Doomwyte

They danced and twinkled in the woodlands at night…those little lights.

1

Blustery and wild were the days of late spring, wet and windy, with little sign of more placid weather. Thus it was that night, when Griv sought shelter from battering rain and buffeting winds out of the east. Redwall Abbey was the perfect place. Tossed about on the dark skies, like a scrap of black-and-white rag, the magpie caught sight of the imposing building as she was swept high over the swaying green of Mossflower woodlands. Skilfully she went into a steep dive, tacking and sidesweeping on drenched wings. Homing in on the Abbey’s west face, Griv sought shelter on the leeside, out of the gale.

She made an ungainly but safe landing upon the sandstone sill of a second-storey dormitory window. What attracted the magpie to that particular spot was the welcome golden light, slanting narrowly from between wooden shutters. Ruffling and grooming her wet plumage, Griv edged along the sill until she was securely lodged, twixt stone and timber, in a corner.

Ever curious, she peered through a slim gap in the shuttering. There were creatures inside, young mice, moles, squirrels and hedgehogs. One, a mouse, only slightly older than the rest, was speaking. He was relating a story to his audience, who were listening intently, hanging upon his every word. From her perch on the window ledge outside, Griv listened also….

The narrator, a young mouse named Bisky, was in full dramatic flow. Leaping up on the little truckle bed, he made a number of gouging gestures above his head. Bisky held out his other paw as though he were thrusting a dagger, relating avidly to his goggle-eyed friends, “One, two, three, four! Prince Gonff stole the four precious stones, which were the statue’s eyes. Aye, mates, old Gonff popped ’em out, just like that, robbed the eyes from the great Doomwyte Idol!”

A Dibbun hedgehog (Dibbun is the name given to the youngest Redwallers) interrupted curiously, “Why did ’e doo’d that?”

Frintl, his older sister, sighed impatiently. “’Cos ’e wuz Gonff the Prince o’ Mousethiefs, dat’s why, sillyspikes!”

Bisky was accustomed to Dibbuns butting in—he carried right on with the story. “Well, there was all manner of ’orrible vermin chasin’ after Gonff, but he just laughed, ha ha, an’ he escaped ’em easily….”

“Wot bees ee gurt Doodley whoit eyeful?”

Bisky looked down at the tiny mole who had poked his head out from beneath the bed. Moles speak with a curious accent, but Redwallers can always understand them. The young mouse smiled. “It’s the Great Doomwyte Idol, a big statue with four eyes. They’re actually precious stones, that’s why Gonff the Prince of Mousethieves stole ’em.”

The mole Dibbun, who was called Dugry, nodded solemnly. “Ho urr, Oi see. But whurr did zurr Gonffen take ee h’ idol’s h’ eyes to?”

Bisky spread his paws wide. “Right here to Redwall Abbey he brought them!”

Dugry thought about this, before asking, “Hurr, then whurr bees they?”

The young mouse explained patiently, “Nobeast knows where the eyes of the Great Doomwyte Idol are, ’cos Gonff hid ’em.”

The little hogmaid Frintl posed a question. “Hah, an’ I don’t s’pose you know where they are?”

The storyteller shook his head. “No, ’cos they’re in a very secret place, but someday I’ll find ’em, just see if’n I don’t!”

A young squirrel, Dwink, who was the same age as Bisky, chortled scornfully. “Yah, wot a load of ole pieswoggle! You made it all up, big fibberface Bisky!” He hurled a pillow, which caught the young mouse in the face. Bisky flung it back, but missed.

“’Tisn’t pieswoggle, Samolus told me it was true!” Dibbuns like nothing better than a pillow fight at bedtime. In the wink of an eye the dormitory was transformed into a noisy battleground. Babes and young ones squealed with merriment as they flung and swung pillows at each other.

Outside on the window ledge, the magpie Griv had heard everything. Regardless of the stormswept night, she flew off, headed for a place where her information might prove profitable. Griv, like most magpies, always had an eye to the main chance.

Back at the dormitory, the pillow fight was at its height, as was the noise. Redwall Abbey’s Infirmary and sick bay were on the same floor as the Dibbuns’ dormitory. Brother Torilis, the Herbalist and Infirmary Keeper, did not bother to knock. Flinging the door open, he strode straight into the scene of chaos. His paw shot up, catching a pillow in mid-flight. A hush fell over the entire chamber, broken only by a volebabe falling from the top of a wardrobe onto a bed, where he lay at rigid attention. A few small feathers and wisps of pillow stuffing drifted silently to the floor, as every young eye became fixed upon the tall, saturnine figure of the squirrel Herbalist. His voice was quiet, but loaded with menace.

“What is going on here?” No answer being expected, or given, he continued, “And who, may I ask, is responsible for this riot?”