Brian Jacques: [Redwall 03] - Mattimeo

Mattimeo

Brian Jacques

Prologue

Book One - Slagar the Cruel

Chapter: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Book Two - General Ironbeak

Chapter: 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

Book Three - Malkariss

Chapter: 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

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Prologue

High noontide sun beat down on Orlando the Axe. The mighty badger strode the far reaches of the western

plains, blind to the beauty of the flower-carpeted grassland which had turned green to gold.

Orlando the Axe was following the fox.

The badger wiped a huge dusty paw across his eyes. Sun glinted off the massive double-headed

battleaxe slung over his shoulder. His home lay plundered behind him; there was nothing left there except

desolation and loneliness.

Orlando the Axe was following the fox.

Two sunrises ago he had passed the strange fox and his band. They had given him a wide berth as he

trudged to the foothills of the mountains, seeking food and the small rock plants which his little daughter

Auma loved so much. Orlando feared no living creature. He had passed by the fox, not thinking that he

had left a clear trail back to his den. The following morning he had returned home, laden with food and

rock flowers. Auma was gone, his home was smashed and broken.

Orlando the Axe was following the fox.

Three winters ago his wife Brockrose had died, leaving him to rear their little badger cub. Auma was

the most precious thing in Orlando’s life. He taught her of the seasons, the plains and the mountains. Now

he had turned his back on those same mountains and plains with only one thing in his mind: to find his

daughter and the creature who had taken her.

Orlando the Axe was following the fox.

Striding the wide spaces, the badger let a fearsome rumble start to build deep within his cavernous

chest, a terrible sound that grew into a howling roar of pent-up rage and anger. It rebounded to the

mountains across the sunlit plain as he shook the battleaxe aloft with one paw, his eyes narrowed to red

bloodshot slits which changed the whole world crimson in front of him.

Orlando the Axe was following the fox!

Book 1 - Slagar the Cruel

Chapter 1

From the diary of John Churchmouse, historian and recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country.

We are close to the longest day of this season, the Summer of the Golden Plain. Today I took up my ledger and

quill to write. It was cool and dim in the quiet of my little study indoors, With a restless spirit I sat, quill in

paw, listening to the merry din outside in the sunlit cloisters of our Abbey. I could no longer stand the solitude,

that happy sound of revelry drew me outside, yet there was still my recorder’s duties to catch up with. Taking

ledger and quill, I went out, up the stairs to the top of the outer wall, directly over the Warrior’s Cottage,

which is the gatehouse at the threshold of Redwall Abbey.

What a glorious day! The sky, painted special blue far the summer, had not a cloud or shadow anywhere,

the hot eye of the sun caused bees to drone lazily, while grasshoppers chirruped and sawed endlessly. Out to the

west, the great plains stretched away, shimmering and dancing with heat waves to the distant horizon, a

breathtaking carpet of kingcup and dandelion mingled with cowslip; never had we ever seen so many yellow

blossoms. Abbot Mordalfus named it the Summer of the Golden Plain. What a wise choice. I could see him

ambling round the corner by the bell tower, his habit sleeves rolled well up, panting as he helped young

woodlanders to carry out forms for seating at the great feast, our eighth season of peace and plenty since the

wars.

Otters swam lazily in the Abbey pond, culling edible water plants (but mostly gambolling and playing.

You know what otters are like). Small hedgehogs and moles were around the back at the east side orchard. I

could hear them singing as they gathered ripening berries or collected early damsons, pears, plums and apples,

which the squirrels threw down to them from the high branches. Pretty little mousemaids and baby voles

tittered and giggled whilst choosing table flowers, some making bright posies which they wore as hats.

Frequently a sparrow would thrum past my head, carrying some morsel it had found or caught (though I

cannot imagine any creature but a bird eating some of the questionable items a sparrow might find). The

Foremole and his crew would arrive shortly to dig a baking pit. Meanwhile, the bustle and life of Redwall

carried on below me, framed at the back by our beloved old Mossflower Woods. High, green and serene, with

hardly a breeze to stir the mighty fastness of leafy boughs, oak, ash, elm, beech, yew, sycamore, hornbeam, fir

and willow, mingled pale, dusty, dark and light green hues, the varied leaf shapes blending to shelter and frame

the north and east sides of our walls.

Only two days to the annual festivities. I begin to feel like a giddy young woodlander again! However,

being historian and recorder, I cannot in all dignity tuck up the folds of my habit and leap down among the

merrymakers. I will finish my writings as quickly as possible then. Who knows, maybe I’ll stroll down to join

some of the elders in the cellar. I know they will be sampling the October ale and blackcurrant wine set by from

other seasons, just to make sure it has kept its taste and temperature correctly, especially the elderberry wine of

last autumn’s pressing. You understand, of course, that I am doing this merely to help out old friends.

John Churchmouse (Recorder of Redwall Abbey, formerly of St. Ninian’s)

Chapter 2

Afternoon sunlight slanted through the gaps in the ruined walls and roof of Saint Ninian’s old church,

highlighting the desolation of weed and thistle growing around broken, rotted pews. A small cloud of

midges dispersed from dizzy circling as Slagar brushed by them. The fox peered through a broken door

timber at the winding path of dusty brown which meandered aimlessly southward to meet the woodland

fringe on the eastern edge.

Slagar watched silently, his ragged breath sucking in and out at the purple-red diamond-patterned

skull mask which covered his entire head. When he spoke, it was a hoarse, rasping sound, as if he had

received a terrible throat injury at some time.

“Here they come. Get that side door open, quick!”

A long coloured cart with rainbow-hued covering was pulled into the church by a dozen or so

wretched creatures chained to the wagon shaft. A stoat sat on the driver’s platform. He slashed at the

haulers savagely with a long thin willow withe.

“Gee up, put yer backs into it, me beauties!”

The cart was followed by a rabble of ill-assorted vermin: stoats, ferrets and weasels, garbed the same as

their comrades who were already waiting with Slagar. They wore broad cloth sashes stuffed with a motley

assortment of rusty daggers, spikes or knives. Some carried spears and curious-looking single-bladed axes.

Slagar the Cruel hurried them along.

“Come on, shift your hides, get that door back in place quick!”