Brian Jacques - Mossflower

Late autumn winds sighed fitfully around the open gatehouse door, rustling

brown gold leaves in the fading afternoon.

Bella of Brockhall snuggled deeper into her old armchair by the fire. Through

half-closed eyes she watched the small mouse peering around the doorway at

her.

"Come in, little one, and close the door."

The small mouse did as he was bidden. Encouraged by the badger's friendly

smile, he clambered up onto the arm of the chair and settled himself against a

cushion.

"You said that you would tell me a story, Miz Bella."

The badger nodded slowly.

"Everything you see about you, the harvest that has been gathered, from the

russet apples to the golden honey, is yours to enjoy in freedom. Listen now,

as the breeze sweeps the last autumn leaves off into the world of winter. I

will tell you of the time long ago before Redwall Abbey was built in

Mossflower. In those days there was no freedom for wood-landers; we were

oppressed cruelly under the harsh rule of Verdauga Greeneyes and his daughter

Tsarmina. It was a mouse like yourself who saved Mossflower. His name is known

to all: Martin the Warrior.

"Ah, my little friend, I am grown old. So are my comrades; their sons and

daughters are fathers and mothers now. But that is life. The seasons still

look new to young eyes, the food tastes fresher in the mouths of the young

ones than it does in my own. As I sit here in the warmth and peace it all

lives again in my memory, a strange tale of love and war, friend and foe,

great happenings and mighty deeds.

"Gaze into the fire, young one. Listen to me and I will tell you the story.''

BOOK ONE

Kotir

Mossflower lay deep in the grip of midwinter beneath a sky of leaden gray that

showed tinges of scarlet and orange on the horizon. A cold mantle of snow

draped the landscape, covering the flatlands to the west. Snow was everywhere,

filling ditches, drifting high against hedgerows, making paths invisible,

smoothing the contours of earth in its white embrace. The gaunt, leafless

ceiling of Mossflower Wood was penetrated by constant snowfall, which carpeted

the sprawling woodland floor, building canopies on evergreen shrubs and

bushes. Winter had muted the earth; the muffled stillness was broken only by a

traveler's paws.

A sturdily built young mouse with quick dark eyes was moving confidently

across the snowbound country. Looking back, he could see his tracks

disappearing northward into the distance. Farther south the flatlands rolled

off endlessly, flanked to the west by the faint shape of distant hills, while

to the east stood the long ragged fringe marking the marches of Mossflower.

His nose twitched at the elusive smell of burning wood and turf from some

hearthfire. Cold wind soughed from the treetops, causing whorls of snow to

dance in icy spirals. The traveler gathered his ragged cloak tighter, adjusted

an old rusting sword that was slung across his back, and trudged steadily

forward, away from the wilderness, to where other creatures lived.

It was a forbidding place made mean by poverty. Here and

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there he saw signs of habitation. The dwellings, ravaged and demolished, made

pitiful shapes under snow drifts. Rearing high against the forest, a curious

building dominated die ruined settlement. A fortress, crumbling, dark and

brooding, it was symbol of fear to the woodland creatures of Mossflower.

This was how Martin the Warrior first came to Kotir, place of the wildcats.

In a mean hovel on the south side of Kotir, the Stickle family crouched around

a low turf fire. It gusted fitfully as the night winds pierced the slatted

timbers where mud chinking had not been replaced. A timid scratch at the door

caused them to jump nervously. Ben Stickle picked up a billet of firewood,

motioning his wife Goody to keep their four little ones well back in the

shadows.

As the Goodwife Stickle covered her brood widi coarse burlap blankets, Ben

took a firmer grip on the wood and called out harshly in his gruffest voice,

"Be off with you and leave us alone. There's not enough food in here to go

around a decent hedgehog family. You've already taken half of all we have to

swell the larders in Kotir."

"Ben, Ben, 'tis oi, Urthclaw! Open up, burr. 'Tis freezen out yurr."

As Ben Stickle opened the door, a homely-faced mole trundled by him and

hurried across to the fire, where he stood rubbing his digging claws together

in front of the flames.

The little ones peeped out from the blankets. Ben and Goody turned anxious

faces toward their visitor.

Urthclaw rubbed warmth into his cold nose as he talked in the curious rustic

molespeech.

"Vurmin patrols be out, burr, weasels V stoats an* the loik. They'm a lukken

fer more vittles."

Goody shook her head as she wiped a little one's snout on her apron. "I knew

it! We should have run off and left this place, like the others. Where in the

name of spikes'll we find food to pay their tolls?"

Ben Stickle threw down the piece of firewood despairingly. ' 'Where can we run

in midwinter with four little 'uns? They'd perish long afore spring."

Urthclaw produced a narrow strip of silver birch bark and held a paw to his

mouth, indicating silence. Scratched on the

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bark in charcoal was a single word: Corim. Beneath it was a simple picture map

showing a route into Mossflower Woods, far from Kotir.

Ben studied the map, torn between the chance of escape and his family's

predicament. The frustration was clear on his face.

Bang! Bang!

"Open up in there! Come on, get this door open. This is an official Kotir

patrol."

Soldiers!

Ben took one last hasty glance at die strip of bark and threw it on the fire.

As Goody lifted the latch the door was thrust forcefully inward. She was swept

to one side as the soldiers packed into the room, out of the winter night

chill. They pushed and shoved at each other roughly. A ferret named Blacktooth

and a stoat called Splitnose seemed to be in charge of the patrol. Ben Stickle

signed with relief as they turned away from the burning strip of bark and

stood with their backs to the fire.

"Well now, dozyspikes, where are you hiding all the bread and cheese and

October ale?"

Ben could scarce keep the hatred from his voice as he answered the sneering

Blacktooth. "It's many a long season since I tasted cheese or October ale.

There's bread on the shelf, but only enough for my family."

Splitnose spat into the fire and reached for the bread. Ben Stickle was

blocked from stopping the stoat by a barrier of spear hafts as he tried to

push forward.

Goody placed a restraining paw on her husband's spikes. "Please, Ben, don't

fight 'em, the great bullies."

Urthclaw chimed in, "Yurr, baint much 'ee c'n do agin spears, Ben."

Blacktooth turned to the mole as if seeing him for the first time. "Huh,

what're you doing here, blinkeye?"

One of the little hedgehogs threw the sacking aside and faced the stoat

boldly. "He came in for a warm by our fire. You leave him alone!" Splitnose

burst out laughing, spraying crumbs from the bread he was eating. "Look out,

Blackie. There's more of 'em under that blanket. I'd watch 'em, if I were

you."

A nearby weasel threw back the covering, exposing the other three young ones.

Blacktooth sized them up. "Hmm, they look big enough to do a day's work."

Goodwife Stickle sprang fiercely in front of them.