Samolus pressed the tabletop hard, trying to shake it. “Almost, Father. I’ve put new pegs between the joints and spruced it up with my little block plane. Nice wood, a good piece of elm.” He smoothed the top with his paw. “See the grain, it’ll look twice as pretty after a fair rubbing with beeswax, ’twill be good as new!”
The Abbot was about to take a closer look at the elm topgrain when Brother Torilis entered, beckoning curtly at the pair who were following. “Step lively, you two, come on. Stand up straight in front of Father Abbot, shoulders back, chins up!”
Glisam raised an eyebrow at the Brother. “You told me there was only onebeast on report.”
Torilis glared at the young squirrel, Dwink. “This one chose to pick an argument with me. He became insolent, so I put him on report, too.”
Bisky blurted out, shaking his head vigorously, “It had nothin’ t’do with Dwink, I started it, Father!”
Dwink pointed a paw at himself, raising his voice. “Don’t listen to him, Father, I whacked him with a pillow, that’s wot started it all. I just got fed up of hearing Bisky tellin’ fibby stories!”
Torilis stamped a sandalled footpaw on the floor. “Silence, you’ll speak only when you’re spoken to!”
Bisky ignored the Brother, turning his wrath on Dwink. “They’re not fibby lies, that was a true story about Prince Gonff. I know it for a fact, see, ’cos my ole grandunk told me, ain’t that right, Samolus?”
The Abbot stood up, waving his paws until order was restored. He shook his head in bewilderment. “What is all this about, will somebeast please tell me?”
Torilis replied dramatically, “Father, it’s all about a noisy pillow fight in the dormitory!”
Abbot Glisam scratched his bushy tail in agitation. “Well, who’s ‘Grandunk,’ and what’s he got to do with it?”
Samolus placed himself between Torilis and the accused pair of young ones. “I’m Grandunk, least that’s wot Bisky calls me. Aye, an’ he’s every right to. From wot I’ve heard I think I can reason this out, Father. So let’s calm down an’ I’ll tell ye wot I know of it, eh?”
Torilis drew himself up to his full height, glaring down his nose at Samolus Fixa. “We are here on a matter of an Abbot’s Report. I don’t see what it has to do with the like of you!”
“Brother!” Glisam interrupted sharply. “Hold your tongue, please, and don’t speak to Samolus in that manner. Let’s all sit down and hear what our friend has to say. Samolus?”
The old mouse bowed. “Thank ye, Father Abbot.” He took up the narrrative. “My family goes back to the very founding of Redwall Abbey. I have made a record of it from Sister Violet’s archive collection in the Gatehouse. Martin the Warrior, our hero and founder, had, as you know, a lifelong companion, Gonff, the Prince of Mousethieves. I can trace my descent right back to the family Gonffen, as they later became known. During my research it became evident that young Bisky was also from a distant branch of the Gonffens. Two or three times removed, I believe, but still in the same bloodline of Prince Gonff.”
There was quiet snort from Brother Torilis.
The Abbot cast him a reproving glance. “Brother, if you have other chores to attend, kindly leave us. Obviously you are cynical of our friend’s claims, but I for one believe him.”
Torilis arose, stalking frostily off. Bisky and Dwink exchanged grins as their Abbot spoke.
“Carry on, Samolus, this sounds most interesting.”
The old mouse tugged his tail respectfully. “With yore permission, Father, I’ll carry on workin’ as I tell the tale. Marvellous how a job can help a beast like meself t’think clearly!”
All three listened intently as the story unfolded.
Bedraggled, wet, hungry and cold, Griv the magpie flew in circles. She had been flying all night; due to the storm, she had been blown off course several times. Now she was lost. Thankfully, the wind had subsided, but there was still heavy rain to contend with. On an impulse, Griv soared high into the dreary grey skies, searching the ground below until she found her bearings. There off to the left was the huge, rocky, forested mound. Winging to one side, the magpie zoomed down to where a meandering stream skirted the smaller foothills. Griv made an awkward landing in the lower boughs of a downy birch. With the quick, jerky head movements common to magpies, she righted her perch, giving voice to several harsh cries.
Four carrion crows appeared, as if from nowhere. Three stopped on the streambank, whilst their leader landed on the bough, alongside Griv. His hooded head cocked to one side as he addressed the magpie aggressively. “Haaark! What does the longtail do in this place?”
Griv was not intimidated, she rasped back at him, “Garraah! My business is with the Doomwyte, Korvus Skurr. He alone awaits my news.”
Veeku, leader of the carrion crows, smoothed his shiny black plumage with a sharp beak, as if considering Griv’s words. Then he nodded once. “Haark, you will follow us!”
Close by the stream, in the base of the hill, was an opening. Thickly growing reedgrass almost hid it from view. Escorted by the crows, Griv flew inside. It was a winding tunnel—they were forced to land and walk the remainder of the way. The filter of outside daylight died away as they progressed along the tunnel; a few torches and firefly lanterns illuminated their path. Rounding a bend in the rock-walled passage, Griv gasped at the sudden onslaught of sulphur fumes. The atmosphere became extremely humid, a sickly green glow bathed the tunnel in eerie light. Strange noises echoed from further ahead, like liquid boiling in a giant cauldron. This was interspersed with squeals, grunts, shrieks and the harsh chatter of big birds.
Griv and her crow escort emerged into an immense cave. The sight resembled some infernal nightmare from the brain of a madbeast. High up in the poisonous, mist-wreathed recesses of the vast ceiling, water dripped from limestone stalactites. Further down, the walls glistened with crusted filth, rotting matter spotted with violently hued patches of fungi. Heaps of protruding, decayed and yellowed bones were piled up against the lower walls, quivering with a life of their own, as spiders and cockroaches hunted the countless squirming, wriggling insects who inhabited the nauseous debris. All around this hideous scene, birds were perched everywhere. There were a few magpies, like Griv, but the rest were dark carrion birds, jackdaws, choughs, crows and rooks. It was the crows who outnumbered the others.
The centre of the cavern floor was dominated by a large lake, which occupied more than half the total floor area. Its waters emanated clouds of yellowy green steam from the constantly bubbling liquid morass. Deep within the earth, some primeval, volcanic force was heating the water with its phosphorescent vapours. There were no seasons in the cave, only constant heat, and misty green opalescence.
There was an island in the middle of the lake, which gave the illusion of having no foundation, seeming to hover in the mist. The centre of this island was a limestone hill, surmounted by a monolithic statue of polished black obsidian. It was a monumental work, depicting a huge raven, with a snake draped about its neck. The reptile coiled several times around the raven’s neck, ending up circling its host’s head in the manner of a crown. Both the face of the raven, and the snake above it, contained eyeless sockets.
Veeku, leader of the carrion crows, was about to lead Griv toward the island, when the roll of a large drum boomed out. Veeku spread his wings, holding the magpie back. A party of a dozen crows and rooks came hurrying by. These were followed by several toads and lizards, all armed with sharpened bulrush spears. At the centre of the strange group a net was being hauled along. It contained Gridj, the unfortunate rat, who, with his late companion, had been wandering lost in the previous night’s storm. Immediately, all the inhabitants of the cave began chanting. “The Wytessss! Wytessssss! Korvussssss!” Again the big drum sounded. A silence fell over the cave. One of the toads poked the captive with its bulrush spear, causing him to wake up moaning.