Doomwyte

This suited Bosie fine when they reached a broadstream bank. He had been walking in the vanguard, downwind of the captive band. Whether it was from their lack of bathing, or the noxious plant dyes which they were liberally daubed with, Bosie could not tell. The fastidious hare held a lace kerchief to his nostrils, to avoid the odour emanating from the conquered tree rats. Halting them on the edge of the broadstream, he pointed at the water.

“Mayhaps ye’d like tae take a dip an’ give yersel’s a guid scrubbin’. It pains me tae tell ye that Ah cannae abide breathin’ the same air as ye. So in ye go, ye braw wee stinkers!”

Skipper shook his head dolefully. “’Tis the pore liddle fishes I pity, mate.”

On the opposite bank, Bisky and his friends assisted Nokko and his Gonfelins, hauling out the freshly cleaned-up prisoners. Spingo remarked to her father, “Those Painty Ones don’t look very scary, widout all that muck plastered over ’em, Da.”

Nokko agreed. “Yer right, darlin’, they ain’t nothin’ but a bunch o’ skinny, wet rats. Hoi, yew, git back in an’ scrub be’ind yer ears!”

Tugga Bruster threw Samolus a surly salute. “Is it alright fer me to cross with my Guosim now?”

The sprightly old Redwaller nodded. “Aye, go ahead.”

Skipper watched the shrews wading through the stream. “Wot was all that about, mate?”

Samolus eyed the Guosim Log a Log shrewdly. “Bullyin’, Skip. I’ve been watchin’ Bruster. He’s been bullyin’ the prisoners, so I kept him over this side. I don’t like that sort o’ thing.”

Bosie hitched up his kilt as he entered the water. “Och, yon Brusta would’ve slain those Painted Ones tae a beast if we hadn’t stopped him. Ah tell ye, though, he’s plain feared o’ that ratwife, the dead leader’s mate. If looks could kill, he’d be long slain, the way she glares at him!”

Samolus waded into the shallows, nodding. “Aye, she’s a vengeful one, alright. The sooner we loose those rats on the flatlands an’ Tugga Bruster parts company with us, the happier I’ll be.”

Skipper plunged into the broadstream, adding, “Right, mate, I’ve got a feelin’ this whole thing could end badly, if’n we don’t keep a tight rein on the situation.”

Bisky, Dwink and Umfry marched alongside Spingo, being constantly plagued with questions and enquiries about their home. The Gonfelin maid was good company, and so pretty that they suffered her prattling gladly.

“So then, who’s the Pike’ead at yore Abbey, eh?”

Umfry scratched his headspikes. “Wot’s h’a Pike’ead?”

Spingo scoffed. “A Chieftain, my da’s the Pike’ead of all the Gonfelins.”

Bisky smiled. “Oh, I see, a leader. We have an Abbot, Glisam is his name, though I think he might object to being called a Pikehead. You’ll like our Abbot, he’s a friendly, wise, old dormouse.”

Dwink interrupted, “You’ll like Friar Skurpul, too, he’s the best cook in all of Mossflower!”

Spingo nodded. “Sling beltin’ nosh, can he?”

Dwink and Umfry were both mystified, but Bisky had come to learn a few Gonfelin expressions. He explained, “That means, does Friar Skurpul cook good food? Hah, let me tell you, missy, once you’ve tasted our Friar’s breakfast, you won’t be able to wait for lunch!”

Umfry’s face took on a dreamy expression. “Nor h’afternoon tea, followed later by dinner, then supper. But best h’of h’all is Friar’s feasts!”

Spingo looked the picture of wistful innocence. “I’ve never ’ad a feast, wot’s it like?”

As if on cue, Dwink broke out into an old Redwall ditty.

“A feast is a feast, an’ that’s the least,

that any good beast can say.

You’ll want it to start, you won’t want it to end,

but to go on many a day.

When you sit at the board, then rest assured,

you’ll be most wonderfied.

Yore mouth’ll water, you’ll lick yore lips,

an’ yore eyes’ll pop open wide.

‘The feast! The feast!’ all goodbeasts cry,

‘Just look at those vittles, oh me oh my!’

I’d sing you a ballad about this salad,

but that’d slow my pace,

now cut that cake, for goodness sake,

I’m dyin’ to feed my face.

There’s fruit an’ bread, or cheese instead,

there’s soup served by the pail,

ye can wash it down with Strawb’rry Fizz,

or rich October Ale.

There’s pasties an’ pies, ’tis no surprise,

there’s puddens an’ trifles galore,

an’ meadowcream, like a buttery stream,

o’er crumble or flan to pour.

Choose cordial or wine, it all tastes fine,

so come on, one an’ all,

we’re goin’ to attend a feast, my friend,

at the Abbey of Redwaaaaaaallll!”

Dwink had sung it so loud and fast that he ended up puffing for breath. When the surrounding applause was done, Spingo shot him a look of mock disappointment. “Don’t they ’ave porridge? I like porridge.” There was a moment’s pause, then the friends broke into laughter. Nokko winked at Bosie.

“She’s a maid an’ a half, that un!”