Loamhedge

by Brian Jacques

  There was loud guffawing and shouts of ridicule from the Searats.

  “Pleased t’meet yer, I’m shore!”

  “Mercy me, ’e do look fierce, don’t ’e?”

  “I’d watch ’ow ye talk to ole Badredd. Looks like an ’ard master t’me, a cold ’earted killer!”

  “Hawhawhaw! Aye, lookit ’is sword. Hawhawhawhaw!”

  The Searat captain wrenched the broken cutlass from his victim’s belt. He held it under Badredd’s nose. “Does your mamma know ye’ve been playin’ wid this? Dearie me, yew could cut yerself. Naughty fox!”

  Raga Bol’s crew laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. When the fox’s own crew began smiling and chuckling, the big Searat turned on them savagely.

  “Wot are you lot laughin’ about, eh? Stupid clods, lettin’ yoreselves be ordered about by a liddle oaf with a busted sword. Gerrout of ’ere, all of ye, clear out!”

  The vermin scurried to obey, cringing and ducking as they had to pass Raga Bol, who was partially blocking the doorway. Still dragging Badredd along by his belt, Raga strode out into the sheeting rain, issuing orders to his Searats.

  “Glimbo, Ferron, Chakka, you stay in the liddle ’ouse wid me. Ringear, lock that big gate, nobeast gets in or out. Post a watch on it. The rest of ye, take shelter where ye can find it. Blowfly, take a rope’s end an’ keep an eye on this lot.”

  He indicated the fox’s crew with a nod. Finally, Raga turned his attention to the hapless Badredd. Thrusting the broken cutlass into the fox’s shaking paws, he snarled, “Now then, me laddo, yew’d better be a good cook, or ye’ll find yoreself bein’ served up as vittles. D’ye hear me?”

  Badredd nodded miserably as Raga Bol continued barking out orders. “Git yoreself down t’that pond an’ take yore crew along. I wants fish fer me brekkist, a good fat ’un, an’ no excuses. Just ’ow yer catches an’ cooks it is yore bizness. But if’n it ain’t on the table, done perfectly, when I wakes up . . . then ye’d best cut yore own throat wid that toy sword, ’cos ye won’t wanna face Raga Bol. Now get to it sharpish!”

  He flung Badredd face first into the mud. Then, turning on his paw, the big Searat strode inside the gatehouse.

  The little fox raised his head, weeping and spitting out wet soil, thankful he was still alive. But for how long? The barbarous rat had set him a near impossible task. How was he going to catch a big fish and cook it in the midst of a thunderstorm, with rain pounding furiously down?

  Thud! A blow from a knotted rope’s end made him arch his back. Blowfly landed another one, this time across Badredd’s rump.

  “Up on yore hunkers, foxy! Yew ’eard wot the cap’n said. Step lively now. Youse others, bring that blanket t’make a tent fer me. I ain’t sittin’ round in the rain watchin’ ye makin’ Cap’n Bol’s brekkist. All down t’the pond now, at the double!”

  He drove them forward with the rope’s end.

  A horrified silence had fallen over the Abbey dormitory. One word from Old Phredd cut the air like a knife. “Searats!”

  Shilly followed this up with a question. “Wot bee’s a Searat?”

  Toran bent down to the small truckle bed and pulled up the covers to the squirrelbabe’s chin. All around the dormitory, Dibbuns were sleeping peacefully. The ottercook wrinkled his nose at Shilly.

  “A Searat, me dear? Just some naughty ole beast. Nothin’ for ye to get upset about, go t’sleep now.”

  Abbot Carrul sat down on a hill of slingstones in the middle of the floor. “How many of them are in the grounds of our Abbey?”

  Martha replied from her seat at the window. “Hard to count in the dark and rain, Father, but there’s certainly more than twoscore of them, all rats, and armed to the fangs. Surely we can’t overcome that many!”

  An old mousewife called Mildun began sobbing in a panic. “We’ll all be dragged out of our beds and murdered, I know we will, us and those poor little babes. Ooooooohhhhhhh!”

  The haremaid immediately issued a harsh scolding. “Stop that right now!”

  Shocked into silence, Mildun shrank from the sharp reproof, listening intently as Martha continued in a stern voice. “There’s no call for that behaviour, marm, all you’ll do is cause worry to everybeast. Don’t let me hear an outburst like that from you ever again. Now if you’ve anything to say, then make it helpful. Don’t be a beast of ill omen, and keep your voice down. We don’t want the little ones taking fright. Do you hear me?”

  Mildun sniffed and mumbled into her kerchief. “Sorry, Martha.”

  Abbot Carrul turned grateful eyes to the haremaid. “Thank you, miss. Well, the whole situation has changed now—for the worse, I’m sad to say. An attack against such numbers of those savage rats is out of the question. So what do we do now? I’m open to helpful suggestions.”

  Foremole Dwurl raised a powerful digging claw. “Tunnels owt, zurr, me’n moi moles can make ee gurt tunnel. Uz’ll all be safe frumm ee vurmints then, oi reckerns!”

  As hope sprang anew in the Redwallers, they began chattering and clamouring aloud.

  Toran silenced them with a sudden bark. “A fine idea, sir, but let’s not be too hasty. Yore plan calls for a bit o’ discussion. Now one at a time—you first, Father Abbot.”

  Carrul folded both paws into his wide sleeves. “Thank you, Toran. First, let me say this. Our Foremole’s plan is a sensible one. The Dibbuns, and anybeast who chooses to go with them, will be safe from harm. As for myself, I must remain here where my duty lies. I could never desert my beautiful Abbey.”

  The ottercook seconded him. “Nor I, Carrul. It ain’t right leavin’ Redwall wide open to Searats an’ vermin. I stay!”

  Martha struck the arm of her chair resolutely. “Redwall Abbey is my home, the only home I’ve ever known. I’m not moving from here!”

  Every voice in the room was raised. “We stay! We stay!”

  Foremole Dwurl wrinkled his nose apologetically. “Oi bee’s sorry oi menshunned et naow.”

  Abbot Carrul placed a paw about the faithful mole’s shoulders. “You’ve no need to be sorry, friend, it was a good idea. The trouble is that nobeast wants to go now. So what do we do next?”

  Muggum would not be denied his say. The molebabe waved the copper ladle, which had become his chosen weapon. “Us’n’s foights, zurr, that bee’s wot us do. Foight!”

  Sister Setiva relieved Muggum of the ladle to stop him from giving anybeast a whack as he waved it about. “Och, ye wee terror, hush now an’ pay heed tae yore elders!”

  Toran picked up the molebabe and made an announcement to the assembly. “This liddle feller’s right, we must fight. But it won’t be no kill-or-be-killed sort o’ last stand. Oh no, mates, we’ll fight an’ defend the Abbey, stave off any attacks. Even if that means we’ll have t’fight all summer long, until the Skipper brings his ottercrew back ’ere from the Northshores. Then together we can deal with those savages outside.”

  Sister Portula brandished the hooked window pole she had armed herself with. Normally a quiet and reserved old mouse, she surprised everybeast by calling out, “Well spoken, Toran. That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard so far. We can be what we are, not warriors but defenders! We can stick it out and delay them all summer until help arrives from Skipper and his crew. But it will be no easy thing. Remember that we are under siege. Food will run short, drinks will have to be rationed, water cannot be used freely anymore. . . .”

  Baby Buffle interrupted the good sister by piping up, “Nonomorragerrabaffinwirrawater!”

  Martha gave Shilly a puzzled look. “What did he say?”

  The little squirrel grinned from ear to ear and did a somersault. “Iffa water bee’s short, Dibbuns can’t not get baffed. Yeeheeheehee!”

  Nobeast could resist laughing along with the overjoyed babes.

  The storm finally subsided to a light drizzle. Scratching the back of his neck with his silver hook, Raga Bol rolled out of Old Phredd’s bed and exited the gatehouse. Swigging from a flask of grog, he listened to the wh
impers and wails from the pond. Blowfly was keeping Badredd and his little gang hard at it. The Searat captain gazed up at the majestic grandeur of Redwall Abbey. What a sight! Anybeast would be mad to bother with ships when he could own a place like this. Smiling wolfishly, he shouted toward the Abbey.

  “Yore goin’ to meet Cap’n Raga Bol tomorrer, mousies!”

  28

  Marching all night was a harrowing experience for the younger creatures. Saro and Bragoon, being used to such hardships, plodded doggedly on in silence. Fenna stumbled alongside them, her eyes constantly drooping shut. The squirrelmaid sorely regretted ever leaving Redwall and all its comforts. She did not know which she yearned for most—sleep, food or water. Springald was of a like mind, trudging onward in a straight line with her four companions, keeping quiet and trying not to inhale too much dust.

  It was a cruel and forbidding outlook, the wasteland stretching all around, flat, silent and gloomy in the nighttime darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, daylight showed on the eastern horizon, a pale, misty mixture of dove-grey and orange.

  Bragoon watched the faint apricot edge of morning sun slowly rising. He spoke softly. “That’s a pretty sight, ain’t it, mates?”

  Horty hardly gave it a second glance. “Pretty, y’say? Pretty bloomin’ awful if y’ask me, wot. I’d swap the blinkin’ lot for a drop of water! Can’t we stop now? You said march by night an’ sleep durin’ the day. Well, there’s the jolly old day, an’ I’m pawsore an’ weary. So let’s lay the old heads down, eh chaps?”

  Saro pushed him onward. “Not just yet, we’ve got to keep goin’ while ’tis cool. When the day gets hot, that’s the time for sleep. The more ground we cover, the sooner we’ll be out o’ this wasteland. Keep marchin’, don’t stop now.”

  None of the travellers wanted to, but they carried on, knowing that it was the only sensible thing to do.

  By midmorning, the sun was beating down remorselessly as small dust spirals danced on the hot breeze. There was still no sight of trees or streams amid the dun-hued wastes.

  Bragoon finally halted. “We’ll rest here until late afternoon!”

  Saro began setting up a lean-to with cloaks and staves, weighting the cloak edges down with pieces of rock.

  Horty raised a dust cloud as he slumped down. “If I could only lay paws on the rotters who swiped our grub’n’water. By the left! I’d kick their confounded tails into the middle o’ next season, wot!”

  Bragoon rested on his stomach in the small patch of shade. “Don’t think about it, mate, yore only makin’ things worse.”

  Springald looked back at the ground they had covered. “Funny how the land seems to wobble and shimmer out there.”

  Fenna curled up and closed her eyes. “That’s just the heat on the horizon. It’s a mirage, really.”

  Saro shielded her eyes, peering keenly at the spectacle. She nudged the otter, directing his attention to it. “Don’t look like no mirage to me, wot d’ye think, Brag?”

  Bragoon squinted his eyes and watched intently. His paw strayed to the sword which lay by his side. “It might be just the heat waves, but it seems t’be movin’ closer toward us. Then again, it could be the earth dancin’. Remember the ground shakin’ like that the last time we was in this territory, Saro?”

  The squirrel never let her gaze waver from the shimmering. “Aye, it made a rumblin’ sound, too.”

  Horty laughed wildly. “Hawhawhaw! Just listen to ’em, chaps. We’re in the middle of bally nowhere, bein’ baked alive, not a flamin’ drop t’drink or eat. Now what, the ground has to start bloomin’ well dancin’! Am I goin’ off me flippin’ rocker, or is it those two ramblin’ duffers, wot?”

  Bragoon and Saro exchanged glances, then went back to their watching.

  Horty, however, would not be ignored. Gesturing with his paws, he flopped his ears dramatically.

  “They’re tellin’ me the ground’s doin’ a jig. An’ here am I, without a pastie to shovel down me face or a bucket o’ cordial to wet me parched lips! Ah, lackaday an’ woe is the handsome young hare, languishin’ out here an’ losin’ me mind! I’m goin’ mad, mad I tell ye! Stark bonkers an’ ravin’ nuts! ’Tis the dreaded thirstation!”

  Springald shook her head. “Thirstation? Shouldn’t that be thirstiness, or just thirst?”

  Bragoon whispered to Saro. “That couldn’t be the earth dancin’, or we’d have felt the rumbles.”

  Horty continued with his tirade. “Rumbles, rumbles? How could benighted buffoons such as you know about the rumblings of a sad tragic hare, whose life is bein’ cut short by the contagious thirstation an’ tummyrumbles?”

  The otter’s tail caught him a firm thwack across the rear. “Shuttup, young ’un, get to sleep an’ quit yore shoutin’!”

  Horty subsided meekly, but still muttered to have the last word. “Beaten by the bullyin’ Bragoon into shallow slumber. Goodnight, fair comrades, or is it good day, wot?”

  Within a short time, the three young ones were asleep. Sarobando was dozing, too, but Bragoon lay on his stomach, chin resting on both paws. Through slitted eyelids he scanned the wastelands to the rear of the lean-to. They drew closer. Now he could distinguish them, not as heat shimmers but as small, patchy bumps. Moving silently, betrayed only by odd puffs of dust, they edged nearer. Then they halted. One bump detached itself from the pack and advanced.

  Saro came awake as Bragoon touched her ear. He nodded toward the moving object, twitching his tail against the squirrel’s footpaw. Saro prepared herself, knowing the signal well. One . . . Two . . . On the third twitch they both attacked. Springing in the air and leaping forward, both beasts threw themselves bodily on the thing. It squeaked aloud. Immediately the ground came alive. Squeaking and whistling, hundreds of small shapes raised an enormous dust cloud as they fled. The captured one wriggled and bit madly, but it could not escape its captors. It was disguised by a cloak woven from tough, coarse grass. Bragoon and Saro swiftly wrapped it into a bundle, trapping the beast within.

  Saro drew a small blade. “Haharr, got ye, thief, be still or I’ll slay ye!”

  Bragoon crouched with his sword poised, defending his friend’s back against attack. Saro dragged the bundle inside the lean-to, rapping out orders to the trio, who were now awake.

  “Grab ahold o’ that. Jump on it if it tries to escape!”

  Springald and Fenna held the thing tight. Horty pulled off the covering. It was a small, goldish-brown mouselike beast with a long tail and a white-furred stomach. Temporarily stunned, it lay gazing up at them through huge, dark eyes.

  The otter came bounding in; sword upraised he menaced it. “Our food’n’water, where is it? Speak or die, robber!”

  The creature gave vent to a piercing cry. “Feeeeeeeeeeee!”

  This was followed by a sound from outside, like hundreds of tiny drums.

  Saro stepped out of the shelter. “Curl me bush, come an’ take a look o’ this, mates!”

  A billowing dust cloud was rising from footpaws drumming the earth. When it settled, a hundred or more of the mouselike beasts stood facing them. They all wore grass cloaks about their shoulders.

  Fenna whispered to Saro. “Good grief, what do we do now?”

  The older squirrel answered quietly out of the side of her mouth. “Say nothin’. Leave this to me, mate.”

  Bragoon emerged from the shelter, dragging his prisoner by the tail. Hoisting the creature up, he swung the sword of Martin. The otter’s voice roared out. “Give us back our food’n’water, or this ’un’s a deadbeast! D’ye understand me? I’ll slay ’im if’n ye don’t obey!”

  For an answer, they once again set up a loud drumming with their footpaws: Brrrrrrrrrrr! Then they stood silent, watching Bragoon as the dust settled.

  The captive one glared fearlessly up at the otter. “Chiiiiiiirk—kill me! We of the Jerbilrats give nobeast water. Chiiik, sooner give our blood than water!”

  Springald was surprised. “Rats? They’re handsome little things.
They’ve got beautiful, big dark eyes. They look far too nice to be rats!”

  Saro turned fiercely on the mousemaid. “Just shut yore mouth, miss, I don’t care ’ow nice they look. They’ve told ye wot they are—a rat’s a rat, an’ that’s that. Hold yore tongue, an’ leave the talkin’ to Brag!”

  The otter yelled back at the massed Jerbilrats. “Hah, so ye can unnerstand me. D’ye think I’m foolin’?”

  He struck with the sword, snipping a whisker from the Jerbilrat. As the drumming resumed, Bragoon raised his sword. “Next one takes this robber’s head off. Give us our supplies!”

  Fenna whispered urgently to Horty. “He’s not really going to chop off a defenceless creature’s head, is he?”

  Horty shrugged. “Simple case o’ survival out here. Either we get the rations back or we peg out an’ perish, wot!”

  The Jerbilrat actually smiled at Bragoon. “I die, one less mouth to feed—that saves water. Kill me, riverdog.”

  Saro sighed. “Don’t give us much choice, does ’e?”

  The otter let his sword drop. “I never slew a helpless beast.”

  Saro winked. “I know, mate, we ain’t murderers. Let me try.”

  Hauling the Jerbilrat up by its ears, she dealt it a slap. “I know ye ain’t givin’ us our supplies back, but I’ll slap ye round ’til sunset if’n y’don’t tell me where water is.”

  Saro made a wavy motion, describing a stream or river. “Water, like this.” She gave the beast a heavier slap. “Talk!”

  The Jerbilrat shrugged. “Two days southeast maybe, don’t know.”

  Saro struck again. “Then find out, ’cos yore comin’ with us!”

  The creature snarled. “I’m Jiboa the Jerchief. I’ll kill you—I’m not afraid to kill, like that riverdog is!”

  Saro took a length of rope, knotting it firmly around Jiboa’s neck. She smiled grimly. “Ole Bragoon’s the merciful one, I ain’t so soft ’earted. I don’t take no lip from cheeky-faced rats. Now take us to the water, or I’ll make ye wish my mate had killed ye!”