Brian Jacques - Redwall #21 - Doomwyte

“Stan’ there, don’t budge, or I make yer sorry!” The sling was lowered again, and bound jointly around them. They were hoisted roughly up onto the broad limb they had formerly occupied.

Dubble sighed wearily as the guards bound their forepaws to the bough above their heads. He appealed to them, “Oh come on, mates, y’know we can’t escape. Why are ye stringin’ us up like this agin?”

Jeg smiled maliciously. “’Cos yer gotta stay like that ’til I says so!”

The young Guosim shrew snarled back at him, “Ye scringin’ liddle worm, if’n my paws were loose I’d batter ye to a pulp!”

Jeg flogged at the defenceless Dubble with his switch, yelling shrilly, “Well, yer paws ain’t loose, so I’ll batter yew to a pulp. Stoopid watermousey!”

The willow switch snapped, leaving Jeg with only a short stub. Despite the beating he had taken, Dubble began taunting him. “Dearie me, broke yore toy have ye? Go an’ cry to yore mammee for a new one!”

Jeg grabbed some mushrooms from the sacks. He hurled them at Dubble and Bisky angrily. “Hah! That’s all the vikkles yew two are gettin’. I’ll make sure ya starve t’death!” Shoving guards out of his way, the young tree rat dashed off into the higher foliage.

Bisky shook his head at Dubble. “If ye keep teasin’ him like that he will end up beatin’ you, or both of us, to death, mate. Why don’t ye just let him be?”

The young shrew gritted his teeth stubbornly. “I’ve been punished by bigger’n’tougher beasts than that liddle spoiled brat!”

Bisky decided not to provoke his friend by arguing. Closing his eyes, he let his head hang limply.

Night’s starry canopy descended over the woodlands. Both captives sagged, falling into an exhausted slumber. The Painted Ones had eaten; they did not bother lighting a fire down on the ground. Secure in their five-topped oak, and the surrounding trees, the vermin did not mount any guards. Each went to their own group, nestling in the forks of boughs, or huddling on broad limbs. Gradually the atmosphere slid into a relaxed drowsiness.

Bisky felt a footpaw kick him into wakefulness. It was Dubble, the shrew was ready and alert. He whispered to his companion, “Have ye still got yore sharp flint, matey?”

Keeping his voice low, the Redwaller replied, “Aye, for all the good it’d do us. How can I reach it with my paws bound up like this?”

Dubble shook his head. “I got the same trouble, friend. Mine’s in me belt. I’ve got no chance o’ getting’ at it. Any bright ideas?”

For answer, Bisky reached out with his footpaws, by swinging them; he hit Dubble’s stomach. His fellow captive gave an irate snort.

“Didn’t Jeg beat me enough, have you gotta have a go!”

The young mouse cautioned him, “Keep y’voice down, mate, I’ve got a plan. Now, shove yore belly out toward me, so I can see that flint in yore belt.”

Dubble obeyed wordlessly. Bisky started to swing his body to and fro, each time touching his friend’s stomach. He could see the glitter of the flint in the starlight. Making an extra effort, he swung harder, grunting as his footpaws trapped the shard of flint between them.

Dubble hissed excitedly, “Hah, ye got a good grip on it there, mate. Well done, matey. Wot now?”

Arching his back, Bisky groaned in pain. “Ooohh, my paws are all swelled, with jiggin’ about on this rope, it’s really hurtin’ me. Listen, I’m goin’ to rest a moment afore I carry on.”

The Guosim shrew gnawed his lip with concern. “Don’t let go o’ that flint, Bisky. Is there anythin’ I can do t’help ye, bucko?”

Trying to ignore the stinging numbness in his tightly bound forepaws, the young mouse gasped, “Aye there’s two things ye can do. When I give the word, suck yore stomach in. It’ll make it easier for me to pull the flint out with my footpaws. Once I’ve got it I’ll try a high kick. D’ye think ye could catch the flint in yore mouth if I could lift it that far, mate?”

His companion chuckled. “You just try me!”

With both footpaws tightly clutching the flint shard, Bisky gave the word. “Now!” Dubble inhaled, pulling in his stomach hard. The belt slackened, and Bisky swiftly tugged the flint free. He dangled back and forth, holding the flint, his face creased in agony.

Dubble muttered urgently, “Try an’ swing yoreself up, mate, afore yore paws give ye too much pain. I’m ready, Bisky, swing now!”

With one last, desperate effort, the Redwall mouse levered himself forward, kicking upward. He lost the flint, it slipped from the grasp of his footpaws, revolving in the air. Dubble gave a small squeak of dismay as it struck the tip of his snout. However, he had the presence of mind to toss his head back, catching the flint shard neatly in his open mouth.

It was an effort for Bisky to raise his face; he smiled through the agonised tears which squeezed from the corners of each eye. “That was a good trick, mate, ye’ll have to teach it t’me sometime.”

Dubble never replied—he was busy mouthing the flint into a more useful position. Grunting with exertion he angled his neck awkwardly askew. Hoisting himself upward by his bound forepaws, he began sawing at the nearest rope.

Bisky murmured encouragement to the young Guosim. “C’mon, you can do it, cully, chop that ole rope to shreds, an’ let’s be shut o’ this stinkin’ place!”

Clenching the flint with his teeth, Dubble made strained grunting noises as he sawed furiously. It was a good, sharp-edged flint—strands rapidly twisted away from the rope. Then the shrew gave a mighty tug. He stared upward at the severed rope, hanging by one paw, grinning triumphantly.

“Good ole us, we did it! Stay there, I’ll be with ye in two shakes of a newt’s tail!”

Despite his pain, Bisky chuckled. “I’ll stay here, seein’ as I can’t go anyplace until ye cut my ropes.”

Once they were both free, the two friends sat awhile on the oak limb, waiting for the circulation to ease their forepaws. Bisky asked, “We’ve got a couple of hours afore dawnlight. Which way should we go when we get out of this tree?”

Dubble shrugged. “I ain’t got a blinkin’ clue, mate. I thought you knew yore way round this neck o’ the woods. One thing I do know, though, we should get as far and as fast away from this place as we can.”

Making their way down the five-topped oak was extremely perilous. Painted Ones slept in the most unexpected nooks of the big tree. Fortunately the tree rats were all heavy sleepers. In the lower terraces of the mighty oak, they came across Jeg. The young rat was curled up in a broad fork, alongside his mother and father, Chigid and Tala.

At the sight of their hated foe, Dubble’s teeth began chattering with rage. Bisky threw a paw across his friend’s mouth, whispering, “Not worth it, mate, we could be caught again.”

The shrew allowed himself to be led away. Casting a final hate-filled glare at Jeg, he murmured, “Someday we’ll cross trails agin…. Someday!”

The woodland floor felt good underpaw again—exhilaration coursed through the two friends’ veins. Not being certain of any route or direction, they set off speedily into the thickest tree cover. Mossflower was completely silent, the heavy loam thick and soft underpaw, with the tree canopy overhead shielding any star or moonlight, making the woodlands a realm of total darkness.

Dubble laughed nervously. “If’n ye see any twinklin’ lights tryin’ to lead us someplace, ignore ’em mate, they’re trouble.”

Bisky gripped his friend’s paw firmly. “They’re worse than trouble, mate, they’re Wytes.”

It was still dark when they emerged into a clearing. Bisky splashed into a tiny streamlet which flowed through it. Immediately they threw themselves down, drinking the cold, clear water greedily. Bisky splashed some across his face. “Mmm, that feels good. I hadn’t realised I was so thirsty, how about you?”