All the time she was speaking, Sister Violet was gently stroking the mousebabe’s head. As a result he had fallen asleep. She crept off to the dormitory, carrying him carefully.
Bosie called out to Glisam, “What’s the reward tae be, Father?”
Skipper nudged him. “Keep yore voice down, matey, or you’ll waken the babe.”
The Abbot replied in an exaggerated whisper, “A special Redwall Abbey fruit trifle that Friar Skurpul has promised to make.”
Murmurs of delight echoed about Great Hall. Friar Skurpul’s special Redwall Abbey fruit trifle was a legendary delicacy.
All through dinner, speculation was rife as to where the mystery objects might be found. Everybeast seemed to have his or her theory about the location.
“Yurr, they’m’ll be unner ee grownd, buried sumplace.”
“I think that key’ll be high up, mebbe in the top attics.”
“Garn! Nobeast’s been up there in twenny seasons!”
“All the more reason the key will be hid there.”
“Might not be hidden, there might be a door up in the attics with a lock to it.”
“Ho aye, zurr, an’ ee key sticken roight in ee key’ole. Hurr, pull moi uther paw!”
Umfry Spikkle confided to Dwink, “H’I think that key might be h’in my gate’ouse, but tomorrow’ll be plenty o’ time to start searchin’ for it. The rain’s too ’eavy h’outside, h’any room h’in yore dormitory, mate?”
The young squirrel nodded. “Aye, there’s a spare bunk or two, but won’t that leave the Gatehouse unattended, Umfry?”
The hulking young hedgehog snorted. “Huh, there h’aint been a sign o’ life passin’ the threshold, not since this rain started three days back, h’its quiet enough h’out there.”
Abbot Glisam yawned. “Dearie me, I can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”
The Laird Bosie took out his odd fiddle. “Aye, ’tis this weather, ye ken. A wee drap o’ sunlight on the morrow will liven us up again.”
Corksnout and Foremole Gullub began shepherding the Dibbuns off to their beds. Even the notorious D.A.B. gang did not complain. It seemed that most Redwallers felt heavy-lidded and languid. Bosie played a beautiful, slow air, which conjured up scenes of quiet, heather-strewn glens, with tranquil streams wending through them. One by one, everybeast drifted off upstairs, until there was only the mountain hare and Samolus Fixa, keeping each other company amidst the flickering shadows cast by guttering candles and fading lanterns.
The old mouse slumped back in his cushioned chair. “Great soakin’ seasons, will ye lissen t’that blinkin’ rain out there, will it never stop?”
Bosie continued playing, with his eyes closed. “Och, ’twill cease when it has a mind tae, mah friend, an’ nary a moment sooner, Ah’m thinkin’.”
Outside in the rainswept, clouded night, across the waterlogged lawns and drooping beds of daffodils, late snowdrops, early periwinkle and purple pasque blooms, a single, silent, pale light floated in over the threshold wall. It was soon followed by a second. Between them they slid back the well-greased bar of the main gates. With scarcely a creak, the outer gates opened a mere fraction. That was enough. At ground level, and slightly higher up, the eerie lights shimmered in, half a score of the mysterious flames, undimmed by the downpour. The Wytes had come to Redwall Abbey.
8
If (seasons forbid) there were ever a competition to find the loudest snorer in all Mossflower, Umfry Spikkle would win, paws down. Even as a tiny babe he was renowned for his nocturnal snoring. In his wisdom, Father Abbot Glisam promoted the young Umfry to the Gatehouse at the first opportunity. That way, it was only on placid summer nights, with a breeze drifting in from the west, that he could be heard inside the Abbey. In the dormitory that night, the soothing sound of raindrops pattering on the shutters was rudely shattered. Umfry had begun snoring.
Everybeast was wakened by his stentorian efforts, including the Dibbuns. The tiny mousebabe roared, “Good an’ my gracious, I fink someun betta chop off ’is snout. Thatta stop ’im, I fink!” Even well-aimed pillows did nothing to halt the snoring Gatehouse Keeper’s noisy slumber.
Then the dormitory door flew open, to reveal the dreaded figure of Brother Torilis, holding a lantern. “What is that horrific din?”
Molebabe Dugry pointed a small digging claw at the culprit. “Thurr ee bees, zurr Bruther, ee’m a-snoren. Boi ’okey Oi b’aint hurred nuthin’ loik et!”
Brother Torilis was experienced in snoring problems, particularly in hedgehogs. Producing a small jar of rosehip syrup from his night pouch, he poured some over the sleeping Umfry’s footpaws. Torilis prodded the hedgehog’s gently rising stomach twice, with a thin piece of rowan wood. Umfry promptly curled up into a tight ball, as hedgehogs do. A moment later he was sleeping soundly, and silently.
Dugry wrinkled his tiny button snout. “Wot did ee do, zurr?”
The Infirmary Keeper explained briefly, “Smeared his footpaws with sweet rosehip syrup, and made him curl into a hogball. He won’t be snoring again tonight, just sucking his footpaws. Now back to sleep, all of you, and not another sound!” Within moments of the Brother’s departure, everybeast was back, sleeping peacefully—with the exception of two, both Dibbuns.
Furff, the infant squirrel, watched the very tiny mousebabe creeping toward the door. She shook a warning paw, whispering, “Back inna bed or Bruvver’ll choppa tail off!”
But the mousebabe was not easily deterred. “I gonna finda key an’ winna big big tryfull!” Like a flash, Furff was out of bed and with him.
“I cum wiv ya, Furff likes tryfulls!”
Having found the Gatehouse deserted, the group of Wytes flickered across the lawns to the Abbey’s front door. Two of the pale flames landed on the simple latching device, weighing it down. The others waited patiently until the door creaked ajar. Silent as a breeze wending amidst gravestones, they drifted inside.
Samolus and the Laird Bosie were still seated at the dining table in Great Hall. It was peaceful in there, a place of shadows and dim light. Both creatures’ eyelids were drooping, their heads nodding forward, paws loosely clasping tankards, which now held only the dregs of good October Ale.
Samolus felt the draught from outside. Shivering, he scowled. “Brr, feel that, somebeast’s left the blinkin’ door open. Those young uns, you’d think they was born in a field!”
Bosie watched him shuffling over the worn stone floor. “Ah’m no feared o’ a wee draught. Och, if ye hail frae the Highlands ye get tae know what cold really is, mah friend!”
Samolus shut the big door, rattling it to make sure it was properly closed. “Maybe you come from the Highlands, but I’m from Mossflower. We value our warmth an’ comfort in this Abbey, mate!”
Bosie upended his tankard, finishing the last drops. “Ach well, Ah’m awa’ tae mah bed, just like yon beastie up there, the noo!”
Samolus paused, halfway across the hall. “What beastie, where?”
Bosie gestured with the fiddle he had picked up. “Ah thought there was somebeast carryin’ a candle up the stairs a moment ago. Ye couldnae tell who ’twas, all Ah saw was the candlelight. Look, there he goes again!”
This time Samolus saw the light. “It must be a Dibbun, searchin’ for the key. But how did a Dibbun get hold of a lit candle? They’re not allowed anythin’ that’d be dangerous. I’ll get the little rascal!” He bounded for the stairs, with the mountain hare following at a more leisurely pace.
“Och, the wee mite cannae do much damage wi’ a candle, the place is made o’ stone.” Any further debate was cut short by a piercing scream from the upstairs corridor.