Loamhedge (6 page)

Little Redd exclaimed, “Didn't ye hear Flinky? Those two are dangerous warriors, Bragoon an' Saro.”

Skrodd turned on the little fox. “Ye mean that ole ragbag who was jiggin' about an' tryin' to sing for his supper? Wot did the other one look like, Flinky?”

The stoat shrugged. “Small an' oldish, why d'ye ask?”

Skrodd curled his lip scornfully. “A pair o' little ole tattered ragamuffins, an' ye lot believed they was Bragoon an' Saro. Real famous warriors are big an' tough. Any two beasts could say they was Bragoon an' Saro. Those two were nothin' but a pair of ole impostors. Now come on, let's get after 'em. Nobeast knocks me down wid a slingstone an' lives t'brag about it. I'll gut the two of 'em!”

A hefty-looking rat called Dargle remained seated. “They said we was to sit 'ere 'til it was dark, then head back t'the Northlands. The otter said there was twoscore fighters layin' nearby, an' that we'd be dead meat if'n we didn't do like we was told.”

Skrodd shook his head in disbelief. “An' ye believed 'im? That's the oldest trick in the book. Watch, I'll show ye twoscore o' fighters!”

Furiously grabbing anything that came to paw—firewood, pebbles and soil—the tall fox flung them at the surrounding trees, yelling out defiantly. “Now then, ye mighty fighters, come out an' show yerselves. I'll fight ye all at once, or one by one if'n ye ain't frightened o' me! Get out 'ere, ye mangy frogbait!”

Silence greeted the challenge. Skrodd spat contemptuously into the fire, glaring at the vermin gang. “Wot a bunch of addlebrains! Up on yore paws an' get movin' ye bunch o' ditherin' oafs. After I've slain those two ole relics, we'll get the rest o' this job done. Move!”

 

As they moved southward into the woodlands, Little Redd discussed the situation with Flinky. “Skrodd ain't takin' us to that Abbey place that Burrad was always goin' on about, is he?”

Flinky nodded. “Ah sure, it looks like he wants t'be the big bold beast who gets the magic sword. Huh, magic sword! I wonder where ould Burrad heard that tale?”

Juppa, the weasel who was Slipback's mate, joined the conversation. “Burrad said his father told 'im about it, just afore he died. Said there was an Abbey, a big place called Redwall. Accordin' to 'im, there's only a few peaceful woodlanders lives there. They keep a magic sword at Redwall. 'Tis said that the warrior who holds that sword is the greatest in the land!”

Slipback confirmed his mate's story. “Aye, none can stand against the sword owner, I've heard the tale meself.”

Skrodd, who was leading the gang through the darkened woodlands, overheard Slipback's remark. He stopped and questioned the weasel. “Wot have ye heard? Tell me.”

The garrulous Flinky spoke up. “Ah sure, 'twas me that told him. I sat wid Burrad's ole dad many a night, yarnin' away. He was a fine ould feller, not like his son. Anyhow, he told me all about the magic sword, so he did.”

Skrodd was fired with the idea of possessing such an enchanted blade. He stared hard at the gabby stoat. “Right, then, you tell me everythin' the ole beast said.”

Flinky liked to talk, but he was also aware that the tall fox was not one to be taken lightly. “Ah, well let me see now. There's this place, see, a grand ould Abbey called Redwall
that stands on a path somewhere in the centre of the land. Sure, an' a fine buildin' it is!”

Little Redd interrupted. “I've 'eard o' Redwall.”

Skrodd froze him with a glare, gesturing Flinky to continue.

“Aye, Redwall was built by a mighty warrior long ago. He carried a great sword made from bits o' the moon 'n stars. A marvellous blade, magic enough t'make a champion fighter out o' anybeast. That warrior's long dead now, but the sword still hangs in the Abbey.”

This time it was Skrodd's turn to interrupt. “Then why doesn't one of the creatures at Redwall Abbey wear it?”

Flinky shook his head. “Ah no, they're all only simple woodland beasts. They're farmers an' such, not fighters. Hah, what need d'they have o' swords, 'tis said that Redwall is a place of peace an' plenty.”

Little Redd's eyes shone with longing. “I wish I had a magic sword!”

Skrodd shoved him roughly. “A runt like yew, huh, you'll have to fight me fer it. That sword is goin' t'be mine!”

The hefty rat Dargle muttered under his breath. “If ye think ye can take it, fox!”

Skrodd looked around at the vermin behind him. “Did somebeast say somethin'?”

Flinky rubbed his stomach. “Ah no, Chief, 'twas just me ould guts rumblin' away. I knew that fish wasn't fer me somehow.”

 

Bragoon and Saro had made camp in a grove of conifers, some miles south of where they had encountered the vermin.

Burying the fishbones beneath the deep layer of pine needles, the otter wiped his mouth. “Bit o' fish like that makes a nice change, eh mate? Did ye manage to lay paws on any o' that stuff they was drinkin'?”

The aging squirrel wrinkled her nose disgustedly. “That poison? Vermin-brewed nettle grog. Small wonder they're stupid—it must've rotted what little brains they had. Best stick with clean streamwater until we get back to Redwall an' get some decent drink.”

She lay back, viewing the star-dusted skies through the
treetops. “Aah, t'be back home in the good ole Abbey. D'ye think they've forgiven us for the old Dibbun days?”

Her companion chuckled. “I certainly hope they have, we were a fearsome pair, mate. Hmmm, wonder if ole Granmum Gurvel's still the Abbeycook. Hoho, the pies'n'scones we swiped off'n her kitchen windowsill. No wonder she turned grey!”

Saro shrugged. “There's a lot o' seasons run under the bridge since we were Abbeybabes. I don't suppose pore old Gurvel will still be livin'. She was a great cook though.”

Bragoon nodded. “Aye, she was that. I'll bet that little brother o' mine Toran is Abbeycook now. Gurvel taught him a lot, y'know. He was always a goodbeast around kitchens an' ovens.”

Saro hopped up and spread herself along a bough, directly above Bragoon's resting spot. She reminisced hungrily.

“Scones, or fresh bread, with meadowcream an' damson preserve. That's what I could eat right now!”

Stretched on the ground, Bragoon yawned and sighed. “Don't even mention it, mate. Let's get a good night's shuteye. We could make Redwall by afternoon tea tomorrow. You can fill yore face then. G'night, Saro.”

The squirrel ignored her friend and continued yearning. “October Ale! What could be nicer than a foamin' beaker of good October Ale. Mmmm, with some brown farlbread an' some yellow cheese with roasted hazelnuts in it. Simple but satisfyin', eh Brag?”

The otter opened one eye. “Very acceptable. Now go t'sleep!”

Saro carried on as if she had not heard. “What would y'say to an apple'n'blackberry crumble, spread thick with meadowcream?”

Bragoon growled. “I'd say button yore lip an' sleep. So goodnight!”

But Saro could not forget the subject of food. “Howsabout ice cold mint tea an' a thick slice of heavy fruitcake with honey crystals in it. Ooooh!”

Bragoon sat up slowly. “I'd say ye was makin' my pore stomach gurgle with all this vittle talk. Good . . . night!”

Saro licked her lips. “Or some of yore favourite, a big carrot'n'mushroom pasty, with onion gravy drippin' an' oozin' out the sides, an' . . . Yaahoooow!”

She was catapulted into the air as Bragoon hauled down hard on the bough, letting it go suddenly. Rising from the ground, Saro dusted herself off indignantly.

“Gettin' touchy in yore old age, aren't ye? Goodnight to ye, ole grumpy rudder!”

Bragoon snorted. “I swear ye were born chatterin'. Now goodnight, old gabby whiskers!”

Silence fell over the glade. Both lifelong friends drifted into the realm of slumber. They dreamt golden-tinged memories of their Dibbun seasons at the place they called home—Redwall Abbey.

The big badger's eyes flickered, then opened slowly. He lay quite still, taking in his strange surroundings—a cave, peaceful and warm, with sweet aromatic wisps drifting languidly from a rockbound hearth. A fireglow cast flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. He felt secure and safe there with moss and soft, silver sand beneath him.

A movement near his head caught the badger's attention. A young sea otter emerged.

“De old stripedog who was slayed, was he yore farder, sir?”

Though it pained him, he strained his neck to get a closer look at the young one. The badger's voice, echoing in the cavern, sounded strange to his ears. “Nay, he was my friend, though a father could not have been kinder to me. He was called Grawn. I trust you put him to rest decently.”

The youngster nodded several times. “Shoredog an' my farder made a bury hole. They putted rocks on him an' yore bow, 'cos it was broked in halves.”

The badger's big dark eyes glistened wetly. “I must thank your father and Shoredog. What do they call you?”

The young beast held out his paw politely. “I bee's Stugg, son of Abruc an' Marinu, sir.”

A massive paw took Stugg's smaller one, enveloping it. “ 'Tis a pleasure to meet ye, Stugg. I am called Lonna Bowstripe. Is your father hereabout? I would speak with him.”

Lonna listened to young Stugg scamper from the cave
calling shrilly. “Farder, farder, come quick! De big stripedog bee's awake, his name be Lonna!”

 

In a short while, two male sea otters entered the cave, followed by two females, one very old, and Stugg following up the rear.

Lonna leaned forward slightly. “Thank you, my friends, for saving my life, caring for me and putting old Grawn to rest. Stugg told me you buried him well.”

Abruc pressed Lonna back down gently. “We did what was right for your companion. Only vermin leave the dead unburied. As for ye bein' cared for, 'twas my wife Marinu an' ole Sork who saw to yore well-bein'. You lie still an' rest now, Lonna. By an' by ye'll get stronger. We'll see to that.”

The big badger's paw touched the long scar ridge that crossed his face diagonally from eartip to jaw. “I must grow strong again to repay the vermin who did this and murdered poor Grawn. Did you see them?”

Sork placed Lonna's paw by his side. “Be still, bigbeast, an' thank the seasons ye are still alive. That face still needs a lot of healing, aye, an' yore back, too. We'll bring ye food an' drink.” Sork and Marinu departed.

Shoredog stood over Lonna, looking down into his injured face. “We never saw the vermin, but we know 'em. Raga Bol the Searat an' his crew were the ones. His ship was wrecked beyond repair. They have gone westward, inland to where the weather's fair an' the pickin's easier. Do ye know Raga Bol?”

Lonna's scar twitched faintly. “I do not know the scum, but I know of him. They say he kills for fun.”

Young Stugg scowled. “My farder says Raga Bol be's wicked!”

Abruc tugged his son's rudder. “Go an' help yore mamma now.”

Lonna watched the young otter shuffle off. “He'll grow up to be a fine big creature someday.”

Abruc smiled. “Aye, Stugg's a good liddle son.”

Abruc sought Lonna's paw and pressed something into it. “Yore weapon was too badly broken to fix. I wove ye a new bowstring. Mayhap ye'll need it when y'leave here.”

Lonna held the cord where he could see it better.
“Thankee, friend. 'Tis a fine, tough one, well woven and waxed. This is a good and thoughtful gift.”

Abruc flushed with pleasure. “Ye have only to ask if ye need ought else. We'll do our best to find it.”

The giant badger closed his eyes, speaking softly. “I'd be obliged if you could get some ash shafts for arrows, and a few long stout yew saplings, so I can choose one to make a new bow from.”

Shoredog replied. “We saved yore quiver an' the arrows, too. Me an' Abruc know some stream otters not too far from here. They coppice a yew grove. We can have ye a selection of good saplings by tomorrow night. Now sleep, Lonna, ye must rest if yore goin' to get better. Relax an' sleep.”

 

A short time thereafter, Lonna allowed Marinu to feed him. Then he drifted off into slumber whilst Sork tended to his hurts. In his sleep he visioned Raga Bol, swinging down at his face with the broad-bladed scimitar. The big badger concentrated all his energy and thoughts on the Searat's savage features.

Mentally he began chanting, over and over, “Look and you will see me! Know that I am Lonna Bowstripe! The earth is not big enough for us both! I will come on your trail! I will find you, Raga Bol! I will seek you out no matter where! The day of your death is already written on the stones of Hellgates!”

Whilst the big badger was sleeping, young Stugg crept in to see him. The expression of hatred on Lonna's ruined features was so frightening that the young sea otter ran from the cave.

 

Raga Bol was still out on the heathlands, trekking west with his Searats. They were camped on the streambank in what had once been a vole settlement. Amid the smoke and carnage of burning dwellings and slain voles, the barbarous crew fought among themselves over the pitiful possessions and plundered food.

Wirga, the wizened old Searat who had healed Raga Bol's severed stump, stood watching her master chewing on a strip of dried fish.

With the silver hook tugging at the fish as he pulled to
tear it apart, Bol grinned wickedly at Wirga. “See, I told ye, the further west we go, the better the pickin's get. This stump o' mine ain't painin' so much now. Aye, an' the weather's gettin' better, too.”

Wirga gestured round at the slain vole bodies lying on the bank. “Fling 'em in the stream an' this'd make a good camp for the night, Cap'n.”

Bol picked his teeth with the hooktip. “Aye, 'tis nice'n'restful 'ereabouts now. Hahaha!”

Dutifully, Wirga laughed with him. Her cackling trailed off as she saw her captain go off into a vacant silence, his eyes opening wide as the fish fell unheeded from his mouth.

Wirga stared at him anxiously. “What is it, Cap'n, a bone stuck in thy gullet? Let me take a look!”

As she bent toward him, Raga Bol recovered and kicked her roughly away. “Break camp, we're movin' out!”

The healer was bewildered at this sudden change. “But Cap'n, thee said . . .”

Wirga narrowly dodged an angry slash from the silver hook.

Bol booted the fire left and right, scattering it. “I said we're movin' out, we ain't stayin' in this place. Now shift yoreself an' get the crew together!”

He strode off, to the top of a small rise, peering back at the route they had come along. Wirga passed the word on to Glimbo.

The one-eyed Searat rolled his milky orb in puzzlement. “Why does 'e wanna move? 'Tis nearly dark!”

Wirga picked up her stolen belongings. “Hah! Yew go an' ask 'im, if'n thee feels tired o' livin'.”

The crew gathered in sullen silence, watching their leader. He was still gazing eastward from the top of the rise. None of them dared make a move until he did.

Raga Bol stared at the hostile heathland, muttering to himself. “Yore dead, stripedog, or ye should be. In the name o' blood an' thunder, where are ye?”

He drew his cloak about him and shivered. Somewhere in Raga Bol's evil mind he had felt Lonna Bowstripe's threat.

 

In the gatehouse at Redwall Abbey, Martha and her friends were studying the history of Loamhedge. It made harrowing reading.

Abbot Carrul shook his head sadly. “This is not the story of one creature, it is the history of many, all related to one writer, who set it down as a chronicle. I think that this poem, “The Loamhedge Lament,” by Sister Linfa, sums up most of the tragedy. I'll read it out to you.”

Martha's eyes misted over as the Abbot recited the poem.

 

“Where are the carefree sunlit days,

when once amid tranquil bowers,

Loamhedge mice would take their ease,

to dream away happy hours?

Where did the laughter go?

Who stole the joy away?

Heavy the heart that goes

far from its home to stray.

A sickness stole in to blight our lives

like a spectre of unwanted doom.

Midst grief and anguish it lingered,

creeping through hall and room.

Like wheat before the sickle,

it laid our loved ones low,

leaving us only one answer,

to flee our home and go!

Stalked by desolation now,

left open to wind and rain,

only in old memories dim

would Loamhedge live again.”

 

The day's last gleaming shone through the open door. Toran stood framed there, wiping his eyes on his cook's apron. He had entered unnoticed and heard the whole thing.

“Leave this now, and come back to the Abbey for supper, friends. Tomorrow morning ye can sit out on the wallsteps in the sunlight and study some more. Martha, come on, 'tis far too sad, sittin' here at night readin' of sickness an' death.”

The haremaid cast an imploring glance at Abbot Carrul. “But we must find out about Sister Amyl's secret, and we must find out a way to discover where Loamhedge lies!”

The Abbot shepherded her to the gatehouse door. “Toran's right, miss, the night hours can be long and oppressive for such heavy stuff. Let's go to supper in Cavern Hole and shed our sad mood for tonight. We'll be much brighter, and more alert, in the morning.”

Old Phredd the Gatekeeper waved them off. “Hmm hmm, you run along now. I'll stay here awhile.”

He watched them go, then wandered back into the little building, talking to a cushion he had picked up. “Hmm, the way to Loamhedge, now where've we seen that before? Chronicle of some bygone traveller I expect, eh, eh?”

Climbing upon a chair, he peered at a row of books on a high shelf. Selecting one, Phredd blew the dust from its covers and smiled benignly at it. “Ah, there you are, y'old rascal. Hiding up there, heehee. Didn't think I could see ye? Now what've you got to say for yourself, eh, eh?”

Settling down in an armchair, he brought a lantern close and opened the book's yellowed pages. “Heeheehee, we've met before, haven't we? The recordings of Tim Churchmouse, now I recall ye! The journey to seek out Mattimeo, son of the warrior Matthias. Aye, that covered the Loamhedge Abbey territory, I'm certain it did!”

 

Toran had been keeping his eye on Martha throughout supper. The ottercook did not like to see his young chum so downcast. He chivvied her, hoping to lighten Martha's mood.

“Cheer up, beauty. If'n ye keep lookin' like that, it'll teem down rain tomorrow. Wot's the matter, my mushroom 'n'barley soup too cold? Has the bread gone stale, the cheese too hard, not enough plums in the pudden? Speak up, droopy ears, does that strawberry fizz cordial taste musty?”

The haremaid managed a wan smile. “No, Toran, it's not that, the supper is delicious. It's just that . . . oh, I don't know.”

Toran collared Horty, just as he was reaching for another helping of plum pudding. “Hear that, young starvation face?
Yore sister doesn't know wot's wrong with her. Sing her a song an' liven her up, or y'don't get any more plum pud!”

Horty had done this once or twice before, when Martha was a bit down. That, and Toran's threat to cut off his plum pudding supply, galvanised the greedy young hare into action. He let rip with a special ditty he saved for such occasions.

 

“What a gloomy little mug, wot wot,

come on, let's see you smile.

With a scowl like that you'd frighten

every beast within a mile.

So chortle hahaheeheehoho!

and brighten up for me,

or I'll send you to that Sister

from the Infirmary.

 

She'll say ‘Wot have we here, wot wot?

A face like a flattened frog?

This calls for a bucket o' physick, aye,

now that should do the job!

Will somebeast grab her nose,

so she can't hold her breath,

then I'll be able to grab a ladle,

an' physick the child to death!

I'll not have it said of me, I couldn't do my job,

an' send a young 'un to her grave,

with a grin upon her gob!'

 

So chortle hohohahahee,

an' smile an' giggle a lot,

you can't sit there all evenin'

with a face like a rusty pot. Wot wot!”

 

Martha was chuckling when she spied Sister Setiva, the Infirmary Keeper, making a beeline for her brother.

Setiva had a stern manner, and a marked northern accent, coupled with a dislike for impudence. “Ach, ye flop-eared wretch, ah'll physick ye tae death if'n ah lay paws on ye!”

Horty hid behind Toran. “I say, sah, 'twas only a blinkin' joke, y'know. Don't let that old poisoner get me!”