Every mouse’s name ended in an o. Bisky heard them calling to one another. He tried to decipher some of the names—there was Gobbo, Bumbo, Tingo, then he gave up. Their accents were flat and nasal, and they spoke with a rapidity which was hard to understand. He watched two of them, the one called Gobbo and another called Tingo, disputing the ownership of a sandbag.
Gobbo shrilled, “Ey, yew, givvuz dat sambag, it’s mine, I lost it!”
Tingo stood his ground belligerently. “Gerroff, dis sambag’s mine, me ma made it fer me. Don’t yew cum round ’ere tryna pinch my sambag, jus’ ’cos yer lost yer own. Gobbo the slobbo!”
Tingo caught sight of Bisky watching them, and turned his irate attention upon the Redwaller. “Who are yew lukkin’ at, pudden nose?”
Bisky tried to smile, shaking his head, to show he meant no harm or disrespect. Tingo swaggered over; twirling his sandbag, he glared coldly at the captive.
“One more lukk like dat an’ I’ll sambag yer good’n’proper, d’yer ’ear me, fliggle bottum?”
Bisky smiled and nodded several times. This did not appease Tingo, who began smacking the sandbag hard into his pawpad. “I think I’ll just give yer a smack fer laffin’ at me like dat!”
He swung the sandbag, about to strike, when he was knocked ears over tail by a very fat mouse, who carried a weightier sandbag than the rest. He grabbed Tingo by the ear, hauling him roughly upright. “Lissen, bobble’ead, did yer search ’em like I told yer to, eh?” He held Tingo on tippaw by the ear as Tingo danced and complained.
“Owowow, leggo willyer, Da! We never found nothin’ on ’em ’cept two ould slivers o’ flint, dat’s all!”
The fat one looked questioningly at Bisky. “Iz dat right, jus’ two ould cobs o’ flint, no treasure of any sort, eh?”
The one called Tingo answered, “I tole yer, Da, only two bits o’ flint.”
With hardly a glance, the fat mouse swung his sandbag. He struck Tingo in the stomach, knocking him flat on his bottom. The fat one scowled. “Who asked yew, sproutears? I’m talkin’ to d’prisoner.” He untied the gag from Bisky’s mouth. But the young mouse kept quiet until he was spoken to.
The fat one scratched his stubbly chin. “Worra ye doin’ in my territ’ry, Redwaller?”
The question caught Bisky off guard. “How did you know I’m from Redwall, sir?”
The fat one gave a humorless laugh. “Yer couldn’t be from anywheres else, wearin’ gear like that. I know all I need ter know, I’m Nokko, Pike’ead o’ the Gonfelin Thieves. So, worra ye doin’, playin’ daft ducks inna holler tree on my land, wirra Guosim? Huh, I ’aven’t seen one o’ dem round ’ere fer awhile.”
Bisky was intrigued by the name Gonfelin, but he answered truthfully. “I’m Bisky. The Guosim’s called Dubble, I met up with him when we were captured by Painted Ones, sir.”
Nokko dropped his sandbag, caught it on one footpaw, flicked it up and caught it neatly. “Painty Ones, eh? Y’must be soft in the ’ead, lettin’ yerselves get catchered by dat lot. Before youse was caught, did yer ’ave any treasure wid yer?”
Bisky replied as Nokko was ungagging Dubble. “Treasure, sir, what d’you mean?”
The one called Gobbo had been eavesdropping on the conversation; he curled his lip scornfully at Bisky. “Wot does me da mean by treasure, hah! Loot, boodiggles, swipin’s, pawpurse stuff, wot d’yer think ’e means, cabbage brain!”
Nokko shot his paw out. Latching onto Gobbo’s nose, he twisted it until tears sprang from the victim’s eyes. The fat Pikehead leader roared at him, “Worrav I told yer, muck-mouth, stay outta things wot don’t concern yer, awright?”
Gobbo did a frenzied dance of pain. “Owowowow! Awright, Da, leggo, willyer! Owowow!”
Nokko gave the nose a final, hefty twist before releasing Gobbo. He nodded, almost apologetically to Bisky. “Young uns, dey got no manners at all, ’specially sons an’ daughters.” He waved a paw at his tribe in general. “I’ve got enuff of ’em, I should know. I’ll tell yer wot treasure looks like. Spingo, go an’ fetch yer ma, tell ’er t’bring the jool.”
Despite her rough attire, Spingo was the prettiest young mouse Bisky had ever set eyes upon. She shot him a brilliant smile as she tripped off down the cave. “Awright, Da.”
Nokko could plainly see the smitten look on his captive’s face. He flicked a paw toward his daughter. “Wish I ’ad more like my Spingo, pretty as the summer morn, an’ good as the day’s long. So keep yer mousey eyes off ’n ’er, she’s worth more’n any jools to ’er ole da. Youse two don’t look like rascals t’me. If’n I unties yer, will yer promise to be’ave yerselves?”
With a sense of relief, both Bisky and Dubble gave their word that they would behave. Nokko nodded to one of his sons. “Bumbo, cut ’em loose.”
The Gonfelin Pikehead led them to a fire, with a cauldron bubbling over it. “Betcha could eat sumthin’, eh, never knew a young un wot couldn’t. Get some o’ this down yer gullets.” It was a thick oat and barley porridge, full of fruit, nuts and honey. An older female served them with stout wooden bowls, filled to the brim. She smiled at Dubble and patted his cheek, then went off to bring them drinks.
The Guosim shrew winked at Nokko. “Is she one of yore daughters, sir?”
Nokko helped himself to a bowl of the porridge. “Who, Fraggo? No, she’s one o’ me wives. Y’know, I’ve got that many wives an’ young uns I’ve lost count, ’ow many wives an’ young uns ’ave yew got?”
Dubble flushed, but before he could mumble a reply Nokko’s daughter, Spingo, joined them. With her was an older mouse, who was still quite beautiful. Nokko patted her paw affectionately. “This is Filgo, me chief wife. See, Bisky, yer can tell where Spingo gets ’er good looks.”
Filgo smiled quietly at the guests, nodding toward her husband. “Aye, an’ it ain’t from Nokko. His da used to use ’im t’frighten off spiders!” She sat next to Nokko. Spingo plumped down beside Bisky, bestowing him with another pretty smile. The young Redwall mouse was so overcome that he spluttered on his porridge. She thumped his back. “Eat slower, or you’ll give yerself the collywobbles.”
Nokko chuckled. “Go easy wid ’im, darlin’, that un’s a Redwall Abbey mouse, full of all kinds o’ manners.”
Gobbo, who was sitting nearby, scoffed. “I ’spect ’e’s too good fer the likes of us!”
Nokko dealt him a lightning thud with his big sandbag, laying Gobbo out stunned. He lectured him needlessly. “Never know when t’keep yer gob shut, do yer. Well, let that be a lesson!”
Bisky was overcome with curiosity about the name of Nokko’s tribe. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, sir, but I heard you say that you and your mice are called the Gonfelins. Where did that name come from?”
The fat Chieftain proclaimed proudly, “’Cos Gonff the Prince o’ Mousethieves was our ancestor. Gonfelins are all descended from him!”
Dubble interrupted, “How do ye know that?”
Nokko shook his sandbag at the shrew. “Yer a hard-necked beast, askin’ a Pike’ead o’ Gonfelins sumthin’ like that. I know ’cos my da knew, an’ his da afore ’im, right back to Gonff we go. So let that be the end o’ the daft questions, awright?”
Bisky knew he was on dangerous grounds, still he continued enquiring. “Sir, I don’t mean to give any offence, but Gonff came from Redwall Abbey, so why don’t you live there? He and his wife, Lady Columbine, and Martin the Warrior all helped to build the Abbey, but I suppose you know that.”
Nokko shrugged nonchalantly. “Course I did, I’ve even ’eard of Martin the Warrior, too. But I never knew Gonff’s missus was called Lady Cumbilline. Nice name that, maybe I’ll call me next daughter Cumbilline, or Cumbillino, that sounds better. Er, as fer livin’ at Redwall, I believe we did, a long time ago. The story goes that our great-great-grandda’s great-great-grandda didn’t like bein’ bossed about by Abbots an’ Friars, an’ elders. Any’ow, he didn’t like takin’ orders, so he left Redwall with his family, as far as I know.”
&nb
sp; Young Spingo wagged a paw at her father. “Ooh, Da, tell the truth, they was kicked out fer stealin’!”
Bisky looked at Nokko. “For stealing!”
Nokko thrust out his chin aggressively. “Well, wot’s wrong wid that, Gonff was a thief, wasn’t he? Nothin’ wrong wid stealin’, long as yer don’t get caught. Bet you’ve stole stuff y’self, Bisky.”
The young mouse shook his head. “Never, even though I’m a descendant of Prince Gonff myself. I’m no thief!”
Nokko upbraided him scornfully. “Yew, a descendant o’ Gonff? Rubbish! Anybeast wid Gonfelin blood in their veins would draw rings around yer, even my pretty liddle Spingo. Go on, darlin’, tell this woffler wot bein’ a Gonfelin’s all about!”
Nokko pulled out a reed flute and began playing a lively little tune. Spingo leapt up, dancing and singing at the same time. She had a voice like a tinkling bell, and was light as sunbeams on her paws. She twirled around Bisky until his head was spinning.
“There ain’t no lock nor bolt or key,
that could put a hold on me,
I can move like shadowy night,
free as a breeze an’ twice as light.
’Cos…I’m a Gonfelin, a Gonfelin that’s me!
I’ll tell you, friend, that I believe
you don’t know wot it is to thieve,
so better keep close watch on me,
I steal most anythin’ I see.
’Cos…I’m a Gonfelin, a Gonfelin that’s me!
I’ll pinch the shell from off an egg,
I’ll rob the wings right off a bee,
I’d steal the eyes straight out your head,
if you weren’t watchin’ me.
’Cos…I’m a Gonfelin, a Gonfelin that’s me!
O make sure all ye have is yours,
count both ears an’ all four paws
then check you’ve got an open mind,
an’ see yore tail still hangs behind,
’cos…I’m a Gonfelin, a Gonfelin that’s me!”
It was well danced and prettily sung. Bisky joined in the applause. Spingo bowed, flashed a smile, then sat down beside him again. Turning to her father, she enquired, “Well, Da, ain’t yew goin’ to show Bisky an’ Dubble the jool that our ancestors were slung out o’ Redwall for stealin’ in the ole days?”
Nokko took an object from his wife, Filgo. It was carefully wrapped in fine moss velvet. He opened it slowly, exclaiming, “Jus’ looka that, ain’t it a beauty!”
Firelight cast blood-hued needles of colour into Bisky’s eyes. He blinked. Even on first sight, he instinctively knew that the pigeon’s egg ruby he was staring at could only be one thing.
One of the lost Eyes of the Great Doomwyte.
20
A pretty summer morn lent its freshness to Mossflower woodlands, with birdsong resounding through high-canopied trees. The Guosim band, together with the Redwallers, had spent the night in the dried-up ditchbed, which had not proved uncomfortable. Tugga Bruster was up at the crack of dawn, bullying his shrews as usual.
“Up off yore laggardly tails, you lot. Marul, take six o’ these layabouts, an’ scout that clearin’ up ahead t’see if’n that serpent’s gone. Then report back ’ere t’me. Well, go on!”
The shrew Marul did not seem too pleased at the prospect. He chose six of his reluctant fellowbeasts, saluting Tugga Bruster as he paced back and forth. “Er, but suppose the giant snake’s still there, Chief?”
The Guosim Log a Log chuckled mirthlessly. “Then ye’ll run back ’ere twice as quick, won’t ye? Stop tryin’ to wheedle out of it, get yore paws movin!”
Marul led the six off in a desultory fashion, all of them paw shuffling and lagging behind. Tugga Bruster worked himself into a fine temper, roaring at them.
“Call yoreselves Guosim, ye yellow-bellied, lily-livered ditherers. When yore Log a Log gives ye an order, ye jump to it! Now git up t’that clearin’ afore I move yore bottoms with me warclub!”
He was swinging the iron club threateningly, when Bosie purposely bumped into him, sending the Guosim Chieftain sprawling. The hare made a flourish, waving the kerchief he carried in his sleeve.
“Oh dearie me, Ah’m sorry, Ah didnae see ye there. Och, silly me, allow me tae help ye up, sirrah!”
Tugga refused the proffered paw, and sat up fuming. “Should watch where yore goin’, longears!”
Skipper, who was accompanying Bosie, pointed ahead. “We’re just goin’ t’see if that ole snake’s moved hisself. No need for yore Guosim to go, mate, that is, unless ye’d like to come with us yoreself?”
Marul and the six Guosim gave a sigh of relief, and went back to the dried ditchbed. Tugga slammed his iron club against a sycamore. “I never told ye to go back there, now git up t’that clearin’ an’ look for the snake! Ye take orders from me, not some plank-tailed streamhound!”
Skipper’s jaw was set grimly as he turned to Tugga. However, it was Bosie who interrupted. “Och, give yer auld tongue a rest, there’s nae need for an army tae go tae yon clearin’. Why d’ye not take Skipper’s advice an’ come up there with us? Ah’m certain any serpent wouldnae fancy tacklin’ three braw beasties like we are.”
The Shrew Chieftain snapped back at him, “I don’t take orders, I gives ’em, an’ I ain’t goin’ to no clearin’ with you two, longears.”
A dangerous glint came into the hare’s eyes. His paw was on the swordhilt as he replied, “Where Ah come from Ah’m hailed as a Clan Chief. So Ah’ll give ye a wee bit o’ advice. Never order your tribe tae do somethin’ that you’re afeared tae do yerself, laddie.”
Tugga Bruster was shaking with rage. He bellowed at Bosie, “I ain’t afeared to do anythin’ you can do, longears. I’ll come with ye!”
Bosie took a step forward, eyes blazing. “Listen, mah friend, if ye refer tae the Laird o’ Bowlaynee as longears just once more, ’twill be a harsh lesson ye’ll learn. D’ye ken?” Bosie signalled to Skipper. “Let’s go tae this clearing’, bonny lad, just ye an’ me. We’ll be better served without sich poor company. Leave him here tae give his orders!” The pair strode off, leaving an irate but speechless Log a Log behind.
Arriving in the clearing, they found it deserted, Baliss having departed sometime during the night. Skipper took an approving look at the greenswarded oasis in the woodlands. “Wot d’ye say, Bosie mate, ’twould be a great spot to take a leisurely breakfast, eh?”
The hungry hare beamed from long ear to long ear. “Och, ye took the words straight out o’ mah mouth. Ah’ll sprint back an’ tell the others.”
It was not strictly just a breakfast—everybeast knew this would be the one full meal they would have time for that day. Accordingly they made it a good one. Guosim cooks set up a cooking fire, and began unpacking most of the food provided by Redwall. Umfry and Dwink stood watching them. Umfry voiced his disappointment. “H’is that h’all they’re going t’do, sit there stuffin’ their faces all day?”
“Aye, I thought we was supposed t’be searchin’ for Bisky, an’ Tugga wotsisname’s missin’ son?”
Samolus butted in on their conversation. “You’ve heard the saying, an army marches on its stomach. You haven’t? Well, let me explain. This is probably the last food we’ll eat until tomorrow. Skipper tells me we’re not too far from the five-topped oak. So, if there’s to be a fight, it’s better to die with a full stomach than an empty one. Eat hearty, you young uns!”
Guosim cooks baked flatbread over the fire. They were good at campfire food, it smelled delicious. Soon everybeast was tucking into baked apples, flatbread, toasted cheese and one of Friar Skurpul’s heavy travelling fruitcakes. There was mint tea or pear cordial to go with it.
In a clumsy attempt to pay back Bosie for tripping him, Tugga Bruster feigned a stumble. Some of the beaker of mint tea he was carrying slopped over. It narrowly missed scalding the hare’s head. The Guosim Log a Log made an exaggerated bow. “Ho dear, I’m sorry, are you alright, sir?”
Bosie merely nodded. “Ah’m f
ine, thank ye.”
Tugga leered. “Almost scalded yore…long ears.”
The hare rose, slow and deliberate. “Ah’ve taken enough from ye, defend yerself, shrew!”
Putting down his food, Tugga held up both paws, pads outward. He was smiling slyly. “I’d stand no chance agin that sword o’ yores, Guosim rapiers ain’t that long.”
Bosie passed the sword of Martin over to Skipper. “Och, Ah’ll no be needin’ a blade tae deal with the likes of ye, cully!”
Tugga Bruster cast his rapier aside, commenting, “Aye an’ I won’t use my blade…just this!” Without warning, he charged, swinging his iron warclub.
Bosie, however, was ready. Skipping to one side he launched himself into a high sideways leap. The hare’s powerful footpaws cannoned into the shrew’s head, laying him flat-out, and stunned. It all happened so quickly that the onlookers were amazed.
Marul turned to Dwink, his jaw agape. “Sufferin’ seasons, wot a kick!”
Dwink shrugged, as if he had seen it all before. “All Redwall warriors are good at their job, ain’t that right, Skip?”
The Otter Chieftain nodded sagely. “Aye, mate!”
Marul was still greatly impressed. “I never seen anybeast do that afore, I wonder would Mister Bosie teach me how t’kick like that?”
Doomwyte (Redwall) Page 18
