Doomwyte (Redwall) Page 5

  Bisky swigged it gratefully. “Oh, that is nice, Mister Gurrpaw, but we’re not getting much solving done like this, are we?”

  Corksnout had been riffling through Gonff’s journal. He stopped at one page, placed a dainty, little pair of rock crystal spectacles on his cork appendage and peered closer at the script. “I don’t know much about this Prince Gonff, but I’ll say this, he must’ve been an aggravatin’ little beast. See wot ye make o’ this….

  “The bird has no buries, the snake no red meals, two bruise and two mere lads, where are the nests O? A pincer those five hid them well!”

  The huge Cellarhog gave a scornful snort, which blew his cork nose up between his eyes. Dwink giggled. Corksnout adjusted the nose quickly, glaring at the young squirrel. “What’n the name o’ my ole grannie’s spikes is all that nonsense supposed t’mean, eh?”

  Dwink replied meekly, “P’raps it’s a riddle, sir.”

  Umfry grinned cheerily at his big grandsire. “H’I thought you would’ve guessed that, Granpa.”

  Corksnout clenched his paws and ground his teeth, as he searched for words to berate the pair.

  Abbot Glisam defused the situation by addressing Umfry. “Oh, I’ve no doubt that your grandfather had guessed that as soon as he saw it, he’s a lot smarter than most creatures. But it does sound like a load of nonsense, doesn’t it? That’s because it is a riddle, you see. Riddles are supposed to sound like that, or there wouldn’t be much fun in trying to solve them. Now, you bright young uns, any ideas?”

  Dwink and Umfry sat dumbly, staring at their beakers. Only Bisky had anything to say.

  “Like Mister Spikkle said, Father, it’s nonsense, the words are all mixed up, they don’t make sense.”

  Samolus drained his beaker, and filled it from another jug. “Hah, then ’tis up to us to unmix those words, so they do make sense. Someone read it out again, please.”

  The Abbot obliged, speaking slowly and clearly.

  “The bird has no buries, the snake no red meals, two bruise and two mere lads, where are the nests O? A pincer those five hid them well!”

  Putting aside his beaker, Samolus began pacing the floor, giving rein to his powers of reason. “Right, let’s keep this in mind. We’re searching for the jewels that Gonff hid, long seasons ago. So, let’s take this bit by bit. It’s a message, cleverly designed by Gonff. We’ve got to be just as clever to solve it. I suggest we all look at it together, see which words look out of place and what clues they contain.”

  Glisam, Samolus, Bisky, Dwink and Corksnout sat studying the lines. Not being able to read, Umfry was at a loss. Gullub picked up the scrolls, which had been written by Gonff’s molefriend Dinny. The kindly Cellarmole took Umfry to one side, away from the rest. “Yurr, maister, Oi’ll read ee owt summ molescript.”

  Meanwhile, something occurred to Bisky as he looked at Gonff’s writing. “Either Prince Gonff was an awful speller, or I’ve missed somethin’ on this first line.”

  Dwink enquired, “Why so?”

  Bisky tapped the page. “Look here, ‘The bird has no buries,’ surely that’s not right. If a bird had no berries to eat, that would be spelled like berries, the sort that grow on trees. But the way it’s written here, that’s like somebeast having to dig a grave. He buries the body, see what I mean?”

  Corksnout nodded. “Yore right, young un, so why’s it spelled like that, eh?”

  Samolus ventured, “It could be an anagram.”

  Gullub suddenly began waving the piece of scroll parchment that he had been reading. “Hoourr! Nannygrammer! Et sez yurr ee Gonffen cudd make nannygrammers!”

  Umfry scratched his headspikes. “Wot’s a nannygrammer?”

  The Abbot explained. “The correct name is an anagram. If you split the letters of a word apart, and put them back together so they spell a different word, that’s an anagram. Maybe the word buries means something else.”

  Dwink took a charcoal stick and began using the barrelhead as a writing board. “Er, how do I split buries up?”

  Samolus made a suggestion. “The best way to write it is to form the letters in a circle, like this.”

  They looked at it. Bisky shook his head. “Still looks pretty much mixed up, I can’t see a new word.”

  The Abbot’s eyes were twinkling. “Look closer, Bisky, think what we are searching for.”

  Dwink took a guess. “The eyes that Prince Gonff stole?”

  Corksnout shouted out the solution. “Rubies, it’s rubies!”

  It was Bisky’s turn to snort at the big Cellarhog. “Well, thanks for shouting it out, I almost had it before you started yelling. Rubies, eh.”

  Corksnout shuffled his huge footpaws. “Sorry, I got excited. Go on, you can have the next one.”

  Dwink looked baffled. “Wot next one?”

  Samolus whispered in his ear, “I’d guess it’d be ‘red meals.’”

  Dwink murmured out of the side of his mouth, “Why d’you guess that?”

  Bisky had been eavesdropping; he grinned from ear to ear. “Ha ha, I know wot ’tis without puttin’ the letters in any circles. It’s emeralds!”

  The Abbot’s expression was one of complete surprise. “Great seasons, how did you guess that so quickly?”

  The young mouse winked broadly. “It just suddenly came to me, Father. Rubies was the first one. We’re looking for red stones and green stones, two of each. So I thought, rubies are red, what jewels are green? I looked at the words red meals, and it sprang out at me. Emeralds!”

  Corksnout rubbed his big paws together in a businesslike manner. “C’mon, c’mon, wot’s next, mates?”

  Samolus read the next line out. “‘Two bruise and two mere lads, where are the nests O?’ Give me that charcoal and I’ll write it down. I think ‘two bruise’ first, eh, Father?”

  Abbot Glisam looked secretly pleased. “Don’t write ‘two bruise,’ just ‘bruise’ on its own. In fact I’ve got it, no need to write it down—”

  Dwink sprang up. “Bruise, buries, same letters. It’s rubies again.”

  Bisky chuckled. “So it is. Two rubies and two mere lads. Hah, mere lads. Sounds like an anagram of red meals. Emeralds! Two rubies and two emeralds. What’s the rest? ‘Where are the nests O?’”

  Corksnout puffed out his chest, declaring, “That ole Prince Gonff wasn’t so smart, tryin’ to baffle brains like ours. Huh, rubies an’ emeralds are jewels, they’re precious. ‘Nests O!’ My grannie’s spikes, that’s stones, precious stones!”

  Gullub Gurrpaw left off reading the mole scrolls and took his friend severely to task. “Oi wishes ee’d stop a-showtin’ owt ee arnswers an’ give they’m young uns a charnce, zurr. They’m’ll lurn nawthen iffen ee doan’t give ’em no h’oppertunery!”

  Corksnout was mortified. He sniffed so hard that he unseated his false nose, almost swallowing it. Stalking off down the cellar floor, he called huffily, “I was only tryin’ to help, but I’ll get on with me own work, there’s plenty for me to do, thankee!”

  Umfry pointed an accusing paw at Gullub. “You’ve h’upset ’im now, Mister Gurrpaw!”

  The mole gave a gruff bass chuckle. “Eem doan’t loike wurkin’ alone wi’ cumpany abowt. Ole Corky’ll coom back anon, mark moi wurd, zurr!”

  Dwink wriggled excitedly. “Just one more line to solve!”

  Abbot Glisam read the final segment out. “‘A pincer those five hid them well.’”

  Umfry began to complicate the issue. “Five ’idden well! Wot five, h’I thought we was h’only searchin’ for four stones. H’another thing, wot’s h’a pincer doin’ h’in this riddle?”

  Corksnout must have been listening. He called out from the corner where he was working, “I’ve got a fine pair of pincers, for grippin’ hot iron hoops when I ’ammers ’em into shape!”

  Gullub smiled as he shouted back to his friend. “They’m pincers bees called tongs, zurr!”

  The big Cellarhog strolled back to join them. He was wielding a pair of tongs. “Well, I’ve all
us called ’em pincers, just like my dad did.”

  To avoid further argument, the Abbot agreed. “I knew your dad, so if he said they were pincers, that’s good enough for me. Pincers they are!”

  Corksnout donned his tiny glasses again, peering at the line on the page. “A pincer those five hid them well? That says pincer, not pincers. Wot are ye babblin’ about pincers for?”

  5

  Without any warning there was a panicked squeak from outside the cellars. The young squirrelmaid Perrit came tumbling in, flinging her apron over her face, a sure sign of distress in little maids. She shrilled at them, “Eeeek! Father Abbot, Mister Sam’lus, come quickly!” She started running willy-nilly, but Corksnout swept her up in his strong paws.

  “Now now, missie, wot’s all the fuss about?”

  Perrit peeked over her apron hem, she began babbling like a brook. “Oh, sirs, Skipper Rorgus says for you to come to the big gate right away ’cos carrying birds tried to steal likkle Dugry!

  The entire party went thundering up the cellar steps and across Great Hall. Samolus panted to Bisky as they ran together for the main Abbey door, “Carrying birds? I think the young un must’ve meant carrion birds. The robbin’ scum!”

  Slamming the doors open wide, they rushed out onto the rainswept lawns. Across at the outer threshold gate there were several creatures grouped about something. Running just behind Bisky and Samolus, Umfry Spikkle hooted out in alarm. “Hoi! Who opened the main gates, get ’em shut!”

  Molebabe Dugry was being comforted by Sister Violet, who had the little fellow wrapped in a shawl, rocking him to and fro. “There there now, my dearie, the big, nasty bird has gone. Shame on him, tryin’ to steal you away like that!”

  Dugry seemed none the worse for his ordeal. He jabbed the air with a tiny paw, yelling gruffly, “Eem gurt naughty burd carried Oi roight h’up inna sky. Roight, roight ’igh h’up Oi go’d!”

  Abbot Glisam arrived panting. He leant on Skipper, gasping for breath. “Whoo! What’s been going on here?”

  The Otter Chieftain pointed to the glittering bundle of dark plumage, slumped in the gateway. “’Twas a crow, Father, big, ugly bird. Tried to fly off with one of our Dibbuns.”

  Samolus ventured close to the bird. “Never heard o’ that afore. Wot stopped it?”

  Skipper Rorgus nodded to the gatehouse door. “He did, right in the nick o’ time, too.”

  The door opened to reveal a mountain hare, clad in a green-and-lilac plaid kilt and tunic, with silver buttons at cuffs and collar. His fur was patched white and tan. Slung on his back was an odd instrument, resembling a fiddle. In one paw he carried a short, curved bow, fashioned from bone. The hare strode languidly over to the fallen bird. He turned the carcass over with a deft shove of one massive footpaw. There was a slim, flightless metal rod protruding from the crow’s chest. Placing his footpaw on the dead bird, the hare tugged until the rod came free. With a grimace of distaste he tossed the rod to Bisky.

  “Here, laddie, would ye be sae kind as tae wipe ma arrow clean, Ah cannae abide dirty shafts!” From the lace ruffles at the hem of his tunic sleeve, he drew forth a daintily embroidered silk kerchief which gave off the scent of heather and lilac. Wiping it fastidiously over the paw which had held the metal rod, he twirled the kerchief, making an elaborate bow as he introduced himself. “Guid day to ye, even though the weather is a wee bit inclement. Ah’m the Laird Bosie McScutta o’ Bowlaynee, at y’service!”

  The Abbot inclined a brief bow in return. “My pleasure, m’Laird, I am Glisam, Father Abbot of Redwall Abbey. My thanks for your brave and prompt action in saving the life of a Redwaller.”

  Accepting the cleaned-up shaft from Bisky, the hare slotted it into a built-in quiver, which formed the arm of his fiddle-like instrument. He shook Glisam’s paw. “Ach, away with all that m’Laird stuff, ye can call me Bosie, or just plain hungry. D’ye no serve afternoon tea at this place?”

  Glisam smiled. “Forgive me, of course we do, Bosie. Come, you’ll be our honoured guest for what you’ve done. I hope little Dugry has thanked you.”

  Bosie set out for the Abbey, paw in paw with Glisam. “Land sakes, there’s no need for that. Ah wouldnae be much o’ a Warrior Minstrel if Ah let a crow scoot off with a wee molebairn. Ah was comin’ doon the path outside when Ah heard the ruckus. Then who should be flappin’ o’er yon wall but a roguey of a crow, with the bold, wee Dugry in his bill. So Ah dropped him wi’ a single shaft. Bein’ a thrifty beast, Ah never use more than one arrow on carrion like yon rascal. So, this is the braw Redwall Abbey. Ah’ve heard lot’s o’ guid things aboot it, especially the vittles.”

  The Abbot squeezed his new friend’s paw. “I pride myself on saying that you won’t be disappointed, Bosie!”

  Back at the gate, Umfry was about to lock up, when Corksnout indicated the slain bird. “Don’t shut yore gate yet. Lend a paw to sling this one into the ditch, the insects will make short work of him. I ain’t hangin’ about to dig holes for villains. You take the talons, an’ I’ll take the head. C’mon, young Dwink, you, too, grab a wing. Bisky, you get the other wing. Right, lift!”

  As they manoeuvred the carcass across the path, which ran north to south outside the Abbey, Corksnout spoke. “Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’ about that word, pincer. I’ll tell ye wot I think, it’s an anagram of Prince.”

  Umfry chuckled. “Yore a clever ole grandad, I would ’ave never guessed that, would you, Dwink?”

  The young squirrel replied airily, “Oh, I prob’ly would have, sooner or later. Wot are you grinnin’ about, Bisky?”

  His friend’s grin became even wider. “I’ve solved it, or at least I think I have. Thanks for guessing that pincer was really Prince, Mister Spikkle. Right, let’s put it all together, this is how it goes….”

  They paused on the edge of the ditch, listening as the young mouse explained.

  “‘The bird has no rubies, the snake has no emeralds, two rubies and two emeralds, where are the stones? A prince of thieves hid them well!’ That’s it!”

  Corksnout grasped Bisky’s paw and shook it heartily. “Yore right, young un, those two words after pincer, or Prince, those five, they’re an anagram which comes out as…of thieves. But how did ye guess?”

  Bisky explained, “I just kept repeatin’ the lines as we’d solved them. Then when you said Prince, it all fell into place!”

  The big Cellarhog cautioned them both. “Now don’t ye go tellin’ ole Gullub that I solved the pincer word, or he’ll be gettin’ all in a tizzy with me, moles are funny creatures sometimes, y’know.”

  Dwink released his hold on the dead bird. “I wish we had a mole with us now, I’ll wager he’d dig a hole for this villain quick enough.”

  Umfry shook rainwater from his spikes. “We h’aint diggin’ a buryin’ ’ole, are we, Grandad?”

  Corksnout shook his head so emphatically that his false nose wound up behind his ear. “We certainly ain’t! I’ll toss him in the ditch, wot the insects don’t get will be gone by tomorrow. This rain’ll flood the ditch an’ wash everythin’ away.” He tipped the saturated jumble of feathers that had once been a crow over the edge of the ditch. Marching away without a backward glance, Corksnout called to the young ones, “Best put a move on, or afternoon tea’ll be all gone.”

  Umfry hurried to catch him up. “Er, why’s that?”

  His grandfather was well versed in the habits of other beasts. “’Cos we got a hare to feed, have ye ever seen one o’ those lollop-pawed rascals scoffin’ vittles?” The three young friends confessed that they had not. Corksnout stepped up his pace. “Well ye’ve got a surprise in store!”

  When they had gone, the dead crow stirred, but not of its own volition. Two other carrion crows that it had landed on top of emerged from the ditch, leaving their slain comrade. They were part of the mission to kidnap a Redwaller. Shaking mud from his plumage, the smaller of the two spoke fearfully.

  “Kraaah, we cannot go back and tell Leader Veeku that his plan failed.�
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  The larger crow disagreed. “Yakkarr, we have more to report. Did you not hear the earthcrawlers tell how a Prince of Thieves stole the Eyes of the Doomwyte? They must be hidden inside the big stone house!”

  The smaller bird blinked his quick, dark eyes. “Karray, you are right, brother, we will tell him this!”

  A moment later they were two dark shapes, flapping off into the pounding rain.

  Beyond the great cave, which contained the eyeless statue, lay another cavern. Not as large as the main chamber, but still of an impressive size. This was the inner sanctum of Korvus Skurr, and his serpent, Sicariss. The interior was silent, save for the constant dripping of water. Firefly lanterns and smouldering torches made it a place of sinister elongated shadows. The climate was more temperate—it was not suffused by green mists from a volcanic pool. However, it did boast its own expanse of water, deep, still and icy cold.

  The raven tyrant perched on a rock, overlooking the subterranean lake. He stared down into its translucent depths, watching the pale, sightless fish and other small reptilian denizens which dwelt there.

  The snake, coiled on Korvus’s head, stared unblinkingly at the long, sinuous bulk which was threading upward through the water. “Sssseeee, our Welzzz comesssss.”

  Even the tyrant, Korvus Skurr, was cautious of the monster fish. He drew back slightly from the edge of the rock on which he was squatting.

  The fish was truly an impressively hideous sight. It was a wels, that fearsome giant member of the catfish family. It halted, staring up at the bird and snake, its mighty length trailing down into the icy waters. Two wide-spaced eyes, twin black beads, ever on the watch for prey, loomed close to the surface. The wide, blubbery, blue-tinged lips, moving constantly, opening and closing, caused two long barbels on the upper jaw to move in concert with the four lesser ones beneath the lower lip. The monstrous fish stayed momentarily hanging there, its fins rotating slowly. Then it leapt clear of the pool arching as it sped back down. A pale, plump frog, which had strayed too close, vanished into the big fish’s jaws.