Loamhedge (7 page)

Martha wiped tears of merriment from her eyes as the Abbot leaned across to her and asked, “Better now, miss?”

She nodded. “Yes, thank you, Father. Oh, that Horty!”

Sister Portula gave the Abbot a sidelong glance. “It's all very well making plans to continue our studies out on the steps tomorrow, but look at the ruckus today. They were crowded around the gatehouse to see what we were doing inside. I think we'd best get ready to have lots of company tomorrow, Father—unless you can think of another way to keep our creatures distracted.”

Abbot Carrul touched a paw to the side of his nose. “I've already thought of that, Sister. Do you not know what day it is tomorrow?”

Portula shrugged. “A day like any other. Sunny, I hope.”

Abbot Carrul stood up and murmured to her as he banged a ladle upon the tabletop to gain order. “Tomorrow is the first day of summer.”

He raised his voice. “Your attention please, my friends!”

A respectful silence fell upon the boisterous Redwallers. Everybeast was eager to hear what their Abbot had to say.

“It is my wish that, as tomorrow is the first day of Summer Season, a sports day and a feast shall be held within the grounds of our Abbey. My good friend Foremole Dwurl will be in charge of the proceedings. I trust you will cooperate with him. Foremole Dwurl!”

Redwall's mole leader, a kindly old fellow, bowed low to the Abbot. Amid the raucous cheering and shouting, he climbed upon the table and stamped his footpaws to gain order.

“Thankee, zurr h'Abbot. Naow, you'm all coom to ee h'orchard arter brekkist, an' oi'll give ee yurr tarsks. Hurr hurr, an' all you'm Dibbuns make shore you'm be proper scrubbed!”

Abbot Carrul looked over the top of his tiny glasses at Sister Portula. “Does that solve your problem, marm?”

The good Sister looked slightly nonplussed. “But Father, Summer Season doesn't start for two days yet.”

Foremole Dwurl wrinkled his snout confidentially. “If'n you'm doant tell 'um, marm, us'n's woant. Hurrhurr!”

 

Silence reigned in Cavern Hole. Every Redwaller was tucked up in bed, anticipating the coming day's delights. Summer
Season feast and sports was always a joyous event on the Abbey calendar.

Abbot Carrul pushed Martha's chair across Great Hall to her bedroom, which was next to his on ground level. His voice echoed whisperingly about the huge columns as they went.

“Did you notice that Old Phredd didn't come in for supper this evening?”

Martha voiced her concern. “Oh dear, I do hope he's not ill!”

The Father Abbot reassured her. “Not at all, that old fogy's fit as a flea. He was rather anxious for us to get out of the gatehouse, though. I'll wager a button to a barrel of mushrooms that rascal has information about Loamhedge hidden in his dusty archives, sly old hog!”

Martha sat up eagerly. “Do you really think so, Father?”

Carrul nodded. “I'm certain of it, miss. D'you know, I think our search is going to turn up some interesting and exciting stuff tomorrow.”

The young haremaid wriggled with anticipation, since any prediction the Abbot made invariably came to pass. “Oh, I do hope so, Father. Maybe we'll discover Sister Amyl's secret. Wouldn't that be wonderful!”

Martha looked up as they passed the great tapestry. Was it just a trick of the flickering lanterns, or did she really see Martin the Warrior's eyes twinkle at her?

Some leagues north of Redwall Abbey, the ragtag vermin gang blundered their way through the nighttime thickness of Mossflower woodlands. Skrodd swiped at the undergrowth with his former leader's cutlass as he led the party.

The big rat, Dargle, kept muttering under his breath, continuously criticising Skrodd. “Fancy trackin' two beasts when yore lost, huh!”

Tired and sleepy, the other vermin managed a weary murmur of agreement. Skrodd did not want to challenge Dargle directly—it was the wrong time and place for such a move. So he asserted his authority by bullying all and sundry. He turned on them, brandishing the cutlass.

“Shut yer gobs an' keep movin'. Lost? Hah! Youse'd be the lost ones if'n I wasn't leadin' ye!”

Flinky enjoyed causing trouble. Disguising his voice, he called out behind the big fox's back. “That's no way t'be talkin' to pore pawsore beasts!”

Little Redd agreed with him. “Aye, we should be sleepin' now instead o' wanderin' round an' round all night long!”

Although Flinky was the instigator, Redd was the unlucky one whose voice Skrodd identified. With a savage kick, Skrodd sent the small fox sprawling.

Laying the cutlass blade against his neck, he snarled, “Ye liddle runt, say the word an' ye can sleep 'ere fer good. I've took enough of yore moanin'!”

Realising that he had gone too far, Flinky tried to remedy the situation by pulling Redd upright as he appealed to Skrodd. “Ah, come on now, sure he's only a tired young whelp. No sense in slayin' one of yore own mates. Let's step out a bit, an' I'll sing a song to help us along, eh?”

Skrodd relented, pointing his blade at the stoat. “Right, you sing. The rest o' ye march, an' shuttup!”

Flinky's ditty put a little fresh life into the gang's paws.

 

“Ferrets are fine ould foragers,

though frequently furtive an' fey,

stoats can sing sweetly fer seasons,

so me sister used to say,

but foxes are fine an' ferocious,

when faced with a fight or a fray,

an' rats remain rambunctious but only for a day!

But wot about weasels, those wily ould weasels,

they're woefully wayward an' wild,

the ones they've whipped an' walloped,

will wail that weasels are vile,

they've bullied an' beaten an' battered,

they've tormented tortured an' tripped,

I'm sure any day their pore victims would say,

steer clear o' the weasel don't get in his way,

for of all the vermin ye'd care to recall,

the weasel's the wickedest wretch of all.

An' virtuous vermin will all agree,

any weasel is worse than me!”

 

There were four weasels in the gang: Slipback; his mate, Juppa; and two taciturn brothers, Rogg and Floggo. All of them protested volubly at Flinky's song.

“That ain't right, foxes are worse'n weasels!”

“Ye sing dat again, an' I'll wallop ye alright!”

Skrodd's bad-tempered shout quickly silenced them. “Shut yore faces back there, or I'll show ye 'ow ferocious foxes can be. Sing somethin' else, Flinky, an' don't insult nobeast!”

Dargle called out, “Aye, an' be nice to foxes, they're easy hurt!”

Skrodd fixed the big rat with an icy glare. “Aye, an' they can hurt rats easily, too!”

Dargle stared fearlessly back at him. “Ye don't scare me, fox. Burrad was slayed by mistake. Us rats don't make mistakes when we fight!”

Skrodd never answered. Turning away, he continued to march, but the challenge was out in the open now. The rest of the gang exchanged nods and winks—a fight to the death was not far off. Skrodd pulled Little Redd up to the front with him and allowed him to walk by his side. The small fox felt honoured; normally he would be left trailing at the back of the gang.

Keeping his voice low, the bigger fox took on a friendly tone with the young one. “You stay by me, mate. Us foxes've got to stick together.”

Little Redd had to glance around to make sure Skrodd was not talking to some other beast. He was more used to kicks and insults than to kind words.

The big fox winked at him. “I been keepin' an eye on ye, mate. Yore a smart little feller, not like this other lot!”

Redd hated being called “little,” but he was quite pleased to know that Skrodd thought of him as smart. He returned the wink, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

“I ain't no fool, an' I ain't so little, either. I'm growin' fast. One day they'll call me Big Redd.”

Skrodd got to the point. “Lissen, mate, I want ye t'do me a favour. Do ye think yore smart enough t'be useful to me?”

Little Redd walked on tippaw, swelling his chest out. “Just tell me wot ye want doin', mate!”

Skrodd leaned close. “Keep an eye on the gang, especially Dargle. That rat's gettin' too big fer his boots. I want ye to watch my back, sort o' be my second in command.”

Redd hid his delight, replying gruffly, “I'll do that, just watch me. Soon they'll be callin' me Big Redd. I won't let ye down, mate!”

Skrodd patted the small fox's back. “Good! When I gets this gang sorted out, we'll give ye a proper vermin name. Big Redd don't mean nothin'. How does Badredd sound to ye, eh?”

The young fox was squirming inside with joy. However, he kept his voice tough, in keeping with his new position.
“Sounds great t'me, mate. Badredd—I like that! 'Tis a real killer's name. Badredd!”

 

After a fruitless night rambling through woodland thickets, the gang watched a rose-tinged dawn break over the treetops. They were soaked through by heavy dew, which was dripping everywhere from boughs and leaves.

Dargle's temper was on a short fuse. Emerging into a clearing on the bank of a stream, he struck out at Little Redd with his spear haft.

“Keep outta my way, runt! Every time ye come near me, I get soaked wid the water ye knock off the bushes.”

Redd looked appealingly at Skrodd. The big fox cast a glance of mock pity at Dargle and snarled scornfully. “Scared of a few drips o' dew, are ye? Look at us, we're all wet through, an' we ain't moanin'.”

Dargle faced up to Skrodd right away. “Hah! Wet through an' weary, an' wot for, eh? We never found the otter an' the squirrel. No, we just tramped around all night followin' you, an' now we're good an' lost. Some leader you are, Skrodd!”

The big fox bristled. “Don't talk silly, we ain't lost!”

It was Dargle's turn to sound scornful. “Oh, ain't we now? See that rowan tree, I marked it wid me spearblade not long after we started marchin'. Look!”

Flinky inspected the fresh scar on the rowan bark. “Aye, 'tis a new spearmark sure enuff. Dargle's right!”

Leaning on his spearbutt, the hefty rat grinned teasingly. “We've been goin' round in circles, mates, an' now our great leader's got us lost. Well, Skrodd?”

The fox held his blade at the ready and challenged Dargle. “If'n yore so clever, then you find the way. 'Tis easy to stand there talkin' smart all day, Dargle. Go on, show us how ye are, an' find the right way!”

The rat squatted down on his haunches, chuckling. “Sort out yore own mess, I'm stoppin' here an' restin'.”

Halfchop ventured a suggestion. “Burrad would've sent Plumnose to find the way, 'cos he's a good tracker.”

Relief flooded through Skrodd as he realised that Halfchop had provided the solution to a sticky problem. Taking
advantage, he quickly re-established his position as leader of the gang.

“Right, Plumnose, get on yore way! Ferget the two beasts we were trackin', they'll keep for another day. Find us the way to this Redwall Abbey place an' report back here.”

Always one to seize an opportunity, Flinky nodded his head admiringly. “Ah, that's a grand ould move, Chief. I see ye noticed the fine campsite we're at. We can lay up here fer a day or two an' rest, once we're sure of the way. Lookit, we got a stream wid fish an' freshwater an' lots o' trees full of fat birds sittin' on nests packed wid eggs. The place is filled wid roots an' fruit an' firewood!”

Skrodd looked sage. “That's wot I was thinkin', a day or two here'll freshen us up for the rest o' the journey. We'll make camp an' rest awhile, mates.”

Only Plumnose was not happy with the new plans. His huge nose wobbled from side to side as he complained. “Duh, id's nod right. I'b tired, too, j'know!”

Rogg and Floggo, the weasel brothers, notched arrows to their bows and fired a pair of shafts near Plumnose's paws.

“Yore the tracker, Plum, now git goin'!”

“Aye, ye could track a butterfly underwater wid a hooter like that. Hohoho!”

Throwing twigs and grass clumps at the unfortunate creature, the gang drove Plumnose from the camp. Glad they had not been selected to go tracking, they shouted after him.

“Don't trip over yer nose, Plum!”

“Aye, an' don't sniff any big boulders up. Heeheehee!”

The tension was broken for the moment. Gathering wood and foraging for victuals, the gang busied themselves.

Flinky dug a firepit on the streambank, singing a cheery ditty.

 

“Ah 'tis luvverly bein' a vermin,

'cos ye lead a simple life,

leave the snufflin' babes behind,

run off from the naggin' wife.

There's nought to do but ramble,

an' plunder on the way,

just look bold, rob all ye can hold,

an' bid 'em all good day.

A vermin, a vermin, that's wot I'll always be,

I'm base an' vile, 'cos that's me style,

an' I'll bet ye envy me!”

 

By late morn they had a good fire burning. Flinky and his mate, Crinktail, were in their element. They boiled woodpigeon eggs, grilled fish, and made a passable vegetable stew from various roots and wild produce which grew plentifully roundabout. Neither Dargle nor Skrodd made any move to help. Sitting close to the fire, they helped themselves, glaring at each other across the flames.

Skrodd collared Little Redd and gave him whispered orders. “Scout round an' find me somewheres safe to rest. Make sure 'tis soft an' comfortable. Pick a place far away from that rat, an' someplace close for yourself, so ye can guard me. Go on!”

Puffed up with his own importance, Redd went to seek a suitable resting spot. He chose the base of a spreading oak, not too close to the stream. It was a basin-shaped depression between two thick roots.

When the gang finished eating, they settled down for a much-needed sleep. Most of them stayed by the fire, but Dargle chose a fernbed on the opposite side of the camp from Skrodd. From there the rat could see his enemy and lay plans.

Little Redd proudly showed Skrodd the spot at the base of the oak trunk. “That's it, mate, nice an' snug, see!”

The small fox lay down, gesturing. “There's plenty o' room for both of us. I can guard ye good from here, mate.”

Skrodd shook his head disapprovingly. “Nah, ye go an' lay by the fire with the others. That'll put ye halfway twixt me'n Dargle. But don't go sleepin', keep yore eyes peeled on those ferns where he's layin' low. Soon as Dargle makes a move, come runnin' an' let me know.”

Little Redd rose reluctantly. “I kin watch him just as well if'n I stop 'ere with you, mate.”

Skrodd hauled him roughly upward, thrusting him toward the fire. “Ye'd do better to heed my orders. Now get goin'. I'm chief round 'ere, see!”

Stinging from the rebuke, Redd slouched over to the fire. Sullenly, he slunk down amid the snoring vermin.

 

With not a breeze to rustle the trees, warm noon sunlight shone down on the camp. Bees hummed gently, and butterflies fluttered silently around blossoming bushes. Near the ashy embers of the cooking fire, Little Redd drifted into a slumber. Only one of the gang was still awake—Dargle. Now was the time to put his plan into action. Draping his cloak over the ferns so it would look like he was still there, the rat inched his way backward out of the foliage. Flat on his stomach, he took a careful route, circling the campsite. When the rear of the spreading oak came in sight, Dargle rose into a half crouch. Gripping his spear firmly, he crept up on his sleeping enemy.

Skrodd woke momentarily, but only to die. A muffled grunt of agony escaped him as Dargle's spear thrust into his body.

Dargle leaned down on the spearhilt, grinning triumphantly. “
Now
who's the chief, eh?”

It was the rat's only mistake—it turned out to be his last. Skrodd had lain down to sleep with the cutlass held tight in his paw. Now, with one spasmodic jerk, he whipped the broad blade across his assassin's neck, almost severing Dargle's head. The ambitious rat fell slain on top of his victim's dead body.

 

Little Redd was wakened by Flinky kicking him in the back. The small fox sat up rubbing his eyes and muttering at the still-sleeping stoat. “Keep yore paws to yoreself, ye great lump!”