Doomwyte (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  The aged hog showed her snaggle teeth in an ugly grin. “No, young missie, you see I have never seen such a thing. Why do ye seek it?”

  Skipper interrupted, still playing his role as the rough bully, “If’n ye’ve never seen it then wot does it matter to ye what we want with it, eh?”

  At the rear of the ledges, Dwink noticed a number of large pottery urns, covered by woven reed mats. “What’s in those big vases, marm?”

  Blodd Apis sounded evasive. “Nothing, young sir, nothing, you see.”

  Foremole clambered to the back of the ledge. He heaved one of the urns out. “Hurr, nuthin’, you’m say, marm, then let’s take ee lukk at wot nuthin’ looks loike!”

  He took off the covering, revealing a quantity of scented amber liquid. Dipping in a sturdy digging paw, the mole licked it. Licking his lips, he smiled. “Et tasters gurtly sweet!”

  Their captive hastened to explain, “It’s what a Queen lives on, you see, I need no other food but that. I make it from bee honey, try some. It’s very pleasant, you see.” She pointed to a number of beakers nearby. “Please, I know ye’ll like it, ’tis quite harmless and delicious to drink, you see.”

  Skipper set out five of the beakers, but he filled only one from the urn, placing it before Blodd Apis. “There y’are, missus. If’n that stuff’s quite ’armless, then let’s see you drink it!”

  Without hesitation, the skinny old hog took a sip from the beaker. She was about to put it down, when the Foremole held a paw under the vessel.

  “Yurr, drink et all oop loik a guddbeast, cummon, marm!”

  They watched as Blodd Apis happily drained the beaker. “More please, I like it, you see!”

  Perrit giggled. “Well, there can’t be much wrong with the honey drink if she can swig it down like that!” The squirrelmaid filled all the beakers, by dipping them in the urn.

  Dwink took a sip, proclaiming, “Great seasons, this is delicious. What did ye say this was made from, marm?”

  “Just honey from my bees, an’ fresh springwater, nought else, you see,” replied Blodd Apis, raising a full beaker. “But ’tis not to be sipped, you see. The right way is to drink it in one go, like this.” The curious old hedgehog drained the beaker with a single draught, smacking her lips as she cackled, “Just like that, you see!”

  Her four guests did likewise, each giving their verdict. “Bo urr, ee’ll ’ave to tell Oi the ressipery furr ee hunny drink, marm. Ole Corksnout wudd h’enjoy et!”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful, I’ve never tasted anything like it!”

  “I told you, Perrit, absolutely delicious, eh, Skip?”

  The Otter Chieftain refilled all five beakers. “Ye can say that agin, young Dwink, a real pretty drop o’ stuff. Well, mates, good ’ealth to one an’ all!” They quaffed their drinks down swiftly.

  Dwink took the beakers. “Hahaha! My turn now…. Oops!” He chuckled as he dipped the drinking vessels into the big urn. “Nearly toppled in! Hahaha, that’d be a good idea, it’d save havin’ t’fill these beakers up. We could all jump in for a drink!”

  The drinks were downed with alacrity. Skipper refilled them, commenting, “Yore shore ’tis only made of honey an’ springwater, missus, nothin’ else?”

  “Nay, nought but honey and springwater, just as I said, you see.”

  Blodd Apis topped them up again. Perrit took a good swig. She blinked owlishly, staring into the urn. “Funny an’ stringdaughter, eh, very nice!” She hiccupped as she supplied them with more.

  Dwink slopped liquid down his front, swaying to and fro, he sighed happily. “Y’right, Ferrit ole mate. S’nice, veryveyveyvey night. Hahahaha! G’night….” Letting the beaker slip, he curled over, asleep.

  Perrit hiccupped again, then giggled. “Heehee, Drink’s dropped his dwink. Wait, tha’s rot, night. Heeheehee. Whoooogolly me!” Flopping down alongside Dwink, Perrit closed her eyes. Within moments, she was snoring in the most unmaidenly manner.

  Skipper staggered about, eyes rolling as he tried to focus on Blodd Apis. Grabbing his javelin he wagged it at the ancient hog. “You…you did sump’n to that drink, didn’t ye? Hah! If’n anythin’ happens t’my mates, I warn ye, missus.” The Otter Chieftain took a step forward, tripped over his own javelin and fell flat, banging his head on the sandstone ledge. He lay there, senseless to the world.

  Repeatedly, Foremole tried to rise from a sitting position. Each time he slumped back clumsily. He watched Blodd Apis removing the leather sling halter from her neck. “Yurr, marm, bein’ ee h’assistant cellarbeast at ee h’Abby, Oi’m a-knowen ’bout drinks.”

  Taking Foremole’s half-filled beaker, Blodd Apis finished it off in one swallow. “Then ye know ’tis not poison. Never heard of mead, have ye? Mead is just honey an’ springwater mixed. When it’s been sealed up for a season, mead becomes strong, you see. Aye, the longer ’tis stored, the stronger it gets. I gave you an’ yore friends my Special Ten Season Mead. I’ve lived all my life on mead you see, so I’m used to it. Hah, but otherbeasts aren’t, ’tis far too strong for ’em!”

  Foremole blinked blearily, his head dropped. “Hurr, marm, you’m an ’ole villyun, aye, a gurt trickybeast. Fie on ee, you’m maked uz drunken!”

  From her garlands of moss and festooned bee carcasses, Blodd Apis drew forth a woven grass bag. She emptied the contents of the small receptacle onto the ledge. There were two objects: one, a hollow reed tube, stoppered with beeswax at either end to contain the liquid inside. The other was the pigeon’s egg–shaped emerald. It glowed with fabulous green light as she stroked it covetously. “Fools, this is no serpent’s eye, ’tis the Green Star of the Woodlands. Only a Queen may possess it, you see!”

  Foremole raised his head with an effort. “Ho no, marm, that’n bees ee surrpint’s eye, an’ et doan’t berlong to ee at all, burr nay!”

  Blodd Apis hastily stowed the emerald in her bag. Foremole was still trying to rise, when she kicked him back down. There was a wicked glimmer in her eyes. “Stupid soildigger, do ye think the Queen of Wild Bees would let anybeast take the Green Star from her? Both you and your friends will be dead by sunset, you see. Now you will know what it is to feel the Death of a Thousand Stings!”

  The threat of all of them being slain immediately lifted the mead-induced stupor from the good mole. However, he decided not to let the malignant old hedgehog know. Sprawled on his back, he blinked feebly at her. “Burr, you’m wicked rarscal, wot bees you’m plannen?”

  Crouching close to Foremole’s face, Blodd Apis showed him the hollow reed tube. She shook it, so he could hear the liquid inside. “You see this, it is the juice of many wood ants. They are the enemy of my bees. If I were to splash you with just a drop of this juice, you would be attacked and stung to death by my bees, you see!”

  Foremole gave a gentle, rumbling snore, as if he had fallen into a drunken slumber. Blodd Apis kicked him scornfully. “Hah, sleep on, mudbrain, ye will soon wake for the last time, very painfully, you see!”

  For such an ancient creature, the hedgehog was surprisingly strong and resolute. Foremole watched, through half-lidded eyes, as she dragged each of his friends clear of the ledges and surrounding yews into the open. Skipper, being the biggest, was the most difficult. About midway between her den and a small stream, Blodd Apis ceased hauling the otter by his rudder. Next came Perrit, she was a lot easier to lug along. Foremole’s brain was racing as he saw her tugging Dwink along by his long, bushy tail. An idea came to him when he spotted Dwink’s crutch, which had fallen at the foot of the sandstone ledge. He began crawling toward the slumped forms of his companions, muttering aloud drunkenly, “Burr, Oi must foind moi friends, whurr do they bees, mus’ foind ’em, hurrrr!”

  Blodd Apis stood over him, sniggering. “Well, you see, here’s one I don’t need to drag along. Come on, soildigger, here’s your friends, you see, over there. This way!” Prodding her victim with one paw, she carefully held up the hollow reed vial in the other.

  Foremole crawled clumsily forward, stumbli
ng over the shallow ledges as she goaded him on. “Clumsy oaf, not that way, over there, you see?”

  Foremole Gullub rolled over the final ledge, then lay flat on his stomach, hiding the crutch, which he had grabbed, under him. Closing his eyes, he snuffled, and commenced snoring once more.

  This peeved the old hedgehog. Bending down, she cuffed the back of the mole’s head. “Don’t ye go asleep on me, there’s your friends, over there, you see!”

  Knowing his life and the lives of others depended on him, Foremole acted swiftly. Rolling over, he struck out with Dwink’s window-prop crutch. The blow landed hard and true, smashing the reed tube in the hedgehog’s paw, splashing her with the deadly liquid. A few drops fell on his paw. The buzzing noise was beginning to fill the air as Foremole scurried wildly to the stream and threw himself in.

  The screams of Blodd Apis rose to an insane pitch as her bees descended upon her. Hundreds upon hundreds of the maddened insects attacked her savagely, diving, buzzing, stinging.

  Foremole popped his head out of the water, to take a breath. Blodd Apis was not to be seen, she had vanished, still screeching, under the swarming masses of enraged bees. Foremole scrambled out onto the bank. He ran to his friends, splashing water upon them, and smacking out with hefty digging claws.

  “Wake ee oop, zurrs! Skip, mizzy Perrit, Dwink, rouse you’m selfs. Oh, do ’urry! Yooch!” Stung on the ears, Foremole was forced to dive back into the water. A small cloud of bees hovered, humming, over the spot where he had gone down.

  Skipper sat up groaning, his face wet with bankmud and streamwater, and his snout smarting from Foremole’s digging claw. “Ahoy…wot’s goin’ on?…Wake up, mates, look at that thing yonder!”

  Foremole’s head broke the surface again. He spat out water and a bee, bellowing, “They’m slayin’ ee ole ’ogwife, get ee away!”

  Whilst they had not yet been stung, Skipper shook Dwink and Perrit into wakefulness. “We’d best weigh anchor sharpish, mates, those bees have gone crazed!”

  Dwink sat up, nursing a pounding headache. “Ooh me head, what’s all that noise?”

  Perrit was up on her paws—the squirrelmaid was horrified. “Oh, fur’n’blood, is that Blodd Apis?”

  The ancient hedgehog was trying to crawl away, moaning hoarsely, completely covered by bees.

  Ever resourceful, Skipper sprang into the stream. Dragging Foremole to the surface, he covered him with his own body, allowing him breathing space from the hovering bees. Dwink began limping to the den between the yews.

  Perrit chased after him, she was bewildered. “Surely you’re not going back in there?”

  Dwink winced. “Don’t speak so loud, please.”

  The squirrelmaid protested, “I’ve got to, or I wouldn’t be heard over all this buzzing. Surely you’re not going to drink more of that honey drink?”

  Dwink was shoving one of the big pottery urns out into the open. “I’m not going to drink it, but mayhaps the bees might like a drop or two. Let’s get this out where they can scent it!”

  Between them, the pair managed to get four of the pottery mead vessels close to where the bee swarms were still crawling over the now-dead hedgehog. Hurriedly they tipped the urns over, sending the strong, sweet nectar cascading over the grass. Within moments, the bees caught the heavy, aromatic scent. Dwink and Perrit joined Skipper and Foremole in the stream.

  The Otter Chieftain clapped their backs soundly. “Well done, mateys, that was a clever ruse an’ no mistake. Come now, young uns, dunk yore ’eads in the water, ’twill freshen ye up!”

  Dwink and Perrit took the otter’s advice—he was right. Several duckings in cold streamwater was a wonderful cure for their headaches.

  Feeling quite chipper, they emerged to sit on the bank. Skipper attended to Foremole’s stings with a poultice of cool mud and crushed dockleaves. Patting the dressing with a huge digging claw, the mole grinned cheerfully. “Oi wager Oi do lukk gurtly funny wi’ this lot on moi ’ead. Hurr, but et doo’s feel noice, zurr!”

  Perrit left off fluffing her saturated tail. “Noticed anything, mates? The bees aren’t bothering us at all now!”

  Dwink went over to retrieve his crutch; he flicked a bee with the tip of it. The fuzzy insect rolled over on its back, where it lay humming happily. Dwink could not help chuckling. “They won’t bother anybeast for awhile, not as long as they’re drunker than we were.”

  Perrit touched her brow. “Don’t remind me, from now on I’ll take mint tea, or just water. My golly, that honey drink was strong enough to knock a tree over.”

  Foremole wrinkled his velvety snout. “Hurr, they’m bound t’be sum gurt likkle ’eadaches round yurr cumm noightfall. Dwink, moi friend, ee old hogwife has what we cumm a-lookin’ fer, do ee get yon surrpint’s eye, an’ let us’ns begone from yurr!”

  Gingerly turning the body of Blodd Apis over with his crutch, the young squirrel winced at the awful sight. The whole length of her, from snout to spike end, was a mass of red, swollen lumps. Looping the crutch into the woven reed bag fastener, he pulled it clear.

  They admired the green-fired emerald orb awhile, then Skipper popped it back into its container. “We should bury her, mad though she were. Let’s seal her up in her old home.”

  The friends left the old one to her final rest. “Well, buckoes, ’twas a successful search, an’ I’m sure all at Redwall will agree when they sees it.”

  Foremole nodded sagely. “That bees two greeny uns, an’ one red un been founded. Wot doo’s ee say t’that, Maister Dwink?”

  Finding he no longer needed the crutch, Dwink shouldered it, assisting Foremole to his footpaws. “I say let’s go back to Redwall Abbey, mates!”

  35

  Evening had fallen over the wooded hillside above the caves of Korvus Skurr, but its tranquil charm was lost on the black otter. Zaran alternated anxiously betwixt the spot where Spingo was trapped beneath soil and stone, and her lookout post on the sloping poplar trunk. Sword in paw, she perched, peering fretfully for signs of any assistance arriving. Thumping her rudderlike tail on the tree trunk, Zaran hurried back to the two air vents she had made, her fierce eyes creased with worry as she whispered to the Gonfelin maid entombed below the earth and rock. “I think they will be here soon, Spingo, hold on!”

  Lack of air was taking its toll on Spingo. She could hear Zaran’s voice, as if from far off, though she was drifting into blackness, cramped almost double now, pressed in on all sides by sandy, sifting soil, and the mighty sandstone slab. Avoiding thoughts of her inevitable fate, the young mousemaid pictured images. Her father, Nokko, the Gonfelin Pikehead; Filgo, her mother; Bisky, the young Redwaller who had become her dear friend. Special moments of her brief life, feasting in the Abbey orchard, surrounded by happy creatures. A tear squeezed out onto her dusty cheek at these fond memories.

  Then the voice came, soft as misty summer morn. “Friends are near, live to enjoy life in my Abbey with one who cares for you.”

  Hearing no reply to her words, Zaran called louder, “Spingo, hear me, I am Zaran, your friend. Speak, say something!”

  “I’ve brought help, Zaran, is she still alive?”

  The black otter turned to see Bisky, flanked by Nokko and Dubble, emerging from the trees behind her. She cautioned them, “Stay clear of the airholes I have made. I cannot get Spingo to answer me.”

  Nokko bit down hard on his lip. “She’s me daughter y’know, marm, she’s got t’be alive, d’ye hear me, Spingo’s too precious t’lose!” He made a move to shout down the two tiny vents.

  Dubble locked his paws about Nokko, lifting him clear. “Stay clear, sir, leave it t’the molecrew, they’ll soon be ’ere.”

  Bisky sat down on the ground, staring westward at the last scarlet tinges of a descending sun. Zaran stared curiously at him—his eyes seemed distant. “Friend, are you alright, what is it?”

  The young Redwall mouse blinked, coming out of his sudden trance. He grabbed the black otter’s paw. “She’s alive, I know it, Spingo�
��s alive!”

  Zaran pulled him upright. “How do you know this?”

  Friar Skurpul came trundling onto the scene. “Hurr, prob’ly ’cos Marthen ee Wurrier spake to ’im, marm. Naow, all you’m guddbeasts coom out’n moi way!”

  Without enquiry or question, Bisky, Dubble and Zaran moved aside as the molecrew came in, with Guosim shrews bearing their digging gear. Skurpul moved rapidly about, marking the earth with a small pawpick.

  “Roight, naow, iffen ee maid bees stuck unner thurr, we’m gotten to be diggen two long, slopen tunnels. Lissen naow, yurr’s moi plan.”

  Nokko was not very familiar with moletalk. Bisky could see how anxious he was about Spingo, so he translated Skurpul’s scheme to the Gonfelin Chief. “Friar Skurpul plans on having his crew dig two tunnels, one from the left, the other from the right. Owing to the soft earth, they’ll start a short distance away. The tunnels will slope gradually, instead of going straight down, with molecrew shoring up the holes as they go. Spingo will be reached from both sides when the tunnels are completed. Do you see the oak tree on the left, and the big sycamore on the right, sir?”

  Nokko looked from one tree to the other. “Aye, I sees ’em Bisko, are they part o’ the plan?”

  Bisky nodded. “Right, sir, the moles will attach two of their longest ropes, one to each tree, as a safety measure, that way they’ll be able to haul Spingo, and themselves, back out again. Don’t worry, if anybeast can reach your daughter it’ll be Friar Skurpul and his molecrew. There’s no better diggers in all Mossflower!”

  By now, the full complement of Guosim and Gonfelins had arrived. Nokko turned to Skurpul. “Is there anythin’ we kin do to ’elp youse?”

  The black otter Zaran answered for the Friar. “We help by letting moles do their job. If you need something to do, then arm yourselves and watch the cave entrance below. Danger could come from that place. Baliss is in there, and Wytes, carrion birds, many reptiles also.”

  Garul, the new Log a Log, drew his rapier, nodding to Nokko, who was stringing a bow. “Wot d’ye say, Pikehead, shall our buckoes stand sentry?”