Doomwyte

Tapping the slate with his paw, Dwink explained, “Listen. ‘What’s mixed will thicken, there’s the place’! Right, that’s how we came by the word kitchen. Here’s the rest. ‘Is it there or has it gone?’ Well, we searched the kitchen, but it was gone. Until Brother Torilis walked in here and picked it up. You see, it had gone, from the kitchen to the Infirmary. Didn’t you say it was Infirmary property, Brother?”

Torilis nodded. “Sister Ficaria told me the tray had been at the Infirmary for as long as she could recall. Mayhaps it had been taken from here to the Infirmary long ago, and never returned.”

Dwink nodded agreement. “Now, look at the last two lines: ‘Framed above a Friars Grace. On, on I. The middle one.’ Suddenly it jumped out at me. On is the first word, on is the second word. But the word I that’s the middle one, see?”

Brother Torilis repeated the line in the correct order. “On I on…on I on. Of course, it’s onion! Now what happens, are there further clues?”

Taking the slate, Abbot Glisam read out the second verse.

“Where to seek a raven’s eye?

What’s not sad, yet makes one cry,

with what a plum has at its middle.

The Prince of Mousethieves set this riddle.”

Umfry’s face lit up with a broad smile of understanding. “A h’onion’s not sad, but h’it makes you cry when you peel it. I know, ’cos h’I’ve peeled h’onions afore. An’ wot does h’a plum ’ave at h’its middle? A stone!”

The Abbot picked up a big copper ladle. He tapped it on the earthenware onion. “So, friends, d’you think this plum, or should I say onion, has a stone at its middle, a raven’s eye?”

Brother Torilis waved his paws in agitation. “No, Father, please, you wouldn’t, that tray is Infirmary property!”

The Abbot’s old eyes twinkled mischievously. “Correction, Brother, it’s kitchen property. Redwall kitchens, in fact, and I’m the Abbot of Redwall!”

Crack! He hit the onion a sharp tap with the ladle. There amidst the broken shards of earthenware was an object, wrapped in a scrap of linen. The Abbot smiled, bowing to Dwink. “Be my guest, sir!”

The young squirrel needed no second bidding. He unwrapped the linen. It was an awesome ruby, one eye of the Great Doomwyte raven statue. It glowed with deep crimson fires, a thing of awful beauty.

Perrit stood, transfixed by the fabulous stone. “Oh, just look at it, Dwink, look at it!”

But Dwink was scanning the small remnant of linen. “Aye, splendid, ain’t it. I’ll take a proper look once I’ve read the message from this bit o’ cloth. It says here how t’find the serpent’s green eye!”

31

Zaran the black otter kept up her vigil at the side of the huge slab of rock, which had slipped and sunk into the hillside. Spingo was trapped beneath the stone, in total darkness. All the Gonfelin maid could do was to keep very still. She breathed lightly, trying to conserve the small amount of air which filtered in through the thin holes Zaran had bored with the sharpened branch of a beech tree. Every now and then, Spingo felt loose, sandy earth sifting onto her paws. Each time it did, the unwieldy slab settled a minute fraction more. Zaran called down through the narrow, tubelike holes to her.

“Spingo, hold on, moles come soon from Redwall. I make another hole, give you more air, yes?”

The reply came back, faint but urgent. “No…don’t make any more holes, mate, y’might cause a cave-in…. Leave well enough alone!”

The black otter put aside her beech branch, but continued talking, in an attempt to lift the young maid’s spirits. Zaran said anything in the hope of comforting Spingo. “When moles come they have you soon out of there. Bisky said his Abbey has many moles. Best diggers in all the land, whole army of moles. Hah, you will drink cold water from stream, wash dust from yourself, feel good, fresh!”

Spingo licked soil from her lips. “That’ll be nice…. Wish they’d hurry up….”

Speeding downstream in the Guosim logboat, Dubble suddenly backed water, drawing his paddle inboard. The sharp action caused Bisky to topple backward—he hit his head on the vessel’s stern. The young mouse sat up, calling irately to his companion, at what he thought was an unwarranted halt.

“Wot d’ye think yore doin’, mate? We’re supposed to be goin’ full speed for Redwall.”

Pulling into the bank, the young shrew turned to face Bisky. “Aye, an’ so we are, but we’ll get no place fast with you as paddlin’ crew!”

The Redwaller thrust out his chin aggressively. “Wot‘s wrong with my paddlin’?”

Dubble was forced to tell him, in no uncertain fashion, “Yore goin’ to turn this boat over, with the way yore flailin’ that paddle around. Lissen, mate, there’s an art to paddlin’. We’re travellin’ downstream, see, so ye let the current do most o’ the work. You prob’ly heard the sayin’, more haste, less speed. Well it’s true. Now, d’ye want to git to yore Abbey quickly?”

Bisky readied his paddle. “Of course I do, we’ve got t’save Spingo. Go on then, you show me wot t’do an’ I’ll try my best to help.”