Doomwyte (2 page)

“Leave ’em alone, stoopid, if’n ye try to grab ’em they might fly off alt’gether!”

But Slegg ignored him and chased after the twinkling lights, crowing like an infant. “Cummere, liddle mateys, ole Slegg won’t ’urt ye, come to me now, I knows ye won’t burn me. Stand on me paws an’ I’ll carry ye for awhile.”

He chased the four flames with outstretched paws, bumbling and stumbling as he dashed headlong through the storm-buffeted woodlands. Almost mockingly, the quartet of eerily glowing lights stayed nearly, but not quite, within the rat’s reach.

Gridj, not relishing being left alone amidst the nightdark trees, chased after Slegg, calling, “Yore gonna git lost good’n’proper if’n ye don’t slow down, I warn ye!”

Then Gridj tripped on a protruding root and went down face-first. Spitting out dirt, and pawing mud from his eyes, he peered about into the rainy gloom. “Slegg, where are ye?”

The older rat’s reply seemed to come from directly ahead. It was the cry of a beast in trouble. “Gridj…mate…O ’elp me, I’m guuuuurrrrggghhh!”

There was no sight of the four pale lights. Gridj went forward on all fours, shouting, “Wot’s ’appened, mate? Slegg, are yew alright?” Alarm bells went off in Gridj’s head as he felt his paws beginning to sink into the suddenly soft woodland floor. Pulling himself loose, he scrabbled backward until his back encountered a purple willow. Grabbing a bough of the tree, he hauled himself upright, staring in horror.

The four twinkling lights were flickering around Slegg’s head. He had run straight into a swamp, and was sinking at an alarming rate. Frozen with horror, Gridj could only watch as his companion’s head, illuminated by the lights, sank further. Slegg’s final gurgle was stifled by a fearful sucking noise, then he was gone forever.

Rigid with terror, Gridj watched the lights sweep around him. Frightened out of his wits, he babbled, “Stay away from me, wot d’yer want, why did ye lead me pore mate inter the swamp like that, we weren’t doin’ ye no harm, we was only goin’ t’the seashore, ’twasn’t our fault we got lost….”

Cruel claws seized Gridj, ramming his head hard into the tree trunk. A net was thrown over him and secured tightly. Through the net holes he gazed, half-stunned, at the pale lights dancing closer.

A harsh voice hissed, “Hakkah, the Doomwytes have got you now, rat!” His head was banged against the tree trunk again. Gridj fell into the dark pit of senselessness, all hopes of visiting the seashore gone forever.

Brother Torilis rapped briefly on the Abbot’s chamber door before entering. He bore a steaming beaker to the bedside. “Good morning, Father Abbot, did you sleep well?”

The Abbot of Redwall, a fat, old, hairy-tailed dormouse named Glisam, sat up slowly, removing his tasselled nightcap. Sighing, he gazed out into the grey dawn. “Not much change in the weather, Brother.”

Torilis placed the beaker on the table, close to paw. “That wind has died down. ’Tis not a cold day, but still raining, I’m afraid, Father.”

Abbot Glisam got creakily out of bed, lowering himself gingerly into his favourite armchair. “Rain and the rheumatiz go together, y’know. My poor old joints are creaking like a rusty gate.”

The Herbalist moved the beaker closer to Glisam. “That’s why I brought you musselshell and agrimony broth. You’ll feel better once you’ve taken it.”

Glisam used his nightgown sleeves to protect his paws against the hot beaker. He pulled a wry face as he took a perfunctory sip.

“Sometimes I think I’d be better off just putting up with the rheumatiz. This stuff tastes foul, absolutely horrid!”

Brother Torilis ignored his Abbot’s protest. “You must drink it up, every drop. Sea otters brought those musselshells all the way from the north beach rocks, and I scoured the ditchsides to get that agrimony. The broth is a sovereign remedy for rheumatism in older creatures. Drink!”

The fat, old dormouse kept sipping under the pitiless eye of the stern squirrel. When the last drop was drained, Glisam tossed the beaker down on the table. “Yakkkblech! Rotten broth, it’ll kill me before it cures me, mark my words, Brother!”

The Abbey’s head cook, Friar Skurpul, came bustling in, a jolly mole in his prime season. “Burrhoo, zurr h’Abbot, Oi bringed ee a candy chesknutter, hurr, ’twill taken ee narsty taste away!”

Glisam gratefully accepted the candied chestnut. Cramming it in his mouth, he munched away at the sweet tidbit. “Mmm mmm, thankee, friend!”

The good Friar helped his Abbot get dressed. “Yurr naow, this un’s a noice clean habit. Oi warmed it on ee kitching oven furr ee, zurr.”

Glisam nestled into the clean, warm garment. “Ooh, that’s comfy, better than all those stinky concoctions for rheumatiz. I feel better already!”

Brother Torilis merely sniffed. “That will be my broth working. Shall we go down to breakfast, Father? You have to hear young Bisky, I put him on report last night.”

Leaning on Torilis and the Friar, Abbot Glisam went haltingly downstairs, speaking his thoughts aloud, mainly to Skurpul. “Dearie me, what’s poor young Bisky been up to now? I do so hate to sit in judgement, dishing out penalties and punishments, especially to young uns.”

Torilis kept his eyes straight ahead, declaring firmly, “Well, that is one of the duties of a Father Abbot. Things can’t always be candied chestnuts and warm robes, can they?”

Glisam patted the Brother’s paw. “You’re right, Torilis, thank you for reminding me of my responsibilities. You know, sometimes I wonder about being Father Abbot of Redwall Abbey. Mayhaps I might have been better suited as a cook, a gardener or even a Gatekeeper.”

Friar Skurpul chuckled. “Nay, zurr, you’m bees a h’Abbot, an’ gurtly beluvved boi all, hurr aye!”

No matter what the occasion, Glisam seldom lacked an appetite. He shuffled eagerly to his seat at top table. Redwall’s Great Hall was packed with mice, squirrels, hedgehogs, moles, otters and sundry other woodlanders. Everybeast rose as the Abbot came to table and recited morning grace.

There was a clatter of benches as the Redwallers seated themselves. Helpers were busy lighting extra lanterns to brighten the hall; outside it was still raining and overcast. Between the tall fluted sandstone columns, long stained-glass windows echoed to the continued patter of raindrops. Water running down the panes of many-coloured rock crystal glass created a liquid pattern of various hues, casting a soft rainbow effect upon the worn stone floor. The Abbot gazed at it, letting his thoughts wander. It was many seasons since he had been appointed to his exalted position, but he was still a humble beast, the first dormouse ever to reign as Father of the legendary Abbey. A squirrelmaid server broke into his reverie.

“Mornin’, Father, will ye be takin’ some oatmeal?”

Glisam nodded. “Half a bowl please, Perrit.”

She measured it from a steaming cauldron on her trolley. “Honey, too, Father?”

Glisam smiled at her, she was extremely pretty and neat. “Oh, yes please, and some nutflakes if you’d be so good, Perrit. Hmm, and mayhaps a few slivers of fruit.”

Deftly, she dribbled clear golden honey on the oatmeal, adding flakes of almond, chestnut and hazelnut, topping the bowl off with some crystallised slices of apple, pear and autumn berries.

The Abbot dug his spoon in, stirring it all up. “Thank you, that’s just the way I like it!”

Duty servers went back and forth between the diners, distributing the delicious fare for which the ancient Abbey was so renowned. Bread in different shaped rolls, farls and loaves, hot and crusty from the ovens, honey or preserves to spread upon it. Oatmeal, scones and savoury pasties were passed to and fro amidst the beakers of fruit juice and hot herbal teas.

Sitting on the Abbot’s right, Rorgus, the Skipper of Otters, used his keen-edged dagger to peel a russet apple in one winding, unbroken ribbon. He murmured to Glisam, directing his gaze to a solitary figure seated apart at the edge of the bottom table, “Torilis tells me that young Bisky’s got hisself in the soup agin, Father. On report, ain’t he?”

The Abbot accepted a slice of the russet apple from the otter’s bladetip, and nibbled on it. “Aye, I’m afraid he is, Skip. Why can’t that young scamp behave himself?”

Friar Skurpul’s older brother, Foremole Gullub Gurrpaw, seated on the Abbot’s left, emitted a deep bass guffaw. “Ahurrhurrhurr! A ’coz ee’m young, zurr, they’m young uns allus a-gittin’ in trubble, ’tis gudd fun. Wot bees the point o’ bein’ a young un if’n ee carn’t git into trubble, I arsk ee!”

Abbot Glisam poured himself some hot mint tea. “Well, let’s hope the trouble Bisky got into isn’t too bad. Then I won’t have to come down on him with a heavy paw.”

After breakfast, Abbot Glisam went down to Cavern Hole. It was not as huge as Great Hall, but still quite a comfortable, roomy chamber, frequently used by Redwallers. At present, Samolus Fixa was the only beast there, busy renovating a well-worn table. Samolus could repair anything, hence the tag, Fixa, which he had earned in bygone seasons. He was a mouse of indeterminate age, old, but very spry, and always active, with a sharp, intelligent mind.

Abbot Glisam sat in a corner niche, which had a cushioned ledge. When the weather outdoors was not good, he could often be found there, usually enjoying a post-breakfast nap. He spoke to Samolus. “Giving that table the tidy-up treatment, eh, Fixa?”

The old mouse put aside his mallet and pegs. “Aye, Father, this is still a fine bit o’ furniture, almost as old as you or I.”

Glisam smiled. “I didn’t think anything was that old, friend, even a table. Still, you’re making a fine job of it—is it almost finished?”

Samolus pressed the tabletop hard, trying to shake it. “Almost, Father. I’ve put new pegs between the joints and spruced it up with my little block plane. Nice wood, a good piece of elm.” He smoothed the top with his paw. “See the grain, it’ll look twice as pretty after a fair rubbing with beeswax, ’twill be good as new!”

The Abbot was about to take a closer look at the elm topgrain when Brother Torilis entered, beckoning curtly at the pair who were following. “Step lively, you two, come on. Stand up straight in front of Father Abbot, shoulders back, chins up!”

Glisam raised an eyebrow at the Brother. “You told me there was only onebeast on report.”

Torilis glared at the young squirrel, Dwink. “This one chose to pick an argument with me. He became insolent, so I put him on report, too.”

Bisky blurted out, shaking his head vigorously, “It had nothin’ t’do with Dwink, I started it, Father!”

Dwink pointed a paw at himself, raising his voice. “Don’t listen to him, Father, I whacked him with a pillow, that’s wot started it all. I just got fed up of hearing Bisky tellin’ fibby stories!”

Torilis stamped a sandalled footpaw on the floor. “Silence, you’ll speak only when you’re spoken to!”

Bisky ignored the Brother, turning his wrath on Dwink. “They’re not fibby lies, that was a true story about Prince Gonff. I know it for a fact, see, ’cos my ole grandunk told me, ain’t that right, Samolus?”

The Abbot stood up, waving his paws until order was restored. He shook his head in bewilderment. “What is all this about, will somebeast please tell me?”

Torilis replied dramatically, “Father, it’s all about a noisy pillow fight in the dormitory!”

Abbot Glisam scratched his bushy tail in agitation. “Well, who’s ‘Grandunk,’ and what’s he got to do with it?”

Samolus placed himself between Torilis and the accused pair of young ones. “I’m Grandunk, least that’s wot Bisky calls me. Aye, an’ he’s every right to. From wot I’ve heard I think I can reason this out, Father. So let’s calm down an’ I’ll tell ye wot I know of it, eh?”

Torilis drew himself up to his full height, glaring down his nose at Samolus Fixa. “We are here on a matter of an Abbot’s Report. I don’t see what it has to do with the like of you!”

“Brother!” Glisam interrupted sharply. “Hold your tongue, please, and don’t speak to Samolus in that manner. Let’s all sit down and hear what our friend has to say. Samolus?”

The old mouse bowed. “Thank ye, Father Abbot.” He took up the narrrative. “My family goes back to the very founding of Redwall Abbey. I have made a record of it from Sister Violet’s archive collection in the Gatehouse. Martin the Warrior, our hero and founder, had, as you know, a lifelong companion, Gonff, the Prince of Mousethieves. I can trace my descent right back to the family Gonffen, as they later became known. During my research it became evident that young Bisky was also from a distant branch of the Gonffens. Two or three times removed, I believe, but still in the same bloodline of Prince Gonff.”

There was quiet snort from Brother Torilis.

The Abbot cast him a reproving glance. “Brother, if you have other chores to attend, kindly leave us. Obviously you are cynical of our friend’s claims, but I for one believe him.”

Torilis arose, stalking frostily off. Bisky and Dwink exchanged grins as their Abbot spoke.

“Carry on, Samolus, this sounds most interesting.”

The old mouse tugged his tail respectfully. “With yore permission, Father, I’ll carry on workin’ as I tell the tale. Marvellous how a job can help a beast like meself t’think clearly!”

All three listened intently as the story unfolded.

Bedraggled, wet, hungry and cold, Griv the magpie flew in circles. She had been flying all night; due to the storm, she had been blown off course several times. Now she was lost. Thankfully, the wind had subsided, but there was still heavy rain to contend with. On an impulse, Griv soared high into the dreary grey skies, searching the ground below until she found her bearings. There off to the left was the huge, rocky, forested mound. Winging to one side, the magpie zoomed down to where a meandering stream skirted the smaller foothills. Griv made an awkward landing in the lower boughs of a downy birch. With the quick, jerky head movements common to magpies, she righted her perch, giving voice to several harsh cries.

Four carrion crows appeared, as if from nowhere. Three stopped on the streambank, whilst their leader landed on the bough, alongside Griv. His hooded head cocked to one side as he addressed the magpie aggressively. “Haaark! What does the longtail do in this place?”

Griv was not intimidated, she rasped back at him, “Garraah! My business is with the Doomwyte, Korvus Skurr. He alone awaits my news.”

Veeku, leader of the carrion crows, smoothed his shiny black plumage with a sharp beak, as if considering Griv’s words. Then he nodded once. “Haark, you will follow us!”

Close by the stream, in the base of the hill, was an opening. Thickly growing reedgrass almost hid it from view. Escorted by the crows, Griv flew inside. It was a winding tunnel—they were forced to land and walk the remainder of the way. The filter of outside daylight died away as they progressed along the tunnel; a few torches and firefly lanterns illuminated their path. Rounding a bend in the rock-walled passage, Griv gasped at the sudden onslaught of sulphur fumes. The atmosphere became extremely humid, a sickly green glow bathed the tunnel in eerie light. Strange noises echoed from further ahead, like liquid boiling in a giant cauldron. This was interspersed with squeals, grunts, shrieks and the harsh chatter of big birds.

Griv and her crow escort emerged into an immense cave. The sight resembled some infernal nightmare from the brain of a madbeast. High up in the poisonous, mist-wreathed recesses of the vast ceiling, water dripped from limestone stalactites. Further down, the walls glistened with crusted filth, rotting matter spotted with violently hued patches of fungi. Heaps of protruding, decayed and yellowed bones were piled up against the lower walls, quivering with a life of their own, as spiders and cockroaches hunted the countless squirming, wriggling insects who inhabited the nauseous debris. All around this hideous scene, birds were perched everywhere. There were a few magpies, like Griv, but the rest were dark carrion birds, jackdaws, choughs, crows and rooks. It was the crows who outnumbered the others.