Doomwyte

19

Bisky was wakened as the world seemed to tumble and shake. The fallen hollow log that he and Dubble had chosen as their sleeping place was being shaken, rolled and generally banged about. Both friends scuttled out, straight into a sort of big bag. As they scrambled upright to escape, shrill, eager cries rang out from their captors.

“Don’t jus’ stan’ there, sambag dem!”

“Awright, awright, keep yer tail on, I’m lukkin’ fer me sambag, ’ere, Gobbo, giz yores!”

“O no, yer not getting’ mine, lukk fer yer own!”

A loud, nasal snarl, obviously the leader’s, broke in on the dispute. “Yew two, yer about as much use azza snail shell on a butterfly. Give uz that sambag ’ere!”

Two hefty blows knocked the prisoners unconscious.

Bisky awoke with a dull headache, which was not bad, considering the blow he had taken. As expected, he was bound back-to-back with Dubble, either side of a wooden post; also, they were both gagged. Craning his neck from side to side, Bisky viewed his surroundings. It was a long, low-ceilinged cave, with many wooden posts supporting it. The walls were decked with all sorts of what Bisky could only describe as rubbish. Dried fish skins, pieces of coloured stone, old earthenware beakers and wooden plates, all of which had seen better days.

Around small fires, dotted hither and thither, were gathered the scruffiest, weirdest bunch of mice Bisky had ever set eyes upon. Their scraggly fur was caked with mud and dust, and they were clad in tattered rags of barkcloth. The only weapons they seemed to possess were sausage-like sacks of sand, and tough, thin lengths of vine, with a wooden toggle attached to either end. The mice were constantly fighting and squabbling, over the most trivial things. Nobeast ever appeared to get hurt, but they would twirl their sandbags at one another, leaping about and exchanging the most colourful insults.

Every mouse’s name ended in an o. Bisky heard them calling to one another. He tried to decipher some of the names—there was Gobbo, Bumbo, Tingo, then he gave up. Their accents were flat and nasal, and they spoke with a rapidity which was hard to understand. He watched two of them, the one called Gobbo and another called Tingo, disputing the ownership of a sandbag.

Gobbo shrilled, “Ey, yew, givvuz dat sambag, it’s mine, I lost it!”

Tingo stood his ground belligerently. “Gerroff, dis sambag’s mine, me ma made it fer me. Don’t yew cum round ’ere tryna pinch my sambag, jus’ ’cos yer lost yer own. Gobbo the slobbo!”

Tingo caught sight of Bisky watching them, and turned his irate attention upon the Redwaller. “Who are yew lukkin’ at, pudden nose?”

Bisky tried to smile, shaking his head, to show he meant no harm or disrespect. Tingo swaggered over; twirling his sandbag, he glared coldly at the captive.

“One more lukk like dat an’ I’ll sambag yer good’n’proper, d’yer ’ear me, fliggle bottum?”

Bisky smiled and nodded several times. This did not appease Tingo, who began smacking the sandbag hard into his pawpad. “I think I’ll just give yer a smack fer laffin’ at me like dat!”

He swung the sandbag, about to strike, when he was knocked ears over tail by a very fat mouse, who carried a weightier sandbag than the rest. He grabbed Tingo by the ear, hauling him roughly upright. “Lissen, bobble’ead, did yer search ’em like I told yer to, eh?” He held Tingo on tippaw by the ear as Tingo danced and complained.

“Owowow, leggo willyer, Da! We never found nothin’ on ’em ’cept two ould slivers o’ flint, dat’s all!”

The fat one looked questioningly at Bisky. “Iz dat right, jus’ two ould cobs o’ flint, no treasure of any sort, eh?”

The one called Tingo answered, “I tole yer, Da, only two bits o’ flint.”

With hardly a glance, the fat mouse swung his sandbag. He struck Tingo in the stomach, knocking him flat on his bottom. The fat one scowled. “Who asked yew, sproutears? I’m talkin’ to d’prisoner.” He untied the gag from Bisky’s mouth. But the young mouse kept quiet until he was spoken to.

The fat one scratched his stubbly chin. “Worra ye doin’ in my territ’ry, Redwaller?”

The question caught Bisky off guard. “How did you know I’m from Redwall, sir?”

The fat one gave a humorless laugh. “Yer couldn’t be from anywheres else, wearin’ gear like that. I know all I need ter know, I’m Nokko, Pike’ead o’ the Gonfelin Thieves. So, worra ye doin’, playin’ daft ducks inna holler tree on my land, wirra Guosim? Huh, I ’aven’t seen one o’ dem round ’ere fer awhile.”

Bisky was intrigued by the name Gonfelin, but he answered truthfully. “I’m Bisky. The Guosim’s called Dubble, I met up with him when we were captured by Painted Ones, sir.”

Nokko dropped his sandbag, caught it on one footpaw, flicked it up and caught it neatly. “Painty Ones, eh? Y’must be soft in the ’ead, lettin’ yerselves get catchered by dat lot. Before youse was caught, did yer ’ave any treasure wid yer?”

Bisky replied as Nokko was ungagging Dubble. “Treasure, sir, what d’you mean?”

The one called Gobbo had been eavesdropping on the conversation; he curled his lip scornfully at Bisky. “Wot does me da mean by treasure, hah! Loot, boodiggles, swipin’s, pawpurse stuff, wot d’yer think ’e means, cabbage brain!”

Nokko shot his paw out. Latching onto Gobbo’s nose, he twisted it until tears sprang from the victim’s eyes. The fat Pikehead leader roared at him, “Worrav I told yer, muck-mouth, stay outta things wot don’t concern yer, awright?”

Gobbo did a frenzied dance of pain. “Owowowow! Awright, Da, leggo, willyer! Owowow!”

Nokko gave the nose a final, hefty twist before releasing Gobbo. He nodded, almost apologetically to Bisky. “Young uns, dey got no manners at all, ’specially sons an’ daughters.” He waved a paw at his tribe in general. “I’ve got enuff of ’em, I should know. I’ll tell yer wot treasure looks like. Spingo, go an’ fetch yer ma, tell ’er t’bring the jool.”

Despite her rough attire, Spingo was the prettiest young mouse Bisky had ever set eyes upon. She shot him a brilliant smile as she tripped off down the cave. “Awright, Da.”

Nokko could plainly see the smitten look on his captive’s face. He flicked a paw toward his daughter. “Wish I ’ad more like my Spingo, pretty as the summer morn, an’ good as the day’s long. So keep yer mousey eyes off ’n ’er, she’s worth more’n any jools to ’er ole da. Youse two don’t look like rascals t’me. If’n I unties yer, will yer promise to be’ave yerselves?”

With a sense of relief, both Bisky and Dubble gave their word that they would behave. Nokko nodded to one of his sons. “Bumbo, cut ’em loose.”

The Gonfelin Pikehead led them to a fire, with a cauldron bubbling over it. “Betcha could eat sumthin’, eh, never knew a young un wot couldn’t. Get some o’ this down yer gullets.” It was a thick oat and barley porridge, full of fruit, nuts and honey. An older female served them with stout wooden bowls, filled to the brim. She smiled at Dubble and patted his cheek, then went off to bring them drinks.

The Guosim shrew winked at Nokko. “Is she one of yore daughters, sir?”

Nokko helped himself to a bowl of the porridge. “Who, Fraggo? No, she’s one o’ me wives. Y’know, I’ve got that many wives an’ young uns I’ve lost count, ’ow many wives an’ young uns ’ave yew got?”

Dubble flushed, but before he could mumble a reply Nokko’s daughter, Spingo, joined them. With her was an older mouse, who was still quite beautiful. Nokko patted her paw affectionately. “This is Filgo, me chief wife. See, Bisky, yer can tell where Spingo gets ’er good looks.”

Filgo smiled quietly at the guests, nodding toward her husband. “Aye, an’ it ain’t from Nokko. His da used to use ’im t’frighten off spiders!” She sat next to Nokko. Spingo plumped down beside Bisky, bestowing him with another pretty smile. The young Redwall mouse was so overcome that he spluttered on his porridge. She thumped his back. “Eat slower, or you’ll give yerself the collywobbles.”

Nokko chuckled. “Go easy wid ’im, darlin’, that un’s a Redwall Abbey mouse, full of all kinds o’ manners.”

Gobbo, who was sitting nearby, scoffed. “I ’spect ’e’s too good fer the likes of us!”

Nokko dealt him a lightning thud with his big sandbag, laying Gobbo out stunned. He lectured him needlessly. “Never know when t’keep yer gob shut, do yer. Well, let that be a lesson!”

Bisky was overcome with curiosity about the name of Nokko’s tribe. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, sir, but I heard you say that you and your mice are called the Gonfelins. Where did that name come from?”

The fat Chieftain proclaimed proudly, “’Cos Gonff the Prince o’ Mousethieves was our ancestor. Gonfelins are all descended from him!”

Dubble interrupted, “How do ye know that?”

Nokko shook his sandbag at the shrew. “Yer a hard-necked beast, askin’ a Pike’ead o’ Gonfelins sumthin’ like that. I know ’cos my da knew, an’ his da afore ’im, right back to Gonff we go. So let that be the end o’ the daft questions, awright?”

Bisky knew he was on dangerous grounds, still he continued enquiring. “Sir, I don’t mean to give any offence, but Gonff came from Redwall Abbey, so why don’t you live there? He and his wife, Lady Columbine, and Martin the Warrior all helped to build the Abbey, but I suppose you know that.”

Nokko shrugged nonchalantly. “Course I did, I’ve even ’eard of Martin the Warrior, too. But I never knew Gonff’s missus was called Lady Cumbilline. Nice name that, maybe I’ll call me next daughter Cumbilline, or Cumbillino, that sounds better. Er, as fer livin’ at Redwall, I believe we did, a long time ago. The story goes that our great-great-grandda’s great-great-grandda didn’t like bein’ bossed about by Abbots an’ Friars, an’ elders. Any’ow, he didn’t like takin’ orders, so he left Redwall with his family, as far as I know.”

Young Spingo wagged a paw at her father. “Ooh, Da, tell the truth, they was kicked out fer stealin’!”

Bisky looked at Nokko. “For stealing!”

Nokko thrust out his chin aggressively. “Well, wot’s wrong wid that, Gonff was a thief, wasn’t he? Nothin’ wrong wid stealin’, long as yer don’t get caught. Bet you’ve stole stuff y’self, Bisky.”

The young mouse shook his head. “Never, even though I’m a descendant of Prince Gonff myself. I’m no thief!”

Nokko upbraided him scornfully. “Yew, a descendant o’ Gonff? Rubbish! Anybeast wid Gonfelin blood in their veins would draw rings around yer, even my pretty liddle Spingo. Go on, darlin’, tell this woffler wot bein’ a Gonfelin’s all about!”

Nokko pulled out a reed flute and began playing a lively little tune. Spingo leapt up, dancing and singing at the same time. She had a voice like a tinkling bell, and was light as sunbeams on her paws. She twirled around Bisky until his head was spinning.

“There ain’t no lock nor bolt or key,

that could put a hold on me,

I can move like shadowy night,

free as a breeze an’ twice as light.

’Cos…I’m a Gonfelin, a Gonfelin that’s me!

I’ll tell you, friend, that I believe

you don’t know wot it is to thieve,

so better keep close watch on me,

I steal most anythin’ I see.

’Cos…I’m a Gonfelin, a Gonfelin that’s me!

I’ll pinch the shell from off an egg,

I’ll rob the wings right off a bee,

I’d steal the eyes straight out your head,

if you weren’t watchin’ me.

’Cos…I’m a Gonfelin, a Gonfelin that’s me!

O make sure all ye have is yours,

count both ears an’ all four paws

then check you’ve got an open mind,

an’ see yore tail still hangs behind,

’cos…I’m a Gonfelin, a Gonfelin that’s me!”

It was well danced and prettily sung. Bisky joined in the applause. Spingo bowed, flashed a smile, then sat down beside him again. Turning to her father, she enquired, “Well, Da, ain’t yew goin’ to show Bisky an’ Dubble the jool that our ancestors were slung out o’ Redwall for stealin’ in the ole days?”

Nokko took an object from his wife, Filgo. It was carefully wrapped in fine moss velvet. He opened it slowly, exclaiming, “Jus’ looka that, ain’t it a beauty!”

Firelight cast blood-hued needles of colour into Bisky’s eyes. He blinked. Even on first sight, he instinctively knew that the pigeon’s egg ruby he was staring at could only be one thing.

One of the lost Eyes of the Great Doomwyte.