Brian Jacques - [Redwall 03] - Mattimeo

Mattimeo nodded. Matthias grew stern once more.

“Good, I am glad you do. I will not whack you. I have never laid a paw on you yet and I do not intend

starting now. However, you attacked little Vitch and you must pay for that, one way or another. At first I

thought I should refuse you permission to attend the celebrations….”

Matthias watched the shock and disbelief on his son’s face before continuing.

“But I have decided that you may go, providing you run straightaway to the kitchens. There you will

ask Friar Hugo to allot you double the tasks he gave to Vitch yesterday. When you have finished working

for the Friar, you will offer to help your mother with the gathering of flowers until such time as she decides

to free you of your task. Is that clear?”

Mattimeo’s face was a picture of disbelief. He, the son of the Redwall Warrior, working! Never before

had he been asked, much less ordered, to carry out Abbey tasks. The young mouse considered himself the

inheritor of his father’s sword and duties. As such, he was firmly convinced that he was above any type of

pan-scrubbing or daisy-gathering. Even Constance knew that. She had sentenced Vitch to hard labour, but

even she did not dare tell the future Champion to dirty his paws with menial chores. Besides, Vitch would

be finished with his tasks by now. He could stand about and gloat at the sight of his enemy ordered to

perform double the work and more.

Matthias watched his son’s face. Now was the testing time. Would he behave like the spoiled little

creature who had been indulged all his life by the Abbey dwellers, or would he show a bit of character?

The young mouse swallowed hard, nodding his head. “I’ll do as you have asked, Dad.”

Matthias clapped him heartily on the back. “Good mouse. That’s the mark of a warrior in training,

obedience. Off you go now!”

Morning sunlight stencilled the high window shaped in soft pink relief on the sandstone floor of Great Hall

as Mattimeo passed through on his way to the kitchens. He felt the fur on his shoulders prickle slightly, as if

some beast were watching him from behind. Turning slowly, he faced the west wall. No creature was there.

The hall was empty, save for the picture of Martin the Warrior upon the Redwall tapestry. Mattimeo often

had this same experience when he was alone and near the large woven cloth. He drew closer, standing in

front of the magnificent armoured mouse’s likeness. Martin the Warrior looked big and strong. He held the

famous sword easily in his right paw, a smile upon his broad honest face, and behind him the images of

bygone enemies fled in fear as if trying to escape from the tapestry. The young mouse’s eyes glowed in

admiration of his hero. He spoke to Martin, not knowing that his father Matthias had done the same thing

when he was young.

“I could feel you watching me, Martin. I’m just on my way to do penance in the kitchens, but you

probably know that. I didn’t mean to disobey my parents or cause them unhappiness. You can understand

that, can’t you? I had to fight Vitch because he said things about my father. He thought I was scared of him,

but I am the son of a warrior and I could not let him insult my family. If my father knew the truth of it all

he would not have punished me, but, well, he’s my father, you see. I can’t explain things properly to him.

You’re different, Martin. You understand how I feel.”

Mattimeo shuffled his paws on the stones beneath Martin’s never changing expression.

“You know, sometimes you’re just like my father. Look, I’m sorry, I’ll try to be a better mouse. I

promise not to fight or get into any more trouble or worry my parents again.”

He turned and shuffled sulkily toward the kitchens, muttering as he went, “I wish there was another

Great War, then I’d show ’em. Huh! They’d be glad of young mice that could fight then. I wouldn’t be sent

off to scour pans. They’d probably have to give me a medal or something like that.”

The smile upon the face of the tapestry warrior seemed to be gentler as the immobile eyes watched the

small habit-clad figure descend the steps of Cavern Hole.

Friar Hugo was absolute ruler in the vast kitchens of Redwall. He was the fattest mouse in the Abbey and

wore a white apron over his habit. Hugo always carried a dockleaf in his tail, which he waved about busily,

fanning himself, rubbing it upon a scorched paw, or holding it like a visor across his forehead as he peered

down into steaming, bubbly pots. Mattimeo stood by, awaiting orders, whilst Hugo checked his lists,

issuing instructions to his staff of helpers.

“Mmmm, let me see, that’s six large raspberry seedcakes. We need four more. Brother Sedge, quickly,

take that pan of cream from the flames before it boils over. You can add the powdered nutmeg and whisk it

in well. Sister Agnes, chop those young onions and add the herbs to the woodland stew. Er, what’s this?

Ten flagons of cold strawberry cordial. That’ll never do, we need twice that many. Here, young Matti, nip

down to the cellars and fill more flagons from the barrels. Ambrose Spike’s down there, so you won’t need

the keys.”

Though the cooking smells were extra delicious, Mattimeo was glad to be out of the steamy heat and

bustle of the kitchen for a while. He saluted the Friar smartly and ran off, dodging mice, hedgehogs, voles

and squirrels, all carrying trays, pots, platters and bowls.

The Abbey cellars were peacefully dim and cool. Unwittingly Mattimeo surprised old Ambrose Spike. The

cellar keeper was pouring a bowl of October ale, blowing the froth from the top before he drank. As he

dipped his snout, Mattimeo said “ ’scuse me, please, Friar Hugo said I was t—”

The ancient hedgehog choked and sneezed, spraying Mattimeo with ale as he whirled around.

“Pahcoochawww! Don’t sneak up on me like that, young Matti. Hold still a moment, will you.”

Ambrose drained the bowl. Regaining his composure, he stared at the froth lying in the bottom of his

sampling bowl.

“Harr, wunnerful! Though I do say it meself, no creature brews October ale like the Spike family. Now,

what can I do for you, mousey?”

“Friar says I’ve got to fill more flagons of strawberry cordial, sir.”

“Oh, right, barrels are through in the next section,” Ambrose told him, “the ones marked pink, flagons

against the wall as y’go in. Careful now, don’t disturb the little casks of elderberry and blackcurrant wine or

they’ll go cloudy.”

As Mattimeo wandered into the next section, he was hailed.

“Psst, Matt, ssshhhh, over here!”

It was Tim and Tess and Sam Squirrel. Mattimeo tip-pawed over.

“What are you three doing down here?”

Tess Churchmouse stifled a giggle. “We slipped past Ambrose while he was dozing. Come and have

some cold strawberry cordial, it’s scrummy.”

The trio had prised the bung from a barrel that lay on its side. They used long hollow reeds as drinking

straws, dipping them down into the liquid and sucking up the sparkling ice-cold strawberry juice.

Tess gave Mattimeo a straw, and he could not resist joining them.

Cold strawberry cordial becomes sickly when drunk too freely. Matt, Tess, Tim and Sam soon found this

out, and they lay back awhile and rested. Later, the two churchmice and the young squirrel helped

Mattimeo to fill the flagons. Together they bore them up to the kitchens.

Ambrose Spike raised his snout from a bowl of nutbrown beer as they passed through his cellar.