The Abbot nodded his approval. “Pray tell, how is our Cellarhog faring, is he well?”
Bosie chuckled. “Aye, auld Corkie’s lookin’ bonny, though Ah’m thinkin’ he won’t be sittin’ doon for a wee while yet. Brother Torilis pulled enough spikes out o’ his behind tae fill a bucket.”
Skipper tried to hide a smile. “Pore Corksnout, he looks like a big bumblebee, with his bottom covered in bandages.”
Amidst the merriment which followed, Umfry was about to interrupt and enquire what Bosie intended to do about Bisky, when Perrit the pretty squirrelmaid came bustling in to make an announcement.
“Father Abbot, I was taking a stroll on the walltops, to see if the giant snake was still about, when I saw a lot of shrews at the main gate. I think they want to see you. Do we let them in? They’re still out there.”
Abbot Glisam nodded to Foremole Gullub. “The Guosim are always welcome at our Abbey. Unbar the gate for them, friend.”
Threescore Guosim shrews strode into the Great Hall. Some of the Dibbuns ran and hid—they were a fierce-looking band. Spiky furred, with coloured headbands, they wore small kilts and broad, buckled belts. Each one had the traditional Guosim short rapier thrust in his belt. Other weapons—clubs, slingstones, bows and arrows and spears—were much in evidence.
Glisam met them with open paws. “Welcome to Redwall Abbey, friends, I’ll tell our cooks to provide you with a meal and drink. Please sit. I am Glisam, Father Abbot of Redwall, how can we help you?” Redwallers vacated the supper tables; the Guosim were about to sit when their leader called out.
“Stand fast, all of ye, we ain’t here t’feed our faces!” This was the Log a Log, Chieftain of the Guosim. He was no taller than the others, but powerfully built, having a hard potbelly and sporting a grey beard. He carried a long club made of solid iron. Swinging it over one shoulder he faced the Abbot aggressively. “I’m Tugga Bruster, Log a Log of the Northstream Guosim, an’ I’m here to ask ye a question!”
Skipper immediately decided that he did not like either the tone or the manner of Tugga Bruster. He hurried forward, placing himself in front of Glisam. “Ahoy, bully, ye can ask wot questions ye like, but there won’t be any answers until yore manners improve!”
Tugga Bruster held his club forward threateningly. “Out o’ me way, riverdog, I ain’t talkin’ to you!”
Skipper whirled like lighting; his thick rudder struck the shrew’s paws, knocking the iron club from his grasp. It rang out, like a hammer striking an anvil, as it hit the floor. Skipper clenched his paws. “Well, I’m Rorgus, Skipper o’ the Mossflower Otters, an’ I’m talkin’ to you, watermouse!”
The Guosim shrew whipped out his rapier, yelling, “I’ll send ye to Hellgates for that!”
It was Bosie’s turn to step in now. He drifted in from the side, unknown to Tugga Bruster. As the Shrew Chieftain was about to lunge with his rapier, he was halted by the sword of Martin pricking his neck. The Highland hare stood poised, his tone leaving nobeast in any doubt. “Allow me tae introduce mahself, laddie. Ah’m the Laird Bosie McScutta o’ Bowlaynee. Unlike mah friend Skipper, Ah dinna come tae the dance unarmed. So, let’s talk. Ah’d advise ye tae put up yore blade, mine’s bigger, d’ye see. Oh, an’ tell yore clan not tae move a paw, or Ah’ll lay yore heid on the floor an’ play ball with it. Now, mah braw bucko, do we understand each other?”
Tugga Bruster thrust the rapier back into his belt. “I hear ye, rabbit!”
Zzzzzip! One deft stroke of Martin’s sword sheared hairs from the shrew’s beard. Bosie shook his head. “Tut tut, yore a hard one tae learn. Och, but ye’ll find me a stern teacher. Now, state yore business.”
Tugga Bruster backed off, his voice quivering. “Two things. Do ye keep Wytes at this place?”
Bosie leant on his sword, as if pondering the answer. “Ach, certainly not, what do ye take us for, rogues? Carry on, laddie, what’s the other thing?”
The Shrew Chieftain asked in a more reasonable tone, “Has a young Guosim been seen hereabouts, goes by the name o’ Dubble?”
The Abbot stepped out from behind Skipper; he had begun to put two and two together. “Do I take it that you think this young un, Dubble, has been captured by Wytes?”
The Log a Log nodded. “Aye, that’s about it!”
Glisam beckoned to the tables. “All of you, and you, too, sir, please sit and take supper. Come on, Guosim shrews have always been friends of our Abbey. There’s no need to create bad blood between us. Sit ye down now, please.”
At a nod from their Log a Log, the shrews rushed to the table. Glisam made way for their leader to sit next to him. He enquired about the lost shrew. “Is Dubble one of your tribe, sir?”
Tugga Bruster nodded, as though it was hard to admit. “Aye, he’s my son. We’ve come down from the North, this country is new to us.”
The Abbot nodded understandingly. “It must be hard to have your own kin lost in a strange place, a dreadful feeling.”
Skipper winked at Tugga. “When you’ve eaten yore fill, mayhaps ye’d like to join us. One of our own young uns, a mouse called Bisky, is missin’. He was snatched by the Painted Ones. I take it ye’ve heard o’ those villains, eh, Tugga?”
The Shrew Chieftain set his jaw grimly. “Aye, what beast hasn’t heard about ’em? Dirty, savage tree rats. There wasn’t so many of the scum in my younger seasons, but they’re in every reach of forest or woodland these days.”
Samolus nodded agreement. “The gang we’re after have their dwellings in an’ round a five-topped oak, southeast of here. Who knows, maybe they’ve got yore son. Well, d’ye fancy joinin’ us, Tugga?”
Tugga Bruster rose, adjusting the rapier in his belt. Shouldering his iron club, he called to the Guosim, “On yore hunkers an’ join these goodbeasts. Y’can eat those vittles on the march, let’s be off!”
In soft, dusk light the party left Redwall by the small east wickergate, heading straight into the verdant woodlands. Dwink and Umfry strode alongside a couple of shrews who were about their age, one called Marul, the other named Tenka. They chatted to one another in low voices. Umfry was curious about the Guosim way of life, which Marul tried to give him a flavour of.
“We lives mainly on the water, in logboats. You’ve got to be good with a paddle if’n yore a Guosim.”
Dwink enquired, “Where’s yore logboats now, mate?”
Tenka gestured off to his left. “Moored in a broadstream over that way, out o’ sight.”
He was silenced by Tugga, who had heard them talking. “Ahoy, silence back there, ye ain’t out on a picnic. Shut yore gobs!”
The young Guosim promptly obeyed, but Umfry murmured indignantly, “Who does ’e think ’e h’is, givin’ h’out h’orders left an’ right?”
Samolus turned and tweaked the young hedgehog’s snout before delivering a whispered caution. “He’s a Guosim Chief, a Log a Log, an’ whether ye like him or not, wot he says makes sense. Remember, you an’ Dwink ain’t in the Abbey now, yore out in woodlands by night. So ye keep yore eyes open an’ your mouths shut, an’ obey orders, see!”
Samolus went back to the rear of the band, where he fell in step with Bosie. Skipper marched up front alongside Tugga Bruster; the Otter Chieftain had a fair idea of where the five-topped oak would be. Every once in a while pale moonlight showed through the gaps in the treetops, casting moonshadow on the woodland floor. Samolus nodded ahead. “Ah, I know where we are now, pretty soon we’ll come to a clearing up yonder. Skipper will be able to take a bearing on the oak from there.”
Bosie silenced the old mouse with a wave of his paw. “Wheesht, can ye not hear that sound?”
Samolus stood still, listening. “Aye, sounds like a sort of rustlin’ an’ thrashin’, but I ain’t certain where ’tis comin’ from.”
Bosie crouched low, letting the others march ahead as he listened carefully, down close to ground level. “Och, that could be more than one creature, comin’ up from behind us. Ah think it’s headed this way. You go an’
tell everybeast tae get off to the right o’ this trail. We’ll lie low an’ see what it can be, mebbe find out if ’tis followin’ us.”
Word ran swiftly along the column, whilst Bosie crept back along the trail to investigate. Dwink and Umfry obeyed the urgent signals of Samolus, as did the Guosim. The young Redwallers found themselves, along with Marul and Tenka, lying flat in a dried-up watercourse, to the right of the trail.
Now they could all hear the noise. At first it sounded like a stiff breeze, rushing low around the ferns and shrubbery of the woodland floor. But then they heard the sounds of twigs snapping, and some beast, or beasts, beating about amidst the vegetation. The noises grew closer, along with a slight musty odour, quite unpleasant, a bit like dead fish and old damp bark.
Dwink flinched slightly as Bosie dived in the dried watercourse beside him. The hare warned him to silence with a swift glance. Then the hissing could be clearly heard. It was Baliss!
The giant adder had been driven to madness. Leaving the ditch outside Redwall, he had battered his wounded head against tree trunks, trying to rid himself of the many hedgehog spikes which had pierced his mouth, nostrils, face and snout. Some broke off under the pounding, others were driven deeper into the huge, blind reptile. Each wound became swollen and infected. With the double handicap of blindness and having no means of extracting the tormenting needles, Baliss became insane with agony. Having lost all sense of smell, and direction, the snake rampaged around the woodlands, hissing venomously, unable to do anything about his worsening condition.
Samolus watched, fascinated, as the thick, loathsome coils bunched and straightened like steel springs. Everybeast stayed motionless, unscathed, whilst the monster careened madly past the dry watercourse, along the trail and up into the clearing ahead. Samolus, his voice shaky from shock, stared at Dwink and Umfry. “See, ye never know wot ye’ll run into at night in these woodlands. I hope you young Guosim realise that, too!”
However, Marul and Tenka, like the rest of the Guosim, had an all-consuming terror of snakes. The effect that Baliss had upon them was one of total fear. They lay shivering and moaning softly, unable to control themselves. Watching Tugga Bruster whimpering and cringing on the ground, Bosie turned to Skipper, remarking, “Would ye ken he was the braw beastie who was going tae run ye through with his blade this evenin’?”
The otter shook his head. “Aye, our Guosim mates won’t be much use for awhile. But I’ll tell ye, Bosie, that snake was actin’ very strange.”
The hare chuckled drily, holding up his bandaged paws. “Ah’ve nae doubt the beastie is, Skip, an’ so would ye be if’n ye had half o’ Corksnout’s bottom spikes lodged in yore gob. Hah, Ah’ll wager auld Torilis would laugh himself clear intae next season, if’n he could get his bonny big scissors tae work on that un!”
Baliss could be heard hissing and throwing himself around the clearing up ahead. Knowing they had little to fear from the snake, providing they avoided him, the Redwallers set about trying to help the Guosim recover. Bosie hauled Tugga upright, shaking him soundly.
“Och, straighten yersel’ up, laddie. No Chieftain should be seen blubberin’ an’ cowerin’ in front of his own clanbeasts. Come on, get a grip o’ yersel’ afore I box yore ears for ye!”
That seemed to do the trick, the Guosim Log a Log recovered immediately, grasping his iron club and declaiming truculently, “Nobeast boxes Tugga Bruster’s ears an’ lives to boast of it, leggo o’ me, I’m alright!” Ignoring the hare’s broad grin, he went amongst his shrews, kicking them indiscriminately as he roared, “Up, ye lily-livered no-goods! Get formed into ranks, wot’s the matter with ye, eh? ’Tis only an ole snake, it’s gone now. Huh, I’d have bashed its brain out with me club if’n it’d tried to attack us!”
Skipper winked at Bosie. “Back to his usual modest shyness, ain’t he!”
Bosie turned to Dwink and Umfry, who were shaking with laughter. “An’ you two stop sniggerin’. Show some respect tae a braw Chieftain o’ Guosim!”
19
Bisky was wakened as the world seemed to tumble and shake. The fallen hollow log that he and Dubble had chosen as their sleeping place was being shaken, rolled and generally banged about. Both friends scuttled out, straight into a sort of big bag. As they scrambled upright to escape, shrill, eager cries rang out from their captors.
“Don’t jus’ stan’ there, sambag dem!”
“Awright, awright, keep yer tail on, I’m lukkin’ fer me sambag, ’ere, Gobbo, giz yores!”
“O no, yer not getting’ mine, lukk fer yer own!”
A loud, nasal snarl, obviously the leader’s, broke in on the dispute. “Yew two, yer about as much use azza snail shell on a butterfly. Give uz that sambag ’ere!”
Two hefty blows knocked the prisoners unconscious.
Bisky awoke with a dull headache, which was not bad, considering the blow he had taken. As expected, he was bound back-to-back with Dubble, either side of a wooden post; also, they were both gagged. Craning his neck from side to side, Bisky viewed his surroundings. It was a long, low-ceilinged cave, with many wooden posts supporting it. The walls were decked with all sorts of what Bisky could only describe as rubbish. Dried fish skins, pieces of coloured stone, old earthenware beakers and wooden plates, all of which had seen better days.
Around small fires, dotted hither and thither, were gathered the scruffiest, weirdest bunch of mice Bisky had ever set eyes upon. Their scraggly fur was caked with mud and dust, and they were clad in tattered rags of barkcloth. The only weapons they seemed to possess were sausage-like sacks of sand, and tough, thin lengths of vine, with a wooden toggle attached to either end. The mice were constantly fighting and squabbling, over the most trivial things. Nobeast ever appeared to get hurt, but they would twirl their sandbags at one another, leaping about and exchanging the most colourful insults.
Every mouse’s name ended in an o. Bisky heard them calling to one another. He tried to decipher some of the names—there was Gobbo, Bumbo, Tingo, then he gave up. Their accents were flat and nasal, and they spoke with a rapidity which was hard to understand. He watched two of them, the one called Gobbo and another called Tingo, disputing the ownership of a sandbag.
Gobbo shrilled, “Ey, yew, givvuz dat sambag, it’s mine, I lost it!”
Tingo stood his ground belligerently. “Gerroff, dis sambag’s mine, me ma made it fer me. Don’t yew cum round ’ere tryna pinch my sambag, jus’ ’cos yer lost yer own. Gobbo the slobbo!”
Tingo caught sight of Bisky watching them, and turned his irate attention upon the Redwaller. “Who are yew lukkin’ at, pudden nose?”
Bisky tried to smile, shaking his head, to show he meant no harm or disrespect. Tingo swaggered over; twirling his sandbag, he glared coldly at the captive.
“One more lukk like dat an’ I’ll sambag yer good’n’proper, d’yer ’ear me, fliggle bottum?”
Bisky smiled and nodded several times. This did not appease Tingo, who began smacking the sandbag hard into his pawpad. “I think I’ll just give yer a smack fer laffin’ at me like dat!”
He swung the sandbag, about to strike, when he was knocked ears over tail by a very fat mouse, who carried a weightier sandbag than the rest. He grabbed Tingo by the ear, hauling him roughly upright. “Lissen, bobble’ead, did yer search ’em like I told yer to, eh?” He held Tingo on tippaw by the ear as Tingo danced and complained.
“Owowow, leggo willyer, Da! We never found nothin’ on ’em ’cept two ould slivers o’ flint, dat’s all!”
The fat one looked questioningly at Bisky. “Iz dat right, jus’ two ould cobs o’ flint, no treasure of any sort, eh?”
The one called Tingo answered, “I tole yer, Da, only two bits o’ flint.”
With hardly a glance, the fat mouse swung his sandbag. He struck Tingo in the stomach, knocking him flat on his bottom. The fat one scowled. “Who asked yew, sproutears? I’m talkin’ to d’prisoner.” He untied the gag from Bisky’s mouth. But the young mouse kept quiet until he was spoken
to.
The fat one scratched his stubbly chin. “Worra ye doin’ in my territ’ry, Redwaller?”
The question caught Bisky off guard. “How did you know I’m from Redwall, sir?”
The fat one gave a humorless laugh. “Yer couldn’t be from anywheres else, wearin’ gear like that. I know all I need ter know, I’m Nokko, Pike’ead o’ the Gonfelin Thieves. So, worra ye doin’, playin’ daft ducks inna holler tree on my land, wirra Guosim? Huh, I ’aven’t seen one o’ dem round ’ere fer awhile.”
Bisky was intrigued by the name Gonfelin, but he answered truthfully. “I’m Bisky. The Guosim’s called Dubble, I met up with him when we were captured by Painted Ones, sir.”
Nokko dropped his sandbag, caught it on one footpaw, flicked it up and caught it neatly. “Painty Ones, eh? Y’must be soft in the ’ead, lettin’ yerselves get catchered by dat lot. Before youse was caught, did yer ’ave any treasure wid yer?”
Bisky replied as Nokko was ungagging Dubble. “Treasure, sir, what d’you mean?”
The one called Gobbo had been eavesdropping on the conversation; he curled his lip scornfully at Bisky. “Wot does me da mean by treasure, hah! Loot, boodiggles, swipin’s, pawpurse stuff, wot d’yer think ’e means, cabbage brain!”
Nokko shot his paw out. Latching onto Gobbo’s nose, he twisted it until tears sprang from the victim’s eyes. The fat Pikehead leader roared at him, “Worrav I told yer, muck-mouth, stay outta things wot don’t concern yer, awright?”
Gobbo did a frenzied dance of pain. “Owowowow! Awright, Da, leggo, willyer! Owowow!”
Nokko gave the nose a final, hefty twist before releasing Gobbo. He nodded, almost apologetically to Bisky. “Young uns, dey got no manners at all, ’specially sons an’ daughters.” He waved a paw at his tribe in general. “I’ve got enuff of ’em, I should know. I’ll tell yer wot treasure looks like. Spingo, go an’ fetch yer ma, tell ’er t’bring the jool.”