Tugga Bruster saw that the Highland hare was not joking, so he swaggered off, bawling orders at his shrews. “Straighten the scum up, make sure those ropes are properly knotted! Dubble, where are ye off to, git back here, now!”
However, the young shrew had also taken enough from his bullying father. He joined Bisky and Spingo. “I’ll go with you two, if’n ye don’t mind.” He trooped off with them both, as Spingo tipped him a mischievous wink.
“I know where the five-topped oak is, cummon, mate, we’ll get there ahead o’ the others, an’ get first crack at the loot!”
Grinning, Bisky shrugged as he remarked to Dubble, “This maid’s got loot on the brain, we’d best go along, just to see she doesn’t land herself in any trouble.”
Spingo shot him a comical scowl. “Lissen, Redwaller, you’ll be in trouble if’n ye don’t stir yore paws, now shift yerself!” They set off at a lively trot, which soon had Bisky and Dubble panting to catch up. The Gonfelin maid skipped ahead of them, singing a mocking little ditty.
“’Tis my belief if yore a thief,
you gotta get in quick,
don’t hang about for others,
be nimble that’s the trick.
’Tis no good of ye weepin’
when the loot’s in other paws,
as any Gonf’lin’ll tell ye,
it’s better off in yores!
So don’t be thick, just whip it quick,
an’ take this tip from me,
with shifty paws, the treasure’s yores,
’cos loot, ye know, is free!
So, don’t be shy be sly,
an’ don’t be slow, but go,
grab all that ye can carry,
don’t ever say yore sorry,
just steal the lot, don’t worry,
be furtive, swift an’ cute.
Grab! Catch! Swipe! Snatch!
All that lovverleee looooooooot!”
Puffing and blowing, Bisky put on an extra turn of speed, muttering to Dubble, “I wonder what Abbot Glisam and Brother Torilis would say to that?”
Dubble stumbled into a bush; he emerged spitting out leaves and berries. “Who are they?”
The young Redwaller replied between gasps, “You’ll find out when we get to the Abbey, mate!”
Spingo waved a paw ahead. “There’s the oak, see!”
Bisky had always reckoned himself to be a good runner, but this Gonfelin maiden was something else. Spingo broke into an all-out sprint, careering off through the shrubbery and round the trunks of tall, ancient trees.
Jeg was crouching at the base of the massive oak, coaxing a small fire into life. He blew on it, adding dead pine twigs and dried moss until the flames spread. Looking up at the unconscious form of Dwink, hanging head down, the young tree rat gave an evil snigger.
“Yeeheehee! Wait’ll ya see wot I’ve thought up, treemouse. I calls it Jeg’s Warm Welcome. Heeheee!” He got no further, because something hit him from behind. Jeg went belly down onto the flames, due to Spingo leaping on his back. Using him as a springboard, the Gonfelin maid leapt up and caught a low branch. She was yelling happily.
“Yeehaarrr! I made it, first ’ere! Now where’s all the loot hidden?”
Bisky and Dubble heard the screeches. Bulling through the undergrowth, they came hurtling onto the scene. Jeg was beating at his smouldering midriff, performing a crazy dance, he banged head-on into Bisky, knocking him flat. Even in his panic, Jeg immediately recognised his former prisoners. Hardly pausing to take breath, the tree rat bounded off into the woodlands.
Spingo was sawing away at Dwink’s bonds with a small dagger. She called down to them, “Looka this, there’s some pore squirrel strung upside down ’ere. Lend a paw, mates, mebbe he knows where the loot’s hid!”
Bisky took one look. “Great seasons, it’s Dwink! Wait there, Spingo, I’m comin’. Hang on, Dwink!”
Dubble grabbed Bisky’s paw; his eyes were like chips of ice in a winter storm. “Did ye see who that was? Jeg, the dirty liddle scum who had us strung up in that tree!”
Bisky pulled free of his friend. “That’s a Redwaller up there, I’ve got to go an’ help him!”
The young Guosim dashed off, calling back, “Right, you do that, mate, I’m after that filthy villain. I took an oath I’d meet up with him again someday. See ye later!”
Between them, Spingo and Bisky used Jeg’s rope to lower Dwink to the ground. They sat him against the oak trunk, ministering to him. Bisky bathed his friend’s face with cool water, rubbing his paws gently to restore the circulation. Spingo took dried herbs from her satchel; she lit them from the remnants of Jeg’s fire. When they began smouldering she shoved them under Dwink’s nose. He was thrust, spluttering and coughing, into wakefulness. Bisky pulled a face as he caught a whiff of Spingo’s reviver.
“Yurk! What d’you call those herbs, they smell foul!”
The Gonfelin maid shrugged. “Dunno wot they’re called, but they always do the trick, mate. See, yore friend’s as bright as a bumblebee now.”
Dwink groaned, but managed a wry smile. “I’ll live, though I thought I was a dead un for certain. Who’s yore pretty friend, Bisky?”
Further chitchat was cut short. Bosie marched in, heading a veritable horde. Guosim, Gonfelins, Redwallers, plus the whole tribe of captive Painted Ones. The Highland hare saluted Bisky and Spingo. “Ah see ye’ve found wee Dwink, well done!” He turned to confront the other two Chieftains. “Now, mah bonnies, how do we find this loot?”
Tugga Bruster snarled, “Git that fire blazin’ good an’ leave it t’me. I’ll make the scum talk!”
Skipper flexed his brawny rudder, glaring at the Guosim Log a Log. “Ye’ll do no such thing!”
Nokko tossed a rope over one of the oak’s lower branches. “Leave it to us Gonfelins, Skip. Jus’ yew sit tight wid these Painty Ones ’til we get back. Hah, if’n there’s any loot, boodle or swipin’s up in that ould tree, my bunch’ll find ’em!”
Within moments the ancient tree was swarming with small, raggedy mice, each bent on being first at the spoils. Scrabbling over one another, they argued and shouted in a manner that would have put even the Guosim to shame.
“Oi yew, gerrout me way, this is my branch!”
“Hah, who died an’ left it ter yew, move over!”
“Who are yew talkin’ to, big gob?”
“Big gob is it? Good job I left me sambag at ’ome, or yew’d be takin’ a long snooze fer sayin’ dat!”
“Yah, go an’ sambag yer granny!”
Samolus placed both paws over his ears. “Such shocking language, what a dreadful row!”
Bisky was inclined to agree. “Aye, that it is!”
Bosie whispered confidentially to him, “Mind, laddie, that pretty maid ye’ve taken sich a braw shine tae, she’s the roughest auld shouter o’ the lot. Aye, a right pawful she is, Ah’m thinking!”
Tugga Bruster came swaggering up to Bisky, addressing him gruffly. “Hoi, you, mouse! Have ye seen my son Dubble around?”
The young mouse pointed. “Aye, he went that way, hard on the paws of a Painted One. Dubble has a score to settle with him.”
The Guosim Log a Log shouldered his iron club. “I never gave him leave t’go. A score, eh? I’ll settle a score or two with that Dubble when he gets back here…. You, wot are ye starin’ at?” Tugga Bruster’s attention was caught by a Painted One glaring at him venomously. He pointed the club at her. “I asked ye a question, thick’ead, why are ye lookin’ at me like that, eh?”
Tala, wife of the dead Painted Chieftain, Chigid, spat on the ground in front of the Guosim leader. “Yeeeeh, you da one wot kill my Chigid, I kill ya soon as I get the chance. Killya dead!”
Early evening sunlight was shafting through the woodland foliage when Nokko and his tribe returned to earth. Umfry could not help remarking to Samolus about their trophies of victory. “Lookit that, Mister Fixa, did ye h’ever see such a pile h’of tatty rubbish. Huh, y’call that loot?”
Samolus nodded. “Indeed, that’s what it appears t’be, but ye must remember, young un, one beast’s rubbish is another’s treasure. They seem happy with it.”
Happy was an understatement, the Gonfelins were jubilant with their spoils. A few flagons of fur paint, which the tree rats decorated themselves with. Some blades, mostly blunt, broken or rusted. One or two blowpipes, darts and a vial of poison. Crude necklaces, bracelets and tailrings, plus the contents of a larder they had discovered.
Nokko was grinning from ear to ear. “This is the stuff, buckoes, I told yer there was plenny o’ pawpickin’s to be ’ad. Bosie, me ould scout, once we’ve ’ad supper I’ll divvy the takin’s up, fair shares for everybeast, that’s the Gonfelin way. We may be thieves, but we’re good, ’onest thieves. Spingo, Bumbo, pile all dat loot over yonder, an’ stan’ guard on it!”
Aided by Redwallers and Gonfelins, the Guosim shrews put on quite a nice supper, even cooking up the Painted Ones’ larder supplies and serving it to them. Bosie was quite partial to shrewbeer, and the flat panbread which the Guosim were very skilled at making. Whatever was to paw went into the panbread, preserved fruits, honey, nuts berries, fresh from the bush.
Not wanting to hurt Nokko’s feelings, and speaking for allbeasts present by mutual agreement, Skipper raised his beaker and delivered a short speech. “Ahoy, mates, here’s a toast to our friends, the Gonfelins. We’d never ’ave beaten the Painted Ones without their aid, so let’s drink to ’em!” After toasting the Gonfelins’ bravery, Bosie, who had been tipped the wink by Skipper, spoke further.
“Aye, an’ wot reward can we offer tae sich braw beasties? Ah propose that we award Nokko an’ his warriors all the loot tae keep for themselves!”
The ragged mousethief tribe cheered themselves hoarse. Nokko was moved almost to tears by his fellowbeasts’ generosity. He sniffed loudly. “Wot can I say, buckoes, it’s not offen yer come across real friends, an’ proper mateys, but youse lot’s the best o’ the best. Right, Gonfelins, sing ’em out!”
A fine, baritone-voiced mouse sang the verse, whilst all the other Gonfelins joined in the chorus.
“One day a young Gonfelin was leavin’ his home,
to seek for his fortune outside,
his pore fatty mother embraced him so tight,
crackin’ two of his ribs as she cried.
The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,
wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!
‘You whipped all the sheets off the bed, son,
an’ the boots from yore granny, me dear,
but a pore mother’s tears ain’t worth nothin’
except when she’s waterin’ the beer.’
The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,
wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!
‘You must promise to be dishonest,
out in that cruel world all alone,
when you dips yore paw into a pocket,
make certain it ain’t yore own.’
The code of the Gonfelins is ancient and true,
wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!
Well, the Gonfelin he kissed his ole mother so hard,
that he raised a big lump on her head,
‘Farewell, Mother,’ he cried, as she swooned at his side,
then he stole her best wig an’ he fled.
The code of the Gonfelins is ancient an’ true,
wot you’ve got is yores ’til I’ve swiped it off you!”
Roars of laughter were choked, as the listeners saw that Nokko and his tribe were quite overcome with emotion by their song. Some of the Gonfelins were weeping openly. The Guosim merely looked bewildered, but the Redwallers were forced to turn aside, one or two stuffing grass in their mouths to stifle ribald guffaws.
Wiping tears upon a ragged sleeve, Nokko announced solemnly to the assembly, “Er, that’s our bestest song, we sung it to honour youse fer lettin’ us ’ang on to the boodle. I want youse all t’know, that by yore kindness, you’ve done summat nobeast as ever done to a Gonfelin.” He paused to blow his snout, then continued humbly, “You’ve stolen our ’earts!”
There was a stunned silence, then Bisky rose, raising his beaker and calling heartily, “Good health’n’long seasons to our mates the Gonfelins!”
24
Jeg’s stomach was sore and smarting from the scorching he had received when he fell onto the fire. On running away from the five-topped oak, he had raced willy-nilly into the woodlands of Mossflower. The young tree rat hoped desperately that he would not be pursued by either of his two former captives. Jeg recalled beating the Guosim shrew with a willow withe; he shuddered at the hatred that had burnt in their eyes, especially the Guosim shrew—that one looked like a really vengeful beast.
He continued running, then paused, breathing heavily as he tried to catch any sounds of pursuit. However there were only the normal summer sounds—distant birdsong, the hum of bees and the odd noises of foraging insects. Having reassured himself, he continued at an easier pace, constantly touching his scorched fur and blistered flesh.
Jeg was at a loss as to how he could ease his discomfort, when he came across a woodland pool. The water was dark, it gave off a rank odour as he drew close. No good for drinking. Then his paws squelched into the layer of mud and sodden leaf mould—this was ideal. He sat down and began slapping it on his stomach. It was squelchy, cool, the ideal salve for minor scorching. Instant relief.
Before too long he heard sounds, which alerted him. Somebeast was on his trail, travelling fast, with no attempt at stealth. He glanced around for something to use as a weapon. There it was, a half-submerged tree branch. It emerged with a squelch as he tugged on it. The noises were distinctly nearer now, there was no doubt about it, somebeast was right on his trail, and coming fast. Jeg wedged the branch in a low tree fork and gave it a sharp jerk. The long branch snapped in two, leaving him with a fair-sized length, which he could use as a staff.
Dubble had a strong feeling that he was on the right trail of his foe. He dashed onward, hoping soon to catch sight of the Painted One. Seething for revenge, the young Guosim shrew never thought to act with caution. He ran straight into an ambush.
Leaping out from behind a sycamore, Jeg lashed out with his staff. The swinging blow would have stunned Dubble, but for a speedy reaction. Instinctively he threw up both paws, taking the major force of the staff upon them. He narrowly missed grabbing hold of the weapon, but Jeg was already striking again, this time from the other direction. Dubble was struck between neck and shoulder, he toppled off balance and fell.
The young tree rat was shrieking with delight as he thrashed at his adversary. “Yeeeheee, I killya this time, foolbeast, yeeeeheeee!” Some of the blows connected, others missed, thus was Jeg’s haste to finish his enemy.
Dubble wriggled and rolled about furiously, his paws numbed by the initial strike of the staff. He pushed forward, grabbing Jeg’s footpaw, and sank his teeth in savagely. The tree rat hopped about, screaming, as he tried to dislodge the shrew, but Dubble hung on grimly. Jeg kicked out at his head, but his foe caught the other footpaw, twisting it and laying him flat on his back.
This was the chance Dubble had been waiting for. Ignoring his various hurts, he threw himself upon Jeg, flailing away with all paws. Over and over the pair rolled, into the squashy compound of mud and leaf mould on the poolbank. Spitting stagnant water, Jeg managed to gain the upper position, forcing Dubble’s head down into the mess. One mouthful sent the young shrew into an ungovernable panic—he bucked and jerked so wildly that he threw Jeg to one side. Dubble was up to his waist in the soggy bank morass. He was extracting himself, with some difficulty, when he saw Jeg, whom he had thrown up onto solid ground, take to his paws and run off. The young Guosim shrew yelled after him, “Ye can run, scumface, but-ye won’t escape me. No matter wot it takes, I’ll get ye!”
Thus began a second chase, this time it went in no particular dir
ection. Jeg was really frightened now; he went in circles, sometimes going off at a tangent, dodging amongst the huge trunks of venerable woodland giants, and crashing through fernbeds, but always with Dubble close behind. Gritting his teeth, the Guosim pursued his quarry relentlessly, getting closer by the moment. Now they were running along a streambank, with Dubble almost on Jeg’s tailtip. Both beasts were going so hard that they hardly noticed the low-flying crows between the trees.
Jeg had no time for such observations, running as he was, with the pursuer hard on his tail. Trying a swift ruse, he angled off amidst the trees, casting a backward glance to ascertain where Dubble was. It was to be the young Painted One’s final error. Dashing along, as he looked backward, Jeg ran slapbang into a raven. The bird was hobbling along, dragging one wing. It squawked in alarm. Such was his speed that Jeg went tumbling, tail over snout. It was an unfortunate and fatal landing for the son of Chigid and Tala. Straight into a dark, moist, fetid opening. He managed one last horrified shriek, then the jaws of Baliss closed upon him like a steel trap.
Dubble saw the dreadful sight looming ahead of him. A squawking raven scrabbling upright, and beyond that, the monstrous head of the great serpent. The Guosim shrew saw that it was not the reptile’s forked tongue protruding from betwixt its lips. It was Jeg’s limp tail. Skidding to a halt, Dubble turned and ran for his life. Emerging from the trees he hurried toward the stream, only to find himself suddenly hemmed in by carrion crows. With cruel, beady eyes glinting, and sharp, heavy beaks poised, the birds closed in on him.
After camping the night under the five-topped oak, the great march back to Redwall got under way. Once they were out of their immediate territory, the entire tribe of Painted Ones appeared very subdued, obeying commands without question.
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.
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