Mattimeo

Chapter 10

Slagar turned to the group at the cart. They had been watching him banging fruitlessly upon the main gate.

“They’ll never hear you, Chief,” Wartclaw ventured. “We’ll have to think of some other way to distract

them.”

Slagar’s paw was numb from hitting the woodwork. “We? You mean me, don’t you? Here, Skinpaw,

sing that song. Halftail, get that little drum from the cart and beat it. Scringe, there’s a flute in the cart. See if

you can get a tune out of it.”

Skinpaw was the only one of the slavers who had actually been in a travelling show. Filling his lungs,

he began singing the song of strolling performers, in a cracked voice.

“Lalalalalalala, we travel from afar,

Derrydown dill, over vale and hill.

We camp beneath the stars.

Lalalalalalala, good fortune to you, sir.

The strolling players bring to you

Magic from everywhere….”

Skinpaw shrugged at Slagar. “Chief, that’s all I know. I’ve forgotten the rest.”

The Sly One swirled his cloak impatiently. “Then sing it over and over again. You two, try to pick up

the tune on the flute and drum. The rest of you, tumble about in the road and join Skinpaw on the ‘Lalala’

bits.”

Slagar kept his eye against a joint that was slightly open in the solid gate timbers.

The entire troupe went through the routine several times. Slagar waved his paw encouragingly at them.

“Keep it up, louder, louder! I can see they’ve heard us. They’re coming across the grounds. Keep it up,

keep going.”

The hooded fox leapt aboard the cart. Crouching, he covered himself with a pile of old coloured wagon

sheeting.

There was a scraping of drawbars and bolts, and the door opened partially as Matthias came out onto the

path, followed by Constance the badger and Ambrose Spike. They stood awhile, watching the performers,

then Matthias called out. “Hey there. What can we do for you?”

“Send ’em on their way, scruffy bunch of ragbags,” Ambrose Spike snorted.

“Ambrose, don’t be so ill mannered!” Constance nudged him sharply. “We can at least be civil to

travellers. Leave the talking to Matthias and myself.”

Slagar bounded up in a whirl of coloured cloth. Leaping over the edge of the cart, he landed on the

path, twirling his cape this way and that.

“Happy Midsummer Eve to you, my lords,” he said, doing his level best to keep his grating voice light

and cheerful. “You see before you a band of strolling entertainers, foolish fellows and peace-loving

buffoons. We travel the roads merely to bring you songs, stories, tumbling and leaping, comical antics to

amuse you and your families. Where do we come from? No creature knows, except I, Stellar Lunaris,

master of the moon and stars.”

The fox whirled round and round, showing the lining of his cape, the silk shimmering and twinkling in

the hot summer twilight on the dusty roadway.

Constance relaxed slightly. Only a band of travelling players. Her keen old eyes checked the ditch that

ran west of the path for signs of others hidden there. It was clear.

Before he could be stopped, Ambrose Spike called out, “And what will it cost us, this magical

entertainment?”

Slagar stopped the cloak revolving and spread his paws. “A crust from your grand table, maybe a drink

of cool water and the safety of your Abbey walls so that my friends and I can sleep without fear through

the night. Oh, do not worry, good creatures. We will sleep upon the grass out here if you fear us.”

Matthias the Warrior of Redwall stepped forward, rubbing his paw across the red pommel stone of the

wondrous sword he carried sheathed at his side.

“We fear no creature. Redwall buried its foes many seasons back. Stay here a moment, I would talk with

my friends.”

The trio drew back into the gateway, where groups of curious revellers had left the table and were

peering round the gates. “Well, what d’you think, Warrior?” Constance asked in a low voice. “They look

harmless enough to me, even though they are led by a fox.”

Matthias pursed his lips. “Hmm, the rest are weasels, stoats and ferrets. Nothing that we can’t cope

with. They’d be outnumbered at least fifteen to one inside Redwall, and they don’t seem to have any

hidden army waiting to spring out in ambush on us. I think they look ragged but harmless enough.”

Behind them the young ones were eagerly craning their necks, calling out excitedly. “Hurray! Clowns

and tumblers. Oh, can we see them, Constance?”

“Look, there’s a magic one. Ooh, see his cloak!”

Vitch was leading the youngest in a chant. “We want to see, we want the show … !”

Basil Stag Hare pushed his way though to Matthias. He was chuckling indulgently and waving his ears

for silence.

“Steady on, chaps, haw haw! A jolly old concert party, wot? Don’t be an old stick in the mud,

Constance. Let the blighters in, as long as they don’t pull rabbits out of hats.”

Constance shook her big striped head from side to side doubtfully. The chanting broke out even louder.

Finally she winked at Matthias and nodded to the hooded fox.

“Oh all right! Come on then. You youngsters, move aside and let me open the gates, otherwise these

tumblers won’t be able to get in.”

The young ones gave a great cheer.

Slagar was impressed with the long tunnel of arched sandstone. It denoted the massive thickness of the

Abbey walls. The travelling troupe looked around at the great Abbey of Redwall standing in its own

grounds, the magnificent alfresco feast lit by the flames from the baking pit. This was a place of riches and

plenty.

They were patted down by Abbey dwellers searching for arms. Slagar shook his head sadly. “Alas,

these are untrusting times we live in.”

Abbot Mordalfus bowed courteously. “Merely a precaution, friend. The feast is far from over yet.

Kindly come and sit with us at the table. There is plenty for all.”

The silken hood quivered as Slagar wiped away an imaginary tear.

“Such hospitality and kindness. Thank you, sir. My friends and I will repay you by putting on an extra

special performance for you and your good creatures.”

As they moved over to the table, nobody noticed Vitch slip a small scroll to Slagar. The sly one secreted

it beneath his voluminous cape.

Wartclaw crept up behind Skinpaw with a jug of water poised to throw at him. A ferret named Deadnose

who stood facing Skinpaw was juggling three balls, unaware that Wartclaw was about to drench Skinpaw

with the water.

The youngsters squirmed with glee as they shouted out, “Look out, he’s behind you!”

“Who, what did you say?” Skinpaw wrinkled his false red nose and grinned a silly grin.

“Ooooh, look out, he’s behind you!”

Deadnose dropped one of the balls he was juggling. Skinpaw bent to pick it up at the exact moment

that Wartclaw flung the water from the jug at him. The youngsters roared with laughter as Deadnose was

drenched instead of Skinpaw.

Scringe darted in with a large floppy wooden clapper. He swung it and smacked Wartclaw across the

bottom with a loud comic slap. Wartclaw whooped with surprise, dropped the jug and stepped in it by

accident, getting his paw stuck inside. They ran off with Wartclaw hop-skipping, clumpetty thump, the jug

fixed on his paw, while Scringe followed up, whacking his bottom with the clapper.

All the inhabitants of Redwall laughed merrily. Abbot Mordalfus held his sides as he chuckled to Basil,

“Ohohoho, I knew that juggler would get drenched, hahaha. Oh, look, the red-nosed fellow is eating one of

the juggling balls, hee hee hee. It was an apple all the time, ohahaha!”

“Hawhawhaw. Silly old blighter. I say, the weasel chappie’s trying to eat the other juggling balls. Oooh-

oohoo, they’re real wooden ones! Spit ’em out, old lad, y’ll break your teeth.”

Slagar was prancing about the tabletops, giving out paper butterflies to the young ones, they flew just

like real butterflies. Nobody noticed that every time he passed a jug, flagon or bowl a little powder was

dropped into the drink.

Skirting the back of the gathering, Slagar stood behind the flames of the baking pit and threw a pawful

of powder into the fire. It caused a whoosh of green flame to shoot upward. Leaping across the pit, the sly

one seemed to materialize out of the middle of the emerald-coloured flames.

“Stellar Lunaris, Lunar Stellaris! I am the Lord of Mountebanks. Is there one among you named

Ambrose Spike?”

“Aye, that’s me over here. But how did you know my name?”

“The Lord of moon and stars knows all, Ambrose Spike. You are the keeper of the cellars, and your

October ale next season will be even better than before.”

“Well I’m blowed, the jolly old firejumper knows about you, Spike me lad.”

Slagar whirled round. “Is that Basil Stag Hare I hear speaking, famed scout and retired foot fighter?”

“Aye, and famous glutton and singer of dreadful songs.”

The Sly One cocked an ear. “Hark! Is that the voice of Mrs. Lettie Bankvole, mother of baby Rollo?”

Mrs. Bankvole was flabbergasted. “Oh haha, yes, that’s me. But how did you know, Mr. Stellaris?”

“Gather round, gather round, good creatures of Redwall Abbey. I will tell you of secrets known only to

the Lord of Mountebanks. But first you must drink a toast to the two who caught the big carp, your Abbot

and your Warrior, two of the noblest, most brave creatures that ever lived.”

Fleaback, Skinpaw, Wartclaw, Scringe and the rest dashed around the tables, chuckling heartily and

tickling little ones behind the ears while filling up every beaker and bowl.

Foremole stood up on a bench. “Yurr’s to Mattwise ee Wurrier, an’ yurr’s to Habbot ’Dalfuzz. Gudd

’elth, gennelbeasts.”

Beakers and bowls clinked together as the toast was drunk.

Slagar threw another pawful of dust into the fire. This time it rose up golden and smoking in a column

as he called out in an eerie voice:

“Stellar Lunaris Fortuna Mandala, hark to me, all creatures.”

Mattimeo was fascinated by the magic fox. He put his cider down and watched with rapt attention. Now

the fox had taken off his flowing silken cloak. He held it up and swirled it in front of him, slowly at first

then getting faster and faster, chanting as he did:

“See the stars, see the moon,

Penned around by blackest night.

See the diamonds red and purple,

Silk and fire and blood and light.

See them turning, ever turning,

Like a great mandala wheel,

Spinning as the fire is burning.

What is false and what is real … ?”

From somewhere near, Mattimeo could hear Mrs. Churchmouse gently snoring. He tried to fix his eyes

on the swirling cloak as it turned from diamond patterns to star-studded night skies. The fox’s voice droned

on and on, until finally Mattimeo could no longer keep his leaden eyelids from drooping.

He fell asleep across the table full of good food, well entertained and completely happy.