Doomwyte

Foremole held up a sturdy digging paw. “Ee’ll need a trusty moler with ee, if’n you uns bees axplorin’ unner they’m cellars.”

Glisam shook his head in admiration of the Foremole. “You can’t argue with good, sound mole logic. I think it’s a sensible idea. Er, just one more thing, I think we’ve got enough for the task now, otherwise we’ll have the entire Abbey wanting to come along.”

The remark was greeted with general laughter.

Perrit the squirrelmaid approached; smiling prettily she curtsied to the Abbot. “I hope they’re not thinking of going now, Father, I think they should wait until after lunch.”

Bosie winked at her. “Och, yer right, lassie, who’d go anywhere wi’out a wee bite o’ lunch!”

Bisky was so excited that he was hard put to gobble down some late spring vegetable soup, and a portion of turnip, leek and parsnip pasty. He tried taking in all the information which was being given to him and his friends. Some of it was good and practical advice.

“You’ll need lanterns. Make sure they’re properly filled and trimmed.”

“Oh, an’ some flint steel and tinder in case the lights get blown out.”

“Ropes, too, you’ll need ropes, they always come in useful.”

Friar Skurpul wrinkled his snout at Bosie. “Hurr, an’ sum vikkles, juzz to keep ee goin’, zurr.”

Bosie flourished an elegant bow to the Friar. “Mah thanks tae ye for thinkin’ o’ the main essentials, sir, yer a paragon among beasties, Ah’m thinkin’.”

Early afternoon found the party gathered in the back cellar. Lanterns illuminated the scene as they sat on the floor watching Samolus. At the bottom of the stairs, the old mouse was working on the rusted doorlock. Bisky, Umfry and Dwink were reciting the rhyme which Sister Ficaria had recalled. They chanted aloud:

“Pompom Pompom, where have my four eyes gone?

There’s a key to every riddle,

there’s a key to every song.

there’s a key to every lock,

think hard or you’ll go wrong.

Pompom Pompom, who’ll be the lucky one?

What holds you out but lets you in,

that’s a good place to begin.

What connects a front and back,

find one, and just three you’ll lack.

Pompom Pompom, the trail leads on and on.”

The head of Samolus appeared from the stairwell. He held a mangled iron bar in one paw, rubbing dust and rust flakes from his face with the other. His aggressive mood had not yet worn off. “Hoi! Can you keep it quiet up there, I can’t hear myself think. Sound really echoes down there, y’know!”

Skipper thumped his rudder in a soft, sympathetic manner. “Looks like ye ain’t havin’ much luck with that door, Sammo.”

The old mouse gritted his teeth, declaring his determination to the Otter Chieftain. “I needs to concentrate, Skip, a bit o’ quiet is all I asks. I’ll crack it, you’ll see. Might take me a bit o’ time, but an ole iron door isn’t goin’ to defeat Samolus Fixa. No sir!”

Abbot Glisam placed a paw to his lips, beckoning the three young ones and Bosie to follow him. Up into Great Hall they went, wondering what Glisam wanted. The old dormouse trundled across the hall, explaining as they went.

“You young uns, stay with me. Then if Samolus can’t open the door, he won’t be able to blame you. Dearie me, he has got himself into a bit of a tizzy. Now, Laird Bosie, what do you know of Martin the Warrior?”

The hare answered as best he could. “Is that not the beastie who had the job o’ Abbey Warrior afore me? Ah’m told he’s lang departed, Father. But Ah’ve seen his likeness over yonder. Aye, an’ a braw bonny laddie he looks, too. Ah wouldnae like tae meet him as a foe in battle!”

They arrived at the recess where the great tapestry was displayed. There was Martin, the very spirit of Redwall Abbey, woven expertly, by loving paws, to stand through all seasons. He was depicted in full armour, with his legendary sword. Courageous, confident and heroic, with vermin enemies fleeing in all directions to get away from him.

Bisky had seen the tapestry almost every day of his life. He often wondered how anybeast could look so tough, yet carry in his eyes a twinkle of humour and kindness. The young mouse had tried often to emulate Martin’s expression, until one day, Brother Torilis suspected he was suffering from some form of rictus, and physicked him thoroughly with pungent herbal medicines. Bisky broke off his reminiscences, to hear what the Abbot was saying.

“A warrior with the responsibility of protecting others should carry the best of weapons. Now I know, Bosie, that you have your fiddlebow thing, with the little metal shafts, but in a confined space, fighting paw to paw, for instance, a sword is more useful, would you agree?”

The mountain hare nodded, but with no great enthusiasm. “Ah’ll grant ye there’s those who fancy the blades. Ah’ve fought afore now, armed wi’ a claymore. Ach, but they’re unwieldly things, Father. Besides, Ah doubt ye’d own sich a thing.”