Doomwyte

The Otter Chieftain clapped their backs soundly. “Well done, mateys, that was a clever ruse an’ no mistake. Come now, young uns, dunk yore ’eads in the water, ’twill freshen ye up!”

Dwink and Perrit took the otter’s advice—he was right. Several duckings in cold streamwater was a wonderful cure for their headaches.

Feeling quite chipper, they emerged to sit on the bank. Skipper attended to Foremole’s stings with a poultice of cool mud and crushed dockleaves. Patting the dressing with a huge digging claw, the mole grinned cheerfully. “Oi wager Oi do lukk gurtly funny wi’ this lot on moi ’ead. Hurr, but et doo’s feel noice, zurr!”

Perrit left off fluffing her saturated tail. “Noticed anything, mates? The bees aren’t bothering us at all now!”

Dwink went over to retrieve his crutch; he flicked a bee with the tip of it. The fuzzy insect rolled over on its back, where it lay humming happily. Dwink could not help chuckling. “They won’t bother anybeast for awhile, not as long as they’re drunker than we were.”

Perrit touched her brow. “Don’t remind me, from now on I’ll take mint tea, or just water. My golly, that honey drink was strong enough to knock a tree over.”

Foremole wrinkled his velvety snout. “Hurr, they’m bound t’be sum gurt likkle ’eadaches round yurr cumm noightfall. Dwink, moi friend, ee old hogwife has what we cumm a-lookin’ fer, do ee get yon surrpint’s eye, an’ let us’ns begone from yurr!”

Gingerly turning the body of Blodd Apis over with his crutch, the young squirrel winced at the awful sight. The whole length of her, from snout to spike end, was a mass of red, swollen lumps. Looping the crutch into the woven reed bag fastener, he pulled it clear.

They admired the green-fired emerald orb awhile, then Skipper popped it back into its container. “We should bury her, mad though she were. Let’s seal her up in her old home.”

The friends left the old one to her final rest. “Well, buckoes, ’twas a successful search, an’ I’m sure all at Redwall will agree when they sees it.”

Foremole nodded sagely. “That bees two greeny uns, an’ one red un been founded. Wot doo’s ee say t’that, Maister Dwink?”

Finding he no longer needed the crutch, Dwink shouldered it, assisting Foremole to his footpaws. “I say let’s go back to Redwall Abbey, mates!”

35

Evening had fallen over the wooded hillside above the caves of Korvus Skurr, but its tranquil charm was lost on the black otter. Zaran alternated anxiously betwixt the spot where Spingo was trapped beneath soil and stone, and her lookout post on the sloping poplar trunk. Sword in paw, she perched, peering fretfully for signs of any assistance arriving. Thumping her rudderlike tail on the tree trunk, Zaran hurried back to the two air vents she had made, her fierce eyes creased with worry as she whispered to the Gonfelin maid entombed below the earth and rock. “I think they will be here soon, Spingo, hold on!”

Lack of air was taking its toll on Spingo. She could hear Zaran’s voice, as if from far off, though she was drifting into blackness, cramped almost double now, pressed in on all sides by sandy, sifting soil, and the mighty sandstone slab. Avoiding thoughts of her inevitable fate, the young mousemaid pictured images. Her father, Nokko, the Gonfelin Pikehead; Filgo, her mother; Bisky, the young Redwaller who had become her dear friend. Special moments of her brief life, feasting in the Abbey orchard, surrounded by happy creatures. A tear squeezed out onto her dusty cheek at these fond memories.

Then the voice came, soft as misty summer morn. “Friends are near, live to enjoy life in my Abbey with one who cares for you.”

Hearing no reply to her words, Zaran called louder, “Spingo, hear me, I am Zaran, your friend. Speak, say something!”

“I’ve brought help, Zaran, is she still alive?”

The black otter turned to see Bisky, flanked by Nokko and Dubble, emerging from the trees behind her. She cautioned them, “Stay clear of the airholes I have made. I cannot get Spingo to answer me.”

Nokko bit down hard on his lip. “She’s me daughter y’know, marm, she’s got t’be alive, d’ye hear me, Spingo’s too precious t’lose!” He made a move to shout down the two tiny vents.

Dubble locked his paws about Nokko, lifting him clear. “Stay clear, sir, leave it t’the molecrew, they’ll soon be ’ere.”

Bisky sat down on the ground, staring westward at the last scarlet tinges of a descending sun. Zaran stared curiously at him—his eyes seemed distant. “Friend, are you alright, what is it?”

The young Redwall mouse blinked, coming out of his sudden trance. He grabbed the black otter’s paw. “She’s alive, I know it, Spingo’s alive!”

Zaran pulled him upright. “How do you know this?”

Friar Skurpul came trundling onto the scene. “Hurr, prob’ly ’cos Marthen ee Wurrier spake to ’im, marm. Naow, all you’m guddbeasts coom out’n moi way!”