Doomwyte (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

“Straight on, an’ don’t take no sidewaters. Keep paddlin’ in the midstream, ’til ye see the big wooded hill ahead, that’s where we’re bound!”

  But Nokko had other ideas. “Us Gonfelins knows the lay o’ the land round ’ere. I know a faster way, wot’ll bring youse up be’ind that big mound!”

  Bosie patted the Pikehead’s back. “Very guid, mah friend, get yoreself for’ard an’ tell ’em the way tae go!”

  Scrambling over paddlers and passengers, Nokko made his way to the prow, where he gave orders. “The quickest way is to take the next slipstream on yore right. There ’tis, the one wid the big ould willow over’anging the bank. There’s a few rapids, but that’ll get us there a bit faster!”

  Dubble was paddling alongside Garul. He took the time to enquire, “Wot happened to Tugga Bruster, tell me.”

  The older Guosim kept his eyes on the stream as he told Dubble of his father’s fate.

  When he had heard the whole disgraceful story of his father and the former Log a Log’s shameful end, the young Guosim wiped a swift paw across his eyes, then breathed deep as he pulled on his paddle.

  “I know he was my father, but I can’t bring myself to grieve heavy over him. Tugga Bruster was never a lovin’ parent, aye, an’ he wasn’t much of a Log a Log, either. But you knew that. Our tribe deserves a better Chieftain than him.”

  Garul backed water as they turned into the slipstream. “Aye, Dubble, these Guosim think you’ll make a good Log a Log, they all like you.”

  Bending to avoid the overhanging willow branches, Dubble met the older shrew’s gaze. “No, mate, I’m finished with the Guosim life. Once this is over I’m goin’ to live at Redwall. I’ve not had much experience of the Abbey, but I know I’ll find peace an’ happiness there. One day, maybe, I’ll forget the shame of Tugga Bruster.”

  Garul was bewildered by Dubble’s decision. “But wot about our tribe, wot’s to become of us?”

  The young shrew released his paddle long enough to grasp the older beast’s paw warmly. “These Guosim will do just fine with you as their Log a Log. You’ve always been a good an’ wise ole paddle whomper, Garul. You’ll make a better Log a Log than I ever could!”

  The news echoed swiftly from boat to boat. All the Guosim raised their paddles in salute, roaring, “Garul! Garul! Logalogalogalooooooog!”

  The little flotilla hit the rapids, the logboats shot along. Shrews guided them skilfully, fending off rocks, banks and shoals as they sang.

  “Ho, look out for the shallows now,

  watch how fast yore goin’,

  you’ll never beat a Guosim shrew,

  paddlin’ or rowin’.

  Hi to me rum drum toodle hey,

  wait for me, my darlin’,

  go set the skillet on the fire,

  ’cos I’ll be home by mornin’.

  Oh, watch her on the banksides now,

  rapids an’ white waters,

  here’s a health to all our wives,

  an’ our pretty daughters.

  Hi to me rum drum toodle hey,

  throw me out a line oh,

  or a bowl o’ stew, an’ a drink or two,

  would suit a Guosim fine oh!”

  Bosie had put up his sword, he was feeling rather nervous as he clung to the prow. Spray soaked his whiskers as the logboat leapt and bucked along the rapids. Keeping a brave face, the Highland hare muttered aloud, “Och, will ye no look at this mad stream. Ah tell ye, Ah dinna know what they’re singing for.”

  Having been told by Dubble, Bisky already knew. “Singin’ helps ’em with the paddle beat, an’ it keeps the logboat on an even keel.”

  Bosie slacked his grip upon the prow, standing up slightly, he tried a quick smile. “Oh, verra guid, that’s the stuff, mah buckoes, keep the song goin’, Ah like it just fine!”

  However, Friar Skurpul and his molecrew did not care for the lively jaunt. Throwing themselves facedown in the boats, they gave voice to their fears.

  “Ho, corks, Oi wish’t Oi’d never left ee h’Abbey!”

  “Hurr, we’m surtink to get sunken unner ee water!”

  “Ho, woe bees Oi, Oi’ll never leave ee land agin!”

  Now the bankside trees were shooting by as the logboats picked up more speed. Guosim left off paddling, to fend off the rock-faced sides. Samolus gnawed his lip anxiously. “Er, Mister Nokko, are you sure this is the right way to the wooded hill?”

  The Gonfelin Pikehead scowled. “Of course I’m sure, I knows this neck o’ the woods like the back o’ me own paw. D’yer think I’m goin’ the wrong way ’cos me best young daughter’s in trouble, ye daft ould bat!” The logboat scudded over a gravel rift, causing Nokko to sit back hard. Samolus helped him upright.

  “Forgive my stupid remark, sir, I’m certain we’re on the right course.”

  Nokko shrugged. “Ah, don’t take any notice o’ me, mate, I shouldn’t ’ave spoke to yer that way.”

  Gobbo interrupted, “Aye, me da’s just worried about Spingo, so don’t take no notice of ’im.”

  Nokko latched onto his talkative son’s snout, twisting it sharply. “Who asked yew t’put yore paddle in, gabbygob? One more word outta yew an’ I’ll stuff yer tail down that mouth an’ pull it out yer ear, me son. So purra nail in it, right?”

  Gobbo rubbed his snout ruefully. He was about to have the last word with his da by muttering a smart reply, when Bosie called out from the prow, “Ah think yon’s the hill we’ve been seekin’!”

  Sure enough, as the rapids subsided into smoother waters, the broad, tree-covered hump could be seen. It rose up ahead on the port side of the logboats. Dubble squinted hard at it. “Doesn’t look familiar t’me.”

  Nokko explained, “That’s ’cos this is the back part. I figgered it’d be safer landin’ on this side. Those carrion birds guard the other side. I’ve seen ’em meself, perched in the trees. Huh, feathery scumwytes, that’s wot I call ’em!”

  No sooner did the logboats nose in to moor at a small inlet, than Bisky leapt onto the shore. He raced off uphill as the rest gathered on the bank. Friar Skurpul stamped his footpaws, grateful to be on solid ground once more. “Burr, ee young Bisky bees in a gurt ’urry.”

  Drawing his blade, Bosie pointed uphill. “Aye, he’s hurrying tae save the wee lassie, just as we should be doin’, ye ken. Garul, you an’ yore Guosim help yon molebeasts tae transport their tackle. Come as fast as ye can. Hearken, the rest o’ ye, follow me, up an’ o’er the hilltop after Bisky. Stay silent, for we dinnae know what awaits us. Come on, mah braw buckoes. Charge!”

  Nokko and Dubble kept pace with Bosie, they thundered uphill. Lances, bows and slings at the ready, Gonfelin warriors, silent and grim-faced, followed them in a life-and-death race to save their Chieftain’s daughter.

  34

  It was noontide in east Mossflower, with scarce a vagrant breeze to stir the thick, green foliage. Skipper Rorgus called a halt beneath a massive old beech. Dwink, thinking it was for his benefit, protested. “I don’t need to rest my footpaw, I can travel on quite a bit yet, Skip.”

  Unshouldering the big provision haversack, the Otter Chieftain sat with his back against the trunk. “Can ye now, Master Dwink, well, I’m pleased to hear it, ’cos I can’t. Foremole an’ me ain’t young uns no more. We likes to rest when we can.”

  Foremole nodded agreement. “Boi ’okey we do, zurr. If’n you’m young uns bees so fulled of h’energy, may’aps ee’d loike to surve us’ns sum vittles.”

  Perrit placed a paw beneath her chin, and gave a charming little curtsy. “As you wish, O ancient and weary ones.”

  Foremole’s face creased in a friendly smile. “You’m a h’imperdent likkle villyun, miz!”

  They dined on soft, white cheese, preserved hazelnuts and beechnuts and a flask of coltsfoot and pennycloud cordial.

  Dwink ruminated as he sat, watching a bee exploring his footpaw dressing. “Well, there’s over half a day gone since we left the Abbey, with nothin’ to show for it.”

 
Skipper reassured him. “But we’ve stuck faithful to the clues, aye, an’ searched high’n’low.”

  Dwink swiped idly at the bee, as it tried to burrow under his paw dressing. “So we have, Skip. Once we’ve eaten an’ rested, we’ll carry on an’ search some more. I suppose that’s wot a quest is all about, eh? Yeeek!”

  Foremole blinked. “Wot’s um matter, maister?”

  Dwink was sucking furiously at his paw. “That bee, he stung me!”

  Skipper corrected the young squirrel. “‘Twasn’t a he, that were a she. Only female bees carry a sting. Here, mate, let me look at it.” Working on Dwink’s paw with a wooden splinter, the otter shook his head. “You shouldn’t have hit it, the bee didn’t mean ye no harm, she was prob’ly just attracted by the smell of Brother Torilis’s herbal salve. There, that’s got it! Rub a dockleaf on yore paw an’ it I’ll be good as new agin.”

  Dwinked complained indignantly, “But I never hit the bee, I just swiped at it, you know, to shoo it off.”

  Foremole chuckled. “You’m never can tell with ee bumblybees. Hurr hurr…. Yoooch! Naow Oi been stunged!”

  Perrit clapped a paw to the side of her neck. “Eeeeh! Me, too, we must be sitting on top of a nest or something!”

  Skipper never shouted out, but he jumped as he was struck on the rudder. He nipped the object out with the splinter he had used on Dwink. Inspecting it, he gathered up the haversack. “Let’s hoist anchor out of ’ere, mates, afore those bees sting us t’death. Come on!”

  They followed Skipper, who cut off at an angle into the trees. He ran for awhile, then halted in a willow grove on a streambank. Throwing aside the haversack, he beckoned the others to him, then spoke in a whisper. “Dwink, that was a real bee wot stung ye, but it wasn’t a bee that got me!”

  Foremole, who had extracted an object from his stomach where he had been hit, held it out to them. “No, nor Oi, Skip, lookit yurr.”

  “Hold still, missy!” Skipper swiftly removed something from the side of Perrit’s neck. He compared all three before giving a verdict. “These are thorns from a gorse bush. If’n I ain’t mistaken, they’re tipped with some sort o’ juice. No bee could’ve done that, we was shot at!”

  Dwink whispered back, “Shot at! By who?”

  The Otter Chieftain unwound the sling from about his lithe waist. “I don’t know, mates, but I aims t’find the rascal. Stop ’ere, an’ don’t stir ’til I gets back. Oh, an’ miz Perrit, bees live in hives, they don’t make nests.”

  Skipper vanished into the trees, like a wraith of smoke on the breeze. Sometimes crouching, crawling on his stomach, alternately hiding behind tree trunks or any available shelter, the otter hunted their foe. He was close to the spot where they had previously stopped, when he heard the voice, low and grumbly. Immobile, Skipper watched from the shelter of a sycamore.

  There the creature was, holding a conversation with herself, wagging a blowpipe at her surroundings. A small, scraggly, thin hedgehog, with prickles greyed by age. She was adorned with stems of sphagnum moss, and garlanded by belts, necklaces and bracelets of dead bee husks, all strung together. From his vantage point, the otter listened to her tirade.

  “Yeeheehee! Learn they must, you see, a painful lesson. Nobeast trespasses on Blodd Apis’s land, you see. They scream with pain, they run away, that’s how it should be, you see!” She danced off, laughing to herself. However, her joy was short-lived.

  As the skinny hog jigged her way past the sycamore, she was caught by Skipper Rorgus. A looped sling landed neatly about her neck, and a javelin prodded her in the back. The otter bellowed at his prisoner, “Move a single spike an’ it won’t be no gorse thorn that’ll strike ye, it’ll be my javelin!”

  Perrit had climbed up into a willow to spy the land. She called down to Dwink and Foremole, “Oh, corks and caterpillars, just wait until you see what Skipper’s bringing to tea. Hah, you’ll never believe this!”

  The Otter Chieftain had his captive on a tight lead, urging her along with his javelin tip. Skipper tied the sling end to a branch, tethering the hedgehog. He showed Dwink the blowpipe, and a small pouch of darts, which he had taken from her. “This is our stingin’ bee, a right nasty liddle piece o’ work if’n ye ask me!”

  Perrit stared pityingly at the old creature. “That sling is too tight about her neck.” She approached the captive in a friendly manner. “Let’s loosen it a bit, shall we.”

  Foremole was just in time to pull Perrit back as the hedgehog leapt at her, exposing a mouthful of filthy, snaggled teeth in a vicious snarl. “Foolish ones, ye soon will be dead, you see! Release Blodd Apis now, or die!”

  Skipper leant on his javelin, ignoring the creature’s threats. “Blodd Apis, eh, that’s an odd sort o’ name.”

  She gagged as she stretched the tethering sling, trying to grab at the otter with dirt-encrusted claws. “Streamdog, I am Blodd Apis, Queen of the Wild Sweet Gatherers. Ye will die the Death of a Thousand Stings if ye do not let me go, you see!”

  Dwink whispered to Perrit, “Did you hear that, the Wild Sweet Gatherers. That’s part of the clue. I think we should question her!”

  The young squirrel addressed Blodd Apis sternly. “Listen, marm, you don’t frighten us one little bit, an’ yore not in a position to kill anybeast right now. So you can stop all that spittin’ an’ snarlin’ an’ answer a few questions!”

  Blodd Apis went into a dance of rage. “You trespass on my land, hold me prisoner! Queen of all bees does not answer questions. You see, until I have your eyes stung out, Blodd Apis will make you plead for death, you see!” Dwink drew back, surprised at the savagery of her outburst.

  Skipper winked at him knowingly. “She’s tryin’ to scare ye, mate, leave this t’me. I can be pretty scary in a scarin’ bout, watch this!” He smiled mockingly at Blodd Apis. “Ahoy there, granny, I reckon yore mouth needs washin’ out, ye naughty liddle pincushion.”

  This seemed to drive Blodd Apis berserk. She threw herself about, spitting and foaming at the mouth as she hurled invective on the heads of her captors. “You see! You see! I will make you scream for mercy! My bees will fly down your ears and sting your brains! Down your mouths and sting your guts! Blodd Apis will turn your bodies into slobbering lumps of agony! You see, you see!”

  Skipper retaliated then. Bounding forward, with slitted eyes and bared teeth, he brandished his javelin in her face, bellowing, “Sharraaaap, ye stupid ole mud beetle! I’m the baddest beast that ever was born! Hah, you see, you see? I’ll tell yer wot I see, silly spikes! I see me hangin’ ye over a fire an’ roastin’ yore prickles off, then I see me slittin’ ye open with me javelin, packin’ yore insides with rocks an’ sinkin’ ye in a deep, muddy swamp! That’s wot I see, see! Aye, an’ I’m just the bucko who can do it! Like this, an’ this an’ this! Hahaaaarr!”

  As he shouted, Skipper began jabbing with the javelin point all about Blodd Apis, missing her by a mere fraction each time. Foremole covered his eyes, whilst the two young ones held their breath, astounded by Skipper’s barbaric outburst. It was a case of the bully being outbullied. Blodd Apis shrank to the ground, whimpering in terror.

  “Aiee, mercy! Spare me, spare me, I was only joking, you see!”

  Skipper Rorgus slammed the javelin point down in the ground alongside her. He growled roughly, “Hoho, jokin’, were ye? Well, I ain’t jokin’. Now, you’ve got a den ’erea-bouts. Don’t argue, take us there right away, afore I really lose me temper!”

  Turning to his friends, he showed them a wide grin, and a broad wink. “Foremole, you take ’er lead. Come on, you, up on those paws, an’ mind yore manners!”

  Blodd Apis led them on a complicated route through the woodlands. As they went, bees travelled with them. A few at first, but building up, until they had a huge mass of the insects buzzing in their wake. Foremole’s tiny eyes widened. “Hurr, may’aps she’m truly ee Queen of bumblybees.”

  The old hog’s den was an arresting sight. It was situated in the dense heart of the woodland. Bac
ked by protruding sandstone ledges, two incredibly ancient yew trees spread their girth, like an annex to the ledges. In the forks of both trees, extending up into the branches, were hives piled upon hives. Some old, some deserted, but many newer ones, showing signs of habitation and great activity by the industrious wild bees. The ground surrounding the bower was thick with scent and colour. Pink bush vetch, red clover, late bluebell, sweet violet and golden tormentil. The air resounded with soft, humming drones of bees, gathering pollen as they sipped nectar.

  Perrit spread her paws joyously. “What scents, and the floor, it’s like, like a…”

  “Coloured carpet?” Dwink suggested.

  Blodd Apis took them into her den beneath the ledges—it was dim and cool. Skipper sat on a low ledge, taking the sling halter from Foremole.

  Gullub Gurrpaw settled himself down gratefully. “Yurr, ’tis vurry peaceable, ee cudd get to loike this place, marm.”

  Blodd Apis had become almost fawning, following her verbal defeat by Skipper. Dwink sat facing her.

  “Now, marm, about those questions. I take it that this is the home of the Wild Sweet Gatherers?”

  She nodded her grey-spiked head. “Always has been, you see. Wild bees can be very dangerous, but they know their Queen, you goodbeasts are safe whilst ye stay in my company, you see, safe with me.”

  Dwink noticed that there were lots of bees buzzing around the ledges. “Well, that’s nice to know. Tell me, have you ever heard about the eye of the serpent, does it mean anything to you?”

  The old hedgehog gave no sign of recognition. “No serpents on Queen Blodd Apis’s land, you see. Snakes do not come around here.”

  Perrit interrupted, “He’s not really talking about a live snake. The eye of the serpent is a stone, like a pigeon egg, but it is green.”