Doomwyte by Brian Jacques
The tray was really a wall hanging, with holes for a hanging cord drilled at either side. The back was a thin board of knotted elm, in an oval shape. On top of the wood, Goody Stickle had fashioned an earthenware faceplate. It was the Friars Grace.
Dwink read out the words, which were inscribed in neat script.
“All that grows in our good earth,
harvested by Redwall beasts,
to test a simple Friar’s worth,
at Abbey board or seasons’ feasts.
Thanks to the sun, the wind and rain,
and those who toiled with loving care,
my Friar’s skills be not in vain,
to cook fine food and honest fare.”
Umfry sounded slightly disappointed. “Huh, h’is that all h’it says?”
Perrit traced her paw around the raised earthenware border. “That’s all. Apart from these artistic decorations. See how they’re raised up from the rest? There’s a pattern of mushrooms, dandelions, damsons, chestnuts, mint leaves. All repeated cleverly, right around the words to form a frame.”
Dwink stared hard at it for a moment. Then he took the slate fragment from the side of his wheelchair cushion. Looking from the Grace to the slate, his lips moved silently. The Abbot watched him intently.
“Dwink, what is it, have you found something?”
Words tumbled from the young squirrel. “Hah, I knew it! I knew that was it!”
Umfry scratched his headspikes. “Was wot?”
Dwink replied with two short words: “An onion!”
Brother Torilis looked on, mystified. “An onion?”
Dwink pointed a paw at the Friars Grace. “Perrit gave me the clue. All those things, mushrooms, dandelions and so on, repeated in a clever pattern. But look there, right at the top, in the middle. An onion, that’s the answer!”
The squirrelmaid touched the embossed vegetable. “But why is it the answer?”
Tapping the slate with his paw, Dwink explained, “Listen. ‘What’s mixed will thicken, there’s the place’! Right, that’s how we came by the word kitchen. Here’s the rest. ‘Is it there or has it gone?’ Well, we searched the kitchen, but it was gone. Until Brother Torilis walked in here and picked it up. You see, it had gone, from the kitchen to the Infirmary. Didn’t you say it was Infirmary property, Brother?”
Torilis nodded. “Sister Ficaria told me the tray had been at the Infirmary for as long as she could recall. Mayhaps it had been taken from here to the Infirmary long ago, and never returned.”
Dwink nodded agreement. “Now, look at the last two lines: ‘Framed above a Friars Grace. On, on I. The middle one.’ Suddenly it jumped out at me. On is the first word, on is the second word. But the word I that’s the middle one, see?”
Brother Torilis repeated the line in the correct order. “On I on…on I on. Of course, it’s onion! Now what happens, are there further clues?”
Taking the slate, Abbot Glisam read out the second verse.
“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.”
Umfry’s face lit up with a broad smile of understanding. “A h’onion’s not sad, but h’it makes you cry when you peel it. I know, ’cos h’I’ve peeled h’onions afore. An’ wot does h’a plum ’ave at h’its middle? A stone!”
The Abbot picked up a big copper ladle. He tapped it on the earthenware onion. “So, friends, d’you think this plum, or should I say onion, has a stone at its middle, a raven’s eye?”
Brother Torilis waved his paws in agitation. “No, Father, please, you wouldn’t, that tray is Infirmary property!”
The Abbot’s old eyes twinkled mischievously. “Correction, Brother, it’s kitchen property. Redwall kitchens, in fact, and I’m the Abbot of Redwall!”
Crack! He hit the onion a sharp tap with the ladle. There amidst the broken shards of earthenware was an object, wrapped in a scrap of linen. The Abbot smiled, bowing to Dwink. “Be my guest, sir!”
The young squirrel needed no second bidding. He unwrapped the linen. It was an awesome ruby, one eye of the Great Doomwyte raven statue. It glowed with deep crimson fires, a thing of awful beauty.
Perrit stood, transfixed by the fabulous stone. “Oh, just look at it, Dwink, look at it!”
But Dwink was scanning the small remnant of linen. “Aye, splendid, ain’t it. I’ll take a proper look once I’ve read the message from this bit o’ cloth. It says here how t’find the serpent’s green eye!”
31
Zaran the black otter kept up her vigil at the side of the huge slab of rock, which had slipped and sunk into the hillside. Spingo was trapped beneath the stone, in total darkness. All the Gonfelin maid could do was to keep very still. She breathed lightly, trying to conserve the small amount of air which filtered in through the thin holes Zaran had bored with the sharpened branch of a beech tree. Every now and then, Spingo felt loose, sandy earth sifting onto her paws. Each time it did, the unwieldy slab settled a minute fraction more. Zaran called down through the narrow, tubelike holes to her.
“Spingo, hold on, moles come soon from Redwall. I make another hole, give you more air, yes?”
The reply came back, faint but urgent. “No…don’t make any more holes, mate, y’might cause a cave-in…. Leave well enough alone!”
The black otter put aside her beech branch, but continued talking, in an attempt to lift the young maid’s spirits. Zaran said anything in the hope of comforting Spingo. “When moles come they have you soon out of there. Bisky said his Abbey has many moles. Best diggers in all the land, whole army of moles. Hah, you will drink cold water from stream, wash dust from yourself, feel good, fresh!”
Spingo licked soil from her lips. “That’ll be nice…. Wish they’d hurry up….”
Speeding downstream in the Guosim logboat, Dubble suddenly backed water, drawing his paddle inboard. The sharp action caused Bisky to topple backward—he hit his head on the vessel’s stern. The young mouse sat up, calling irately to his companion, at what he thought was an unwarranted halt.
“Wot d’ye think yore doin’, mate? We’re supposed to be goin’ full speed for Redwall.”
Pulling into the bank, the young shrew turned to face Bisky. “Aye, an’ so we are, but we’ll get no place fast with you as paddlin’ crew!”
The Redwaller thrust out his chin aggressively. “Wot‘s wrong with my paddlin’?”
Dubble was forced to tell him, in no uncertain fashion, “Yore goin’ to turn this boat over, with the way yore flailin’ that paddle around. Lissen, mate, there’s an art to paddlin’. We’re travellin’ downstream, see, so ye let the current do most o’ the work. You prob’ly heard the sayin’, more haste, less speed. Well it’s true. Now, d’ye want to git to yore Abbey quickly?”
Bisky readied his paddle. “Of course I do, we’ve got t’save Spingo. Go on then, you show me wot t’do an’ I’ll try my best to help.”
They pulled the craft off into midstream, with Dubble working the prow, calling back instructions to Bisky at the stern end. “Easy now, bucko, watch the way I do it. Don’t try t’go fast, steady does it. Lean forward, dig that paddle deep, feel the current an’ go with it. Feather the paddle blade a bit to one side on the upstroke, see, just like I’m doin’.”
Bisky obeyed, surprised at how the logboat glided swiftly along, picking up speed. Every once in a while he missed the stroke, calling out, “Sorry!”
Dubble replied, “Y’know, when you go marchin’ with otherbeasts, sometimes they sing a song, just t’keep in step. Right, I’ll sing ye a simple shanty, the chorus is easy. It’ll help ye to keep yore stroke.” For a young Guosim, Dubble had a rich baritone voice. He sang out lustily.
“I cut me teeth on a Guosim paddle.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
Took to it like an ole duck waddle.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
Now run that river down
where we’ll anchor I don’t know.
Sing hey hi ho my matey oh,
that’s the Guosim way to go!
Our logboat sails just like a dream.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
On sea or river, creek or stream.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
No room for idle paws on board,
don’t scrape yore keel now, mind that ford.
Sing hey hi ho my matey oh,
Ye’ll feel me boot if you go slow!”
Had it not been for the urgency of the situation, Bisky would have enjoyed the experience greatly. But he kept his eyes on Dubble’s every movement, concentrating his efforts on keeping a steady paddle, and a smooth course.
In the caves beneath the forested hillslope, Korvus Skurr had begun to realise he was not the tyrant anymore. With no Raven Wytes to command, he was facing open mutiny. Several times he had ordered that all his subjects, both birds and reptiles, move to the large, sulphured cavern. Not a single creature obeyed. He had hoped that they would, to provide him with a buffer in case Baliss moved out of the tunnel. The carrion birds crowded the rocky walls of the inner sanctum. They ignored him, scrabbling, squawking and fighting amongst themselves. Crows, choughs, jackdaws, rooks and magpies were seized by a feeding frenzy. No reptile was safe from their voracious beaks, they hunted the cave relentlessly. Frogs, toads, lizards and snakes—the grass snake, slow worm and smoothsnake—were being rooted out from their hiding places in rocky niches. Beaks stabbed, and talons raked, as the dark birds fought amongst themselves every time a reptile was caught. They battled savagely for the squirming creatures, often tearing them to pieces.
Sicariss cowered beneath the big raven, fearful of the carrion packs, who eyed her wickedly. A crow called Fagry, who seemed to have taken over from the slain Veeku, called harshly, “Raahakkah! What does your Welzz tell you now, slimecoil, more lies for Skurr to hear?” Without waiting for an answer, the birds flocked off, in chase of some reptiles. These had scuttled off, hoping to find better hiding places in the main cavern. The insect-riddled heaps of filth which mounded against the walls in there provided odious cover from the rapacious birds.
In the relative reduction of noise in the smaller cavern, Korvus Skurr bent his head, staring down at the smoothsnake. “Haaarrr! So what does Welzz say now? Or do you have to think up more lies to placate me?”
Sicariss did not move to the pool’s edge. “Fagry iss the one who speaksss liessss, Mighty One. Even if Welzzzz did not talk, I alwayssss gave you good advice, you lisssstened to my counssssel.”
The murderous eyes of the Doomwyte tyrant bored into Sicariss. The truth was now out. “Yaggaaah! I was a fool to believe you ever could speak to the Welzz, you were only serving your own interests!”
The snake knew she was in a perilous position. However, she had always thought she could outwit Skurr. Coiling up onto the raven’s head, she took her crowning position, whispering sibilantly, “You were never a fool, Lord of Doomwytesssss. I tell you truly, I can sssspeak to Welzzzzz. I have sssspoken to him many timesssss, believe me.”
Korvus Skurr moved to the edge of the cold, bottomless lake. He inclined his head slightly. Down below in the icy depths, the monster fish could be seen, making its way slowly upward. “Hakaar! I believe you, my faithful Sicariss. Will you speak to the Welzz for me now?”
The smoothsnake swayed gently, satisfied to be back in favour. “Command your ssservant, Lord. What would you have me sssssay?”
Korvus inclined his head closer to the water. “Haykkarr! You said to me that I was no fool. Now tell it to the Welzzz!”
Without giving time for Sicariss to coil around his neck for balance, the raven gave his head a powerful flick, sending her into the pool. The gargantuan fish broke the surface in a shower of spray, catching the snake in its gaping mouth, then vanishing back into the fathomless waters.
Baliss had wakened in the passage to the main cavern. Driven insane by agonising pain, one thing became uppermost in the giant snake’s mind. To seek cool water, the only thing that could relieve the persistent torture. Driven by the desire to immerse his head in cooling water, Baliss slid gradually into the fetid air of the big cave.
32
Redwall Abbey’s twin bells tolled gently for the midnight hour. A soft, golden midsummer moon presided over the tranquil scene. Hardly a breeze was about, to stir the leafy tree canopy of Mossflower woodlands. On the terrace outside the Abbey building, Abbot Glisam and Perrit pushed Dwink in the rickety old wheelchair. Glisam breathed the scented night air fondly.
“Ahhhh! This is one of life’s simple pleasures, a quiet stroll in Redwall’s grounds on a summer night. There’s nothing quite like it.”
Dwink chuckled. “Try telling that to Umfry and Sister Violet. Did you see them, Father? Once we’d finished supper they couldn’t wait to get off to their beds. A pair of champion snorers, I’d say.”
Perrit steered the wheelchair toward the Belltower. “They don’t know what they’re missing. I don’t suppose Brother Torilis was interested in a little stroll, either. Did you see the face on him, Father? He stormed off without a word after you broke open that earthenware onion.”
Dwink snorted. “Aye, I noticed that, too. Blinkin’ stiff-necked old misery, had a face on him like a wrinkled sour apple. Property of the Infirmary indeed, huh. You put him in his place, Father!”
The Abbot shook his head. “It gave me no pleasure to address him in that manner. We mustn’t be too hard on Torilis, he’s an excellent Herbalist, and a dutiful Infirmary Keeper. Trouble is that he lives by his own rigid rules. I must make things up to him somehow, soothe his wounded pride. Dwink, what was the message on that scrap of cloth, remind me.”
The young squirrel had already memorised the clue which Gonff had scrawled long ago, in the dim, distant past. He repeated it from memory, word perfect.
“To find the eye of the serpent,
to the morning sunrise roam,
where death may visit those that fear,
in the wild sweet gatherers’ home.”
There was silence, except for the creak of the chair wheels. The Abbot turned the ancient vehicle. “Come on, you two, that’s enough for one night. I think the beds beckon us. No doubt you’ll be up and about at the crack of dawn. Questing for the wild sweet gatherers’ home, which you’re bound to do.”
Perrit speeded up her pushing, all agog. “Oh, can we really, Father, what an adventure it’ll be!”
Dwink moved his injured footpaw, testing it. “I won’t need this bloomin’ chair tomorrow. Brother Torilis is making a splint for me, I’ll get along just fine on that. We’ll be alright, Father, don’t you worry!”
The Abbot opened the main Abbey door, allowing them inside. “Oh, I’m not too worried, young un, there won’t be just two of you going alone.”
Perrit pouted slightly. “Oh, why’s that, Father?”
Glisam patted her paw. “Well, miss, one of the lines in the clue said, ‘where death may visit those that fear.’ In view of any possible danger, I’ve decided to send Skipper Rorgus and Foremole Gullub Gurrpaw. A warrior and a wise head shouldn’t go amiss, do you agree?”
Dwink seemed quite happy with the arrangement, “That’ll be fine, Father, but what about Bosie?”
Glisam explained, “Bosie isn’t too familiar with this area, and he can be a bit of a harum scarum at times. No, I think Skipper and Foremole would be more fitted to accompany you.”
Perrit giggled. “Harum scarum, I like that. Hare um scare um! What d’you think, mate?”
The young squirrel grinned. “Bosie is enough to scare anybeast, just by the amount he can eat. We’d better not mention it to him, though, I wouldn’t like his feelings to be hurt.”
Glisam ruffled Dwink’s ears. “Well said, young un!”
Skipper was always up and wide awake in the hour before dawn. Feeling responsible for the security of Redwall, he would take a brisk patrol. The Otter Chieftain checked
Friar Skurpul greeted him. “G’mawnin’, zurr, you’m bees a wanten yore zoop?”
The otter twitched his whiskers at the tempting aroma. “An’ a good mornin’ t’you, Friar. Is that my very fav’rite watershrimp an’ hotroot soup I can smell, bubblin’ away there?”
The kind Friar began ladling a bowl of the soup out. “Aye, that et bees, zurr, jus’ ’ow you’m loikes et each mawnen!”
They were soon joined by Dwink and Perrit, who came, pulling a dozy Foremole between them. Gullub Gurrpaw nodded sleepily to Skipper. “H’on moi loife, Skip, these yurr rascals turned Oi out o’ moi bed afore daybreak. Et seems us’ns bees h’off a-questin’.”
Skipper looked up from his bowl of soup. “Aye, mate, Abbot woke me last night with the news, I ’ope you’ve packed us lots o’ prime vittles, Friar, questin’s a hungry business.”
The Friar’s homely face wrinkled with pleasure, “Oi surrpintly ’ave, you’m woant go ’ungry, zurr. Though you’m moight ’ave iffen ee zurr Bosie wurr along with ee. B’aint no feedin’ that un!”
Foremole thanked the Friar, then he and Skipper listened as Perrit read out Gonff’s clue.
“To find the eye of the serpent,
to the morning sunrise roam,
where death may visit those that fear,
in the wild sweet gatherers’ home.”
Skipper tapped his rudder against the floor. “Well, mates, that’s a poser, an’ no mistake! I can’t make tail nor whisker of it. Any ideas?”
Foremole Gullub answered with his irrefutable mole logic, which, as anybeast knows, must be heeded. “You’m best not maken tails’n’whiskers of ought. Us’ns knows wot to look furr, a surrpint’s h’eye. Read Oi ee second loine, likkle missy.”