Doomwyte by Brian Jacques
One venturesome voice dared a reply. “Chigid, it was slippery down there, an’ oily, d’front uns slid inta the big ’ole. They throwed lotsa stones an’ driv uz back. We couldn’t gerrat ’em!”
Chigid gritted his pointed teeth, snarling, “Dead’eads, git sand an’ soil, spread it onna oil. Cheechaah! I gotta do everythink meself, cummon foller me, I’ll show ’em!”
Even before Chigid and his following had reached the rim, the screams began. The sounds were of Painted Ones in excruciating pain. Sobbing, screeching, wailing and pleading piteously. It had the desired effect—Chigid and his band halted, the fur on the scruffs of their necks rising in horror, as the cries continued.
“Heeeeek! Yowaaaaargh! Oh no, pleaze, mighty Baliss! Owowowoooow! No, pleaze, don’t do that! Yeeeeek!”
A horrified whisper ran through the vermin ranks.
“Baliss ’as gorrem, the giant serpent Baliss!”
“Baliss is torcherin’ ’em t’death slowly!”
The howls broke into sobbing moans. “Oh noooo, Baliss, mercy, pleaze! Arraaaaagh!”
Chigid seized the nearest beast to him, and began throttling the unfortunate. “Baliss? You never said nothin’ about Baliss!”
One of the vermin pointed a quaking claw. “Lookit, Chief…Baliss!”
The screams had ceased. From across the abyss they could see the great, glowing, green eye. Now an awful hiss sounded, echoing around the rim. “Balisssssssss! I sssssmell painted ratssssssss!”
It was more than any vermin’s nerve, including Chigid’s, could stand. They stampeded into a disorderly retreat, everybeast for himself, each scrambling to be first back up the tunnel. Chigid, being the Chieftain, rushed to his former position at the rear, which had now become the front. Everybeast feared Baliss—a bunch of vermin in an underground tunnel more than most, as it turned out.
Aluco shook Bosie’s paw firmly. “An excellent plan, sir, it worked perfectly.”
Wincing, the Laird of Bowlaynee extricated his paw from the owl’s talons. “Och, think nought of it, now let’s get oot o’ this neighborhood whilst the goin’s guid!”
A lot of the numbness had left Skipper’s footpaw, though he still limped a bit as Foremole Gullub assisted him back along the tunnel. Both the captive vermin, now bound together by slings, were made to march at the head of the group. Bosie followed behind, jollying them along with his swordpoint.
“Lead on, mah bonny scum, if’n there’s any chance o’ an ambush, ye’ll be the first tae get it, ye ken.”
It took some time, but they finally reached the spot where the tunnel split two ways, one straight on to the Abbey, the other, which was now on their right, to the place where Bisky had been abducted. Foremole sat back down on the rock where he had previously waited.
Aluco perched beside him, gesturing up to the low ceiling, which he could almost touch with his wingtip. “See the hollow up there? Well, that was left when this rock fell.” He gestured to the big boulder where he and Foremole were perched. It had left a sizeable dent in the tunnel roof. The tawny owl continued, “I brought that down, by scraping round its edges. Nearly killed myself in the process.”
Samolus held the lantern up. “Why are you tellin’ us this, friend?”
Aluco shrugged. “I was thinking of blocking that tunnel completely, so that the Painted Ones couldn’t use it to get at me. But I didn’t, because without the odd vermin to sustain me, I would’ve starved down here. But we could block it now, and stop them ever using the tunnels again.”
Bosie nodded. “Aye, a braw plan, laddie, if’n we did it now yon vermin wouldnae bother us further.”
Gullub stood atop the boulder, tippawed. He inspected the dented rift, nodding knowingly. “You’m roight thurr, zurr, all ee’d need wudd be to shift this yurr stone, an’ ee roof’d cave in. Hurr, ’twuddn’t take much, Oi c’d do et moiself.”
Samolus spread his paws expressively. “Then do it, an’ let’s have a safe passage back home. What d’ye say, friends?”
Skipper cast any further doubts aside. “Right, mates, get further down the tunnel, out o’ the way. Gullub, you jump as soon as it starts to move.”
Aluco eyed the two Painted Ones hungrily. “What do we do about these two villains?”
Bosie pointed to the tunnel that led to the Painted Ones’ camp. He gave both vermin a parting prod with his sword. “Ah’ll count tae three, if’n yore still here then Ah’ll give ye tae the owl. One…”
With their forepaws still bound, the two vermin fled, bumping into each other, down the tunnel.
Foremole Gullub set his huge digging claws into the earth around the stone slab, bellowing out, “Clear ee tunnel, she’m goin’ to collapse!”
They ran back, flattening themselves against the rock walls. Foremole Gullub gave a mighty heave. Nothing happened. He gave another, nothing happened again. Moving his digging claws to another position, the stout mole leader pushed upward and tugged down hard. There followed a grating rumble of rock, soil and timber. Gullub leapt, tucking himself into a ball, he rolled off down the tunnel.
Whuuump! Boom! Cruuuunch! Whoooosh!
Aluco was knocked flat by the blast of displaced air in the confined space. Suddenly everything was dark and filled with choking dust. Shielding their faces, the friends stayed put until silence fell over the scene. Skipper came forward, coughing as he held up the lantern. Bosie looked up and gasped.
“Great seasons o’ salt’n’soup, will ye no look at that!”
The tunnel was completely blocked by soil, rubble, rocks and the mighty trunk of a dead beech tree, which had dropped through the tunnel roof.
Samolus polished the dust-coated emerald on his tunic. “Nothin’ could get past that, ever! Ah well, mates, let’s get back to dear old Redwall, it’s just down the passage a short way. Homeward bound, eh, Skip?”
The Otter Chieftain turned to Dwink, who was standing staring at the dust-coated ground. “Aye aye, mate, wot’s up with you, me ole cove?”
Tears coursed down the young squirrel’s grime-covered face. “We just cut off our last chance of rescuin’ pore Bisky, I’ll never see him again!”
Bosie threw a paw about Dwink’s shoulders. “What’s all this nonsense yer talkin’? The moment Ah get back tae the Abbey, an’ fortify mahself wi’ a bite o’ dinner, Ah’ll rescue Bisky for ye, never fret. Cheer up, mah bonny laddie!”
Dwink’s tears flowed afresh. “But we don’t know where he is!”
Bosie dusted off his, by now, filthy lace cuffs. “Ach, away wi’ ye, yon vermin will be holdin’ Bisky in the ten-topped oaky tree, or someplace like that.”
Aluco corrected Bosie, “It’s the five-topped oak, that’s where they held me prisoner.”
Skipper ruffled Dwink’s ears. “Aye, an’ anybeast who can’t find a five-topped oak in the woodlands needs his no-topped brain a-seen to!”
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
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 l
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!”