That’s the fourth time I’ve searched those cellars o’ mine. Still not a whisker of those two rogues t’be seen.
The Healer Recorder beat dust from her faded green habit. I’ve been scouring the gatehouse since the crack o’ dawn without any luck whatsoever. Where can they be?
Crikulus, the ancient shrew Gatekeeper, approached. Move up there, Gurdle, my old paws are weary from rootin’ round the dormitories, an’
me back is broken in ten places from crawlin’ round under beds. What a pair o’ pickles those Dibbuns are. Ho there, Memm Flackery, any-thin’
new? The fat Harenurse dug a few warm almond scones from her apron pocket and munched on them worriedly.
Nope, ‘fraid not, old lad. That rotten Gooch won’t jolly well let me search his kitchens anymore! Huh, cooks are like that, ain’t they? Heard the Abbot tellin’ Skipper to round up his otters for a woodland search, though I can’t think for the bally life o’me how the little scoundrels slipped out, wot?
Abbot Apodemus stood at the gate, calling advice to Skipper and two stalwart young otters as they set off north up the path. Find a stream if you can. See if there are any Guosim shrews about, they may have seen our Dibbuns.
Skipper waved his javelin in the air, acknowledging Apodemus. Right y’are, Father Abbot, though if’n shrews ‘ad found ‘em, they’d prob’ly brought ‘em back ‘ere long since. Tis worth a try, though. Don’t fret yoreself, mate. We’ll find Ruggum’n’Bikkle if’n they’re out there. Go in, an’ keep those gates closed now.
The sunny day clouded slowly. It was late afternoon when the two little runaways decided they were even more lost than they had been. All around them the silent vastness of Mossflower seemed to be closing in. Ruggum was making plans for the oncoming darkness.
Hurr, Bikk, us’ns b’aint a-getten caught out in ee open when it bee’s dark, burr, nay marm. We’m lukk abowt furr ee cumfy likkle den an’ camp in thurr, all safe an’ cozy loike.
Bikkle was forced to agree. She pointed off to the sky eastward. Lookit dem clouds, might rain by dark.
Even though they were only Dibbuns, the tiny creatures had instinctive feelings about weather conditions. Wandering farther into the woodland, Ruggum held up a pudgy digging claw.
Oi’m thinken ee bee’s roight, Bikk, breezes starten to move ee treetops.
Us’n’s best foind ee gudd cover, hurr, by ‘okey aye!
As often happens with springtide weather, the change was sudden. Low breezes gathered force, scurrying through the random ranked trunks of oak, beech, alder,sycamore, elm and other forest giants. The tree canopy began swaying, creating a forceful rustling of twig, branch and leaf.
Paw in paw, the two little ones ran through the gusting woods, afraid of being outside the Abbey walls, which represented safety, peace and home. Late noontide darkened as lowering clouds raced to cloak the previously bright day. After an all-too-brief spit-spot of damp, the rains came sweeping in, thick and heavy, driven by the gale, slanting through the leafy canopy and drenching the loamy ground.
Breathless and fearful, the Dibbuns took temporary refuge against the massive trunk of an ancient spreading oak. Still clutching one another’s paws, they stood with their backs against the rough bark. Ruggum cast an angry glance at the skies, resentful of the trick played on him by the elements. Bikkle, scared out of her wits by the stormy event, began to whimper.
Me not like alia this, ho no, not one likkle bit!
Ruggum pulled her around to what appeared to be the lee side of the oak. She gave a sudden squeak. Yeek!
The Dibbun mole blew a sigh of frustration. Worra matta now, marm? B’aint so windy this yurr soide.
Bikkle turned to face the tree. Likkle door wiv words on it, see?
It was a door, let into the broad oak trunk low down.
Ruggum traced the word carved on it with his digging claw. Oi wonders wot ee wurd do say, Bikk?
Bikkle shrugged. I non’t know. Open a door afore uz gets soaked an’
drowned.
Moss, soil and dead vegetation had built up under the door. Ruggum found a stout stick and levered at it whilst Bikkle shoved hard. The door scrunched against the ground as it gave way, fraction by fraction, opening inward. Groaning rusty hinges popped free and the whole thing heeled crazily. This left a space through which they could both enter.
Some Guosim shrews, who had been on their way to visit Redwall, met up with Skipper and his two otters as they entered the fringes of Mossflower.
Spiky-furred little creatures with coloured headbands and short kilts, they all carried rapiers in their broad belts. Guosim were known by the initials of their kind, Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower, and they were traditional friends and allies of Redwall Abbey. Their Chieftain held the title Log a Log. He was always the toughest and wisest of the shrews.
Skipper saluted them cheerily, hugging the leader affectionately.
Haharr, Log a Log Groo, you ole stream-whomper. Yore just the laddo we’re lookin’ for. I bring ye a message from the Abbot.
Groo and his twenty shrews listened as Skipper told them of the two lost Dibbuns. They agreed to help with the search, one of them piping up from the back, We’ll find the liddle snips, an’ old Gooch the Cook’ll reward us with double’elpings of everything. Yum yum!
Log a Log Groo cast a severe eye over the speaker. I’ll reward ye with a pair o’ boxed ears, m’laddo. We don’t need no rewards fer helpin’
friends. That ain’t the Guosim way.
Skipper chuckled. No offence, mate, I know wot yore pal meant. We’ll all get double’elpings if’n we find the Dibbuns. Come on.
They struck off into the woods and soon picked up a trail.
Ruggum and Bikkle stayed in the entranceway of the hole from which an old flight of steps ran down into the darkness beyond. Neither felt brave enough to venture any further. They stood in the doorway, where it was sheltered from the rain. Again, the little mole traced the lettering on the door. He was unable to read or write. Oi wonder wot thiz yurr place be called? Bikkle stared at the lettering, blinked and yawned. Sleepwas beginning to overcome her. The word on the door was written thus: Brockhall.
She pretended that she could read and translated. I can read words better’n you, Rugg. It say, hide in ‘ere from d’rain, Burr, you’m makin’ et oop!
No I not!
Yuss you bee’s!
Bikkle was tired and not prepared to continue the argument, so she changed the subject. Wonder wot down dose steps?
The molebabe ventured to the top step and peered downward into the gloom.
Sumthio’ shoiny!
Bikkle scoffed. You not see’d sumthin’ shiny down d’steps.
Ruggum was a molebabe born to argue. Ho, yuss oi did!
Bikkle sat down. Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes, not wanting to get into another debate with her stubborn friend. Well, if it bee’s nice’n’shiny, you go an’ gerrit f’me.
Ruggum needed no second bidding, he was overcome with curiosity. Roight, then, oi’ll goo an’ gerrit to show ee oi speaked true!
Nerving himself up, he descended the steps, hugging the side wall closely.
Bikkle dozed off amid visions of Cavern Hole and a wonderful meal of hot plum pudding with creamy almond sauce, and a beaker of strawberry cordial. She was very partial to anything with the flavour of strawberries. But she was instantly brought back to reality by the sound of a gruff mole shriek, as Ruggum came out of the gloom like a dark-furred cannonball, a shiny golden object gripped in one paw. He grabbed Bikkle with his free paw and pulled her along, out into the rain and wind.