Brother Torilis heaved a relieved sigh, then gave his diagnosis promptly. “Mister Spikkle, if, as you say, you had been bitten by a poisonous snake—an adder, in fact—of the size you describe, then you’d already be dead.”
Umfry scratched his head quills. “Then why h’aint ’e, Brother?”
Torilis explained, “One, the snake could not have bitten him if its mouth was full of dead bird. Two, there are no bite wounds to be seen on our worthy Cellarhog. What occurred was that he was butted, with some considerable force. The strike was so powerful that it drove some bottom spikes inward. So, sir, it seems that I’ll have to pull your spikes back out, before they fester in there.”
Tears beaded in Corksnout’s eyes, he wept with gratitude. “Seasons praise on ye, Brother. Oh, I’m goin’ to live. Thank ye, thank ye!”
Torilis smiled, a rare occurrence for Redwall’s Healer and Herbalist. “Don’t thank me, Mister Spikkle, thank the fact that you have a bottom covered in spikes. Skipper Rorgus, Laird Bosie, would you kindly assist him up to the Infirmary, where I can work on him. I’d best take a look at you two also, you’re both going to need some spikes drawn out of you.”
The otter and the hare suddenly became aware that their paws and faces had Corksnout’s spikes protruding from them, which they had not noticed in the heat of the moment. Gingerly, they helped the Cellarhog upright.
Sister Violet praised them glowingly. “Oh, you were so brave and reckless, both of you. Is there anything you need?”
Bosie called over his shoulder, as they lugged Corksnout away, “Aye, marm, Ah’d be grateful if’n ye could fetch me a wee plate o’ somethin’ from the feast, an’ a dram tae wet mah spikey lips!”
Skipper added, “Make that two, Sister, if y’please!”
Samolus enlisted the help of Dwink and Umfry. “Come with me, you two, let’s go up to the west parapet. Best take a peep an’ see if’n we can spot that giant serpent.”
From the threshold of the walltop, above the main gate, they searched the path, the ditch and the flatlands below. There was no sign of either Baliss or the slain Raven Wyte. Abbot Glisam, having heard the reports from Aluco and Sister Violet, joined them. The old dormouse shuddered.
“Forgive me, friends, but snakes, especially adders, are the one creature I cannot abide. Just the name, snake, sends a trembling down my spine.”
Samolus took the Father Abbot’s paw. “Well, there ain’t sign nor scale o’ the villain now, so d’ye wish t’stand here shudderin’, Father Abbot, or go back t’the Dibbuns’ feast?”
Glisam took his friend’s paw. “Let’s go to the feast.”
Lost to view from the Abbey, around a bend further up the ditch, Baliss was trying to consume the dead raven, in some considerable discomfort. The whole of the giant reptile’s head was throbbing with pain. This was due to the spikes of Corksnout Spikkle, of which quite a number were embedded in the snake, owing to the ferocity and force of his strike on the Cellarhog. Baliss had no way of extracting the spikes. Several times the reptile left off his macabre meal, shaking his head violently, and butting at the ditchshide. This only caused the injury to worsen. Hissing savagely, he resumed eating the raven carcass.
Had Baliss not been blind the injury could have been averted, but the scents of raven and hedgehog combined to confuse the snake temporarily, causing what might have been termed self-inflicted wounds. Thus it was that fate had turned the cold, calculating hunter into a rapidly maddening monster, his whole snout and head pierced deep by the spikes of a simple hedgehog.
17
Anybeast could tell, by the scent of the woodlands, ceaseless birdsong and the burgeoning of fruit, berry and flower, Summer had at last arrived, casting its stillwarm spell over Mossflower Country in placid eventide. Bisky and Dubble were exhausted by the time they arrived back at the five-topped oak. With boulders still hobbling them, burdened by the sacks of produce they had gathered, both awaited their captors’ whim.
Tala, mate of Chigid, and mother of Jeg, threw down a rope sling from the upper boughs. “Lazybeasts, don’t stan’ there, load up vikkles!”
Under the watchful eyes of the Painted Ones, the prisoners loaded the slings with the fruits of their foraging. They stood clear as the sacks were hauled up.
Jeg beckoned the guards to remove the hobbles from Bisky and Dubble, leaving them still anchored to each other by the rope halter around their necks. The young Painted One menaced them with his whippy switch.
“Stan’ there, don’t budge, or I make yer sorry!” The sling was lowered again, and bound jointly around them. They were hoisted roughly up onto the broad limb they had formerly occupied.
Dubble sighed wearily as the guards bound their forepaws to the bough above their heads. He appealed to them, “Oh come on, mates, y’know we can’t escape. Why are ye stringin’ us up like this agin?”
Jeg smiled maliciously. “’Cos yer gotta stay like that ’til I says so!”
The young Guosim shrew snarled back at him, “Ye scringin’ liddle worm, if’n my paws were loose I’d batter ye to a pulp!”
Jeg flogged at the defenceless Dubble with his switch, yelling shrilly, “Well, yer paws ain’t loose, so I’ll batter yew to a pulp. Stoopid watermousey!”
The willow switch snapped, leaving Jeg with only a short stub. Despite the beating he had taken, Dubble began taunting him. “Dearie me, broke yore toy have ye? Go an’ cry to yore mammee for a new one!”
Jeg grabbed some mushrooms from the sacks. He hurled them at Dubble and Bisky angrily. “Hah! That’s all the vikkles yew two are gettin’. I’ll make sure ya starve t’death!” Shoving guards out of his way, the young tree rat dashed off into the higher foliage.
Bisky shook his head at Dubble. “If ye keep teasin’ him like that he will end up beatin’ you, or both of us, to death, mate. Why don’t ye just let him be?”
The young shrew gritted his teeth stubbornly. “I’ve been punished by bigger’n’tougher beasts than that liddle spoiled brat!”
Bisky decided not to provoke his friend by arguing. Closing his eyes, he let his head hang limply.
Night’s starry canopy descended over the woodlands. Both captives sagged, falling into an exhausted slumber. The Painted Ones had eaten; they did not bother lighting a fire down on the ground. Secure in their five-topped oak, and the surrounding trees, the vermin did not mount any guards. Each went to their own group, nestling in the forks of boughs, or huddling on broad limbs. Gradually the atmosphere slid into a relaxed drowsiness.
Bisky felt a footpaw kick him into wakefulness. It was Dubble, the shrew was ready and alert. He whispered to his companion, “Have ye still got yore sharp flint, matey?”
Keeping his voice low, the Redwaller replied, “Aye, for all the good it’d do us. How can I reach it with my paws bound up like this?”
Dubble shook his head. “I got the same trouble, friend. Mine’s in me belt. I’ve got no chance o’ getting’ at it. Any bright ideas?”
For answer, Bisky reached out with his footpaws, by swinging them; he hit Dubble’s stomach. His fellow captive gave an irate snort.
“Didn’t Jeg beat me enough, have you gotta have a go!”
The young mouse cautioned him, “Keep y’voice down, mate, I’ve got a plan. Now, shove yore belly out toward me, so I can see that flint in yore belt.”
Dubble obeyed wordlessly. Bisky started to swing his body to and fro, each time touching his friend’s stomach. He could see the glitter of the flint in the starlight. Making an extra effort, he swung harder, grunting as his footpaws trapped the shard of flint between them.