possible solution. Mordalfus in his position as judge looked each one over with a discerning eye. “Hmm,
Baby power to be. Sorry, Sister May. As you see, there’s only two letter Bs in the puzzle and you’ve used
three. Next. Ah, Winifred, let’s see your entry. Coop Water Byb? What in the name of acorns is that supposed
to mean? No, I can’t accept that one. Ah, John, well now we’ll see who has won my beautiful cake.”
John Churchmouse peered expectantly over the top of his glasses as the Abbot read out his solution.
“Cot Abbey prow. Strange words, John. Have you any reason for your answer?”
John polished his glasses, looking slightly sheepish. “Not really, Abbot. I tried several combinations, but
this looked the most likely.”
Mordalfus put John’s entry to one side. “Well, who knows? We’ll keep it as a possibility. Thank you,
John.”
“Thank you, Abbot. Er, have you tried to solve it yet?”
“No, I think it only fair that I stay as judge. However, if it isn’t solved tonight then you can be judge
tomorrow and I’ll have a try then.”
“We gorrit! We gorrit!” Baby Rollo ran forward, waving a parchment. He stumbled, fell, scrambled up
and placed the crumpled entry in the Abbot’s lap.
The kindly old mouse’s eyes twinkled as he lifted Rollo onto the arm of his chair. “You’re a clever
fellow, Rollo. Did you solve this all by yourself?”
Cornflower and Mrs. Churchmouse winked at the Abbot. “Of course he did. We couldn’t have done
without him.”
Mordalfus nodded wisely. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got. Abbey top crow. Ha, now this really looks like
something we can investigate. Abbey top crow, eh? Good. Well done, baby Rollo, not to mention your two
helpers, of course. I think the cake goes to the three of you.”
Cornflower, Mrs. Churchmouse and Rollo went into whispered conference, finally emerging with the
decision that everyone be given a small slice, much to the delight of all.
After tea, the Abbey dwellers gathered on the sward in front of Redwall. Shading their eyes, they gazed up
to the high roof. Queen Warbeak and her Sparra warriors were circling the spires, turrets and crenellations
at the Abbot’s request. There was not long to wait. Shortly Warbeak came zooming down at great speed
and perched on a windowsill to make her report.
“Round top of roof, fourbirds, fourbirds,” she told them.
The Abbot could hardly suppress his excitement. “What sort of birds? How high? Where?”
The Sparra Queen closed her eyes, remembering the locations and types of bird. “Backa roof, hawkbird.
This side, gooseflier. Other side, owlbird. That side, crowbird. All wormbird stone, you see.”
Cornflower took a few paces back and pointed upwards. “I can see a wild goose carved this side. I can
just make it out. Look, it leans outwards with its wings spread. Funny, I’ve never noticed it before.”
The Abbot settled his paws into his wide sleeves. “There are a great many things about Redwall that we
do not know. It is an ancient and mysterious place. The longer I live here the more I see how everything
our ancestors built into it has a story or a reason. It is all part of the Mossflower tradition and history. The
goose is facing west towards the sunset and the great sea. That is the way they travel each late season. I
think the hawk must face north. It is a warlike bird, and the northlands were always troubled by war. The
owl, I guess, will face east to the dense forest and the rising sun. That only leaves one way for the crow to
face.”
The party walked round to the remaining side of the Abbey. John Churchmouse adjusted his glasses
and pointed.
“South, the crow points south! What can’t fly, yet has a beak? The crow made of stone, of course. We’ve
found it! If only Jess or Sam Squirrel were here, they could climb up and investigate it.”
Queen Warbeak puffed out her feathers. “Why squirrel climb? Sparra fly, me ’vestigate um crow stone.”
The Sparra Queen was off like an arrow. From below, she looked like a small black speck as she
hovered around the crow statue, which protruded from the high eaves. Warbeak did not stay long. She
fluttered about, then winged down, landing with a sprightly hop on the gravelled path.
“Much wormsign, go this way, go that way, up, down, round, round.”
“Just as I thought,” John Churchmouse groaned. “There’s writing on the statue, but sparrows cannot
read at all.”
Mordalfus nudged him. “Hush, John. We don’t want to offend Queen Warbeak. She’s doing all she can
to help. We’ll just have to think of a way to get a copy of that writing down here.”
Warbeak watched them talking. She knew what they were discussing. Cocking her head to one side, she
winked her fierce bright eye. “How you do that. Sparra no can carry mouse, too wormfat, too big. Sparra no
read um wormsign like old mouse Abbot do with book. Plenty problem.”
The Abbot stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. “Indeed it is, Queen Warbeak, but we must help
Matthias.”
“Teach those birds to do a rubbin’.” Ambrose Spike stepped forward with parchment and charcoal
sticks. “I’ve often done it meself on some of the old barrel carvin’s in the wine cellar. Pretty patterns they
got carved on ’em.”
Cornflower clapped her paws together. “Of course, that’s the answer. I’m sure Queen Warbeak could
rub over a parchment with charcoal if her Sparras held that parchment flat upon the writing. Here, give me
a moment or two with Warbeak. I’m sure I can teach her.”
With no sense of night or day, it was impossible to tell how long they had been trapped inside the cave.
The air had become thicker, more rancid and hotter. Matthias felt his head throbbing with pain. He tried to
stop his leaden eyelids closing in sleep and all around him he could hear the shallow, ragged breathing of
the others. He had tried talking to them several times, but it was little use, they were all in a deep sleep
approaching a state of coma. Gripping the handle of his marvelous sword tightly, he tried to concentrate on
a way out. There was little hope. They were entombed in a cavern of virtually solid rock with a massive
slide of earth and stone sealing the entrance.
The warrior mouse could stay awake no longer. He leaned back against the gently heaving bulk of
Orlando and let his resolve drift. At first it was quite a peaceful feeling, save for the lack of air, which made
breathing difficult and painful, but gradually his senses began to numb and he breathed shallowly in short
pauses. As blackness enveloped him, the warrior mouse began dreaming.
He was in the Great Hall of his beloved Redwall Abbey. Sunlight streamed through the high windows in a
coloured cascade, filtering through the stained glass, weaving patterns on the cool stone walls. Matthias
was walking towards the long tapestry. He knew where he was going: to see Martin the Warrior. Yes, there
he was, the great Founder Warrior and Champion of Redwall, standing proud in the center of his tapestry.
Matthias was not at all surprised when Martin stepped out of the woven cloth and confronted him. He
went forward to shake paws with Martin, but the figure backed away. His face was scowling and he picked
something up from the floor. It was Orlando’s huge battleaxe!
Matthias was shocked. Martin advanced upon him and prodded the axehead into his side. It nipped
him painfully.
“Ouch! Martin, it’s me, Matthias. Why are you attacking me?”