Corksnout cried out piteously, “Eeyowch! That hurts somethin’ fierce. Brother, I beg ye, let a pore ole beast die peaceable, I’ve been through enough torture, let me alone, please!”
Brother Torilis heaved a relieved sigh, then gave his diagnosis promptly. “Mister Spikkle, if, as you say, you had been bitten by a poisonous snake—an adder, in fact—of the size you describe, then you’d already be dead.”
Umfry scratched his head quills. “Then why h’aint ’e, Brother?”
Torilis explained, “One, the snake could not have bitten him if its mouth was full of dead bird. Two, there are no bite wounds to be seen on our worthy Cellarhog. What occurred was that he was butted, with some considerable force. The strike was so powerful that it drove some bottom spikes inward. So, sir, it seems that I’ll have to pull your spikes back out, before they fester in there.”
Tears beaded in Corksnout’s eyes, he wept with gratitude. “Seasons praise on ye, Brother. Oh, I’m goin’ to live. Thank ye, thank ye!”
Torilis smiled, a rare occurrence for Redwall’s Healer and Herbalist. “Don’t thank me, Mister Spikkle, thank the fact that you have a bottom covered in spikes. Skipper Rorgus, Laird Bosie, would you kindly assist him up to the Infirmary, where I can work on him. I’d best take a look at you two also, you’re both going to need some spikes drawn out of you.”
The otter and the hare suddenly became aware that their paws and faces had Corksnout’s spikes protruding from them, which they had not noticed in the heat of the moment. Gingerly, they helped the Cellarhog upright.
Sister Violet praised them glowingly. “Oh, you were so brave and reckless, both of you. Is there anything you need?”
Bosie called over his shoulder, as they lugged Corksnout away, “Aye, marm, Ah’d be grateful if’n ye could fetch me a wee plate o’ somethin’ from the feast, an’ a dram tae wet mah spikey lips!”
Skipper added, “Make that two, Sister, if y’please!”
Samolus enlisted the help of Dwink and Umfry. “Come with me, you two, let’s go up to the west parapet. Best take a peep an’ see if’n we can spot that giant serpent.”
From the threshold of the walltop, above the main gate, they searched the path, the ditch and the flatlands below. There was no sign of either Baliss or the slain Raven Wyte. Abbot Glisam, having heard the reports from Aluco and Sister Violet, joined them. The old dormouse shuddered.
“Forgive me, friends, but snakes, especially adders, are the one creature I cannot abide. Just the name, snake, sends a trembling down my spine.”
Samolus took the Father Abbot’s paw. “Well, there ain’t sign nor scale o’ the villain now, so d’ye wish t’stand here shudderin’, Father Abbot, or go back t’the Dibbuns’ feast?”
Glisam took his friend’s paw. “Let’s go to the feast.”
Lost to view from the Abbey, around a bend further up the ditch, Baliss was trying to consume the dead raven, in some considerable discomfort. The whole of the giant reptile’s head was throbbing with pain. This was due to the spikes of Corksnout Spikkle, of which quite a number were embedded in the snake, owing to the ferocity and force of his strike on the Cellarhog. Baliss had no way of extracting the spikes. Several times the reptile left off his macabre meal, shaking his head violently, and butting at the ditchshide. This only caused the injury to worsen. Hissing savagely, he resumed eating the raven carcass.
Had Baliss not been blind the injury could have been averted, but the scents of raven and hedgehog combined to confuse the snake temporarily, causing what might have been termed self-inflicted wounds. Thus it was that fate had turned the cold, calculating hunter into a rapidly maddening monster, his whole snout and head pierced deep by the spikes of a simple hedgehog.
17
Anybeast could tell, by the scent of the woodlands, ceaseless birdsong and the burgeoning of fruit, berry and flower, Summer had at last arrived, casting its stillwarm spell over Mossflower Country in placid eventide. Bisky and Dubble were exhausted by the time they arrived back at the five-topped oak. With boulders still hobbling them, burdened by the sacks of produce they had gathered, both awaited their captors’ whim.
Tala, mate of Chigid, and mother of Jeg, threw down a rope sling from the upper boughs. “Lazybeasts, don’t stan’ there, load up vikkles!”
Under the watchful eyes of the Painted Ones, the prisoners loaded the slings with the fruits of their foraging. They stood clear as the sacks were hauled up.
Jeg beckoned the guards to remove the hobbles from Bisky and Dubble, leaving them still anchored to each other by the rope halter around their necks. The young Painted One menaced them with his whippy switch.
“Stan’ there, don’t budge, or I make yer sorry!” The sling was lowered again, and bound jointly around them. They were hoisted roughly up onto the broad limb they had formerly occupied.
Dubble sighed wearily as the guards bound their forepaws to the bough above their heads. He appealed to them, “Oh come on, mates, y’know we can’t escape. Why are ye stringin’ us up like this agin?”
Jeg smiled maliciously. “’Cos yer gotta stay like that ’til I says so!”
The young Guosim shrew snarled back at him, “Ye scringin’ liddle worm, if’n my paws were loose I’d batter ye to a pulp!”
Jeg flogged at the defenceless Dubble with his switch, yelling shrilly, “Well, yer paws ain’t loose, so I’ll batter yew to a pulp. Stoopid watermousey!”
The willow switch snapped, leaving Jeg with only a short stub. Despite the beating he had taken, Dubble began taunting him. “Dearie me, broke yore toy have ye? Go an’ cry to yore mammee for a new one!”
Jeg grabbed some mushrooms from the sacks. He hurled them at Dubble and Bisky angrily. “Hah! That’s all the vikkles yew two are gettin’. I’ll make sure ya starve t’death!” Shoving guards out of his way, the young tree rat dashed off into the higher foliage.
Bisky shook his head at Dubble. “If ye keep teasin’ him like that he will end up beatin’ you, or both of us, to death, mate. Why don’t ye just let him be?”
The young shrew gritted his teeth stubbornly. “I’ve been punished by bigger’n’tougher beasts than that liddle spoiled brat!”
Bisky decided not to provoke his friend by arguing. Closing his eyes, he let his head hang limply.
Night’s starry canopy descended over the woodlands. Both captives sagged, falling into an exhausted slumber. The Painted Ones had eaten; they did not bother lighting a fire down on the ground. Secure in their five-topped oak, and the surrounding trees, the vermin did not mount any guards. Each went to their own group, nestling in the forks of boughs, or huddling on broad limbs. Gradually the atmosphere slid into a relaxed drowsiness.
Bisky felt a footpaw kick him into wakefulness. It was Dubble, the shrew was ready and alert. He whispered to his companion, “Have ye still got yore sharp flint, matey?”
Keeping his voice low, the Redwaller replied, “Aye, for all the good it’d do us. How can I reach it with my paws bound up like this?”
Dubble shook his head. “I got the same trouble, friend. Mine’s in me belt. I’ve got no chance o’ getting’ at it. Any bright ideas?”
For answer, Bisky reached out with his footpaws, by swinging them; he hit Dubble’s stomach. His fellow captive gave an irate snort.
“Didn’t Jeg beat me enough, have you gotta have a go!”
The young mouse cautioned him, “Keep y’voice down, mate, I’ve got a plan. Now, shove yore belly out toward me, so I can see that flint in yore belt.”
Dubble obeyed wordlessly. Bisky started to swing his body to and fro, each time touching his friend’s stomach. He could see the glitter of the flint in the starlight. Making an extra effort, he swung harder, grunting as his footpaws trapped the shard of flint between them.
Dubble hissed excitedly, “Hah, ye got a good grip on it there, mate. Well done, matey. Wot now?”
Arching his back, Bisky groaned in pain. “Ooohh, my paws are all swelled, with jiggin’ about on this
rope, it’s really hurtin’ me. Listen, I’m goin’ to rest a moment afore I carry on.”
The Guosim shrew gnawed his lip with concern. “Don’t let go o’ that flint, Bisky. Is there anythin’ I can do t’help ye, bucko?”
Trying to ignore the stinging numbness in his tightly bound forepaws, the young mouse gasped, “Aye there’s two things ye can do. When I give the word, suck yore stomach in. It’ll make it easier for me to pull the flint out with my footpaws. Once I’ve got it I’ll try a high kick. D’ye think ye could catch the flint in yore mouth if I could lift it that far, mate?”
His companion chuckled. “You just try me!”
With both footpaws tightly clutching the flint shard, Bisky gave the word. “Now!” Dubble inhaled, pulling in his stomach hard. The belt slackened, and Bisky swiftly tugged the flint free. He dangled back and forth, holding the flint, his face creased in agony.
Dubble muttered urgently, “Try an’ swing yoreself up, mate, afore yore paws give ye too much pain. I’m ready, Bisky, swing now!”
With one last, desperate effort, the Redwall mouse levered himself forward, kicking upward. He lost the flint, it slipped from the grasp of his footpaws, revolving in the air. Dubble gave a small squeak of dismay as it struck the tip of his snout. However, he had the presence of mind to toss his head back, catching the flint shard neatly in his open mouth.
It was an effort for Bisky to raise his face; he smiled through the agonised tears which squeezed from the corners of each eye. “That was a good trick, mate, ye’ll have to teach it t’me sometime.”
Dubble never replied—he was busy mouthing the flint into a more useful position. Grunting with exertion he angled his neck awkwardly askew. Hoisting himself upward by his bound forepaws, he began sawing at the nearest rope.
Bisky murmured encouragement to the young Guosim. “C’mon, you can do it, cully, chop that ole rope to shreds, an’ let’s be shut o’ this stinkin’ place!”
Clenching the flint with his teeth, Dubble made strained grunting noises as he sawed furiously. It was a good, sharp-edged flint—strands rapidly twisted away from the rope. Then the shrew gave a mighty tug. He stared upward at the severed rope, hanging by one paw, grinning triumphantly.
“Good ole us, we did it! Stay there, I’ll be with ye in two shakes of a newt’s tail!”
Despite his pain, Bisky chuckled. “I’ll stay here, seein’ as I can’t go anyplace until ye cut my ropes.”
Once they were both free, the two friends sat awhile on the oak limb, waiting for the circulation to ease their forepaws. Bisky asked, “We’ve got a couple of hours afore dawnlight. Which way should we go when we get out of this tree?”
Dubble shrugged. “I ain’t got a blinkin’ clue, mate. I thought you knew yore way round this neck o’ the woods. One thing I do know, though, we should get as far and as fast away from this place as we can.”
Making their way down the five-topped oak was extremely perilous. Painted Ones slept in the most unexpected nooks of the big tree. Fortunately the tree rats were all heavy sleepers. In the lower terraces of the mighty oak, they came across Jeg. The young rat was curled up in a broad fork, alongside his mother and father, Chigid and Tala.
At the sight of their hated foe, Dubble’s teeth began chattering with rage. Bisky threw a paw across his friend’s mouth, whispering, “Not worth it, mate, we could be caught again.”
The shrew allowed himself to be led away. Casting a final hate-filled glare at Jeg, he murmured, “Someday we’ll cross trails agin…. Someday!”
The woodland floor felt good underpaw again—exhilaration coursed through the two friends’ veins. Not being certain of any route or direction, they set off speedily into the thickest tree cover. Mossflower was completely silent, the heavy loam thick and soft underpaw, with the tree canopy overhead shielding any star or moonlight, making the woodlands a realm of total darkness.
Dubble laughed nervously. “If’n ye see any twinklin’ lights tryin’ to lead us someplace, ignore ’em mate, they’re trouble.”
Bisky gripped his friend’s paw firmly. “They’re worse than trouble, mate, they’re Wytes.”
It was still dark when they emerged into a clearing. Bisky splashed into a tiny streamlet which flowed through it. Immediately they threw themselves down, drinking the cold, clear water greedily. Bisky splashed some across his face. “Mmm, that feels good. I hadn’t realised I was so thirsty, how about you?”
Dubble passed him a pawful of vegetation. “Look, watercress! It ain’t much but it’s good enough for hungry bellies. Wait there, let’s see wot else is growin’ roundabout. There’s always a bit to be had around streambanks, even liddle ones.”
Bisky ventured as far as the trees on the fringe of the sward, where he found a few mushrooms growing beneath some shrubbery. Dubble returned to the streamlet with other edibles he had gathered. Pepperwort, the leaves and stems of which had a hot but pleasant taste. He also had some wood sorrel, and a few half-ripe raspberries. They shared the results of their forage, lounging beside the tinkling streamlet.
Dubble lay back, patting his stomach. “Well, ’twasn’t much, but at least it was somethin’, matey. I tell ye, I’d give anythin’ for a quick snooze right now, can’t remember the last time I had a decent sleep.”
Bisky was inclined to agree with him. “Me, too, I can’t keep my eyes open. What d’ye say we find somewhere sheltered an’ nap ’til daylight?”
Dubble stifled a yawn. “Right, lead me to it, bucko.”
Following the stream out of the clearing, they searched for a likely spot. Bisky found it, an ancient black poplar. The tree was long dead and fallen flat. On closer inspection it turned out to be a hollow trunk. Dubble crouched low, scrambling into it gratefully. “We couldn’t have found a better place for a liddle sleep than this, ’tis built for the job, mate.”
Bisky crawled in beside him. “What d’ye mean, we? I was the one who found it, move over, mate, d’ye want all the room for yourself?”
The Guosim shrew grabbed a pawful of dry pulp and tossed it at the Redwall mouse, giggling. “Oh, go to sleep an’ stop moanin’, swoggletail!”
Bisky retaliated with two paw loads of the pulp. “Swoggletail, is it? Well, take that, swinjeysnout!”
As young ones will, they fought playfully, laughing and shouting as they forgot their strange surroundings. The dark-cloaked creature who had been watching them since they left the clearing spoke in low tones to his band.
“Awright, get dem nets’n’clubs, soon as dey nod off we’ll ’ave ’em. Norra sound now, speshully you, Gobbo, do yer ’ear me?”
The one called Gobbo replied indignantly, “Norra sound, ’ey? Yore makin’ more noise dan all uv us put tergether!”
Bisky and Dubble gradually fell asleep, unaware how short their taste of freedom had been.
18
Evening shafts of red, gold and violet sunlight flooded through the long windows into the Great Hall, casting random patterns over the supper tables. Friar Skurpul and his staff were kept busy, serving a repast to the returned searchers, and their new feathered friend. Dibbuns crowded around to stare at Aluco. Never having seen a real tawny owl close up, they peppered him with questions.
“Hurr, Oi never see’d ee real h’owl, wot bees yurr name, zurr?”
“Farver Abbot sez you can make the whoo hoo noise, will ye do it for me?”
“I wish I could turn my head roun’ an’ roun’ like you. Will ye teach me how t’do it?”
Abbot Glisam shook a paw at the little ones. “Would you please stop bothering Aluco and let him get on with his supper? Be off, shoo!”
The owl merely waved a wing at Glisam. “The little uns aren’t bothering me, Father, not when there’s vittles like these about.” His huge eyes widened with pleasure as Friar Skurpul sliced off a portion from a big iron skillet on to his platter. “Thankee, Friar, Redwall food is the best I ever tasted. This is delicious, what d’you call it?”
The good mole smiled proudly.
“’Tis ee cornmeal panny-cake, zurr, wi’ hunny, chesknutters an’ ’azelnutters baked into it. Oi b’ain’t never cooked furr a h’owlyburd afore, Oi ’opes you’m loikes it, zurr.”
Aluco was profuse with his praise. “Like it, Friar, great howls’n’hoots, I can’t imagine living with anything so wonderful and not having it to eat ten times a day. It’s absolutely super!”
Dwink and Umfry had wolfed their supper down in silence. They sat drumming the tabletop impatiently, not joining in the general enjoyment. Friar Skurpul chucked both of them under their chins with a floury paw. “Boi okey, young maisters, ee’ll bringen on rain an’ thunner wi’ faces loike that. Wot ails ee?”
Umfry let Dwink do the talking. The young squirrel stared around him bitterly. “How can ye all sit there scoffin’ an’ laughin’ whilst our mate Bisky might be held a prisoner, or even lyin’ slain somewhere?”
Samolus interrupted stridently, “Now hold hard there, young un, didn’t you hear Bosie say that as soon as we’ve had a bite to eat, we’d do something about Bisky? I’m concerned about him, too, y’know, he’s my nephew!”
But Dwink was not about to be browbeaten. He came right back at Samolus, waving his paws around. “Well, where is Bosie, an’ Skipper, too, for that matter? Doesn’t anybeast care?”
“Och, did somebeast mention us, we’re here the noo!”
Bosie and Skipper had arrived back from the Infirmary; both had poultices of dockleaf and sanicle bound round their paws. Pushing in next to Umfry and Dwink, the otter and the hare helped themselves to massive portions of bread, cheese, soup and salad. Bosie held up his bandaged paws.
“Will ye no look at what yon whey-faced torturer did tae us. Ah swear, ’tis the only time Ah’ve seen Brother Torilis smile, when he was pullin’ Corksnout’s spike from mah paws, wi’ that long pair o’ scissors!”
Skipper paused, with a soup bowl halfway to his mouth. “Aye, mate, ole Torilis did seem t’be enjoyin’ hisself. But he got the job done well, I will say that for him.”