Brian Jacques - Redwall #21 - Doomwyte

Samolus watched, fascinated, as the thick, loathsome coils bunched and straightened like steel springs. Everybeast stayed motionless, unscathed, whilst the monster careened madly past the dry watercourse, along the trail and up into the clearing ahead. Samolus, his voice shaky from shock, stared at Dwink and Umfry. “See, ye never know wot ye’ll run into at night in these woodlands. I hope you young Guosim realise that, too!”

However, Marul and Tenka, like the rest of the Guosim, had an all-consuming terror of snakes. The effect that Baliss had upon them was one of total fear. They lay shivering and moaning softly, unable to control themselves. Watching Tugga Bruster whimpering and cringing on the ground, Bosie turned to Skipper, remarking, “Would ye ken he was the braw beastie who was going tae run ye through with his blade this evenin’?”

The otter shook his head. “Aye, our Guosim mates won’t be much use for awhile. But I’ll tell ye, Bosie, that snake was actin’ very strange.”

The hare chuckled drily, holding up his bandaged paws. “Ah’ve nae doubt the beastie is, Skip, an’ so would ye be if’n ye had half o’ Corksnout’s bottom spikes lodged in yore gob. Hah, Ah’ll wager auld Torilis would laugh himself clear intae next season, if’n he could get his bonny big scissors tae work on that un!”

Baliss could be heard hissing and throwing himself around the clearing up ahead. Knowing they had little to fear from the snake, providing they avoided him, the Redwallers set about trying to help the Guosim recover. Bosie hauled Tugga upright, shaking him soundly.

“Och, straighten yersel’ up, laddie. No Chieftain should be seen blubberin’ an’ cowerin’ in front of his own clanbeasts. Come on, get a grip o’ yersel’ afore I box yore ears for ye!”

That seemed to do the trick, the Guosim Log a Log recovered immediately, grasping his iron club and declaiming truculently, “Nobeast boxes Tugga Bruster’s ears an’ lives to boast of it, leggo o’ me, I’m alright!” Ignoring the hare’s broad grin, he went amongst his shrews, kicking them indiscriminately as he roared, “Up, ye lily-livered no-goods! Get formed into ranks, wot’s the matter with ye, eh? ’Tis only an ole snake, it’s gone now. Huh, I’d have bashed its brain out with me club if’n it’d tried to attack us!”

Skipper winked at Bosie. “Back to his usual modest shyness, ain’t he!”

Bosie turned to Dwink and Umfry, who were shaking with laughter. “An’ you two stop sniggerin’. Show some respect tae a braw Chieftain o’ Guosim!”

19

Bisky was wakened as the world seemed to tumble and shake. The fallen hollow log that he and Dubble had chosen as their sleeping place was being shaken, rolled and generally banged about. Both friends scuttled out, straight into a sort of big bag. As they scrambled upright to escape, shrill, eager cries rang out from their captors.

“Don’t jus’ stan’ there, sambag dem!”

“Awright, awright, keep yer tail on, I’m lukkin’ fer me sambag, ’ere, Gobbo, giz yores!”

“O no, yer not getting’ mine, lukk fer yer own!”

A loud, nasal snarl, obviously the leader’s, broke in on the dispute. “Yew two, yer about as much use azza snail shell on a butterfly. Give uz that sambag ’ere!”

Two hefty blows knocked the prisoners unconscious.

Bisky awoke with a dull headache, which was not bad, considering the blow he had taken. As expected, he was bound back-to-back with Dubble, either side of a wooden post; also, they were both gagged. Craning his neck from side to side, Bisky viewed his surroundings. It was a long, low-ceilinged cave, with many wooden posts supporting it. The walls were decked with all sorts of what Bisky could only describe as rubbish. Dried fish skins, pieces of coloured stone, old earthenware beakers and wooden plates, all of which had seen better days.

Around small fires, dotted hither and thither, were gathered the scruffiest, weirdest bunch of mice Bisky had ever set eyes upon. Their scraggly fur was caked with mud and dust, and they were clad in tattered rags of barkcloth. The only weapons they seemed to possess were sausage-like sacks of sand, and tough, thin lengths of vine, with a wooden toggle attached to either end. The mice were constantly fighting and squabbling, over the most trivial things. Nobeast ever appeared to get hurt, but they would twirl their sandbags at one another, leaping about and exchanging the most colourful insults.

Every mouse’s name ended in an o. Bisky heard them calling to one another. He tried to decipher some of the names—there was Gobbo, Bumbo, Tingo, then he gave up. Their accents were flat and nasal, and they spoke with a rapidity which was hard to understand. He watched two of them, the one called Gobbo and another called Tingo, disputing the ownership of a sandbag.

Gobbo shrilled, “Ey, yew, givvuz dat sambag, it’s mine, I lost it!”

Tingo stood his ground belligerently. “Gerroff, dis sambag’s mine, me ma made it fer me. Don’t yew cum round ’ere tryna pinch my sambag, jus’ ’cos yer lost yer own. Gobbo the slobbo!”

Tingo caught sight of Bisky watching them, and turned his irate attention upon the Redwaller. “Who are yew lukkin’ at, pudden nose?”

Bisky tried to smile, shaking his head, to show he meant no harm or disrespect. Tingo swaggered over; twirling his sandbag, he glared coldly at the captive.

“One more lukk like dat an’ I’ll sambag yer good’n’proper, d’yer ’ear me, fliggle bottum?”

Bisky smiled and nodded several times. This did not appease Tingo, who began smacking the sandbag hard into his pawpad. “I think I’ll just give yer a smack fer laffin’ at me like dat!”

He swung the sandbag, about to strike, when he was knocked ears over tail by a very fat mouse, who carried a weightier sandbag than the rest. He grabbed Tingo by the ear, hauling him roughly upright. “Lissen, bobble’ead, did yer search ’em like I told yer to, eh?” He held Tingo on tippaw by the ear as Tingo danced and complained.

“Owowow, leggo willyer, Da! We never found nothin’ on ’em ’cept two ould slivers o’ flint, dat’s all!”

The fat one looked questioningly at Bisky. “Iz dat right, jus’ two ould cobs o’ flint, no treasure of any sort, eh?”

The one called Tingo answered, “I tole yer, Da, only two bits o’ flint.”

With hardly a glance, the fat mouse swung his sandbag. He struck Tingo in the stomach, knocking him flat on his bottom. The fat one scowled. “Who asked yew, sproutears? I’m talkin’ to d’prisoner.” He untied the gag from Bisky’s mouth. But the young mouse kept quiet until he was spoken to.

The fat one scratched his stubbly chin. “Worra ye doin’ in my territ’ry, Redwaller?”

The question caught Bisky off guard. “How did you know I’m from Redwall, sir?”

The fat one gave a humorless laugh. “Yer couldn’t be from anywheres else, wearin’ gear like that. I know all I need ter know, I’m Nokko, Pike’ead o’ the Gonfelin Thieves. So, worra ye doin’, playin’ daft ducks inna holler tree on my land, wirra Guosim? Huh, I ’aven’t seen one o’ dem round ’ere fer awhile.”

Bisky was intrigued by the name Gonfelin, but he answered truthfully. “I’m Bisky. The Guosim’s called Dubble, I met up with him when we were captured by Painted Ones, sir.”

Nokko dropped his sandbag, caught it on one footpaw, flicked it up and caught it neatly. “Painty Ones, eh? Y’must be soft in the ’ead, lettin’ yerselves get catchered by dat lot. Before youse was caught, did yer ’ave any treasure wid yer?”