THE DEEP, WARM, brazen voice of the Joseph Bell tolled across the tranquil meadows, its echoes fading in the leafy depths of Mossflower Wood. It was eleven o’clock on the night of the full moon.
Inside Cavern Hole the candles burned bright. Most of the woodland defenders and Redwall mice had retired to their beds. Those who preferred to stay awake were gathered by invitation of Matthias and Methuselah to a party supper. All who attended wished them well on their quest. Abbot Mortimer took the floor.
‘My friends, Redwall mice and honoured guests, we are gathered here tonight, not only to pay tribute, but to add our heartfelt good wishes to Matthias and Brother Methuselah. May they have success and fortune in their venture this night, and may our Abbey soon be enhanced by the restoration of the sword that belonged to Martin the Warrior.’
The Abbot took his seat among cries of, ‘Hear, hear.’ There was much paw-shaking and fur-patting. Matthias felt deeply honoured, but very impatient. The hourglass had to empty twice more before the crucial time he awaited. He stole a sideways glance at his companion. Methuselah could hardly stop his eyelids from dropping. The hard work they had done, combined with the nervous tension, were beginning to tell upon the old gatehouse-keeper. Matthias nudged him gently.
‘Wake up, old one. If you’re tired I’ll help you to your room. Constance and I can take the shield up to the threshold. You get a good night’s sleep. We’ll tell you all about it in the morning.’
Methuselah came wide awake with indignation. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort! You young scallywag, I could give you a ten-second start and still beat you to the top of the wall! D’you want to try me?’
Constance coughed and spluttered upon a candied chestnut. She roared with laughter. ‘Ha ha ha, ho ho ho, I wouldn’t attempt it if I were you, Matthias. He’s liable to beat you hollow in his present mood.’
The old mouse, seeing the humour of the situation, began to chuckle. ‘And don’t think I couldn’t, you great stripey lump. Here, what do you say we put this young mouse up in the dormitory? It’s way past his bedtime. You and I could go to the threshold together.’
Constance and Methuselah collapsed against each other, laughing helplessly. It was all Matthias could do to keep a straight face. He pretended to take offence at Methuselah’s statement.
‘Why, you old pair of relics! It wouldn’t take me two ticks to bring you some warm milk and tuck you in your own beds. Then I’d be free to get on with the job myself.’
The three friends laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks. Methuselah held his sides as he spoke between gusts of merriment. ‘I say, Constance – ha ha ha – you old fogey – oh ha ha ha tee hee! – you’d better come along with us – ha ha ho ho oooh! – Matthias is a bit old for this sort of thing! Hahahahahahaha.’
Matthias had fallen off his chair. He waved his paws, pleading for the joking to stop, as he rolled about on the floor, exploding from bouts of giggling to fits of laughter.
Basil Stag Hare tut-tutted severely as he remarked to Ambrose Spike, ‘Tch, tch. Dreadful table manners. Just look at those three wallahs, kicking up a hullaballoo like that! Eating’s a serious business. They haven’t touched a bite of supper, y’know.’
‘Aye, so I see,’ grunted the hedgehog. ‘Here, you don’t suppose they’d mind, do you?’
‘Not at all, not at all, dear fellow,’ said Basil regally, as he shared the contents of the three plates between himself and Ambrose. ‘Saves it all going to waste, what, what?’
It was fifteen minutes before one o’clock in the morning. Three figures crossed the Abbey gardens as the moon broke from behind a drifting cloudbank. The nearby pond was bathed in a silver sheen, parts of the sandstone wall reflecting back a wavery bluish light. Constance and Methuselah carried lanterns; Matthias bore the warrior’s shield upon his arm. They ascended the wall steps in single file, acknowledging the murmured good-wishes of those on sentry duty.
Matthias had decided against trying the shield in its niche before the appointed hour. He felt somehow that they must abide by the rules of the verse, waiting until day’s first hour on the night of the full moon. It just had to be so. No use tempting fickle Dame Fortune.
Solemnly the three friends gathered around the carving upon the ramparts. Matthias clutched the shield tightly, waiting for the stroke of one. High above the small world of Redwall the moon also waited, suspended in velvety space like a pale, gold coin. It seemed that the minutes stretched into an eternity in which silence reigned over all.
The great Joseph Bell boomed out once. It was one o’clock – day’s first hour. Slowly, reverently, Matthias lowered the shield of Martin, down on to the stone circle that had been carved many long years before to receive it. The shield made a mild clanking sound as it was laid to rest in its niche. It fitted perfectly into the stone receptacle. All three creatures stood back a pace to see what might happen. Matthias was first to cry out.
‘Look! The shield is reflecting the moonlight back into the sky!’
Moonlight seemed to concentrate upon the highly-polished steel dome in its designated position, sending an intense beam of white light back off into the night sky.
Methuselah blinked. Holding his paw across his eyebrows, he stared into space, trying to follow the path of the reflected moonlight. ‘Truly it is a most beautiful, wondrous sight,’ he breathed. ‘Alas, my old eyes are not what they were. All I see is a light shooting off into infinity.’
‘Look at the Abbey roof,’ Constance murmured. ‘The beam cuts right across the top gable. I can see the weather vane as clearly as if it were day.’
‘Good heavens,’ Matthias squeaked. ‘You’re right! The Abbey weather vane, it’s the one thing that’s caught in the path of the light.’
‘The North! The North!’ Methuselah shouted. ‘It’s the weather vane arm that points north! That’s where the sword must be!’
Solemnly the three friends placed their paws one on top of the other. At long last the mystery was solved. They knew now where the sword of Martin the Warrior had lain for countless years.
On the arm of a weather vane, pointing north!
However, it was three rather disconsolate creatures that sat down to early breakfast after a few hours’ fitful sleep. They had encountered a major problem: how to get the sword down?
‘What a pity we haven’t got about thirty or forty extra-long ladders that we could tie together to reach the roof,’ muttered Constance.
‘Oh, do be quiet, Constance,’ Matthias grumbled. ‘That must be the tenth time you’ve said that in the last hour.’
‘Sorry, only trying to help,’ she mumbled.
Methuselah pushed his porridge aside. ‘There are only two ways that you could help, my friend. One, by keeping silent. Two, by turning yourself into some creature that could climb all the way up to that roof. A bird, or a squirrel or something.’
They sat and stared at Methuselah in amazement. A solution of stunning simplicity had been found.
‘I do hope that Mrs Squirrel hasn’t decided to have a lie-in,’ said Matthias. ‘She’ll need an early start if she’s going to make it back by lunchtime.’
Mrs Squirrel (or Jess as she liked to be called) was only too pleased to oblige her friends from Redwall.
Having been given full instructions by Matthias, Jess stood at the base of the immense Abbey building. The squirrel performed what looked like an intricate acrobatic dance, followed by several cartwheels at lightning speed.
‘She’s just limbering up,’ Mr Squirrel explained to Matthias.
A large crowd of mice and woodlanders had gathered to witness the epic ascent. Not even in the oldest recorded writings was there any mention of a creature venturing to climb as high as the Abbey roof. It was a most formidable task, for the roof soared to nearly twice the height of the bell tower.
Jess elbowed her way through the throng. She kissed Mr Squirrel, patted her son Silent Sam upon the head, then shook paws with Constance, Matthias and Methuselah. With
a brisk, cheery manner she scooped up a handful of soil, rubbing it into her paws to give some extra gripping power.
‘Lovely day for a climb,’ she remarked off-handedly.
Then away she went, paw over paw, up the massive Abbey face.
The lower wall with its arched sandstone window frames held no difficulties for the tough squirrel. She climbed with speed and alacrity. Lifting herself over the gutter with a neat flick of her bushy tail, Jess clattered across to a small slate side roof. She was temporarily lost to view at the start of the second stage. As she came into sight again, the watchers below could not help but notice that the climb was more difficult, progress was slower.
Mr Squirrel cupped his paws and called up, ‘Are you all right there, Jess?’
Latching her tail around a projecting gargoyle, Jess shouted back, ‘Well, I’m making headway, m’dear. This stone though – it’s a bit rough on the old paws and claws. Not like good old wood or tree bark.’
Chins went up, heads tilted back, the crowd below followed the ascent of the plucky Jess Squirrel. By this time she seemed to the watchers to be rapidly diminishing in size as she forged upwards.
The Foremole (who was never too keen on heights) covered his eyes with a paw. ‘Gurr, moi dearie, dearie me. She’m loiken an owlyburd allaways up thurr. Nay, oi’m afeared to look.’
Although Matthias had to agree with Foremole, he continued looking upwards. Jess was reduced to a mere speck now. The young mouse gritted his teeth, willing the brave squirrel onwards. ‘Go on Jess, you can do it! Not far to the gable now!’
The crowd fell silent. All that could be heard was Silent Sam sucking his tiny paw as he clutched on to his father’s tail.
Suddenly Winifred the otter broke the quiet: ‘Look, Jess has made it over the gutter! She’s on the roof.’
A mass cheer went up. The squirrel was on the last lap. Now she would have to call into play all of her climbing ability to keep going up the treacherously steep smooth slates.
Methuselah polished agitatedly at his spectacles. ‘Where is she now? Will someone please enlighten me?’
‘She’s on top of the roof, walking with a foot either side of the apex towards the gable,’ yelled Abbot Mortimer.
Methuselah sniffed. ‘No need to shout, Father Abbot. I’m only hard of sight, not hearing.’
Mr Squirrel clapped his paws joyfully. ‘Oh she’s made it! My Jess has made it!’
Amid the riot of jubilation Matthias watched. The weather vane moved slightly, indicating that Jess, actually out upon the north pointer, must be trying to retrieve the sword.
What a daring climb! What a courageous creature! Jess Squirrel would surely take her place in the annals of Redwall Abbey.
Mr Squirrel held Silent Sam up in his arms. ‘Look, Sam. Mum’s done it! She’s on the way back down now.’
Silent Sam clenched his little paws over his head. He shook them like a tiny champion. Nobody in all the world was a better climber than his mum.
Jess was nearly halfway down when a shout of consternation arose from the crowd below.
‘Look out, she’s being attacked by sparrows!’
Sure enough, the fierce birds were whirling in close to the intrepid Jess. They tried to peck at her, seeking to dislodge her, or distract her enough to make her fall. It was a fearsome, sickening drop should she lose her grip.
Matthias took command. He acted swiftly.
‘Hurry, get the six best field and harvest mouse archers! Those birds have got to be stopped immediately.’
The angry sparrows persisted with their savage assault. Jess kept on descending resolutely. She had no way of defending herself.
The Abbot and Constance had to leap forward to restrain Silent Sam. He had left his father and was trying to scramble up the base of the Abbey Wall with the small dagger clenched in his teeth.
Constance attempted to reason with Sam. ‘Stay clear, little one. You’ll only distract your mum. Look, she’s doing splendidly! An old bunch of sparrows can’t bother her. Stand back now; here come the bowmice!’
Speedily notching shafts to their strings, the archers angled their bows upwards.
‘Do not aim to kill any of the birds,’ the Abbot cried. ‘Shoot to frighten them off.’
‘Shoot,’ Matthias yelled.
The first volley of arrows was launched. They fell short of the sparrows. Jess carried on scrambling downwards, beating off attackers whenever she had a free paw.
‘They’re getting within range now,’ shouted Matthias. ‘Aim, fire!’
The mouse archers sent off a hail of arrows that came close enough to cause a scatter among the sparrows. Taking advantage of their brief confusion, Jess clambered down on to the small side roof.
The tenacious birds regrouped and came at her again. Below, the bowmice stood ready.
‘She’ll make it down,’ Ambrose Spike yelled. ‘One more good volley should scare them off.’
‘Ready, fire!’ called Matthias.
The deadly shafts hissed upwards, causing a mad flurry among the attackers. Purely by accident a stray arrow struck one young sparrow. It came tumbling down the slope of the small roof, dropping to earth like a stone, the arrow sticking in its leg just above the knee joint. Cheated of their intended victim, the sparrows flew off, chirping bad-temperedly.
Constance snatched up a woven rush washing basket. Holding the small sparrow firmly with her paw, she gripped the arrow in her teeth and yanked it clear from the bird’s leg. The badger then upended the basket, imprisoning the maddened sparrow beneath it.
Shouts of joy mingled with relief greeted Jess Squirrel as she dropped wearily to the grass.
‘Phew!’ she gasped. ‘What a wild bunch of savages those sparrows are! I thought they had me once or twice back there.’
Before the heroic squirrel could be united with her family, Matthias came dashing across.
‘Jess! Did you get the sword?’ he panted.
The squirrel shrugged and shook her head. ‘It wasn’t there, Matthias. I climbed out along the north pointer and actually saw the shape of the sword in the holder where it was supposed to rest. There were even some loose rusty wires that may have held it in position at one time or another. But there was definitely no sword. I’m sorry, Matthias, I tried my best.’
‘Of course you did, Jess,’ said Matthias, hiding his disappointment. ‘Thank you very much for your valiant efforts.’
Half an hour later, the crowd had dispersed and gone about their business. Matthias sat with his back against the Abbey wall, his mind in a turmoil. All that hard work, solving the clues, burning midnight oil, endangering the lives of his friends, it had all come to nothing. He beat his paws against the stones of the Abbey, a tear of frustration gleaming in his eye.
‘Why, Martin, why?’ he moaned.
The captive sparrow fluttered her wings against the upturned basket. ‘I killee you!’ she chattered angrily at Matthias. ‘I killee mouse, lettum Warbeak free, you um dirty worm.’
Matthias peered through the cracks at the insulting prisoner.
‘Oh, shut your beak, you little monster!’ he muttered. ‘You’re in no position to kill anyone.’
The sparrow’s venomous temper increased. ‘King Bull Sparra, he killee you. Makum dead quickfast.’
Matthias laughed mirthlessly. ‘Will he indeed? Well, you tell King Thingummy if you should bump into him again, that you’ve met Matthias the Warrior, and I don’t kill that easily, my bad-tempered little friend.’
This last statement sent the young sparrow off into a veritable dance of rage. ‘Mouse no friend of Warbeak! Killee, killee!’
Matthias tapped the basket with his foot. ‘Listen, Warbeak, if that’s your name. You’d better improve your temper, or you’ll find yourself without food to eat or any medical attention. So if I were you, I’d sit quietly for a while and think about that.’
Matthias spun on his heel and marched off, the enemy sparrow’s chirps still ringing in his ears: ‘No wanna
food, no needa ’tenshun. Warbeak Sparra, all brave, killee.’
Matthias sighed wearily.
There was just no talking to some creatures.
SELA THE FOX continued to complain. She must have a certain type of herb that was not in her kit. It could only be found in Mossflower Wood at the dark of night.
Cluny listened to the fox’s pleas, knowing that they were merely an excuse to gain her freedom. He paused as if to deliberate, watching the hopeful expression on Sela’s face.
‘Hmm, I can see that you need this herb, so why don’t you send your son Chickenhound to get it?’
Sela was never stuck for a ready answer. ‘No no, I’m afraid that’s useless, sir. He’s too young and inexperienced. Chickenhound wouldn’t know where to start looking.’
Cluny nodded sympathetically. ‘Aye, you’re probably right. I suppose I’ll have to stretch a point. You can go off to the woods to search for this vital herb. But be warned, fox! There will be two rats with you all the time. One false move and I’ll have that bushy tail of yours to trim the collar of my war cloak. Is that understood?’
Sela’s head bobbed vigorously. ‘Of course, sir. What reason would I have to play you false? I’m looking forward to a good share of plunder, once I’ve healed you and Redwall is conquered.’
The huge tail snaked out and caressed the fox. ‘Of course you are, my friend. How silly of me.’
Cluny actually smiled. Sela shuddered.
That evening Sela left the church, accompanied by Redtooth and Fangburn. Secretly she could have danced with delight. Only two guards! With her knowledge of Mossflower, Sela could quite easily give them the slip for fifteen minutes or so.
Back at the church Cluny had risen from his bed. He attempted an exploratory walk, leaning on his banner as he stumped gingerly around the room.
Good! In a short while he would be back to his old self again.
Cluny spoke aloud to the picture of Martin, bound to his standard: ‘Ha, that fox should easily give those idiots of mine the slip. Then she can deliver my false plans to your Abbot. It’s all going along quite smoothly. Bit of a blow for your side, eh, mouse?’