Loamhedge (36 page)

Tugging the badger's paw, the molebabe succeeded in gaining his attention. “You'm surpinkly a gurt creetur! Zurr Lonn', 'ow big bee's yore bed?”

Lonna looked thoughtful and adopted a serious tone. “Hmm, it's quite large, and wide, too, though I've give up carrying it around with me. Why do you ask, sir?”

Muggum waved a tiny paw generously. “You'm best take moi bed, Lonn. Oop in ee dormittees et bee's!”

The talk went back and forth, encouraged by beakers of mulled October Ale for the elders and raspberry cup for the young ones. After awhile, the old ones fell into a doze; the Dibbuns, too, no longer able to keep their eyes open, curled up and slept where they chose.

Abbot Carrul took advantage of the lull in the
conversation, murmuring to Lonna, “Come up to the kitchens, there's an empty storeroom there. We'll set up a sleeping place for you. But before that, I must talk to you, friend. We'll formulate a plan to defeat the enemy and free this Abbey. Martha, Toran, Sister Portula, Brother Weld, would you come, too? I'd like you to take part in the discussion.”

That night, in the quiet of the storeroom, they formulated their plans. Lonna's status as a seasoned warrior, and his expertise in the ways of his enemy Searats, earned him the main say in the discussion. His ideas made sense to his friends, although his first words were in the form of a request.

“I need more arrows, good stout shafts, and well pointed. Have you any in the building?”

Toran answered. “I'm sorry, Lonna, we haven't, but I can look for some wood and make your arrows.”

Brother Weld interrupted the ottercook. “Last winter, Brother Gelf and I found an ash tree, which had collapsed outside the east wall. Skipper and his otters helped us to chop the trunk into firelogs. Gelf and I took about six sheaves of long branches from it and bundled them up. We planned on cutting them into smaller sizes to use in the orchard, for fencing and propping up berry vines. But we never got round to it. They're still piled up under the belltower stairs. Those ash branches will be well seasoned now, perfect for making arrows!”

Toran patted Weld's back. “Good work, Brother, bring them to the wine cellar. Pore Junty Cellarhog had a little forge and anvil down there. I can make arrowheads from barrel-stave iron, Junty kept a whole stock o' the stuff.”

Lonna looked from one to the other enquiringly. “Flights?”

Sister Portula had an immediate answer. “There's a whole cupboardful of grey goose feathers in my room. I'll be glad to see the last of them. Two autumns back, Sister Setiva fixed the wing of a gosling, whose father was the leader of a goose skein. The geese were so grateful that they donated a load of loose feathers to me. I was supposed to cut the ends and use them as writing quills. Dearie me, they gave us enough for ten recorders to use for seven lifetimes. Please, Lonna, would you take them? If you'll relieve me of the burden, I'll recruit a team of elders to shape and bind them to your arrow shafts.”

The badger agreed readily. “Thank you, Sister, there's no better flight for a shaft than a goose feather. I've been using gull feathers from the northeast shores, but they don't have the strength and firmness of good goose plumage.”

Martha spoke. “You'll have a full supply of arrows, Lonna.”

Stretched out on a heap of clean sacks, the big badger gazed up at the ceiling, sure now of what he was going to do. “Nobeast can live without food and water. Martha, I want you and a few others to patrol the windows all around the Abbey, where the Searats would find things to eat or drink.”

The haremaid replied. “You mean the orchard and the Abbey pond? There's also a vegetable garden adjoining the orchard. Since the Searats arrived, they've taken water and fished from the pond, and as for the orchard, they're hardly ever out of there and the vegetable garden. Isn't that right, Father?”

Carrul clenched his jaw. “Correct, Martha. Those scum! I dread to think of the state our crops will be in. After all the hard work Redwallers did. Well, Lonna, you'll have a fair view of it. Orchard, vegetable patch and pond—they are all clearly visible from our south-facing windows.”

Lonna reached for his bow and began running a small piece of beeswax up and down the string. “Perfect. How many arrows have I left in my quiver, Toran?”

The ottercook took a look and returned grinning. “Twenty-three . . . and a molebabe. Muggum's sleeping in there!” The little mole grumbled dozily as Sister Portula extricated him. “Oi got to stop urr. Lonn' bee's sleepin' in moi bed!”

Abbot Carrul took charge of the molebabe. “Then you can sleep in my big armchair, you rascal. In fact, I think it's time we all got a rest, there's lots to do once the day breaks. Right, Lonna?”

Bloodred tinges suffused the badger's eyes, his bowstring twanging aloud as he tested it. He gritted one word from between his clenched teeth. “Right!”

The Abbot hurriedly ushered his charges from the storeroom. “We'll leave you to your sleep now, friend. Goodnight.”

There was no reply. Closing the door behind them, Toran the ottercook exchanged meaningful glances with the
Abbot. “Did ye see that, Father? Lonna's possessed of the Bloodwrath!”

Martha looked from one to the other, perplexed. “What's the Bloodwrath, some sort of sickness?”

Toran grasped her paw so hard that she winced. “Lissen to me, young 'un. You stay out o' that beast's way until his eyes clear up again. Badgers ain't responsible for wot they do when Bloodwrath comes upon 'em, d'ye hear?”

The haremaid managed a frightened little nod. “Lonna wouldn't hurt us, would he?”

The Abbot signalled Toran and the others to their beds. He walked through Great Hall with Martha, who was carrying the sleeping molebabe.

Carrul talked quietly with her. “Do as Toran has told you, pretty one. Only be close to Lonna when you have to. Creatures such as us know little of Bloodwrath, but grown badgers of his size can be very dangerous to anybeast when it strikes them. Take your friends tomorrow, patrol the south windows on the first and second floor. The moment you sight Searats in the grounds, report straight to Lonna. Then get out of the way. Redwallers have no business hanging around a badger who is taken by Bloodwrath. Believe me, Martha, I tell you that Lonna needs to avenge himself and his dead friend upon Raga Bol and his crew. He is here for no other reason. Go to your bed now and remember what I have said.”

Carrul took the sleeping Muggum from Martha and went into his room. The haremaid looked up at the figure of Martin the Warrior on his tapestry. There was no need of visitations or dream speeches from the gallant protector of Redwall. His eyes seemed to say it all. She bowed respectfully to Martin, then went to her bed, still puzzled but obedient to her Abbot and the guiding spirit of her Abbey.

 

Death came to Redwall at dawn. A Searat came bursting into the gatehouse and raised Raga Bol from the bed where he had lain sprawled and twitching in broken dreams. “Cap'n, the stripedog's just kilt Cullo an' Baleclaw. They was fishin' in the pond an' 'e slayed 'em both wid one arrer!”

Bol came upright, his silver hook thrusting through the
rat's baggy shirt as he dragged him forward. “Killed 'em wid one arrer! Have ye been at the grog agin, Griml?”

The rat wailed. “I saw it meself, Cap'n. They was stannin' in the water, one afront o' the other, when a big arrer pins 'em both through their neckscruffs, like fishes on a reed!”

Bol thrust Griml roughly out the gatehouse. “Rally the crew, an' fetch Wirga t'me. Move yourself!”

Griml's mate, Deadtooth, was crouching beside the wallsteps. He, too, had witnessed the slaying of two Searats with one arrow. Deadtooth caught up with Griml. “Wot did Bol say?”

Griml shrugged unhappily. “Not much, just booted me out an' tole me t'bring the crew an' fetch Wirga.”

Deadtooth persisted. “Don't the Cap'n know Wirga's dead? They found 'er just as it went light. Somebeast 'ad knocked the daylights outer 'er agin the wall. But ye knew that, didn't ye? Yew shoulda told Bol.”

Griml nervously looked this way and that. “Hah, yew go an' tell 'im, if'n ye dare. I don't want no silver 'ook guttin' me. I wish we was afloat at sea, like last springtime. I tell ye, mate, we've 'ad nought but bad luck since we dropped anchor in this rotten place!”

Griml caught sight of several Searats emerging from behind a small ornamental hedge where they had been sleeping. “Ahoy, youse lot, Cap'n wants ter see ye, right now at the gate'ouse, ye best jump to it . . .”

There was a piercing scream from the orchard as a crewrat staggered out, transfixed by an arrow. Still holding a half-ripe pear in his claws, he took one more pace and crumpled in a still heap. Griml gestured at him wildly. “See, wot did I tell ye? There's Rotpaw gone now, a good ole messmate like 'im, off to 'ellgates afore a bite o' brekkist passed 'is pore lips. I said this place is bad luck, didn't I?”

Having camped by the rocks and spent the night there, the travellers got their first clear view of them at sunrise next morn. Fenna found Horty, who had already risen, blowing on the embers of the previous night's fire and adding twigs to rekindle the flames. In high spirits, the young hare waved his ears at her.

“Mornin', fair Fenn'. Lots of twigs blown up against the rocks by the blinkin' wind, wot. Jolly useful to a first-class rivercook. What ho, you lazy lot, rise'n'shine, eh! So, here we are at the old Badger an' Bell. Thoughtful cove, whoever named 'em—they look just like an enormous bloomin' bell an' a blinkin' huge badger's bonce!”

Springald blinked sleep from her eyes and gave Horty a sidelong glance. “Really, have you just noticed that?”

Saro got between them. “Don't start again, you two. Horty, ole scout, ole lad, ole boy, wot's for breakfast?”

The garrulous hare giggled. “Heeheehee, would you believe fried fruit salad, marm?”

Springald came wide awake then. “Horty, you're joking?”

Bragoon had sidled up. With the tip of his sword he speared a slice of plum from the flat rock that served as a frying pan. The otter chewed it pensively. “Our cook ain't jokin', marm. Hmm, it don't taste too bad!”

As Saro tried a morsel, winks were exchanged all round, behind Horty's back. The aging squirrel merely nodded. “I
suppose y'can't be too picky out in this country. I've ate worse an' survived.”

Fenna prodded at the food with a twig. “Do we have to eat it?”

Closing her eyes, Springald gulped a piece down. “It's either that or starve. Fried fruit salad? Only a hare could think up a breakfast like that!” Horty's ears rose like flagstaffs and his cheeks bulged out. The outraged hare was about to give them a piece of his mind, when something out on the wasteland distracted his attention.

“Cads! Bounders! You rotten, ungrateful . . . I say, chaps, is that somebeast crouchin' down out there?”

Bragoon leaped up, wiping his swordblade. “Come on, let's find out!”

They spread out and made for the distant shape. Slowly and cautiously they approached the object. Then Fenna, who had the best eyesight, ran forward, calling to them. “That's no crouching beast, it's nothing but a big battered old tree stump!”

The fragmented piece of conifer stood almost as tall as Bragoon's shoulder. He tapped it with his sword.

“Y'know wot this is? All that's left o' that big tree on the map—Lord o' Mossflower. We crossed over the great gorge by walkin' across its trunk!”

Saro circled the broad base. “A shame, really. 'Twas a mighty tree in its seasons. Right, mate, 'tis time we took a look at the stuff you brought from the Abbey.”

Bragoon drew out the tattered scraps of parchment he had carried since the day they left Redwall. “Let's take a look then. Loamhedge can't be too far now. Maybe we'll find some clues that'll help.”

Horty was never a beast who took kindly to studying. He watched them unfolding a scrap of parchment. “Borin' old stuff, I'll go back an' break camp, wot!”

Bragoon passed the piece of paper to Springald. “Yore a bright young 'un, read this out to us. I don't see too good for readin' lately. Think I might need those eyeglasses like Carrul an' Old Phredd wears when they reads things.”

Springald studied the neat script. “Martha copied this out. It says here that it's Sister Amyl's rhyme. Listen.

 

“Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,

my secret lies hid from view,

the tale of how I learned to walk,

when once I was as you.

Though you cannot go there,

look out for two who may,

travellers from out of the past,

returning home someday.”

 

Bragoon winked at Saro. “That was us, we're the travellers from out the past. I wonder how young Martha is.”

Saro folded the parchment up, returning it to the otter. “I wish she could've been fit t'make this trip with us. Now there was a young maid who had an 'ead on her shoulders. Huh, no clues there, though. Wot does that other bit say?”

Beside the map sketch, Bragoon had only one other piece of parchment. He offered it to Saro. “You read it, mate.”

After unfolding it, the aging squirrel gave it to Fenna, without a second glance. “My readin' is terrible, I never payed attention at Abbeyschool. Just like you, Brag, but I ain't makin' excuses about needin' eyeglasses. You read it, Fenna. I bet you was a good learner.”

The squirrelmaid straightened the creased document. “Martha tells us here that this is something which was copied by somebeast named Recorder Scrittum. The words are Sister Amyl's, but Scrittum recorded them for her.

 

“Beneath the flower that never grows,

Sylvaticus lies in repose.

My secret is entombed with her,

look and think what you see there.

A prison with four legs which moved,

yet it could walk nowhere,

whose arms lacked paws, but yet they held,

a wretched captive there.”

 

Springald shrugged. “Well, there are clues in that rhyme. But look around, what do you see? A broken tree stump, two big rocks shaped like a badger's head and a bell! Besides that, all we have is a map, made so far back that nobeast can
remember. Is this all the information you brought with you from the Abbey? Bit thin, isn't it?”

Bragoon drew patterns in the dust with his paw. Then he and Saro cast rueful looks at each other.

Fenna spoke to them. “Wasn't there something else, a big volume about how a party of Redwallers found Loamhedge in bygone seasons?”

The otter explained limply. “Aye, missy, there was, but we never took the time or the trouble to try readin' it. We ain't no scholars, that much is plain, ain't it, mate?”

Saro nodded dolefully. “Right, we thought that, 'cos we'd been atop o' the high cliffs an' onto the plateau one time, we knew this country. Our mistake, I s'pose. We should've let one of you young 'uns read the book out to us. You ain't like us. Livin' in the Abbey all yore lives, you managed t'get some learnin'. Me'n ole Brag, we ran away when we was young, didn't get much schoolin'.”

Fenna wanted to take them to task for going off on such a quest without proper information, but they looked so crestfallen. She also felt it would be unfair to berate two creatures of such skill and craft, all of which they had gained in the hard school of travel and experience. Scholars they might not be, but adventurers they certainly were.

A shout interrupted her thoughts. “What ho there, you curmudgeons! Handsome young hare approachin' with visitors! Put aside your weapons. They're friendly, an' they enjoyed my blinkin' breakfast, too!”

Bragoon thumped his rudder down in astonishment. “Horty, what'n the name o' silly seasons . . . ?”

The young hare marched up to the stump with his two new friends—a large fat dormouse, pulling a cartload of twigs and wasteland debris; and, at his side, a tiny sand lizard held by a braided lead.

Horty grinned from ear to ear. “Meet my new pal Toobledum, survivor an' hermit of the wastelands, wot! Oh, an' this other ferocious creature is Bubbub, his faithful sandsniffer. I say, these coves really appreciate my cookin', they scoffed the bloomin' lot!”

Springald cried indignantly, “Well thanks for nothing. I scarcely took a bite of that food!”

Horty pawed his nose at her. “Serves you jolly well right, after the way you lot carried on about my fine cookin'!”

Toobledum, a cheery dormouse, wore an outrageously floppy woven grass hat, which he tipped to them. “Pleased t'meetcher, one an' all, friends o' the cook, are ye! Well, Horty's led ye this far pretty good, I'd say.”

Saro glared at the young hare, paws on hips. “Led us this far, eh? I wager you've been tellin' Mister Toobledum a right ole pack o' fibs!”

Horty waffled for a moment, then changed the subject completely. “I say, chaps, here's a wheeze. Guess where Toobledum lives? Go on, tell 'em, Toob!”

The dormouse sat down and lightly scratched Bubbub's emerald-green sides. The little sand lizard arched its back with pleasure. Toobledum looked up at them from beneath the wide brim of his hat.

“Lives? Me'n likkle Bubbub lives at Loam'edge, that's where we lives. Sand lizards ain't like most reptiles, y'know. Get 'em young enough an' they're good likkle tykes.”

Bragoon stared open-mouthed at the dormouse. “Y'mean to tell us you actually lives at Loamhedge?”

The floppy hat wobbled wildly as Toobeldum nodded. “All me life. Youngest o' sixteen I was, left 'ome an' came out here t'fend fer meself. Loam'edge h'aint no Redwall, like the big place Horty told me that 'e rules. But 'tis 'ome, an' we like it, don't we likkle Bubbub?” The tiny sand lizard nodded and romped over to Fenna to be stroked and tickled.

Springald treated the dormouse to one of her prettiest smiles. “Could you show us the way to Loamhedge, sir?”

He flushed under his hat brim. “Ain't no sir, missy, only an ole Toobledum, but I'll show ye the way willin'ly!”

Fenna left off petting Bubbub, who nudged at her for more. “You will show us the way. Now?”

Dusting himself off, the dormouse rose with a grunt. “Now's as good a time as any, me pretty one. Long as ye let my pal Horty cook me another good mess o' vittles.”

Bragoon clapped the young hare's back so heartily that he almost knocked him flat. “Well o' course, the champion quest leader an' expert cook an' ruler o' Redwall would be only too glad to cook for ye, matey!”

Toobledum passed the towing rope of his cart to Saro. “I'd be obliged if'n ye pull the ole cart fer me, marm. Me paws gets weary from luggin' it far'n'wide. Come on, likkle Bubbub, let's go 'ome.”

He trundled off into the wasteland, chattering animatedly. “Nice to find somebeast t'jaw with, it gits lonely out 'ere. Likkle Bubbub don't speak, y'see. I collects useful stuff, goes far'n'wide t'find it. Firewood, nice stones, bits o' this'n'that. Don't never waste nothin' out 'ere, I always sez. If'n ye got gear to cast off, then throw it me way!”

They journeyed on, mainly south by Bragoon's reckoning, with Toobledum talking ceaselessly, and Bubbub frisking along on his lead, moving from one to another in his efforts to find more stroking.

A camp was made out on the wastelands that evening. The dormouse donated some wood from his cart to make a fire. He was all agog in anticipation of his next meal.

“Well, Cooky, wot's fer supper? Me'n likkle Bubbub's feelin' peckish. Somethin' nice, I 'ope!”

Springald grinned pointedly at Horty. “Oh, don't worry, Cooky will turn out something delicious, I'm sure.”

The young hare was beginning to tire of his role as cook. He rummaged through the dwindling supply in the ration packs. “Hmm, I expect I'll create some superb dish, but we're runnin' a bit low on the old tucker, wot. Oh, fiddlesticks! Why's it left t'me to do all the blinkin' cookin' an' slavin' round here, while you flamin' lot sit on your tails an' loll around? Huh, bit bloomin' thick, I'd say!”

Fenna joined in the teasing. “Cheer up, Mighty Ruler of Redwall, I expect you have an army of skivvies to serve you back at the Abbey. Excuse me, you're not frying another fruit salad, are you?”

Borrowing an iron pot that had been clanking along on a hook beneath Toobledum's cart, Horty answered airily. “As a matter o' fact, marm, I'm inventin' some scone soup, with a few wild onions, some sage, carrots, a leek or two an' some crumbled oatscones. Followed by fresh strawberry surprise, with dandelion tea to drink.”

It was a surprisingly tasty meal. They downed it with
relish. Fenna had one comment to make about the dessert. “What's in this strawberry surprise, Cooky?”

Horty grimaced. “Wish you'd stop callin' me Cooky. Oh, the strawberry surprise? I made it with some dried apple, preserved plums an' a piece o' fruitcake I found at the bottom of a ration pack. There ain't a flamin' strawberry in the whole thing—that's the surprise. Good, eh?”

Toobledum and Bubbub licked their bowls. The dormouse belched. “Parn me one an' all. We liked it. Any second 'elphins?”

Toobledum listened to the rhyme which had been dictated to Recorder Scrittum by Sister Amyl. Fenna read it out to him, but the dormouse was at a loss to cast any light on it. “Flowers wot never grows, an' four-legged prisons wid no arms? Means nought to us, does it, likkle Bubbub?”

The tiny lizard shook its head and nestled under Saro's paw. The dormouse bedded down by the fire, letting the hat brim cover his face. “I ain't clever like you beasts, I'm just an old Toobledum. No matter, ye can search for yore own clues around Loam'edge in the mornin'. We'll git there afore midday. I'll bid ye 'appy dreams one an' all, g'night!”