Loamhedge

by Brian Jacques

  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 f
ind 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.

  Abruc patted his stomach and winked at the young creature. “Now that’s wot I calls a sea otter chowder. Nobeast can make it like yore mamma does, ain’t that right, me ’eart?”

  Marinu refilled her husband’s bowl. “I wager you used to say that about yore own mamma’s chowder. All it takes is clams, mussels an’ shrimps, with some beans, chestnut flour, seaweed, carrots an’ a few pawfuls of sea salt an’ hotroot pepper. ’Tis simple to cook up.”

  Young Stugg held out his bowl for a refill. “But you make it da best, ’cos yore our mamma!”

  Marinu dipped her ladle into the pot they had brought out. “You’ll soon be as big a flatterer as yore dad! Wipe that chin, you’ve got chowder all over it.”

  Abruc looked over the rim of his bowl at Marinu. “So, how are you an’ old Sork gettin’ along with our big badger? D’ye reckon he’ll live?”

  Marinu wiped Stugg’s chin with her apron hem as she spoke. “It looks like he will, though whether or not he’ll waken fully we don’t know. He might just fade away, after one of those death sleeps that last a few seasons. I never thought anybeast could be so deeply wounded an’ live. Sork used fish glue to mend his skull bone. When that was all clean and set, I used long hairs from his own back as thread to stitch the skin back over. We set lots of spider web over it all. Give it a few days, then we’ll wash it gently with valerian and sanicle to deaden any pain. Shoredog says he’ll have to be moved to the old cave where it’ll be quieter. We’ll make him a big bed of silver sand and moss.”

  Abruc nodded. “That should help. I’ll keep a warm fire of pine an’ sweet herbs burnin’ there, night an’ day.”

  Marinu rose. “I’m going back inside. Sork wants to borrow some of the broth off’n my chowder to feed him. A hard task with such a big beast who’s still senseless.”

  When she had gone inside, Abruc and Stugg finished off the remaining food. The young otter sat watching his father attach a slim line, from the end of his rudder, to a thick root growing from the bankside. Abruc took a chunk of beeswax and began rubbing it into several more loose lines of tough flaxen fibre.

  The sea otter eyed his young son. “Shouldn’t you be off to yore bed, ’tis getting’ late.”

  Stugg rubbed some of the beeswax on his paw curiously. “Wot are you doin’ wiv dat stuff, farder?”

  Abruc explained as he worked. “I’m makin’ a bowstring, a good stout one that won’t rot or break under strain.”

  Young Stugg pursued his enquiries. “Wotta you be wantin’ a bowstring for, farder?”

  Abruc answered patiently. “T’aint for me, it’s for our big badger. I’ve got a feelin’ he’ll be well again some day. When the time comes, he’ll be leavin’ us to go westward.”

  Stugg persisted. “Is a bowstring good to go westward wiv?”

  His father began deftly plying the waxed fibres together. “Aye, son, that big feller’s an archer. He’ll have t’find ’imself the right wood t’make a new bow, but the least I can do is to plait him a proper bowstring. Then he’ll be well armed to settle up with the vermin who tried to slay him an’ murdered his ole friend.”

  Stugg nodded. “I bet they be sorry then!”

  Abruc stopped working momentarily. “Sorry ain’t the word, young ’un. When a badger goes after his enemies,
there ain’t noplace they can run or hide from him. I’ll wager our big beast will come down on ’em with the Bloodwrath!”

  Unfamiliar with this strange word, Stugg posed a new question. “Wot’s a Bloodraff, farder?”

  Abruc shook his head decisively. “Bloodwrath is terrible, somethin’ you don’t ever want t’see or know about. Go on now, off to bed with ye, me son!”

  4

  Old Father Phredd was the Redwall Abbey Gatekeeper. He had once been Abbot, but his seasons caught up with him. Passing the position over to Carrul, he retired to the gatehouse. Phredd was ancient, probably the oldest hedgehog in all Mossflower, and enjoyed being very old, and rather eccentric as well. Although the Old Gatekeeper sought the privacy of his beloved gatehouse and slept a lot, when he was up and about, he could be rather sprightly. His skinny form, with drooping silver spikes, often caused a smile around the Abbey and its grounds. Phredd spoke to stones, trees, plants and flowers, carrying on long conversations and debating with the most everyday objects.

  He had arrived late for lunch, shunning the main crowd that was now gathered in the orchard. Preparing his own plate in the deserted kitchens, Phredd first chose a scone. He prattled on to it as he made his way around the tables.

  “Hee hee, you’re a fine fresh fellow. Now what’ll I have to go with you, eh, eh? Speak up!”

  Placing an ear close to the scone, he cackled. “Teeheehee! Of course, some honey, a piece o’ cheese and a beaker of soup—not too hot, just right for swigging, eh?”

  Granmum Gurvel, the old molecook, came in from the orchard to draw off more cordial. She spied Phredd and watched him chatting away to the food until he caught sight of her.

  Phredd waved his scone at her. “Oh, er, young Gurvel, g’day!”

  She chuckled. “Hurr hurr, goo day to ee, zurr. Wot bee’s ee soup sayin’ to ee, sumthin’ noice oi ’opes?”