Thunder oak, p.8
Thunder Oak, page 8
Sylver shone the light of the candle on the side of the stairway and found that a sharp turn to the right would lead him further down. Those who knew of the trap could count the stairs down to this point, then step smartly to the right, where the stairs continued safely. This Sylver did, and finally found his way to a chamber at the bottom.
Once in the chamber he discovered it was full of drums of all shapes and sizes. The monk had not been lying when he said the monastery was interested in such instruments. Perhaps there really was a holy Order of the Drum. Sylver went into the chamber and began to inspect the drums.
As he did so a chill ran down his spine. He suddenly realized why the monk had been so keen for the weasels to stay the night. He remembered too that strange remark first made by the monk: ‘Weasels with fine hides.’ Sylver, like others of his band, had found that statement most peculiar. Now, to his great dread, he knew why the comment had been made. It had slipped out accidentally and no doubt the monk had instantly regretted it.
Searching further, he found in another corner of the chamber a pile of bones. There were skulls, leg bones, backbones, ribs, pelvis bones – all jumbled together where they had been tossed in a heap. Like the hides on the drums, he recognized the skeletons instantly.
Sylver made his way up the stairs again, remembering to step sideways at the right point. Eventually he found his way back to the dining room. He blew out the candle and put it on the mantelpiece above the fire. As he was crossing the floor one of the doors opened and the monk entered carrying a torch.
‘Hello!’ cried the monk. ‘What’s this? Out of your cell? Trying to rob a gullible holy creature of his treasures, eh? What? Attempting to steal my gold and silver, no doubt. I should have you locked in my dungeon for this, you blackguard!’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, monk, or you’ll find my band of outlaws hunting you through this strange monastery and filling your body full of darts! I was thirsty. I merely came looking for a glass of water.’
The monk boomed indignantly, ‘Did you find any?’
‘Yes,’ replied Sylver, ‘down those stairs behind that door – there’s a large pool of it at the bottom.’
With that, Sylver left the monk and went back up to his cell. The others came crowding in once he was back. He told them briefly what he had discovered and promised to fill in the details the next morning. ‘When I’m not so tired,’ he said. ‘In the meantime we’re going to have to sleep in shifts. Icham and Bryony can take the first watch. We’ll all remain in this one cell, while they watch the door. I’ll take the second shift with Mawk . . .’
When he had detailed the watches for the night, Sylver lay on some straw on the flags and fell instantly asleep, exhausted by his night roamings.
When morning came they trooped down to the dining hall, where the monk was sitting in his chair waiting.
‘Time for some answers,’ said Sylver, standing in front of the monk. ‘I know about the drums. You make them of weasel skin, don’t you?’ the outlaw leader accused the holy animal. ‘That’s why you invited us into your monastery. So you could kill us and skin us. You were going to use our hides to make more drums!’
The monk got up as if to attack the weasels, but slingshots and darts appeared in their paws in a twinkling.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you, monk,’ said Bryony. ‘I think you’d better show us the way out.’
‘The doors are there,’ growled the monk. ‘Use them.’ His voice changed to a whine. ‘But don’t go, dear weasels. It’s raining something terrible outside. You’ll all get wet and catch your death of cold. Why not stay here with me a little longer, eh? Perhaps you’ll get to like it. I promise I won’t do anything to you . . .’
‘Listen, goat,’ said Sylver. ‘Somehow you’ve managed to turn this place inside out. All the doors which should be on the outside of the monastery now face into the dining room. I suspect it’s got something to do with the round towers. This whole structure is built of round towers.’
It seemed that the monk was glowering underneath his hood, but finally he stood up. ‘Yes, weasel, you’re right. There’s a secret switch just inside the main doors, which I pulled after you entered the monastery. The towers then revolved, very slowly, until all the doors faced inwards . . .’
‘So that’s what the grinding sound was,’ said Sylver. ‘I thought as much.’
‘. . . but I’m not a goat,’ finished the monk.
‘So, what are you?’ Sylver asked. ‘I know I saw a flash of something long, white and pointed under your hood, like the horn of a billy goat. And more recently I saw a cloven hoof. If you’re not a goat, what are you?’
The monk dramatically whipped off his habit and stood before the group on his hind legs.
There was a gasp from the outlaw band. What stood before them was a wild boar, with great white tusks that swept out of the sides of his mouth and up towards each hairy ear. His feet were indeed cloven. He was a monstrous fellow, dark-haired, shaggy and red-snouted, with small pinkish eyes. There were but a few wild boars left in the forests of Welkin and this one had vacated his home amongst the trees to take up residence in the monastery.
‘You’re no monk,’ said Sylver. ‘What do you actually do with those drums?’
‘Why,’ said the boar, smiling, his long tusks adding a touch of evil to the grin, ‘I sell ’em to stoat thanes, who use ’em in weasel hunts. They beat the stretched hides and drive the weasels before them into catch nets, then sell ’em as slaves. You must know the slave markets of Prince Poynt. Well, weasels get this instinctive fear in ’em when they hear a paw beating on the skin of a dead brother or sister weasel – it’s like beating on their own hearts – and their brain tells them to run in blind panic to get away from the sound – into stoat nets.’
‘You swine!’ whispered Alysoun in a voice of dread.
‘Well, that’s no insult,’ said the boar. ‘After all, I am a pig, you know.’
Chapter Ten
‘You’d better let us go, boar, or we’ll have to kill you where you stand,’ said Sylver.
‘Well now,’ said the boar, whose eyes were flashing with spite, ‘that wouldn’t do you much good, now would it? If you killed me you would never find the way out of here. You’ll just have to wait until I’m ready to let you go.’
Sylver was stunned by this answer. He felt sure that now the boar’s secret had been uncovered, he would do what they demanded of him. But it seemed he had no intention of letting them out of their prison.
‘We’ll find the secret switch,’ Bryony said. ‘That won’t take long.’
The boar sneered, his great tusks gleaming in the light streaming through the arrowloop windows. ‘You could be here a million years and you wouldn’t find the way out. Believe me, others have tried. I’ve got you where I want you.’ He scratched one of his great hairy ears with a hoof, then spat on the floor at their feet. ‘Don’t have to keep up my manners now, do I?’
‘You have to go out sometime,’ cried Dredless, ‘and when you do, we’ll be right behind you.’
‘Do I? Do I?’ cried the boar shrilly, standing tall on his hind legs, his great belly sticking out, taut as a drumskin. ‘Oh no, I don’t. You see, there are secret recesses all over this monastery – hidden niches, cryptic cupboards, sealed rooms – full of turnips and parsnips and all the other delicious fare of a hungry boar like myself. I tell you now, weasels, as long as my name is Karnac-the-boar, you will remain my prisoners.’
With that the grotesque hog turned on his hoof and left them standing by the stairs.
‘Right,’ said Sylver. ‘Search party. Split up into twos, search the whole monastery. There has to be a way out of here. Be careful, though. There may be more dangerous traps like the one I found on the stairs. You can’t trust that old hog in the slightest. He has no shame. And watch your backs. One of you guard the other. Keep your slingshots and darts handy, or he might try to attack you . . .’
The weasels quickly organized themselves and set out in pursuit of an escape route from the monastery. All day they looked diligently in every nook and cranny of the monastery, finally meeting together in the evening to report. No-one had found a way out of the place. It was most depressing.
‘Let’s get some rest now. We’ll try again tomorrow,’ said Sylver.
‘Ha! Ha!’ came a booming triumphant clacking from the depths of the monastery. ‘Failed, have you? There’s nothing you can do, you weasels, but submit to the knife. Come to me now and I’ll make it quick and easy. Strip the skin from you in one go, just like peeling a potato. If you don’t, you’ll slowly starve to death, while I wallow in sweet pigswill.
‘Believe me, when you next see the outside world, it will be as a bass drum or timpano or tambour bound for the paws of a skilled stoat drummer. Sticks will bounce from your backs. A rat-a-tat-tat will be the only cry in your throats! Oh, you poor silly creatures. Your destiny is a marching tune! A military two-step!’
‘I could kill that hog now,’ growled Dredless. ‘Wodehed, can’t you do something with him? Can’t you turn him into something small and scared?’
To be quite honest, the weasel band did not have a great deal of faith in Wodehed’s magic. He had never yet managed to do a spell completely successfully. Something always seemed to go wrong at the last minute.
‘I’ve been working on it,’ confided Wodehed in great excitement, riffling his fur with his claws. ‘I’m just about ready. The very next time he shows his ugly snout—’
‘You were saying?’ interrupted a loud voice above him and the startled Wodehed jumped backwards. The boar had returned suddenly on hearing the raised, enthusiastic voice of Wodehed.
Wodehed decided it was time to assert himself. His magic, he felt, was at last ready to be put to the test. The would-be weasel sorcerer fixed Karnac with an intense stare and began to chant, while at the same time producing a small bulbous wineskin from a pouch on his belt.
‘Swine, swine, drink my wine.
Pig, pig – have a swig!’
As if in a trance Karnac reached forward and took the skinful of wine, uncorking it. He swallowed the contents of the leathery bag in one go. Then he let the flaccid, empty wineskin fall to the stone-flagged floor with a splat. He stood for a moment as if transfixed, his face screwed into a look of intense concentration.
Wodehed continued his chant in excited tones while the other weasels watched with great interest as he made his magic.
‘Boar, boar not any more,
Hog, hog, thou art a FROG!’
Karnac blinked and then let out what seemed to the weasels to be an almighty croak – which on later reflection they decided must have been a common belch – before wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his habit.
‘Nice drop of claret that,’ the false monk grunted. ‘Pity there wasn’t much of it.’ With these words he turned on his hoof and left the room.
There was silence among the weasels for a moment, then Wodehed wailed, ‘What happened?’
‘It didn’t work again,’ complained Icham disgustedly, ‘that’s what happened. When is one of your spells actually going to come out right, Wodehed? You’ve been practising long enough, yet you always get it wrong.’
‘But I felt it working that time,’ groaned Wodehed. ‘I felt the tingle going through to the tip of my tail. Whichever animal’s lips that magic wine touched first should have changed into a frog. I’m absolutely sure I got it all right.’
‘LOOK!’ cried Miniver, pointing at the floor.
They all stared at the empty wineskin on the floor. It was beginning to swell like a small balloon of its own accord. Soon it began to develop folds and twists. Finally it squatted there on a stone flag looking very much like an ugly brown frog. Two small stains which were its eyes regarded the group of weasels, before the wineskin decided to jump-jump-jump away, towards a gutter running along the foot of the battlements. It croaked as it hopped out of sight.
Icham said, with more disgust, ‘The wine was touching the wineskin before Karnac swallowed it. You didn’t think of that, did you, you puttock? The wineskin was made of leather – it was an animal at one time.’
‘Now what are we to do?’ asked Sylver practically. ‘We can’t blame Wodehed. He did his best. We have to do something to get out of the clutches of this fiendish boar.’
‘Let me go and try to reason with him,’ said Mawk-the-doubter, hurrying away towards the sound of the clacking. ‘Let me see if I can persuade him to change his mind.’
There was a tremor in Mawk’s voice as he said these words. Sylver knew that the frailest of his outlaws was going to woo the enemy in order to get better terms for himself. Unfortunately Mawk had a weak character. He thought of his own safety before that of the band. His own survival was his main concern.
‘Come back, coward!’ cried Alysoun. They all knew what he was up to. ‘Come back here!’
‘Must reason with him,’ cried Mawk. ‘Must pretend to get friendly with him – to – to help us all.’ With that the irresolute weasel disappeared into the shadows leading to the great hall.
‘Let him go,’ said Sylver. ‘His fawning will take the boar’s mind off us and he’s far too skinny to be in any danger at present. We still have to think of a way to get out of here. Has anyone any ideas?’
‘We could try to squeeze through one of these arrowloop windows,’ Luke suggested. ‘At least, perhaps one of us could – I’m too fat, I know.’
‘We’re all too big to get through one of those slits,’ Bryony said, ‘except perhaps . . .’
All eyes turned to Miniver, the finger-weasel, diminutive creature that she was. She was little-finger-thin, with tiny proportions, and able to get into most small places without too much trouble. Sylver realized that Miniver was their only hope of getting out of the monastery quickly. ‘These windows are too high off the ground for Miniver to jump, but we could try making something which will break her fall. How do you feel about that, Miniver?’
‘I’m not scared of heights,’ she lied. ‘Can you let me down by rope?’
‘That might be possible,’ said Sylver, ‘but where are we going to find a piece of cord that long?’
There was silence amongst the outlaw band for a while, then suddenly Icham clicked his teeth. ‘Got it!’ he said. ‘This place is a haven for spiders, right? There are cobwebs in every corner of the room. A spider’s thread is one of the strongest materials in nature. Let’s unravel a few webs, plait the threads together, and we’ll have our lowering rope. Eh? How about that?’
‘Brilliant,’ Wodehed replied. ‘Icham’s right – the silken thread of the spider is immensely strong.’
‘We hope,’ muttered Sylver. ‘Right then, let’s get to it.’
They worked all night, finding webs, unravelling them, then plaiting three or four thicknesses of thread together and rolling it all into a ball. Once or twice Sylver left the group to spy on the boar. Each time he could hear Mawk’s voice coming from near to where the boar sat on his great beechwood chair, flattering the hog with praise, telling him he needed a friend, someone from the other side, who could advise him.
‘. . . I could tell you which weasels would make the best drums,’ Mawk was saying. ‘I could lead more weasels to you. If you let me go now, I could be out and back in a jiffy, leading whole squadrons of weasels. You could slaughter them as they came in through the doorway, after I’ve put them at their ease, and slit them open, skin them there and then . . .’
The boar, whose face Sylver could not see, since he could only approach from the back of the great chair, was sipping honey dew noisily, listening to the chatter of the terrified Mawk. Occasionally the hog let out a great ripe belch and smacked his lips together loudly. Sometimes he broke wind against the chair, filling the room with a foul smell. On other occasions he cleared his snout into a filthy old rag, into which he blew with rubbery vibrating nostrils.
‘. . . you are such a handsome fellow, Karnac,’ Mawk lied in a quietly hysterical voice to the vain creature, ‘and I expect you’d like a looking-glass to see just how lovely you are. I could get you one very easily. I have heaps of mirrors back in the forest . . .’
Karnac grunted with approval on being told he was good looking, but made no comment about letting Mawk go. He really was the most disgusting creature. He soaked up the flattery like a sponge soaks up water. Sylver left the pair, revolted by both creatures.
In the early morning they had a length of thread long enough to reach the ground from the lowest window in one of the tall towers.
‘Get help in the best way you can,’ said Sylver. ‘Don’t panic – we’re all right for the time being. We’ll get a bit hungry, but we can stand that for a while. Don’t go and get yourself captured by Falshed and his troops. You can’t help us from inside another prison! Do your best.’
‘I’ll get help, don’t you worry,’ Miniver replied.
With that the finger-weasel squeezed through the arrowloop window and scrambled down the plaited rope to the ground, where she slipped off into the tall grasses. Miniver knew there was a village near by, which would be full of weasels. There she hoped to recruit someone to her cause.
Miniver approached the village with caution, in case there were any stoat troops in the vicinity. Prince Poynt’s stoats were often billeted with weasel serfs and their families, to save him the expense of building camps.
Sounds of activity were coming from the village. Like most weasel – or for that matter any animal – villages, the main street was made of hard-packed earth. This tended to be like brick and rutted in the summer, and covered in thick sludgy mud in the winter. Along the street on either side were wooden shacks and wattle-and-daub houses.
Built originally for humans the dwellings were mostly one-roomed hovels with a hole in the roof for the smoke from a central fire. Straw was strewn over the floors and this served as both seats and beds. They were miserable little abodes – but to someone they were homes.
Sure enough, as Miniver went down the street, keeping close to the shadows of the buildings, she saw evidence of a stoat presence in the village. Two soldiers were lounging around outside an inn, their bullet-shaped helmets resting on posts. In their paws were jugs of honey dew, which they frequently quaffed.
