Books SFF Bestiary Large Happenings for a Small Mouse: Brian Jacques’ Redwall There are talking-animal epics, and then there’s Redwall. By Judith Tarr | Published on August 3, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share Brian Jacques’ Redwall was a publishing phenomenon from the very beginning. Jacques wrote it (by hand, 800 pages’ worth) for children at a school for the blind in Liverpool, showed it to a writer friend who passed it on to his own publisher, and even though the book was nearly twice as long as the usual chapter book in the early 1980s, the publisher offered him a five-book contract. The gamble paid off richly: 22 novels between 1986 and 2011, an animated television series, games, merch, picture books, cookbooks, all the trappings of a runaway success. It’s still in print and the series (originally aired from 1999 to 2002) is still streaming, though the heavily promoted Netflix film has, alas, been canceled. It all begins with the story of a mouse named Matthias, a brand-new novice in Redwall Abbey near the Mossflower Forest. There are no humans in this world. The peaceful brothers and sisters of Redwall are primarily mice, but they share the abbey and the forest with numerous woodland creatures: squirrels, moles, hedgehogs, voles, shrews, an indomitable badger, an intrepid hare, and various other animals and birds. They have enemies, too: rats, ferrets, stoats, foxes, and a terrifying snake named Asmodeus (“Asmodeussssssss….”). The first volume is epic in plot as well as length. Jacques was well read in classical literature as well as adventure fiction and children’s stories. Matthias is the chosen hero, the fated victor, avatar of the legendary Martin the Warrior, complete with quest to find Martin’s tomb and win his armor, shield, and sword. His fated enemy is the terrible Cluny the Scourge, the one-eyed rat who wields his tail like a bullwhip and tips it with a poisoned dart. Matthias and his friends are flawed and, dare I say it, human. They squabble, bicker, make mistakes. Sometimes they do bad things, either because they’re compelled or because they have good but misguided intentions. They grow and learn and change, and when they come into conflict with each other, they eventually shake paws and make up. Cluny and his mob of cutthroats have no redeeming features. Even when they pretend to be good, they’re plotting evil, sniggering at the well-intentioned fools who buy what they’re selling. There’s no kindness in them, no goodwill and no gratitude. They’re bad to the bone. In between the two are the aggressive and warlike sparrows. At the beginning they own the upper reaches of the abbey, beating off anyone who tries to invade their domain. It’s Matthias who turns these enemies into allies, first capturing a young warrior named Warbeak and later being captured in turn. The king of the sparrows, King Bull Sparra, is a winged version of Cluny, but without Cluny’s evil intelligence. He’s a tyrant and a megalomaniac. Unlike Cluny’s mob, however, sparrows as a species are basically good; the king’s sister Dunwing is Warbeak’s mother, and she’s a kind and sensible person who sees the good in Matthias and undertakes to help him and, eventually, save the abbey. The trope of the hero making allies among other species is just about obligatory in anthropomorphic-animal stories. Bambi does it. Mrs. Frisby does it. Tailchaser does it. In every case, the ally becomes indispensable. The victory can’t be won without them. The lesson each of these stories teaches is that the fated hero only succeeds with the help of his friends—the ones he’s had all along and the ones he makes along the way. The hero is the leader, and the ultimate responsibility falls on him. But his triumph is a communal effort. Matthias wears the panoply of the legendary hero. The hero comes to him in dreams to offer warnings and guidance. That’s magic in its way, but it’s up to him how he uses it. As the wise cat Squire Julian Gingivere says: There are very few such swords as this one left in the world, but remember, it is only a sword, Matthias! It contains no secret spell, nor holds within its blade any magical power. This sword is made for only one purpose, to kill. It will only be as good or evil as the one who wields it. It’s all about personal responsibility, about making the right choices. Strong stuff, and a powerful moral theme, but it’s told with sweep and vigor. It’s a grand adventure with a huge cast of characters. It can be ruthless: good characters don’t always make it, and bad ones do very, very bad things before they get their comeuppance. These animals are heavily anthropomorphic. They talk, of course. They walk on their hindlegs. From the evidence (and the animated series illustrates it), they have opposable thumbs as well as full color vision. They wear clothes and carry weapons. They eat and drink incredible, varied, delicious things, grown and harvested and cooked with loving care and in mouth-watering detail. Different species have different talents that correspond to their real-world versions. Moles are genius diggers and engineers. Otters are talented waterfolk and fishers. Constance the badger is a powerful fighter. Squirrels are champion climbers; shrews are hyperactive and quarrelsome. Foxes are clever and devious, rats are vicious fighters and killers, as are ferrets and stoats. The adder Asmodeus, also known as Poisonteeth, is wicked and horrible and evil and everything myth and legend makes a snake out to be (right down to the trail of slime—snakes are not slimy, not even slightly, but this is a fantasy snake, so…). Mice hold the good-guy side together. Redwall is a sanctuary, a place of healing and of peace. Its inhabitants only fight when forced to. Although Redwall is called an abbey and has an abbot, there’s no apparent religious component. No daily round of prayer and ritual, no altar or chapel, though there is stained glass. It’s about morality rather than dogma, history rather than scripture. The members of the community appear to be celibate; that’s hinted at in the end, when we learn what happens between Matthias and Cornflower. So why not tell it straight? Why mice? Why not tell the same story about an embattled abbey, a horde of ruffians, and, all right, some helpful animals and birds. Especially birds; in a medievalized setting, an air force is otherwise hard to explain. Maybe it’s because anthropomorphic animals let us see ourselves at a remove. We can indulge our biases, play on stereotypes, and examine complex moral issues. It’s the basis of the ancient and honorable beast fable, expanded and transformed into modern epic fantasy. There are other talking-animal epics, and many long-running fantasy series, but nothing else exactly like the Redwall cycle.[end-mark] The post Large Happenings for a Small Mouse: Brian Jacques’ <i>Redwall</i> appeared first on Reactor.