Loamhedge

by Brian Jacques

  The otter lifted Fenna onto his back. “Some other time, miss. Let’s get this ’un into the pineforest shade. We found a stream over that way. I’ll take ye to it.”

  Saro closed her eyes dreamily. “A pine forest an’ a whole streamful o’ beautiful babblin’ water. Lead on, mate!”

  They entered the pines when it was midday. Horty raced ahead until he found the stream. He ran toward it, turning his head to shout, “This is the place, chaps! Hawhaw, wait’ll I tell you what old Brag did to a gang of bullyin’ reptiles last night. He gave ’em the towsing of their lousy lives, he . . . nunhhhhh!”

  Without paying attention, Horty had run full head-on into a thick, low pine branch. He was laid flat out, unconscious.

  Saro ran to him and lifted his head. “Stone-cold senseless! That makes two we got to nurse now. Why didn’t the lop-eared gallumper look where he was goin’?”

  The remainder of the afternoon was spent beside the stream. Springald looked after her two friends whilst the older pair went foraging for food. It was so pleasant in the shade of the tall pines. Besides tending the invalids, the mousemaid had time to paddle and wash in the stream. It was a cool and peaceful spot with sunlight and shadow dappling everywhere. Fenna was recovering nicely when Bragoon and Saro returned. The two old campaigners brought with them wonderful chestnut-coloured mushrooms, wild onions, dandelion buds and a variety of edible roots and berries.

  Bragoon was heartened by the sight of the squirrelmaid. “Feelin’ better, eh, beauty? Well, we can’t light no cookin’ fires in a pine forest like this, ’tis too risky. Do ye fancy a nice salad, miss?”

  Fenna watched the otter chopping everything finely with his swordblade. “Salad would be perfect, thank you!”

  The moment the aroma of freshly cut food assailed his senses, Horty revived. “Oh goody! I say, you chaps, please pass the salad. Owchowchoooh! Me flippin’ bonce is splittin’. Can y’see any of me brilliant young brains leakin’ out, wot?”

  Fenna could not stifle a giggle. “Oh, poor Horty, you’ve got a lump like a boulder, right twixt your ears. I’m sorry for laughing, it must be very painful.”

  The young hare winced when he touched the large swelling. “Painful ain’t the word, Fenn old gel, it’s absobally agonisticful. Don’t think I’ll last the day out, actually. Don’t shed too many bitter tears when I turn me paws up an’ peg out. ’Twas all done bravely in the line of duty. Wot!”

  Saro inspected the injury. “Hah, it looks like a duck egg growin’ out o’ yore skull. Don’t worry, though, you’ll live. I’ve got just the thing for that. Sit still an’ eat yore salad while I go an’ make a poultice.”

  She spent some time at the stream, gathering certain things and soaking them in the water. On her return, the aging squirrel tore strips off a cloak for binding.

  Horty pulled back apprehensively. “Don’t hurt a dyin’ young beast in his final moments. Be merciful, marm!”

  Bragoon held the hare’s paws as Saro worked. She tweaked Horty’s whiskers whenever he moved. “Be still, ye great ninny! This is a compress of duckweed, dock, watercress, sainfoil an’ streambed mud. Twill do ye a world o’ good!”

  When she had finished, the others had to turn away their faces to keep from bursting out into laughter. Horty sat dolefully munching salad. Atop his head sat a high turban of cloak strips, herbs and mud, secured with a tie beneath his chin. Both of Horty’s ears flopped out at the sides. He glared at Bragoon, who was biting down on his lip to contain a guffaw.

  “What’s the flippin’ matter with your face, chucklechops? D’you find somethin’ funny about a wounded warrior, wot wot?”

  The otter brought himself under control. “Who, me? No, mate, but I wouldn’t go near any bumblebees if’n I was ye. They might be lookin’ fer a new hive! Hohohohoho!”

  Seeing there was no salad left, Horty rose regally and stared down his nose at the mirth-struck quartet. “Tut tut, I shall be carryin’ on alone, without any aid from those I once called friends. Huh, bunch of whinnyin’, witless woebetides. Fie upon you all, say I!” He stalked off in high dudgeon, his turban dressing awobble as he stooped to avoid branches.

  Fenna grasped her sides, tears of laughter rolling down both cheeks as she gasped out, “Heeheehee, come on, I’m, haha, well enough to travel now. Ohahahahhh! We’d better go along with him just in case he, heeheehee, backs into a sharp branch, and we, hahahahaaaa, have to tie a turban to his tail. Whoohoohoohoo!”

  The pine forest was a vast area. As evening fell, it became dark, swathed in a gloomy, green light. Horty was still not talking to anybeast, but the urge to utter some noise was so great that he struck up a mournful dirge.

  “ ’Tis a sad lonely life, I have oft heard it said,

  to go wanderin’ about with this wodge on one’s head,

  for I travel alone o’er desert an’ lea.

  Why, even the midges and ants avoid me,

  while the ones I called pals an’ the comrades I know,

  all laugh ’til their rotten, cruel faces turn blue.

  There’s a grin on the gob of each pitiless cad,

  as they scoff at the plight of a poor wretched lad,

  but I’ll carry on bravely, I won’t weep or cry,

  an’ I’ll have my revenge on ’em all when I die.

  My ghost will sneak up while they’re laid snug in bed,

  an’ I’ll hoot spooky whoops through this thing on my head.

  Then they’ll cry out ‘Oh Horty, forgive us, please do’

  as my spirit howls loudly . . . ‘Yah boo sucks to you!’ ”

  When night fell, Horty broke down and wept inconsolably. Springald crept through the gloom and found him sitting on a log, feeling sorry for himself. She put a paw around him.

  “Horty, don’t cry. What’s the matter? This isn’t like you.”

  He shoved her paw away. “Yaaah, gerroff me, you don’t care, no flippin’ one bally well bloomin’ cares about me!”

  Bragoon took a firmer approach. “Come on now, mate, wot’s all this blubberin’ about, eh?”

  Horty snapped a small twig and flung it at the otter, but it missed. “You ain’t no mate o’ mine, none of you lot is! I’m starvin’ t’death, I’ve got a molehill growin’ out me head, my poor skull aches like flamin’ thunder, an’ now I’m goin’ blind. I can hardly see a paw in front o’ me!”

  Fenna took over, grasping the weeping hare’s shoulders. “Don’t be silly, Horty Braebuck, and listen to me. What’s all this carrying on for, eh? You’re hungry, right? Tell me when you aren’t hungry! What then, your head’s aching? Stands to reason, you’ve suffered a nasty bang on it. But as for going blind, that’s nonsense! It’s so dark in this forest at nighttime that none of us can see much. Here, take hold of this stick and follow me. Don’t keep fiddling with that dressing on your head or it’ll never get better. Saro, have you any food left?”

  The squirrel produced a few mushrooms. “I saved these.”

  Fenna gave the mushrooms to Horty. “Eat them slowly, take small bites and chew each mouthful twenty times. Come on, up you come, we’ve still got a lot of ground to cover yet.”

  They marched all night, with Bragoon scouting ahead and Saro keeping them on course. The otter returned in dawn’s first glimmer, bringing with him a heap of ripe bilberries in his cloak.

  “Lookit wot I found! I think there must be a river ahead, I could hear the sound of running water in the distance. Sit down an’ get yore gums round a few o’ these, Horty mate, they’re nice’n’ripe. We’ll rest ’ere awhile.”

  Horty was considerably less sorrowful when there was food in the offing. “Mmmm, better’n those measly mushrooms. I say, you chaps, I can see better. Flippin’ bandage must’ve fell down over me eyes last night, wot. Oh corks, now everything’s gone flippin’ green! Why’s it all green?”

  Springald explained. “Because it isn’t properly light yet, it’s the day breaking over the treetops. Pines grow so thick in here that it makes the light loo
k green.”

  But Horty would not be convinced. “Fiddlesticks, you’re only sayin’ that t’make a chap feel better. Ah well, I don’t mind spendin’ the rest o’ me life in a green fug. Hawhaw, lookit old Brag, sour apple face, an’ you, too, Spring, little lettuce features, an’ you Fenn, young grassgob!”

  Saro stared at him pointedly. “Ye missed me out?”

  Having devoured all the available berries, Horty lay back and closed his eyes. “Hush now, let a chap get some rest, cabbage head!”

  The squirrel chuckled. “That’s more like the ole Horty we all know an’ dread.”

  Midmorning found them back trekking once more, eager to be out of the oppressive pine forest. The further on they went, the more pronounced came the sound of flowing water.

  Saro stopped to listen. “Sounds like a fairly wide river. Have ye got that ole map from the Abbey, mate?”

  Bragoon produced the map, which had been made during the journey of Matthias of Redwall in search of his son Mattimeo. He scanned it closely. “Aye, we’re on the right course, though I think we took a different route t’get to it. This is the high cliffs, here’s the wastelands an’ this is the pines we’re in now. There should be some sort of open area ahead, then a big river. We’ll soon see, mates. Press on, eh!”

  They emerged onto the edge of a deep valley, the hill below them thickly dotted with smaller pines and lots of shrubbery. Below it was the narrowest strip of bank. Beyond that, a wide, fast-flowing river glimmered in the sunlight. Halfway down, the travellers halted on a shale ledge. They still had some way to go, and the descent looked fairly steep. Horty sat down, yawning in the heat. He rested his face in both paws.

  Saro prodded him. “Are ye alright, head achin’ is it?”

  The young hare nodded. “A bit, but I’m more tired than anything.”

  Saro indicated an overhang that was screened by bushes. “Tuck yoreself in there young ’un an’ take a snooze. I’ll call ye when we’re ready to move.”

  The four travellers slithered and bumped down the steep hillside, grasping trees and bushes to slow their descent. They were about halfway down when Bragoon sighted the reptiles. He halted, pointing.

  “Down yonder on the riverside below us. Those reptiles I dealt with last night are waitin’ for us. Trouble is, they’ve brought a pile o’ their gang with ’em!”

  Saro counted the assorted lizards, newts, toads, smooth snakes and grass snakes awaiting them on the shore. There were about thirty in all, with another twoscore camped on the opposite bank of the river.

  A thin reed lance zipped upward, narrowly missing Fenna’s cheek. She stumbled, almost overbalancing, but Bragoon managed to grab her. “Take cover quick, they’re throwin’ lances!”

  To one side of the slope, a fallen pine had lodged flat between two standing trees. Crouching behind it, Saro fitted a stone to her sling and launched it off at the reptiles. Cautiously, she peered over the log, noting that a toad had hopped out of the way of her stone. “They ain’t movin’, just waitin’ for us down there. Let’s give ’em another couple o’ slingstones, mate!”

  Both she and Bragoon slung more stones as Springald and Fenna threw lumps of shale. They were forced to duck fast as a half dozen of the sharp, thin lances came back at them.

  The otter thumped his rudder down irritably. “Well, this ain’t goin’ t’get us to Loamhedge. Those cold-blooded scum ’ave got us pinned down ’ere!”

  Springald picked up one of the lances and threw it back. “It’s a stand-off, what are we going to do?”

  Sarobando passed her sling to the mousemaid. “Ye can use this, ’tis a good sling. But I’ll want it back later. This is wot we’ll do. While you three keep slingin’ stones, I’ll slide off through the trees an’ take a scout round downriver. I’ll find a good quiet spot where the river narrows for an easy crossin’. Then I’ll slip back ’ere an’ let ye know. Once ’tis dark, we can all sneak away an’ escape. Right?”

  Fenna nodded. “Sounds like a good idea!”

  Bragoon raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like? Let me tell ye, missy, when my ole mate gets an idea, ’tis always a good ’un!”

  Saro gave him a quick grin. “Thankee, Brag. Now let’s give ’em a good rattlin’ volley to keep their ’eads down while I pop off unnoticed. One . . . Two . . . Three!”

  Slingstones and lumps of shale peppered down at the foebeasts below. When Springald looked up, Saro had gone. Bragoon shoved the mousemaid’s head back down as more lances came.

  “Always duck fast once ye’ve throwed, Spring. There’s more pore beasts been injured or slain in fights by lookin’ up to see where their stones went. Ready agin, come on, let’s give ’em a spot o’ blood’n’vinegar. Yahaaar! Try some o’ this, ye scum-backed, bottle-nosed crawlers!”

  Horty slept on beneath the overhang, blissfully unaware of what was taking place.

  31

  Saro put some distance between herself and the skirmish. Ahead lay a sweeping bend in the river. Making her way down to the bank, she skirted the bend and began jogging steadily along the shore. It was peaceful and quiet, with only the crunch of pebbles beneath her footpaws mingling with the murmur of riverwater, echoing off the high, wooded slopes on either side. As she got round the bend, Saro caught the sound of deep, gruff voices singing a river shanty. She pressed on toward the singing. It was a song she knew, and she was fairly certain who the singers would be. The aging squirrel joined in with the melodious music.

  “Wally wally dampum dearie,

  I’ll sail back home next spring.

  Kiss all the babies for me,

  an’ teach the lot to sing.

  Toodle aye toodle oo, me daddy’s a shrew,

  whose face I can’t recall,

  but I’ll stay home all season long,

  until I hears him call.

  Logalog Logalog Logalog Oooohhhh!

  Ringa linga ling me darlin’,

  there’s ribbons for yore hair,

  I’ll bring to ye a bonnet,

  an’ a fine red rockin’ chair.

  Toodle oo toodle ay, just wait’ll the day,

  Daddy comes paddlin’ in.

  I’ll grow up big’n’strong then,

  an’ sail away with him.

  Logalog Logalog Logalog Ooooooooohhhhhh!”

  Cupping both paws to her mouth, Saro bellowed for all she was worth. “Logalogalogaloga looooooog!”

  Six shrew logboats hove into view, sailing upriver. The lead craft was by far the largest, carved from a mighty oak trunk and fitted with a single square sail of scarlet with an ornate letter B emblazoned on it. All the logboats were packed with shrews, about a hundred of the small, fierce beasts. Each spiky-furred shrew wore a multicoloured headband and a kilt held up by a broad, copper-buckled belt into which was thrust a short rapier. Their leader, a solid old patriarch, with a thick, silver beard, stood in the prow of the front craft. He signalled for the rowers to pull into the shore.

  No sooner had the vessel nosed in to land than the shrew chieftain leaped ashore and seized Saro in a viselike bear hug. He roared cheerily, “Sarobando, me ole squirrelcake, where’ve ye been a-hidin’ yoreself? Oh, it does me eyes a power o’ good to see ye agin! Belay, where’s that rip-ruddered rascal Bragoon? Is the ole villain still alive? Haharrharrr!”

  Saro tugged the shrew’s big beard and kissed both of his cheeks. “Log a Log Briggy, ye barrel-bellied ole riverroarer, I knew ’twas you as soon as I ’eard yore song. Let go o’ me, mate, while me ribs are still in one piece. Lissen careful to wot I got to tell ye!”

  After loosening Saro, Log a Log Briggy listened as she told him the facts. “There’s trouble upriver. Bragoon an’ some young mates of ours are pinned down on the ’illside by reptiles. There’s about thirty o’ the scum on this side o’ the water, an’ more on the other side. We need yore ’elp, Briggy!”

  The shrew chieftain’s brows lowered menacingly as he gritted out the words. “Reptiles, eh? I can’t abide the creepy, cold-eyed sc
um. They think they rule the roost up that end o’ the river. Don’t fret, matey, I’ll put my oar in an’ show ’em who the real bigbeast is in these waters. No reptile’s goin’ to mess wid good mates o’ mine!”

  He began issuing orders to the captains of the other five logboats. “Moor those vessels on the other bank, we’ll come back for ’em later. Jigger, take twenty goodbeasts an’ go wid Saro. Bring extra clubs along wid ye. Raffu, Fregg, Scordo, Fludge, you an’ the rest foller me along the far bank. Keep ’idden among the trees, an’ don’t make no noise. Bring me Aggie Frogslapper, look lively now!”

  One of the shrews passed Log a Log Briggy a hefty carved sycamore war club, which he wielded lovingly. “Ole Aggie’s slapped a few frogs in ’er day. Hah, there’ll be a lot o’ reptiles won’t be comin’ back for a second kiss from ye, Aggie me old gel!”

  Briggy introduced Saro to a young shrew who was the model of himself in bygone seasons. “This is me eldest, Jigger. ’Tis only his sixth season out as a Guoraf warrior, but he’s shapin’ up well. Jigg, me darlin’ son, go wid Saro. When ye get yore fighters set up, wait for yore dear ole dad’s call afore ye charge the scurvy foe.”

  Jigger shook Saro’s paw. “Let’s make tracks. I hate bein’ late fer a fight, marm!”

  Armed with clubs, rapiers and slings, the shrews set off with Saro and Jigger at a swift trot around the riverbend. Log a Log Briggy took his logboat with the other five craft across the river to the opposite bank. He was first ashore, stroking his club, Aggie Frogslapper, and murmuring fondly, “Aharr, ’tis a long time since ye had a good outin’, me dearie!”

  Night had descended over Redwall Abbey. Brother Gelf and Brother Weld sat by the dormitory window with Toran and Martha. The vermin had extinguished the fire on the Abbey lawn. Only the glow from a fire by the gatehouse could be seen. Abbot Carrul came up from the kitchens, threading his way through the Redwallers, who were resting on the dormitory floor. He pushed a trolley along to Martha and the watchers.