Doomwyte

15

Still bound to one of the upper boughs of the five-topped oak, Bisky flinched as a pebble struck his ear. Jeg, son of Chigid, the Painted Ones’ Chieftain, flung another pebble. This time, Bisky saw it coming—he managed to duck his head, avoiding the stone.

“Cheeheehee! I getcha next time, mousey, knock yer eye out with dis un.” Jeg was perched in the top terraces of the oak, trying to conceal himself amidst the foliage, but Bisky could see him.

The young mouse had complained to his three female guards, but the only response he got was a slash from a willow withe. Other than that, the guards ignored him. Sitting where none of the stones would hit them, they chattered and gossiped. This left the young mouse at the mercy of his tormentor. He never saw the next pebble coming, it rapped his bound paw. Luckily Bisky’s paws were so numb from the tight bonds, he hardly felt it.

Allowing his dislike of the young Painted One to show, Bisky called to him scornfully, “Well, that one never knocked my eye out, thick’ead. Stonethrower? Huh, you couldn’t hit water if’n ye were standin’ up to yore neck in a lake!”

Jeg was not used to being talked to thus. Bouncing madly about in the top foliage, he showered down twigs and leaves, also a few badly aimed stones. “Mousey mousey shoopid face daffnose mousey!”

Despite himself, Bisky could not help grinning at the infantile rant. He continued baiting Jeg. “Shoopid face daffnose? Dearie me, I’d learn to talk properly if I were you. Maybe you will, when yore not a baby anymore, little Jeggsy weggsy!”

It was more than Jeg could stand. Howling with rage he launched himself down upon Bisky, pummeling and kicking his helpless victim. The biggest of the female guards hauled Jeg off, shaking him roughly.

“Yeecheeh! Yore mammee said leave ’im alone!”

Jeg bit her paw fiercely, escaping from her grasp. He raced back to his former position, wailing and weeping through pure temper, as he spat at Bisky and the guard who had intervened. “Yew hew! Jus’ wait, my mammee an’ dadda Chigid kill ya for hurtin’ me, you shaked me, hard!”

The guard stayed silent, averting her eyes. It was dangerous to make an enemy of the young tree rat. Because of who he was, Jeg usually got his own way in all things. Slowly he began descending from the foliage, a spiteful glint in his eye as he neared Bisky. The young mouse swallowed hard, trying to stay calm.

Suddenly a shrill yell rang out. “Yeeeh, Chigid back! Chigid back!” Painted Ones appeared from seemingly everywhere, hurtling down through the branches, taking up the cry. “Chigid back Chigid back! Yeeeeeeeeh!” Jeg and the guards were caught up in the melee, joining in the shouting as they sped earthward. Bisky heaved a massive sigh of relief at his unexpected salvation.

Holding his hairless bottom and scorched tail, Chigid tried to salvage some dignity as he was hauled upward through the boughs of the five-topped oak by all the females of his tribe. He did his best to appear as an injured warrior. “Yaggaah! Getcha paws offa me, I’m injured inna war!” They spread soft tree moss and dead grass on a broad limb to accommodate him. However, sitting was out of the question, so Chigid lay flat on his stomach.

Tala, his mate, tried to apply a few dockleaves to the burns, murmuring soothingly, “Hayaah, does it hurt ye?”

The Chieftain gritted his filed teeth. “Idjit, shall I burn yore tail so ye can find out?”

Wisely, Tala got out of the way. Jeg came bounding up, throwing himself on Chigid, he shouted, “Dadda back!”

“Agaaarh! Gerroff!”

The Chietain landed his son a savage kick. It caught Jeg under the chin, stunning him. He toppled from the bough, falling to the woodland floor, where he lay senseless. Chigid glared about at those attending him. “Gemme barkbrew, then let me sleep!”

From where he was bound to the overhead limb, Bisky had witnessed the whole incident. He was satisfied that his friends had wrought some damage amongst the Painted Ones, and glad that the tree rats had taken no more captives. Also he was particularly pleased that Jeg had been taught an unexpected lesson. Now the stiffness in his limbs, and the excruciating pains in his tied-up forepaws blotted out everything.

Sleep eluded the young mouse. As darkness fell, he closed his eyes and hung his head. Feeling the heat, and breathing woodsmoke from a fire on the ground below, his senses started to reel. Bisky had almost drifted into a limbo, where he felt nothing anymore. Then his chin was jogged upward, as a wooden ladle was thrust against his mouth, accompanied by a guard’s command: “Drink now, you drink, mouse!”

Gratefully, he slurped down water until it slopped from his chin. The ladle was removed, and a thick, soft root was shoved between his teeth, with another order. “Eat, if it fall yew get no more!”

Pushing his chin to one side, Bisky trapped the root against his shoulder. Holding it there he gnawed hungrily, identifying the taste as a wild parsnip. He had never eaten raw parsnip before, nor had he ever fancied the vegetable much. But it tasted good, he devoured the lot, including the green-fronded parsnip top. With his stomach gurgling, the young mouse finally lapsed into sleep.

Once during the night, he was awakened by excited cries. Opening his eyes he saw four flickering lights, flittering about the woodland floor below. Painted Ones were shouting, “Wytes! Gerrem Wytes, shoot darts!” There was quite a hullabaloo, though it did not last for long, receding off into the thicknesses of Mossflower. Bisky was too weary to take it all in, he drifted back into slumber.

Again during the night, the limb he was bound to began to bounce up and down. Dreaming he was back in Redwall’s dormitory, Bisky imagined it was Dwink, jumping on his bed. He muttered drowsily, without opening his eyes, “Get back to yore own bed afore Brother Torilis comes.”

Dawn was streaking the sky, and birdsong echoing through the trees. Bisky coughed as smoke from the cooking fires below seeped up his nostrils and into his mouth. A voice alongside him murmured in his ear, “Aye aye, mate, ’ow long’ve you been strung up ’ere?” Tied next to Bisky in similar fashion was a spiky-furred young beast, wearing a multistriped headband, a short kilt and a broad, buckled belt. The stranger nodded at him, continuing in a gruff voice, “They brung me in durin’ the night, wot’s yore name?”

Bisky felt less alone in the creature’s company. “I’m called Bisky, from Redwall Abbey. I expect you’ve heard of Redwall?”

The newcomer winked almost cheerily at him. “Aye, expect I have. They call me Dubble, I’m a Guosim shrew, an’ proud of it. Ye know wot Guosim means, don’t ye, Brisky?”

Bisky winked back at him. “Name’s not Brisky, it’s Bisky. Pleased to meet ye, Drubble. I know wot Guosim means, first letter of each word. Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. Right?”

The shrew grinned broadly. “Right, an’ me name’s Dubble, not Drubble. Tell me, ’ow did these blaggards catch ye?”

Bisky tried making light of his predicament. “Oh, I was explorin’ some underground tunnels when they cracked me over the head, an’ knocked me out cold. When I woke up, here I was. Wot about you, mate?”

Dubble stated flatly, “Arguin’ with Tugga, that did it.”

The young mouse was curious. “Who’s Tugga?”

His shrew friend replied, almost in disbelief, “Y’mean you’ve never ’eard o’ Tugga Bruster, big Log a Log of all the Guosim?”

Bisky could only shake his head. “No, I’m sorry, I haven’t. Tell me about him.”

Dubble snorted. “Huh, tell ye about Tugga? You lot at Redwall must lead a sheltered life if’n y’aint ’eard o’ Tugga Bruster. Don’t ye even know the famous song, Bisky?”

The young mouse admitted he did not, causing Dubble to break out into song.

“No shrew in the territory’s as tough

as Log a Log Tugga Bruster,

’cos when he swings that big iron club,

he’s a dangerous ole skull buster.

Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,

he’d face any gang o’ vermin they could muster,

he’s full o’ muscles hard an’ wide,

one day I saw a fox decide,

to slay hisself by suicide, rather

than face ole Tugga Bruster!

Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,

he won’t put up with brag or bluster,

he can kick a stoat clear outta his skin,

or use a ferret as a duster,

good ole Tugga Bruster!

Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,

he can fight all day, without the slightest fuss, sir,

so if yore a rat I’ll tell ye that

one blast of his breath’d knock ye flat,

’midst shrews he’s an aristocrat,

he’s the Log a Log Tugga Bruster!”

Bisky chuckled. “He sounds like a real terror to me.”

Dubble stared bitterly ahead as he answered. “Aye, an’ he’s my dad, too!” Bisky remained silent, waiting until the young shrew continued. “That’s how I got meself tied to a branch alongside you, mate. Huh, that Tugga, always on at me, naggin’ an’ lecturin’, an’ clippin’ me over the lugs. I can’t do anythin’ right accordin’ to him. Can’t use a logboat paddle, can’t steer a craft, can’t wield a Guosim rapier. Hah, you’d think to ’ear him I can’t do a single thing to his likin’. Anyhow, I put up with it fer long enough, then I spoke back to me dad. One word led to another, an’ next thing we were in the middle of right ole barney, me’n’ Tugga. So I told him wot he c’d do with his Log a Log title, an’ his logboats, an’ his whole blinkin’ tribe!”

Bisky’s voice was no more than a murmur. “So you left home an’ walked off, Dubble?”

The young shrew nodded. “Aye, off I went in a ragin’ temper. Got meself lost, the first night out. I was wanderin’ round the woodlands, like a bruised beetle in the dark. Then I sees a couple o’ pretty liddle lights, twinklin’ round, just ahead o’ me. So I followed ’em, fool that I was, I let the bloomin’ things lead me straight into a swamp. I was about to shout out for ’elp, when this crowd o’ painted ragbags came swingin’ outta the trees. They dragged me out o’ the mud, an’ tied me up like a parcel o’ vittles.

“I tell ye, Bisky, I don’t know wot they were usin’ as weapons, some sort o’ poisoned darts, an’ blowpipes. They shot at one of the twinklin’ lights an’ downed him. Straight into the swamp he went. I could tell by the cries it was a bird, a raven, I think. Huh, that’s one bird wot won’t lead no more pore, lost beasts astray!”

Bisky tried moving his paws, to get the circulation going. “We’ve had trouble with those twinklin’ lights at our Abbey, they’re called Wytes, and I think their leader is called a Doomwyte. Dubble, d’ye think that yore dad an’ the rest o’ the tribe will come lookin’ for you?”

Dubble turned his eyes skyward. “Yore guess is good as mine, Bisky. Though if’n they do, I can just imagine wot Log a Log Tugga would say.” Dubble impersonated his father’s deep, gruff voice. “Runnin’ away from the tribe, gettin’ lost, then lettin’ yoreself get nabbed by tree rats. Yer not fit t’be rescued, young un, a disgrace t’the Guosim, that’s wot ye are. Oaks’n’apples ’elp this tribe if’n you ever get t’be Log a Log one day!”

Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of Jeg and some of his cohorts. Jeg was carrying a willow switch, which he immediately slashed across Bisky’s shoulders.

As the young mouse arched his back with pain, Dubble yelled at Jeg, “Ahoy, snotnose, enjoyin’ yoreself are ye? You shouldn’t be painted black’n’green. No, yellow’d be the right colour for you, stinkin’ coward that y’are!”

Squealing with rage, Jeg began flogging Dubble. “I killya for that, killya! Yeeeeh!”

Bisky roared at the top of his lungs, “You rotten worm, if’n I was loose I’d slay ye with my bare paws, ye spineless scum!”

The noisy cacophony roused Chigid, who had been having a lie in, to heal his injuries. He came limping along the bough, accompanied by his mate, Tala, and several guards. Seizing the switch from his son, he tossed it down onto the cooking fires below, chattering at him. “Yikkiirrr! Stoppit, they’re my pris’ners!”

Jeg glared at both captives. “Yaaarrr! I wanna kill ’em, they callin’ me bad names!”

Chigid glared at Jeg, baring his pointed teeth. “I say when we kill ’em, not you. Much work t’be done round ’ere, vikkles t’be got, that’s pris’ners’ job!”

Tala interceded on her son’s behalf, calming Chigid. “Hayaaah, Chief injured, go now an’ rest. Let Jeg take these beasts to gather vikkles!” She indicated three of her female companions. “Yew go with Jeg, keep a good watch on the mouses.”

Chigid touched his scorched tail gingerly as he limped off, cautioning Jeg. “Yew lose ’em an’ I skin ye good!”

Shortly thereafter, Bisky and Dubble were unbound and lowered to the woodland floor. There they were roped together by their necks, each being fitted with a hobble on their footpaws that had a boulder tied to it. Both were still as yet unable to get their forepaws working.

Jeg ordered the three guards to wait, whilst he vanished into the trees. He was back shortly, carrying fresh switches, which he issued to the minders. Making whippy noises with his own switch, the young Painted One smirked wickedly at his captives. “Yeeheee! You find plenty berries, fruits, eggs an’ fishes. Lots o’ vikkles, or ye get punished bad!”

Dragging the rocks to which they were hobbled, the pair lumbered awkwardly off. Dubble managed to murmur to Bisky, as they fell behind slightly, “Keep yore eyes an’ wits peeled for a chance, any chance. Don’t be afeared of slayin’ ’em if’n ye have to.”

The young mouse replied out of the side of his mouth, “Don’t worry, mate, I won’t be scared of finishin’ the job, if’n it comes down to them or us!”

Swish! Jeg’s switch caught both their paws. “Sharrap an’ get movin’, ye slackers!”

Dubble actually smiled at Jeg. “That’s a nice liddle whip ye’ve got there, sir, ’twould come right out both yore ears if’n I was to stuff it up yore nostrils.”

Jeg raised the switch, but something in the Guosim shrew’s eyes warned him not to strike with it. To save face, Jeg slashed at some dandelions, knocking the flowering heads from their stems. He called to the guards, “Yekka! Keep these two movin’!”

The three guards were not as vindictive as Jeg. Bisky found that if they kept a reasonable pace, their trio of minders did not goad them.

Travelling through the late spring woodlands, they came upon a copse where, in a shaded spot, mushrooms grew in abundance. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, and Jeg, who lounged in the low branches of a maple, the two captives picked mushrooms. After awhile, Dubble began digging amidst the grass. One of the female guards prodded him with her switch.

“Wotcha doin’? Yer supposed t’be pickin’ mushrooms.”

The young shrew sniffed at his paws. “Radishes, there’s wild radishes growin’ here.”

She pulled a face. “Yaaah, don’t like radishes, leave ’em where they are.”

Just to assert his superiority over the group, Jeg called out from his perch, “Dig some radishes out, my dadda likes ’em. You ’elp ’im, mousey, go on!”

Bisky joined Dubble at the digging, muttering to him, “I don’t like radishes, either, mate, wot are we scrabblin’ with our bare paws in the dirt for? Pickin’ mushrooms is much easier.”

Dubble showed him a sharp flint shard he had dug up. Stowing it swiftly in his belt, he winked at Bisky. “Just keep diggin’ an’ see if’n ye can find a good, sharp flint like I’ve got, then hide it quick. Nothin’ like a flint shard for cuttin’ these ropes, or a few Painted Ones’ throats, when we gets the chance!”

Jeg threw a twig at them, calling, “Where’s the radishes yer diggin’ for, eh?”

Bisky suddenly came upon a keen-edged flint, shaped almost like a small knife blade. He shouted back, “Haven’t found ’em yet, but there’s radishes round here somewheres if’n my mate says there is.”

Jeg climbed down from the maple, and came to see for himself. Casting about with a footpaw, he sneered, “Yeeecha, ain’t no radishes growin’ here, waste o’ time diggin’. The mushrooms’ll do, let’s git back t’the camp wid them. Move yerselves!”

On the journey back to the five-topped oak, Bisky whispered to his companion, “I found a sharp flint, it’s hidden in my tunic. What’s the next move, mate?”

Dubble’s lips hardly moved as he replied, “Wait’ll tonight, once it gets dark an’ all the scum are asleep—that’s when we make our move!”