A large powerful bow, something along the lines of a crossbow. What if it could be mounted upon the ramparts unknown to Cluny and his horde? At a given time, say mid-afternoon, Cluny’s shadow would be clearly visible through the tent fabric in the bright June sunlight. A big arrow or bolt properly aimed from the bow, and twang!
Exit Cluny.
Delighted with the plan, Constance shared her knowledge with only one other creature, the solitary beaver. Enlisting the aid of the beaver’s highly capable molars, the badger left him gnawing away at a yew sapling in the orchard while she went off to find an arrow that would fit her brainchild. An ash staff that had seen service as a candle-snuffer proved to be ideal. With a heavy stone Constance flattened the conical brass extinguisher fitted to the top of the staff until it resembled a vicious-looking spear. She flighted it with duck feathers. A thin plaited climbing rope rubbed with beeswax made an excellent bowstring. With the help of the beaver, Constance bent the yew sapling against the Abbey wall and strung it to the right tension. Together they mounted it upon a dining table with nails and strapping, and bore it up to the ramparts. Constance would only grunt brusquely at anyone inquiring what the strange contraption was for; only she and the beaver needed to know that. The two creatures sat out upon the ramparts sharing lunch, conversing in low secretive tones.
‘That should do the trick!’
‘Aye, let’s keep our paws crossed that it does. We’ll only get one shot.’
‘Ha, one shot is all we’ll need.’
‘Shall we wait until the sun has passed its zenith? That way we can see him clearer.’
‘Good idea. When the Joseph Bell tolls mid-afternoon should be best.’
Having finished lunch, the pair lay out like old watchdogs on the sun-warmed stones.
Half an hour later they were snoring.
Cluny was a resourceful rat. He often wished that his army thought as he did instead of being just a mob of incompetents. But then, if the horde were as clever as he was, there would be no need of a leader. Such was life, he reflected. Nobody could think up a new strategy as he could.
And this time Cluny reckoned that he had hit upon a foolproof plan! He strode across the meadow and handpicked thirty-odd rats.
‘Follow me,’ Cluny rapped. ‘Cheesethief, I’m leaving you in charge until I get back.’
Without another word Cluny marched off with his selected rodents, first to the upturned hay cart in the ditch down the road, then a quick circle around into Mossflower Wood.
Like his predecessor Redtooth, Cheesethief was ambitious. He interpreted Cluny’s order as the much-coveted promotion to second-in-command. The Chief had not even acknowledged Darkclaw. In his elation, Cheesethief even forgot the painful hornet stings. He strutted about asserting his new-found authority.
‘Darkclaw, send those ferrets out for more dockleaves, will you?’ he ordered. ‘Oh, and see that no one else strays too far. I’ll be in the tent if you need me for anything, but try not to disturb me.’
Darkclaw scowled resentfully. Nevertheless he carried out the orders. If he didn’t, he was certain that Cheesethief would report him to Cluny for insubordination.
Cheesethief swaggered into the tent and glanced around. Cluny had left the better part of a wood pigeon, some cheese, and there was still a handsome measure of best Saint Ninian barley wine in the Chief’s canteen.
Cheesethief tucked in with satisfaction. Redtooth used to, so why not he? It was his entitlement as Cluny’s second-in-command. He sprawled languidly in the Warlord’s chair, tilting it and resting his feet on the map-strewn camp table, happy in the knowledge that his destiny was being fulfilled. He secretly hoped that it would start raining heavily, then the rest of the army would recognize his exalted position when they were outside getting soaked, whilst he was snug and dry inside the tent.
Cheesethief tried studying the maps. He could not make head nor tail of them and soon grew restless.
There was Cluny’s poisoned tail-barb which he wore in battle. Careful not to pierce his claws by accident, he fitted it to his own tail. Next he draped the Warlord’s cloak about him. It was a bit long, but what a dashing figure he must cut. For a while he contemplated the massive war helmet. Peeping around the tent flap he checked that there was no sign of the Chief returning. Good! Cluny would probably be gone for another hour or two yet.
The Joseph Bell tolled for mid-afternoon.
Constance shook the beaver into wakefulness.
‘Look, what a golden opportunity! There’s the Scourge himself, all dressed up to kill. We’ll never get another chance like this.’
The giant bow worked perfectly. Cheesethief’s latest promotion was swift but brief. He never knew what it was that snuffed his life out!
MATTHIAS SCREAMED ALOUD with fright inside the cat’s mouth. It was sloppy and hot, pink and black, smelling indescribably and seemingly full of huge yellowed teeth.
‘Phut!’
The marmalade cat spat the young mouse out upon the barn floor. He lay wet and sticky, quivering all over, dust and straw clinging to his fur. Instinct warned Matthias to lie inert and play dead. He had no chance to make a run for it, surrounded as he was by the cat’s paws. He could not stop his body from quaking badly. He lay staring into the feline eyes, great twin pools of turquoise flecked with gold.
The cat stared back at Matthias in disgust. Disdainfully it wiped a fastidious paw across its soiled tongue and spat as if trying to rid itself of a horrible taste.
‘Ugh! I simply cannot abide the taste of mouse. Filthy little vermin, one can never tell where they’ve been.’
The cat’s voice, though cultured, was a high reedy tenor. It would have sounded comical under different circumstances. Matthias lay as still as possible.
The marmalade cat prodded him with an indolent paw. ‘Oh get up you disgusting little beast! I know you’re not dead.’
Slowly the young mouse rose to his feet. The cat seemed uninterested in him as a possible food source. Matthias’s legs were shaking so much that he had to sit down again.
They stared at each other. Matthias could think of nothing to say. The cat spoke again. This time its voice was indignant. ‘Well, have you nothing to say for yourself, mouse? Where are your manners? Don’t you think you should apologize for leaping into my mouth like that?’
Matthias managed to stand again. He bowed shakily. ‘I beg your pardon, sir. It was purely accidental. I fell, you see. Please accept my humble apologies. I am Matthias of Redwall and I sincerely hope I have not disturbed you in any way.’
The cat sniffed distantly. ‘Yes, at least you seem to have some sort of decent upbringing, Matthias of Redwall. I accept your apology. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Squire Julian Gingivere.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Squire Julian,’ said Matthias politely.
The cat yawned regally. ‘You may call me Julian. The title is hereditary. I never wanted it, Squire of what? A broken-down ramshackle farm building and a stretch of river over yonder! One has no real friends, no trusty servants, not even a mate for that matter. Hmmm, I suppose the Gingivere line will become extinct when I die.’
Matthias could not help feeling a certain amount of sympathy for the lonely aristocrat.
‘At least you seem to lead a peaceful life,’ he said hopefully.
‘Oh, spare me your platitudes, mouse,’ Julian replied in a world-weary voice. ‘What would you know about loneliness and trying to preserve one’s standards in a decaying world? I say, do you think you could manage to clean yourself up a bit? You look an absolute fright, standing there all covered in dust and straw. And while you’re doing that maybe you’d like to explain how you came to be sneaking around my barn.’
As Matthias brushed himself down, he related the object of his mission. Julian looked down at him in surprise.
‘Captain Snow eh? That old maniac! I’ve forbidden him the use of my barn, you know. What a thoroughly dreadful bird! He eats anything that moves or crawls. Atrocious
table manners, too. All that regurgitating of bone and fur. Ugh!’
‘Could you tell me where I might find him, please?’ Matthias asked.
‘Certainly,’ replied Julian. ‘Snow lives in a hollow tree these days. I’ll stretch a point and take you there. But please don’t expect me to introduce you or even talk to him. When I barred Snow from here we had a dreadful quarrel. Things were said that cannot be rescinded. I vowed that day never to speak to that old owl for as long as I live.’
Matthias sensed that Julian and Snow had once been good friends. Maybe the rift in their relationship was the cause of Julian’s present state of fatalism and gloom. He decided wisely not to pursue the matter further at the moment.
Riding upon a cat’s back was a new and unusual experience for Matthias. Although he took great care to disguise it, Julian was quite an observant creature. As he strode with an easy grace across the farmyard he remarked idly, ‘Your friends the shrews are out in force today. Ignorant little things! They think I can’t see them. Give Log-a-Log and Guosim a message from me, will you? Tell them it is quite safe to come into the barn for hay and other items. Snow doesn’t roost there any more. Goodness knows, I certainly won’t hurt them. My diet consists of herbs, grasses and an occasional fish from the river. I gave up red meat years ago. You might also mention that if they must come to my barn, would they please desist from arguing and fighting so much? There’s nothing quite as upsetting as quarrelsome little shrews disturbing one’s meditations.’
Matthias agreed to convey the message to the Guerrilla Shrews. They had arrived at a small overgrown orchard. Julian halted within twenty paces of a stunted oak. As he bade Matthias climb down he cautioned him, ‘You probably can’t see Captain Snow, but he’s watching us. I can tell when he’s at home. Be extra careful, Matthias. The old glutton will more than likely eat you on sight – typical of an owl. Well, I’m off now. If you get the chance, say Squire Gingivere said that he must surely admit he was in the wrong and apologize. Only then can we resume our friendship and live together in the barn. Goodbye, Matthias, and do take care.’
‘Goodbye, Julian, and thank you!’ Matthias called after the retreating figure of the last survivor in the Gingivere dynasty.
The young mouse unpinned Basil’s medal from his tunic. He ventured cautiously forwards, holding it aloft. If Julian said that Captain Snow was about, then it must be so.
An unearthly screech shattered the silence, followed by a rush of wings. The owl swooped out of nowhere straight for Matthias.
Ducking and weaving as Basil had taught him, Matthias waved the medal and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Truce! Basil Stag Hare sent me here. I claim a truce!’
He was knocked flat upon his back. Massive needle-pointed talons tore the medal from his grasp. Captain Snow landed in front of Matthias, raising the dust with his vast wings. The young mouse found it hard to believe that such an awesome and impressive bird existed.
Captain snow stood hugely tall with an incredible wingspan. The owl’s pure-white plumage was broken only by a few brown bars on the wing and some dark spots on the crown. He had six dangerous talons in front, two at the back of his legs and a sharp heavily-curved beak. His eyes were colossal; twin golden orbs with circular black centres.
Matthias continued ducking and weaving, conscious that his life hung by a thread. Captain Snow flicked out a talon. Matthias dodged nimbly aside.
‘State your name and rank. Who gave you my medal?’ snapped the owl in a flat hard voice.
Still moving quickly, and panting for breath, the young mouse gasped, ‘Matthias mouse, Warrior of Redwall Abbey. The medal belongs to my friend Basil Stag Hare. He sends his compliments, Cap’n Sir.’
‘Stand fast,’ snapped the Captain.
Matthias stood rigid. The owl’s talons started to inch forwards as if they had a life of their own. The young mouse moved steadily backwards away from the talons. Captain Snow licked saliva from the edges of his beak; it was plain that he desperately wanted to eat Matthias.
‘What did the cat say to you, mouse?’ he rasped. ‘Did he mention me?’
Matthias repeated the message from Julian. ‘Squire Gingivere says, sir, that if you were to admit yourself in the wrong and apologize to him, then you could both be friends and live in the barn again.’
As he spoke, Matthias had been moving away from the seeking talons. On a sudden instinct he dived to one side as the owl pounced. He skipped and ran on a zig-zag course, away from the murderous bird. Bilked of his target, Captain Snow madly tore at the grass and scattered dust. All at once he wheeled about and flew upwards, perching at the entrance to his nest-hole in the stunted oak. ‘All right, you can stop running away now, little warrior. Come back here. I want to talk to you.’
Matthias stood a safe distance away from the tree. Captain Snow shifted from one foot to the other, muttering huffily, ‘Me, in the wrong? Never. I won’t apologize to that cat! I refuse to!’
When the owl had finished arguing with himself, Matthias called out, ‘Cap’n Snow, sir, there is a question that I must ask you.’
The great snowy owl beckoned towards his hole with a sweeping wing. ‘Listen, mouse, you can’t stand down there shouting up at me. Why not come into my lair, er, nest. Then we can chat together in comfort.’
Standing on tiptoe Matthias could catch a glimpse of the ‘nest’. The walls were lined with all types of fur, shrew, mouse, vole, even rat. The skulls and bones of small creatures were hung up as macabre decorations. Matthias smiled nervously. ‘Er, if you don’t mind, Cap’n, I think I’d prefer to stay where I am.’
The Captain cackled raucously and pointed a talon. ‘So, you’d prefer to stay where you are, sir? Well, I don’t blame you. Right, out with it. What’s this question you want to ask me?’
‘Do you know of Asmodeus the giant adder, and where might I find him, sir?’ Matthias called boldly.
The owl preened his breast feathers. He cocked his head on one side. ‘I know of everything that moves within my territory, mouse. Yes, I do know of Asmodeus. I also know where he calls home. Why do you ask?’
‘Because the adder has something that belongs to our Abbey; an ancient sword, sir,’ Matthias replied.
‘Ah, the sword,’ said the owl. ‘I remember the night he passed here carrying it. You’ll never get that sword from Asmodeus, a puny little mouse like you! The adder has magic in his eye that would freeze you like a statue. Huh, I wish mine could.’
Matthias felt his temper rising. He shouted angrily at the self-opinionated bird, ‘I don’t care if he’s got magic eyes, poison teeth, coils of steel, or whatever! I mean to have that sword! I’ll steal it from the snake or fight him for it. If I have to I’ll—’
The rest of Matthias’s words were drowned out by the hysterical screeching laughter of the owl, who nearly fell from his perch with merriment. He blinked tears from his huge eyes.
‘You’ll what? Did I hear you say that you’d fight Asmodeus? You! Oh little mouse, run away and play before I crack a wing laughing. Ha ha ha hee hee oh hohohoho! Oh, dearie me! Are you sure you haven’t been drinking old apple brandy? A mouse fighting an adder! Oh my, now I’ve heard everything!’
Captain Snow laughed helplessly. Matthias yelled up challengingly, ‘Ha, I’ll bet you couldn’t fight Asmodeus!’
The owl wiped tears from his eyes with a snowy wing as he hooted. ‘I’ve never tried. And I wouldn’t relish the prospect, little one! The snake and I would probably both end up dead.’
Matthias called mockingly, ‘That’s because you’re afraid. Look, I bet I’ll fight Asmodeus and win too.’
‘Bet you won’t.’
‘Bet I will.’
‘Bet you anything you won’t.’
Matthias pointed at the medal in Captain Snow’s talons. ‘Bet you that medal that I will!’
The Captain flung the medal backwards into his nest. ‘Done!’
‘Hold on, owl,’ Matthias shouted. ‘What are you putting up as a wage
r? The medal is not yours. You gave it to Basil Stag Hare.’
Spreading his wings to their incredible length, Snow screeched, ‘I’ll bet anything. Whatever you say, mouse.’
Matthias nodded cunningly. ‘Oh, I don’t want to take everything you own. Let’s just say that you guarantee to return my medal and make a few little promises.’
Again the owl had difficulty in controlling his unbridled hilarity. ‘Ha ha ha! The nerve of him! All right, my little warrior! It’s a bet. Name your promises.’
‘Right,’ said Matthias solemnly. ‘You must promise on your oath that if I win you will never eat another mouse or shrew of any type.’
‘Agreed,’ chortled the owl. ‘In fact I’ll go even further. I promise you that if you defeat the snake, I’ll admit I was wrong to that stuffy old cat. I’ll even apologize to him on bended knees, so there!’
‘On your word as a captain,’ Matthias pressed.
The owl held out a wing and a leg as he recited: ‘I swear by my captaincy and by my illustrious ancestors Nyctea and Glacier, that I, Captain Snow, will return the medal and cleave to my oath if you should win against Asmodeus.’ The owl broke into laughter again: ‘Oh, hahahaheeheeheehohoho! This is the easiest bet I ever made! It’ll be like taking the wings off a dead butterfly.’
‘Maybe to you, sir, but not to me,’ Matthias countered. ‘Now, tell me where I may find Asmodeus, Cap’n.’
‘In the old sandstone quarry,’ the owl replied. ‘You’ll have to cross the river. There are caves in the quarry, passages too. Explore them. You won’t find Asmodeus until you are least expecting him. By then it will be too late. You’ll be deader than an icicle in hell. Goodbye, mouse.’
Matthias turned his back upon the snowy owl and strode off with a string of taunts ringing in his ears.
‘Nice to have my silver medal back!’ jeered the owl. ‘I’ll think of you when I wear it. You should have let me eat you. It’d save you a journey to the quarry…. Oh, I almost forgot. You won’t be able to give the hare my best wishes…. You’ll be snug inside the snake!’