Words tumbled from the young squirrel. “Hah, I knew it! I knew that was it!”
Umfry scratched his headspikes. “Was wot?”
Dwink replied with two short words: “An onion!”
Brother Torilis looked on, mystified. “An onion?”
Dwink pointed a paw at the Friars Grace. “Perrit gave me the clue. All those things, mushrooms, dandelions and so on, repeated in a clever pattern. But look there, right at the top, in the middle. An onion, that’s the answer!”
The squirrelmaid touched the embossed vegetable. “But why is it the answer?”
Tapping the slate with his paw, Dwink explained, “Listen. ‘What’s mixed will thicken, there’s the place’! Right, that’s how we came by the word kitchen. Here’s the rest. ‘Is it there or has it gone?’ Well, we searched the kitchen, but it was gone. Until Brother Torilis walked in here and picked it up. You see, it had gone, from the kitchen to the Infirmary. Didn’t you say it was Infirmary property, Brother?”
Torilis nodded. “Sister Ficaria told me the tray had been at the Infirmary for as long as she could recall. Mayhaps it had been taken from here to the Infirmary long ago, and never returned.”
Dwink nodded agreement. “Now, look at the last two lines: ‘Framed above a Friars Grace. On, on I. The middle one.’ Suddenly it jumped out at me. On is the first word, on is the second word. But the word I that’s the middle one, see?”
Brother Torilis repeated the line in the correct order. “On I on…on I on. Of course, it’s onion! Now what happens, are there further clues?”
Taking the slate, Abbot Glisam read out the second verse.
“Where to seek a raven’s eye?
What’s not sad, yet makes one cry,
with what a plum has at its middle.
The Prince of Mousethieves set this riddle.”
Umfry’s face lit up with a broad smile of understanding. “A h’onion’s not sad, but h’it makes you cry when you peel it. I know, ’cos h’I’ve peeled h’onions afore. An’ wot does h’a plum ’ave at h’its middle? A stone!”
The Abbot picked up a big copper ladle. He tapped it on the earthenware onion. “So, friends, d’you think this plum, or should I say onion, has a stone at its middle, a raven’s eye?”
Brother Torilis waved his paws in agitation. “No, Father, please, you wouldn’t, that tray is Infirmary property!”
The Abbot’s old eyes twinkled mischievously. “Correction, Brother, it’s kitchen property. Redwall kitchens, in fact, and I’m the Abbot of Redwall!”
Crack! He hit the onion a sharp tap with the ladle. There amidst the broken shards of earthenware was an object, wrapped in a scrap of linen. The Abbot smiled, bowing to Dwink. “Be my guest, sir!”
The young squirrel needed no second bidding. He unwrapped the linen. It was an awesome ruby, one eye of the Great Doomwyte raven statue. It glowed with deep crimson fires, a thing of awful beauty.
Perrit stood, transfixed by the fabulous stone. “Oh, just look at it, Dwink, look at it!”
But Dwink was scanning the small remnant of linen. “Aye, splendid, ain’t it. I’ll take a proper look once I’ve read the message from this bit o’ cloth. It says here how t’find the serpent’s green eye!”
31
Zaran the black otter kept up her vigil at the side of the huge slab of rock, which had slipped and sunk into the hillside. Spingo was trapped beneath the stone, in total darkness. All the Gonfelin maid could do was to keep very still. She breathed lightly, trying to conserve the small amount of air which filtered in through the thin holes Zaran had bored with the sharpened branch of a beech tree. Every now and then, Spingo felt loose, sandy earth sifting onto her paws. Each time it did, the unwieldy slab settled a minute fraction more. Zaran called down through the narrow, tubelike holes to her.
“Spingo, hold on, moles come soon from Redwall. I make another hole, give you more air, yes?”
The reply came back, faint but urgent. “No…don’t make any more holes, mate, y’might cause a cave-in…. Leave well enough alone!”
The black otter put aside her beech branch, but continued talking, in an attempt to lift the young maid’s spirits. Zaran said anything in the hope of comforting Spingo. “When moles come they have you soon out of there. Bisky said his Abbey has many moles. Best diggers in all the land, whole army of moles. Hah, you will drink cold water from stream, wash dust from yourself, feel good, fresh!”
Spingo licked soil from her lips. “That’ll be nice…. Wish they’d hurry up….”
Speeding downstream in the Guosim logboat, Dubble suddenly backed water, drawing his paddle inboard. The sharp action caused Bisky to topple backward—he hit his head on the vessel’s stern. The young mouse sat up, calling irately to his companion, at what he thought was an unwarranted halt.
“Wot d’ye think yore doin’, mate? We’re supposed to be goin’ full speed for Redwall.”
Pulling into the bank, the young shrew turned to face Bisky. “Aye, an’ so we are, but we’ll get no place fast with you as paddlin’ crew!”
The Redwaller thrust out his chin aggressively. “Wot‘s wrong with my paddlin’?”
Dubble was forced to tell him, in no uncertain fashion, “Yore goin’ to turn this boat over, with the way yore flailin’ that paddle around. Lissen, mate, there’s an art to paddlin’. We’re travellin’ downstream, see, so ye let the current do most o’ the work. You prob’ly heard the sayin’, more haste, less speed. Well it’s true. Now, d’ye want to git to yore Abbey quickly?”
Bisky readied his paddle. “Of course I do, we’ve got t’save Spingo. Go on then, you show me wot t’do an’ I’ll try my best to help.”
They pulled the craft off into midstream, with Dubble working the prow, calling back instructions to Bisky at the stern end. “Easy now, bucko, watch the way I do it. Don’t try t’go fast, steady does it. Lean forward, dig that paddle deep, feel the current an’ go with it. Feather the paddle blade a bit to one side on the upstroke, see, just like I’m doin’.”
Bisky obeyed, surprised at how the logboat glided swiftly along, picking up speed. Every once in a while he missed the stroke, calling out, “Sorry!”
Dubble replied, “Y’know, when you go marchin’ with otherbeasts, sometimes they sing a song, just t’keep in step. Right, I’ll sing ye a simple shanty, the chorus is easy. It’ll help ye to keep yore stroke.” For a young Guosim, Dubble had a rich baritone voice. He sang out lustily.
“I cut me teeth on a Guosim paddle.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
Took to it like an ole duck waddle.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
Now run that river down the flow,
where we’ll anchor I don’t know.
Sing hey hi ho my matey oh,
that’s the Guosim way to go!
Our logboat sails just like a dream.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
On sea or river, creek or stream.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
No room for idle paws on board,
don’t scrape yore keel now, mind that ford.
Sing hey hi ho my matey oh,
Ye’ll feel me boot if you go slow!”
Had it not been for the urgency of the situation, Bisky would have enjoyed the experience greatly. But he kept his eyes on Dubble’s every movement, concentrating his efforts on keeping a steady paddle, and a smooth course.
In the caves beneath the forested hillslope, Korvus Skurr had begun to realise he was not the tyrant anymore. With no Raven Wytes to command, he was facing open mutiny. Several times he had ordered that all his subjects, both birds and reptiles, move to the large, sulphured cavern. Not a single creature obeyed. He had hoped that they would, to provide him with a buffer in case Baliss moved out of the tunnel. The carrion birds crowded the rocky walls of the inner sanctum. They ignored him, scrabbling, squawking and fighting amongst themselves. Crows, choughs, jackdaws, rooks and magpies were seized by a feeding frenzy. No reptile was safe from their voracious beaks, they hunted the cave relentlessly. Frogs, toads, lizards and snakes—the grass snake, slow worm and smoothsnake—were being rooted out from their hiding places in rocky niches. Beaks stabbed, and talons raked, as the dark birds fought amongst themselves every time a reptile was caught. They battled savagely for the squirming creatures, often tearing them to pieces.