Loamhedge

by Brian Jacques

  Rinj wiped firesmoke from her blearing eyes. “The little ole one wuz no trouble, he didn’t know wot ’it ’im, gone afore ye could wink.”

  Ferron winced as Raga Bol’s screeches and curses redoubled. “Aye, but wot about the big ’un, eh? I thought Cap’n Bol killed him wid the first blow of his big sword!”

  Glimbo, the captain’s first mate, pushed Rinj away from the fire and installed his fat, greasy bulk close to the flames. One of his eyes was a milky sightless orb; the other roved around the crew as he warmed his paws.

  “Never in me days seen Bol ’ave to strike a beast twice wid that blade. But that big stripedog came back after the first whack an’ got his teeth in good. Just as well that Bol struck again, or he would’ve lost more’n one paw. Mark my words, stripedogs are powerful dangerous beasts!”

  The heathland was a barren region, made drearier by the day’s unabated rain. Down in the ravine a huge bonfire blazed to dispel the harsh weather. Every Searat of the crew sat watching their captain. Tall and sinewy, with a restless energy that could be glimpsed in his fiery green eyes, Raga Bol was an impressive rat by any measure. He sat wrapped in a fur cloak, his left pawstump hidden from view. The Searat’s right paw rested on the carved bone hilt of a heavy, wide-bladed scimitar, protruding from his waistband. The crewbeasts could feel Raga Bol’s eyes on them. Rain sizzling on the fire and wind fanning the flames were the only sounds to be heard as they waited on their captain’s word.

  Finally, Raga Bol rose and snarled bad-temperedly at them, firelight reflecting from his hooped brass earrings and gold-plated fangs. “We march west at dawn. Anybeast who don’ want to go, let ’im speak now, an’ I’ll bury ’im right ’ere!”

  Not one of the Searat crew said a word. Raga Bol nodded. “West it is then. Blowfly, get me two runners.”

  An enormously fat rat, with a whip curled about his shoulders, motioned two lean crew members forward.

  Raga Bol sat looking at them in silence, until they squirmed under his unwinking gaze. His jaw clenched as he moved the stump where his left paw had been. “You two, go back to where I slew the stripedog. Find the carcasse, an’ bring me back his head.”

  Each of the runners touched a paw to his ears. “Aye aye, Cap’n!”

  Raga Bol stood watching them climbing the sides of the ravine, then turned his attention to an old female Searat crouching nearby. “Wirga, is that hook ready yet?”

  “It’ll be ready by dawn, Cap’n.” The old one gave him a toothless grin. “So thee wants the big stripedog’s head, eh?”

  Raga Bol drew his cloak tight and sat, staring into the fire. “Nobeast ever took a paw o’mine an’ stayed in one piece, dead or alive. Now get that hook ready if’n ye want to keep yore head, ye withered old torturer!”

  2

  Far over to the west, a brighter spring day had dawned. Ascending meadowlarks heralded the sun beneath a soft, pastel blue sky. Drawn by the sudden warmth, mist rose from the greenswards, transforming dewdrops to small opalescent pearls amid the dainty blossoms of saxifrage, buttercup, capsella and anemones. Mossflower woodland trees were blessed with a crown of fresh green leaves. Life was renewed to the sounds of little birds, calling to their parents with ceaseless demands for food.

  Toran Widegirth loosed his apron strings, satisfied that he had completed his duties as Redwall Abbey’s Head Cook. Leaving his kitchens, the fat otter sought the beautiful spring morn outdoors. Heaving a sigh of relief, Toran sat down on an upturned wheelbarrow at the orchard entrance. He was joined by his friend Carrul, the Father Abbot of Redwall. The mouse sat down beside the otter, both relaxing in silence, blinking in the sunlight and savouring the first good weather that spring.

  Carrul glanced sideways at his companion. “Not going with Skipper and otter crew this season?”

  Toran watched an ant negotiating its way over his footpaw. “Much too early, it ain’t summer yet. But you know Skipper an’ the crew, first sign o’ sun an’ a skylark an’ they’re off like march hares to the west seashores for the season.”

  Abbot Carrul chuckled. “Fully provisioned I trust?”

  Toran nodded wearily. “Aye, I saw them off myself at dawn. Pushin’ a cartload o’ victuals I’d made special for ’em. Singin’ their rudders off, dancin’ like madbeasts!”

  Carrul’s smile widened. “I know, they woke me up, I saw them from my window. Good luck and fair weather to them. So why didn’t you go? I gave you permission to take as long as you wanted to go on leave.”

  Toran shrugged. “Oh, I’m gettin’ too old for that sort o’ thing. Leave it to the younger ones.”

  Carrul snorted. “Too old? Too big in the tummy, you mean! If you’re too old, then what about me, eh? I was your teacher when you were only a tiny Dibbun at Abbey School!”

  The ottercook tweaked his friend’s bony paw. “Aye, an’ ye haven’t gained a hair’s weight since then. How d’ye do it, you skinny, ancient mouse?”

  The Abbot looked over his small square spectacles good-humouredly. “I don’t spend my whole life down in those kitchens like you do, my friend. Oh, Toran, isn’t it just a glorious day? I hope the summer is a really golden one.”

  Toran snuggled more comfortably into the wheelbarrow. “Makes ye feel good t’be alive, don’t it, Carrul?”

  They both lapsed into silence again, gazing around and taking in the beauties of their Abbey.

  Behind them, Redwall reared—a legend in pink, dusty sandstone with its high walls and turrets, stained-glass windows and buttressed arches, belltower, attics and steeple, all complemented by a background of verdant woodland and cloudless blue sky. Toran took in the stout battlements and picturesque gatehouse of the outer wall, whilst the Abbot contented himself by viewing the lawns and orchards, peacefully shimmering in the sunlight.

  Carrul’s gaze took in the Abbey pond, down near the south ramparts. “What creature could not count himself lucky to be dwelling in such a paradise. Ah, look Toran, there’s our young friend Martha, taking a little nap in her chair, just by the rhododendron bushes on the far side of the pond.”

  Toran saw the young haremaid, her head nodding down to a heavy volume, which lay open on her lap.

  The ottercook eased himself from the barrow. “I’ll just take a stroll over there and check she’s alright.”

  The Abbot stretched luxuriously into the position Toran had vacated. “Dearie me, you’re like an old mother hen with that young ’un. Why don’t you tell her that lunch will be served late, out in the orchard? In fact, tell everybeast, ’twill cheer them up after being kept indoors by the rain for so long. We’ll all lend a paw to help.”

  Toran smiled happily. “What a good idea!”

  The ottercook approached Martha carefully, not wanting to disturb her. She was very special to him. Toran could recall the winter’s day, twelve seasons ago, when Martha Braebuck had arrived at Redwall. She had been nought but a tiny babe, strapped to the back of her ancient grandmother. Her brother Hortwill, two seasons older, had stumbled along, clutching the old hare’s cloak. Toran’s heart had immediately gone out to the pitiful trio. They had walked from the far Northlands, the only survivors of a vermin attack which had wiped out an entire colony of mountain hares. No sooner were they through the Abbey gates than the poor grandmother had collapsed and died from exhaustion. A sad occurrence, made sadder by the fact that Martha had never learned to walk from that day forth. Her brother grew up as sprightly as any young hare, but despite the most tender care, the babe Martha was immobile from her knee joints to her footpaws. There were no signs of any apparent wound or injury, no scarring or broken bones. No reason, in fact, why the little one should not learn to walk. Some of the wiser heads, like old Phredd the Gatekeeper, Great Father Abbot Carrul and Sister Setiva, the healer shrew who took care of the Abbey infirmary, said it was due to shock. That perhaps Martha’s long trek from the Northlands, strapped to her grandmother’s back, coupled with witnessing the murder of her family and kin, had caused the problem. Still, the Re
dwallers were completely puzzled.

  Toran did everything possible to help her. He believed firmly that one day she would stand and walk. Meanwhile, the kind ottercook provided Martha with the means to get about. Taking a light comfortable chair, he fixed it to the base of a kitchen trolley, adding two large wheels to the back. The young haremaid learned to propel herself about quite easily. Toran also fashioned a crutch for her, but Martha used it only to get at things which were beyond her reach.

  Martha Braebuck grew up an extremely bright young creature with a thirst for knowledge. She was a formidable reader and scholar, the equal even of the venerated mouse, Sister Portula, Redwall’s Abbey Recorder. Martha could solve riddles and equations, write poems, ballads and even sing. According to popular opinion, she had the sweetest singing voice ever heard within the Abbey walls. She never complained about being chairbound, and was invariably cheerful and willing to help others. The maid was a welcome and useful member of the Redwall Abbey community.

  Toran watched silently as her head drooped lower. The volume slid from her lap rug onto the grass. Toran grunted as he bent to retrieve it.

  Martha came awake, stifling a yawn and rubbing her eyes. “Dearie me, I must have nodded off!”

  Returning the hefty volume to Martha’s lap, the ottercook winked at her. “Who’d blame ye, with all this sun about. I could lie down right here an’ take a nap myself!”

  Martha saw a group of Dibbuns approaching from around the orchard hedge. “You wouldn’t sleep for long, my friend. Look, here comes trouble!”

  The Abbeybabes descended upon the haremaid’s chair. Muggum, a tiny mole who was their ringleader, climbed up onto Martha’s lap, rumbling away in his quaint molespeech. “Yur, Miz Marth’, do ee singen us’n’s ee song?”

  The haremaid eyed him good-naturedly. “Which one would you like me to sing?”

  Toran interrupted with his suggestion. “A pretty day deserves a pretty song, miss. Sing a spring song!”

  The squirrelbabe Shilly added her request. “Da one where uz clappa paws!”

  Buffle the shrewbabe, who was the smallest of all, nodded solemnly. “Gurbbadurrguddun!”

  Shilly translated. “Him says that be a good ’un.”

  Martha sat up straight, exchanging a smile with Toran. “Well, Buffle’s word is good enough for me. Here goes.”

  The Dibbuns raised their paws, ready to clap, as Martha’s melodious voice soared out.

  “The rain has gone away . . . Clap Clap!

  and larks do sing on high.

  Sweet flowers open wide . . . Clap Clap!

  their petals to the sky!

  ’Tis spring . . . Clap clap! ’Tis spring,

  let us rejoice and sing,

  the moon is queen the sun is king,

  so clap your paws and sing . . . Clap Clap!

  There’s not a cloud in sight . . . Clap Clap!

  the leaves are bright and new.

  This day was made for all . . . Clap Clap!

  for me my friend and you!

  So sing . . . Clap Clap! . . . So sing,

  let summer follow spring,

  from golden morn to evening,

  we clap our paws and sing . . . Clap Clap!

  . . . Clap Clap!”

  Although the clapping missed its beat once or twice, it was with joyous vigour. The little ones danced around, whooping and squeaking wildly, “Sing us’n’s a more!”

  Martha was coaxed into singing the lively air again. She finished quite out of breath, amid yells for a third performance.

  Toran took charge, slapping his rudder loudly on the bankside. “Hold up there, ye rogues, pore Miz Martha’s tuckered out. Now lissen t’me. If ye promise t’be good, we’ll have lunch out in the orchard today, seein’ as ’tis sunny!”

  His suggestion was greeted with roars of approval. “Lunch inna h’orchard, ’ooppee!”

  Martha smiled happily. “Oh, what a splendid idea!”

  Little Shilly sped off toward the Abbey, calling to the other Dibbuns. “Come on, we ’elp Granmum Gurvel wiv lunch!”

  Toran watched them go. “I don’t think old Gurvel will thank me for lettin’ that lot invade the kitchens.”

  Martha settled the big volume more comfortably on her lap. “Bless their little hearts, they mean well.”

  Toran cast a glance at the haremaid’s book. “That’s a heavy ole thing t’be readin’, miss. Wot’s it all about?”

  Martha opened the book at a page marked by a silken ribbon. “I borrowed it from Sister Portula’s library. It’s a rare and ancient account of Loamhedge mice.”

  The ottercook looked thoughtful. “Loamhedge mice, eh? I’ve heard of them. Weren’t they the ones who helped t’build our Abbey? Aye, they were led by old Abbess, er, wotsername?”

  “Germaine.” The haremaid corrected him. “It was she and Martin the Warrior who helped to build and design Redwall. Germaine and her followers once lived at the place they called Loamhedge. It was a peaceful and prosperous community, almost as large as our Abbey, some say. But they were forced to abandon it and flee for their lives. Loamhedge was left deserted to the four winds.”

  Toran’s interest was roused. Although he was no great reader himself, he liked to hear his friend tell of what she had read. “Why did they have to leave? Does the book explain?”

  Martha riffled back to a previously read page. “It says here that a great sickness fell upon Loamhedge. A plague, brought by vermin, possibly Searats. First there was sickness, then a few deaths. Abbess Germaine was wise enough to realise that it would grow into an epidemic, which would wipe them all out. So she took her mice and fled. They went wandering for many seasons, far from home. One day their journey took them into this part of Mossflower territory. It was here they met Martin the Warrior and his friends. Germaine joined forces with the Woodlanders, helping to rid the lands of powerful enemies. When peace was achieved, Martin and Germaine were free to realise their dream. They built a mighty stone fortress, an Abbey, where goodbeasts could live in safety and happiness together. That’s how, countless ages ago, Redwall came into being. . . .”

  Martha was interrupted by her brother Hortwill. He came bounding and splashing through the shallows and threw himself upon her.

  “Wot ho, wot ho, wot ho, me pretty young skin’n’blister!”

  She ducked her head, laughing as he showered her face with kisses. “Stop that this instant, Horty! I’m not your skin’n’blister, I’m your sister. Oh, look now, you’ve splashed water all over Sister Portula’s precious book!”

  Hortwill Braebuck, or Horty, as everybeast knew him, was Martha’s brother, older than her by two seasons. An overpowering character—ebullient, quaint of speech, always in trouble, he was roguishly gallant, sentimental to a fault, and possessed a gluttonous appetite. In short, a typical hare.

  Throwing up both paws and ears in mock horror, Horty declaimed, “Well, flog me twice round the jolly old orchard an’ chop off me ears with a rusty blinkin’ axe, wot! Splashed a bally spot o’water on Sis Peculiar’s blessed book? Lack a day, fifty seasons in the cellar for me. What say you, Toran old scout? Either that or instant death. Wot wot?”

  Toran played along with Horty’s dramatic mood. Squinting an eye, he growled fiercely, “Instant death’s the only thing!”

  The young hare threw him a smart military salute. “As y’say, sah, sentence t’be carried out on the blinkin’ spot!”

  Without further ado, Horty flung himself into the pond and vanished underwater, still saluting.

  Martha sat bolt upright in her chair. “Oh the fool, save him Toran, quickly!”

  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 hi
m 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!”

  3

  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.