Doomwyte (4 page)

Bisky clapped his paws with delight. “Ha ha, good ole Prince Gonff, he swiped the eyes out o’ the statues!”

Samolus tweaked the young mouse’s ear. “Excuse me, who’s telling this tale, me or you?”

Smilingly, the Abbot corrected him. “Lady Columbine, I think, friend. You’re only the reader.”

Samolus sniffed. “Good, then perhaps you’ll allow me to carry on with my reading. Right, back to Columbine.”

Samolus closed the book. “So there you have it, Father, the tale young Bisky told was mostly true, with just a few words of his own invention to make the recital of it more thrilling. Is that not right, young un?”

The young mouse shrugged self-consciously. “Aye, just as ye say, Grandunk. But wot happened to the Eyes of the Great Doomwyte? Did Prince Gonff ever tell where he’d hidden them?”

Abbot Glisam let his curiosity show. “Indeed, it would be very interesting to know. Is there nothing in Lady Columbine’s book?”

Samolus shook his head. “Nothing at all, Father, she never mentions the subject again. But do you see this other book, and these scrolls, that I had hidden in the rafters? Well, this book belonged to Gonff, it’s one long riddle from beginning to end. As for the scrolls, they’re the mole Dinny’s notes.”

Dwink chimed in brightly, “Please, sir, could we have a look through them, maybe we could find some clues….”

Abbot Glisam perked up suddenly. “What fun that would be. May we look, Samolus? I don’t suppose there’d be any harm in just looking. Who knows, we may even find the jewels.”

The old mouse willingly placed the material on the Gatehouse table. “Be my guest, friends. I’ve taken a good peek through ’em meself an’ had no luck. So if you think ye can translate the scribbles of a mousethief, an’ the squiggled ramblin’s of a mole, yore welcome to ’em!”

Bisky leapt upon Gonff’s journal. “Leave this to me, pals, I’ll find those jewels!”

Abbot Glisam forestalled him, by gathering up the lot. “Of course you will—straight after your kitchen duties, and lunch. Is it still raining outside?”

Umfry poked his spiky head outside the Gatehouse door. “Aye ’eavier than h’ever, Father. We’ll ’ave to put these towels h’over us an’ run for it.”

Carrying the records between them, they donned towels and dashed over the waterlogged lawns, through the pelting, wet curtains of rain.

Abbot Glisam took charge of the volumes and scrolls. Samolus and Umfry went to visit the wine cellars, which were jointly run by Foremole Gullub Gurrpaw and Umfry’s grandfather, Corksnout Spikkle. Old Corksnout was the biggest hedgehog who ever lived, or so they said. An injury in a bygone battle had robbed him of his nose, but the ever resourceful Samolus fashioned him a new one from a keg cork attached by a string to his headspikes. Even Umfry was dwarfed by the size of his grandfather. Bisky and Dwink both reported to Friar Skurpul in the kitchens, where they were assigned duties.

The mole Friar looked them up and down. “Hurr, young uns, you’m bees soaken frum ee rain. Hmm, ’ow wudd ee loike a job on ee warm uvvens, pullen owt breadloaves. That’ll dry ee!”

Gratefully the pair hastened to join the oven crew, and began using long wooden paddles to retrieve freshly baked items. They joined in with their mates, singing what they termed the “Oven Shanty.” Helping on the ovens was a chore enjoyed by all the young Abbeydwellers. Side by side, they wielded the long beech paddles, roaring out the verses lustily, like sea otters aboard ship.

Frintl placed a big plum cake on Bisky’s paddle. She smiled sheepishly at him. “Sorry I snitched to Brother Torilis about you, I just couldn’t help myself.”

Bisky smiled as he shot the cake along the oven shelf. He wiped a paw across his brow cheerfully. “It turned out pretty well for me, don’t fret, matey!”

Contrary to popular hopes, the rain didn’t stop after lunch. If anything it seemed to increase, driven by a gusting east wind. This meant that the young ones, and particularly the Dibbuns, could not play outdoors. The molebabe Dugry and his trusty aide, a tiny squirrelmaid called Furff, were leading a band of their companions to the main Abbey door, until they were confronted by Skipper Rorgus. The brawny otter gave them a comical scowl.

“Shudder me rudder, I’ve caught a band o’ deserters!”

None of the Dibbuns feared Rorgus, they thought he was quite amusing. Furff wrinkled her snub nose at him. “Wot’s bandazerters?”

Rorgus allowed Furff to clamber up until she was perched on his shoulder, then he winked at her. “A band o’ deserters, me liddle darlin’, are scamps who run away when their friends need ’em.”

Molebabe Dugry began the ascent of Skipper’s legs. “Burr, we’m b’aint runnen ’way, zurr, us’ns jus’ loikes t’goo owtsoide an’ get soaked wet in ee rain!”

Rorgus clasped a paw dramatically to his brow. “Haharr, don’t go, mates, ye’ll all be drowned out there. Parts o’ that lawn are flooded deeper’n yore liddle heads. Stay indoors, I begs ye!”

A very tiny mouse spread his paws wide. “I soona get drownded. Wot us do in ’ere, eh, nuthin’!”

Skipper crouched down, looked left and right, squinting one eye, and beckoned them close. He spoke in a secretive whisper to the Dibbun band. “Nothin’? You mean pore ole Skipper’s goin’ t’be all on his own up in that dormitory?”

The very tiny mouse whispered back to Rorgus, “Worra you do up inna dormitty?”

The otter confided in a low, urgent tone, “I gotta ship up there, ready to set sail right away. I’m goin’ on a trip until this rain stops an’ I finds a rainbow. But I needs a crew—anybeast knows where a pore Skipper can find strong, trusty beasts?”

There was an immediate clamour of volunteers. A moment later, Rorgus was labouring up the stairs, laden down by his clinging crew. Abbot Glisam, who had overheard everything, smiled as he watched them go.

“I think our Skipper should keep them amused. You know, I’m not sure who enjoys that otter’s games more, him or the Dibbuns.”

Violet, the jolly hedgehog Sister, shook her head. “A table turned upside down, with one o’ my good bedsheets for a sail. Those liddle uns do ’ave fun!”

Samolus nodded wearily. “So they do, Sister, an’ what pray will we get. A table for me to fix, an’ a torn bedsheet for you to mend. That’ll be Skipper’s ship!”

Glisam agreed with both his friends. “Aye, that’s how it usually ends, but you wouldn’t begrudge the babes a bit of enjoyment on a rainy day, would you now?”

Sister Violet adjusted the fussy embroidered cap she always wore. “Gracious me, Father, I’d be the last one to complain. In fact, I think I’ll go to the kitchens and make a small parcel of provisions for those poor mites on their long voyage.”

Stifling a chuckle, the Abbot turned to Samolus. “I’m glad they won’t go hungry. So, my old friend, what’ll we do with the rest of our day?”

Samolus scratched his tail, as if it were a weighty decision. “Hmm, let me see. Ah yes, I thought we might join our young friends, Bisky, Dwink and Umfry, just to sort out Prince Gonff’s journal, and find where he hid those precious jewels.”

They gathered in the cellars to begin their research. Apart from the sounds of Corksnout and Gullub Gurrpaw working amongst the barrels, it was relatively peaceful. Using a barrelhead as a table, they sat near a forge, where the Cellarkeepers burnt old cask staves to make charcoal. It was pleasantly warm amidst the fragrant aromas of charred oak, October Ale, maturing wines and fruit cordials.

Abbot Glisam tossed Gonff’s journal to Bisky. It was an ordinary, green-covered volume, with an elaborate letter
G
written on it to denote its owner. The Abbot shook his head.

“I glanced through that during lunch. One thing’s certain: Gonff might have been the Prince of Mousethieves, but he was nowhere near as neat and concise as Lady Columbine. The whole thing is a frog’s dinner, just look at it!”

With Dwink and Umfry leaning over both his shoulders, Bisky did. At first he tried to study the notes carefully, but he ended up merely riffling through the worn and dog-eared pages.

“I see what you mean, Father, how is anybeast supposed to make tail or snout of this? It’s a mess, a jumble of scribbles and silly little sketches.”

Dwink took the book, opening it at the centre pages. “Aye, it’s a hotchpotch alright, but listen to this:

Samolus took the book. “I’ve read this bit a few times over the seasons, ’tis one of the few bits that makes sense. At least it confirms that Prince Gonff stole the stones and hid them. It also verifies Columbine’s version of the story.”

Umfry stared hard at the words, rubbed his eyes and enquired, “How d’ye make that h’out, Sam’lus?”

It was Bisky who explained it to Umfry. “Look at the line, ‘spurned by flower red’n’green.’ Columbine is the flower, red and green are the jewels. Remember what she said in her diary. Lady Columbine refused to take the stones from Gonff, so he hid them.”

Samolus glanced over at Bisky. “Well spotted, young un, do ye see anything else there? Take your time, go on, study the book.”

The Abbot interrupted, “While you’re searching, keep this in mind. It would be excellent if we stumbled immediately on where the stones are buried, or hidden, but I don’t think that will be the case. We know Gonff’s book is a mess of scribbles and sketches, none of them have much connection with the other. So, I think the exact location of the four stones will come out in due course. However, first we must establish which area they would be in.”

Dwink was frankly baffled. “What are you sayin’, Father?”

“He’s sayin’, young sir, that ye’ve got t’find the rough location. In the Abbey, or in its grounds, maybe out in the woodlands, or on the west flatlands. Find the approximate area, d’ye see now?”

They all turned to see Umfry’s grandfather, Corksnout, leaning on some kegs behind them. The giant Cellarhog had been listening, as had his assistant, Gullub Gurrpaw.

Abbot Glisam bowed slightly. “Thank you, friend, maybe you’d like to help out here. That’s if you and Gullub aren’t too busy with your cellarwork.”

The mole produced a tray, setting it down in front of them. On it were a few cheese wedges and a knife, three jugs and enough small sampling beakers to go around. He tugged his snout respectfully, as moles do. “Us’ns wudd be durlighted to join ee, zurr h’Abbot. May’aps you uns cudd ’elp uz, too.”

Corksnout explained, “We’ve just broached three new barrels of fine October Ale, Father. Now we’re judgin’ which one we should use first. We’d appreciate your opinion. There’s some cheese to nibble a’tween sups.” Reaching over, he tweaked Umfry’s chinspikes. “Aye, an’ you, young hog, you can spend an hour or two down here everyday. Yore eddication has been sadly neglected. Startin’ tomorrow, me’n Gullub will be teachin’ ye to read an’ write.”

Umfry pulled a face, then set to with his friends. They applied themselves wholly to the ale and cheese. Old Samolus went at it with a will. “By the seasons, this is a good, nutty-tastin’ ale! Er, wot’s wrong with you young uns, not drinkin’?”

Bisky took a small taste, then screwed his face up. “I think we’re a bit young to judge October Ale, sir, haven’t you got any sweet cordial, or Strawberry Fizz?”

Gullub chortled as he tilted a firkin into a clean jug. “Hurrhurr, try summ o’ moi danneloin’n’burdock corjul, likkle surr, be that’n sweet enuff furr ee?”

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 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.

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!”