Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  The realisation of what she was doing caused the old molecook to smile. “Gurr, lack ee day, that Phredd got oi a talkin’ to moi own pies naow, gurt seasons!”

  Martha had finished her lunch. She, too, sought peace and quiet to continue her reading. Leaving her friends, she wheeled the chair indoors. Crossing Great Hall, she went straight to her favourite place. Harlequin hues of sunlight shafted down through the high, stained-glass windows onto the worn stone floor. Between two towering sandstone columns, a lantern glowed beneath a wondrous woven tapestry with a sword suspended to one side of it. The haremaid halted her chair in full view of the scene, golden motes of sundust floating slowly on the serene air.

  Martha paused before opening Sister Portula’s heavy book. She gazed up at the central figure in the tapestry, Martin the Warrior. A heroic, armour-clad mouse, the hero and champion of Redwall Abbey. Martha loved looking at his face—so strong and protective yet kindly, with a secret smile forever hiding in his eyes. The sword he was leaning on was the very same one that hung on the wall—a legendary warrior’s weapon, its only adornment, one red pommel stone set on the hilt. Martin’s swordblade had been forged at Salamandastron, the badgers’ mountain fortress on the west seashore. It had been made from a star fragment that had fallen from the skies.

  No matter what position Martha took up when she visited the tapestry, Martin’s eyes always seemed to be watching her. The haremaid could feel his presence so strongly that she often spoke to him. Keeping her voice low in the echoing hall, she nodded toward the warrior mouse.

  “The rains stopped today. You can see by the sunlight in here that it’s a beautiful spring day outside. I’ve come to do a bit of reading in peace. You should hear those Dibbuns singing in the orchard—they’re so happy! Did you ever do much reading, Martin?”

  “Hee hee, I don’t suppose he did, a warrior like him, eh?” Phredd emerged from the shadows, where he had installed himself behind a column to enjoy his lunch.

  Martha was slightly surprised at the old hedgehog’s appearance. “Oh I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know you were here.”

  Phredd picked pie crumbs from his cheek spikes. “No need to be sorry, pretty miss, you carry on talking to your friend. I’ve had many a long chat with him, eh!”

  The haremaid continued looking at the tapestry. “He looks so understanding, like a friend anybeast could talk to. Do you think he can hear us?”

  Phredd patted her shoulder lightly. “Of course he can. I’m sorry for intruding. You carry on, miss. I’ll just pop off to my gatehouse for an afternoon nap. Good day to you.”

  He shuffled off, though Martha heard him reprimanding a corner bench. “You mind your own business an’ don’t be eavesdropping now, eh, eh!”

  Martha opened the book but was only able to concentrate on it for a short while before her eyelids began to flicker and then droop. The peacefulness of her surroundings, combined with the warm sunlight pouring down from the windows, had woven its own spell. There, in the silence of Great Hall, the small figure in the chair slept in a pool of tranquillity. Floating through the corridors of her mind came two mice—one, a maid of her own age clad in a gown of green; the other, Martin the Warrior.

  His voice was as reassuring as soft breezes through a meadow. “I never did read much, Martha. It is good to read, all learning is knowledge. Read on, young one. Learn of Sister Amyl and the mice of Loamhedge.”

  The haremaid could hear her own voice replying, “Learn what? Who is Sister Amyl?”

  The young mousemaid standing beside the warrior pointed to Martha and spoke, every word burning itself into Martha’s mind.

  “Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,

  my secret lies hid from view,

  a tale of how I learned to walk,

  when once I was as you.

  Though you cannot go there,

  look out for two who may,

  travellers from out of the past,

  returning home someday.”

  Both Martin and Sister Amyl raised a paw in farewell. The dream faded like wisping smoke as Martha slept on.

  Around midnoon Martha was awakened rudely, her chair jolted as three pair of paws latched on to it. Horty, Springald and Fenna ran her speedily across Great Hall, whirling perilously around the huge stone columns.

  Martha gripped the chair tightly. “Whoo! Slow down, please. Where are we going?”

  Horty jumped up beside her, shouting, “Out to enjoy the jolly old fresh air, my beautiful skin’n’blister, you’ll go mouldy sittin’ indoors, wot! I say, you chaps, can’t you make this thing go faster? Yaaaah!”

  The chair struck a table edge and upturned. Springald and Fenna leapt aside, but Martha and Horty were shot out. Luckily, Martha landed on top of her brother, clutching Sister Portula’s volume to her. The chair skidded on a short distance, then lay still, one of its wheels still turning slowly.

  Horty looked up into his sister’s face. “Dreadfully sorry about that, old gel, just a bit of fun, wot. I say, are you hurt?”

  Martha glared down from where she was sitting on him. “Lucky for you I’m not. Is my chair damaged?”

  Springald and Fenna set the chair upright and examined it.

  “No, not a mark on it, Martha!”

  “Haha, old Toran knew what he was doing when he built this thing. Stay there, we’ll lift you back in!”

  In frosty silence, Martha allowed them to lift her back into the chair. The trio fussed about, folding the rug neatly about her lap and laying the volume on it.

  Fenna smiled sweetly. “There, no real harm done, Martha. We were only trying to cheer you up, didn’t mean to throw you like that.”

  Hastily Springald backed her up. “Yes, we were going to take you for a quick spin around the walltop. Lovely view from there on a day like this.”

  Horty waggled his ears in agreement. “Right you are, m’dear. There’s still time for a toddle round the battlements, though we’ll go slower this time. Word of honour, wot!”

  Martha shook her head firmly. “Oh no, you three wildbeasts aren’t taking me anywhere. Now go away! Please, leave me alone, I’m quite happy here!”

  Horty scuffed his footpaw guiltily along the floorstones. “I say, y’won’t tell anybeast about what happened, will you?”

  Martha tapped her chair arm pensively. “Any beast like who?”

  Horty fidgeted with his belt tab. “Er, like Toran, or Abbot Carrul or blinkin’ old Sis Peculiar.”

  Martha reminded him of the Infirmary Keeper. “Or Sister Setiva?”

  Fenna’s eyes went wide. “Oh please, don’t tell her!”

  The other two miscreants joined in with their pleas.

  “She’ll make us scrub the infirmary out and stitch sheets!”

  “Aye, an’ physick the blinkin’ life out of us. Oh come on, charmin’, beautiful Sis, say y’won’t snitch to that monster!”

  They looked so sorry for themselves that Martha relented. “Alright, I won’t say anything—provided you go away immediately and leave me in peace.”

  Without a word the trio began to scramble away and were almost at the door when Martha suddenly recalled her dream.

  “Wait, come back here, there’s something I need you to do!”

  Horty dashed back so hastily that he almost tripped and fell onto his sister’s lap. “Anything, dear old skin’n’blister, we’re yours to flippin’ well command!”

  Martha issued her modest requests, but she spoke firmly. “Fenna, I want you to go and seek out Abbot Carrul. Horty, you go and find Sister Portula, and mind how you address her. The message for both of them is this: Ask politely that if neither is too busy, would they please come to the gatehouse. There is an important matter I would like to discuss with them. Springald, push my chair to the gatehouse—at a reasonable pace, please.”

  Brother Phredd poked his head around the gatehouse doorway, blinking and yawning. “Ah yes, young wotsername, come in please, and your friend, too. Always nice to have afternoon visitors, eh!
”

  As Springald pushed Martha over the threshold, the haremaid heard the mousemaid muttering. “Huh, I’m not stopping in some dusty old gatehouse on an afternoon like this!”

  Martha fixed her with an icy smile. “Oh, you don’t have to stay, you run off to the kitchens now. Have a word with Gurvel or Toran—tell them I’d like afternoon tea for four.”

  Springald looked puzzled. “Afternoon tea for four?”

  Martha wheeled round to face her. “Yes, afternoon tea, you know, scones and slices of cake, and a large pot of mint tea with honey. Hop along now, bring them straight back here, and don’t spill the tea. Off you go, miss!”

  To ensure Martha’s silence, Springald had no option but to obey. With a sweep of her skirt she flounced off.

  Old Phredd addressed the chair he was about to sit on. “Afternoon tea, how does that sound to you, quite nice, eh?”

  In due course, Abbot Carrul and Sister Portula arrived. Both knew that Martha was a sensible creature and would not summon them on some foolish errand. Brother Phredd had just seated them both, when another knock came on the door. He scratched his drooping spikes and muttered. “More visitors, quite an eventful afternoon, eh?”

  Springald pushed the laden trolley in. She curtsied impudently at the Abbot. “Afternoon tea for four, Father!”

  Martha forestalled any further smartness by nodding graciously at the mousemaid. “Thank you, miss, you may go now!”

  Sister Portula watched the back of Springald’s head shaking with rage as she exited the gatehouse and slammed the door. “Gracious me, you certainly put that young mouse in her place!”

  Martha smiled demurely. “Yes, Sister, but she does need it now and again, doesn’t she?”

  Abbot Carrul took the haremaid’s paw. “What was it you wanted to see us about, Martha?”

  Over afternoon tea, Martha explained to her friends how she had fallen asleep. She told them of Martin’s visitation, and of the young mouse who had accompanied him, ending with the short poem, which she recalled precisely.

  “Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,

  my secret lies hid from view,

  the tale of how I learned to walk,

  when once I was as you.

  Though you cannot go there,

  look out for two who may,

  travellers from out of the past,

  returning home someday.”

  Abbot Carrul sat forward in his armchair. “Strange. What do you think, Sister?”

  Portula put aside her tea. “Not many Redwallers are honoured by a visit from Martin the Warrior. We must heed all he says. His spirit is not just the essence of valour and honour, he is also the voice of knowledge and wisdom. Now, what is your own opinion of this incident, Martha?”

  The haremaid tapped the cover of the book. “This is the history of Loamhedge that you loaned me, Sister. I think the answer lies inside it. That’s why I called you here. I am still young, but you three have the knowledge of seasons on your side. I was hoping that you could help me. I never dreamed that there might be an answer to why I can’t walk. Do you think there is?”

  Old Phredd picked up the big tome and laid it on the table. He spoke to it, as it if were a living thing. “Well now, you dusty old relic, are you going to assist us with this little one’s problem, eh, eh?”

  He turned and gave Martha a toothless grin. “Heeheehee, I think he will. Though one can never really tell what a book says until one reads it, eh?”

  Abbot Carrul opened the book. “This may take some time, but we’re on your side, Martha. If there is a way to make you walk, rest assured, we’ll find it.”

  Martha could feel tears beginning to brim in her eyes. She blinked them away swiftly. “Thank you all, my good friends. But there is something that I don’t think the book can tell us. Who are the ones we must look out for? The two travellers from out of the past, returning home someday?”

  Sister Portula gazed out the window into the sunlit noon. “You’re right, Martha. I wonder who they could be.”

  5

  North of Redwall, spring eventide filtered soft light through the leafy canopy of Mossflower Wood. Amid aisles of oak, beech, elm, sycamore and other forest giants, slender rowan, birch and willow stood like young attendants, waiting on their stately lords. Blue smoke drifted lazily upward through the foliage which fringed a shallow stream. Somewhere nearby, a pair of nightingales warbled harmoniously.

  The tremulous beauty was lost upon a small vermin band who had trekked down from the far Northlands. They had camped on the bank to fish. A fat, brutish weasel called Burrad was their leader. Beneath his ragged cloak he carried a cutlass, its bone handle notched with the lives he had taken. Burrad’s sly eyes watched his band closely. They were spitting four shiny scaled roach on green willow withes to grill over the fire.

  Drawing the cutlass, Burrad pointed it at the biggest fish. “Dat’n der is mine, yew cook it good fer me, Flinky!”

  The stoat called Flinky let out a pitifully indignant whine. “Arr ’ey, Chief, I caught dis wun meself, ’tis me own fish!”

  Despite his bulk, Burrad was quick. Bulling the stoat over, he whipped Flinky mercilessly with the flat of his blade.

  Covering his head, the victim screeched for mercy. “Yaaaaaargh, stop ’im mates, afore he kills me pore ould body! Yeeegh, spare me, yer mightiness, spare me. Aaaaagh!”

  Cruel by nature, Burrad thrashed Flinky even harder. Throwing himself upon the hapless stoat, he pressed the blade against Flinky’s scrawny neck, snarling viciously.

  “Wot d’yer want, the fist or yore ’ead? ’Urry up an’ speak.”

  The cutlass blade pressed savagely down. Flinky wailed. “Yeeeeh, take de fish, I’ve only got one ’ead. Take de fish!”

  Burrad rose, grinning wolfishly as he kicked Flinky’s bottom. “Cook dat fish good, or yore a dead ’un!”

  He turned on the other eleven vermin gang members. “Wot are youse lot gawpin’ at, eh? Gimme some grog!”

  A female stoat called Crinktail, whose tail was shaped almost like a letter Z, passed Burrad the jug of nettle grog. Snatching it roughly, the bully sat down, taking long gulps of the fiery liquid.

  He watched Flinky like a hawk. “Crispy outside an’ soft inside, dat’s de way I likes fish.”

  The others averted their eyes; there was no doubt about who the leader of their gang was.

  Crouched low in the reeds on the far bank, two creatures viewed the scene. One was an otter, the other a squirrel, both in their late middle seasons.

  The otter squinched his eyes, letting them rove over the gang. “Hmm, about twelve o’ them over there, I’d say.”

  The squirrel nibbled on a young reed. “There’s thirteen.”

  Her companion shrugged. “I won’t argue with ye, ’cos my eyes ain’t as good as they used t’be. I tell ye though, mate, that’s one sorry gang o’ vermin. Looks as if they got rocks in their skulls instead o’ brains.”

  The squirrel chuckled. “Aye, campin’ there without a single sentry posted, an’ a fire smokin’ away like a beacon. ’Tis a wonder their mothers let ’em out alone.”

  The otter nodded. “See ole lardbelly yonder, the big weasel? Leave him t’me, I enjoy takin’ bullies down a peg.”

  The squirrel commented drily, “Watch he don’t fall on ye, he’d flatten ye like a pancake. Are those fish ready yet?”

  Her companion sniffed the air. “I’d say so. Right then, are we ready t’go an’ pay ’em a visit?”

  The squirrel sighed. “Aye, layin’ here won’t get us any supper. You go in the front, an’ I’ll make me way around back.”

  The lean, aging otter grumbled. “It’s always me wot has t’go in the front. Why can’t I go in the back?”

  The squirrel cut left along the streambank, replying, “ ’Cos I’m the best tree climber. Give me time t’get ready, mate, don’t walk in too early. Good luck!”

  Tucking his rudder into the back of his belt, the otter draped his ragged cloak to conceal i
t. He bound a faded red bandanna low on his brow, disguising both ears and scrunching down over his eyes to make them look shortsighted.

  Picking up a polished hardwood staff, he splashed into the stream shallows, muttering to himself. “Huh, I’m gettin’ too old for this game!”

  Little Redd was the youngest of the vermin gang. Small and runty, he was often the butt of their coarse jokes.

  Seeking about for firewood, Redd glanced sideways. He saw the bedraggled creature wading across the stream, and called to Burrad. “Aye aye, Chief, looks like we got company!”

  Burrad took his mouth from the grog jug. He cast a contemptuous glance at the hunched figure struggling toward the bankside. “Wot’n de name o’bludd is dat?”

  The otter sloshed ashore, calling in a quavery voice. “A good evenin’ to one an’ all. Seems I’m just in time for supper. Mmm . . . roasted roach, me favourite vittles!”

  Burrad’s cutlass was drawn and wavering a whisker’s breadth from the unwanted visitor’s nose. “Who are ye? Huhuhuh, or should I say, wot are ye?”

  The stranger avoided the blade neatly. Ducking under it, he stood at the vermin leader’s side, wrinkling his nose comically. “Wot am I, young feller? I’m a ferroat, o’ course!”

  Flinky looked up from the cooking fire. “A ferroat? Ah’ shure, an’ wot sort o’ beast is dat now?”

  The intruder replied airily. “Oh, just a cross twixt a ferret an’ a stoat. I was a small sickly babe, or so me ole mum’n’dad told me. That’s why I look like this.”

  Ignoring his fish-cooking task, Flinky continued. “An’ who, pray, was yore muther an’ father?”

  The stranger replied, straight-faced. “A rat an’ a fox, I s’pose, but they was terrible liars.”

  Flinky scratched his head. “Liars? Huh, I’ll say they was!”

  Burrad interrupted by thwacking Flinky between both ears with the flat of his blade. “Who asked yew, puddle’ead? Ger-ron wid cookin’ dose fishes!”