Doomwyte

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.

8

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!”