Redwall: Book One: Chapters 1–10

Matthias cut a comical little figure as he wobbled his way along the cloisters, with his large sandals flip-flopping and his tail peeping from beneath the baggy folds of an oversized novice’s habit.

Feigning lack of interest, lest any other birds had been witness to his silly mistake, he began whistling jauntily a few bars of his melodious summer song, strolling nonchalantly over to the cloister walls in search of snails.

So fierce a fighter was Martin that he faced the enemy single-pawed, driving them mercilessly, far from Mossflower. During the rout Martin fought a great battle against overwhelming odds.

Smiling benignly, the Abbot watched him go.

Beneath the Great Hall of Redwall, candles burned bright in their sconces.

A loud, jolly cry went up as three otters in clown costumes came bounding in. Such acrobatics! They tumbled, balanced and gyrated, cavorting comically across the laden tabletops without upsetting as much as a single sultana.

He amazed everyone with his feats of legerdemain. Eggs were taken from a squirrel’s ear; a young mouse’s tail stood up and danced like a snake; the incredible vanishing-shell trick was performed in front of a group of little harvest mice who kept squeaking, “He’s got it hidden in his prickles.”

He took a dainty fork loaded precariously with steaming fish.

Swish! Crack! Cluny wielded his mighty tail as if it were a bullwhip. His victim screamed aloud with pain as the scourge lashed his thin bony back.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the sneering visage of Cluny the Scourge roaring from the jolting backboard, “Tell the devil Cluny sent you, Skullface!”

Redwall mice and their guests sat back replete. There were still great quantities of food uneaten.

Colin Vole blushed until his nose went dry. He flounced off, swishing his tail, muttering about going outside to take the air.

Peace was all about him: the baby mice inside the cart whimpered fitfully in their small secret dreams; Constance ambled slowly along, as though she were out on a nighttime stroll pulling no weight at all; the stout ash staff lay forgotten on the footboard.

He was only some kind of folk legend, a warning used by mothers when youngsters were fractious or disobedient.

The silence was broken by scornful snorts and derisive laughter.

Traveling creatures, migratory birds, wandering foxes, rambling squirrels and garrulous hares—they all stopped and chatted with the old mouse, partaking of his hospitality, never dreaming of hurting him in any way.

Methuselah’s words caused widespread consternation.

Matthias sprang to the middle of the floor brandishing his staff in a way that surprised even him.

A timid paw tapping on the door snapped Cluny from his reverie with a start.

They slunk into the room, each trying to hide behind the other, knowing that the poor results of their search were likely to incur the Chief’s wrath.

Cluny’s baleful eye watched them as his long flexible tail sorted through the paltry offerings which had dropped from their claws.

Scurvy rats, hungry ferrets, sly weasels, bad stoats—exactly what he needed.

A motley collection of evil-looking implements was framed by the cloudless sky as wild cries rang out from the newly-inducted recruits.

Flowerbeds, heady and fragrant with countless varieties of summer blooms from rose to humble daisy, were planted by the mice and husbanded by the hard-working bee folk, who in their turn rewarded Redwall with plentiful supplies of honey and beeswax.

Stolidly he munched away as he confronted the problem.

Would they come with him and render assistance to his friends, many of whom were lying trapped beneath the cart, crying out for help?

Brother Rufus was no fool. “How many rats were traveling in the cart altogether?” he asked.
“Oh, a couple of hundred,” came the glib reply.

One of the older mice, Sister Clemence, chided Matthias as an upstart.

Mossflower Wood and the meadowlands stirred to the brazen voice of the great Joseph Bell.

He translated fully to each group of creatures the Abbot’s message, in turn construing back to the Father Abbot their grateful thanks with pledges of help and loyalty to Redwall Abbey.

The high red sandstone walls were far too lofty to be scaled by any normal creature.

The Warlord’s eye rested balefully on his scout.

Every creature standing on the ramparts twitched with fright as the loud voice of the Joseph Bell rang out, and John Churchmouse shouted from his position high in the belfry, “They’re coming, down the road! I can see them. I can see them!”

Matthias’s voice rang out sharp and clear from the high parapet, “Halt! Who goes there?”

Ponderously the heavy gate inched open.

Suddenly he whirled upon the apprehensive creatures.

He stood insolently watching Cornflower set the table in Cavern Hole. A pretty one indeed!

The Abbot folded his paws into the wide sleeves of his habit and stared impassively at the Warlord. “What do you want at Redwall Abbey, my son?”

Remembering who it was that he had spoken to in this insolent fashion, Redtooth cringed, expecting Cluny to deal him a blow for impudence.

The torn articles—the parchment wrapped around a fistful of rotting vegetables—splattered in his face. Livid with rage he clawed the foul mess from his eyes and saw Constance leaning over the parapet with a wicked grin of delight on her striped muzzle.