Doomwyte (8 page)

The hulking young hedgehog snorted. “Huh, there h’aint been a sign o’ life passin’ the threshold, not since this rain started three days back, h’its quiet enough h’out there.”

Abbot Glisam yawned. “Dearie me, I can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”

The Laird Bosie took out his odd fiddle. “Aye, ’tis this weather, ye ken. A wee drap o’ sunlight on the morrow will liven us up again.”

Corksnout and Foremole Gullub began shepherding the Dibbuns off to their beds. Even the notorious D.A.B. gang did not complain. It seemed that most Redwallers felt heavy-lidded and languid. Bosie played a beautiful, slow air, which conjured up scenes of quiet, heather-strewn glens, with tranquil streams wending through them. One by one, everybeast drifted off upstairs, until there was only the mountain hare and Samolus Fixa, keeping each other company amidst the flickering shadows cast by guttering candles and fading lanterns.

The old mouse slumped back in his cushioned chair. “Great soakin’ seasons, will ye lissen t’that blinkin’ rain out there, will it never stop?”

Bosie continued playing, with his eyes closed. “Och, ’twill cease when it has a mind tae, mah friend, an’ nary a moment sooner, Ah’m thinkin’.”

Outside in the rainswept, clouded night, across the waterlogged lawns and drooping beds of daffodils, late snowdrops, early periwinkle and purple pasque blooms, a single, silent, pale light floated in over the threshold wall. It was soon followed by a second. Between them they slid back the well-greased bar of the main gates. With scarcely a creak, the outer gates opened a mere fraction. That was enough. At ground level, and slightly higher up, the eerie lights shimmered in, half a score of the mysterious flames, undimmed by the downpour. The Wytes had come to Redwall Abbey.

If (seasons forbid) there were ever a competition to find the loudest snorer in all Mossflower, Umfry Spikkle would win, paws down. Even as a tiny babe he was renowned for his nocturnal snoring. In his wisdom, Father Abbot Glisam promoted the young Umfry to the Gatehouse at the first opportunity. That way, it was only on placid summer nights, with a breeze drifting in from the west, that he could be heard inside the Abbey. In the dormitory that night, the soothing sound of raindrops pattering on the shutters was rudely shattered. Umfry had begun snoring.

Everybeast was wakened by his stentorian efforts, including the Dibbuns. The tiny mousebabe roared, “Good an’ my gracious, I fink someun betta chop off ’is snout. Thatta stop ’im, I fink!” Even well-aimed pillows did nothing to halt the snoring Gatehouse Keeper’s noisy slumber.

Then the dormitory door flew open, to reveal the dreaded figure of Brother Torilis, holding a lantern. “What is that horrific din?”

Molebabe Dugry pointed a small digging claw at the culprit. “Thurr ee bees, zurr Bruther, ee’m a-snoren. Boi ’okey Oi b’aint hurred nuthin’ loik et!”

Brother Torilis was experienced in snoring problems, particularly in hedgehogs. Producing a small jar of rosehip syrup from his night pouch, he poured some over the sleeping Umfry’s footpaws. Torilis prodded the hedgehog’s gently rising stomach twice, with a thin piece of rowan wood. Umfry promptly curled up into a tight ball, as hedgehogs do. A moment later he was sleeping soundly, and silently.

Dugry wrinkled his tiny button snout. “Wot did ee do, zurr?”

The Infirmary Keeper explained briefly, “Smeared his footpaws with sweet rosehip syrup, and made him curl into a hogball. He won’t be snoring again tonight, just sucking his footpaws. Now back to sleep, all of you, and not another sound!” Within moments of the Brother’s departure, everybeast was back, sleeping peacefully—with the exception of two, both Dibbuns.

Furff, the infant squirrel, watched the very tiny mousebabe creeping toward the door. She shook a warning paw, whispering, “Back inna bed or Bruvver’ll choppa tail off!”

But the mousebabe was not easily deterred. “I gonna finda key an’ winna big big tryfull!” Like a flash, Furff was out of bed and with him.

“I cum wiv ya, Furff likes tryfulls!”

Having found the Gatehouse deserted, the group of Wytes flickered across the lawns to the Abbey’s front door. Two of the pale flames landed on the simple latching device, weighing it down. The others waited patiently until the door creaked ajar. Silent as a breeze wending amidst gravestones, they drifted inside.

Samolus and the Laird Bosie were still seated at the dining table in Great Hall. It was peaceful in there, a place of shadows and dim light. Both creatures’ eyelids were drooping, their heads nodding forward, paws loosely clasping tankards, which now held only the dregs of good October Ale.

Samolus felt the draught from outside. Shivering, he scowled. “Brr, feel that, somebeast’s left the blinkin’ door open. Those young uns, you’d think they was born in a field!”

Bosie watched him shuffling over the worn stone floor. “Ah’m no feared o’ a wee draught. Och, if ye hail frae the Highlands ye get tae know what cold really is, mah friend!”

Samolus shut the big door, rattling it to make sure it was properly closed. “Maybe you come from the Highlands, but I’m from Mossflower. We value our warmth an’ comfort in this Abbey, mate!”

Bosie upended his tankard, finishing the last drops. “Ach well, Ah’m awa’ tae mah bed, just like yon beastie up there, the noo!”

Samolus paused, halfway across the hall. “What beastie, where?”

Bosie gestured with the fiddle he had picked up. “Ah thought there was somebeast carryin’ a candle up the stairs a moment ago. Ye couldnae tell who ’twas, all Ah saw was the candlelight. Look, there he goes again!”

This time Samolus saw the light. “It must be a Dibbun, searchin’ for the key. But how did a Dibbun get hold of a lit candle? They’re not allowed anythin’ that’d be dangerous. I’ll get the little rascal!” He bounded for the stairs, with the mountain hare following at a more leisurely pace.

“Och, the wee mite cannae do much damage wi’ a candle, the place is made o’ stone.” Any further debate was cut short by a piercing scream from the upstairs corridor.

“Yeeeeek! The fire ’as got me! Eeeeeeeeh!”

Bosie overtook Samolus, bounding upward, three stairs at a time. Doors began slamming open, the night peace was broken by cries.

“Wot’s goin’ on out there!”

“Who’s doin’ all the yellin’?”

“Lookit them lights, is the Abbey on fire?”

Bosie caught sight of the mousebabe. He was floating toward the stairs, a short distance above the floor. With two stretching leaps, the hare caught up with the screaming Dibbun. Grabbing him, Bosie seemed to jump up and down hard, several times. Sister Violet, flopping about in slippers and nightgown, trundled toward a window, bellowing.

“Whoooooo! It’s tryin’ to take pore liddle Furff away. Heeeeelp!”

The tiny squirrel was floating, suspended between two of the lights. They fluttered about, as if trying to open the wooden window shutter. Bosie was moving faster than anybeast, knocking Sister Violet to one side as he fitted one of his metal shafts to the bow of his fiddle. The shutter flew open, blowing rain into the passage. Both lights were halfway out of the window, still holding on to Furff, when Bosie fired the metal arrow. There was a harsh, anguished croak. One of the Wytes released its hold on the Dibbun. The other one, unable to sustain the burden alone, let Furff go. She landed on the open windowsill with a bump.

Charging forward, Bosie grasped the little squirrel’s tail and nightgown, grabbing her back inside. As they both fell flat upon the floor, several more lights flew out of the window, into the rain-slashed darkness. Breathing heavily, Samolus arrived on the scene. Staring out into the night, he wiped rainwater from his eyes.

“What’n the name o’ fur’n’whiskers? There they go, the lights are all gathered round one, as though it’s havin’ trouble floatin’!”

Bosie passed Furff to Abbot Glisam, who had just come trundling up. “Aye, it’ll have problems floatin’, or flyin’ should Ah say. Yon were braw big birds, bigger’n yon carrion Ah slew outside yore gates. Anyhow, Ah hit the scum, Ah know Ah did!’”

Skipper Rorgus and Corksnout came running to the Abbot’s side. The Otter Chieftain brandished a throwing javelin in a businesslike way. “The rest o’ those lights went out by the main door downstairs, Father. They were too quick for us. Straight over the lawns they floated, an’ right out the big west gate, which, by the way, was lyin’ open.”

The young squirrelmaid Perrit was calling from the far end of the passage. “I’ve got the mousebabe, he’s not hurt. Yurrrk! What is this thing, someun bring a lantern!”

After Bosie had saved the mousebabe, he had sped straight on to rescue Furff. The pretty squirrelmaid had picked the mousebabe up and crouched against the wall, hugging him tight to her. Close by, there was something writhing sluggishly for the stairs. Brother Torilis hurried up, holding a lantern. Placing himself between Perrit and the thing, he stooped forward, peering through the lantern light. It was a snakelike reptile, dull brown, with a single thin, dark stripe along its spine. The features looked more lizardlike than serpentine. Bosie had jumped on it several times, with devastating force. The reptile was fatally injured, but still dangerous. It tried to coil and strike at Torilis.

“Don’t move, Brother, stand very still!”

Thwack!
Skipper despatched the thing, with a sweeping blow from his javelin. It slumped like a wet piece of cord. The otter Chieftain looped the coils around his javelin with a skilful flick. “A slow worm? Sink me, ’tis a few seasons since I clapped eyes on one o’ these. This rascal was a full-growed feller. Ahoy, lookit the head, it’s shinin’, with a kind o’ light!”

Bosie knelt down to inspect the head. “Och, so ’tis, Ah’ve never seen ought like it!”

Corksnout, who was standing behind the hare, made another revelation. “Aye, the bottom o’ yore footpaw’s shinin’, too, Bosie. How does it feel, hot?”

The Highland hare snorted. “Ach, it doesnae feel like anythin’. It must’ve come frae when Ah did a wee jig on yon beastie’s skull. Er, ye dinna think ’tis poison, do ye, Brother?”

Torilis inspected the faint glow on Bosie’s footpaw pads. “It’s not poison, only if you were to lick it off. That’s what is called a phosphorescence, probably some mixture of mineral compounds. If you come along to my sick bay I have an herbal wash that will clean it off.”

As if fearing to walk normally, Bosie hobbled off with Torilis, thanking him, and apologising also. “Weel, Ah’m sorry Ah made mock o’ ye earlier, friend. Ye’re a right braw beastie, an’ finely learnit. Lissen the noo, frae this very-day, iffen anybeast speaks ill of ye, or mocks ye, they’ll answer tae the Laird Bosie McScutta o’ Bowlaynee. Ye can tak’ mah word on that!”

When the excitement had died down, Abbot Glisam bade everybeast to assemble in Cavern Hole, where he addressed them.

“I think it would be wise for us all to spend the remainder of the night down here. Bisky, Dwink, would you please see that there are plenty of blankets and pillows brought in. Sister Violet, keep a good fire burning in the hearth, please. Samolus, I’d like all doors and window shutters secured, and bolted where possible. Skipper, take Corksnout, Gullub Foremole and some molecrew with you. Our Abbey must be searched thoroughly, make sure there are no more strangebeasts within the grounds, or this building. Only Friar Skurpul and anybeast on breakfast duty is authorised to leave Cavern Hole. Settle down now and try to get some sleep. Thank you!”

The Redwallers began occupying every ledge, nook or comfortable place they could find. Before he departed with the search party, Corksnout had a word to say.

“Er ’as anybeast seen that grand’og o’ mine, Umfry?”

Dwink staggered in, carrying a load of cushions. “Umfry? Hah, he’s curled up in the dorm, fast asleep an’ still lickin’ rose’ip syrup off his paw, sir.”

The big Cellarhog nodded grimly. “Righto, young un, when he wakes, tell ’im t’wait in the cellars. I wants a word or two with an idle Gate’ouse Keeper who leaves the main gates swingin’ open at night!”

Far from settling down to rest, a festive atmosphere pervaded Cavern Hole. Abbot Glisam retired to a corner, not wanting to spoil the happy mood. He reasoned that it would help to dispel any fears of strange lights haunting the Abbey. Sister Violet started up the singing, whilst the incorrigible D.A.B. showed off their jigging prowess. The song took the form of a repeating line, which required a clever singer. Sister Violet held her own. She had a pleasant voice, though she was pleased when others joined in. None of the older Redwallers attempted the dancing; this was the speciality of the Abbeybabes. Dibbuns can be very athletic, and quite competitive. It was not a jig for the fainthearted. Jumps, turns, somersaults, backflips and special pawshuffles were executed energetically. Two old moles on flute and side drum accompanied Sister Violet and the singers.

Outside, the searchers braved the rain-drenched night, after securing the main outer gates. Bosie went through the gatehouse for a second time, accompanied by Corksnout. The mountain hare looked around admiringly. “’Tis a braw wee hoose, but there’s naebeast here, eh, Corkie?”

The huge hedgehog ducked as he went through the doorway. “Right y’are, Bosie, let’s search the orchard. Leave the pond area to Skipper’n’Gullub.”

The gluttonous hare stepped out with a will. “Lots o’ guid fruits in yon orchard, eh?”

Corksnout blew rainwater from his replacement snout, which landed over his left eye. “Never mind the good fruit, mate, you just look for the bad foebeasts!”

Bosie grinned. “That’s a grand trick ye do wi’ yore auld nose, could ye teach me how tae do it?”

Corksnout searched in his broad apron pocket. “Certainly, just let me find my bung knife, an’ I’ll cut yore nose off an’ carve ye another…. Hi, where are ye runnin to? Come back, mate!”

Up in the Belltower two shining, dark eyes watched the searchers below. This was one Wyte who had vowed not to return to the reeking cavern without a live captive.