Brian Jacques - [Redwall 03] - Mattimeo

denoting Slagar’s mounting temper.

Hairbelly was a little slower than the rest, still unhappy with his role as the balancer.

“It’s still not fair though, Chief,” he piped up. “You’ll probably only be standing about, watching

tomorrow night while we do all the work.”

Slagar seemed to ignore him for a moment. Turning to the cart, he whipped out a swirling silk cloak. It

was decorated with the same design as his headcover, and the lining was black silk, embellished with gold

and silver moon and star symbols. Twirling it expertly, he threw it around his body, leaping nimbly on to a

row of pews. Then Slagar spread his paws wide in a theatrical gesture.

“I will be Lunar Stellaris, light and shadow, hither and thither like the night breeze, presiding over all.

Lord of Mountebanks, now you see me….” He dropped out of sight behind the pews, calling, “And now

you don’t!”

The audience strained forward to see where he had hidden himself. Slagar was gone from behind the

pews.

Suddenly, as if by magic, he reappeared in the midst of his band. Right alongside Hairbelly.

“Haha, Lunar Stellaris, Lord of light and dark. But to those who disobey my word I am Slagar the

Cruel, Master of life and death.”

Before Hairbelly could blink an eye, Slagar had run him through with his sword. The stricken weasel

stared at Slagar in surprise and disbelief, then he looked down at the sword protruding from his middle

and staggered as his eyes misted over.

Slagar laughed, an evil, brutal snigger. “Take this fool outside and let him die there. We don’t want his

blood in here. Now, any one of you scum that wants to join him, just let me know!”

The morning of Redwall’s feasting dawned misty at first light. Abbot Mordalfus and Matthias had fished

since the previous afternoon. Having had little luck in daylight, they elected to continue until such time as

they made a catch. Tradition dictated that a fish from the Abbey pool must grace the center of the festive

board. In bygone years they had been lucky enough to land a grayling, but this year there were few. Out of

respect for the graylings, they had let two fine big specimens slip the lines, fishing doggedly throughout the

night. In the hour before daybreak they struck a medium-sized carp. It was a fine battle. The small coracle-

shaped boat was towed round and round the waters, ploughing through rushes and skidding across

shallows. Mordalfus was an experienced fishermouse, and he plied all his skill and guile, remembering the

time when he was plain Brother Alf, keeper of the pond. Helped along by Matthias’s strong paws, the carp

was fought and tackled, diving and tugging, leaping and backing, until it was finally driven into the

shallows, blocked off by the boat, and beached on the grassy sward.

Warbeak the Sparra Queen was up early that day. She roused the sparrow tribe who lived in the roof of the

Abbey when she spied the activity at the pond.

“Warbeak say Sparras help Matthias and old Abbotmouse.”

Matthias and Mordalfus were glad of the assistance. Tired, wet and hungry, they sat breathing heavily

on the bank.

“Warbeak, whew! Thank goodness you’ve arrived,” Matthias saluted his winged friend and her tribe.

“The Abbot and I are completely tuckered out. What d’you think of our fish?”

The fierce little bird spread her wings wide. “Plenty big fishworm, friend Matthias. My warriors take

um to fatmouse Friar; he burn um fish good. Sparra like fishworm; we eat plenty at big wormtime.”

As the Sparra folk towed the carp off in the direction of the kitchens, Abbot Mordalfus turned, smiling,

to Matthias.

“Good friends, our sparrow allies, though why everything is worm this or worm that I’ll never know.

Can you imagine Hugo’s face when Warbeak tells him to burn fishworm good?”

Matthias shook pond droplets from his paws. “It’s just their way of talking, Abbot. Sometimes I wonder

who is the harder to understand, a sparrow or a mole.”

Mordalfus glanced up. The sun was piercing the mists, casting a rosy glow over the world of

Mossflower with the promise of a hot midsummer day. From the bell tower the sounds of the Abbey bells

pealed merrily away, calling the inhabitants of Redwall to rise and enjoy the day.

Constance the badger ambled down to the pond and beached the coracle with one mighty heave.

“Whoof! It’s going to be a real scorcher,” she remarked. “My word, little Tim and Tess are certainly

energetic. Listen to them ringing the Methusaleh and the Matthias bells. Still, we mustn’t waste the day,

there’s so much to do before we can sit down to feast this evening.”

Matthias yawned and stretched. “Well, I’m for a swift forty winks and a bath after all that night fishing.

D’you realize, the Abbot and I have been stuck in that boat since yesterday noon? Right, Mordalfus?”

Constance held a paw to her muzzle. “Ssshhh, he’s fallen fast asleep. Good old Alf.”

The Abbot was curled up on the grassy bank, snuffling faintly, still tackling the carp in his dreams.

Matthias smiled, patting his friend gently. “Aye, good old Alf. I remember him taking me on the pond

for my first fish. It was a grayling, as I recall. Hmm, I was even younger than my own son then. Ah well,

none of us is getting any younger as the seasons pass.”

“Huh, I’m certainly not,” the badger snuffled. “Neither is Alf. But I’m not sure about you, Matthias.

Sometimes I wonder if you’ve aged at all. You go off and get your rest now, and I’ll see to our angling

Abbot here.”

Constance quietly scooped the slumbering Mordalfus up on to her broad back and trundled slowly off

in the direction of the Abbey dormitories.

On his way over to the gatehouse cottage, Matthias spied Cornflower and Mattimeo carrying flower baskets

and pruning knives. He waved to them.

“We landed a beautiful carp. I’ve got to have a nap and a bath.”

Cornflower tied her bonnet strings in a bow. “Oh I’m glad you caught a good fish, dear. I’ve left your

breakfast on the table, we’ll see you later. Mattimeo is so kind, guess what? He’s promised to help me all

day with the flowers.”

Matthias winked cheerily at his scowling son. “What a splendid fellow he is, Cornflower. I’ll bet it was

all his own idea too.”

As the morning sun rose higher, Redwall came to life. A team of young hedgehogs and squirrels sang

lustily as they carried firewood, damp grass and flat rocks to the baking pit, which the moles were busy

putting the final touches to.

“Dig’m sides noice’n square, Jarge. Gaffer, pat yon floor gudd an flattish loik.”

“Yurr, you’m ’old your counsel, Loamdog. Oi knows wot oi’m a-doin’.”

“Ho urr, be you serpint it’n deepwoise enuff?”

“Gurr, goo an arsk Friar to boil your ’ead awhoil, Rooter. May’ap ee’ll cook summ sense into you’m.”

Friar Hugo paced several times around the fish and dabbed at it with his dockleaf.

“Hmm, long time since I baked a carp. Brother Trugg, bring me bay leaves, dill, parsley and flaked

chestnuts. Oh, and don’t forget the hotroot pepper and cream, lots of cream.”

An otter lingered near the carp, licking her lips at the mention of the sauce ingredients.

“How’s about some fresh little watershrimp for a garnish, Friar,” she suggested. “That’d make prime

vittles.”

The fat mouse shooed her off with his dockleaf. “Be off with you, Winifred. I’ve counted every scale on

that fish. Er, if you’re going for water shrimp, I’ll need at least two nets full for a decent garnish.”