“Yeeheeheehee! Well now, looka wot Jeg catchered, a shoopid treemouse. Wait’ll Dadda comes back wid the rest an’ sees wot I did. Don’t ya see, daftbeast, dis is our territ’ry. Painted Ones knows every leaf an’ every tree round ’ere. Didya think ye was gonna catcher me?” He struck Dwink’s face with his open paw as he spoke. “Well, didyer, eh, didyer, bonebrains?”
Dwink gradually recovered his senses, only to find that the world was upside down. He was being jostled roughly, from side to side. He struggled to release his limbs as Jeg’s face confronted him, grinning wickedly.
“Yeehee, awaked now, have ye?”
As he swung closer, Dwink acted instinctively, biting at his enemy. Jeg leapt back, avoiding the squirrel’s snapping teeth. “Yaharr, missed me!” He spun Dwink around, jumping on his back and leaning down heavily, jerking him about painfully. “Wanna try agin, do ya? Heeheehee, Jeg’s gonna have have fun wid this un!”
The added weight caused the young squirrel to gasp. “Ummff! Ye painted little coward, just wait’ll I get loose!”
Jeg jumped down and faced, his prisoner. “But ya can’t get loosened, can ya! Likkle treemouse, yore all mine, I kin do anythin’ I want wid ya.” Jeg broke off a twig; he began tickling Dwink’s nose none too gently with it. The distant sounds of battle had ceased now. Jeg noticed it, too. He began taunting, “Ya friends are all slayed now.”
Dwink snarled a reply. “Hah, that’s what you think!”
Jeg’s tone became almost reasonable. “Chah! My dadda’s Chigid, big Chief, he got lotsa warriors, lotsa, lotsa dem. More’n yore friends got.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “All ya pore mates be dead now, all slayed!”
Dwink came back stoutly, “Oh, no they won’t, it’ll be your scummy lot who’ll be slain!”
Jeg struck him with the twig he was holding. He did not like being contradicted; a malicious gleam entered his eyes. “I say yore lot be slayed, not mine. One more word outta yore shoopid mouth an’ I’ll slay ya, treemouse!”
Aware of the peril he was in, Dwink wisely refrained from replying. But this only served to madden Jeg. He strode around his captive, lashing out with the twig, working himself into a dangerous rage.
“If I say they all be dead, then they all be dead, see! Heehee, no, yore right, they not all dead, you be still alive…. So?” Dwink smelled the tree rat’s rancid breath as he leant close, speaking slowly and deliberately. “So you gotta get slayed, an’ Jeg’ll slay ya!”
Dwink felt himself go cold with fright. It must have showed on his face, because Jeg sniggered, and began enlarging upon his evil plan. “Now, wot’s the best way to slay a silly treemouse, eh? Mebbee stick a blade in ya. Or loose der rope, an’ let ya drop right down to the floor on yore ’ead, would ya like dat?”
Dwink dangled upside down. His ears were starting to ring with pressure; he felt dizzy and breathing was becoming an effort. Owing to the recent blow he had taken, the young squirrel began slipping back into a stupor. Jeg’s voice receded into a distant drone. Jeg was in his element, describing in lurid detail various cruel methods of execution for his victim, each more sadistic than the last.
Wholly unconscious, Dwink found himself in the midst of a nightmare. His vision was clouded blood red, inhabited by purple and dark crimson foebeasts. He was still suspended by both footpaws. Painted Ones leant close, leering and grinning evilly as they whispered of the horrible fate that awaited him. Dwink felt close to death, alone amongst enemies, with no friendly face to reassure him.
Then he spied the light, a warm, golden radiance approaching him. The hideous images of the vermin faded, scurrying off into dark shadows. Suddenly, like a bright summer dawn, Martin the Warrior was with him. The legendary Redwall hero spoke soothingly through Dwink’s fevered dreams.
“Your time is not yet come, be brave, young one. Friends are near, you must live. The Painted One is cursed to suffer a fate worse than anything he can devise for you. Live long, friend…. Live!”
Defeated and dejected, the Painted Ones were forced to descend into the clearing. They were disarmed, searched and ordered to be split into groups, each lot to be secured for safe conveyance to the five-topped oak. Samolus took charge of the operation efficiently.
“Nokko, form your prisoners in one tier. Rope ’em together by their necks, an’ post guards round the villains. Skipper, Tugga, do the same with your groups. I’ll take this last bunch myself!”
Tugga Bruster put in his objection immediately. “Who put you in command, eh? I ain’t takin’ orders off no ould mouse!”
Bosie placed a heavy paw, none too gently, on the Guosim Log a Log’s shoulder. “Ye’ll do as yore bid, bonnie lad. Ah’ve taken aboot all Ah’m goin’ tae take from you. Samolus is takin’ his orders from me, an’ Ah’m commandin’ this expedition. So, one more word against mah authority, an’ Ah’ll drop ye in yore tracks. Do ye get mah drift, bucko?”
Tugga Bruster saw that the Highland hare was not joking, so he swaggered off, bawling orders at his shrews. “Straighten the scum up, make sure those ropes are properly knotted! Dubble, where are ye off to, git back here, now!”
However, the young shrew had also taken enough from his bullying father. He joined Bisky and Spingo. “I’ll go with you two, if’n ye don’t mind.” He trooped off with them both, as Spingo tipped him a mischievous wink.
“I know where the five-topped oak is, cummon, mate, we’ll get there ahead o’ the others, an’ get first crack at the loot!”
Grinning, Bisky shrugged as he remarked to Dubble, “This maid’s got loot on the brain, we’d best go along, just to see she doesn’t land herself in any trouble.”
Spingo shot him a comical scowl. “Lissen, Redwaller, you’ll be in trouble if’n ye don’t stir yore paws, now shift yerself!” They set off at a lively trot, which soon had Bisky and Dubble panting to catch up. The Gonfelin maid skipped ahead of them, singing a mocking little ditty.
“’Tis my belief if yore a thief,
you gotta get in quick,
don’t hang about for others,
be nimble that’s the trick.
’Tis no good of ye weepin’
when the loot’s in other paws,
as any Gonf’lin’ll tell ye,
it’s better off in yores!
So don’t be thick, just whip it quick,
an’ take this tip from me,
with shifty paws, the treasure’s yores,
’cos loot, ye know, is free!
So, don’t be shy be sly,
an’ don’t be slow, but go,
grab all that ye can carry,
don’t ever say yore sorry,
just steal the lot, don’t worry,
be furtive, swift an’ cute.
Grab! Catch! Swipe! Snatch!
All that lovverleee looooooooot!”
Puffing and blowing, Bisky put on an extra turn of speed, muttering to Dubble, “I wonder what Abbot Glisam and Brother Torilis would say to that?”
Dubble stumbled into a bush; he emerged spitting out leaves and berries. “Who are they?”
The young Redwaller replied between gasps, “You’ll find out when we get to the Abbey, mate!”
Spingo waved a paw ahead. “There’s the oak, see!”
Bisky had always reckoned himself to be a good runner, but this Gonfelin maiden was something else. Spingo broke into an all-out sprint, careering off through the shrubbery and round the trunks of tall, ancient trees.
Jeg was crouching at the base of the massive oak, coaxing a small fire into life. He blew on it, adding dead pine twigs and dried moss until the flames spread. Looking up at the unconscious form of Dwink, hanging head down, the young tree rat gave an evil snigger.
“Yeeheehee! Wait’ll ya see wot I’ve thought up, treemouse. I calls it Jeg’s Warm Welcome. Heeheee!” He got no further, because something hit him from behind. Jeg went belly down onto the flames, due to Spingo leaping on his back. Using him as a springboard, the Gonfelin maid leapt up and caught a lo
w branch. She was yelling happily.
“Yeehaarrr! I made it, first ’ere! Now where’s all the loot hidden?”
Bisky and Dubble heard the screeches. Bulling through the undergrowth, they came hurtling onto the scene. Jeg was beating at his smouldering midriff, performing a crazy dance, he banged head-on into Bisky, knocking him flat. Even in his panic, Jeg immediately recognised his former prisoners. Hardly pausing to take breath, the tree rat bounded off into the woodlands.
Spingo was sawing away at Dwink’s bonds with a small dagger. She called down to them, “Looka this, there’s some pore squirrel strung upside down ’ere. Lend a paw, mates, mebbe he knows where the loot’s hid!”
Bisky took one look. “Great seasons, it’s Dwink! Wait there, Spingo, I’m comin’. Hang on, Dwink!”
Dubble grabbed Bisky’s paw; his eyes were like chips of ice in a winter storm. “Did ye see who that was? Jeg, the dirty liddle scum who had us strung up in that tree!”
Bisky pulled free of his friend. “That’s a Redwaller up there, I’ve got to go an’ help him!”
The young Guosim dashed off, calling back, “Right, you do that, mate, I’m after that filthy villain. I took an oath I’d meet up with him again someday. See ye later!”
Between them, Spingo and Bisky used Jeg’s rope to lower Dwink to the ground. They sat him against the oak trunk, ministering to him. Bisky bathed his friend’s face with cool water, rubbing his paws gently to restore the circulation. Spingo took dried herbs from her satchel; she lit them from the remnants of Jeg’s fire. When they began smouldering she shoved them under Dwink’s nose. He was thrust, spluttering and coughing, into wakefulness. Bisky pulled a face as he caught a whiff of Spingo’s reviver.
“Yurk! What d’you call those herbs, they smell foul!”
The Gonfelin maid shrugged. “Dunno wot they’re called, but they always do the trick, mate. See, yore friend’s as bright as a bumblebee now.”
Dwink groaned, but managed a wry smile. “I’ll live, though I thought I was a dead un for certain. Who’s yore pretty friend, Bisky?”
Further chitchat was cut short. Bosie marched in, heading a veritable horde. Guosim, Gonfelins, Redwallers, plus the whole tribe of captive Painted Ones. The Highland hare saluted Bisky and Spingo. “Ah see ye’ve found wee Dwink, well done!” He turned to confront the other two Chieftains. “Now, mah bonnies, how do we find this loot?”
Tugga Bruster snarled, “Git that fire blazin’ good an’ leave it t’me. I’ll make the scum talk!”
Skipper flexed his brawny rudder, glaring at the Guosim Log a Log. “Ye’ll do no such thing!”
Nokko tossed a rope over one of the oak’s lower branches. “Leave it to us Gonfelins, Skip. Jus’ yew sit tight wid these Painty Ones ’til we get back. Hah, if’n there’s any loot, boodle or swipin’s up in that ould tree, my bunch’ll find ’em!”
Within moments the ancient tree was swarming with small, raggedy mice, each bent on being first at the spoils. Scrabbling over one another, they argued and shouted in a manner that would have put even the Guosim to shame.
“Oi yew, gerrout me way, this is my branch!”
“Hah, who died an’ left it ter yew, move over!”
“Who are yew talkin’ to, big gob?”
“Big gob is it? Good job I left me sambag at ’ome, or yew’d be takin’ a long snooze fer sayin’ dat!”
“Yah, go an’ sambag yer granny!”
Samolus placed both paws over his ears. “Such shocking language, what a dreadful row!”
Bisky was inclined to agree. “Aye, that it is!”
Bosie whispered confidentially to him, “Mind, laddie, that pretty maid ye’ve taken sich a braw shine tae, she’s the roughest auld shouter o’ the lot. Aye, a right pawful she is, Ah’m thinking!”
Tugga Bruster came swaggering up to Bisky, addressing him gruffly. “Hoi, you, mouse! Have ye seen my son Dubble around?”
The young mouse pointed. “Aye, he went that way, hard on the paws of a Painted One. Dubble has a score to settle with him.”
The Guosim Log a Log shouldered his iron club. “I never gave him leave t’go. A score, eh? I’ll settle a score or two with that Dubble when he gets back here…. You, wot are ye starin’ at?” Tugga Bruster’s attention was caught by a Painted One glaring at him venomously. He pointed the club at her. “I asked ye a question, thick’ead, why are ye lookin’ at me like that, eh?”
Tala, wife of the dead Painted Chieftain, Chigid, spat on the ground in front of the Guosim leader. “Yeeeeh, you da one wot kill my Chigid, I kill ya soon as I get the chance. Killya dead!”
Early evening sunlight was shafting through the woodland foliage when Nokko and his tribe returned to earth. Umfry could not help remarking to Samolus about their trophies of victory. “Lookit that, Mister Fixa, did ye h’ever see such a pile h’of tatty rubbish. Huh, y’call that loot?”
Samolus nodded. “Indeed, that’s what it appears t’be, but ye must remember, young un, one beast’s rubbish is another’s treasure. They seem happy with it.”
Happy was an understatement, the Gonfelins were jubilant with their spoils. A few flagons of fur paint, which the tree rats decorated themselves with. Some blades, mostly blunt, broken or rusted. One or two blowpipes, darts and a vial of poison. Crude necklaces, bracelets and tailrings, plus the contents of a larder they had discovered.
Nokko was grinning from ear to ear. “This is the stuff, buckoes, I told yer there was plenny o’ pawpickin’s to be ’ad. Bosie, me ould scout, once we’ve ’ad supper I’ll divvy the takin’s up, fair shares for everybeast, that’s the Gonfelin way. We may be thieves, but we’re good, ’onest thieves. Spingo, Bumbo, pile all dat loot over yonder, an’ stan’ guard on it!”
Aided by Redwallers and Gonfelins, the Guosim shrews put on quite a nice supper, even cooking up the Painted Ones’ larder supplies and serving it to them. Bosie was quite partial to shrewbeer, and the flat panbread which the Guosim were very skilled at making. Whatever was to paw went into the panbread, preserved fruits, honey, nuts berries, fresh from the bush.
Not wanting to hurt Nokko’s feelings, and speaking for allbeasts present by mutual agreement, Skipper raised his beaker and delivered a short speech. “Ahoy, mates, here’s a toast to our friends, the Gonfelins. We’d never ’ave beaten the Painted Ones without their aid, so let’s drink to ’em!” After toasting the Gonfelins’ bravery, Bosie, who had been tipped the wink by Skipper, spoke further.
“Aye, an’ wot reward can we offer tae sich braw beasties? Ah propose that we award Nokko an’ his warriors all the loot tae keep for themselves!”
The ragged mousethief tribe cheered themselves hoarse. Nokko was moved almost to tears by his fellowbeasts’ generosity. He sniffed loudly. “Wot can I say, buckoes, it’s not offen yer come across real friends, an’ proper mateys, but youse lot’s the best o’ the best. Right, Gonfelins, sing ’em out!”
A fine, baritone-voiced mouse sang the verse, whilst all the other Gonfelins joined in the chorus.
“One day a young Gonfelin was leavin’ his home,
to seek for his fortune outside,
his pore fatty mother embraced him so tight,
crackin’ two of his ribs as she cried.
The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,
wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!
‘You whipped all the sheets off the bed, son,
an’ the boots from yore granny, me dear,
but a pore mother’s tears ain’t worth nothin’
except when she’s waterin’ the beer.’
The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,
wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!
‘You must promise to be dishonest,
out in that cruel world all alone,
when you dips yore paw into a pocket,
make certain it ain’t yore own.’
The code of the Gonfelins is ancient and true,
; wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!
Well, the Gonfelin he kissed his ole mother so hard,
that he raised a big lump on her head,
‘Farewell, Mother,’ he cried, as she swooned at his side,
then he stole her best wig an’ he fled.
The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,
wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!”
Roars of laughter were choked, as the listeners saw that Nokko and his tribe were quite overcome with emotion by their song. Some of the Gonfelins were weeping openly. The Guosim merely looked bewildered, but the Redwallers were forced to turn aside, one or two stuffing grass in their mouths to stifle ribald guffaws.
Wiping tears upon a ragged sleeve, Nokko announced solemnly to the assembly, “Er, that’s our bestest song, we sung it to honour youse fer lettin’ us ’ang on to the boodle. I want youse all t’know, that by yore kindness, you’ve done summat nobeast as ever done to a Gonfelin.” He paused to blow his snout, then continued humbly, “You’ve stolen our ’earts!”
There was a stunned silence, then Bisky rose, raising his beaker and calling heartily, “Good health’n’long seasons to our mates the Gonfelins!”
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Doomwyte (Redwall) Page 21
