Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  The haremaid’s face was a picture of joy to behold. “I will dance someday just for you, my good friends. Tomorrow I’ll make a copy of Sister Amyl’s poem so you can take it with you in case you forget the words.”

  Horty did a small hopskip of eagerness. “Splendid idea, my wise an’ pretty sis. I’ll take charge of it, like a sort of jolly old mapfinder. Wot!”

  Bragoon and Saro exchanged glances, and the otter murmured, “We’ll have to see about that.”

  Further discussion was cut short. Sister Setiva met them at the Abbey doorway. She stood in a pool of golden light, holding up a lantern. The stern old Infirmary Keeper cast a jaundiced eye over the new arrivals.

  “Ah’m tae shew ye to yore beds. There’s two spare ones in the room next tae mine.”

  Bragoon bowed appreciatively to her. “It’ll be a treat to sleep in a real bed again, Sister.”

  Saro agreed. “Aye, after some o’ the places we’ve laid our heads down. But we’ll be up at the crack o’ dawn, ready to lend a paw with yore problem, Martha.”

  Bragoon thumped his rudder down firmly. “Ye can bet yore brekkist on that, missy. We won’t let ye down!”

  Martha clasped their paws fondly. “Pleasant dreams to both of you.”

  The pair found themselves being prodded, none too gently, with Setiva’s blackthorn stick.

  She commanded them in a no-nonsense voice. “Follow me tae mah sickbay, an’ ’twill be woe betide either of ye if ah hear just one wee snore disturbin’ mah rest, d’ye ken?”

  Bragoon saluted her smartly. “Oh, we’re kennin’ away like a pair o’ good ’uns, Sister. Lead on!” They grinned at each other, listening to the shrewnurse while she chunnered away to herself as she shuffled upstairs.

  “Ach, I’ll have tae dig oot fresh sheets an’ coverlets! Ah’m thinkin’ they’re big enough tae make their ain beds, great roarin’ villains! Ah’ll nae sleep a whit taenight, knowin’ they two are in the next room tae mine!”

  Opening the infirmary door, she glared at her guests. “Wipe the mud off ye’re paws an’ the silly grins offn’n ye’re faces. Ah’ll be inspectin’ yon sickbay on the morrow, an’ ah’ll skelpit the pair o’ ye if’n there’s one wee thing oot o’ place, d’ye ken? Ah bid ye a silent guidnight!” She slammed the door and retreated into her own chamber.

  Bragoon burst out sniggering as Saro called out in imitation of Setiva’s far northern accent.

  “Aye, we ken, Sister, an’ a guidnight to ye, too, the noo!”

  The Sister’s strict tone rang out from the adjoining room. “Ah’ll be in there wi’ mah stick if there’s anither sound, so get tae sleep an’ no talkin’!”

  Saro whispered in Bragoon’s ear. “Goodnight, mate.”

  12

  Early morn found the northeast skies showing more promise of decent weather. Outside the holt of Shoredog, pleasant sunlight was turning the mist into a warm yellow haze over the stream.

  Lonna Bowstripe limped out with the rest of the sea otters to witness the arrival of the otter known as Garfo Trok. He had come in a peculiar-looking craft, a long, battered old boat with rounded stern and for’ard ends. It had a rickety cabin erected amidships and sported a square, heavily-patched sail, which was furled around a much repaired crosspiece.

  Garfo was a stream otter, a jovial, fat beast. He wore an old iron helmet that resembled a cooking pot, and a permanent smile on his broad, friendly face. Shipping his paddling pole, Garfo waddled ashore and began singing in a dreadfully toneless voice.

  “ ’Tis a long ways down the stream, me lads,

  when a beast ain’t got no grub oh,

  wid a belly like a wind-blowed sail,

  aboard this leaky tub oh.

  If I fell overboard like this,

  all thin’n’pale’n’slack oh,

  a pike’d take one look at me,

  an’ quickly chuck me back oh!

  Me ribs are showin’ through me fur,

  I’m frightened o’ the weather,

  in case a sudden gust o’ wind,

  whips me off like a feather.

  Me cheeks are sunken hollow,

  an’ me nose is wintry blue, lads,

  me rudder’s covered in green mold,

  I’m sufferin’ from the Doodads!

  Take pity on this riverdog,

  an’ feed me good ole vittles,

  some skilly’n’duff to stop me bones,

  a-clackin’ round like skittles.

  A pot or two o’ barley stew,

  an’ nutbread by the plateful,

  an’ a bathtub full o’ custard, lads,

  would find me ever grateful!”

  The sea otters laughed and applauded Garfo heartily, then gathered round as he shook paws, patted backs and kissed babes, all the while hooting in booming tones, “Whoohoohoo, slap me rudder an’ curl me whiskers! Lookit ye lot. Wot ’ave youse been feedin’ yoreselves on? Y’all look so chub’n’sparky! Ma Sork, me ole tatercake, are ye still bakin’ the primest nutbread in the northeast?”

  Old Sork whacked him playfully with her ladle as he picked her up and hugged her. “Put me down, ye great fatbarrel. I’ve been up all night bakin’ nutloaves to feed yore hungry gob!”

  Garfo put her down and cast a jolly eye over Lonna. “Whoohoo, shrivel me snout an’ gravel me guts! So this is the giant stripedog I’m carryin’ as cargo. Hah, I thought I was a big ’un, but ye could eat dinner of’n me head, mate!”

  Lonna shook Garfo Trok’s paw. “Pleased to meet you, mate, but I’m not just cargo. My name is Lonna Bowstripe, and I can wield a paddle as good as most.”

  Garfo was big and well built for an otter, but Lonna’s giant frame towered over him. He released the badger’s huge paw.

  “Wield a paddle, big feller? Whoohoo, ye look strong enough t’carry me an’ my old boat Beetlebutt up a waterfall on yore back! Belay, Lonna, let’s get some brekkist afore we sail.”

  Lonna had already eaten, so he sat nibbling a crust of rye bread and sipping some plum cordial whilst Garfo dealt with breakfast. The otter was a mighty eater and extremely odd in his choice of food. He spread nutbread with honey and dunked it into hotroot soup. Breaking up an apple pie, he crumbled it into a bowl of mushroom stew, daubing plum preserve on an onion-and-leek pastie.

  Clearing the lot in a remarkably short time, Garfo stood up, patting his big stomach. “Ahoy, Lonna, pack that bow’n’ arrers an’ let’s go sailin’. Can’t waste a fine mornin’ sittin’ here vittlin’, like some I’ve seen. Never could abide greediness in a beast!”

  The otters had packed Beetlebutt with an amazing array of provisions. Lonna looked around at the faces of all these otters that he had come to like so much. It was going to be a sad experience saying good-bye to them. Garfo stood, waiting to push off, as the badger went in turn to each of his otter friends—Shoredog, Sork, Marinu and many others, saving his last farewell for Abruc and young Stugg. Lonna embraced Abruc warmly and clasped his paw. A tear coursed down the big badger’s scarred face.

  “Farewell to you and your family, my good friend. I will never forget you and your son. You saved my life, cared for me, fed and nursed me. All I can give you in return are my thanks and undying friendship!”

  Abruc scuffed the ground with his rudder, then looked up at the big badger. “Friendship is the greatest gift one can give to another. You are a goodbeast, Lonna. I know ye would’ve done the same for me an’ mine if’n ye found us lyin’ hurt. Go on, mate, you go now, an’ know our thoughts are always with ye!”

  Stugg tugged at Lonna’s paw until the badger lifted the young otter and held him level with his eyes. His face solemn, Stugg wiped a tear from Lonna’s striped muzzle.

  “Lonn’, der is somet’ink you can do for me an’ my farder. Get Rag’ Bol an’ dose Searats, so they don’t hurt no more pore beasts!”

  The badger put Stugg back down and stepped aboard the boat. Raising his bow, he called out as Garfo pushed off into the midstream.

  “Stugg, my
little mate. I swear by the fine string your father made for this bow. I will wipe Raga Bol and his Searats from the land forever. This is my oath, and my promise to you. Good-bye!”

  Putting aside the bow, he joined Garfo Trok at the paddling poles.

  Fighting away the tears, Lonna did not look back as they sped downstream. Behind him the tribe of Shoredog stood on the banks, singing an old sea otter song of farewell.

  “When the sun sets like fire,

  I will think of you,

  when the moon casts its light,

  I’ll remember, too,

  if a soft rain falls gently,

  I’ll stand in this place,

  recalling the last time,

  I saw your kind face.

  Good fortune go with you,

  to your journey’s end,

  let the waters run calmly,

  for you, my dear friend.”

  Garfo Trok had spent his life amid the northeast streams and rivers. There was no waterway for leagues that the burly otter was not familiar with. Lonna obeyed his every order, backing and tacking down the broad stream. They made good progress. Midday found the Beetlebutt running smoothly with a fair breeze running astern.

  Garfo shipped his long paddle, gazing up at the blue, cloud-flecked sky. “Let the ole lady drift for awhile, mate. Belay that paddle an’ we’ll haul sail an’ take a bite o’ lunch.”

  They released the sail and made its ends fast to the cleats. Lonna had been wondering when the otter’s appetite was going to reappear. Together they sat on the roof of the little midships cabin, drinking cider and eating nutbread.

  Garfo chuckled as he watched the big badger consume his lunch. “Whoohoo, ain’t nothin’ wrong with a beast who kin eat hearty, mate! That limp o’ yourn will soon clear up with a good cruise. Ye won’t be walkin’ so much.” Lonna liked the feel of a boat beneath his paws; he felt rested and well.

  Gesturing ahead, he enquired, “How long can we go by water, Garfo?”

  The otter refilled his beaker. “Almost into Mossflower. This ole stream takes a turn there an’ runs back east. I kin see yore wonderin’ ’ow far ahead those vermin are.”

  Lonna eyed him keenly. “Aye, can ye tell me, mate?”

  Garfo scratched his rudder thoughtfully. “Raga Bol has t’go by land since they ain’t got no boat an’ there’s too many of ’em for small rivercraft. Those Searats should be well into Mossflower Wood by now. I’d say ye was about ten days behind ’em, Lonna. But I kin cut that down to eight, wid some canny sailin’. Don’t fret, mate.”

  The badger’s eyes narrowed, the look on his ruined face caused the otter to shudder. Lonna laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I’m not fretting at all. I’ll catch up to them for sure!”

  The country they were sailing through was open, with no tree cover. Gradually it ran into hills and gorges, the streambanks growing higher on either side.

  Garfo pointed to a steep bend up ahead. “When we round the point of yon bend, we’ll be meetin’ up with Buteo. Now I know yore not a-feared of anybeast, but don’t start anythin’ wid him. I’ve knowed Buteo a long time.”

  Lonna was intrigued. “Just as you say, mate, but who is Buteo?”

  Garfo crumbled some nutbread on the cabin roof. “Oh, ye’ll find out soon enuff, matey, soon enuff!”

  Beetlebutt took the bend smoothly, keeping to midstream. Halfway around it, Lonna was startled to feel a slight cuff on the back of his head. Buteo landed like a bolt of lightning, silent and menacing. He was a honey buzzard—a large, savage-looking bird of prey. From fawn-barred tail to mottled chest, and huge wingspan to lethal-hooked beak and a fierce eye, Buteo looked every inch a killer. Folding his wings, the buzzard stared disdainfully at the crumbled nutbread that Garfo had put out for him, then pointed a lethally sharp talon at them.

  “Heek! This be Buteo territory, I rule here. Heeeeeekah!”

  Garfo replied cheerily. “So ye do, me ole burdy, but we ain’t trespassin’, just passin’ through.”

  Buteo cocked his head to one side, glaring at them. “Yaheeek! I riddle you riddle, you spin me a spin. Only pass here if you win. Good?”

  Garfo cautioned Lonna to silence with a warning glance. The badger watched as the otter appeared to consider this proposition.

  “Good it is, Buteo. You go first.”

  The honey buzzard stared up at the sky, a thing that honey buzzards do when trying to appear mysterious. “Heeeeekoh! What be brown’n’yellow, fat’n’mad, an’ if you slow, sting you bad?”

  Garfo scratched his rudder, shaking his head, as if really perplexed. “Frazzle me whiskers, Buteo, that’s a real poser!”

  Buteo pecked up the crumbled nutbread, sniggering. “Keeheeheehee! Stupid riverdog not crossing through my country. Buteo much clever. Keehar!”

  Garfo tipped a sly wink to Lonna, then jumped up shouting. “I got it, ’tis a bumbly bee!”

  Both Garfo and Lonna had to avoid the buzzard’s wings as he beat the air in frustration. “Yeekeeha! How you know?”

  The otter twitched his nose modestly. “Oh, I just took a guess. But it was a great an’ clever riddle.”

  Buteo stalked up and down, digging his talons angrily into the cabin roof. Then he turned and wheeled on Garfo. “Yeeee! You still not go ’til you spin me. This time I win!”

  The crafty otter produced a flat pebble from his helmet, spat on one side of it and held it up for the bird to see. “Right, I’ll spin ye—dry side I win, wet side you lose. Good?”

  The honey buzzard nodded eagerly. “Keehee! I take wet!”

  Garfo spun the pebble into the air, chanting, “Up she comes, down she goes, how she lands, nobeast knows!”

  Buteo’s keen eyes watched every spin of the stone until it clacked down flat on the deck.

  Garfo grinned from ear to ear. “Wet side, you lose!”

  The buzzard hovered over the otter, glaring murderously at him. Garfo sat munching a chuck of nutbread, looking the fierce bird straight in the eye. “Ye’ve got to let us pass now, mate, or you ain’t a bird whose word can be trusted.”

  Fearing that the buzzard was going to attack Garfo, Lonna braced himself to spring upon it.

  The bird’s black and gold eyes dilated wildly as it screeched. “Allbeast know Buteo be a bird of honour, my word always good. I slay anybeast who say different. Yeeeeeekaaaah!”

  Snatching the nutbread from the otter’s paw, he soared off into the air—up and up, until he was a mere dot in the sky.

  Lonna relaxed gratefully. “That was a close call, my friend. Buteo looked like a bird who would fight to the death. How did you manage to hoodwink him like that?”

  Garfo Trok winked knowingly. “I been doin’ it a long time, mate, whenever my journeys take me by this way. Pore ole Buteo’s memory’s scrambled from too many battles. Besides, he ain’t the brightest o’ birds. Funny how he loses every time. I’ll let him win on the return trip, ’cos I’ll be bound back nor’east anyway. That’s fair enough.”

  Lonna could not help laughing at the sly otter. “You great fat fraud! Shame on you, Garfo Trok!”

  Nibbling on a piece of cheese he had found, Garfo waved his rudder nonchalantly. “Better’n havin’ to fight t’the death wid a mad buzzard. You said so yoreself, mate. Anythin’ for an easy life, that’s my motto.”

  13

  The Searat Blowfly sat on a rotten log, cooling his footpaws by rubbing them in the rich, damp loam. Gazing up at the trunks of mighty woodland trees, with their canopy of sun-pierced green, he murmured to the Searat sitting alongside him.

  “I likes this ’ere Mossflower place, better weather ’ere than on that nor’east coast. Plenny o’ shelter an’ prime vittles, too!”

  His companion, a sad-faced Searat called Rojin, rubbed his blistered footpaws tenderly as he complained. “Huh, if only we wasn’t marchin’ so much. I ain’ cut out fer all this trekkin’. I’m a Searat, norra landlubber!”

  Hangclaw, another rat, limped over to join them. Rooting with his dagger
point at a splinter in his footpaw, he spat in disgust.

  “Right y’are, shipmate, just look at me pore trampers. Why are we walkin’ all the time. Where’s ole Bol got us bound to? We’re traipsin’ around all day an’ ’arf the night!”

  Glimbo, the one-eyed rat who had been first mate aboard ship, had been loitering nearby, eavesdropping on the three crewrats. Sneaking up behind them, he gave the rotten log a hard shove with his spearpoint, sending the trio sprawling into the loam.

  “Gerrup on yer paws an’ quit whinin’, ye slab-sided sons o’ worms. If the cap’n catches ye, he’ll leave youse here to rest as food fer the ants. Now march!”

  Raga Bol had been marching up in front of the others but had looked back over his shoulder so often that the crew could not fail to notice. The Searat captain dropped back until he was level with Glimbo. Catching his mate’s sleeve with the deadly silver hook, Bol swiftly dragged him behind a broad sycamore trunk.

  Glimbo’s sightless eye rolled in its socket as he saluted. “They’re all on the march, Cap’n!”

  Raga Bol poked his head out from behind the tree and snarled at the backstragglers. “Keep movin’, I’m watchin’ ye!” Then he turned his attention to the trembling Glimbo. “They’re talkin’ about me, wot’re they sayin’? The truth!”

  The mate was trembling so hard that the back of his head made a noise on the tree trunk like a woodpecker. “N . . . nothin’, Cap’n, they ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

  He heard the slither of cold steel as Bol drew his scimitar. As Raga Bol pulled him close, Glimbo could see the glint of his captain’s gold teeth. He knew how dangerous the captain’s moods were becoming.

  With his scimitar upraised, Bol hissed, “They must be sayin’ somethin’, ye mud-brained idiot!”

  Words poured out of Glimbo at breakneck pace. “On me oath, Cap’n, the whole crew’s sayin’ ’ow thankful they are to ye for bringin’ ’em ’ere, where ’tis sunny an’ there’s easy pickins. It’s just that they ain’t used to all this marchin’ . . . some of ’em gotten sore paws.”