Free Doomwyte by Brian Jacques Page B

on.”
    Old Sister Ficaria stopped speaking. Samolus held up his paw to the others, lest she start again. However, that was all she had to say. They sat awhile in silence, then Ficaria glanced coyly at Bisky. “Did you like my poem, Prince Gonff?”
    Without correcting the ancient mouse, Bisky clasped her frail paws warmly. “It was a very nice poem, Sister, you did it beautifully. Now, you see those two friends?” He gestured toward Dwink and Umfry. “Well, they are going down to the kitchens to bring something nice for you. Tell them what you want.”
    Sister Ficaria brightened up. “Hot mint tea, with honey in it, lots of honey. Oh, and if Friar has some of those wonderful almond biscuits, I’d like one or two, and perhaps a damson tart, please.”
    Samolus nodded to Dwink and Umfry. “You young uns run along now, me’n’Bisky’ll stay with the Sister. I’ll get some parchment an’ charcoal. Mayhaps she’ll say the lines again, I’ll copy ’em down this time. Right, Sister?”
    Ficaria stared fixedly at Samolus. “Yes, I’d do that if I were you, sir. Being as old as you are, it would be wise to record the poem, before you forget it!”
    Samolus glared at Bisky as he went to fetch writing materials. The young mouse was spluttering to hold back his laughter.
    Old Sister Ficaria cheerfully recited the poem again, fortified by honeyed mint tea, a plate of Friar Skurpul’s special almond shortbreads and a daintily latticed damson tart. Studiously following her every word, Bisky wrote the lines down neatly. Dwink listened to his friend rereading the entire thing. The young squirrel waved his tail rhythmically to and fro. “It sounds just like a Dibbun thing, you know, the sort of chant they do when they’re playing games.”
    Umfry agreed. “Like h’a sort of singsong rhyme. Maybe that’s h’exactly what h’it was, d’ye think so, Sister?”
    Sister Ficaria’s small crystal spectacles had slipped awry on her nosetip; the little old mouse had dozed off. Samolus took a rug and covered her gently.
    “Hush now, let’s go downstairs to study this.”

7
    They went to Cavern Hole, where Samolus set about repairing a chair seat. Bisky watched his granduncle artfully weaving dried reeds and stripping away broken ones. “Tell me somethin’, Grandunk, how did you come to find out about this rhyme?”
    Samolus trimmed the reed ends with his sharp blade. “Oh, ’twasn’t too hard, though it happened quite by accident. When I was readin’ through Lady Columbine’s diary, she wrote that as a joke, she often called Gonff the Pom. When he asked her why, she kept him in the dark. Then one day he guessed, the first letters. Prince of Mousethieves…Pom!”
    Samolus inspected the repair he had completed. “There, that should do! C’mere, young Bisky, make yoreself useful. See this soft moss pad, it’s full o’ beeswax an’ lavender. Give this chair seat a good rubbin’. It’ll give it a nice shine, a sweet scent an’ keep the reeds supple.”
    Bisky obeyed, but continued with his questions. “You found out that Pom stands for Gonff’s title, what happened then?”
    The old mouse sheathed his sharp blade carefully. “’Twas some time back, beginnin’ o’ spring. I was in the sick bay, fixin’ up a new shelf for all those potions an’ pots of ointment. Huh, that Brother Torilis, always has a face on him, like a fried frog. He never spoke a word t’me, or offered me a bite to eat or drink. So, I worked away an’ kept meself to meself.
    “After awhile I noticed little Sister Ficaria, sittin’ in a corner hemmin’ sheets she was. Guess wot, she was chantin’ that poem as she stitched away at her work. Said it three or four times she did. I never thought any more of it, ’til this mornin’. I was on me way to brekkist, an’ I stopped at the big tapestry picture of Martin the Warrior in Great Hall. I always look at Martin’s eyes, have ye ever noticed anythin’ about ’em?”
    Bisky looked