Doomwyte

34

It was noontide in east Mossflower, with scarce a vagrant breeze to stir the thick, green foliage. Skipper Rorgus called a halt beneath a massive old beech. Dwink, thinking it was for his benefit, protested. “I don’t need to rest my footpaw, I can travel on quite a bit yet, Skip.”

Unshouldering the big provision haversack, the Otter Chieftain sat with his back against the trunk. “Can ye now, Master Dwink, well, I’m pleased to hear it, ’cos I can’t. Foremole an’ me ain’t young uns no more. We likes to rest when we can.”

Foremole nodded agreement. “Boi ’okey we do, zurr. If’n you’m young uns bees so fulled of h’energy, may’aps ee’d loike to surve us’ns sum vittles.”

Perrit placed a paw beneath her chin, and gave a charming little curtsy. “As you wish, O ancient and weary ones.”

Foremole’s face creased in a friendly smile. “You’m a h’imperdent likkle villyun, miz!”

They dined on soft, white cheese, preserved hazelnuts and beechnuts and a flask of coltsfoot and pennycloud cordial.

Dwink ruminated as he sat, watching a bee exploring his footpaw dressing. “Well, there’s over half a day gone since we left the Abbey, with nothin’ to show for it.”

Skipper reassured him. “But we’ve stuck faithful to the clues, aye, an’ searched high’n’low.”

Dwink swiped idly at the bee, as it tried to burrow under his paw dressing. “So we have, Skip. Once we’ve eaten an’ rested, we’ll carry on an’ search some more. I suppose that’s wot a quest is all about, eh? Yeeek!”

Foremole blinked. “Wot’s um matter, maister?”

Dwink was sucking furiously at his paw. “That bee, he stung me!”

Skipper corrected the young squirrel. “‘Twasn’t a he, that were a she. Only female bees carry a sting. Here, mate, let me look at it.” Working on Dwink’s paw with a wooden splinter, the otter shook his head. “You shouldn’t have hit it, the bee didn’t mean ye no harm, she was prob’ly just attracted by the smell of Brother Torilis’s herbal salve. There, that’s got it! Rub a dockleaf on yore paw an’ it I’ll be good as new agin.”

Dwinked complained indignantly, “But I never hit the bee, I just swiped at it, you know, to shoo it off.”

Foremole chuckled. “You’m never can tell with ee bumblybees. Hurr hurr…. Yoooch! Naow Oi been stunged!”

Perrit clapped a paw to the side of her neck. “Eeeeh! Me, too, we must be sitting on top of a nest or something!”

Skipper never shouted out, but he jumped as he was struck on the rudder. He nipped the object out with the splinter he had used on Dwink. Inspecting it, he gathered up the haversack. “Let’s hoist anchor out of ’ere, mates, afore those bees sting us t’death. Come on!”

They followed Skipper, who cut off at an angle into the trees. He ran for awhile, then halted in a willow grove on a streambank. Throwing aside the haversack, he beckoned the others to him, then spoke in a whisper. “Dwink, that was a real bee wot stung ye, but it wasn’t a bee that got me!”

Foremole, who had extracted an object from his stomach where he had been hit, held it out to them. “No, nor Oi, Skip, lookit yurr.”

“Hold still, missy!” Skipper swiftly removed something from the side of Perrit’s neck. He compared all three before giving a verdict. “These are thorns from a gorse bush. If’n I ain’t mistaken, they’re tipped with some sort o’ juice. No bee could’ve done that, we was shot at!”

Dwink whispered back, “Shot at! By who?”

The Otter Chieftain unwound the sling from about his lithe waist. “I don’t know, mates, but I aims t’find the rascal. Stop ’ere, an’ don’t stir ’til I gets back. Oh, an’ miz Perrit, bees live in hives, they don’t make nests.”

Skipper vanished into the trees, like a wraith of smoke on the breeze. Sometimes crouching, crawling on his stomach, alternately hiding behind tree trunks or any available shelter, the otter hunted their foe. He was close to the spot where they had previously stopped, when he heard the voice, low and grumbly. Immobile, Skipper watched from the shelter of a sycamore.

There the creature was, holding a conversation with herself, wagging a blowpipe at her surroundings. A small, scraggly, thin hedgehog, with prickles greyed by age. She was adorned with stems of sphagnum moss, and garlanded by belts, necklaces and bracelets of dead bee husks, all strung together. From his vantage point, the otter listened to her tirade.

“Yeeheehee! Learn they must, you see, a painful lesson. Nobeast trespasses on Blodd Apis’s land, you see. They scream with pain, they run away, that’s how it should be, you see!” She danced off, laughing to herself. However, her joy was short-lived.

As the skinny hog jigged her way past the sycamore, she was caught by Skipper Rorgus. A looped sling landed neatly about her neck, and a javelin prodded her in the back. The otter bellowed at his prisoner, “Move a single spike an’ it won’t be no gorse thorn that’ll strike ye, it’ll be my javelin!”

Perrit had climbed up into a willow to spy the land. She called down to Dwink and Foremole, “Oh, corks and caterpillars, just wait until you see what Skipper’s bringing to tea. Hah, you’ll never believe this!”

The Otter Chieftain had his captive on a tight lead, urging her along with his javelin tip. Skipper tied the sling end to a branch, tethering the hedgehog. He showed Dwink the blowpipe, and a small pouch of darts, which he had taken from her. “This is our stingin’ bee, a right nasty liddle piece o’ work if’n ye ask me!”

Perrit stared pityingly at the old creature. “That sling is too tight about her neck.” She approached the captive in a friendly manner. “Let’s loosen it a bit, shall we.”

Foremole was just in time to pull Perrit back as the hedgehog leapt at her, exposing a mouthful of filthy, snaggled teeth in a vicious snarl. “Foolish ones, ye soon will be dead, you see! Release Blodd Apis now, or die!”

Skipper leant on his javelin, ignoring the creature’s threats. “Blodd Apis, eh, that’s an odd sort o’ name.”

She gagged as she stretched the tethering sling, trying to grab at the otter with dirt-encrusted claws. “Streamdog, I am Blodd Apis, Queen of the Wild Sweet Gatherers. Ye will die the Death of a Thousand Stings if ye do not let me go, you see!”

Dwink whispered to Perrit, “Did you hear that, the Wild Sweet Gatherers. That’s part of the clue. I think we should question her!”

The young squirrel addressed Blodd Apis sternly. “Listen, marm, you don’t frighten us one little bit, an’ yore not in a position to kill anybeast right now. So you can stop all that spittin’ an’ snarlin’ an’ answer a few questions!”

Blodd Apis went into a dance of rage. “You trespass on my land, hold me prisoner! Queen of all bees does not answer questions. You see, until I have your eyes stung out, Blodd Apis will make you plead for death, you see!” Dwink drew back, surprised at the savagery of her outburst.

Skipper winked at him knowingly. “She’s tryin’ to scare ye, mate, leave this t’me. I can be pretty scary in a scarin’ bout, watch this!” He smiled mockingly at Blodd Apis. “Ahoy there, granny, I reckon yore mouth needs washin’ out, ye naughty liddle pincushion.”

This seemed to drive Blodd Apis berserk. She threw herself about, spitting and foaming at the mouth as she hurled invective on the heads of her captors. “You see! You see! I will make you scream for mercy! My bees will fly down your ears and sting your brains! Down your mouths and sting your guts! Blodd Apis will turn your bodies into slobbering lumps of agony! You see, you see!”

Skipper retaliated then. Bounding forward, with slitted eyes and bared teeth, he brandished his javelin in her face, bellowing, “Sharraaaap, ye stupid ole mud beetle! I’m the baddest beast that ever was born! Hah, you see, you see? I’ll tell yer wot I see, silly spikes! I see me hangin’ ye over a fire an’ roastin’ yore prickles off, then I see me slittin’ ye open with me javelin, packin’ yore insides with rocks an’ sinkin’ ye in a deep, muddy swamp! That’s wot I see, see! Aye, an’ I’m just the bucko who can do it! Like this, an’ this an’ this! Hahaaaarr!”

As he shouted, Skipper began jabbing with the javelin point all about Blodd Apis, missing her by a mere fraction each time. Foremole covered his eyes, whilst the two young ones held their breath, astounded by Skipper’s barbaric outburst. It was a case of the bully being outbullied. Blodd Apis shrank to the ground, whimpering in terror.

“Aiee, mercy! Spare me, spare me, I was only joking, you see!”

Skipper Rorgus slammed the javelin point down in the ground alongside her. He growled roughly, “Hoho, jokin’, were ye? Well, I ain’t jokin’. Now, you’ve got a den ’erea-bouts. Don’t argue, take us there right away, afore I really lose me temper!”

Turning to his friends, he showed them a wide grin, and a broad wink. “Foremole, you take ’er lead. Come on, you, up on those paws, an’ mind yore manners!”

Blodd Apis led them on a complicated route through the woodlands. As they went, bees travelled with them. A few at first, but building up, until they had a huge mass of the insects buzzing in their wake. Foremole’s tiny eyes widened. “Hurr, may’aps she’m truly ee Queen of bumblybees.”

The old hog’s den was an arresting sight. It was situated in the dense heart of the woodland. Backed by protruding sandstone ledges, two incredibly ancient yew trees spread their girth, like an annex to the ledges. In the forks of both trees, extending up into the branches, were hives piled upon hives. Some old, some deserted, but many newer ones, showing signs of habitation and great activity by the industrious wild bees. The ground surrounding the bower was thick with scent and colour. Pink bush vetch, red clover, late bluebell, sweet violet and golden tormentil. The air resounded with soft, humming drones of bees, gathering pollen as they sipped nectar.

Perrit spread her paws joyously. “What scents, and the floor, it’s like, like a…”

“Coloured carpet?” Dwink suggested.

Blodd Apis took them into her den beneath the ledges—it was dim and cool. Skipper sat on a low ledge, taking the sling halter from Foremole.

Gullub Gurrpaw settled himself down gratefully. “Yurr, ’tis vurry peaceable, ee cudd get to loike this place, marm.”

Blodd Apis had become almost fawning, following her verbal defeat by Skipper. Dwink sat facing her.

“Now, marm, about those questions. I take it that this is the home of the Wild Sweet Gatherers?”

She nodded her grey-spiked head. “Always has been, you see. Wild bees can be very dangerous, but they know their Queen, you goodbeasts are safe whilst ye stay in my company, you see, safe with me.”

Dwink noticed that there were lots of bees buzzing around the ledges. “Well, that’s nice to know. Tell me, have you ever heard about the eye of the serpent, does it mean anything to you?”

The old hedgehog gave no sign of recognition. “No serpents on Queen Blodd Apis’s land, you see. Snakes do not come around here.”

Perrit interrupted, “He’s not really talking about a live snake. The eye of the serpent is a stone, like a pigeon egg, but it is green.”

The aged hog showed her snaggle teeth in an ugly grin. “No, young missie, you see I have never seen such a thing. Why do ye seek it?”

Skipper interrupted, still playing his role as the rough bully, “If’n ye’ve never seen it then wot does it matter to ye what we want with it, eh?”

At the rear of the ledges, Dwink noticed a number of large pottery urns, covered by woven reed mats. “What’s in those big vases, marm?”

Blodd Apis sounded evasive. “Nothing, young sir, nothing, you see.”

Foremole clambered to the back of the ledge. He heaved one of the urns out. “Hurr, nuthin’, you’m say, marm, then let’s take ee lukk at wot nuthin’ looks loike!”

He took off the covering, revealing a quantity of scented amber liquid. Dipping in a sturdy digging paw, the mole licked it. Licking his lips, he smiled. “Et tasters gurtly sweet!”

Their captive hastened to explain, “It’s what a Queen lives on, you see, I need no other food but that. I make it from bee honey, try some. It’s very pleasant, you see.” She pointed to a number of beakers nearby. “Please, I know ye’ll like it, ’tis quite harmless and delicious to drink, you see.”

Skipper set out five of the beakers, but he filled only one from the urn, placing it before Blodd Apis. “There y’are, missus. If’n that stuff’s quite ’armless, then let’s see you drink it!”

Without hesitation, the skinny old hog took a sip from the beaker. She was about to put it down, when the Foremole held a paw under the vessel.

“Yurr, drink et all oop loik a guddbeast, cummon, marm!”

They watched as Blodd Apis happily drained the beaker. “More please, I like it, you see!”

Perrit giggled. “Well, there can’t be much wrong with the honey drink if she can swig it down like that!” The squirrelmaid filled all the beakers, by dipping them in the urn.

Dwink took a sip, proclaiming, “Great seasons, this is delicious. What did ye say this was made from, marm?”

“Just honey from my bees, an’ fresh springwater, nought else, you see,” replied Blodd Apis, raising a full beaker. “But ’tis not to be sipped, you see. The right way is to drink it in one go, like this.” The curious old hedgehog drained the beaker with a single draught, smacking her lips as she cackled, “Just like that, you see!”

Her four guests did likewise, each giving their verdict. “Bo urr, ee’ll ’ave to tell Oi the ressipery furr ee hunny drink, marm. Ole Corksnout wudd h’enjoy et!”

“Oh, it’s wonderful, I’ve never tasted anything like it!”

“I told you, Perrit, absolutely delicious, eh, Skip?”

The Otter Chieftain refilled all five beakers. “Ye can say that agin, young Dwink, a real pretty drop o’ stuff. Well, mates, good ’ealth to one an’ all!” They quaffed their drinks down swiftly.

Dwink took the beakers. “Hahaha! My turn now…. Oops!” He chuckled as he dipped the drinking vessels into the big urn. “Nearly toppled in! Hahaha, that’d be a good idea, it’d save havin’ t’fill these beakers up. We could all jump in for a drink!”

The drinks were downed with alacrity. Skipper refilled them, commenting, “Yore shore ’tis only made of honey an’ springwater, missus, nothin’ else?”

“Nay, nought but honey and springwater, just as I said, you see.”

Blodd Apis topped them up again. Perrit took a good swig. She blinked owlishly, staring into the urn. “Funny an’ stringdaughter, eh, very nice!” She hiccupped as she supplied them with more.

Dwink slopped liquid down his front, swaying to and fro, he sighed happily. “Y’right, Ferrit ole mate. S’nice, veryveyveyvey night. Hahahaha! G’night….” Letting the beaker slip, he curled over, asleep.

Perrit hiccupped again, then giggled. “Heehee, Drink’s dropped his dwink. Wait, tha’s rot, night. Heeheehee. Whoooogolly me!” Flopping down alongside Dwink, Perrit closed her eyes. Within moments, she was snoring in the most unmaidenly manner.

Skipper staggered about, eyes rolling as he tried to focus on Blodd Apis. Grabbing his javelin he wagged it at the ancient hog. “You…you did sump’n to that drink, didn’t ye? Hah! If’n anythin’ happens t’my mates, I warn ye, missus.” The Otter Chieftain took a step forward, tripped over his own javelin and fell flat, banging his head on the sandstone ledge. He lay there, senseless to the world.

Repeatedly, Foremole tried to rise from a sitting position. Each time he slumped back clumsily. He watched Blodd Apis removing the leather sling halter from her neck. “Yurr, marm, bein’ ee h’assistant cellarbeast at ee h’Abby, Oi’m a-knowen ’bout drinks.”

Taking Foremole’s half-filled beaker, Blodd Apis finished it off in one swallow. “Then ye know ’tis not poison. Never heard of mead, have ye? Mead is just honey an’ springwater mixed. When it’s been sealed up for a season, mead becomes strong, you see. Aye, the longer ’tis stored, the stronger it gets. I gave you an’ yore friends my Special Ten Season Mead. I’ve lived all my life on mead you see, so I’m used to it. Hah, but otherbeasts aren’t, ’tis far too strong for ’em!”

Foremole blinked blearily, his head dropped. “Hurr, marm, you’m an ’ole villyun, aye, a gurt trickybeast. Fie on ee, you’m maked uz drunken!”

From her garlands of moss and festooned bee carcasses, Blodd Apis drew forth a woven grass bag. She emptied the contents of the small receptacle onto the ledge. There were two objects: one, a hollow reed tube, stoppered with beeswax at either end to contain the liquid inside. The other was the pigeon’s egg–shaped emerald. It glowed with fabulous green light as she stroked it covetously. “Fools, this is no serpent’s eye, ’tis the Green Star of the Woodlands. Only a Queen may possess it, you see!”

Foremole raised his head with an effort. “Ho no, marm, that’n bees ee surrpint’s eye, an’ et doan’t berlong to ee at all, burr nay!”

Blodd Apis hastily stowed the emerald in her bag. Foremole was still trying to rise, when she kicked him back down. There was a wicked glimmer in her eyes. “Stupid soildigger, do ye think the Queen of Wild Bees would let anybeast take the Green Star from her? Both you and your friends will be dead by sunset, you see. Now you will know what it is to feel the Death of a Thousand Stings!”

The threat of all of them being slain immediately lifted the mead-induced stupor from the good mole. However, he decided not to let the malignant old hedgehog know. Sprawled on his back, he blinked feebly at her. “Burr, you’m wicked rarscal, wot bees you’m plannen?”

Crouching close to Foremole’s face, Blodd Apis showed him the hollow reed tube. She shook it, so he could hear the liquid inside. “You see this, it is the juice of many wood ants. They are the enemy of my bees. If I were to splash you with just a drop of this juice, you would be attacked and stung to death by my bees, you see!”

Foremole gave a gentle, rumbling snore, as if he had fallen into a drunken slumber. Blodd Apis kicked him scornfully. “Hah, sleep on, mudbrain, ye will soon wake for the last time, very painfully, you see!”

For such an ancient creature, the hedgehog was surprisingly strong and resolute. Foremole watched, through half-lidded eyes, as she dragged each of his friends clear of the ledges and surrounding yews into the open. Skipper, being the biggest, was the most difficult. About midway between her den and a small stream, Blodd Apis ceased hauling the otter by his rudder. Next came Perrit, she was a lot easier to lug along. Foremole’s brain was racing as he saw her tugging Dwink along by his long, bushy tail. An idea came to him when he spotted Dwink’s crutch, which had fallen at the foot of the sandstone ledge. He began crawling toward the slumped forms of his companions, muttering aloud drunkenly, “Burr, Oi must foind moi friends, whurr do they bees, mus’ foind ’em, hurrrr!”

Blodd Apis stood over him, sniggering. “Well, you see, here’s one I don’t need to drag along. Come on, soildigger, here’s your friends, you see, over there. This way!” Prodding her victim with one paw, she carefully held up the hollow reed vial in the other.

Foremole crawled clumsily forward, stumbling over the shallow ledges as she goaded him on. “Clumsy oaf, not that way, over there, you see?”

Foremole Gullub rolled over the final ledge, then lay flat on his stomach, hiding the crutch, which he had grabbed, under him. Closing his eyes, he snuffled, and commenced snoring once more.

This peeved the old hedgehog. Bending down, she cuffed the back of the mole’s head. “Don’t ye go asleep on me, there’s your friends, over there, you see!”

Knowing his life and the lives of others depended on him, Foremole acted swiftly. Rolling over, he struck out with Dwink’s window-prop crutch. The blow landed hard and true, smashing the reed tube in the hedgehog’s paw, splashing her with the deadly liquid. A few drops fell on his paw. The buzzing noise was beginning to fill the air as Foremole scurried wildly to the stream and threw himself in.

The screams of Blodd Apis rose to an insane pitch as her bees descended upon her. Hundreds upon hundreds of the maddened insects attacked her savagely, diving, buzzing, stinging.

Foremole popped his head out of the water, to take a breath. Blodd Apis was not to be seen, she had vanished, still screeching, under the swarming masses of enraged bees. Foremole scrambled out onto the bank. He ran to his friends, splashing water upon them, and smacking out with hefty digging claws.

“Wake ee oop, zurrs! Skip, mizzy Perrit, Dwink, rouse you’m selfs. Oh, do ’urry! Yooch!” Stung on the ears, Foremole was forced to dive back into the water. A small cloud of bees hovered, humming, over the spot where he had gone down.

Skipper sat up groaning, his face wet with bankmud and streamwater, and his snout smarting from Foremole’s digging claw. “Ahoy…wot’s goin’ on?…Wake up, mates, look at that thing yonder!”

Foremole’s head broke the surface again. He spat out water and a bee, bellowing, “They’m slayin’ ee ole ’ogwife, get ee away!”

Whilst they had not yet been stung, Skipper shook Dwink and Perrit into wakefulness. “We’d best weigh anchor sharpish, mates, those bees have gone crazed!”

Dwink sat up, nursing a pounding headache. “Ooh me head, what’s all that noise?”

Perrit was up on her paws—the squirrelmaid was horrified. “Oh, fur’n’blood, is that Blodd Apis?”

The ancient hedgehog was trying to crawl away, moaning hoarsely, completely covered by bees.

Ever resourceful, Skipper sprang into the stream. Dragging Foremole to the surface, he covered him with his own body, allowing him breathing space from the hovering bees. Dwink began limping to the den between the yews.

Perrit chased after him, she was bewildered. “Surely you’re not going back in there?”

Dwink winced. “Don’t speak so loud, please.”

The squirrelmaid protested, “I’ve got to, or I wouldn’t be heard over all this buzzing. Surely you’re not going to drink more of that honey drink?”

Dwink was shoving one of the big pottery urns out into the open. “I’m not going to drink it, but mayhaps the bees might like a drop or two. Let’s get this out where they can scent it!”

Between them, the pair managed to get four of the pottery mead vessels close to where the bee swarms were still crawling over the now-dead hedgehog. Hurriedly they tipped the urns over, sending the strong, sweet nectar cascading over the grass. Within moments, the bees caught the heavy, aromatic scent. Dwink and Perrit joined Skipper and Foremole in the stream.

The Otter Chieftain clapped their backs soundly. “Well done, mateys, that was a clever ruse an’ no mistake. Come now, young uns, dunk yore ’eads in the water, ’twill freshen ye up!”

Dwink and Perrit took the otter’s advice—he was right. Several duckings in cold streamwater was a wonderful cure for their headaches.

Feeling quite chipper, they emerged to sit on the bank. Skipper attended to Foremole’s stings with a poultice of cool mud and crushed dockleaves. Patting the dressing with a huge digging claw, the mole grinned cheerfully. “Oi wager Oi do lukk gurtly funny wi’ this lot on moi ’ead. Hurr, but et doo’s feel noice, zurr!”

Perrit left off fluffing her saturated tail. “Noticed anything, mates? The bees aren’t bothering us at all now!”

Dwink went over to retrieve his crutch; he flicked a bee with the tip of it. The fuzzy insect rolled over on its back, where it lay humming happily. Dwink could not help chuckling. “They won’t bother anybeast for awhile, not as long as they’re drunker than we were.”

Perrit touched her brow. “Don’t remind me, from now on I’ll take mint tea, or just water. My golly, that honey drink was strong enough to knock a tree over.”

Foremole wrinkled his velvety snout. “Hurr, they’m bound t’be sum gurt likkle ’eadaches round yurr cumm noightfall. Dwink, moi friend, ee old hogwife has what we cumm a-lookin’ fer, do ee get yon surrpint’s eye, an’ let us’ns begone from yurr!”

Gingerly turning the body of Blodd Apis over with his crutch, the young squirrel winced at the awful sight. The whole length of her, from snout to spike end, was a mass of red, swollen lumps. Looping the crutch into the woven reed bag fastener, he pulled it clear.

They admired the green-fired emerald orb awhile, then Skipper popped it back into its container. “We should bury her, mad though she were. Let’s seal her up in her old home.”

The friends left the old one to her final rest. “Well, buckoes, ’twas a successful search, an’ I’m sure all at Redwall will agree when they sees it.”

Foremole nodded sagely. “That bees two greeny uns, an’ one red un been founded. Wot doo’s ee say t’that, Maister Dwink?”

Finding he no longer needed the crutch, Dwink shouldered it, assisting Foremole to his footpaws. “I say let’s go back to Redwall Abbey, mates!”