Loamhedge (38 page)

Bragoon crouched, staring down into the pit of the open grave where Horty had disappeared. Saro was fashioning a torch from twigs, grass and moss. Fenna lay flat on the edge of the hole, calling down.

“Horty, if you can hear me, then shout out!”

Springald centred the light of her chunk of rock crystal on the torchtop. Magnified sunrays produced a wisp of smoke, which grew into a small flame. Saro wafted it into a fire.

“I'm the climber, let me go first. Spring an' Fenna, ye stay up 'ere in case we need anythin'. Fetch the rope, Brag.” Lowering herself over the edge, the aging squirrel dropped a bit, then landed on something solid.

“Stone steps, look!”

A dusty flight of narrow steps ran curving downward into the darkness. Bragoon coiled the rope about his shoulders and followed her carefully. “Slow down, mate—we don't want t'lose you, too!”

Springald and Fenna watched until the light vanished around the curve, down into the gloom.

The mousemaid shuddered as she sat down by the broken covering stone. “I don't like this place anymore. It looked so peaceful and sunny at first, but now there's something about it that gives me the shivers. No wonder Toobledum wouldn't come here. I hope Horty's alright.”

Fenna was studying the big dark headstone, perched sideways at a crazy angle. “Horty's indestructible, you'll see.”

Bragoon's head appeared at ground level. “Yore right there, miss. Lend a paw, you two!”

Saro was on the step behind him. Between them they carried the slumped form of Horty. Heaving and pulling, the four friends managed to lift the young hare onto solid ground, where he curled up as if asleep.

Saro patted his back. “He took a fall an' landed on the left side of his head. Pore Horty's got a fat ear, but there's no real harm done.”

Fenna soaked some moss and dabbed at the swollen ear. “He's taken his share of knocks on this trip. That's a real thick ear he's got there.”

The damp poultice must have worked: Horty groaned and tried to sit up but fell back, complaining miserably. “Yowch, I am awake! I say, d'you mind awfully not scrubbin' a chap's wounded ear with that filthy wet stuff. It stings like jolly blue blazes!”

Springald took out a flask of cordial which she had brought along. “Could you manage a sip of this?”

Horty grabbed it and downed the lot in three big gulps. “Not that it'll do the noble young ear much good, but I've managed to wet my parched lips with it. Ooh, my achin' lug!”

Fenna supported his head. “Poor Horty, it must hurt terribly.”

The young hare put on a pitiful face. “I must be close t'death. I say Fenn, old scout, you don't happen to have a bite of scoff about you, wot?”

Bragoon stifled a laugh. “Nothin' much wrong wid that 'un! Keep an eye on 'im, you two. We're goin' back down to take a look round there. Pass me some more wood an' grass, Fenn. We got to keep the torch alight.”

Fenna bundled her cloak under Horty's head. As the squirrelmaid began gathering more fuel for the torch, she shared her latest discovery with her companions.

“Now I know why Toobledum could hear moaning on windy nights from the buryin' place. See that big dark stone, it's the one that marked this grave. There's words carved on it. Listen. ‘Sylvaticus. First Mother Abbot of Loamhedge
Abbey. Loved by all creatures. Long in seasons and wisdom. Gone to her final rest. Forever in our thoughts.' This is the very grave we've been seeking.”

Fenna indicated the beautifully carved motif at the top of the headstone. It was a lily in full bloom with a graceful stem sprouting curved and fluted leaves. The entire design was pierced right through the stonework. The squirrelmaid traced it with her paw.

“This is the flower that never dies. I'll wager that the wind sings an eerie song through this carving on windy nights. You can't blame Toobledum for steering clear of here.”

Bragoon regarded her with admiration. “Yore a bright young 'un, Fenn, that was well thought out. Take care of Horty now, we'll be back afore ye know it.”

For the second time, the two old friends descended the stairs.

Not one to let an injury slip by unnoticed, Horty made the most of his thick ear as the two Abbeymaids ministered to him. “Salad! Now that's the very stuff for a swollen ear, wot! Any hare'll tell you, salad's just the thing, an' lots of it. Hold hard there, Spring old gel, what's that sloppy mess? Tut tut, marm, you ain't physickin' me with that rubbish!”

Springald cradled the mixture in a dockleaf. “Don't be such a Dibbun, Horty Braebuck. It's a mud-and-moss poultice that will do your ear a power of good. Hold him, Fenn!”

Horty struggled in the squirrelmaid's firm grip. “Gerroff me, you flamin' torturesses. I'll bet you took lessons from Sister Setiva on how to persecute wounded beasts. Yugh! That dreadful gloop's gone right down me bloomin' ear. You've done it now, I'll be deaf on one side for the rest of me short young life. Rotters!”

Springald tugged the hare's good ear sharply. “Do hold still! What can you expect if you hop about like that? Now, I'll just dress it with some dock leaves.”

Horty looked blankly at her. “What rock thieves? Speak up!”

When the dressing was completed, he lay down in a sulk, while Springald cast a glance at the grave. “They've been gone an awfully long time. What d'you think, shall we go down there and check on them?”

Fenna nodded eagerly. “Yes, let's do that. You stay here, Horty. Take a nap or something.”

They dropped over the edge onto the stairs, with their former patient calling after them.

“I say, what's a cap an' a dumpling? What's up, have you both gone mad?”

Holding paws, Springald and Fenna managed the steps and, placing their backs against the rough stone wall, crept forward cautiously. The ground took a curve, dipping steeply. Slowly stumbling on, in total darkness, they were relieved to see the faint glow of a torch ahead. The muted voices of their friends could be heard.

Fenna called out to them. “Saro, Brag, is that you? We've come down for a little peek.”

The otter's voice, which sounded rather grumpy, echoed back at them. “I told ye t'stay on top, you should be mindin' Horty. Who knows wot that buffoon'll be up to be'ind our backs!”

Saro's voice interrupted him. “Oh, there's no harm done, mate. Let 'em come an' take a look.”

It was quite a sight. The passage opened up into an underground chamber, lined with stone walls. At its centre stood a plinth, littered with old bones and a white cloth habit that had faded to the texture of a cobweb. In front of the plinth lay what had once been a chair with wheels but now was little more than a small heap of dry, insect-bored sticks. There were two more torches in wall sconces on one wall behind the plinth.

After Saro had lit them, she gestured about with her own guttering torch. “Well, this is it, mates. We've travelled long'n'far, just to find this sad ole lot. Those bones are wot's left o' pore Abbess Sylvaticus. But can ye guess wot those rotted sticks are?”

Springald picked up a piece of the timber in her paw. It crumbled to dust. “Don't tell me, this was the chair once used by Sister Amyl. Those little round black stones with holes in them must have been its wheels. Huh, they're the only things recognisable after all this time.”

Crouching down, Bragoon sifted through the debris with
his swordpoint. “Must've been 'ere thousands of seasons. How did the rhyme go . . .

 

“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.”

 

Bragoon rose up and put away his blade. “Aye, that's Sister Amyl's chair, sure enough, but where's the Sister's secret?”

Saro gnawed at her lip. “Imagine pore young Martha when we get back an' tell 'er there was nought but a pile o' dust an' four black stones!”

Springald hung her head miserably. “It doesn't bear thinking about. Now I wish we'd never found it.”

Fenna retrieved the four little black stone wheels. She stowed two in her belt pouch and gave the other two to Springald. “At least these'll prove we've been here. Come on, Spring, let's go back and see how Horty's doing.”

Bragoon gave them one of the torches to guide them out. “Aye, you young 'uns go an' do that. Me'n my ole mate are goin' to stay down here awhile an' search.”

Fenna shrugged glumly. “Waste of time, there's nothing left to search for. Oh well, please yourselves.”

The otter cautioned them. “Don't mention anythin' to Horty, wot with Miss Martha bein' 'is sister an' all that. Tell 'im we're still searchin'. Better still, take Horty back to ole Toobledum's 'ouse an' wait fer us there. We shouldn't be too long. Will ye do that for me?”

They nodded and trudged back to Horty.

 

Toobledum had taken the liberty of making a meal for them from the remnants of the ration packs. His little sand lizard capered about on its back paws, delighted to see the young ones returning.

The old dormouse proudly raised his floppy hat. “Sit down, one an' all, see wot I cooked up for ye. Me'n likkle Bubbub did ye a stew. 'Tis made of all things good, wid an apple crumble fer afters an' a drop o' me own special whortleberry cup brew to drink. Ho dear, wot 'appened to pore master Horty?”

Horty blinked oddly at the dormouse. “What the dickens is the old chap wafflin' about? Who's he goin' to plaster for being naughty, wot?”

Fenna roared down his good ear. “He said, What's happened to poor master Horty!”

The young hare waggled a paw in his good ear. “No need to bellow, miss!”

Then he turned to Toobledum. “Ah, well may you ask, little fat sir. I suffered a dreadful injury to the old ear, but I'm keepin' jolly brave about it. Mmmm, nothin' wrong with a chap's nose, though! That stew smells like just the ticket. Whack me out a large portion, sir dormouse, looks like a splendid cure for thickearitis!”

Toobledum humoured Horty by giving him a large bowlful. The young hare was halfway through it when he held the bowl out. “Don't stint on the stew, I always say. Never mind Brag'n'Saro, they're far too old to appreciate good scoff. I say, those two relics should be back by now. Huh, loiterin' around graveyards, bloomin' bad form, they'll go all morbid.”

It was over an hour before the two searchers made an appearance. The dormouse and Bubbub welcomed them back. Springald gave them two bowls she had washed out. “Toobledum made some delicious stew, but you'd better get some fast before Horty hogs it all down.”

The young hare looked up from a beaker of whortleberry cup. “I heard that, marm. Why should frogs fall down? Complete gibberish if y'ask me, wot!”

Springald waited until the two had finished eating before she enquired. “Well, did you find anything?”

Saro smiled at Bragoon, who winked back at her as he sipped his drink. “Hmm, whortleberry juice! 'Tis a while since I've tasted that. Used t'be me favourite drink at one time.”

Fenna twirled her bushy tail impatiently. “You haven't answered the question. Did you find anything?”

Saro tasted her drink, still smiling secretively. “Aye, 'tis nice, a sweet taste. Mind ye, I was allus partial to a drop o' nettle beer, like those otterpals o' yores drinks, up on the north coast.”

Horty looked from one to the other. “Who's seen a ghost?”

Fenna fumed. “Oh, put a cork in it, Horty! Now, Mister Bragoon, Madam Sarobando, will you answer the question. Please!”

Old Toobledum chuckled. “Heeheehee, I knows ye found somethin', yore both sittin' there lookin' like a pair o' toads eatin' trifle. Put the young 'uns out their misery an' tell 'em, mates.”

The otter produced a small cylinder of parchment. He tossed it from paw to paw. “We found it—this is Sister Amyl's secret.”

Springald was about to reach for it, when Saro caught the cylinder and stowed it in her belt pouch. “No ye don't, Spring, this is for none but Martha t'read!”

Fenna pouted indignantly. “How do you know that?”

Bragoon raised his eyebrows. “Because, miss clever clogs, it sez so on the parchment. Read it to 'em, mate.”

Saro took out the little scroll that had been tied with a few threads to keep it closed. On the outside was some tiny, squiggly writing. She peered at it closely, reading slow. “Only the one who needs this shall know my secret!”

Bragoon levelled a paw at them. “None of you young 'uns needs to know, only Martha, 'cos she's the one who needs it. We haven't looked at it ourselves, out o' respect to Martha. So nobeast is goin' to find out Sister Amyl's secret except that young hare back at the Abbey o' Redwall. We're bound back there at tomorrer's dawn, with all 'aste!”