Loamhedge (3 page)

Lumbering into the pond, the ottercook fished Horty out with one huge paw.

Grinning like a madbeast, and still saluting, Horty spouted a mouthful of water into the air. “Beloved blinkin' friend, you've saved me life. I'll never forget you, an' I'll always dine at your excellent kitchen!”

Keeping a straight face, Toran looked at Martha. “I'd better chuck him back in, miss, think of the food we'd save!”

Martha nearly fell out of her chair with laughter. “Hahahaha! Oh no, please sir, hahaha! I beg you, spare his gluttonous young life. Hahahahaha!”

Shooting a last jet of pondwater skyward, Horty said fondly, “A chap's confounded lucky to have such a merciful sister, wot!”

Toran growled as he frog-marched Horty ashore. “Ye certainly are, matey. But if'n I hears ye callin' Sister Portula, Sis Peculiar again, back in the pond ye'll go. Aye, an' those two ripscuttle pals o' yores, Springald an' Fenna. A lesson in manners wouldn't harm them, either!”

Martha dabbed the book pages dry with her lap rug. She could never be angry with her boisterous brother. Horty had always been close by, ready to cheer her up when she was sad or depressed. Her inability to run free like other young ones sometimes put Martha in low spirits.

She held up the volume for Toran to see. “No harm done really, it's perfectly dry now. Come on you two, let's go back to the Abbey!”

On the way up, they met Muggum and several other Dibbuns who had been banished from the kitchens by Granmum Gurvel, the old assistant molecook.

Muggum tugged his snout respectfully to the haremaid. “Yur, mizzy, oi'll push ee to ee h'orchard furr lunch.”

Reaching down, Martha lifted the molebabe onto her lap. “That's very thoughtful of you, Muggum, but I'm sure Horty and Toran can manage the job quite well.”

Patting the young haremaid's paw, the molebabe nodded sagely. “Oi thankee, Miz Marth'. Coom on, zurrs, you'm pushen us faster'n'that, us'n's bee gurtly 'ungered furr lunch!”

Redwall orchard was a riot of blossoming fruit trees and bushes. Pink and white flowers clustered thick on every branch, their petals carpeting the grass. Apple, pear, cherry, beech, hazelnut and almond trees flourished in rows, fronted by raspberry, strawberry, red currant and whortleberry. Summer promised an abundant yield.

Toran cast an eye over three trolleys laden with buffet lunch—spring vegetable soup, brown bread and cheese, dandelion and burdock cordial, followed by a dessert of damson preserve pie. “Who did all this?”

Abbot Carrul bowed apologetically, knowing how touchy the ottercook could be about trespassers in his kitchen domain. “I offered to help Granmum Gurvel. You looked so hot and weary when I met you in the orchard for a breath of fresh air. Gurvel and I decided to help you out. Is it to your liking, my friend?”

Toran bowed thankfully to them both. “My thanks to ye. I couldn't have done it better!”

 

Redwallers sat in the tree shade, laughing and chatting amiably as lunch was served. Sister Portula spread a rug, and Toran lifted Martha onto it. All four sat beneath a wide chestnut tree at the orchard's far end. Sunlight and shadow dappled them as they watched the inhabitants of Redwall enjoying lunch. Martha appreciated such moments because the
elders always included her in their discussions. The young haremaid felt she had become an honorary member of the Elders Council.

Martha laughed at the antics of the Dibbuns, who were beginning to get a bit rowdy. “They do get excited after a rainy spring indoors. Look at baby Yooch, he's eating flower petals!”

Sister Portula shook her head. “There's Shilly and some others doing it. I'll wager 'twas Muggum who started it all. Muggum, Shilly and Yooch are more trouble than any ten Dibbuns. I call them the Terrible Trio!”

Toran's stomach shook as he chuckled. “Yore right, marm. Hi there, Springald, go an' tell those little 'uns to stop eatin' the petals, or Sister Setiva will have to dose 'em with physicks.”

The mousemaid Springald shrugged carelessly. “Flowers won't do 'em any harm. I used to eat petals myself.”

Abbot Carrul glanced sternly over his glasses at her. “Do as you are bidden, miss, and don't argue!”

Springald curtsied slightly, then flounced off to do as she was told.

Sister Portula pursed her lips and tutted. “Yonder goes more trouble. She's one of the other three. Horty, Springald and Fenna, the young rebels. They aren't babes anymore, they should know better.”

Martha put aside her cordial beaker. “Oh, they'll grow out of it, Sister, they're all good creatures at heart, I'm sure.”

Portula helped herself to bread and cheese. “Huh, let's hope they do, before there's really trouble. I'm sure we were never like that at their age, were we, Father?”

Abbot Carrul raised his eyebrows. “Weren't we, Sister? I can recall two young ones sailing a dining room table on the pond. Aye, with an embroidered linen tablecloth for a sail. Hmm, let me see now, what were their names?”

Sister Portula fidgeted uncomfortably with her sleeve hem. “But that was only a bit of fun. You and I were well behaved as a rule.”

Martha could scarcely believe her ears. “You two? Well, you rascals! Did you get caught, Father?”

Behind his small glasses, the Abbot's eyes twinkled. “Oh, we were caught sure enough, and both set to work in the kitchens as punishment. Remember that, Sister?”

Portula nodded ruefully. “How could I ever forget five days of scrubbing greasy pots and scouring pans? My little paws stayed wrinkled for half a season!”

Martha winked cheekily at the Recorder. “Horty and his two friends seem innocent compared to you and Abbot Carrul. What a pair of rogues you were!”

A light smile hovered on Portula's kind face. “Listen, missy, if you think we were naughty, you should have seen two Dibbuns who were younger than us at the time. Bragoon and Saro, an otter and a squirrel. Now those two really were a twin pestilence!”

Martha turned to Toran. “I've heard you telling the young ones tales about Bragoon and Saro, but I always thought they were make-believe creatures. Were they actually real?”

The ottercook nodded vigorously. “Oho, missy, that they were! Bragoon was my big brother, five seasons older'n me. Sarobando, or Saro, as everybeast knew her, was a Dibbun squirrel, his best little pal. Sister Portula's right, ye never saw two villains like 'em! Hah, 'twas just as well they ran off whilst they was still young 'uns. If'n Bragoon an' Saro had stayed, we mightn't have a roof over our heads. They would've demolished the Abbey between 'em!”

 

Whilst Toran had been talking, some of the Dibbuns and a few of the young 'uns had gathered around.

Muggum scrambled up onto Toran's lap. “Yurr zurr, you'm tell us'n's ee story 'bowt Zuro an' Burgoon!”

Toran chuckled. “I can't bring one to mind right now, but I can recite a poem I wrote about 'em for the Harvest Feast many seasons back.”

Taking a swig of cordial, he tried to recall the words.

Shilly waggled her tail impatiently. “Well, 'urry up an gerron wiv it, Cooky!”

The ottercook twitched his nose at her. “Silence, ye liddle rip!”

Draining his beaker, Toran launched into the recitation.

 

“I'll tell ye a tale of two Dibbuns,

who lived here long ago,

an otter who was named Bragoon,

an' a squirrel known as Saro.

Aye, little Bragoon an' Saro,

what a pair o' scamps they were,

their names rang through the land oh,

there was nought they didn't dare!

 

Good Granmum Gurvel molecook,

made puddens, cakes an' pies,

they vanished off the kitchen shelf,

before her dear ole eyes.

‘Bragoon an' Saro, I'll be bound,'

the poor ole beast would say,

‘they'll eat me out of house an' home,

they'll turn my fur to grey!'

Bragoon an' Saro, gracious me,

I dread to hear those names,

come hearken whilst I tell ye,

of those two scoundrels' games.

 

Who filled the Abbot's bed with ants,

who nailed up all the doors,

who was it glued the bellrope,

and stuck the ringer's paws,

who filled the pond with beetroots,

and turned the waters red,

who baked poor Foremole's sandals,

inside a loaf of bread?

 

The dreaded Bragoon an' Saro,

I'm here to tell ye all,

there's never been two like 'em,

at the Abbey of Redwall!”

 

The Dibbuns jumped up and down in delight, roaring with laughter at the escapades of the infamous pair. Horty and his friends, Springald and Fenna, laughed, too.

Toran put on a stern face, wagging a cautionary paw at his
listeners. “I tell ye, 'twasn't so funny for the poor creatures who were the butt o' those tricks!”

Horty scoffed. “Oh I say, sah, you don't actually believe all that dreadful twaddle about Bragoon an' Saro, wot?”

Abbot Carrul answered him. “Toran's right, 'tis all true. I was a young 'un here myself at the time, I saw it!”

Fenna fluttered her long eyelashes prettily. “Oh really, Father Abbot, you don't expect us to believe all that about Bragoon and Saro. We're not Dibbuns anymore. Toran makes up the stories to amuse the little ones—they'll believe anything, but we know better.”

Martha spoke out sharply. “If the Abbot and Toran say it is true, then I'm certain it is. What reason would we have to doubt them?”

Her words, however, went unheeded by the three young 'uns, as they strolled off together, still unwilling to credit the existence of the fabled duo.

Horty scoffed again. “Bragoon an' Saro, wot? Load of jolly old codswallop, if y'ask me. Tchah!”

Springald giggled. “If I swallowed that lot, I'd be looking out for fishes nesting in trees and flying!”

Martha was so angry that she almost rose from the rug, but then she fell back again.

Abbot Carrul helped her to sit up. “Don't upset yourself, Martha. One day our young friends will wake up and find themselves somewhat older and a little wiser, just wait and see. I was a bit like them at that age, but one lives and learns.”

The young haremaid sighed. “I hope it happens to my brother soon. I don't like to say this, Father, but Horty seems to behave more outrageously each day.”

Toran helped Martha into her chair. “Don't ye worry. Horty's a hare, they're always a bit wild when they're young.”

Martha retrieved her volume and straightened her rug. “Perhaps you haven't noticed, Toran, but I'm a hare, too!”

Sister Portula dusted a stray flower petal from Martha's head. “Ah, but you're a very rare and special kind of hare, my dear. Anybeast can see that!”

 

Hostile weather still reigned on the plains and heathlands of the far east. Raga Bol and his Searats had not made much headway in three days of trekking westward—the Searat captain's pawstump pained abominably. They camped on high ground, in the lee of a rocky projection. Apart from a few chosen cronies, the crew avoided the captain, making their own fire sufficiently far away to evade his sudden wrath.

Raga Bol sat by his own fire, with Glimbo and Blowfly in attendance. The two runners had been sent out to retrieve the badger's head but had returned empty-pawed. They crouched at the far side of the blaze, panting from their long journey. Raga Bol watched reflecting flames glinting from the polished silver hook where his paw had once been. His luminous eyes shifted to the runners.

“Are ye certain 'twas the spot where I slew the giant stripedog?”

Both heads nodded. “Certain shore, Cap'n!”

“I'd swear me oath on it, Cap'n Bol. The stripedog was gone, there was no sign of 'im anywhere's about!”

The Searat captain's terrifying stare never left either of the two quivering vermin. “But the old one, he was buried there?”

“Aye, Cap'n, right on the spot where ye slew the big 'un.”

“He's right, Cap'n, the very spot. All the tracks were wiped out, too. Wasn't nothin' we could do but come back 'ere, fast as we could, to tell ye!”

Raga Bol dropped his gaze to the steaming ground at the fire's edge. “Speak to none about this, or yore both deadrats. Now get out o' my sight!”

Glimbo and Blowfly scuttled off, relieved to be still among the living, after having brought their murderous captain such bad news. Hunching against the bleak cold at his back, Raga Bol sat silent. His eyes roved between the silver hook and the roaring, wind-driven fire.

Blowfly whispered to Glimbo, “I reckon dat giant stripedog must still be alive, mate!”

The fat Searat's hushed whisper was barely audible, but Raga Bol heard it. He stood slowly and faced them both. With lightning swiftness his hook shot out, latching on to
Blowfly's broad belt. The Searat was dragged forward to find himself facing Bol's upraised blade and threatening snarl.

“Did ye ever see a beast alive after I'd struck 'im wid me blade? Well, did ye?”

Blowfly watched the heavy scimitar poised, one stroke away from his quivering double chins. The rat's voice went squeaky with panic. “N . . . no, Cap'n!”

Raga Bol bared his gold-plated teeth in a wolfish grin. “Shall I prove it to ye, Blowfly?”

The rat sobbed brokenly. “Aw, don't do it, Cap'n Bol, please. Nobeast ever lived after yew 'it 'em wid yore sword!”

The captain's pale eyes lighted on Glimbo. “You should know, mate, tell 'im!”

Glimbo loved life too much to remain silent. Words poured from his mouth like running water. “Dat stripedog's kinbeasts must've carried 'im off, fer a fancy buryin'. I bet they buried the old 'un where he fell, 'cos they couldn't haul two carcasses. Mark me words, Blowfly, it don't matter 'ow big the stripedog was, he's deader'n any doornail now. Once Cap'n Bol's sword swipes 'em, they're well slayed. I'd take me affydavy on it!”

Blowfly fell to the ground as the hook pulled loose from his belt. Bol ground the scimitar and leaned on it.

“There's yore answer, mate, the stripedog's dead. I don't want to 'ear no more talk of such beasts from my crew. Now set four guards around me, so I can sleep.”

The sentries crouched miserably in the darkness, waiting for the dawn. Wrapped in his cloak, Raga Bol lay alongside a roaring fire. But sleep did not come easily, and, when it did, his dreams were troubled by visions of the giant stripedog coming slowly but surely after him with the light of vengeance burning in his eyes.

 

Abruc the sea otter, his wife Marinu and their son Stugg sat on the streamside, beneath an overhanging bank canopy. They enjoyed their evening meal outside, away from the bustling noise of the holt. Stugg sucked noisily at the contents of his bowl.