Brian Jacques - Redwall #21 - Doomwyte

“Oi yew, gerrout me way, this is my branch!”

“Hah, who died an’ left it ter yew, move over!”

“Who are yew talkin’ to, big gob?”

“Big gob is it? Good job I left me sambag at ’ome, or yew’d be takin’ a long snooze fer sayin’ dat!”

“Yah, go an’ sambag yer granny!”

Samolus placed both paws over his ears. “Such shocking language, what a dreadful row!”

Bisky was inclined to agree. “Aye, that it is!”

Bosie whispered confidentially to him, “Mind, laddie, that pretty maid ye’ve taken sich a braw shine tae, she’s the roughest auld shouter o’ the lot. Aye, a right pawful she is, Ah’m thinking!”

Tugga Bruster came swaggering up to Bisky, addressing him gruffly. “Hoi, you, mouse! Have ye seen my son Dubble around?”

The young mouse pointed. “Aye, he went that way, hard on the paws of a Painted One. Dubble has a score to settle with him.”

The Guosim Log a Log shouldered his iron club. “I never gave him leave t’go. A score, eh? I’ll settle a score or two with that Dubble when he gets back here…. You, wot are ye starin’ at?” Tugga Bruster’s attention was caught by a Painted One glaring at him venomously. He pointed the club at her. “I asked ye a question, thick’ead, why are ye lookin’ at me like that, eh?”

Tala, wife of the dead Painted Chieftain, Chigid, spat on the ground in front of the Guosim leader. “Yeeeeh, you da one wot kill my Chigid, I kill ya soon as I get the chance. Killya dead!”

Early evening sunlight was shafting through the woodland foliage when Nokko and his tribe returned to earth. Umfry could not help remarking to Samolus about their trophies of victory. “Lookit that, Mister Fixa, did ye h’ever see such a pile h’of tatty rubbish. Huh, y’call that loot?”

Samolus nodded. “Indeed, that’s what it appears t’be, but ye must remember, young un, one beast’s rubbish is another’s treasure. They seem happy with it.”

Happy was an understatement, the Gonfelins were jubilant with their spoils. A few flagons of fur paint, which the tree rats decorated themselves with. Some blades, mostly blunt, broken or rusted. One or two blowpipes, darts and a vial of poison. Crude necklaces, bracelets and tailrings, plus the contents of a larder they had discovered.

Nokko was grinning from ear to ear. “This is the stuff, buckoes, I told yer there was plenny o’ pawpickin’s to be ’ad. Bosie, me ould scout, once we’ve ’ad supper I’ll divvy the takin’s up, fair shares for everybeast, that’s the Gonfelin way. We may be thieves, but we’re good, ’onest thieves. Spingo, Bumbo, pile all dat loot over yonder, an’ stan’ guard on it!”

Aided by Redwallers and Gonfelins, the Guosim shrews put on quite a nice supper, even cooking up the Painted Ones’ larder supplies and serving it to them. Bosie was quite partial to shrewbeer, and the flat panbread which the Guosim were very skilled at making. Whatever was to paw went into the panbread, preserved fruits, honey, nuts berries, fresh from the bush.

Not wanting to hurt Nokko’s feelings, and speaking for allbeasts present by mutual agreement, Skipper raised his beaker and delivered a short speech. “Ahoy, mates, here’s a toast to our friends, the Gonfelins. We’d never ’ave beaten the Painted Ones without their aid, so let’s drink to ’em!” After toasting the Gonfelins’ bravery, Bosie, who had been tipped the wink by Skipper, spoke further.

“Aye, an’ wot reward can we offer tae sich braw beasties? Ah propose that we award Nokko an’ his warriors all the loot tae keep for themselves!”

The ragged mousethief tribe cheered themselves hoarse. Nokko was moved almost to tears by his fellowbeasts’ generosity. He sniffed loudly. “Wot can I say, buckoes, it’s not offen yer come across real friends, an’ proper mateys, but youse lot’s the best o’ the best. Right, Gonfelins, sing ’em out!”

A fine, baritone-voiced mouse sang the verse, whilst all the other Gonfelins joined in the chorus.

“One day a young Gonfelin was leavin’ his home,

to seek for his fortune outside,

his pore fatty mother embraced him so tight,

crackin’ two of his ribs as she cried.

The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,

wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!

‘You whipped all the sheets off the bed, son,

an’ the boots from yore granny, me dear,

but a pore mother’s tears ain’t worth nothin’

except when she’s waterin’ the beer.’

The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,

wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!

‘You must promise to be dishonest,

out in that cruel world all alone,

when you dips yore paw into a pocket,

make certain it ain’t yore own.’

The code of the Gonfelins is ancient and true,

wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!

Well, the Gonfelin he kissed his ole mother so hard,

that he raised a big lump on her head,

‘Farewell, Mother,’ he cried, as she swooned at his side,

then he stole her best wig an’ he fled.

The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,

wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!”

Roars of laughter were choked, as the listeners saw that Nokko and his tribe were quite overcome with emotion by their song. Some of the Gonfelins were weeping openly. The Guosim merely looked bewildered, but the Redwallers were forced to turn aside, one or two stuffing grass in their mouths to stifle ribald guffaws.

Wiping tears upon a ragged sleeve, Nokko announced solemnly to the assembly, “Er, that’s our bestest song, we sung it to honour youse fer lettin’ us ’ang on to the boodle. I want youse all t’know, that by yore kindness, you’ve done summat nobeast as ever done to a Gonfelin.” He paused to blow his snout, then continued humbly, “You’ve stolen our ’earts!”

There was a stunned silence, then Bisky rose, raising his beaker and calling heartily, “Good health’n’long seasons to our mates the Gonfelins!”

24

Jeg’s stomach was sore and smarting from the scorching he had received when he fell onto the fire. On running away from the five-topped oak, he had raced willy-nilly into the woodlands of Mossflower. The young tree rat hoped desperately that he would not be pursued by either of his two former captives. Jeg recalled beating the Guosim shrew with a willow withe; he shuddered at the hatred that had burnt in their eyes, especially the Guosim shrew—that one looked like a really vengeful beast.

He continued running, then paused, breathing heavily as he tried to catch any sounds of pursuit. However there were only the normal summer sounds—distant birdsong, the hum of bees and the odd noises of foraging insects. Having reassured himself, he continued at an easier pace, constantly touching his scorched fur and blistered flesh.

Jeg was at a loss as to how he could ease his discomfort, when he came across a woodland pool. The water was dark, it gave off a rank odour as he drew close. No good for drinking. Then his paws squelched into the layer of mud and sodden leaf mould—this was ideal. He sat down and began slapping it on his stomach. It was squelchy, cool, the ideal salve for minor scorching. Instant relief.

Before too long he heard sounds, which alerted him. Somebeast was on his trail, travelling fast, with no attempt at stealth. He glanced around for something to use as a weapon. There it was, a half-submerged tree branch. It emerged with a squelch as he tugged on it. The noises were distinctly nearer now, there was no doubt about it, somebeast was right on his trail, and coming fast. Jeg wedged the branch in a low tree fork and gave it a sharp jerk. The long branch snapped in two, leaving him with a fair-sized length, which he could use as a staff.