Cornflower, Abbot Mordalfus, Foremole and Queen Warbeak were in the gatehouse cottage. It had long gone midnight, but they sat around on the hearthrug with the parchment before them. It was covered by the markings of the charcoal stone-rubbing taken from the stone crow high on the south wall of the Abbey.

The Sparra Queen preened herself proudly. “Verree good, eh? Sparra no missee thing, get all um wormsign.”

“Hurr Hurr, that you’m ’ave, clever ol’ burdbag,” Foremole congratulated her.

The Father Abbot folded back his sleeves. “Thank you, Queen Warbeak. Well, let us see what we have here. A map, by the look of it, and a poem to translate. I can do that. Watching John brought it all back to me.”

They scanned the parchment.

“Those who wish to challenge fate,

To a jumbled shout walk straight.

Sunset fires in dexteree,

Find where Loamhedge used to be.

At the high place near the skies,

Look for other watchful eyes.

Sleep not ’neath the darkpine trees,

Be on guard, take not your ease,

Voyage when the daylight dims,

Danger in the water swims.

Make no noise with spear or sword,

Lest you wake the longtail horde.

Shades of creatures who have died,

Bones of warriors who tried.

Shrink not from the barren land,

Look below from where you stand,

This is where a stone may fall and make no sound at all.

Those who cross and live to tell,

See the badger and the bell,

Face the lord who points the way

After noon on summer’s day.

Death will open up its grave.

Who goes there . . . ? None but the brave.”

The Abbot nodded wisely. “It’s a lot clearer now. This is a crude map and a poem that tells a bit more than the last one. In fact, it’s a key to the rhyme that was found beneath the Abbey.”

Cornflower was puzzled. “How so, Father Abbot?”

The old mouse tapped his paw upon the design in the bottom corner. “There. ‘Thorn,’ ‘shout.’ That’s only north and south mixed up. . . . A jumbled shout, as in: walk straight to a jumbled shout.”

Cornflower smiled as recognition dawned. “Of course, it means go due south.”

Foremole wrinkled his nose. “Whoi didden oi think o’ that? If you’m a-walken south then sun must be a-setten in dexteree.”

“Where is dexteree?” It was the Abbot’s turn to look puzzled.

Foremole chuckled and pointed at the Abbot’s left eye. “That’n thurr be sinistree.” Moving his paw, he pointed at the Abbot’s right eye. “An’ that’n be yurr dexteree.”

The Abbot smiled and scratched his head. “Foolish of me. Sinister and dexter, left and right. In the old language of Loamhedge, sinistree is left eye, dexteree right eye. So you must be travelling south with the sun setting in your right eye. Thank you, Foremole.”

“Moi pleasure, Abbot zurr.”

“So one thing is apparent,” Cornflower interrupted, “keep travelling south, straight south, no matter what. I hope Matthias is doing that, wherever he, Jess and Basil are now. Oh, Father Abbot, if only we could get this information, this map and poem, to them right now. They mean very little to us sitting here in Redwall, but to my Matthias, why, he might be able to see the very places the map and poem tell of.”

“Indeed,” the Abbot shrugged sadly. “Not only that, but it tells the exact route and even clues to the dangers they will encounter: the woodland trees, the water, when to cross it, the longtails, the place where stones fall and make no sound – it’s all here – badgers’ heads, bells, Lord of Mossflower. Cornflower, you are right, it’s about as much use to us as a snowfall in summer, but to them. . . .”

“Then you make copee. All Sparra fly, all Sparra, much long, fly plenty, find um my friend Matthias with old longears and treejumper. We find, you see.”

Cornflower was taken aback. “Queen Warbeak, I don’t know, but how . . . ?”

The Sparra Queen hopped onto the mantelpiece and cocked her head to one side jauntily. “No worry. Warbeak Queen, Sparra warriors do what me say. Matthias, Redwall, all good to Warbeak and Sparra folk. We do this for you, for you.”

“Splendid!” For a mouse of his many seasons, the Abbot did a surprisingly agile leap up onto his paws. “I will rouse Brother Sedge, Sister Agnes, Brother Rufus, Sister May. Together with myself and John Churchmouse, they should be able to copy the map and the poem several times over before first light. I take it you will want to leave at dawn, Queen Warbeak?”

The sparrow bowed gravely. “First wormlight, old-mouse Abbot, all Sparra fly south.”

Outside the gatehouse window, other ears were listening. A large magpie clacked his beak together in satisfaction and took off for the woodlands beyond the Abbey’s north wall.