The door of the room in which Samuel slept was locked, as Sister Jane had anticipated it would be. Muryet did not know how the Sister could have predicted that lock-picking would become a necessity if knocking on the door failed, but the little squirrelmaid battered at the door with all of the strength her scrawny, frail body possessed. Noone had explained to her why getting into this room and to Samuel was so vitally important, but she could feel the urgency of the matter, and so, when there was no answer to all of her pounding, the excitable little creature threw herself bodily against the door and into the fear and the excitement of the moment.
"Master Samuel? Master Samuel, let me in! Unlock the door! I beg of you, unlock the door! If you don't, I shall have to pick the lock and I don't know how! Please, oh, please, be all right!"
Having failed to bring Samuel to the door or to knock it down with her own weight, and having succeeded only in exhausting herself, Muryet sank down, trembling and aching, before the door. She was a creature who shed tears easily, and already her eyes were overflowing.
She remembered her cheese knife, then, and, drawing it with quivering paws, she did as the swashbuckling heroes in her favorite tales did and jammed the point of the blade into the key-slot. A push or two, a few twists, and a delightful CLICK - and the door swung inward. Muryet, stunned by the fact that she actually had managed to pick the lock, stumbled into the room.
"Master Samuel! . . . Master Samuel?"
Samuel was nowhere in sight. By the light of the hallway lamps, the bedchamber looked as if it had been tidied up; the bed had been made, the floor appeared to have been swept, and everything was neat and in its proper place. But it was dark, and, except for that bed and the handful of other furnishings that had been in the chamber since the day that the ferrets had come to lodge in it, completely empty.
Abbess Elinor and Skipper Johndam found the door lying open , the lamp still unlit, and Muryet kneeling before the fireplace, gazing into the ashes as if she were the most despondent of creatures. Upon hearing footsteps behind her, however, and recognizing the sound of the Abbess's light tread, she flew to her feet and across the room, grabbing hold of Abbess Elinor's habit and burying her face into its folds.
"Master Samuel is gone, Mother Abbess!"
Abbess Elinor took the squirrelmaid's tear-streaked face into her paws, drawing it back. "Little one, you must calm down! Sit down on the bed and stop crying; there's no need for this! Speak to me." Muryet made an effort to obey. "My dear, Sister Jane tells me that she asked you to try to unlock the door. Was this door locked when you came to it?"
Muryet managed out, "It was, Mother Abbess. I picked the lock as the Sister told me to!"
Skipper Johndam, having lit a lamp, scanned the room, gestured for Muryet to stand so that he could flip the bed onto its side. He shook his head, confounded and half disbelieving. "But if this door was locked, then where in God's name did the devil-blasted creature get off to, and 'ow?"
"Skipper, mind your language! You know better than to swear in Redwall Abbey! There's no reason to forget ourselves or our good sense. Samuel could not have locked the door from the outside. Therefore, if he isn't in this chamber, it is obvious that he escaped from within it."
"Aye, Mother Abbess, but I can't see 'ow."
Muryet, wiping her eyes, proposed, "Couldn't he have escaped by using the window?"
Skipper was already at the window, as was the Abbess. He gave the windowpane a few pushes and tugs, then shook his head. "Even assumin' he'd've been able t' get 'is paws on a ridiculously long rope or ladder, this 'ere window's been sealed!"
"Yes - I remember now. I did ask those two to lodge in this room in particular because the window had been sealed."
"I remember now, too," Muryet whispered. "I remember that you had it sealed long ago because of Fainlie - because this was my room once, and Fainlie sometimes slept in here. Yes - yes, I remember."
Though neither creature was much given to displays of open affection, Skipper and the Abbess laid a paw apiece upon each of Muryet's shoulders. Over her head, their gazes met.
"Mother Abbess," Skipper said quietly, "I say instead of goin' on tryin' t' puzzle out how on earth Samuel got out o' this chamber just now, we ought t' put some more thought towards wot we saw on that tapestry an' the floor!"
"Yes - a poem, and Martin's eyes gazing off towards the exit." Abbess Elinor began to pace across a small strip of the floor, back and forth. "Samuel could not have caused what we see on the tapestry. I doubt that any ordinary creature could have. The artwork is seamless, the sort of work that would take anybeast days, at the very least, to complete, and I visit the tapestry often. But I haven't the faintest idea what it means, and that poem - I had only a quick glance at it and I can hardly remember what I read, let alone decipher its meaning! Come, Skipper!"
They hastened back to Great Hall, pursued by Muryet. There, the Abbess read the poem aloud once again.
"'At last, you've come to visit Martin!
Well, you've come before
But never knew that in this cloth
There is a hidden door . . .' A hidden door!"
Without further ado, she slipped her paw behind the tapestry, feeling the wallstones. She gave them a push, but was rewarded with nothing.
"Beg your pardon, Mother Abbess, marm, but more likely it's a metaphorical door," Skipper commented then. "If it were a real door, one would think it'd be in th' cloth, as th' verse says, not in th' wall, any'ow."
"I suspect you're right, Skipper. But if it is a metaphor, I wish that I could understand it." Abbess Elinor allowed the tapestry to settle back into place. "It says here, 'now that pride's been cast aside, the doubter will be blessed.' Who on earth is the verse addressing?" She paused, then added, "Could it be referring to me?"
"Some'ow I doubt it, marm."
"I wondered the same thing, Mother Abbess," Muryet piped up, "wondered if it couldn't be referring to me, that is. But Sister Jane said that I'm no doubter, that I don't suffer from rage or restless paws, and that I'm not a - creature of the X. I'm not certain about any of the other things, but I know that I'm not a creature of the X. I couldn't be. I don't even know what it means!"
"Neither do I, my dear." But doubt was evident in the Abbess's eyes.
Skipper, who had already read the line again and again to himself, cut in. "It's Samuel, marm."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's plain as th' whiskers on my face. There ain't no other creature in th' Abbey that 'as anythin' t' do with an X!"
Abbess Elinor struck the wall. "Skipper, you must not be absurd! The poem said 'great-hearted creature of the X.' Why on earth should Martin address Master Samuel in a poem and call him great-hearted?"
"Well, I can't think for th' life of me who it could be otherwise, 'cos Samuel IS missin', an' I for sure ain't no creature of any X!"
To this Abbess Elinor had nothing to say. Doubt and uncertainty were still written all over her face. Then Muryet leapt in.
"Mother Abbess, how could you say such mean things about Master Samuel?" she cried.
This outburst startled the Abbess, who, nevertheless, did her best to maintain a gentle manner towards Sister Bethelle's escaped patient. "Little one, I do not remember saying anything mean or hateful about Master Samuel. I am only trying to decide to whom this poem was addressed."
"But you said that he isn't great-hearted!" Muryet wailed. "Master Samuel, who is destined to bring Fainlie back to me one day!"
"Miz Muryet, level yoreself an' stop raisin' yore voice t' th' Abbess!"
Muryet turned enormous, wet grey eyes to him. "But, Skipper, he IS! He IS bound to bring Fainlie back - after Salome finds her! It was Martin who said so!"
At this, a strange expression appeared upon Skipper's face. He said nothing more to Muryet, but, after a moment, addressed the Abbess.
"Abbess Elinor, regardless o' who th' poem's referrin' to, it's pretty clear t' me that Martin 'imself wants somebeast t' kill th' Walking Dead, an' he's tellin' us most o' Redwall will survive if they die. So wot d'ye want me t' do?"
Abbess Elinor inhaled deeply, then slowly released the breath before replying. "Will you obey any command that I give you, Skipper?"
"Ye 'ave my word of honor this time, Mother Abbess."
Abbess Elinor closed her eyes.
It's Samuel, Skipper had said. There ain't no other creature in th' Abbey that 'as anythin' t' do with an X.
For God's sake, he was right. She had seen no signs of anything that could be called greatheartedness in either of the ferret siblings. But the poem had addressed one creature - a single creature - and there was no other creature in the Abbey that had anything to do with an X.
She thought of the outdoors, the lawn, and pictured the grass - swarming with hair-sized black specks, each of which carried death with it wherever it hopped and was only too eager to share it in exchange for the tiniest drink of blood. She could feel the eyes of Skipper and Muryet upon her, and so, at last, she opened her own eyes. She had come to a decision.
"You will do absolutely nothing."
Skipper's mouth snapped open, but he could not argue because of the promise she had secured from him. As for little Muryet - she looked frightened, as if she were not altogether certain what to think.
"I am sorry, Skipper. But I cannot spare you or endanger anybeast without cause. If you are not a creature of the X, then you are not to set a paw outside of this Abbey!"