Brian Jacques - Redwall #21 - Doomwyte

“Autumn?” the young squirrel cried. “I ain’t layin’ round here ’til then, we’ve got to go an’ find Dubble!”

Torilis gave him a wry glance. “We? If you mean me I have no intention of going searching for a shrew, and you, sir, are certainly not going anywhere. Huh, we!”

Dwink explained with a pained expression, “I didn’t mean you, Brother, I meant Bisky, Spingo and Umfry Spikkle. We vowed to help Dubble.”

Bisky and Spingo wandered into the Gatehouse. The Gonfelin maid smiled cheerily at Dwink. “How’s the ole hoof, Dwinko?”

Brother Torilis looked up from a draught he was mixing for the patient. “The old hoof, as you so quaintly put it, is fractured in two places. So, miss, you and your friend can take yourselves off, and allow me to care for the injured.”

Dwink shrugged helplessly at them. “Sorry, mates.”

Bisky patted his friend’s bushy tail. “Don’t worry about it, me’n’Spingo will find ole Dubble. You’ll have Umfry for company, though. Corksnout Spikkle left word that he can’t leave the Abbey ’til he’s finished up the job we started out to do. Cleanin’ out the cellars, an’ tidyin’ all those barrels, remember?”

Dwink nodded. “That seems like a long time ago now. Anyhow, you two take care of each other, an’ good luck with the search. I hope ye find Dubble safe.”

Friar Skurpul was kindness itself to both young searchers; he packed them a haversack apiece. “Yurr naow, Oi put in summ gurt vikkles for ee. Hunnycakes, dannyloin’n’burdocky corjul, candied chesknutters, parsties an’ ee few o’ moi speshul ’efty dumplin’s!” The good old mole gave a rumbly chuckle. “Ahurrhurrhurr, Oi wuddent go a-swimmen arfter eatin’ wun o’ moi dumplin’s. Loikely you’d be a-sinken, daown to ee bottum. Hurrhurrhurr, they’m not a-called ’efty furr nought!”

The pair thanked Skurpul, and quit the kitchens in high spirits, feeling a great sense of adventure for their coming trip. Striding across the sunlit Abbey lawns, Spingo encouraged Bisky to get into step by lustily singing a Gonfelin marching song.

“Ho, away over the hills, mate,

from dawn through to night,

an’ don’t trip over yer paws now,

Left left right!

Marchin’ out is great on a fine summer day,

luggin’ a bag o’ vittles

along to scoff upon the way.

As long as you got mateys

to pace along with you,

whilst there ain’t no storms a-blowin’

an’ the sky stays blue.

Ho, away over the hills, mate,

from dawn through to night,

an’ don’t trip over yer paws now,

Left left right!”

Perrit, the young squirrelmaid, opened the main gates for them; she smiled and waved them through. “Goodbye, friends, good luck!”

Tugga Bruster was sitting on the path outside, looking dazed as he nursed a lump on his forehead. The surly Guosim Log a Log glared at the happy pair. “An’ where d’ye think yore off to, eh?”

Bisky politely sidestepped the shrew as he scrambled upright, answering him curtly, “We promised to go and search for Dubble.”

Tugga Bruster blocked their way. He was looking for a quarrel. “Dubble, huh, that worthless scrap o’ fur got himself lost again has he. Right, if’n ye find him, fetch him back t’me, I’ll teach him t’go runnin’ off without my permission!”

Bisky was about to reply, when Spingo confronted the irate Log a Log. “You’ll do nothin’ of the sort, ugly mug, I’m glad you ain’t my da, ya big bully!”

Tugga Bruster grabbed Spingo by her paw, his face was twisted with rage. “Yore father was the one wot knocked me down, ye hard-nosed snippet.”

He was raising a footpaw to kick Spingo when Bisky struck. He swung his haversack, catching the shrew a mighty belt between the ears. Tugga Bruster went down like a felled tree. Bisky was shaking slightly at the prospect of having struck a Shrew Chieftain. He laughed nervously. “Er…ha ha…one of Friar Skurpul’s hefty dumplin’s must’ve got him!”

Spingo curled her lip as she stepped over the shrew. “Shouldn’t never be a Pike’ead of Guosims, that un. Nasty piece o’ work, ain’t ’e. Can’t leave ’im ’ere, though. Yore healer, wotsisname Toreerlilero, he’ll need to treat ’im, after two bumps on the noggin.”

They lugged the senseless shrew across to the main entrance, banged on the gate for attention and hurried away giggling. It was Foremole Gullub who opened the gate. Looking down at the unconscious shrew, he shook his velvety head.

“Gurt seasons, ee’m musta knocked on ee gate wi’ his ’ead, t’get loike that. Yurr, Mizzie Perrit, lend Oi ee paw t’get this gurt foozle h’inside.”

Dwink lay on the big bed in the Gatehouse, trying to stop himself dozing off—it was after all, still early morning. However, he could not resist the potion which Torilis had administered. It took rapid effect. Bright summer day ebbed into the distance; sounds of birdsong, Dibbuns at play and the customary hum of Abbey life receded.

Sprawled on the big, soft Gatehouse bed, Dwink entered the odd realm of dreams. He saw Martin the Warrior materialise out of the mist. His voice was both strong and soothing, his eyes kind and wise as he delivered a message to the young squirrel.

“The eyes of the owl must watch the eye of the snake. He must watch for other eyes which covet the green one. Trust not the beast who is the friend of nobeast. Redwall will gain the raven’s eye from a thief, but the rest you may seek. Return to the door, the door with no key, which holds the key. On, on, and on for one. For one can give you all!”

Dwink was rudely awakened in warm noontide. Three Dibbuns, Dugry, Furff and the very tiny mousebabe, landed with a thump on the bed. Dwink sat up abruptly. “Rogues, ruffians, watch out for my footpaw!”

The Abbeybabes ignored his warning. Leaping over Dwink they burrowed under the counterpane. The mousebabe popped his head out, twitching his snout at Dwink like a fellow conspirator. “Uz playin’ hide’n’seek wiv Mista Bosie.” Seeing this had no effect on the young squirrel, the mousebabe growled savagely, “Dwink, don’t tell ’im where us are, norra word, or I choppa tail off!” He vanished beneath the counterpane, from where muffled giggles emerged.

The Laird Bosie suddenly strode into the Gatehouse. He sniffed the air, looking around dramatically. The bumps moving about beneath the embroidered covering, coupled with the noise of chortling Abbeybabes, were a real giveaway. The lanky hare winked at Dwink. “Have ye no seen three wee rogues aboot?”

The young squirrel kept a straight face. “Three, ye say? No sir, I’ve been fast asleep here since I fell into the ditch an’ injured my footpaw.” As he was saying this, Bosie was beckoning him to move aside, which Dwink did, rather gingerly, being very careful with his bandaged footpaw.

Bosie then announced loudly, so that the fugitives could hear, “Och, well, if ye should see them Ah’ve nae doubt ye’ll tell me forthwith!” He strode noisily toward the open door, then tippawed swiftly back to the bed. With lightning speed he bundled all three Dibbuns up in the counterpane, swinging it over his shoulder. “Hah, Ah’ve caught ye, mah bonnies. Sister Violet’s waitin’ wi’ lots o’ sweet-scented soap, an’ a tubful o’ guid, warm water. It’s bathtime for ye!”

Dwink chuckled. “You mean they weren’t playin’ hide-an’-seek?”

Bosie gave the wriggling bedspread a firm shake. “Be still, ye villains! Mebbe they were playin’ games, but Sister Violet isn’t. She sent me tae find these babbies. They’ve been dodgin’ her since breakfast. How is yore footpaw farin’?”

Dwink shrugged. “Oh, I’ll live, thank ye. Bosie, would you do me a favour, please? Tell Aluco I’d like to see him.”