Doomwyte (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  “Don’t throw that un, h’it’s the h’only light we got left!”

  Bosie and Aluco scrambled into the safety of the cul-de-sac. The hare put up his sword. “Mah thanks tae ye, friends, Ah reckon that’s given the blaggards somethin’ tae think aboot!”

  The far rim was in chaos, more vermin were falling into the pit, as the mob scrambled to get away from the flames. The Chieftain was screeching unmercifully, lying flat on his back as he tried to extinguish a smouldering bottom and tail.

  A green-and-black-painted female garbed in vines and withered vegetation took charge. She charged about with a long blowpipe, issuing orders. “Back, back, alla ye! Take Chigid with ye!”

  Aluco pointed a talon. “That’s Chigid, their leader. He took me captive and pulled my pinions to stop me ever flying. What a pity the flames never slew him, the evil little rat!”

  Dwink watched the enemy retreat from the rim. “Is that what Painted Ones are, rats?”

  The owl nodded. “Aye, small, wild tree rats. They don’t like anybeast to know what they really are, so they paint themselves all green and black, and wear many kinds of vines and plants to disguise themselves. But there’s lots of them, they’re cruel and vicious!”

  Tears popped unbidden to Umfry’s eyes. “H’and they’ve got pore Bisky, our mate!”

  Skipper placed both paws against his brow in despair. “Aye, ’twas my fault, I couldn’t stop ’em!”

  Bosie patted the otter’s stout back comfortingly. “Ach, ye canna blame yerself, Skip, Ah’ll wager ye did all ye could tae save the young un. But dinna fret, Ah’ll rescue Bisky frae yon vermin rogues. Aye, an’ Ah’ll make ’em weep bitter tears for their wrongdoin’s, ye have McScutta’s word on it!”

  Aluco gave the hare a withering sideways glance. “Bravely said, sir, and when, pray, is all this going to happen, eh?”

  Umfry interrupted, spikes a-bristle with righteous wrath, “H’as soon h’as possible, h’in fact right now!”

  The tawny owl’s huge eyes widened. “Excuse me saying, but do you think that’s wise?”

  Dwink sprang up, fitting a rock to his sling. “Wise? There’s no time t’worry about bein’ wise, we’ve got to save our pal Bisky from those fiends!”

  Foremole Gullub shook his head at the young squirrel. “Ee owlyburd b’aint no fool, you’m lissen to ’im, zurrs!”

  Knowing that mole logic could not be disputed, Samolus agreed with Gullub. He bowed to Aluco. “Carry on, friend.”

  The owl puffed out his chest feathers, launching into an explanation. “I know this may sound dreadful, but forget about saving your friend for a moment. Our main problem is how to save ourselves. Think about it. Just up that tunnel there’s a whole army of Painted Ones, thirsting for our blood. Believe me, you wouldn’t last the wink of an eye. I know their leader, Chigid, he’s been injured by the lantern flames. That one won’t rest until your skinned carcasses are hanging from his five-topped oak tree. I was a captive of the Painted Ones for many seasons, I know how they think. They’ll be sworn to avenge themselves against you at all costs.”

  Samolus had a question. “But how did you escape from them? And one other thing—where did you get that Doomwyte Eye, the big, green jewel you carry?”

  Aluco placed the stone where the lantern light reflected its verdant fires. It was the size of a pigeon’s egg, completely smooth and highly polished. “’Tis a long story of how I escaped those savages. However, I jumped into the hole, near the five-topped oak. With twoscore Painted Ones pursuing me, I went in a mad scramble. I’d never been in the tunnels before, so I just plunged blindly along, not knowing where it would lead me, and totally in the dark. I was beginning to tire, out of breath, they were coming fast, almost right on my tail. The front runners were carrying blazing torches. Just around a bend, I ran smackbang into a locked door. I must have hooted and screeched aloud with pain and shock. Right at that moment they came racing round the bend, holding up their torches. The tunnel was suddenly filled with green light from the stone, which was fixed to the center of the door. What with that, and the dreadful noises I was making, they turned and fled. I could hear them shouting, ‘Baliss! Baliss!’

  “I was very frightened, having heard of the great serpent Baliss. So I lay still there for awhile. When nothing happened I rose, and picked up a torch which one of my hunters had dropped. Blowing the torch back into flame again, I looked around. There was myself, a locked door and the great, green jewel, but nought else. I sat there a long time pondering, until I solved the puzzle. That door must have been the gate to the serpent’s lair. The Painted Ones must have thought Baliss had slain me.

  “Well, I was not waiting around for the serpent to devour me, so I picked up the torch, took the green stone and hurried off. Whenever I thought there were Painted Ones lurking in wait, I began hooting and yelling out ‘Baliss.’ It must have worked, because they left me well alone. I found a place to hide, on the other side of the pit. I’ve lived alone there, until you came along, friends.”

  Dwink looked sympathetically at the tawny owl. “It must have been dreadful, down here in the darkness, with nothing to eat.”

  Aluco blinked his great eyes, almost coyly. “Oh, I wasn’t exactly starving, I’m quite vengeful myself, you know. If one can hunt, there’s always a meal to be had, though one can’t be too choosy.”

  Umfry gazed at the owl in horrified awe. “Y’mean you ate Pain—”

  Tactfully, Samolus cut across Umfry’s question. “Well, I never! So that’s where the green stone was, attached to the back o’ that door. Hah, an’ we knocked it flat an’ trampled over it to search the tunnels. The door wasn’t an entrance to a snake’s den, Aluco, it comes out in the cellars of Redwall Abbey.”

  The tawny owl gave a long, hooting sigh. “Redwall Abbey, if only I’d known! D’you think they’d have let me in? I’d dearly love to visit there.”

  Foremole Gullub stroked the owl’s flightless wing. “O’ course, zurr, you’m cudd make yurr ’ome thurr with us’ns, iffen ee so desoired!”

  Aluco seemed overcome with gratitude. “Oh, thank you, friend, it would be wonderful, a real dream come true. Thank you so much!”

  Dwink loaded a stone into his sling. He shot it pointlessly off into the dark abyss. “I’d save my thanks if’n I was you, mate. We’ve found the jewel we came for, shiny, useless thing! All this searchin’ for the Eyes o’ the Doomwyte, what’s it got us, eh?” Usually an easygoing young squirrel, Dwink surprised them all with his angry outburst. “It’s got us trapped here, miles underground, by a mob o’ savage vermin. An’ wot about my pal, we don’t even know if’n he’s dead or alive. That’s wot huntin’ for some stupid jewel has got us!”

  He grabbed up the big emerald, shouting, “Down that deep hole, that’s the best place for this thing. I never want t’see it again!” He swung back his paw to throw the Doomwyte Eye, when a well-aimed kick from Bosie’s swift paw sent him flat on his back. The mountain hare picked up the gem, holding Dwink down with his paw.

  “Ach, nae so fast, laddie. Ah’ve been figurin’ a plan tae get oot o’ here. This wee bauble is part of it. So, do Ah take it yore with me, or do ye all want tae set there, wi’ faces like auld biddies who’ve burnt the oatcakes?”

  Skipper grasped Bosie’s free paw. “Here’s me heart an’ here’s me word, mate, we’re with ye!”

  The mountain hare adjusted his fine lace cuffs. “Gather ye round an’ hearken tae me, braw beasties, here’s how we’ll do the deed!”

  14

  Sometime in the late evening, Bisky regained his senses. A searing pain in his tailtip caused the young mouse to cry out in anguish. He was being bitten by a rat of about his own age, a Painted One. Bisky assessed his situation at a glance. His forepaws were strung to an overhead limb, high up in a massive five-topped oak tree. The tree rat bit him again, sniggering at its own joke.

  “Yikkachikka, I eatin’ you, mousey!”

  Fortunately, Bisky’s footpaws were unbound. He kicked
out hard, catching his foe in the stomach. The vermin lost his breath in a loud whoosh, falling from the bough where he was perched. He hung by his long tail from the smaller branches below, wailing. “Waaaaah! Mouse tryna kill Jeg, ’elpeeeeelp, Mammeeee!”

  An older female, presumably Jeg’s mother, came rushing through the foliage, accompanied by three other ratwives. She snapped an order at her companions. “Gerra likkle Jeg backup ’ere, ’urry, ’urry!” Whilst they scrambled to do her bidding, she set about scratching viciously at Bisky’s ribs. “Juss yew ever raise a paw t’my Jeg agin, an’ I scratch yer ’eart out, an’ yer eyes, too, d’yer ’ear?”

  The young mouse arched his back in agony, but she continued raking until he called out aloud, “Stop, I hear ye, please stop!”

  The torment ceased as she helped the others to haul her son up. Having wiped away his tears, they sat him on the broad limb, a safe distance away from Bisky. They all began stroking and comforting the young Painted One, as they glared at the captive.

  Bisky studied them; he had heard of Painted Ones before, but this was his first face-to-face encounter with the savage vermin. They looked like primitive throwbacks of some bygone age, small for rats, but very wiry and agile. Their teeth were filed into sharp points, and their snouts pierced with bone ornaments. Painted Ones covered their bodies with heavy plant dyes, black and dark green. All sorts of straggly vegetation, weeds, vines, leaves and creepers, draped about them like kilts and cloaks, completed the camouflage. Bisky judged by the rustlings and comings and goings all about that there was a great number of the vermin in the five-topped oak, and other nearby trees. All in all, a fierce and barbaric tribe.

  Jeg’s mother, Tala, hugged her son close, peering maliciously at Bisky. Jeg stuck out his lower lip, in a sulky manner. “Dat mouse hurted me stummick, an’ I weren’t doin’ nothin’ to ’im!”

  Bisky shouted an angry reply. “Ye rotten liar, you were biting me!”

  Tala seized a long willow withe from one of the others, and slashed Bisky across his face. “Shuddup, who asked yew t’speak, mouse?”

  Jeg set up a blubbering wail, a ruse he often used to get his own way. He pointed a grimy claw at Bisky. “Badmouse! Yew should be slayed! I want ’im killed, Mamee Tala, let Jeg kill d’badmouse!”

  Tala stroked her son’s scraggy ears, murmuring soothingly. “Nono, yore Dadda Chigid never said nothin’ about killin’ d’mouse, yew’ll haveter ask ’im!”

  Jeg went into a real tantrum then. Wrenching himself free of his mother’s embrace, he climbed into the foliage, and began hurling down twigs and leaves. “My dadda’s the Tribechief, I’ll tell ’im all about yew’s lot. Letting’ d’mouse hurt me stummick, an’ not lettin’ me kill ’im. Yore a bad mammee, yore all bad. My dada will beat yew all for bein’ nasty t’me!”

  Bisky flinched as an acorn hit him in the eye. Blinking up at the spoiled young vermin, he found himself murmuring, “I’d like to leave you a day with Brother Torilis, huh, he’d soon teach you a few manners!”

  Tala went off to the tunnel hole, to watch for her husband’s return. She took some of her companions with her, leaving three to guard the prisoner.

  Bisky tested his bonds by tugging them. They were too well tied for any escape to be possible. He tried them again, but after receiving another slash from the willow withe, he gave up. The young mouse hung there, with bowed head, trying to ignore his bruises and scrapes, wondering how his friends were faring.

  Back at Redwall Abbey the two Dibbuns, Furff and the very small mousebabe, had become the hero and heroine of the season. Sister Violet had denied any part in the death of the big raven inside the belltower. Besides being a fat, jolly hedgehog, she was also very tenderhearted, and could not admit a part in the death of anybeast, friend or foe. So, it was left to the two Dibbuns to claim the notoriety, which they did, with absolutely no pretence to modesty, or truth. The raven had been displayed out by the main gate prior to being consigned to the ditch outside. Redwallers viewed it, with awed observations as to its size and ferocity.

  “Buhurr, jus’ lukk at ee talyons on yon burd!”

  “Aye, and the beak, too, imagine getting a peck off that?”

  The tiny mousebabe, draped in a cloak which was ten sizes too large for him, strutted shamelessly back and forth, keeping the onlookers at bay. He waved a ladle, his chosen weapon, and a pan lid, which served as a shield, cautioning everybeast, “Don’t not better get too close, y’might get hurted!”

  Furff was in her element, she had appropriated one of Friar Skurpul’s vegetable skewers, which she kept jabbing in the direction of the raven’s carcass, muttering darkly, “Good job Umfry wasn’t ringin’ the bells, the big bird woulda gotted ’im!”

  It was not long before Brother Torilis appeared on the scene, complaining to the Abbot, “Really, Father, how long is this disgusting spectacle to continue? Wouldn’t it be wise to remove that object from the premises? It makes me sick just looking at it!”

  Abbot Glisam was forced to agree with Torilis. “Aye, Brother, I thought I’d just let our Dibbun warriors bask in the glory for a moment or two. Mister Spikkle, will you help the Brother and me to haul this thing out and tip it into the ditch?”

  Corksnout tugged a dutiful headspike at Glisam. “Aye, Father, but I kin do it meself, no reason for you two gennelbeasts to soil yore paws, leave it t’me.”

  Brother Torilis breathed an inward sigh of relief, knowing he would loathe touching the dead raven. “Thank you kindly, Cellarhog, I’m obliged t’you.”

  The tiny mousebabe interrupted gruffly, “That bees our job, me’n’Furff, we drag ’im out!”

  Judging the size of both infants to the raven, the Abbot hid a smile. He took both their paws. “I’ve got a much better idea, why don’t we honour our two warriors with a feast by the Abbey pond, eh?”

  No second bidding was needed. The two raven slayers, surrounded by a host of their friends, stampeded off in the direction of the pond, roaring and whooping. “A feast, a feast! Redwaaaaaallllll!”

  Brother Torilis followed in the Abbot’s wake, still with a note of complaint in his voice as he watched the charge of the Dibbuns. “But what about bedtime? It’s evening already.” He was almost knocked flat from a buffet on the back by Sister Violet.

  “Oh, you can go to bed right now if you’re tired, Brother. We’re going to the feast!”

  Abbot Glisam winked at the jolly Sister. “Well said, friend, come on, I’ll race you!”

  Torilis cast a stern eye at their receding backs, then continued with his own measured pace.

  Friar Skurpul had already been told about the feast, he had the orchard laid out wonderfully. The squirrelmaid Perrit had set out all the food on woven rush mats. Not having to sit on chairs at table was a novelty for the little ones. Moreso, when the Abbot and elders joined them on the grass. Friar Skurpul caused much merriment amidst the Abbeybabes by addressing the Father Abbot as though he were a naughty Dibbun.

  “You’m moind yurr manners, Glisam, an’ keep ee paws clean, moi laddo. Dugry, keep yurr eye on that un an’ doan’t let ’im go a-jumpin’ abowt!”

  Abbot Glisam’s reply caused further hilarity. “What, me jump about? It’ll take four of you to lift me back up onto my paws after this!”

  Even before they had taken a bite of the delicious food, the Dibbuns were up and dancing, pulling mock bellropes and stamping their tiny footpaws to an impromptu song. The very small mousbabe roared out the lines, which (with a lot of help from Sister Violet) he had composed. What it lacked in melody and meter, the song made up for in raucuous exuberance.

  “Ho we make’d the bad bird fall down dead,

  Fall down dead! Fall down dead!

  We pulled onna ropes an’ he falled on his head,

  Faaalled…on…his…head!

  The naughty bird was goin’ to eat us all,

  Eat us all! Eat us all!

  ’Til us pulled the ropes an’ make’d him fall.

  Riiiight…on…his�
��head!

  Y’won’t see that ole bird no more

  ’Cos his head went crack onna Belltower floor.

  Bing bong! Ding dong! Boom crash bang!

  The bird falled down anna bells all rang!”

  Out at the main gate, Corksnout Spikkle was hauling the raven’s carcass out to the ditch. The taloned limbs stuck out stiffly. Facing the bird’s carcass, the big Cellarhog took one in each paw, and began pulling. His imitation cork nose slid down beneath his chin as he strained away. Adjusting it, Corksnout mopped his brow, turning to address his thoughts to the dead bird. “Whew! I didn’t figger on you bein’ so ’eavy. Still, ye are…beg pardon, I mean was, a fine, big lump of a featherbag. Huh, I should’ve let the Father an’ Torilis ’elp me.”

  Standing in the open gateway, with his back to the ditch, the burly hedgehog carried on his one-sided conversation with the dead raven. He was totally unaware of the monstrous head rising up from the ditch behind him. The senses of Baliss had caught odour and movement. The giant snake’s blue-marbled eyes filmed over as he reared high and struck with lightning speed.

  Down in the tunnels, Chigid, Chieftain of the Painted Ones, was seething with wrath and pain. The pain, from blazing lantern oil searing his tail and nether parts. The wrath, to destroy the beasts who had inflicted such agonising embarrassment upon one of his lofty position. Standing at the rear of his band, he berated them, until the tunnel walls echoed to his scorn.