Last time the masked one came this way none of his band lived. Dead,

all slain!”

Matthias tried questioning him further, but he staggered off into the bushes, still moaning about death

and doom.

Orlando watched the ancient one until he was lost to sight.

“Matthias, that one knows a lot more than we think. Did you hear him? He’s seen Slagar passing

through here once before. It must be an old game with the fox to pick out a band of vermin and promise

them the sky, then when he gets near his destination he either dumps his helpers or slays ’em, one way or

another. Then he’s free to reap the rewards of his filthy trade all for himself.”

“Yes,” Matthias agreed, “but what does he get out of it? What is his reward?”

Orlando shrugged. “Maybe we’ll find out when we catch up with him. One thing is clear; now that he’s

got rid of his band he must be near the end of the journey. Though where that is, your guess is as good as

mine.”

Matthias stood between the two tall rocks. He drew out the parchment. “I hope this will take some of

the guesswork out of it, friend.”

He indicated the space between the badger and bell rocks. “This is where we are now. Let me see, the

poem says:

‘ See the badger and the bell,

Face the lord who points the way

After noon on summer’s day.

Death will open up its grave.

Who goes there … ? None but the brave. ’

Jabez squatted beside the bell rock. “Not long to go till afternoon. We’ll rest here. Where’s this lord

who’s supposed to be pointing the way?”

They gazed out at the country. It was mainly grassy hills dotted with scrub and groves of trees. In the

late summer morning there was no indication of mystery, death or doom. It all looked fairly plain and

harmless.

Orlando shook his head. “Well, whoever the lord is, he’s not come out to show us anything yet. I’d best

give a shout. He may be taking a nap.”

The badger cupped his paws to his mouth and roared until the valley echoed:

“Hi, there! Are you listening, Lord? This is Orlando of the Axe from the Western Plains. Come out and

show us the way!”

The echoes died on the summer air.

“No, no, you’re doin’ it all the wrong way, old stripetop,” Basil chaffed Orlando. “Here, let a chap with

a touch of breedin’ have a jolly try.”

Basil stood beyond the rocks. Throwing his head back, he yodelled out in a wobbly tenor.

“Hullo, there! I say, Lord old fellah, it’s Basil, one of the Mossflower Stag Hares, doncha know. Listen,

why don’t you toddle out an’ point the way to me and my pals? Super wheeze, wot?”

The only sound that could be heard in reply was Orlando sniggering.

Matthias offered Basil a shrewcake, and he wandered off eating and chuntering to himself,

“Confounded bad form, you’d think the rotter’d have the manners to answer a chap!”

Jess was also muttering to herself. “ ‘ Afternoon on summer’s day. ’ What part of the afternoon: midday,

high noon, middle of noon, late noon? How are we supposed to know. Silly rhyme, if you ask me. What

d’you think, Matthias?”

“I think it means before the early evening, Jess. Look, the words are separate, it doesn’t say ‘ afternoon,’ it

says ‘ after … noon’. Another thing, ‘ the lord who points the way’ doesn’t have to be a living creature.”

Jess looked puzzled. “How do you know that?”

“Easy. The badger and the bell are both rocks. We identified them by their shapes. So why can’t the

Lord who points the way be a rock?”

Cheek sidled up. “Or even a tree.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve just climbed up this badger rock a way and had a look around. The one thing that stands

out like a landmark is a tree. It’s sort of directly in line with the path between these two rocks, but we can’t

see it from where we stand down here.”

Jess Squirrel raced up the rock face of the badger peak like an arrow from a bow.

“It’s there, Matthias,” she called down. “I can see it. The biggest fir tree in the world. What a sight! It’s

colossal!”

The early noonday sun beat down on the summit of badger rock. Matthias, Jess and Cheek stood atop the

tall edifice, looking down at the tree in the distance. The warrior mouse grasped the rope Jess had rigged.

“Come on, let’s get down from here and get moving. I want to arrive at that tree before the sun goes

down. I know exactly what to do and what to look out for now!”