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 clapped her paws in delight. “Good vole, Rollo. Come on, let’s follow them and see where
they go.”
The procession of ants marched busily along, hugging the wall, deeper into the cellars, where they took
a right turn, following an old passage.
“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 passing them on
their way back to the juice. Winifred returned, and the light from the blazing faggot torch she held aloft
helped greatly.
They continued down the old passage, 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 space at
the bottom of the door. Between them the others tugged on the tarnished brass ring handle. The door
opened slowly, its iron hinges creaking rustily. 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 butts, across the room to another passage
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 scraping
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, passage 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 spaces 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. Hello, 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 winters 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
Redwall 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.
“What’ll we find behind the wall, I wonder?”
The late afternoon sun shimmered 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
close together. The young mouse lay with his head against Sam’s tail, and as they 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 that 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.”
“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 Wedgeback 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.”
Mattimeo tried to remain still, but his senses were alert. “Great! Well done, Tess. Do you think we can
use it to open the locks of our chains?”
“Ssshh, not so loud. I’m sure of it. I’ve just opened mine. It’s only a simple twirl lock and the dagger
point works perfectly. Stay still, I’ll get it to you.”
Tim and the others had heard Tess.