Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Saro jerked the rope sharply, causing Jiboa to fall on his own tail. She winked craftily at him. “Funny ’ow ye can’t do two things at once. Seems every time ye try, then ye fall over.”

  Jiboa scrambled upright. “Stupid treejumper, I can walk’n’talk!”

  Saro tugged the rope and pulled him over again. “Wrong! Every time you say somethin’ nasty, bump, down ye go. But if’n ye was to shout out that y’can see water, ye’d regain yore sense o’ balance right away. Unnerstand?”

  There was neither shade nor shadow when the sun was directly overhead. Horty began complaining once more. “Oh shed a tear for a thirsty young hare, an’ if it’s wet I’ll drink it, wot. I say, you chaps, wouldn’t you just love to wet the old whistle at a cool runnin’ stream? If the odd fish swam by, then one could eat an’ drink at the same jolly old time, wot. Phew, I’m so hot’n’dry that you could make a blanket of my tongue!”

  Fenna gave him a sharp nudge. “You’re showing us up in front of those Jerbilrats, moaning and whining like that. They’ll think we’re soft and weak. Now try to behave like a Redwaller, and stop all that nonsense!”

  Horty stiffened his ears, saluted and stepped out smartly. “Right, old gel, leave it to Hortwill Braebuck, Esquire. I’ll sing t’the clod-faced old savages, wot, here goes!”

  Horty, with his talent for making up songs as he went, launched into an insulting ditty about Jerbilrats. Fenna and Springald giggled as they joined in the refrain at the end of each verse.

  “Oh a Jerbilrat’s a creature,

  without one redeemin’ feature,

  beware of him, pay heed to what I say.

  He’ll sneak up on one quite sudden,

  and devour one’s pie or pudden,

  an’ he’ll rob your bloomin’ water anyday . . . Anyday!

  If one ever meets a jerbil,

  one must be extremely careful,

  an’ keep one’s drinks tight under lock and key,

  for ’tis a widely held belief,

  that the scruffy little thief,

  will sup every single drop quite happily . . . Happily!

  For a jerbil’s just a rat,

  who has never had a bath,

  so be careful that you stay upwind of him.

  ’Cos the smell would blow one’s hat off,

  or put any decent rat off,

  an’ kill all the flies around a rubbish bin . . . Rubbish bin!

  Jerbil manners are disgraceful,

  they’re so spiteful an’ ungrateful,

  so arrogant an’ sly an’ so unjust.

  Every ugly son an’ daughter,

  is a stranger to bathwater,

  jerbils wallow round all day beneath the dust . . .

  ’Neath the dust!”

  Horty waved to the Jerbilrats, who were squealing and drumming their footpaws angrily. “What ho, chaps, sorry I can’t warble anymore for you. The old tongue’s all swollen.”

  Saro halted Jiboa until the others caught up with her. “This sun is gettin’ too much, let’s take a rest, mates.”

  Shading their heads beneath the cloaks, they squatted on the hot earth. Dozing off was unavoidable in the intense heat. Late afternoon shadows were lengthening as Saro was jerked awake. Jiboa had gnawed through the rope. He sped off in a wide arc, trying to get back to the other Jerbilrats.

  The squirrel chased after him, shouting out, “Grab ’im, Horty, he’s loose!”

  Quick off the mark, the young hare gave chase. He was reaching out to grab Jiboa, when a piercing shriek came from above. “Kyeeeeeeeeee!”

  Jiboa threw himself flat, but Horty was knocked ears over scut by a massive shape. A great buzzard—chocolate-and-white plumed—snatched Jiboa up in its fierce, hooked talons. It bore him off squeaking, high into the blue. Three more of the deadly predators swooped down on the Jerbilrat pack, each one seizing a victim, as the rest tried vainly to burrow into the dust. Then they were gone. The rest of them fled westward, thrumming and wailing fearfully.

  Then there was silence. Horty sat up, dusting himself off. “Stifle me whiskers! Did you see the size o’ those birds? That’s a pretty awful thing to happen to anybeast, even a Jerbilrat. Fancy bein’ scoffed by a flippin’, flyin’ feather mattress, wot!”

  Springald gazed around at the dusty, deserted plain. “Those poor creatures, no wonder life in this area makes them hostile to others. I hate this dreadful place!”

  Fenna’s voice sounded small and frightened. “How are we going to find water now that we’re completely alone?”

  Bragoon shouldered his sword wearily. “Just press on. Jiboa knew there was water over this way. We’ve got t’keep goin’!”

  They staggered onwards, but as evening arrived Fenna collapsed. Saro rushed to her side, fanning her brow and rubbing her paws. The aging squirrel looked up at Bragoon. “Pore young thing, the heat an’ thirst have got to ’er. We don’t even have a damp cloth t’wet ’er lips. Fenna’ll die if’n we don’t get some water soon.”

  The otter covered the little squirrel with his cloak. “Right, mates, that’s it. Horty, ye come with me! Spring, ye stay ’ere with Saro an’ Fenna. Me’n Horty will find water, or die tryin’. If’n’ we ain’t back by tomorrer noon, ye’ll know we never made it. But don’t fret, we’ll be long back by then with water!”

  Sarobando and Springald shook their friends’ paws.

  “Good luck, an’ fortune go with ye!”

  “We’ll be alright here, hurry back now!”

  Horty bowed gallantly. “To hear is to jolly well obey, marm!”

  The two comrades struck off into the gathering dark.

  Saro and Springald settled down to their vigil. After awhile, Fenna began murmuring as she tossed and turned feebly. “A beakerful, is that all, Father Abbot? I’m thirsty . . . so very thirsty, Father.”

  The mousemaid cradled her friend. “Hush now, Fenn, lie still.”

  Softly, Springald began singing an old lullaby, from when they were Dibbuns together at the Abbey.

  “Peace falls o’er vale and hill,

  silence fades the light,

  moon and stars watch over

  little ones by night.

  Dawn will send the day bright,

  larks will sing for thee,

  streams of slumber flow now,

  round this babe and me.”

  Saro smiled. “That’s a pretty song, I remember it from Redwall long ago. Ol’ Sister Ormel used t’ sing it in the dormitory. Happy days, Ormel was a good ol’ mouse.”

  Springald sniffed. “I learned it from her, too. Sister Ormel passed on three winters back. She was well loved.”

  As they nursed Fenna, in hostile country, far from their beloved Abbey and its friendly creatures, Saro and Springald sat silent with their thoughts of Redwall.

  Horty staggered gamely onward, though his paws were wobbling and his body bent with fatigue. Bragoon was in slightly better shape, but every step he took was an effort. Side by side they stumbled along through the night. Then the young hare tripped and fell, bringing the otter down with him.

  Through cracked and swollen lips, Horty mumbled, “Beg your pardon, old lad, tripped over a confounded bush. Wonder what oaf left it there, wot.”

  He grunted as Bragoon scrambled over him and grabbed a pawful of leaves. Thrusting his nose into them, the otter whooped. “Wahoo! This ain’t no bush, mate. ’Tis a big clump o’ comfrey. There’s water nearby, I’m sure of it. Water!”

  Leaping up, they plunged forward with renewed hope and energy. The otter suddenly ground to a halt, pulling Horty back. He pointed ahead, to where a soft glow emanated from behind the bulk of a widespread willow tree. Beyond that, the trickle of running water could be clearly heard.

  Drawing his sword, Bragoon thrust the young hare behind him, uttering a quiet caution. “Stick close t’my back, an’ don’t do anythin’ foolhardy. There’s a fire burnin’, t’other side o’ yon tree. I ’ope there’s friendly beasts sittin’ round it.”

 
Horty snorted. “Fat chance in this neck o’ the woods, pal. All we’ve met is bounders’n’cads since we climbed those cliffs. Huh, friendly y’say, prob’ly so friendly they’ll chop off our blinkin’ heads on sight, wot?”

  The otter’s paw clamped over Horty’s mouth. “Stow the gab an’ stay behind me, we’ll soon see!”

  There were six reptiles in all—two large frilled lizards, three fat toads and a grass snake—lounging around the fire. They were grilling a mess of bleak and minnow on green twigs. Having made a bit of noise as they approached, both travellers were expected. One of the lizards stood barring their way to the water, which appeared to be a small streamlet flowing away into a dense pine forest. The rest of the reptile crew crouched, ready to back the lizard up.

  Bragoon nodded civilly to them, noting that all eyes were on his sword. “Evenin’ to ye, we’ve come for water.”

  One of the lizards sniggered nastily, trying to imitate the otter’s voice. “H’evannin’ to ye, we’ve a-come f’waterrrr!”

  Horty noticed several large gourds of water nearby. “That’s the jolly old stuff, water, you know, that pleasant liquid which is rather nice t’drink. I say, those tiny fish smell rather toothsome, wot. Don’t suppose you’d like to donate a few to a worthy cause, a hungry but honest hare, eh?”

  The reptiles edged around, circling the pair. The largest of the lizards picked up a crude, flint-tipped spear, pointing it at Bragoon.

  “Watersss not a free, iz all oursss. You wanta fisssshes an’ drrrrrink, give usss bright a blade!”

  Ignoring him, the otter turned to Horty. “I don’t know wot it is wid the beasts in this country, but they seem t’think we’re dim-witted. Our stream, our water, our fish. While pore young Fenna’s dyin’ for a drop o’ water. I’ve taken about enough of all this claptrap, mate. Ye take my sword, don’t do anythin’, just stay there, that’s an order!”

  Horty took the weapon and saluted. “As y’say, sah! An’ pray, what d’you intend doin’, if one may ask, wot?”

  A slow, savage grin spread across the otter’s tough face. “Nothin’ much, I’m just goin’ t’get us some water.”

  Roaring out a warcry, Bragoon launched himself at the reptiles. “Make way fer Bragoon o’ Redwaaaaaallllll!”

  Horty could not have moved if he had wanted to. He stood wide-eyed with shock, watching six reptiles take the most fearsome beating he had ever witnessed.

  Bragoon broke the spear of one of the lizards over its head, then picked the reptile up and hurled it into the stream. He went at the others like a madbeast. Flinging himself through the air, he butted a toad heavily in its enormous stomach. As air shot out of the toad in a whoosh, he rudderwhipped it hard, thrice across the head, laying it senseless. He turned and grabbed the other lizard, running it forcefully, snout on, into the willow trunk. Seizing the grass snake, he used it like a flail, cracking the jaws of the other two toads with the snake’s head. Bragoon leaped high. Still holding the grass snake, he landed on the two toads’ stomachs, then booted all three toads into the stream. The other lizard sat facing the tree trunk, nursing its broken snout. Knotting the snake around its neck, the otter looped them both to a low branch.

  Dusting off his paws and breathing heavily, Bragoon took the sword from the astounded young hare. Putting the swordpoint at the lizard, he growled, “In the future, mind yore manners an’ be polite to visitors!”

  The lizard clutched onto the coils of the senseless grass snake around its neck. The snake was looped to the branch above, keeping the lizard on tip-paw. Bragoon put his face close to the reptile and roared thunderously, “Yore all deadbeasts if’n I clap eyes on ye agin! D’ye hear me, slimeguts?”

  Dipping a paw into one of the gourds, the otter tasted the water and spat it out in disgust, then called to his companion. “Git yore gob out o’ that stream, young ’un. Wash these things out an’ fill ’em wid fresh water. I’ll get the fish.” He stowed the sword over his shoulder. “Don’t dillydally, mate. Fenna an’ the others’ll be waitin’. Put a move on!”

  Horty hurried to do Bragoon’s bidding, holding a conversation with himself as he rinsed and filled the containers. “Seasons o’ soup’n’salad, ’pon my word! That crackpot must’ve been a right terror in his younger days, wot? Curl me crusts! A chap’d do well to stay the right side o’ that otter, he’s a bloomin’ one-beast army!”

  Bragoon’s voice cut sharply into his meanderings. “Stop chunnerin’ an’ get ’em filled, ye great gabby windbag!”

  Horty filled the last gourd with one paw, saluting furiously with the other. “Chunnerin’, sah, who, sah, me, sah? No, sah, not never, nohow. Last one filled, sah, all correct, wot wot!”

  Bragoon had chopped branches with his sword. He and Horty carried the gourds, strung on the wood and yoked across their shoulders, two to each of them. They had drunk sufficient water and chewed on the cooked fish as they trekked back to their friends.

  Sighting the lean-to in dawn’s pearly light, they dashed forward, slopping water, with Horty yelling, “Toodle pip there, you idle lot, here come two handsome water carriers. I say, we’ve got fish, too! Jolly good, eh?”

  There was no reply from the shelter. Bragoon hurried forward, only to find it deserted.

  BOOK THREE

  “We lived one summer

  too long”

  29

  Morning sunlight filtered like molten gold through the gatehouse. Raga Bol picked his teeth with the silver pawhook, spitting a bone back onto the remains of a well-grilled fish, which he had breakfasted on.

  The Searat captain was in a expansive mood, having slept dreamlessly without any giant stripedog nightmares. The whole incident surrounding Lonna had faded into the background since his arrival at the Abbey. He felt a sense of power, sheltered by the monumental red walls which he knew would be his new home. No more scouring the cold northeast seas. This was a place of fair weather, a fortress from where he could rule all Mossflower. Lord Raga Bol, he liked the sound of his new title.

  Badredd quaked with pent-up tension as he awaited the Searat’s verdict on his cooking. Blowfly stood behind him, twirling his knotted rope’s end. Relief flooded through the small fox at the sound of the captain’s coarse but satisfied chuckle.

  “Haharr, I’ve eaten worse an’ lived! Wot kinda fish was that ’un, matey? Wot ’erb did ye use on it, eh?”

  Badredd answered promptly. “ ’Twas a grayling, sir, grilled with button mushrooms an’ dill. I did it special.”

  Bol patted his stomach. “Graylin’, that’s a nice-soundin’ name. Blowfly, wot are we goin’ t’do wid this cook—flog ’im to a jelly wid yore rope’s end or gut ’im wid this ’ook?”

  Blowfly smiled, not a pretty sight. “Gut ’im, Cap’n, go on!”

  The hook lunged out, capturing Badredd around his neck. He was dragged forward until Bol was breathing in his face.

  “Make yoreself useful round ’ere, me liddle graylin’. Clean this place up, scrub it out an’ make the bed. Blowfly, you stay ’ere, tickle ’im up wid yore rope’s end if’n ’e slacks!”

  Thrusting both scimitar and stiletto in his sash, the captain swaggered out onto the sunlit lawn. “Glimbo, rally the crew. ’Tis time we went for a parley wid our new friends!”

  All night long, Foremole and his molecrew had been carrying rubble up to the dormitory to be used as extra defence material. Martha sat close to the window with Toran and Abbot Carrul.

  Granmum Gurvel laid breakfast out on the windowsill for them. “You’m bee’s h’eaten ee brekkist naow, ’tis gudd furr ee!”

  The trio had already laid their plans. Toran poured honey and beechnut flakes over his oatmeal, pointing to the gatehouse. “Stand ready, everybeast, they’re comin’!”

  Raga Bol sauntered up with twoscore of Searats, as though he was out for a morning stroll. He waved up at them.

  Toran grunted. “Don’t look like they’re goin’ to attack right now.”

  “It wouldn’t pay to!” Martha mutte
red grimly, reaching for one of Redwall’s latest pepper bombs. Abbot Carrul stayed silent, polishing his glasses nervously on his habit sleeve.

  A Searat brandishing a rusty axe snarled up arrogantly at the dormitory windows. “Get yerselves out ’ere, or we’ll come in an’ drag ye down!”

  Drawing his scimitar, Raga Bol dealt the Searat a swinging blow to the jaw with its bone handle. He placed a sea-booted footpaw on the sprawled-out rat and spoke reprovingly. “Tut tut, I’m surprised at ye, mate. Is that anyways to be addressin’ gennelbeasts?” Returning the blade to his sash, the Searat captain lectured the rest of his brutish crew. “Mind yore language when ye talks to the goodbeasts up there, that’s an order!”

  He winked broadly and turned away from them, performing a flourishingly elegant bow. His gold fangs glinted as he smiled up at the dormitory windows. “My ’pologies, an’ a good day to ye all, messmates. Me name’s Raga Bol, fer want of a better ’un. I’m ’ere to parley wid yore cap’n. ’Twould be a kindness if’n ’e’d speak t’me.”

  Abbot Carrul showed himself. “I am Father Abbot Carrul of Redwall. What exactly do you want, sir?”

  Raga Bol put his head to one side, almost managing to look coy. “Ho, a bit o’ this an’ a bit o’ that. Nothin’ fer you to bother yore dear old grey ’ead about, Father Abbot. I’m nought but a simple beast who likes pretty trinkets.”

  Toran felt that Carrul had taken enough verbal fencing. Recalling the arrow which had been shot to slay his Abbot, he came forward, placing himself in front of Carrul. In one paw he held a long cook’s knife; in the other, a pepper bomb.

  “Wot would ye like, silvertongue—a bit o’ this or a bit o’ that?” He indicated both weapons as he spoke. “Make yore choice, ’cos that’s all ye’ll get from us. Redwallers aren’t born fools. We know scum, even when they try to talk fancy!”

  Realising that the otter could not be cajoled or wheedled, Raga hurled himself at the Abbey door, hacking at it with his sabre and knife and yelling to his Searat crew, “Attack! Break this door down!”