Brian Jacques - [Redwall 03] - Mattimeo

greater than that of the wisdom which comes of age. I trust you put the stone back when you left.”

Foremole tugged his snout respectfully. “Hurr, ’deed oi did zurr, she’m all shut in again naow.”

“Pity, I’d have loved to see it, just once,” Mordalfus sighed.

Constance indicated the tablet with an impatient paw. “Please, can we get on with this? What does the

writing say on the stone?”

Winifred threw up her paws in despair. “It says nothing, blow me sails! There’s only a lot of funny

scratches on it.”

The Abbot studied the strange marks, focusing through the small square spectacles perched on the end

of his nose. “Wonderful! Amazing! A perfect example of ancient Loamscript.”

Constance scratched her headstripes. “Loamscript, what in the name of fur and feathers is Loamscript?”

“Tut, tut, Constance,” Mordalfus said, without taking his eyes from the stone tablet. “I see you have

forgotten all the history lessons you learned as a young one. Who was your teacher and what were you told

about the beginning of Redwall history?”

Constance frowned. She drummed paws on the tabletop and looked at the ceiling for inspiration. It was

not too long in coming. “Er, er, it was Sister Garnet. No, it was Methuselah. Ah yes, good old Brother

Methuselah. Haha, he used to look at me over the top of his glasses just the way you do, Abbot. I remember

he often tweaked my whiskers if I dozed off on a sunny afternoon at lessons in the orchard. Ah, but that

was more seasons ago than I care to remember.”

The Abbot smiled fondly at Constance. “Then let me refresh your memory, you dozy badger. Redwall

Abbey was founded after the war of the wildcats by Martin the Warrior, who came from the northlands,

and Abbess Germaine, who travelled with a band of woodland mice from a place called Loamhedge.

Apparently they were driven from there by some sort of plague. Old Methuselah had a book written by one

of Germaine’s followers in Loamscript. Now, as I remember there was only one other creature who was

clever enough to learn Loamscript from Methuselah. A little churchmouse named John….”

Cornflower sprang up. “What? You mean John Churchmouse, our recorder?”

The Abbot folded his spectacles away into his wide sleeve, chuckling. “The very same! Cornflower, do

you think you could go and rouse him?”

Winifred picked up the snoring form of baby Rollo from his chair. “I’ll come with you,” the otter

volunteered. “It’s time this bundle o’ mischief was tucked away for the night.”

They hurried off to the dormitories.

John Churchmouse came down with Cornflower and Winifred. He nodded almost apologetically to those

around the table.

“Couldn’t sleep, y’see. I don’t sleep much these nights, thinking of my Tess and Tim and wondering if

Matthias and the others have found them yet.”

Mordalfus slid the tablet across to him. “Sit down, John. Here’s something that may help to bring your

young ones back. It’s written in Loamscript. Can you read it?”

John stroked his whiskers. “Well, it’s a long time since I read any Loamscript. Many, many seasons ago.

Haha, that was when Methusaleh used to tell me about this sleepy young badger in his class, what was her

name now … ?”

Constance tapped the table with a blunt paw. “Never mind, prize scholar. Get on with it.”

John winked at Cornflower. “Righto, I’ll give it a try. Could I borrow your glasses, please, Father

Abbot? I left mine by the bedside.”

With the Abbot’s spectacles perched upon his nose, the churchmouse picked up the stone tablet and

moved a candle nearer to help him. His lips moved silently and he stroked his whiskers a lot. Sometimes

shaking his head or nodding it knowingly, he traced the strange-shaped writing. Finally he placed the

tablet down on the table. Cupping his chin in his paws, he stared dreamily off into space.

Five voices inquired aloud with impatience, “Well?”

“Oh, ah, yes. Sorry, funny how it all comes back to you, isn’t it? D’you know, when I first looked at the

stone it didn’t mean a thing to me, it might well have been written in butterflyese. Then suddenly it was

clear as a stream in spring.”

The Abbot leaned forward until his nose was near touching that of the churchmouse. “John, you can be

a singularly annoying creature at times. Would you please read us the translation. Now!”

Immediately, John adjusted the glasses, coughed and began reading.

“Through the seasons, here I lie,

’neath this Redwall that we made.

Solve the mystery, you must try,

Graven deep it will not fade.

Somewhere ’twixt our earth and sky,

Birds and gentle breezes roam.

There a key you might espy,

To that place I once called home.

Take this graven page and seek

What my words in stone could mean.

What can’t fly, yet has a beak,

Mixed up letters evergreen.

Two Bees, two Ohs

One Sea, one tap,

And weary without A.

Leave me now to my long rest,

Good fortune on your way.”

Around the table they sat in silence, awed at the beauty and mystery of the ancient verse, until Cornflower

shifted her chair noisily and destroyed the mood.

“Thank you, Mr. Churchmouse. Very pretty, I’m sure, but what does it all mean?”

Constance rubbed her weary eyes. “It means we’ve got a long complicated riddle to solve. Not tonight,

though. I’m all for sleeping at this late hour.”

John Churchmouse returned the Abbot’s spectacles. “I’ll second that. It’s all very exciting, but I think

we’d best sleep on it. Tomorrow morning will bring clear minds with a fresh approach.”

The Abbot rose slowly, stretching and yawning. “Tomorrow morning, then, out in the orchard where

there’s sun and shade. Goodnight, all.”

After they had gone, Cornflower remained sitting at the table with the stone tablet in front of her. Carefully

she turned it this way and that, studying the curious Loamscript, tracing it carefully with her paw. Some

secret instinct deep inside her said that there was more to the thin stone slab than John had discovered in

the writing.

But what?

Chapter 22

A massive slide of earth, soil, shale and scree mixed with huge boulders that had torn away a section of the

hillside from top to bottom lay squarely across the cave entrance, trapping Matthias and his friends tight

inside the cavern.

On top of the hill, Slagar and his cohorts were surprised and shaken by the scale of the landslide they had

caused. Clouds of choking dust arose in the silvery moonlight around them. Bageye and Skinpaw buried

their faces against the earth, scared to move. The masked fox lifted the bottom of the hood and spat gritty

dust. He was about to howl his triumph at the night sky when Mattimeo and the escaped captives heaved

themselves from the water and dashed towards the mound of debris with shouts of dismay.

Slagar grabbed Bageye and Skinpaw by their tails and dragged them swiftly back, down the opposite

side of the hill.

“Ow! Ouch! Leggo, Chief!”

“Arrgh! Yer pullin’ me tail off!”

The Cruel One cuffed them soundly about the ears. “Silence, idiots! Where did they come from?”

“Where did who come from?”

“Mattimeo and his lot. They’re down there now, trying to unblock the cave entrance.”

“I never saw ’em, Chief.”

“You wouldn’t, muckbrain. You and your crony were too busy kissing the ground.”

“They must’ve escaped. We’ll go down there and round them up, eh, Chief.”