Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Kappin Birug and a crowd of Darrat rats halted alongside the log. Those inside held their breath in frozen silence. Sounds of the vermin poking about with spearbutts and slashing at shrubbery could be heard by those in the log. Outside, Birug climbed up and sat upon the log. Dawning sunlight slanted through the trees as he glanced down at the Darrat rats resting upon the grass.

  “Any of you be High Kappins, eh?” They stared owlishly at one another, then shook their heads. Birug jumped up, performing a dance of rage upon the log. Pointing his spear at them, he screeched.

  “Den why you not searchin’, mudbrains? Search! Search! Find dem, y’want me to do everythink, eh? Search!”

  They dispersed hastily, trying to look busy and diligent as they probed amid the woodland trees. Birug laid about with his spear shaft, spittle going everywhere as he took out his bad temper on anybeast standing close.

  “Hemper Figlugg got bad sore skull, big lump onna ’ead! Dose beasts die slow when I catch ’em. Only make Burcha Glugg out of wot be left of dem!”

  Birug hurried over to a rat who had returned to investigate the fallen log. Dealing the unfortunate several hard kicks to the rump, the Kappin screeched hoarsely at him. “Wotcha be doin’, dumbum—y’think they be beetles, hidin’ inna falled treelog? You never be High Kappin, that be sure!”

  As Birug chased the rat back to search with the others, Cosbro crept to the log opening and called out in excellent imitation of the gruff Darrat dialect. “Der dey goes! Ober dat way, quick!”

  There followed a stampede of pounding Darrat paws, with Birug bellowing as he hastened in pursuit. “Not kill ’em, catch ’em priz’ner, that a h’order!”

  As the sounds retreated, the fugitives breathed easier. Springald was visibly shaken. “Good grief, that was a bit close for comfort!”

  Saro removed herself from Horty’s face. He was the picture of sputtering indignity.

  “Pshaw, phoo! I’ll be spittin’ wodges of your bally tailfur for days t’come, marm. No blinkin’ thanks to you, I was near smothercated, wot! But who am I to complain, chaps? Me flippin’ head’s poundin’, achin’ to blue blazes. There’s a lump like a duck egg on me young skull. The poor old stomach is painin’ an’ swollen from savin’ the ungrateful comrades. An’ to top it all jolly well off, a great lump of a squirrel has been layin’ on my tender young mouth for absolute ages. Phwaaaw, phutt! Never feed your young on squirrelhair, tastes vile!”

  Bragoon’s paw shot out, pinching Horty’s nose in a viselike grip. “Are ye finished moanin’, after ye nearly got us all captured, young sir?”

  Horty tried to nod. “Yith, juth leggo ob be dose pleathe!”

  The otter released his grip, growling threateningly. “One more whimper an’ I’ll pull it right off, so keep quiet!” He turned to question Cosbro. “Ye mentioned Loamhedge in yore poem, mate, an’ Abbess Germaine, too. She ruled there, from wot I’ve ’eard. Loamhedge is where we’re bound for. Any idea which way it lies?”

  The ancient rabbit pointed in a general southeast direction. “I can’t be sure, but I’ve always imagined it being somewhere over that way. I’ve heard ’tis savage country—deserts, chasms, wide rivers, and numerous foebeasts.”

  Saro nodded. “Aye, me’n Bragoon have seen a bit of it, though that was quite a few seasons back. Over that way, eh?”

  Cosbro began moving the vegetation from his log entrance. “When you see a great line of very high cliffs, you’ll know you’re on the right track. Er, by the way, have you any of that excellent cordial to spare? I’m too old to travel now.”

  Bragoon passed him a fresh flask. “Take this, friend, an’ thankee kindly for yore help!”

  They emerged into calm morning sunlight and fresh, green woodlands.

  Saro waved to Cosbro. “Good fortune be with ye, matey. We’ll travel now, while the coast’s clear. You take it easy!”

  Cosbro brought something out of his dwelling and gave it to Bragoon. It was a large coil of rope—thin but incredibly strong, with big knots every three pawlengths.

  The otter inspected it closely. “Haharr, ’tis a climbin’ rope, an’ a fine one, too. If’n I ain’t mistaken, this’ll come in useful at the high cliffs. Where’d ye get it?”

  Cosbro explained. “I made it myself, when I was a lot younger. Never got round to using it, though. I’ve forgotten my dreams of high cliffs long since. You take it.”

  Bragoon drew Martin’s sword and held it up in a warrior’s salute. “A gift from a friend is somethin’ to be valued. Thankee, sir, an’ may the seasons be kind to ye!”

  To avoid bumping into the Darrat, they set off at a southerly tangent through the woodlands. Cosbro stood watching until they were out of sight. Wiping a paw across his rheumy eyes, the ancient rabbit murmured wistfully to himself, “And may the seasons be kind to you, friends. May the breeze be at your backs, and the sun never in your eyes. Ah me, I wish that I were young enough to go with you.”

  The lonely rabbit shuffled back to his home, thinking of the high mysterious cliffs and the lost opportunities of his earlier seasons, now that old age leaned heavily upon him. Cosbro took one last look at the far horizon as he bent to enter the log dwelling.

  “Ah well, at least my rope won’t be wasted—if they live long enough to use it.”

  21

  Martha did not sleep a wink on the night that the vermin were sighted. It was as if some unreasoning panic was welling up in her. Vermin, at the very gates of her beloved Abbey! Restlessly she roamed Great Hall, propelling the little cart which held her chair, by pulling it along with the crutch that Toran had made for her.

  Moonlight sent pale shafts of light in varied hues as it shone through the stained-glass windows onto the worn stone floor. Travelling through the patches of dark and light, the young haremaid arrived at the tapestry of Martin the Warrior. She gazed up at the figure of the heroic mouse. It was illuminated by a small lantern on either side.

  Martha voiced her fears and worries to her friend. “Oh Martin, what shall we do? Sarobando and Bragoon have left the Abbey, and all on my silly little behalf. Abbot Carrul gave Bragoon your great sword to take with him. I’d stay in my chair forever, if only they were back here at Redwall. The safety of this Abbey and all my friends here is far more important than foolish dreams of being able to walk. With my brother and the other young ones gone, who will help us against the vermin? The very thought of those cruel, murderous vermin getting inside our gates is horrible!”

  “Here now, young Martha, what’s all this?”

  She gave a start as the Abbot loomed up out of the shadows. “Father Abbot, I thought you’d gone to your bed.”

  Carrul sat down on the edge of the cart and looked over the top of his glasses at her. “And I thought you had, too, miss.”

  The sound of the main abbey door opening caused them both to pause. The Abbot’s loud whisper echoed around the hall columns.

  “Who’s there?”

  Toran’s voice replied. “ ’Tis only me an’ Foremole Dwurl, Father. We just been relieved o’ wallguard by Junty Cellarhog an’ Weld.” The pair joined Martha and Abbot Carrul.

  Dwurl tugged his snout politely. “Wot bee’s you’m a-doin’ settin’ daown yurr? Shudd be snorin’ abed, ’tis orful late.”

  The Abbot put on his wise face. “Oh, we were just discussing a few things, weren’t we, Martha?”

  The haremaid managed an important little cough. “Ahem, yes, just small bits of business. What’s it like out there, Toran? Any more news of the, er, vermin?”

  The ottercook sat back on his rudder. “No, miss, they ain’t up to much. Their fires are burnt low, I think they’re sleepin’. We’ve been watchin’ the ditch outside the front gate, t’other side o’ the path, makin’ sure they don’t try t’sneak along it.”

  Martha asked the question she had been anxious to have answered. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  Toran rubbed his wide midriff thoughtfully. “Bless yore ’eart, pretty one, o’ course we are. Only
a fool’d say he wasn’t. We’re afraid as any sensible beast should be, but we ain’t scared. Wot I mean is, we’re only afraid for the safety of others—Dibbuns, an’ young ’uns like yoreself. But if’n we got to do somethin’ about it, we ain’t scared o’ vermin.”

  Foremole licked his lips. “Oi’m a-feared.”

  Toran raised his eyebrows at this remark. “You, afeared?”

  A huge grin creased the mole leader’s homely face. “Aye, zurr, afeared oi’ll fall asleep an’ miss ee brekkist. Oi’m a-thinken oi’ll go to ee kitchens an’ get a h’early wun!”

  Martha laughed at the mole’s comical logic. “What a great idea, sir, I think we’ll join you!”

  The kitchen was crowded with Redwallers of a like mind, even Dibbuns. Nobeast could sleep with the excitement of the night. Granmum Gurvel and three young moles were busy filling baked apples with honey and chopped hazelnuts.

  Gurvel curtsied to the Abbot as she bustled by. “Coom in an’ sit ee daown, zurr, an’ you’m h’others, too. Et bee’s a gudd job moi ole bones can’t be a sleepen, so oi’m a keepen moiself bizzied.”

  They found seats around the kitchen table and began pouring a sauce of meadowcream and rosehip over their baked apples. Everybeast was watching the Abbot as he paused before eating to address them.

  “What we need are some good contingency plans, my friends. Seeing as most of us are here, I’ll take any suggestions.”

  Muggum was sitting up on a shelf, among the spice jars, with his cohort of Dibbuns. The molebabe raised his spoon. “Oi says chop ee vermints tails offen wi’ a gurt rusty knoife, an’ barth ’em in ’ot soapy watter. Hurr, they’m soon bee’s glad to run away arter that. Ho urr aye!”

  This met with hearty applause and much sneezing from the Dibbuns, two of whom had opened a hotroot pepper jar. Amused by this, Abbot Carrul tried to keep a straight face as he spoke to Sister Portula, who was recording the meeting. “Not a bad idea! Write it down, Sister, and don’t forget the bit about hot soapy water. We’ll keep it in mind.”

  Sister Setiva, after wiping several noses and glaring the Dibbuns into silence, held up a paw. “As soon as ah’ve finished eating, ah hope some o’ ye will join me tae search around for more things tae use as weapons.”

  Martha was among those who volunteered. But Toran had other plans for her. “You’d never be able to search the attics upstairs, me beauty. I think ye should be in charge of the Dibbuns’ safety. Seasons forbid that anythin’ should happen to the liddle ’uns with vermin camped next to our gates. Will ye do it, Martha?”

  Immediately the haremaid agreed. “I’d be glad to. Right, come on you villains, off that shelf and up to bed. Last one up washes all the pots and dishes, eh, Granmum Gurvel?”

  Gurvel picked up her big ladle. “You’m said the vurry thing oi wuz abowt t’say, Miz Marth!”

  An almighty scramble followed as Dibbuns climbed down from the shelves and fled upstairs squealing.

  Abbot Carrul waited until the noise subsided. “Next suggestion please!”

  Badredd lay awake down in the ditch, trying to ignore the stentorian snores of those around him. He longed for the dawn, when he could take possession of his magic sword. What did it look like? He imagined it as a solid gold blade with a crosshilt and grip crusted with rubies, pearls and emeralds. Of course, he would not mind too much if it were made from silver with jetstones and sapphires for adornment.

  Mentally he went through a speech he had prepared for the woodland bumpkins who lived behind the wall. Badredd silently practised it, making sweeping paw movements to emphasise its drama. “Throw wide your gates! Tremble at my name, for I am Badredd, commander of a vermin horde.”

  He paused here, wondering if his scruffy little band could constitute a horde. No matter, those woodland oafs had probably never seen a horde, much less taken a head count of one. He continued his oratory. “You are looking at death, all of ye! Unless you deliver unto Badredd the magic sword that is rightfully his.”

  He questioned the last phrase—it needed something, a word or two to prove that the sword’s ownership was never in doubt. Hah, that was it! He embellished his flowery recitation thus: “For did not my father, Reddblade, Warlord of the Northern Mountains, proclaim it so? ‘Give unto my son Badredd his sword. It lies within Wallred, I mean, Redwall. To the mighty warrior goes the magic sword!’ ” He flung out his paw and caught Halfchop a smack on the chin.

  The rat awoke, holding his chin in his good paw. “Mmmph, wot did ye do that for, Chief?”

  But Badredd was too fired up to waste time with arguments. “Get further along that ditch an’ see if’n ye can make it so that yore level with the big gate!”

  Halfchop peered at him in the predawn darkness. “Wot for?”

  Badredd shoved him forward. “If’n ye make it safely, give me a signal. I’ll follow up with the rest o’ the crew. That way we’ll be in place when it gets light. They’ll get the shock o’ their lives when they see me climb out o’ the ditch an’ demand the magic sword. Go on, don’t hang about!”

  Blundering forward, Halfchop stepped on a thistle and banged into the ditch’s sidewall. “ ’Tis no good, I can’t see a thing. Why don’t ye wait ’til dawn?”

  Badredd drew his cutlass. “Because I want it done now. There’ll be one less in the crew if’n ye stand there rubbin’ yore chin an’ makin’ excuses. Now get goin’!”

  Halfchop picked up a red-ended branch from the embers of a fire. He went off, blowing it back to burning light and muttering, “Alright, then, but I ain’t goin’ without a light!”

  Up on the northwest rampart corner, Brother Weld nudged Junty Cellarhog. “Is that somebeast coming along the ditch carrying a light?”

  The burly hedgehog watched as a small burning beacon grew closer. “Aye, so ’tis, Brother. I wager that’s a vermin, up to no good, I’ll be bound. Better stop the rascal afore he sets fire to our front gate.”

  There was always a variety of things in Junty’s big apron pocket. He dug a paw in and rummaged about. A slow smile lit up his heavy features as he produced a big barrel bung made from a knot he had gouged out of an oak log. “This should do!”

  Though ponderous and not given to quick flings, Junty was accurate and very powerful.

  Halfchop was never very sure of what fractured his muzzle and wrecked his nose. But he never forgot the sound as it hit him. Kachunk!

  Badredd saw the rat’s light snuffed out with a gentle hiss as it fell into some stagnant water. He went and shook the weasel brothers, Floggo and Rogg, awake. “Rouse yore bones there. Go an’ fetch ole Halfchop back ’ere. He went wanderin’ off up the ditch. It looks like the idiot’s fallen over. Go on, move! It’ll soon be dawn.”

  When they returned, hauling the senseless rat, Badredd blew on the embers and stirred the fire. He winced as he saw the damage to Halfchop’s face. Awakened by the commotion, Flinky dug some dried herbs out of his pouch and lit them so that they smouldered. The weasels held the rat’s head steady as Flinky pushed the smoking herbs under his nose. Halfchop’s eyes opened immediately when the pungent fumes got to him.

  Badredd squatted beside him. “What happened?” Halfchop looked at the fox quizzically as he repeated the question. “Who did that to ye, what happened?”

  Halfchop spoke . . . just one word—“Kachunk!”

  Flinky put aside the smouldering herbs. “Wot did ye say, mate?”

  Halfchop looked at Flinky as if seeing him for the first time. He looked at Badredd the same way and spoke the word again. “Kachunk!”

  Losing his patience, Badredd pawed the cutlass edge menacingly. “Talk sense! I asked ye wot happened. Keep sayin’ that stupid word an’ I’ll kachunk ye, good an’ proper!”

  Halfchop leaned close and whispered in the fox’s ear. “Kachunk!”

  As Flinky saw the cutlass beginning to rise, he stepped in and stayed his crew leader’s paw. “Ah now, leave him alone, Chief. The pore ould rat’s not in his right mind at all. How d’ye feel, mate
y, better now?”

  Halfchop smiled foolishly over his swollen muzzle. “Kachunk!”

  Dawn crept in from the east, pale pink and lilac in a creamy haze. Dewdrops bedecked the flatlands beyond the ditch. Redwall Abbey’s twin bells tolled out the opening of a new summer day. Martha watched Toran, Abbot Carrul and several others mounting the gatehouse steps. Frustration tinged the haremaid’s plea to them.

  “Let me come up on the ramparts, I want to see what’s happening. Oh please, I feel so helpless down here!”

  Toran shook his head. “It might get a bit dangerous up here, me pretty. Best ye stop down there an’ look after the Dibbuns.”

  Little Shilly the squirrelbabe made a scramble for the steps. “Cummon, we all go up onna wall. Then Miz Marth’ gotta be up dere wiv us’n’s!”

  Sister Setiva ran down and blocked the Dibbuns’ way. “Och no ye don’t, mah wee babes. Ah’ll come o’er tae the orchard wi’ ye an’ Martha. We’ll see if any blackberries are ripe enough tae be picked yet. A guid idea, eh?”

  Squeaking with delight, the Abbeybabes pushed Martha’s chair across the lawns so fast that the haremaid was forced to hold on tight to the arms.

  Sister Setiva chased after them, shouting in her thin, reedy voice, “Slow down, ye naughty creatures, go easy wi’ Miss Martha!”

  Junty and Brother Weld kept an eye on the ditch as they made their way along to the threshold over the main gate. Throwing a brief salute, the Cellarhog made his report to the Abbot. “Looks like they’re makin’ a move, Father. Comin’ this way!”

  The wall party was armed with a variety of window poles, kitchen utensils and tools. Apart from one or two slings and bags of pebbles, there were no real weapons to be found within the bounds of the peaceable Abbey. Toran gave Junty a sling and some stones. He tossed a long ash stave to Brother Weld.

  “These ain’t much, but they’re better’n nothin’, friends.”

  Now the vermin crew had reached the spot directly below where the Redwallers stood. They halted, only the tops of their heads visible. Silence fell as they waited, standing in a muddy pool of ditchwater.