“Pompom Pompom, where have my four eyes gone?
There’s a key to every riddle,
there’s a key to every song,
there’s a key to every lock,
think hard or you’ll go wrong.
Pompom Pompom, who’ll be the lucky one?
What holds you out but lets you in,
that’s a good place to begin.
What connects a front and back,
find one, and then just three you’ll lack.
Pompom Pompom, the trail leads on and on.”
Old Sister Ficaria stopped speaking. Samolus held up his paw to the others, lest she start again. However, that was all she had to say. They sat awhile in silence, then Ficaria glanced coyly at Bisky. “Did you like my poem, Prince Gonff?”
Without correcting the ancient mouse, Bisky clasped her frail paws warmly. “It was a very nice poem, Sister, you did it beautifully. Now, you see those two friends?” He gestured toward Dwink and Umfry. “Well, they are going down to the kitchens to bring something nice for you. Tell them what you want.”
Sister Ficaria brightened up. “Hot mint tea, with honey in it, lots of honey. Oh, and if Friar has some of those wonderful almond biscuits, I’d like one or two, and perhaps a damson tart, please.”
Samolus nodded to Dwink and Umfry. “You young uns run along now, me’n’Bisky’ll stay with the Sister. I’ll get some parchment an’ charcoal. Mayhaps she’ll say the lines again, I’ll copy ’em down this time. Right, Sister?”
Ficaria stared fixedly at Samolus. “Yes, I’d do that if I were you, sir. Being as old as you are, it would be wise to record the poem, before you forget it!”
Samolus glared at Bisky as he went to fetch writing materials. The young mouse was spluttering to hold back his laughter.
Old Sister Ficaria cheerfully recited the poem again, fortified by honeyed mint tea, a plate of Friar Skurpul’s special almond shortbreads and a daintily latticed damson tart. Studiously following her every word, Bisky wrote the lines down neatly. Dwink listened to his friend rereading the entire thing. The young squirrel waved his tail rhythmically to and fro. “It sounds just like a Dibbun thing, you know, the sort of chant they do when they’re playing games.”
Umfry agreed. “Like h’a sort of singsong rhyme. Maybe that’s h’exactly what h’it was, d’ye think so, Sister?”
Sister Ficaria’s small crystal spectacles had slipped awry on her nosetip; the little old mouse had dozed off. Samolus took a rug and covered her gently.
“Hush now, let’s go downstairs to study this.”
7
They went to Cavern Hole, where Samolus set about repairing a chair seat. Bisky watched his granduncle artfully weaving dried reeds and stripping away broken ones. “Tell me somethin’, Grandunk, how did you come to find out about this rhyme?”
Samolus trimmed the reed ends with his sharp blade. “Oh, ’twasn’t too hard, though it happened quite by accident. When I was readin’ through Lady Columbine’s diary, she wrote that as a joke, she often called Gonff the Pom. When he asked her why, she kept him in the dark. Then one day he guessed, the first letters. Prince of Mousethieves…Pom!”
Samolus inspected the repair he had completed. “There, that should do! C’mere, young Bisky, make yoreself useful. See this soft moss pad, it’s full o’ beeswax an’ lavender. Give this chair seat a good rubbin’. It’ll give it a nice shine, a sweet scent an’ keep the reeds supple.”
Bisky obeyed, but continued with his questions. “You found out that Pom stands for Gonff’s title, what happened then?”
The old mouse sheathed his sharp blade carefully. “’Twas some time back, beginnin’ o’ spring. I was in the sick bay, fixin’ up a new shelf for all those potions an’ pots of ointment. Huh, that Brother Torilis, always has a face on him, like a fried frog. He never spoke a word t’me, or offered me a bite to eat or drink. So, I worked away an’ kept meself to meself.
“After awhile I noticed little Sister Ficaria, sittin’ in a corner hemmin’ sheets she was. Guess wot, she was chantin’ that poem as she stitched away at her work. Said it three or four times she did. I never thought any more of it, ’til this mornin’. I was on me way to brekkist, an’ I stopped at the big tapestry picture of Martin the Warrior in Great Hall. I always look at Martin’s eyes, have ye ever noticed anythin’ about ’em?”
Bisky looked up from his task. “Aye, they seem to follow you wherever you go.”
Samolus winked at the young mouse. “That’s right! Well-noticed young un, yore a Gonffen sure enough. Anyhow, I stood there, starin’ at Martin, an’ he’s starin’ back at me, an’ I thought, good ole Martin, he was Gonff’s best friend, aye, Gonff the…I was goin’ t’say Gonff the Prince of Mousethieves, when I suddenly said that word. Pom! Now don’t you young uns make fun o’ me, but I gives you me word. Martin’s eyes twinkled, an’ Sister Ficaria’s rhyme shot straight into me head. That was when I knew the words meant somethin’ special! Dwink, read it out.”
The young squirrel took up the parchment.
“Pompom Pompom, where have my four eyes gone?
There’s a key to every riddle,
there’s a key to every song,
there’s a key to every lock,
think hard or you’ll go wrong.
Pompom Pompom, who’ll be the lucky one?
What holds you out but lets you in,
that’s a good place to begin.
What connects a front and back,
find one, and then just three you’ll lack.
Pompom Pompom, the trail leads on and on.”
Umfry appeared quite elated, his spikes stood up straight. “Did ye hear that, it says, that’s a good place to begin, what connects a front and back?”
Dwink hazarded a guess. “A middle?”
Bisky shook his head. “No, no, you’re lookin’ at the wrong bit. Start at the line which goes, ‘What holds you out but lets you in, that’s a good place to begin.’”
Dwink frowned. “It doesn’t make sense, I don’t know anythin’ that holds me out but lets me in.”
Umfry provided the answer quite unwittingly. “Huh, ’cept a door, h’I think.”
Samolus raised his eyebrows. “Is that what ye think, Umfry, I wonder why that is?”
The hulking young hedgehog gave his reasons eagerly. “’Cos the words are all about keys, an’ that’s what ye need to h’open doors.”
Samolus had already solved the riddle, but he wanted the young ones to think for themselves. “What’s your answer, Dwink?”
The squirrel screwed his face up in concentration. “Er, er, I think it’s right, wot Umfry said, I mean. An’ a door’s the only thing that needs a key.”
Samolus sighed. “Yore right, it is a door, but the words tell ye of other things that need keys. A riddle, a song and a lock. So think about this, what can hold you outside, or let you inside?”
Dwink replied, “Is it a door, Mister Sam’lus?”
The old mouse turned his attention to Bisky. “Of course it is. Can you tell us why? Come on, think!”
Bisky could explain his reply, and he did. “A door connects front an’ back. Back door, front door. But we need a key for the door. Even then we won’t find the four Eyes of the Doomwyte. Next to last line, find one, and just three you’ll lack. Right?”
Samolus sat down on the newly repaired chair. “Right, but at least it’s a start. Now, where would we find door keys, eh?”
Surprisingly, it was Umfry who spoke out. “But there h’aint no keys h’in Redwall, an’ I should know, ’cos h’I’m the Gatekeeper!”
Samolus looked dumbfounded. “Great seasons, young un, yore right! In all me time at our Abbey I’ve never seen a door with a key’ole an’ a key to fit it. We’ve got doors you can bar, an’ doors ye can bolt, but I’ve never seen one ye could turn a key on!”
Dwink shrugged. “So wot’s the use of this riddle if’n we’re lookin’ for a door that locks with a key, an’ there ain’t one in t
he whole bloomin’ Abbey?”
Bisky had a suggestion to make. “Suppose it’s a door to a cupboard, or a wardrobe, or, or, somethin’ like that?”
Samolus pondered the idea, then rejected it. “No, I don’t think so, leastways I’ve never seen a locked cupboard. As for wardrobes, most of them have a curtain instead of a door. It looks like we’re stuck on this puzzle, mates, unless…”
Umfry stared at the old mouse expectantly. “Unless wot, sir?”
Samolus explained, “Unless we put the question to every creature in Redwall. Somebeast’s sure to know. Listen now, here’s what we do….”
By dinnertime that evening, Abbot Glisam felt he was close to the end of his tether, as did Corksnout Spikkle, and one or two others. Glisam watched the Laird Bosie McScutta of Bowlaynee bounding off to his chosen room, calling cheerily, “Ah’ll be back in the twitch of an ear the noo. It doesnae take me long tae freshen up an’ change for dinner!”
The Abbot slumped down on the stairs, sighing. “At least it doesn’t look like he’s escaping to inspect the kitchen and larders again!”
Corksnout clenched his powerful paws. “Did ye see the number o’ barrels an’ kegs that he opened in my cellars? Sniffin’ an’ samplin’. I tell ye, Father, ’twas all I could do to stop meself reachin’ for a bung mallet an’ sendin’ him off for a good afternoon nap with a sharp tap!”
Skipper Rorgus shook his head and chuckled, “Stap me rudder but ye can’t help likin’ Bosie, can ye now. He’s an amusin’ beast, aye, an’ good company, too. Even though ye can’t understand everything he says.”
The Abbot smiled ruefully. “I suppose you’re right, Skip, he does possess a certain charm. Ooh, I think my old bones are setting, lend a paw here please or I’ll end up stuck fast and miss my dinner.”
Taking hold of the Abbot’s paws, Skipper and Corksnout hauled him up off the stairs. On the way into dinner, Samolus caught up with Glisam, and had a whispered word with him. The Father Abbot nodded understandingly.
“Of course, friend, you have my permission.”
Dinner at Redwall was always a pleasant and lively event. Before the Abbot arrived at top table everybeast was already seated, listening to a rendition of a Dibbun song. This was performed by a notorious crew known as the D.A.B. (Dibbuns Against Bedtime). They were a raucous bunch of infants, constantly in rebellion against authority. A very tiny mousebabe conducted with a spoon as they sang. What they lacked in melody, they made up for in enthusiasm, particularly the small moles’ bass section.
“Life is ’ard for likkle Dibbuns,
anybeast can tell us off,
an’ they makes us swaller fizzicks,
every time we sneeze or cough.
Us gets sent t’bed too early,
baffed an’ scrubbed wiv soap an’ brush,
an’ if us sez we don’t like it,
they scrub ’arder an sez ‘Shush.’
Mind dat langwidge, watch dose manners,
don’t talk back an’ walk don’t run,
all sit still an’ don’t be naughty,
for us Dibbuns dat’s no fun!”
Resplendent in dress kilt and fresh ruffles, Bosie turned up to accompany them on fiddle. He sniffed away an imaginary tear, sending out waves of fragrance as he dabbed both eyes with his silk kerchief. “Och, aren’t they dear, wee, bonny beasties!”
Brother Torilis upbraided the mountain hare. “Hardly. I’d advise you not to encourage them.”
For answer, Bosie jigged around Torilis, bowing his odd instrument gaily.
“Och, were ye no a babby once,
ye hairy auld yahoo?
Ah’ll bet yore kinfolk got a fright,
when they set eyes on you.
Ye must ha’ lived up in a tree,
on gruel an’ mouldy bread,
a-hauntin’ all the countryside,
until the neighbours fled!”
Skipper Rorgus beckoned Bosie to sit alongside him. “Ahoy, mate, join me here, an’ don’t be teasin’ pore Brother Torilis. He can’t ’elp bein’ the way he is. Some o’ the young scamps round here needs a creature like Torilis t’keep ’em in line.”
Bosie reached for a plate of carrot’n’onion pasties. “Ach, the auld misery, Ah cannae take tae a beast who doesnae know how tae smile.” As the hare selected a pasty, Torilis rapped his paw, making him release it.
The Brother chided Bosie, “Don’t touch until the Father Abbot has said grace!” The mountain hare’s ears stood rigid; he was about to reply when Glisam began the grace.
“We who toiled with right good zeal
for the food that makes this meal,
let us pause and spare a thought,
without good cooks, ’twould taste like nought.
To Friar Skurpul and his crew,
our heartfelt thanks we give to you!
The Redwallers applauded this new grace, and the one it was directed at. Friar Skurpul covered both eyes with his flour-dusted paws, shuffling to and fro, in the way moles do, when acknowledging a compliment.
“Burr nay, Oi wurrn’t doin’ n’more than moi dooty!”
Then Abbot Glisam made an announcement. “Friends, if anybeast owns or possesses a key, Samolus Fixa would like to see it. Also, if you know of any door in our Abbey which would require a key, please let Samolus, Bisky, Dwink or Gatekeeper Umfry see where it is. Oh, and there’ll be a reward for whoever finds the key, or the door. Thank you, please enjoy your dinner!”
The very tiny mousebabe’s paw shot up as he piped out, “Pleeze, Farver H’Abbit, can us stay up late to look for doors’n’keys pleeze?”
Glisam sat watching the tiny mousebabe, scrambling up onto his lap. “No, I’m afraid you can’t, little one.” The Abbot rubbed his eyes wearily, knowing what was coming as the mousebabe stuck out his lower lip.
“But why, Farver?”
“Because you have to go to bed.”
“But why, Farver?”
“Because you’re only a babe, and you need your sleep.”
“But why, Farver?”
“So you can grow up big and strong.”
“But why, Farver?”
Sister Violet came to the Abbot’s rescue, sweeping the tiny mousebabe up in her paws. The fat, jolly Violet knew how to deal with Dibbuns, particularly those of the D.A.B. gang.
“Gracious me, who wants to go roamin’ round a dark ole Abbey all the night? Can’t ye hear that rain lashin’ away at our windowpanes? Some o’ those stairways an’ passages can be cold an’ draughty on a night like this. I knows where I’d sooner be, snug an’ warm in my nice, soft bed, aye, an’ that’s exactly where I’ll be soon. Plenty o’ time on the morrow to go a-rummagin’ an’ searchin’ about, liddle un, you mark my words!”
All the time she was speaking, Sister Violet was gently stroking the mousebabe’s head. As a result he had fallen asleep. She crept off to the dormitory, carrying him carefully.
Bosie called out to Glisam, “What’s the reward tae be, Father?”
Skipper nudged him. “Keep yore voice down, matey, or you’ll waken the babe.”
The Abbot replied in an exaggerated whisper, “A special Redwall Abbey fruit trifle that Friar Skurpul has promised to make.”
Murmurs of delight echoed about Great Hall. Friar Skurpul’s special Redwall Abbey fruit trifle was a legendary delicacy.
All through dinner, speculation was rife as to where the mystery objects might be found. Everybeast seemed to have his or her theory about the location.
“Yurr, they’m’ll be unner ee grownd, buried sumplace.”
“I think that key’ll be high up, mebbe in the top attics.”
“Garn! Nobeast’s been up there in twenny seasons!”
“All the more reason the key will be hid there.”
“Might not be hidden, there might be a door up in the attics with a lock to it.”
“Ho aye, zurr, an’ ee key sticken roight in ee key’ole. Hurr, pull moi uther paw!”
Umfr
y Spikkle confided to Dwink, “H’I think that key might be h’in my gate’ouse, but tomorrow’ll be plenty o’ time to start searchin’ for it. The rain’s too ’eavy h’outside, h’any room h’in yore dormitory, mate?”
The young squirrel nodded. “Aye, there’s a spare bunk or two, but won’t that leave the Gatehouse unattended, Umfry?”
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.