Redwall chapters 1-5

It was the start of the summer of the late rose. Mothflower country shimmered gently in a peaceful haze, bathing delicately at each dew-laden dawn, blossoming through high sunny noontides, languishing in every crimson tinted twilight that heralded the soft darkness of June nights. Red walls stood foursquare along the marches of the old south border, flanked on two sides by mothflower wood's shaded depths. The other half of the abbey overlooked undulating sweeps of meadowland, its ancient gate facing the long dusty road on the western perimeter. From above, it resembled some fabulous dusky jewel, fallen between a green mantle of light silk and dark velvet. The first mice had built the abbey of red sandstone quarried from pits many miles away in the northeast. The abbey building was covered across its south face by that type of ivy known as Virginia creeper. The onset of autumn would turn the leaves into a heap of fiery hue, thus adding further glory to the name and legend of Red Wall Abbey. Book One. The Wall. Matthias cut a comical little figure as he wobbled his way along the cloisters, with his wrenched sandals flip-flopping and his tail peeping from beneath the baggy folds of an oversized novice's habit. He paused to gaze upward at the cloudless blue sky, tripping over the enormous sandals, hazelnuts scattered out across the grass from the rush basket he was carrying. Unable to stop, he went tumbling cowl over tail. The young mouse squeaked in dismay. He rubbed tenderly at his damp snub nose while slowly taking stock of where he had landed, directly at the feet of Abbot Mortimer. Immediately, Matthias scrambled about on all four, hastily trying to stuff nuts back into the basket, as he muttered clumsy apologies, avoiding the stern gaze of his elder. You're sorry, Father Abbott. I tripped, you see. Trot on my Abbott, Father. Abbott, oh dear. I mean, the Father Abbott, leaned solemnly over the top of his glasses. Matthias, again, but a younger friend of a mouse. Only the other day, the singed brother Methuselah's whiskers were lighting candles. The other stern expression softened. He watched the little mouse strolling about on the grass, grappling with large armfuls of the smooth hazelnuts, which constantly seemed to escape his grasp. Shaking his old grey head, yet trying to hide a smile, Abbott Mortimer bent and helped to gather up the fallen nuts. Matthias, oh Matthias, my son, he said warily, when will you learn to take life a little slower, to walk with dignity and humility? How can you ever hope to be accepted as a mouse of Red Bull, when you're always dashing about, grinning from whiskers to tail like a mad rabbit? Matthias tossed the last of the hazelnuts into the basket, and stood awkwardly shuffling his large sandals in the grass. How could he say aloud what was in his heart? Nebuchadnezzar's paw wrapped around the young mouse's shoulders, sensing his secret yearnings, for he had ruled Red Bull wisely over a great number of years, and gained much experience of mouse life. He smiled down at his young charge, and spoke kindly to him. Come with us, it is time we talk together. A curious thrush, perching in a gnarled pear-tree, watched the two figures make their way at a sedate pace in the direction of Great Hall. One clad in the dark greeny-brown of the order, the other garbed in the light green of a notice. They conversed earnestly in low tones, thinking what a clever bird he was. The thrush swooped down in the basket that had been left behind. Twisted, the basket contained only hard nuts locked tight within their shells. Fading lack of interest, lest any other birds had been witness to his silly mistake, he began whistling gently a few bars of his melodious summer song, strolling nonchalantly over to the cloister walls in search of snails. It was cool inside Great Hall. Sunlight flooded down in slanting rainbow-hued shafts from the high narrow stained glass windows. A million-colored dust motes danced and swirled as the two mice trod the ancient stone floor. The father abbot halted in front of the wall on which hung a long tapestry. This was the pride and joy of redwall. The oldest part had been woven by the mountains of the abbey, but each successive generation had added to it. Thus, the tapestry was not only a priceless treasure, it was a magnificent chronicle of early redwall history. The abbot studied the wonderment in Matthias' eyes as he asked him a question, the answer to which the wise mouse already knew. What are you looking at, my son? Matthias pointed to the figure woven into the tapestry. It was a heroic-looking mouse with a fearless smile on his handsome face, clad in armor, heeling casually on an impressive sword. While behind him, foxes, wildcat and vermin fled in terror. The young mouse gazed in admiration. Oh, father abbot, he sighed, if only I could be like Martin the Warrior. He was the bravest, most courageous mouse that ever lived. The abbot sat down slowly on the cold stone floor, resting his back against the wall. Listen to what I say, Matthias. You have been like a son to me ever since you first came to our gates as an orphaned woodland mouse, begging to be taken in by me as I will try to explain to you what our order is all about. A place of peace. I know that, Martin. A warrior mouse. But those were wild days when strength was needed. The strength of a champion such as Martin. He arrived here in the deep winter when the founders were under attack from many foxes, vermin and a great wildcat. So fierce a fight it was, Martin. Defeat the enemy's single pard, driving them mercilessly far from Mothflower. Throwing the roots, Martin fought a great battle against overwhelming odds. He emerged victorious after slaying the wildcat with his ancient sword, which became famous throughout the land. But in the last bloody combat, Martin was seriously wounded, bleed, injured in the snow. Until the mice found him. They brought him back to the abbey and cared for his hurt until he regained strength. When something seemed to come over him, he was transformed to what could only be called a mouse miracle. Martin forsook the way of the warrior and hung up his sword. That is when our order found its true vocation. All the mice took a solemn vow to harm another living creature, which was an enemy that sought to harm our order by violence. They vowed to heal the sick, care for the injured, and give aid to the wretched and impoverished. So it was written. So was it written. And so has it been throughout, sorry, through the ages of Mousecline since. Today, we are a deeply honored and respected society. If anywhere we go, even far beyond Mothflower, we are treated with courtesy by all creatures. Even predators will not harm a mouse who wears the habit of our order. They know he or she is one who will heal and give aid. It is an unwritten law that red-walled mice can go anywhere, through any territory, and pass unharmed. At all times, we must live up to this. It is our way, our very life. As the abbot spoke, so his voice increased in volume and solemnity. Matthias sat under a stern gaze, completely humbled. Abbot Mortimer stood and put a wrinkled old paw lightly on the small head, right between the ears, now dripping with shame. Once more, the abbot's heart softened towards the little mouse. Thus, for your ambitions, the day of the warrior is gone, my son. We live in peaceful times, thank heaven, and you need only think of obeying me, your abbot, and doing as you are bidden. In time to come, when I am long gone to my rest, you will think back to this day and bless my memory, for then you will be a true member of Redwall. Come now, my dear friend, my young friend. Cheer up, it is the summer of the late rose. There are many, many days of warm sun ahead of us. Go back and grab your basket of hazelnuts. Tonight we have a great feast to celebrate my golden jubilee as abbot. Will you take the nuts to the kitchen? I have a special task for you. Yes, indeed, I'll need some fine fish for the table. Get your rod and line. Tell brother Alf that he is to take you fishing in the small boat. That's what the unwise like doing, isn't it? Who knows, you may land a fine trip for some sticklebacks. Run along now, young one. The abbot has filled Matthias from tail to whiskers as he bobbled a quick bow to his superior and shuffled off, smiling benignly. The abbot watched him go, little rascal. He must have a word with the almaners to see if some sandals could be found that were the right fit for Matthias. Small wonder the poor mouse kept tripping out. Chapter two. The high, warm sun shone down on Clooney the Scourge. Clooney was coming. He was big and tough, an evil rat with ragged fur and curved, jagged teeth. He wore a black eyepatch. His eye had been torn out in a battle with a pike. Clooney had lost an eye. The pike had lost its life. Some say that Clooney was a Portuguese rat. Others say he came from the jungles far across the wide oceans. Nobody knew for sure. Clooney was a bale-drat, the biggest, most savage rodent that ever jumped from ship to shore. His black with grey and pink scars all over his huge, sleek body from the tip of his wet nose up past his green and yellow slitted eye crossed both his mean tattered ears down the length of his heavy, vermin-ridden back, the enormous, whip-like tail that had earned him his title, Clooney the Scourge. Now he rode on the back of the hay wagon with his five hundred followers, a mighty army of rats, sewer rats, tavern rats, water rats, dockside rats. Clooney's army, fearing yet following him, read to the second in command, carried a long pole. This was Clooney's personal standard. The skull of a ferret was fixed at its top. Clooney had killed the ferret. He feared no living thing. While died with the terror of rat smell in its nostrils, the horse plunged ahead without any driver. Where the hay cart was taking him was of little concern to Clooney. Straight on, the panicked horse galloped past the milestone lodged in the earth at the roadside, heedless of the letters engraved in the stone. Red wall at thee. Clooney spat over the edge of the cart, two young rabbits playing in a field. Tasty little things up to do the cart hadn't stopped yet, he thought. The high, warm sun shone down on Clooney the Scourge. Clooney was a god of war. Clooney was coming nearer. End of chapter two, start of chapter three. Beneath the great hall of red wall, candles burned bright in their sconces, this was the cavern hall of the mice. What a night it was going to be. Between them, Mathias and Brother Elf had landed a fully grown grayling. They fought and played the big fish for nearly two hours, finally wading into the shells and dragging it to the bank. It was nearly two pounds in weight, a tribute to Brother Elf's angling skills combined with the youthful muscles of Mathias and their joint enthusiasm. Constance the badger had to be cold. Gripping the fish in her strong jaws, she followed the two mice to the abbey kitchen and all the way to the catch room. Then she made her farewells. They would see her at the jubilee fest that evening, along with many other mothflower residents who had been invited to share the festivities. Brother Elf and Mathias stood proudly beside the catch amid the culinary hustle and bustle, though they were noticed by Friar Hugo. This is enormously fat Hugo, who would have no other title but that of Friar. He stopped what he was doing. Why beg for inspiration from his prowl? With an underline that he held in his tail, he was about inspecting the fish. Nice scales, bright eyes, beautifully fresh. Friar Hugo smiled so joyfully that his face disappeared amidst these dimples. He shook Elf by the paw and caught Mathias heartily on the back as he pulled up between trickles. Bring the white gooseberry wine. Freshly some rosemary, thyme, beech nuts and honey. Quickly, and now, friends, now, he squeaked waving that dandelion wilder in his tail. I... Hugo will create a trailing ala wet red wool, which will melt in the mouth of mice. Fresh cream! I need a lot of fresh cream. Bring some mint leaves too. They had left Friar Hugo ranting on, delirious with joy, as they both went off to bathe and clean up, combing whiskers, curling tails, shining noses, and 101 other grooming tasks that the red wool mice always performed in preparation for an epic feast. The rafters of Cavern Hall rang to the excited buzz and laughter of assembled creatures. Hedgehogs, moles, squirrels, woodland creatures, and mice of all kinds. Field mice, hedge mice, dorm mice, even a family of four little church mice. Kindly help us, Gerda Rameke. You're welcome. Well, then, Mr. Church Mouse, sit the children down. I'll give them some raspberry corduroy. Why, Mr. Vainfall, so nice of you. How's the back? Better now? Good. Here, try a drop of peach and elderberry brandy. Matthias's young head was in a whirl. He cannot remember being so happy in all his life. Winifred the Otter nudged him. I say, Matthias, what's this giant grayling you and an old elf hooked by the claw? It's hard to fondle beauty like that. Nearly a two-pounder, wasn't it? Matthias swelled with pride. Such praise from the champion fisher herself, an otter. Jim and Tess, the twin church mouse babes, felt Matthias' strong arm muscles and giggled aloud in admiration. He helped to serve them two portions of apple and mint ice cream. Such nice little twins. It was only three months ago that he helped Sister Stephanie to get them over a tail. How they had grown. Abbott Mortimer sat in his carved wheelchair, beaming thanks as one by one. No arrivals were this simple. Only gifts at his feet. An acorn cup from a squirrel, a fishbone comb from the otters, mossy bark sandals made by the moles, and many more fine presents to numerous to mention. The abbot shook his head in amazement. Even more guests were arriving. He beckoned Friar Hugo to his side. What a conference. Hell, Matthias could only hear snatches of the conversation. Don't worry, Father Abbott. There'll be enough for all. However, so I thought, Hugo. Enough to fool up the abbey pond, Father. And the nuts, we must not run short of nuts. You name them, we've got them. Even candied chestnuts and acorn crunch. We could feed the district for three years. Dairy produce? I want that. I've got cheddar cheese that four badgers can roll. Plus ten other varieties. Good, good. Thank you, Hugo. We must thank Alf and young Matthias for the magnificent fetish. What fine English they were. Enough to keep the entire abbey going for a week. Excellent mice. Hold on. Matthias blushed to his tails. The otters! The otters! A loud, jolly cry went up as three otters in clown costumes came bounding in. Such acrobatics! They tumbled, balanced, and gyrated, composing comically across the laden tabletops without upsetting so much as a single sultana. They ended up hanging from the rafters by a strand of ivy to wow the claws. And abrupt spike the hedgehog did his potty piece. He amazed everyone with his feat of magic. Pleasured the maimed eggs were taken from the squirrel's ear. Laying must his tail stood up and down like a snake. Incredible vanishing shell trick was performed in front of a group of little hounds as mice who kept speaking. He spotted in his prickles. What had he? A person made a few mysterious passes and produced a shell straight out of the mouth of an old-struck infant mouse. Was it magic? Of course it was. And all activity ceased as the great Joseph fell tall without eight o'clock from the abbey belfry. Silently all the creatures filed to their allotted places. They stood reverently behind the seats with their heads lowered. A bit more to my rose than to only spread his paws wide encompassing the festive hoard. He said the grace. Fur and whisker, tooth and claw. All who enter by a door. Nut and herb, leaves and fruits, berries, tubers, plants and roots. Silver fish whose life we take only for a meal to make. This is followed by a loud and grateful amen. There was a mass clattering of chairs and scraping of forms as everyone was seated. Matthias found himself next to Tim and Tess on one paw and Cornflower a few of mice on the other. Cornflower was a quiet young mouse but undoubtedly very pretty. She had the longest eyelashes Matthias had ever seen. The brightest eyes of his were wasted. Matthias fumbled with a piece of silvery and subconsciously turned to see if the twins were coping adequately. He could never tell with these baby church mice. Brother Alf remarked that Friar Hugo had excelled himself. Of course, that's the course upon the table. Tender fresh water shrimp garnished with cream and rose leaves. Deviled barley pearls and acorn puree. Apple and carrot chews. Marinated cabbage stalks steeped in creamy white turnip would not make. Of course, of course, the food sent odds. Grated the arrival of six-mouthed mice. Pushing a big trolley, it was a grailing wreath of aromatic steam drifted around cabin hall. It should have been baked to perfection. Friar Hugo entered with a slight swagger. With his swagger added to his ungainly wobble. He took off his chef's cap on his tail. Eyeing out in a somewhat pompous squeak, the Lord Abbott honored guests from most of our area. Members of the Abbey, if I wish to present my piece de resistance, I'll get on with it. Hugo. After some icy staring about to detect the culprits and several smothered snickers from around the room, the little fat friar puffed himself up once more and declared firmly, grailing a la Redwall. Polite but eager applause. Rippled around as Hugo sliced the fish. Placed the first steaming portion onto a platter. Suitable dignity, he presented it to the Abbott who thanked him graciously. All eyes were on Father Abbott. He took a dainty fork, loaded precariously with steaming fish, carefully transferred it from plate to mouth. Chewing delicately, he turned his eyes upward, then closed them. Whiskers were twitched, jaws working steadily, munching away, his tail curled up, holding a napkin which neatly wiped his mouth. The Abbott's eyes reopened. He beamed like the sun amid the morn. Quite wonderful. Perfectly squinted, Friar Hugo, you are truly a champion chef. Please serve your guests your masterwork. Any further speech was drowned by further cheers. End of chapter three. Start of chapter four. Gwene was in a foul temper. He snarled viciously. The horse had slipped from sheer exhaustion. The abbot had wanted that. The inner devil had persuaded him, but he had not yet reached his destination. Gwene's one eye slitted eagerly. The depths of the Hickok, the rodent of the warlord's army watched their master. They knew him well enough to see clear of him in the present mood. He was violent, unpredictable. Skull Face! Gwene snapped. There was a ruffle in the hair. A villainous head popped up. Aye, chief, do you want me? Gwene's powerful tail shot out and dragged the unfortunate forward. Skull Face cringed his sharp claws, dug into his fur. Gwene nodded at the horse. Jumple that thing's back, sharpish. Give it a good bite. I'll get the lazy brute moving again. Gwene swore nervously and licked his dry lips. But chief, they'll bite me back. Swish, crack. Gwene wielded his mighty tail as if it were a bullwhip. His victim screamed aloud with pain as the scourge lashed his horny back. Mutiny! Insubordination! Gwene roared. By the teeth of hell, I'll slay you into mangy dolebrags. Skull Face scurried over to the driver's seat, yelling with pain. No more. Don't worry me, chief. Look, I'm going to do it. Tight. Hold tight. To the ragging back there, Gwene shouted to his horde. Skull Face performed a frantic leap. He laid on the horse's back, terrified the animal to not wait for the rat to bite. Susan felt the lordsome scratching weight descend on its exposed haunches. It gave a loud, panicked whinny and bucked. Spurred on by the energy of fright, it careered off like a runaway juggernaut. Skull Face had time for just one agonized scream before he fell. The iron-shard cartwheels rolled over him. He lay in a red mist of death, the life ebbing from its broken body. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the sneering visage of Gwene the Scourge roaring from the jolted backboard. Tell the devil Gwene's a jerk, Skull Face. They were on the move again. Gwene was getting nearer. End of chapter four. End of chapter four. Start of chapter five. Down in Cavern Hall, the great feast had slackened off. Still had a lot of belts. Riddle Knight and the guests sat back for pleats they were. There were still great quantities of food and wine. Abbot Mortimer whispered in Friar Hugo's ear, Friar, I want you to pack up a large sack with food, hazelnuts, cheese, bread cakes, anything you see fit. Give to Miss Churchmouse, the secretly scant without attracting attention. Poverty is a ugly spectre when a mouse wife has as many mouse feed as she does. Oh, and be sure that her husband doesn't suspect what you are doing. John Churchmouse may be poor, but he is also proud. I fear he may not accept charitable gifts. Hugo nodded, knowingly. What ought I to do without spitting? Forgotten Flower and Matthias had become quite friendly. They were young mice of the same age, though their temperaments were different. They found some companions, something in common. An interest in Tim and Tess, the twin Churchmouse. They passed a pleasant evening, joking and playing games with the little creatures. Tess had clambered onto Matthias' lap and fallen asleep, whereupon they became to likewise the velvety fur of Cornflower. It was while that Matthias and she stroked Tim's small head. Oh, bless their little paws, don't they look peaceful? Matthias nodded contentedly. In agreement, Colin volted aloud and remarked, rather foolishly, oh, as I look at Matthias and Cornflower, there are nice and nice ways like to be with an old married couple. We'll grapple my back. Brother Elf reprimanded him softly. Sorry, shockfully. Hey, now, do you keep a glance on that silly tongue of yours, Colin Volt? Don't you know that someday Matthias will be afraid of all mice? And don't let me hear you slandering young Cornflower. She's a decent mouse, from a good family, mark my words. Last of all, I could say a thing or two to your mum and dad. Oh, this evening I saw you playing catch the bulrush with that young class mouse. What was her name now? Colin Volt blushed until his nose went dry. He flounced off, swishing his tail, muttering about going outside to take the air. This caught a nodding glance from the abbot, confusing himself to Cornflower. He deposited his sleeping chest gently upon his chair and went across him. Matthias, my son, here you are. Did you enjoy my jubilee fest? Yes. Thank you, father. Matthias replied, good, good, chuckled the abbot. Now, I was going to ask Brother Elf or Edmund to go on a social errand, but they are no longer young mice and both look quite weary at the late hour. So I thought I might ask my chief grail and catcher to carry out the social task for me. Matthias could not help stand a little taller. Say the word, and I am here about to serve. The abbot leaned forward and spoke confidently. Do you see the church mouse family? Well, it's such a long way back home for them on foot. Good heavens, and there were so many of them. I thought it would be a fine idea if you were to drive home the abbey cart along with any others going that way. Constance Thatcher would pull the cart, of course, while you could act as guide and bodyguard. Take a good stout staff with you, sir, Matthias. The young mouse needed no second bidding. Drawing himself up to his forehead, he saluted with a smart military fashion. Leave it to me, father abbot, old Constance is a bit slow thinking. I'll take complete responsibility. The abbot shook with silent laughter as he watched Matthias march off with a soldier-like swagger. Flip-flop, flip-flop. He tripped and fell flat on his tail. Oh dear, I have to get that young mouse some sandals that aren't so big, the abbot said to himself for the second time that day. What a stroke of luck. Fancy Cornflower's family living took one of the church mouse brood. Matthias was only too glad to offer them a lift home. Would Miss Cornflower like to sit next to him? She certainly would. Cornflower's parents sat inside the cart. Her mom helping Miss Churchmouse with the little ones, her dad chatted away with John and Churchmouse as they shared a pipe-folded bracken twist. Finally Hugo came out and dumped a bulky sack next to Miss Churchmouse. The abbot said thank you for the loan of bowls and tablecloth. His mom, the fat parrot, gave her a huge wink. I'll come sit back there, called Matthias. Right, off we go, Constance. The big-bag church handled the cart away as they gave the goodnight. She nodded at Methuselah, the ancient gatekeeper mouse. As the cart rolled out into the road a sliver of golden moon looked down from the star-pierced summer night. Matthias gazed upward, feeling as if he were slowly turning with the silence of peace resolved out of the baby mice inside. The cart whimpered fitfully in their small theater dream. Constance sampled slowly along as though she were out on a nighttime stroll, pulling no weight at all. The stout stash lay forgotten on the footboard. Cornflower chose against Matthias' shoulder. She could hear the gentle lull of her father's voice and that of John Churchmouse blending with the hum of nocturnal insects from the meadow and hedges on this balmy summer night. Summer of the late rose. Cornflower turned the words over her mind, trimly thinking of the old ramlet that bloomed in the abbey garden. Normally it was in full red flower by now, but this year, for some unknown reason, it had chosen to fall late. It was covered in dormant young rosebuds even now well into June, a thing that only infrequently, unusually heralded a long, hot summer. On the fuselage, it could only remember three other such summers in his long lifetime. Accordingly, he advised that it be marked and the calendar in it, the abbey chronicles as the summer of the late rose. Cornflower's head sank lower in sleep. The old cart rolled on gently down the dusty, long road. They were now over halfway to the ruined church of St. Ninian where John Churchmouse lived, as had his father, grandfather and great-grandfather before him. Matthias had fallen into a deep slumber. Even Constance wasn't able to stop her eyelids drooping. But slower and slower moved the little cart and its occupants were caught in the magic spell of an enchanted summer night. Suddenly and without warning, they were aroused by the thunder of hooves. No one could determine with which direction the sound it was coming from. It seemed to feel the very air about them. As it gathered momentum, the ground began trembling with a rumbling noise. Some sixth sense warned Constance to get off the road to a hiding place. The powerful badger gave a mighty heave. At one close turn, the road was so thorough that she propelled the cart through, gathering the cart on her head, down the slope to a ditch where she dug her paws in, holding the cart still and secure, while John Churchmouse and Cornflower's father jumped out and wedged the wheel's family with stones. Matthias gasped with shock as the giant horse galloped past, its mane streaming out, eyes rolling with panic. It was towing a hay cart which bounced wildly from side to side. Matthias could see rats among the hay, but these were no ordinary rats. They were huge, ragged rodents, bigger than any he had ever seen. They had heavy tattooed arms, waves of a variety of weapons, pike knives, spears, and long, rusty cutlasses. Standing boldly on the back board of the hay cart was the biggest, fiercest, most evil-looking rat that had ever slunk out of a nightmare. In one call, he grasped the long pole with a ferret's head spiked to it. There was his father with his thick, enormous tail which he cracked like a whip, laughing madly and yelling strange curses. He swayed to and fro skilfully as horse and wagon clatched off down the road into the night. Suddenly, as they had come, they were gone. Matthias walked out into the road, seven-handed, stray whiskers of hay drifted down behind him. His legs trembled uncontrollably. Constance hauled the abbey cart back to the road. Cornflower was helping her mother and Miss Churchmouse to stand calm the little one's tears of fright. Together they stood in the cart tracks amidst the settling dust. Did you see that? I saw it, but I don't believe it. Whatever was it? What in hell was I like? Those rats? Such big ones, too. I am that one on the back. He looked like the devil himself. Seeing Matthias still stumbo at what had happened, Constance took over the leadership. I think we'd best head back to the abbey, she said firmly. All the abbots want to know about this straight away. Knowing the badger was far more experienced than himself, Matthias assumed the role of second-in-command. Second-in-command. Right, Cornflower, we'll get in the cart and take charge of mother and babies. Mr. Fieldmouse, Miss Churchmouse, up front with Constance, please. Finally, the mouse did as ordered, got moved off with Matthias positioned on the back. Providing it, the young mouse gripped his staff tightly, his back to his charge, escaping down the road in the direction the acorn had taken.