Doomwyte by Brian Jacques
A faint, pitifully thin voice answered, “Aye…. I c’n breathe now…. Don’t dig anymore…y’ll bring the stone down on me!”
There was a moment’s awkward silence, then Zaran called gently down the tiny airhole, “We hear you, don’t worry. I make another hole, you’ll breathe better. Be silent now, stay still.”
The black otter repeated the pressing and twisting process with the sharpened beech rod. Working away she muttered to herself, “Never should let young ones dig, too much danger. All my fault—”
Dubble cut in sharply, “Lissen, mate, stop talkin’ silly. It ain’t nobeast’s fault. We should be puttin’ our brains on ’ow t’get Spingo out, so quit blamin’ yoreself. Now, wot’n the name o’ Guosim are we goin’ t’do? Tenscore like us couldn’t lift that bloomin’ big stone, an’ if we dig it’ll only sink an’ crush pore Spingo. So, wot d’we do, any ideas?”
The brain wave hit Bisky like a lighting bolt. “I know! Moles, that’s what we need!”
Zaran repeated the word. “Moles?”
Bisky warmed eagerly to his plan. “Aye, moles, what else? Redwall Abbey has a Foremole an’ a mighty crew of moles. What they don’t know about diggin’, tunnellin’ an’ shorin’ up isn’t worth knowin’. Right, we’ve got a logboat, too.”
A glimmer of hope shone in Zaran’s dark eyes. “You can get moles here quickly?”
Dubble became suddenly fired by the plan. “You stay with Spingo, mate, keep ’er spirits up, an’ tell ’er this. Me’n’ Bisky are goin’ to bring a full molecrew to git ’er outta there! Aye an’ they’ll be travellin’ like the wind in a fleet o’ logboats, with the best Guosim paddlers in Mossflower to speed ’em on their way. Right, Bisk?”
Bisky seized his friend’s paw, shaking it hard. “Right, Dubble, let’s go to Redwall!”
Below in the darkness, Spingo crouched beneath the massive slab. Zaran had informed her of the plan, so she tried to keep up her spirits by inventing a little ditty.
“O ’tis dark down ’ere,
but I’ll never fear,
with mates to ’elp me out,
good friends an’ true
an’ I’ve got one or two,
who’ll come if I just shout.
So come to my aid,
I’m a liddle Gonf’lin maid
Just longin’ to be free.
I’m stuck down an ’ole,
just waitin’ for a mole,
t’drop right in for tea….”
Spingo could not think of another line, so she lay there in pitch blackness, with the mighty stone pressing down…and wept.
30
Down in the cellars of Redwall Abbey the quest for clues was on. Perrit and Umfry Spikkle descended the small flight of steps, and unbolted the little door. Holding a lantern, the squirrelmaid watched her burly young hog friend withdraw the bolt. He touched the door cautiously. “H’it’s a good repair job, the hinges don’t even creak no more. Nice, strong bolt, too.”
Sensing his apprehension, Perrit nudged his back gently with the lantern. Umfry uttered a startled squeak. “Yeek! Don’t sneak h’up on me like that.”
She chuckled. “‘I’m with you, mate, open the door and let’s take a look. Don’t be afraid.”
Umfry bristled, his spikes stood up indignantly. “Who’s h’afraid? Not me, miz! Right then, you go first, ’cos you’ve got the lantern.”
Once they were in the tunnel, Perrit closed the door behind them. Umfry complained in a loud whisper, “No, don’t close the door, miz, leave h’it h’open. H’anything could ’appen down ’ere!
The squirrelmaid held the lantern up, scanning the back of the old door. “I want to take a better look at this, here.” Taking a pinewood torch, which had been left on the floor, she lit it from the lantern flame. The resiny wood flared immediately as she passed it to Umfry. “Mayhaps you’d like to explore the tunnel a bit more, there may be more clues.”
The timid hedgehog took no more than two paces before deciding it was not a good idea. He stayed close to his companion, muttering excuses. “Huh, no point h’in doin’ that, me’n’Skipper an’ the rest h’already did h’it. There’s nought t’see down there. Pore Dwink’s h’on ’is h’own we’d best get back to ’im h’up there. Nearly dinnertime, y’know.”
Perrit replied absently as she inspected the door, “Stop carrying on like a dithering duck, Umfry. Dwink’s probably napping in his wheelchair…. These two nails sticking out here, I wonder what they’re for?”
Umfry held his torch closer, inspecting the pair of broad-headed nails, which had not been fully driven into the woodwork. “Mister Samolus said that was where the Doomwyte h’eye was placed. There h’aint no more t‘see h’on this door, miz, let’s go.”
Perrit, however, was not looking at the door any longer. Her attention had been distracted by something else higher up. “Umfry, can you lift me up, I want to take a quick peep on top of the door lintel.”
Putting aside his torch, the burly hedgehog swung Perrit up to the lintel with ease. “Keep messin’ h’about down ’ere, miz, h’and we’ll get no dinner.”
The squirrelmaid sighed wearily. “Just hold me still please, we’ll get dinner as soon as I get this thing loose.” She gave the object a mighty tug, it broke away, sending them tumbling backward.
Umfry helped her up. “H’are you alright, miz, wot h’is that thing?”
Perrit could not resist a smirk of satisfaction. “A piece of slate with something drawn on it. Let’s get upstairs, I promised Dwink he’d get first look at anything we found. You can go to dinner if you wish.”
Umfry pursued the sprightly maid up to Great Hall. “Not afore h’I’ve seen wot h’it says!”
Dwink could not wait to give them his news. “There’s been a real kerfuffle up here, mates. Aluco was knocked down, and guess wot, that horrid Guosim, Tugga Bruster, he’s dead. Aye, killed by a Painted One, so Samolus told me. We’d best get in to dinner, did you find anything?”
Perrit waggled the flat slate fragment at him. “I’ll show you it at dinner. All of a sudden I’m starving. Good fresh bread and cheese is what I need right now, eh, Umfry!”
Umfry Spikkle took on a superior tone. “Dearie me, h’eatin’ is h’all you can think of, miz!”
There was bread and cheese aplenty at the dinner table, with some tasty vegetable soup, a selection of pasties, a fine summer salad, plus damson and pear crumble for dessert, with the option of a honeyed plum pudding. Dwink, Perrit and Umfry huddled round like conspirators, studying the piece of slate as they ate dinner. Their privacy was short-lived, though they did not object when Samolus and Sister Violet joined them. Umfry was consumed with curiosity.
“Wot’s all that writin’ h’and those drawin’s h’about? C’mon, Dwink, read h’it to me.”
Samolus tweaked Umfry’s snout. “You wouldn’t have to ask other beasts if’n ye’d learned to read, would ye? Dwink looks a bit dozy still, Perrit, would you like to read what’s on the slate?”
The squirrelmaid obliged willingly.
“What’s mixed will thicken, there’s the place!
Is it there or has it gone?
Framed above a Friars Grace.
On, on, I. The middle one.”
Umfry interrupted, through a mouthful of plum pudding, “Oh, no, h’another blinkin’ puzzle!”
Perrit glanced up at him from the slate. “D’you mind, Umfry Spikkle, I’m not finished yet.”
Suitably chastened, the young hedghog fell silent as Perrit read out the remainder of the clues.
“Where to seek a raven’s eye?
What’s not sad, yet makes one cry,
with what a plum has at its middle?
The Prince of Mousethieves set this riddle.”
Sister Violet sipped at her mint tea thoughtfully. “I agree with you, young Umfry, it is a blinkin’ puzzle. ‘Wot’s mixed will thicken, there’s the place.’ Goodness me, whatever is that supposed to mean? ’Tis all gobbledygook to me, my dears.”
Samolus helped himself to a pasty. “Well, o’ course it is, marm, that’s how puzzles are supposed t’be, right, Dwink?”
The young squirrel sat up straight in his wheelchair. “It sounds t’me like that first line is narrowin’ things down to the area where we should look. What’s mixed will thicken. I think it’s one of those anagram things again. What’s mixed will thicken…hmmmm, maybe it’s what’s and will jumbled together, eh, Perrit?”
The squirrelmaid shook her pretty head. “’Twill, swat, still, slats, shawl. No, there’s far too many possibilities, I think the word thicken is a better idea.”
Sister Violet winked slyly at Perrit. “That’s ’cos you’ve already solved it, young missy. Well go on, don’t keep us all a-waitin’.”
Perrit smiled. “There’s only one sensible word I can make from thicken. Kitchen!”
Umfry chuckled with delight. “Kitchen, there’s the place. Come h’on, last one t’the kitchen’s a fried frog!”
Dwink shook his head. “Hold on, mate, we can’t just dash off because we’ve solved one word.”
Perrit began pushing the wheelchair away from the table. “There’s no harm in going t’the kitchens and taking a look around. Maybe it’ll help us with the rest of the puzzle.”
Friar Skurpul welcomed them into the Abbey Kitchens cheerfully.
“Coom in yurr, eee guddbeasts, you’m cummed to say noice things about moi cooken?”
Sister Violet curtsied. “Oh, no, Friar, though there ain’t a better cook nowhere, yore dinners are always the best.”
The good mole beamed from ear to ear. “Thankee gurtly, marm. Hurr, then may’aps you’m cumm to ’elp with ee washen up?”
Dwink explained, “No, Friar, we’re trying t’solve a riddle. We’re lookin for something that might be here, or may be gone.”
Skurpul laughed. “Hurrhurr hurr, naow that do bees a riggle. Summat as moight be yurr but maybe gone’d. Boi okey, an’ wot moight that bee, young maister?”
Perrit attempted to make things a bit clearer. “Listen to this, Friar: ‘Is it there or has it gone? Framed above a Friars Grace. On, on, I. The middle one.’ We’d be grateful if you could throw any light on it, sir.”
Wiping floury paws upon his apron, Skurpul commented, “Oi’d be grateful if’n Oi cudd throw any light on et, too, missy, but Friars bees only clever at cooken. Sorry Oi can’t ’elp ee, zurrs’n’marms, but you’m welcumm to search these yurr kitchens, long as ee puts things back as ee foinded ’em.” Leaving them some candied fruits to nibble on, Friar Skurpul continued with his work.
Dwink whispered to Samolus, “Well, that wasn’t much help was it, we still don’t know what a Friars Grace is.”
Samolus watched the old mole rolling out pastry. “Don’t be too hard on Skurpul, cookin’ is wot he does best. With an Abbeyful of creatures to cater for, the Friar doesn’t get time for other things.”
Dwink immediately felt sorry for what he had said. “Aye, yore right, sir, let’s look for a Friars Grace.”
Perrit suggested helpfully, “We know what Abbot’s grace is. Abbot Glisam says a different one before every meal. Maybe it’s something similar, what d’you think?”
Umfry smiled brightly. “I know, let’s h’ask the h’Abbot. Wait ’ere, h’I’ll go’n get ’im.”
Sister Violet selected a crystallised strawberry. “Young Umfry ain’t as slow as he looks.”
Abbot Glisam was only too glad to be of service; he put forth on the subject. “It’s odd you should ask me about Friars Grace. We Abbots are constantly composing different graces, for meals throughout the seasons. But Friars Graces are pretty few and far between. However, last night I was looking through the Abbey Records, to see if I could gather more information on Gonff. I did notice something which stuck in my mind. At some point during Gonff’s lifetime, there was a hogwife who acted as Friar, very good she was, too. Her name was Goody Stickle. Not only was she an excellent cook, but Goody was also an expert at crafting earthenware. It was noted in the Records that she would make bowls, flagons, dishes and beakers from clay. Goody would bake them in the ovens until they came out as fashionable and useful earthenware.” Glisam turned to Skurpul, who had just finished putting the final touches to a batch of latticed apple pies. “Friar, have you ever heard of a creature named Goody Stickle? A long time ago she was cook here. She also made earthenware things.”
Placing his pies on beechwood oven paddles, the old mole began sliding them into the ovens. He paused a moment. “Guddy Stickle, ee say, zurr, hurr, you’m bees castin’ yurr eye o’er this.” Skurpul reached down a honeypot from the shelf. It was a fine piece of work, elegantly shaped to look like a small, round beehive, decorated all round with bees and cornflowers. He passed it carefully to Glisam. “That’n bees made boi Goody Stickle, zurr, she’m wurr a gurtly clever-pawed ’edge’og. See yurrr, this bee’d ’er mark!”
It was a tiny, and beautiful, picture of a hedgehog. Probably sculpted on the wet clay with a knifetip, and baked hard as a permanent signature. The friends admired it, and Perrit enquired further, “It really is splendid, Friar, do you have any more of Goody Stickle’s work to show us?”
Skurpul placed the honeypot carefully back upon its shelf. “Oi ’spect thurr’s a few bits, likkle missy. May’ap many got broken o’er ee long seasons. But you’m lukk for ee dishes’n’such bearin’ yon mark. Them’ll be Goody’s, mebbe still ee few abowt.”
The search began in earnest then, Abbot Glisam joined in enthusiastically. Piece by piece, more of Goody Stickle’s work was discovered. Sister Violet turned up a little beaker, half-full of dried sage herbs. “This un’s got a liddle hogmark on its base, my, ain’t it a pretty thing!”
Dwink rolled his wheelchair across to inspect it. “Pretty I’ll grant you, Sister, but it doesn’t look like any Friars Grace. What’s that you’ve got, Umfry?”
“Dunno really, h’it’s a sorta puddin’ basin, h’I think.”
The friends rooted and rummaged through cupboards and drawers, shelves and crannies, to little avail. They found many examples of the long-ago cook’s ware, but not what they were seeking. Outside, daylight was fading to purple evening haze as the Abbey bells tolled for the day’s final meal.
Friar Skurpul finished supervising kitchen helpers, who had loaded up their trollies. Removing his cap and apron, the jovial mole enquired, “You uns be a-goin’ in for ee supper?”
Pushing his tiny crystal glasses up onto his brow, Abbot Glisam massaged his eyelids gently. “You go on, Friar, we’ll join you presently.”
Dwink waved a paw at the assembled earthenware. “Well, we’ve scoured these kitchens from top to bottom. Just look at all these cups, beakers, plates, bowls and jugs. All made by Goody Stickle, and not one of them any use to us, friends.”
Perrit quoted a line from the puzzle. “’Is it there or has it gone?’ Huh, gone I think, and if it’s an item of earthenware, probably broken many seasons ago. We may as well go to supper.”
Brother Torilis entered the kitchens. The Abbot nodded to him. “Not taking supper this evening, Brother?”
The gaunt-faced Herbalist bowed slightly to Glisam. “Far too busy I’m afraid, Father, some of us still have work to do. Sister Ficaria and I are preparing a splint for young Dwink. He can’t sit in that wheelchair for the rest of the season. I’ve decided he should be up and about. A splint will help his footpaw, but he’ll have to go carefully on it.”
Dwink felt that he had to say something. “It’s very good of you, Brother Torilis, missing your supper on my account. Sister Ficaria, too.”
The Infirmary Keeper gave Dwink what passed for one of his rare smiles, a mere twitch of the lips. “Thank you for your concern, however, my assistant and I have no intention of missing supper. We’ll eat upstairs in the sick bay as we work.” He picked up a covered tray, on which Friar Skurpul had already set supper for two.
Sister Violet eyed the tray. “Beggin’ yore pardon, Brother, but wot’s that tray made
Without looking at the tray, Torilis answered, “Yes, it’s earthenware, with a wooden frame.”
Umfry blocked his way. “H’earthenware y’say, let me ’ave h’a look at it, Brother.”
Torilis backed indignantly away. “I certainly will not, this tray belongs to my Infirmary, it has nothing to do with you!” Umfry grabbed out, snatching the cloth cover away from the tray. Torilis shot him an icy glance. “How dare you…you…beprickled savage, get out of my way, this very instant!”
Umfry ignored him, crowing triumphantly. “See, h’it’s a tray, a h’earthenware one, with writin’ on h’it!”
At this point, the Abbot stepped in. “Brother Torilis, I apologise if we’re causing you any bother, but could you let me see that tray, please? Place it down there and empty the food from it.”
Torilis was loath to take orders from anybeast after being affronted by Umfry in such a manner. He tried blustering his way out of the kitchens. “Really, this is most insulting. Can you not let Sister Ficaria and I carry on with our work, and take our supper in private!”
It was very seldom that Glisam showed temper, but when he did, the dormouse was the equal of anybeast. “I’m not stopping you from eating supper, Brother. In fact, we’ll carry it up to the Infirmary for you. But I must inspect that tray, so stop acting like a sulky Dibbun and empty the food from it!”
The saturnine squirrel was left with no alternative. With bad grace he quickly cleared the tray contents onto the table, slamming the tray down hard on the oven top. “There! Inspect the thing as you please, then will you kindly have the goodness to reload my tray, which is Infirmary property, and allow me to leave here!”