Doomwyte (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Griv and her crow escort emerged into an immense cave. The sight resembled some infernal nightmare from the brain of a madbeast. High up in the poisonous, mist-wreathed recesses of the vast ceiling, water dripped from limestone stalactites. Further down, the walls glistened with crusted filth, rotting matter spotted with violently hued patches of fungi. Heaps of protruding, decayed and yellowed bones were piled up against the lower walls, quivering with a life of their own, as spiders and cockroaches hunted the countless squirming, wriggling insects who inhabited the nauseous debris. All around this hideous scene, birds were perched everywhere. There were a few magpies, like Griv, but the rest were dark carrion birds, jackdaws, choughs, crows and rooks. It was the crows who outnumbered the others.

  The centre of the cavern floor was dominated by a large lake, which occupied more than half the total floor area. Its waters emanated clouds of yellowy green steam from the constantly bubbling liquid morass. Deep within the earth, some primeval, volcanic force was heating the water with its phosphorescent vapours. There were no seasons in the cave, only constant heat, and misty green opalescence.

  There was an island in the middle of the lake, which gave the illusion of having no foundation, seeming to hover in the mist. The centre of this island was a limestone hill, surmounted by a monolithic statue of polished black obsidian. It was a monumental work, depicting a huge raven, with a snake draped about its neck. The reptile coiled several times around the raven’s neck, ending up circling its host’s head in the manner of a crown. Both the face of the raven, and the snake above it, contained eyeless sockets.

  Veeku, leader of the carrion crows, was about to lead Griv toward the island, when the roll of a large drum boomed out. Veeku spread his wings, holding the magpie back. A party of a dozen crows and rooks came hurrying by. These were followed by several toads and lizards, all armed with sharpened bulrush spears. At the centre of the strange group a net was being hauled along. It contained Gridj, the unfortunate rat, who, with his late companion, had been wandering lost in the previous night’s storm. Immediately, all the inhabitants of the cave began chanting. “The Wytessss! Wytessssss! Korvussssss!” Again the big drum sounded. A silence fell over the cave. One of the toads poked the captive with its bulrush spear, causing him to wake up moaning.

  A harsh-voiced crow called out, “Karrah! We bring thee an outsider, O Korvus Skurr!”

  As carrion birds go, the raven is one of the largest. However, Korvus Skurr was the biggest of all ravens. He looked even bigger with the live smoothsnake decorating his head as a crown. Korvus Skurr appeared directly beneath the statue—with one mighty swoop he made it from the island onto the cave floor, with hardly a full wingspread. Stretching up almost onto talon point, he spread his awesome wings, displaying their dark iridescence. His subjects greeted this with their coarse, grating tribute, making the cave echo. “Krahaaaaaah! Skuuuurrrrrr!”

  Korvus turned to the four crows. “A gift from my Wytes, show me this outsider!”

  The four hauled the net up, so that Gridj could be clearly seen, holding on to the meshes in an attempt to stand upright. The raven tyrant came close to the net, peering in at his captive. Just one glance at Korvus Skurr was enough for Gridj. The huge raven, with his heavy, murderous bill and wicked dark eyes was enough to unnerve anybeast.

  The serpent he was wearing as a crown shoved its blunt nose toward the prisoner, tongue flickering as its beady reptilian eyes surveyed him. Gridj was immediately reduced to a blubbering, whimpering wreck.

  “Oww, don’t ’urt me Yer ’Ighness, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, it was Slegg’s fault, ’e led me astray through yore territ’ry. I was lost, just tryin’ t’find me way out of it, that’s all, I swear on me mother’s whiskers!”

  At a signal from Korvus, the toads grabbed the net, opening it at the top. They dragged Gridj up, so that his head was exposed, then retied the net, leaving him still imprisoned, but with his head free.

  Terrified into silence, the rat stood trembling. Korvus paced up and down in front of his captive, then suddenly snapped out, “Kraaak! Where are the Eyes of the Great Doomwyte?”

  Gridj was surprised for a moment, but he replied as respectfully as he could, “Wot d’yer mean, ’Ighness? I don’t know nothin’ about no eyes, on me honner I don’t.”

  Korvus moved like lightning, latching his lethal beak onto Gridj’s ear and wrenching his head so that he could see the statue on the island. “Behold the Great Doomwyte! Where are its eyes?”

  Wincing under the pain of the raven’s beak, Gridj wailed, “Waaaah! I never seen that thing afore, Yer ’Ighness, I don’t know wot yore talkin’ about! Believe me!”

  The raven released his prisoner as the snake hissed, “Hold him where I can sstare into hisss eyesss!”

  With talon and beak, a gang of carrion birds held Gridj upright and motionless. Two toads scrambled up the net and gripped his head, pulling back the rat’s eyelids, forcing him to look.

  Korvus came close again, allowing the smoothsnake to come eye to eye with Gridj. The flickering tongue was touching Gridj’s nosetip as the serpent spoke.

  “Nobeast can lie to Sicarisssss. I sssseek the truth in your eyessss, let me gaze into your hidden secretsss!”

  Gridj had no choice, gripped tightly as he was, his stare forcibly held upon the reptile. Slowly, slowly, Sicariss weaved a pattern with her head, moving from one side to the other. The rat’s eyes began following, until they were moving automatically. Sicariss moved even closer, whispering strange, sibilant things to Gridj. His mouth scarcely moved, but low words were coming from it in a kind of sighing monotone.

  The snake halted her interrogation by drawing back, and tapping her chin lightly on the raven’s beak. Korvus allowed Sicariss to take up her perch upon his head plumes. She whispered to him, “The beast isss not from these partsss, he knowssss nothing of the Eyessss, he issss brainlesssss!”

  Korvus Skurr took off. Flying into the sulphur-laden fumes of his cave, he circled, casting his swift, dark eye on those awaiting his pronouncement. Landing gracefully on the island, directly at the base of the statue, he made two choppy movements with his beak. One at the rat, still imprisoned by the net, the other to the steaming, bubbling pool. The cave echoed to the din of eager carrion birds. “Rakaaah! Skurr! Rakaaaah! Skurr!”

  Gridj was still in a trance as the toads looped a rope through the net and knotted it. He hardly felt himself being dragged to the rim of the pool. The constantly boiling water of the bottomless lake woke him—he gave one long, agonised scream. It cut through the cawing and harking of carrion birds, then he was gone, plunging down into the scalding depths of opaque green.

  Veeku, the crow leader, tugged on the rope, watching the thermal action of the water bobbing the net-enveloped carcass of Gridj around beneath the surface. He turned to Griv the magpie. “Kraak! We will feast well tonight. Come, I will take you to Korvus Skurr now.”

  Outside, the driving rains continued to pound the forested hillside which housed the Doomwyte’s domain. A dark beast moved like a storm shadow along the hill-slopes, restless, ever alert. Ceasing its labours of digging away at the hillside, moving rocks and hacking at roots, the strong, sleek creature took up its post, like a sentinel upon the huge mound. Watching, waiting, planning, as its fierce, vengeful eyes gazed at the cavern entrance—the only way in and the only way out of the raven’s foul realm. The dark beast stayed motionless, always watching, waiting, planning.

  3

  In the warmth and comfort of Cavern Hole, Abbot Glisam, Bisky and Dwink sat listening to Samolus Fixa talking as he worked upon restoring the old table. For all his long seasons, the sprightly old mouse seemed to have perfect recall.

  “Aye, they were three lifelong pals, Martin the Warrior, Gonff the Mousethief and a mole called Dinny. Though ye could say they were four, ’cos there was Gonff’s lovely wife, the Lady Columbine. Be that as it may, I’ll go straight to wot I knows of the Wytes.”

  Dwink scratched at his bushy tai
l. “What are Wytes, what do they do, sir?”

  The Abbot replied as Samolus searched through his box for a scribing tool, “I learned about Wytes from an old owl I once knew. Nobeast can say for certain what a Wyte is. It could be bird, reptile or some type of vermin, one has never been caught, or found dead. From what I’ve gathered, a Wyte is a sort of flickering light, which lives in the woodlands. They say that it can lead travellers astray.”

  Dwink interrupted, “You mean make ’em get lost, Father?”

  Abbot Glisam settled both paws into his long sleeves. “Aye, completely lost, or gone forever. There’s no record of anybeast turning up again, once they’ve been enchanted away by the Wytes.”

  Bisky snorted. “Hah, all ’cept Prince Gonff. No Wyte would ever steal him away, eh, Grandunk?”

  Samolus had found his scribe. He began marking out a design upon the tabletop with its sharp, little iron spike, not taking his gaze from the work as he answered, “That’s true, but ole Gonff, he weren’t silly enough to go off followin’ Wytes, ’twas a totally different thing wot led him to their lair.” Samolus paused to resharpen his scribe point with a file.

  The Abbot enquired, “How do you know all this, where d’you keep all the research you say you’ve collected? Did you make notes?”

  The old mouse tested the scribe point on one pawpad. “’Tis not just notes, Father, it’s reasonin’, ponderin’ an’ keepin’ yore wits about ye. Oh, I’ve got lots of notes, the main two bein’ Dinny’s mole scrolls an’ Lady Columbine’s diary. I don’t doubt ye’d like to see ’em. Right, then, come along wi’ me. I’ve done enough ’ere for awhile, my eyes gets tired easy these days.”

  Abbot Glisam opened the Abbey building’s main door. It was raining hard. He stared glumly out across the lawns and flowerbeds, to the western outer wall. On one side of the threshold gate stood the small Gatehouse. Pulling up his hood, Glisam complained, “Do we really have to go all the way over there in this downpour, just to look at some records?”

  Dwink hopped eagerly from one footpaw to the other. “Oh, come on, Father, if’n you run we’ll get there in no time.” The young squirrel grinned cheekily. “I’ll race ye, Father Abbot!”

  Glisam shook his head ruefully. “Alas no, Dwink, my running seasons are long gone.”

  Samolus went into a sporting crouch. “Here, young un, I’m about the same age as our Abbot, I’ll race ye…. On y’marks, get set—go!”

  They shot off into the rain like two arrows.

  Glisam chuckled. “Just look at them go! Who d’you think’ll win, Bisky?”

  “My old grandunk of course, Father, he can still beat me, an’ I’m a faster runner’n Dwink. Come on, Father, watch ye don’t slip on the wet grass.”

  Paw in paw, the old dormouse and his young friend shuffled off into the curtains of sheeting rain. If they could not be bothered to skirt puddles, they simply trudged through them. The Abbot suddenly did a little jump, causing a splash. He laughed.

  “Good fun, really, isn’t it? I can’t remember the last time I had a good old splash and splosh.”

  Bisky kicked out, sending a sheet of water widespread. “Let’s sing the Dibbuns’ rainsong, Father!”

  It was just as well that Brother Torilis was not there to witness the undignified performance: young Bisky and the Father Abbot of Redwall Abbey, roaring the song as they cavorted happily about in the rain.

  “When the clouds are cryin’ rain,

  we run outdoors an’ play,

  splash an’ splosh about in pools,

  splash an’ splosh all day!

  Jump about an’ wot do y’get,

  ’tis only rain, you just get wet,

  get wet as y’like an’ it’s alright,

  then we won’t need a bath tonight!

  Splashin’ here an’ splashin’ there,

  splishin’ sploshin’ everywhere,

  sloppy sandals soakin’ fur,

  up to bed you naughty pair!

  Splish diddly splash splash…splosh splosh!”

  Young Umfry Spikkle, the big hedgehog Gatekeeper cum Bellringer, called from the Gatehouse doorway to Bisky and the Abbot. “Come in h’out that there rain afore youse catches a dose h’of the chewmonia, ’urry up. Sam’lus an’ Dwink ’ave been ’ere awhile, waitin’ for ye.”

  Bisky stood aside, letting the Abbot enter first. “Who won the race, Umfry?”

  Dwink showed himself, drying his handsome brush off with a towel. “Huh, your ole grandunk, that’s who!”

  Samolus could be seen within. He was trotting about in small circles, his eyes twinkling. “Glad I ain’t young no more—got no energy, these young uns today, heeheehee!”

  Umfry was still a youngish hog, a simple type who was not overburdened with learning. However, nobeast ever remarked on this, because he was a big hedgehog of prodigious strength. He tossed the newcomers a warm towel apiece, and poured two beakers from a kettle resting on the hearth. “Youse drink this down, h’its coltsfoot an’ burdock tonic. Mind now, h’its ’ot!”

  Samolus stopped jogging. “Be a goodbeast an’ give me a lift up t’the rafters, Umfry. I’ve got some stuff stowed up there that we need to look at.”

  Umfry lifted the old mouse over his head, as though he were merely placing a book back on a high shelf. “I never knew you was ’idin’ stuff up there, Sam’lus, wot sort o’ stuff is it?”

  Reaching into a recess where two rafters crossed, Samolus brought out a parcel of scrolls, and two books. “Oh, it’s just some ancient records. Nothing that’d interest you, Umfry.”

  The burly hedgehog placed Samolus carefully on the gatehouse floor. Samolus tossed the parcel on the table. “Ole records, eh? I never been able t’make spike or snout o’ that written stuff, h’it’s like a pile o’ wriggly worms t’me.”

  Abbot Glisam patted the Gatekeeper’s hefty paw. “I’ll have to see about reading lessons for you, young fellow. Meanwhile, you just sit quiet and listen while Samolus reads to us.”

  The old mouse took up a beautifully bound little volume, the front of which was adorned with a skilful drawing of a dainty flower. “See, this is a columbine, just like Gonff’s wife’s name. It was her diary.” He leafed slowly through the pages of neat, close-written script.

  “Ah, here ’tis, listen to this….”

  I could tell that Gonff had been stealing again. As soon as he came in last evening. It made me feel very anxious for him. My Gonff is no ordinary thief, he’d never steal from good creatures, but if he takes a fancy to something owned by a foebeast, a vermin or any evil creature, then he’ll steal it. I didn’t say anything, knowing that he’d tell me all about it, sooner or later. It was a warm summer evening, we took supper on the banks of the Abbey pond, with some of our friends. Martin the Warrior was off on a quest, so I sat with my Gonff, and our dear mole friend Dinny. It was he who noticed that all was not well with Gonff.

  “Yurr zurr, you’m not a scoffen ee vikkles much. Wot bees up with ee, zurr Gonffen, you’m gone aseedingly soilent. Coom on, mate, owt wi’ et!”

  Gonff took us both to a quiet corner of the orchard, not wanting any other Redwaller to hear what he had to say. It was a strange tale he related.

  “A few nights back I was out on one of my rambles, in Mossflower Wood, when I saw an odd thing. Two little lights, pale, flickerin’ flames, dancin’ about in the darkness, as pretty as you please. At first, I felt like going to see just what they were, but something warned me not to show myself, so I stayed hidden, in a yew thicket.

  “Then I spotted the stoat. He was a fat, raggedy vermin, swiggin’ away at a big flask o’ grog. I could smell the stuff, even from where I was, it was foul, probably made from bogweed an’ withered berries. So I watched Mister Stoat, he was bumblin’ along, bumpin’ into everythin’ an’ singin’ a vermin drinkin’ song that’d curl yore ears. He caught sight o’ the two little flames, the fool. Gigglin’ like a Dibbun an’ offerin’ ’em drinks o’ grog, he goes staggerin’ off after those tiny light
s. I stayed where I was for a moment, then went off quietly, followin’ t’see what’d happen.

  “Now I know my way round Mossflower better’n most beasts, an’ I could tell that we were near to the eastern marshes. Not a place that any creature with a grain o’ sense’d go wanderin’ about in the dark o’ night. I stopped on firm ground an’ saw it all. The lights led that ole raggy stoat on a right merry dance, jiggin’ about, just out of his reach. Round an’ round they danced him, then they took off, straight over the marshes. Before I could do anythin’, the stoat chased after the two lights.

  “Needless t’say, he went down into the swamp like a stone. Right up to his chin, an’ sinkin’ fast he was, with the two little lights hoverin’ over him. I couldn’t quite make it all out, but they seemed t’be whisperin’ to the stoat. Somethin’ about whites, hissing softlike, it sounded like…Wytessssss!

  “Then he was gone, under the mud, never t’be seen again. I’ve never liked vermin as y’know, but I felt a bit sorry for the stoat, bein’ murdered in that horrible way. I say murdered, because that’s wot those two pretty little flames did to the pore fool, lured him off an’ murdered him. So I decided to trail the lights an’ see where they went. Two points east an’ one point south they headed, or as otters’n’shrews say, east sou’east! Then it was me that felt foolish—the tiny flames vanished altogether, just afore dawn.