Part 12 (1/2)
Baby Rollo came running towards them with a small canteen of strawberry cordial tied about his fat waist. Winifred laughed. ”Look out, here's the terror back again. I'll bet Mr. Spike gave him what he wanted just to be rid of him while he takes his nap.”
They carried on eating and discussing the riddle. Baby Rollo sat between Cornflower and Foremole, continually b.u.t.ting in and trying to show them something he had in his paws. Winifred patted the baby vole's head.
”Yes, yes, very nice, Rollo. But please don't interrupt. Can't you see we're talking?”
Rollo would not be put off. He cut a comical figure, 132.
muttering away as he wriggled his paws this way and that as if trying to hold on to something.
”Cornflow', lookit see, lookit,” he persisted.
Cornflower fed him on a piece of gooseberry crumble and wiped his face on the corner of her ap.r.o.n. ”Drink up your cordial like a good little vole now, Rollo. Please don't speak with your mouth full. Remember your manners. Oh dear, what is he so excited about?”
Rollo opened his paws wide, gurgling at the insect that ran backwards and forwards across them. ”Lookit, li'l folkses!”
All three stared in amazement. The infant was showing them something they had not thought of so far.
”If s an ant!”
”Of course, the little folk. Thaf s what Methuselah and old Abbot Mortimer always called ants: the little folk/'
”Yurr, clever li'l Rollyo, guddbeast, young zurr!”
”Tell us where you found him.”
Rollo pointed a paw with the ant still roaming across it. ”Mista Spike's cellar,”
Across the lawn they hurried, into Great Hall, down the stairs to Cavern Hole, through the small corridor at the far side and down the sloping ramp into the wine cellars. Ambrose Spike lay snoring gently, an empty jug beside him. At a nod from Foremole they tiptoed past the slumbering hedgehog and followed baby Rollo through the dim cellar. He led them to a tun barrel of preserved damsons, a huge old oaken affair which had stood there longer than any creature cared to remember. There was a crack between the staves where the withe had perished, causing a slight leak. Rollo pointed to the floor where a tiny pool of the dark sticky juice was congealing. Ants busily collected the sweet residue, trooping in a continuous column.
”Lookit, see, li'l folkses.”
Cornflower dapped her paws in delight. ”Good vole, Rollo. Come on, let's follow them and see where they 133.
The procession of ants marched busily along, hugging the wall, deeper into the cellars, where they took a right turn/ following an old pa.s.sage.
'Wait a moment/' Winifred said. ”I'll go and get a torch. It's very dark in here.”
They paused, watching the line of ants industriously plodding along, with other ants pa.s.sing mem on their way back to the juice. Winifred returned, and the light from the blazing f.a.ggot torch she held aloft helped greatly.
They continued down the old pa.s.sage, which twisted and turned, dry, dark and musty. The light revealed a heavy wooden door barring the way. The ants, however, marched straight on, under the s.p.a.ce at the bottom of the door. Between them the others tugged on the tarnished bra.s.s ring handle. The door opened slowly, its iron hinges creaking rust.i.ty. This frightened the ants. They dispersed, breaking the continuous trail.
”Be still and quiet now, give the little folk time to settle,” Cornflower advised.
They waited until the ants had forgotten the intrusion upon their line and continued progress.
They were in a small cavelike room, full of forgotten barrels, tools and old benches. The ants wove a tortuous path, around crumbling and broken casks, firkins and b.u.t.ts, across the room to another pa.s.sage which was little more than an unpaved tunnel. With baby Rollo still leading, they crouched and followed. The going began to get steep.
”This looks like some kind of disused working, maybe a mistake in the digging plans of the foundations that was left abandoned,” Cornflower remarked.
”Burr, could be, missus,” Foremole called from the rear. ”Oi b'aint been yurr afore. We'm a-goen uphill by moi reckernen. Oi spect they arnts knows where they be bound, tho.”
Sometimes old roots got in their way. With often a boulder they had to climb over, their heads sc.r.a.ping the earthy roof above, both Cornflower and Winifred began to wish for the sunny warmth of the afternoon above ground. Rollo was too excited to think of other things. He followed the line of ants eagerly. Foremole, who was used to the dark underground places, followed stolidly in the rear. They finally emerged into what was neither a room, pa.s.sage or cave, it was a low, dim area supported by stone columns with a wall blocking the way at the far end. The torchlight showed the ants were climbing in between the mortared s.p.a.ces of the lower courses, until three layers up they disappeared into a crack between two of the heavy redstone blocks.
Winifred went to the place and held the torch up. ”Well, that's where they're going, but I'm afraid we'd have to be the same size as an ant to follow. h.e.l.lo, what's this ... Look!”
Rollo and Cornflower rubbed dust and dry earth away from the surface of the larger of the sandstone blocks until lettering was revealed.
”Aha! It's the very foundation stone of Redwall Abbey. Let*s see what it says,” Constance exclaimed. She urged Winifred to hold the light closer as she read aloud: ”Upon this stone rest all our hopes and efforts. Let Redwall Abbey stand for ever as a home for the peaceful and a haven for woodlanders. In the Spring of the Late Snowdrops this stone was laid in its place by our Champion, Martin the Warrior, and our Founder, Abbess Germaine. May our mnters be short, the springtimes green, our summers long and the autumns fruitful.”
They stood in silence after Cornflower had read the beautiful inscription, the history and tradition of Red-wall laying its kindly paw on each of them.
Foremole broke the silence with his mole logic. ”Aroight, you uns bide yurr awhoil, oi'll goo an' fetch ee diggen teams. This be a job fer mole skills.”
When he had gone, they sat gazing at the stone in the dwindling torchlight. It was Winifred who voiced their thoughts.
135.
”Whafll we find behind the wall, I wonder?”
The late afternoon sun s.h.i.+mmered and danced on the broad waters of a deep-flowing stream that ran through the rock-shelved floor of the canyon between two hills. Gratefully the chained captives drank their fill before lying down to rest on the sunbaked stone. Wedgeback the stoat sat nearby. He glared at them, pointing menacingly with his cane.
”Right, you lot, heads down, get a bit of sleep while you can. And just let me hear one move or murmur from any of you, by the fang! I'll have your tails for tea.”
As the stoat moved off, he slipped on a wet patch of rock. Jumping up quickly, he wagged the cane again. ”Remember what I said; eyes closed, lie still, and no chain-clanking, or you're for it!”
Most of the other prisoners stretched out so they could be alone, but Mattimeo and his friends huddled do^e together. The young mouse lay with his head against Sam's tail, and as (hey rested they whispered quietly among themselves.
”Wonder if old Ambrose Spike's down in his cellar having a snooze among the barrels.”
”Aye, d'you remember that day we sneaked down there and drank the strawberry cordial out of his barrels with hollow reeds?”
”Do I! Haha, good old Spike. Wish I had a beaker of mat cordial right now.”
”Hmm, or a big apple and cinnamon pie with fresh cream poured over it, or maybe just some good fresh bread and cheese.”
Auma gave the chain a slight tug. ”Oh, go to steep, you lot, you're making me hungry. Right now I wish I had a bowl of my father's mountain foothill stew, full of leaks and potatoes with gravy and carrots and onions and-”
”Huh, we're making you hungry? I thought your father was a warrior. They aren't usually good at cooking.”
136.
”No, but my father Orlando is, though he told me never to tell any creature in case they thought he was getting soft, but he always cooked wonderful things for me to eat. S'pose it was 'cos I never had a mother. Or at least I can't remember her.”
There was silence as the young captives thought of their own parents. Mattimeo began to wish that he had never caused his father and mother any trouble. He looked down at his chains and resolved that if ever he got free and returned to Redwall he would be a good son.
”Matti, are you asleep?” Tess's urgent whisper broke into his thoughts.
”No, Tess. What is it?”
”I'll tell you, but you must keep calm. When Wedge-back slipped and fell, he lost his little dagger. You know, the one he always carries tucked in the back of his belt. I've got it.”