Doomwyte

24

Jeg’s stomach was sore and smarting from the scorching he had received when he fell onto the fire. On running away from the five-topped oak, he had raced willy-nilly into the woodlands of Mossflower. The young tree rat hoped desperately that he would not be pursued by either of his two former captives. Jeg recalled beating the Guosim shrew with a willow withe; he shuddered at the hatred that had burnt in their eyes, especially the Guosim shrew—that one looked like a really vengeful beast.

He continued running, then paused, breathing heavily as he tried to catch any sounds of pursuit. However there were only the normal summer sounds—distant birdsong, the hum of bees and the odd noises of foraging insects. Having reassured himself, he continued at an easier pace, constantly touching his scorched fur and blistered flesh.

Jeg was at a loss as to how he could ease his discomfort, when he came across a woodland pool. The water was dark, it gave off a rank odour as he drew close. No good for drinking. Then his paws squelched into the layer of mud and sodden leaf mould—this was ideal. He sat down and began slapping it on his stomach. It was squelchy, cool, the ideal salve for minor scorching. Instant relief.

Before too long he heard sounds, which alerted him. Somebeast was on his trail, travelling fast, with no attempt at stealth. He glanced around for something to use as a weapon. There it was, a half-submerged tree branch. It emerged with a squelch as he tugged on it. The noises were distinctly nearer now, there was no doubt about it, somebeast was right on his trail, and coming fast. Jeg wedged the branch in a low tree fork and gave it a sharp jerk. The long branch snapped in two, leaving him with a fair-sized length, which he could use as a staff.

Dubble had a strong feeling that he was on the right trail of his foe. He dashed onward, hoping soon to catch sight of the Painted One. Seething for revenge, the young Guosim shrew never thought to act with caution. He ran straight into an ambush.

Leaping out from behind a sycamore, Jeg lashed out with his staff. The swinging blow would have stunned Dubble, but for a speedy reaction. Instinctively he threw up both paws, taking the major force of the staff upon them. He narrowly missed grabbing hold of the weapon, but Jeg was already striking again, this time from the other direction. Dubble was struck between neck and shoulder, he toppled off balance and fell.

The young tree rat was shrieking with delight as he thrashed at his adversary. “Yeeeheee, I killya this time, foolbeast, yeeeeheeee!” Some of the blows connected, others missed, thus was Jeg’s haste to finish his enemy.

Dubble wriggled and rolled about furiously, his paws numbed by the initial strike of the staff. He pushed forward, grabbing Jeg’s footpaw, and sank his teeth in savagely. The tree rat hopped about, screaming, as he tried to dislodge the shrew, but Dubble hung on grimly. Jeg kicked out at his head, but his foe caught the other footpaw, twisting it and laying him flat on his back.

This was the chance Dubble had been waiting for. Ignoring his various hurts, he threw himself upon Jeg, flailing away with all paws. Over and over the pair rolled, into the squashy compound of mud and leaf mould on the poolbank. Spitting stagnant water, Jeg managed to gain the upper position, forcing Dubble’s head down into the mess. One mouthful sent the young shrew into an ungovernable panic—he bucked and jerked so wildly that he threw Jeg to one side. Dubble was up to his waist in the soggy bank morass. He was extracting himself, with some difficulty, when he saw Jeg, whom he had thrown up onto solid ground, take to his paws and run off. The young Guosim shrew yelled after him, “Ye can run, scumface, but-ye won’t escape me. No matter wot it takes, I’ll get ye!”

Thus began a second chase, this time it went in no particular direction. Jeg was really frightened now; he went in circles, sometimes going off at a tangent, dodging amongst the huge trunks of venerable woodland giants, and crashing through fernbeds, but always with Dubble close behind. Gritting his teeth, the Guosim pursued his quarry relentlessly, getting closer by the moment. Now they were running along a streambank, with Dubble almost on Jeg’s tailtip. Both beasts were going so hard that they hardly noticed the low-flying crows between the trees.

Jeg had no time for such observations, running as he was, with the pursuer hard on his tail. Trying a swift ruse, he angled off amidst the trees, casting a backward glance to ascertain where Dubble was. It was to be the young Painted One’s final error. Dashing along, as he looked backward, Jeg ran slapbang into a raven. The bird was hobbling along, dragging one wing. It squawked in alarm. Such was his speed that Jeg went tumbling, tail over snout. It was an unfortunate and fatal landing for the son of Chigid and Tala. Straight into a dark, moist, fetid opening. He managed one last horrified shriek, then the jaws of Baliss closed upon him like a steel trap.

Dubble saw the dreadful sight looming ahead of him. A squawking raven scrabbling upright, and beyond that, the monstrous head of the great serpent. The Guosim shrew saw that it was not the reptile’s forked tongue protruding from betwixt its lips. It was Jeg’s limp tail. Skidding to a halt, Dubble turned and ran for his life. Emerging from the trees he hurried toward the stream, only to find himself suddenly hemmed in by carrion crows. With cruel, beady eyes glinting, and sharp, heavy beaks poised, the birds closed in on him.

After camping the night under the five-topped oak, the great march back to Redwall got under way. Once they were out of their immediate territory, the entire tribe of Painted Ones appeared very subdued, obeying commands without question.

This suited Bosie fine when they reached a broadstream bank. He had been walking in the vanguard, downwind of the captive band. Whether it was from their lack of bathing, or the noxious plant dyes which they were liberally daubed with, Bosie could not tell. The fastidious hare held a lace kerchief to his nostrils, to avoid the odour emanating from the conquered tree rats. Halting them on the edge of the broadstream, he pointed at the water.

“Mayhaps ye’d like tae take a dip an’ give yersel’s a guid scrubbin’. It pains me tae tell ye that Ah cannae abide breathin’ the same air as ye. So in ye go, ye braw wee stinkers!”

Skipper shook his head dolefully. “’Tis the pore liddle fishes I pity, mate.”

On the opposite bank, Bisky and his friends assisted Nokko and his Gonfelins, hauling out the freshly cleaned-up prisoners. Spingo remarked to her father, “Those Painty Ones don’t look very scary, widout all that muck plastered over ’em, Da.”

Nokko agreed. “Yer right, darlin’, they ain’t nothin’ but a bunch o’ skinny, wet rats. Hoi, yew, git back in an’ scrub be’ind yer ears!”

Tugga Bruster threw Samolus a surly salute. “Is it alright fer me to cross with my Guosim now?”

The sprightly old Redwaller nodded. “Aye, go ahead.”

Skipper watched the shrews wading through the stream. “Wot was all that about, mate?”

Samolus eyed the Guosim Log a Log shrewdly. “Bullyin’, Skip. I’ve been watchin’ Bruster. He’s been bullyin’ the prisoners, so I kept him over this side. I don’t like that sort o’ thing.”

Bosie hitched up his kilt as he entered the water. “Och, yon Brusta would’ve slain those Painted Ones tae a beast if we hadn’t stopped him. Ah tell ye, though, he’s plain feared o’ that ratwife, the dead leader’s mate. If looks could kill, he’d be long slain, the way she glares at him!”

Samolus waded into the shallows, nodding. “Aye, she’s a vengeful one, alright. The sooner we loose those rats on the flatlands an’ Tugga Bruster parts company with us, the happier I’ll be.”

Skipper plunged into the broadstream, adding, “Right, mate, I’ve got a feelin’ this whole thing could end badly, if’n we don’t keep a tight rein on the situation.”

Bisky, Dwink and Umfry marched alongside Spingo, being constantly plagued with questions and enquiries about their home. The Gonfelin maid was good company, and so pretty that they suffered her prattling gladly.

“So then, who’s the Pike’ead at yore Abbey, eh?”

Umfry scratched his headspikes. “Wot’s h’a Pike’ead?”

Spingo scoffed. “A Chieftain, my da’s the Pike’ead of all the Gonfelins.”

Bisky smiled. “Oh, I see, a leader. We have an Abbot, Glisam is his name, though I think he might object to being called a Pikehead. You’ll like our Abbot, he’s a friendly, wise, old dormouse.”

Dwink interrupted, “You’ll like Friar Skurpul, too, he’s the best cook in all of Mossflower!”

Spingo nodded. “Sling beltin’ nosh, can he?”

Dwink and Umfry were both mystified, but Bisky had come to learn a few Gonfelin expressions. He explained, “That means, does Friar Skurpul cook good food? Hah, let me tell you, missy, once you’ve tasted our Friar’s breakfast, you won’t be able to wait for lunch!”

Umfry’s face took on a dreamy expression. “Nor h’afternoon tea, followed later by dinner, then supper. But best h’of h’all is Friar’s feasts!”

Spingo looked the picture of wistful innocence. “I’ve never ’ad a feast, wot’s it like?”

As if on cue, Dwink broke out into an old Redwall ditty.

“A feast is a feast, an’ that’s the least,

that any good beast can say.

You’ll want it to start, you won’t want it to end,

but to go on many a day.

When you sit at the board, then rest assured,

you’ll be most wonderfied.

Yore mouth’ll water, you’ll lick yore lips,

an’ yore eyes’ll pop open wide.

‘The feast! The feast!’ all goodbeasts cry,

‘Just look at those vittles, oh me oh my!’

I’d sing you a ballad about this salad,

but that’d slow my pace,

now cut that cake, for goodness sake,

I’m dyin’ to feed my face.

There’s fruit an’ bread, or cheese instead,

there’s soup served by the pail,

ye can wash it down with Strawb’rry Fizz,

or rich October Ale.

There’s pasties an’ pies, ’tis no surprise,

there’s puddens an’ trifles galore,

an’ meadowcream, like a buttery stream,

o’er crumble or flan to pour.

Choose cordial or wine, it all tastes fine,

so come on, one an’ all,

we’re goin’ to attend a feast, my friend,

at the Abbey of Redwaaaaaaallll!”

Dwink had sung it so loud and fast that he ended up puffing for breath. When the surrounding applause was done, Spingo shot him a look of mock disappointment. “Don’t they ’ave porridge? I like porridge.” There was a moment’s pause, then the friends broke into laughter. Nokko winked at Bosie.

“She’s a maid an’ a half, that un!”

Apart from the Painted Ones, the marchers were in high good spirits. Redwallers, Gonfelins and Guosim chatted together, laughing and singing. Tugga Bruster was, of course, the exception. Sullen and ill-tempered, he went out of his way to find fault with everybeast. Tala, mate of the slain Chieftain, Chigid, knew the Guosim Log a Log was avoiding her vengeful stare, so she began taunting him.

“Looka me, spikeymouse, I watcha alla time. First chance Tala gets, she killya. Oh yes, I creep up, all quiet, an’ make worm meat of ye. Don’t turn ya back, don’t sleep, keep watch ’til Tala killya!”

Tugga Bruster began shaking with rage, gripping his iron club even tighter and panting rapidly.

Skipper tapped his shoulder, issuing a warning. “Don’t even think of attackin’ a captive, matey, or it’ll be the last thing ye ever do. Unnerstand?”

The Guosim Log a Log blustered, lying loudly, “I wasn’t thinkin’ of attackin’ nobeast, except that son o’ mine. Huh, dashin’ off without his father’s permission. No manners at all, these young uns!”

Bisky had overheard the exchange. He murmured to Dwink and Umfry, “If Dubble isn’t at Redwall by the time we arrive there, we’ll have t’go an’ search for him.”

Spingo stated flatly, “Aye, an’ I’ll be comin’ with ye, mate. But tell that ould Friarbeast t’save me lotsa feast grub, for when we gets back.”

Umfry chortled. “Hoho, there’s no h’arguin’ with ’er, looks like yore h’included, miz!”

Night had fallen by the time they reached Redwall. Bosie pounded on the main gate. “Open up, will ye, ’tis the Laird o’ Bowlaynee, with a braw company o’ friends, an’ many a rascally prisoner!”

Foremole Gullub Gurrpaw, who had been Gatekeeper that day, emerged from the Gatehouse, shaking his velvety head. “You’m must’ve smelled ee supper, zurr, they’m just settin’ daown to et in Gurt Hall. Coom ee in!”

Everybeast trooped in expectantly. Abbot Glisam, who had been taking a pre-supper stroll, came hobbling over with the aid of a yew stick. The old dormouse straightened up slowly.

“Ooh, this back o’ mine feels twice as old as me. Welcome back, friends, supper’ll soon be on the table. Is everybeast safe and accounted for? Laird Bosie, who are all these vermin you have roped together?”

Drawing the sword of Martin, Bosie pointed with a flourish. “Och, allow me tae present the Unpainted Ones, Father, we had tae clean ’em up a wee bit. Ah’ll dispose of ’em on the morrow, meanwhile we need a place tae keep ’em locked up safe.”

The Abbot stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Let me see…. Ah, the Belltower, it’s built separate from the main Abbey. They can sit on the floor, and up the stairs. Top window there’s far too high for anybeast to jump from. The belltower should be fine!”

Corksnout Spikkle volunteered to guard the captives. He ushered them into the tower, standing sentry over the single door, armed with his huge bung mallet. Corksnout issued stern commands. “Find somewheres to lay down or sit, an’ not a peep out of anybeast. Oh, an’ just let me hear one ding out o’ those two bells, an’ ye’ll find out just wot this mallet’s for, when it ain’t bein’ used on bungs!”

Nokko stared admiringly at the huge Cellarhog. “Now if’n I was a Painty One, there’s a beast I wouldn’t mess wid. Dat big ’ammer of his makes a sambag look like a baby’s toy!”

It was a strange experience for the Gonfelins, seeing inside Redwall Abbey. They had all heard of it, both in story and song, but for long generations no Gonfelin mouse had been inside the hallowed building. Their curiosity, however, was soon dismissed when they were introduced to their first Abbey supper.

Coveting a huge bowl of salad, a wedge of cheese and a fresh-baked farl, Bosie viewed them with awe, whilst repelling one or two of the raggedy mice from his own portion. “Och, will ye no’ look at the wee terrors, Ah’ve never seen beasts shovin’ vittles doon like that! Yowch! Away, ye fiend, that wee rascal bit mah paw!”

Glisam was being introduced to his new guests. Nokko shook the Father Abbot’s paw cordially. “Me name’s Nokko, Pike’ead of all Gonfelins, pleased t’meet ye, Abbo, sir!”

Bisky had to explain that all Gonfelin names ended with an o. Glisam smiled.

“Abbo, eh, I like it. Well, friend Nokko, allow me to present Brother Torilo, Friar Skurpo and our owl, Aluco.”

The tawny owl bowed. “Actually, my name really is Aluco, so I could be considered as a Gonfelin, in an honorary sort of way.”

Bosie raised his nose from the salad bowl. “Ah’m no bothered what ye call anybeast, as long as ye don’t refer tae me as Bozo!”

Nokko spotted Bosie’s one-string fiddle, the bow of which he also used for firing short metal rods. The Gonfelin inspected it, enquiring, “Is this thing a figgle, can ya play it?”

Amused by Nokko’s mispronunciation, the hare nodded. “Aye, ’tis a fiddle right enough, an’ Ah can play it. Do ye play the fiddle yersel’, Chief Nokko?”

Shaking his head, Nokko passed the instrument to Gobbo, adding, “No, I never learnt to figgle, but Gobbo can. Hah, it’s the only thing he’s useful for. Cummon now, Gobbo, me ould son, play the figgle an’ sing for yer supper, as a thank-ye to the Abbo.”

Gobbo twanged the string once. Satisfied with the tone, he sang the quickest ditty that any Redwaller had ever heard.

“Wot’s in a name, a Gonfelin name,

would ye really like to know?

Now just you wait an’ I’ll tell ye, mate,

they all ends with o…oooooh, there’s

Robbo an’ Dobbo an’ Bumbo an’ Bobbo, an’

Gobbo of course, that’s me.

There’s Glibbo an’ Fibbo, an’ Nokko, too,

our great Pike’ead is he.

There’s Slumbo an’ Tumbo an’ Jimbo an’ Jumbo,

an’ Filgo, now that’s me ma,

so I’ve gotta mention Nokko agin,

’cos he’s me blinkin’ da.

We don’t end in a b you know,

all Gonf’lins end in oooooooooooooooh!”

Amidst the general laughter and applause, Skipper Rorgus called out to the Gonfelin leader, “Ahoy, mate, I don’t mind bein’ called Rorgo, in fact, ye can call me wot y’want, long as ye don’t call me late for vittles!”

Nokko responded cheerfully to the Otter Chieftain, “I agree with ye there, bucko, these Redwall Abbey vikkles are the finest anybeast could sit down to, ain’t never tasted scran so great. Wot do yer say, mates?”

Both the Gonfelins and the Guosim roared their approval, pounding the tables and raising their beakers. When the merry tumult died down, Tugga Bruster remarked loudly, “Huh it’s not so bad, I’ve tasted worse!”

There was a horrified silence, then Nokko roared, “Say that agin an’ I’ll knock yer inta the middle o’ next season!”

The Guosim Log a Log reached for his club. “Ye won’t knock me anywhere, cheeky ragamuffin. I’m free t’speak my mind if’n I so please!”

Nokko let his paw stray to his war hatchet. “Touch that club o’ yores an’ it’ll be the last thing ye do, sherrew!”

At a signal from the Abbot, Bosie was between the two, with drawn sword, whilst the Father Abbot of Redwall made a pronouncement. “Put aside those weapons, there will be no violence done within this Abbey!”

Nokko protested, “But did ye hear wot ’e said about yore good food, Abbo?”

The Abbot nodded. “Somebeasts have a habit of making contrary remarks. Log a Log Bruster is one of them. But that is no reason to draw weapons and fight. As our friend said, he is free to speak his mind.”

Sister Violet, the jolly hedgehog, came up with an acceptable solution to the dispute. “Then why not let both beasts speak their minds, Father, how about an insulting battle?”

Nokko quaffed off a beaker of October Ale, grinning as he wiped a paw across his mouth. “Us Gonfelins are good at that, I’m game!”

Tugga Bruster curled his lip scornfully. “I wouldn’t lower meself to bandy words with that scruffy object!”

Nokko thrust out his chin aggressively. “Ho, please try, sir. Ye bowlegged, snot-snouted, baggy-bottomed excuse fer a Chieftain!”

Lots of stifled chuckles were heard from the Guosim. Bruster had never been a popular Log a Log. Tugga trembled with rage. He was forced to reply, “You…you…fleabag, you thief!”

Nokko laughed lightly. “Thief? That’s a compliment where I comes from. Ye thick’eaded, spiky-bellied, waxy-eared paddle paw!”

His opponent seethed, struggling for words. “Yore worse than a Painted One, smelly toad!”

Now in his element, the Gonfelin Chieftain chuckled. “Bet ya wish yore mother hadn’t dropped yew on yer ’ead when ye were little. Is that wot made ye grow daft? Ye slobnoggled, piddlypawed, ould onion bum!”

There was a gasp of wholesale shock at Nokko’s language. Some parents covered their young ones’ ears. Tugga Bruster was lost for a reply. All he could do was to perform a stamping dance of rage.

Nokko roared with laughter. “Hohoho! Lookit the mighty Log a Log, he even dances like an ould frogwife. He must’ve practiced his dancin’ wid a broom, ’cos no maid could face such an ugly partner. Hahaha, mind ya don’t trip up o’er yer tail, ploppypaws!” The Gonfelin tribe and the Guosim shrieked with laughter, as Nokko began tapping his paws and singing.

“Ho one two, come t’the feast,

even yew, ye awkward beast,

bow to the maids, wot’s that ye say?

There ain’t one left they’ve run away!”

With the laughter of everybeast ringing in his ears, Tugga Bruster fled, defeated. The door slammed behind him as the ill-humoured Log a Log dashed off outdoors.

Spingo winked at Bisky. “Hah, that’ll teach ’im to mess wid my da, he’s a champeen insulter, y’know.”

Some of the Dibbuns thought the contest had been great fun; they started repeating Nokko’s insults at one another. “Hurr hurr, you’m a baggity-bottum, snotty ole snout!”

“Heehee, an’ yore a pigglypaw h’onion bum, so there!”

Abbot Glisam rapped the tabletop sharply. “We’ve heard quite enough of that language for one evening, thank you. The next beast I hear using dreadful insults will be scrubbing greasy pans for a day. Now let’s forget all bad feeling and enjoy supper like real Redwall friends. Here’s a toast to our new companions, the Guosim, the Gonfelins—oh, and our new permanent resident, Mister Aluco!”

The tawny owl bowed solemnly. “Thank you, Father Abbot, and all Redwall creatures. This is a most happy day for me, and I wish you to accept this with my heartfelt best wishes.” He hopped over to the Abbot’s table, and placed the round, green emerald on it. Nokko was heard to gasp, “Seasons of swipin’, will ye lookit that jool!”

Spingo whispered to him, “Easy now, Da. That belongs to Redwall Abbey, so keep yore eyes off it!”

Nokko patted her paw. “Shame on yer for thinkin’ such a thing, darlin’.”

Abbot Glisam held the shining green orb up, for all to see. “A most generous gift, friend Aluco, we will treasure it. Please accept our gratitude. Skipper, where do you suggest we keep such a treasure?”

The Otter Chieftain pondered for a moment. “I think ’twould look good in front o’ Martin the Warrior’s tapestry, Father. I’ll put it in an empty candleholder. The light from the lanterns’ll shine through the jewel nicely.”

Samolus held up a paw. “I second that, a wonderful idea, Skip. What do you think, Abbot?”

Glisam smiled. “So be it, a splendid choice!”

Outside, Tugga Bruster had his ear to the door, he had heard everything. A plan began to form in the embittered shrew’s mind.