Brian Jacques - Redwall #21 - Doomwyte

The young mouse arched his back in agony, but she continued raking until he called out aloud, “Stop, I hear ye, please stop!”

The torment ceased as she helped the others to haul her son up. Having wiped away his tears, they sat him on the broad limb, a safe distance away from Bisky. They all began stroking and comforting the young Painted One, as they glared at the captive.

Bisky studied them; he had heard of Painted Ones before, but this was his first face-to-face encounter with the savage vermin. They looked like primitive throwbacks of some bygone age, small for rats, but very wiry and agile. Their teeth were filed into sharp points, and their snouts pierced with bone ornaments. Painted Ones covered their bodies with heavy plant dyes, black and dark green. All sorts of straggly vegetation, weeds, vines, leaves and creepers, draped about them like kilts and cloaks, completed the camouflage. Bisky judged by the rustlings and comings and goings all about that there was a great number of the vermin in the five-topped oak, and other nearby trees. All in all, a fierce and barbaric tribe.

Jeg’s mother, Tala, hugged her son close, peering maliciously at Bisky. Jeg stuck out his lower lip, in a sulky manner. “Dat mouse hurted me stummick, an’ I weren’t doin’ nothin’ to ’im!”

Bisky shouted an angry reply. “Ye rotten liar, you were biting me!”

Tala seized a long willow withe from one of the others, and slashed Bisky across his face. “Shuddup, who asked yew t’speak, mouse?”

Jeg set up a blubbering wail, a ruse he often used to get his own way. He pointed a grimy claw at Bisky. “Badmouse! Yew should be slayed! I want ’im killed, Mamee Tala, let Jeg kill d’badmouse!”

Tala stroked her son’s scraggy ears, murmuring soothingly. “Nono, yore Dadda Chigid never said nothin’ about killin’ d’mouse, yew’ll haveter ask ’im!”

Jeg went into a real tantrum then. Wrenching himself free of his mother’s embrace, he climbed into the foliage, and began hurling down twigs and leaves. “My dadda’s the Tribechief, I’ll tell ’im all about yew’s lot. Letting’ d’mouse hurt me stummick, an’ not lettin’ me kill ’im. Yore a bad mammee, yore all bad. My dada will beat yew all for bein’ nasty t’me!”

Bisky flinched as an acorn hit him in the eye. Blinking up at the spoiled young vermin, he found himself murmuring, “I’d like to leave you a day with Brother Torilis, huh, he’d soon teach you a few manners!”

Tala went off to the tunnel hole, to watch for her husband’s return. She took some of her companions with her, leaving three to guard the prisoner.

Bisky tested his bonds by tugging them. They were too well tied for any escape to be possible. He tried them again, but after receiving another slash from the willow withe, he gave up. The young mouse hung there, with bowed head, trying to ignore his bruises and scrapes, wondering how his friends were faring.

Back at Redwall Abbey the two Dibbuns, Furff and the very small mousebabe, had become the hero and heroine of the season. Sister Violet had denied any part in the death of the big raven inside the belltower. Besides being a fat, jolly hedgehog, she was also very tenderhearted, and could not admit a part in the death of anybeast, friend or foe. So, it was left to the two Dibbuns to claim the notoriety, which they did, with absolutely no pretence to modesty, or truth. The raven had been displayed out by the main gate prior to being consigned to the ditch outside. Redwallers viewed it, with awed observations as to its size and ferocity.

“Buhurr, jus’ lukk at ee talyons on yon burd!”

“Aye, and the beak, too, imagine getting a peck off that?”

The tiny mousebabe, draped in a cloak which was ten sizes too large for him, strutted shamelessly back and forth, keeping the onlookers at bay. He waved a ladle, his chosen weapon, and a pan lid, which served as a shield, cautioning everybeast, “Don’t not better get too close, y’might get hurted!”

Furff was in her element, she had appropriated one of Friar Skurpul’s vegetable skewers, which she kept jabbing in the direction of the raven’s carcass, muttering darkly, “Good job Umfry wasn’t ringin’ the bells, the big bird woulda gotted ’im!”

It was not long before Brother Torilis appeared on the scene, complaining to the Abbot, “Really, Father, how long is this disgusting spectacle to continue? Wouldn’t it be wise to remove that object from the premises? It makes me sick just looking at it!”

Abbot Glisam was forced to agree with Torilis. “Aye, Brother, I thought I’d just let our Dibbun warriors bask in the glory for a moment or two. Mister Spikkle, will you help the Brother and me to haul this thing out and tip it into the ditch?”

Corksnout tugged a dutiful headspike at Glisam. “Aye, Father, but I kin do it meself, no reason for you two gennelbeasts to soil yore paws, leave it t’me.”

Brother Torilis breathed an inward sigh of relief, knowing he would loathe touching the dead raven. “Thank you kindly, Cellarhog, I’m obliged t’you.”

The tiny mousebabe interrupted gruffly, “That bees our job, me’n’Furff, we drag ’im out!”

Judging the size of both infants to the raven, the Abbot hid a smile. He took both their paws. “I’ve got a much better idea, why don’t we honour our two warriors with a feast by the Abbey pond, eh?”

No second bidding was needed. The two raven slayers, surrounded by a host of their friends, stampeded off in the direction of the pond, roaring and whooping. “A feast, a feast! Redwaaaaaallllll!”

Brother Torilis followed in the Abbot’s wake, still with a note of complaint in his voice as he watched the charge of the Dibbuns. “But what about bedtime? It’s evening already.” He was almost knocked flat from a buffet on the back by Sister Violet.

“Oh, you can go to bed right now if you’re tired, Brother. We’re going to the feast!”

Abbot Glisam winked at the jolly Sister. “Well said, friend, come on, I’ll race you!”

Torilis cast a stern eye at their receding backs, then continued with his own measured pace.

Friar Skurpul had already been told about the feast, he had the orchard laid out wonderfully. The squirrelmaid Perrit had set out all the food on woven rush mats. Not having to sit on chairs at table was a novelty for the little ones. Moreso, when the Abbot and elders joined them on the grass. Friar Skurpul caused much merriment amidst the Abbeybabes by addressing the Father Abbot as though he were a naughty Dibbun.

“You’m moind yurr manners, Glisam, an’ keep ee paws clean, moi laddo. Dugry, keep yurr eye on that un an’ doan’t let ’im go a-jumpin’ abowt!”

Abbot Glisam’s reply caused further hilarity. “What, me jump about? It’ll take four of you to lift me back up onto my paws after this!”

Even before they had taken a bite of the delicious food, the Dibbuns were up and dancing, pulling mock bellropes and stamping their tiny footpaws to an impromptu song. The very small mousbabe roared out the lines, which (with a lot of help from Sister Violet) he had composed. What it lacked in melody and meter, the song made up for in raucuous exuberance.

“Ho we make’d the bad bird fall down dead,

Fall down dead! Fall down dead!

We pulled onna ropes an’ he falled on his head,

Faaalled…on…his…head!

The naughty bird was goin’ to eat us all,

Eat us all! Eat us all!

’Til us pulled the ropes an’ make’d him fall.

Riiiight…on…his…head!

Y’won’t see that ole bird no more

’Cos his head went crack onna Belltower floor.

Bing bong! Ding dong! Boom crash bang!

The bird falled down anna bells all rang!”

Out at the main gate, Corksnout Spikkle was hauling the raven’s carcass out to the ditch. The taloned limbs stuck out stiffly. Facing the bird’s carcass, the big Cellarhog took one in each paw, and began pulling. His imitation cork nose slid down beneath his chin as he strained away. Adjusting it, Corksnout mopped his brow, turning to address his thoughts to the dead bird. “Whew! I didn’t figger on you bein’ so ’eavy. Still, ye are…beg pardon, I mean was, a fine, big lump of a featherbag. Huh, I should’ve let the Father an’ Torilis ’elp me.”