Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  When three lances came zinging at him, the young hare stopped, but the weapons had pierced his ridiculous headdressing. He ground to a halt, only paces from the dumbfounded reptiles.

  “Great blinkin’ seasons, have a flamin’ care where you’re chuckin’ those things. A chap could get injured by them!”

  Knowing that the plan had been ruined, Bragoon, Saro and Jigger, followed by their fighting force, came bounding downhill. At the bottom they found, to their shock, that the reptiles were lying prostrate, facedown in front of the young hare. Horty stood posing majestically, the three lances transfixing his turban.

  Saro glared at him. “Wot were ye thinkin’ of, ye great idiot? Lollopin’ off right into the middle of the enemy like that!”

  Horty gave her a scathing glance. “Hold your tongue, marm. These chaps are just showin’ their respect to me. Hawhaw, they must think I’m the Great Hortyplonk, descended from out the bloomin’ sky, wot!”

  Springald scoffed in his face. “Then they must be bigger idiots than you! D’you realise you could’ve been killed?”

  As she spoke, there was a whooping warcry from the far bank. Logalogalogalooooooog! Briggy had commenced attacking the reptiles over there.

  The reptiles laid out in awe of Horty lifted their faces. When they saw the score of shrews brandishing their clubs, they rose, backing off into the shallows.

  Horty took a few paces toward them. “I say there, old scaly-skinned chaps . . .”

  Hissing and squeaking, the reptiles fled into the water.

  The young hare turned to Jigger, who was looking rather crestfallen. “Oops, sorry about that, old lad. Were you goin’ to give those bounders a good drubbin’? I didn’t realise. Oh well, never mind. Come on, we’ll pursue ’em into the river an’ deal ’em a few severe whackin’s, wot!” He trotted into the shallows but was immediately set upon and hauled back by four shrews.

  Horty protested vehemently. “Wot the . . . ? I say, unpaw me, little sirrahs, I’m not scared of a few mangy reptiles, by the left, I ain’t!”

  Jigger remarked caustically. “Oh, we know ye ain’t, lop-ears. But it’s not the reptiles that’s the danger on this stretch o’ the river. Watch!”

  He picked up a lance and went into the shallows, holding the weapon out into the water at paw’s length. Suddenly it began to shake and vibrate. When Jigger pulled it out, the tip was ripped and ragged. A small fish, which seemed to consist of only big, needlelike teeth, was clinging doggedly to it. Jigger flicked the creature back into the water.

  “ ’Tis the fish that are the slayers ’ere!”

  The reptiles were being swept downriver, shrieking unmercifully as the water about them reddened.

  Horty sat down in a collapse on the bank, looking pale about the gills.

  “Oh corks, I feel quite ill all of a sudden!”

  On the far bank, the reptiles were taking a colossal walloping from Briggy and his command. They had tossed a big logboat sail over their foes, capturing most of them beneath the spreading canvas. Some of the Guorafs held the ends down, while others galloped about on the sailcloth, dealing great whacks with their war clubs to any bump that appeared—be it head, tail, back or limb. Gradually the canvas subsided and was still.

  Log a Log Briggy waved over to them, his stentorian bass voice booming over the waters. “Stop there, friends, I’ve sent a crew to git the boats. They’ll pick ye up an’ bring ye over!”

  It was a glorious evening on the far bank. Six logboats lay prow on to the bankside, as the travellers sat among their shrewfriends.

  Horty sniffed the air appreciatively, his whiskers atwitch at the aromas of cooking. “I say, old Briggathingee, is that supper I detect? Jolly nice of you chaps, wot!”

  Briggy pulled a mock glare at Bragoon. “So, ye had t’bring a starvin’ hare along with ye this trip. I’ll wager that lollop-lugged young famine maker can shift a tidy few platefuls, eh?”

  Horty smiled primly. “Oh, I just nibble a bit here’n’there, y’know, sah. Actually I’ve not been feelin’ too chipper of late. But if the scoff’s as good as it smells, well, I might persuade myself to try it, wot.”

  Jigger looked askance at him. “Lissen, mate, if’n ye want to sail wid the Guorafs, ye’ve got t’be a big eater an’ a great bragger, like Drinchy ’ere. Ain’t that right, Drinch? Show the harebeast ’ow ’tis done.”

  A fat, powerful-looking shrew stood up, smirking, then launched into Riverbraggin, an art much admired among the longboat crews. Drinchy thumped the ground with his club and commenced roaring, “I wuz borned on a river in a thunnerstorm, an’ wot did I do? I ate the bottom outta the boat an’ fought six big pike who tried to eat me! Though I wuz on’y a babe, I scoffed three of ’em, an’ tossed the rest on the bank an’ fried ’em for me brekkist! Aye, mates, I’m Drinchy Wildgob, the roarin’ son of a roarin’ son who killed ’imself tryin’ to feed me. I can outeat, outchew an’ outswaller anybeast alive—includin’ long-pawed, flop-eared, fancy bunnies!”

  Finished with his mighty brag, Drinchy bowed as the shrews cheered him raucously.

  Saro nodded to Horty. “I think you’re bein’ challenged, young ’un. Think you can do better than Drinchy?”

  Horty stood up, bowing elegantly to Saro. “Marm, my dander has risen since the remarks that chap made about me. We of the Braebucks are not backward in coming forward. I shall accept this curmudgeon’s braggin’ challenge, forthwith!”

  Without further ado, Horty bounded up, spreading his paws dramatically and yelling like a madbeast. “I’m the son of the howlin’ hare! I was born on a winter’s night in a gale. My parents took one look at me, chewin’ on the chimney, an’ left home! There ain’t a cauldron big enough to hold my dinner, not one in all the land! I’ve ate every jolly old thing—fried frogs, toasted toads, boiled badgers, roasted reptiles, an’ shrews, too! Shrew stew, shaved an’ shrivelled shrews, shrew soup an’ simmered shrew! I’ve got a stomach of iron an’ a mouth like a steel trap! I’m the Horrible Hortwill Braebuck, an’ nobeast steps over my line! Even little fat wretches with bellies like balloons an’ spiky fur an’ names like Drinchy! D’ye know what the Horrible Horty likes for supper? Daintily diced Drinchy . . . with lots o’ gravy. Yaaaaaah!”

  The Guoraf shrews battered the ground with their war clubs, a mark of the highest honour they could show anybeast. Then they hoisted Horty up on their shoulders, cheering him twice around the camp.

  With a look of thorough humbleness, Drinchy shook the young hare’s paw fervently. “Well, I more’n met me match there, mate. Ye must be the best bragger ever born, ye made me look like a beginner.”

  The triumphant Horty was gallant, even in victory. “No hard feelins, Drinch old lad, but mind your language in the future, wot!”

  A magnificent supper was served, as befitted shrewcooks, who were renowned across the waterways for their culinary skills. Huge portions were served up to Horty. The shrews gathered round, gazing in awe as he downed one dish after another.

  “Mmmm yum! This is top-hole tucker, wot wot. Pass some more o’ that skilly’n’duff, please. Oh, an’ lob more honey over it, I like it that way. I say, is that actually rhubarb’n’blackberry crumble? . . . Where’s me blinkin’ spoon? Drinch, old scout, would y’be kind enough to fetch more shrewbeer—not that little beaker, gimme the jug!”

  Bragoon chuckled. “Look at young Horty, he’s in ’is element there. They’ll get tired o’ servin’ before he does of eatin’, mark my words, Briggy!”

  The shrew chieftain watched Horty admiringly. “That ’un should’ve bin a shrew, mate. I saw ’im march straight inter that reptile crowd widout turnin’ a hair. They’d already throwed three javelins an’ spiked ’is hat. I tell ye, Bragoon, it takes a brave beast to do that!”

  The otter poured himself another beaker of shrewbeer. “Or a ravin’ idiot! I’ll tell ye the truth of it all someday.”

  Horty was on to a wild grape and almond pudding. “Never had this before. My word, it’s rather toothso
me, wot. Send the old cook out, an’ I’ll give her a kiss!”

  A small, toothless, grizzled male shrew stumped out from behind the cauldrons hanging over the fire. He grinned. “H’I’m the cook round ’ere. Wot was it ye wanted, sir?”

  Horty choked on a mouthful of pudding. “Wot, er, oh nothin’, granddad. Excellent scoff, wot. Top marks, well done an’ all that. Back to the old fire an’ keep on cookin’. Eh, wot!”

  Log a Log Briggy called to his shrews. “Ye can let those reptiles free now, I reckon they’ve learned their lesson. If any of the slimy-skinned lot give ye any bother, give ’em another drubbin’ an tell ’em you’ll sling ’em in the river. That should scare ’em!”

  He sat down with Bragoon and Saro, winking fondly at them. “Now then, mateys, wot brings you two t’these parts, eh?”

  They explained the mission for Martha’s cure and their quest for Loamhedge.

  Briggy stroked his beard. “Hmm, Loamhedge eh? I’ve ’eard tell o’ the place. But ye’d ’ave to cross the great gorge to git anywheres near where the stories say the lost Abbey o’ Loamhedge lies. Did ye bring some kind o’ chart along to ’elp ye find it, or are ye just trustin’ to fortune?”

  Bragoon produced the chart from Matthias’s journal. “It’s been mostly luck to date, but we do ’ave this.”

  Briggy rummaged a battered single eyeglass from his belt pouch and held it to his eye. “My ole peepers ain’t wot they used t’be, I got to use this monocle t’see. Right, wot’ve we got ’ere?”

  He perused the dilapidated parchment thoroughly. “Hah, I know this country, ’tis sou’east o’ where we are now. I’ve seen these two rocks an’ all. They’re called the Bell an’ the Badger’s ’ead, great big lumps o’ stone they are. Wot’s this, a large tree called the Lord o’ Mossflower? Huh, that was long gone in the seasons afore my father’s grandfathers. Blowed down, or collapsed more likely, when the earth trembled.”

  Saro looked anxiously at the shrew chieftain. “But ye do know where the two big rocks are?”

  Briggy stowed his monocle away. “Ho, I knows that place sure enough. East along this river for a day or so, then cut south when ye leave the bank. Wicked country, ’tis.”

  Bragoon patted his swordhilt. “That don’t worry us, we’ve travelled wicked country afore. So will ye take us upriver to the Bell an’ the Badgers ’ead, me ole mate?”

  Briggy held out his paw. “Course I will, ’ere’s me paw an’ ’ere’s me heart on it. But afore ye gets to the big rocks, ye’ve gotta cross the great gorge. I never knew of anybeast who’s done that yet.”

  Saro winked at him. “You leave that to us. We’ve done lots o’ things nobeast ’as ever done, me’n my mate.”

  Jigger joined them, taking a great interest in Bragoon’s sword. “That’s a fine-lookin’ blade ye carry, mate.”

  The otter drew the sword, holding it out to let the firelight play along its blade in the gathering twilight. It shimmered and glinted like a live thing. “Aye, a fine blade it is, young ’un. My friend, the Abbot o’ Redwall, loaned it t’me for the journey. ’Tis the sword of Martin the Warrior!”

  The shrews had evidently heard of Martin. As word ran through the camp, they crowded around Bragoon, straining to catch a glimpse of the legendary weapon.

  “So that’s the sword o’ Martin. ’Tis a sight to be’old!”

  “They say ’twas made at the badger mountain from a piece of a star wot fell out the sky!”

  “Blood’n’fur, fancy ownin’ a blade like that!”

  Jokingly, Jigger drew his own short rapier and waved it. “Would ye like to challenge me to a spot o’ swordplay?”

  There was a twinkle in Briggy’s eye as he nudged the otter. “Go on, mate, show ’im wot a real swordbeast kin do.”

  Bragoon rose casually, then moved like lightning. Jigger stood aghast, rooted to the spot as the sword encircled him in a streaking pattern of light. It clipped one of his whiskers and tipped the bandanna from off his forehead. The young shrew closed his eyes tightly.

  Bragoon whirled the blade as he roared. “Yahaarrr, ssssss’death!”

  The rapier flicked from Jigger’s paw. It whipped through the air, then quivered pointfirst in the prow of his father’s big logboat which was drawn up on the bank.

  Jigger gasped. “Scuttle me keel! How’d ye do that, mate?”

  Bragoon winked roguishly at him. “That’s a secret, young ’un!”

  The Guoraf shrew greatly admired the otter’s prowess. “Could I see yore sword, sir, just fer a moment?”

  Bragoon held the blade about a third of the way up. Raising his paw, he did a short hop and threw it. It turned once in the air, almost lazily; then, with a solid thud, buried its point into the logboat, next to the rapier.

  The otter nodded. “Aye, ’elp yoreself. But take care, yon’s a sharp blade.”

  Jigger retrieved his own rapier, but he could not budge the sword since it was too deeply imbedded in the oaken boat. Bragoon went to sit down with Briggy.

  The shrew chieftain stroked his beard. “Where’d ye pick up swordtricks like that?”

  The otter shrugged. “A Long Patrol hare from Salamandastron showed me some dodges with a blade one time. That ’un was wot they called a perilous beast, a real swordfighter, no mistake!”

  Horty looked up from the remnants of a huge pastie. “A Long Patrol hare, indeed! That’s what I’d like to jolly well be someday, wot!”

  Saro patted Horty on the stomach, knocking the wind from him. “Then ye’ll have to scoff less an’ exercise more. Long Patrol hares are fightin’ fit.”

  The young hare got quite huffy. “Fiddlesticks, marm, one’s got to get the right nourishment t’grow strong first, wot?”

  Briggy smiled at him. “Yore right there, Horty, an’ ye need a full night’s sleep, too. Go an’ pick yoreself out a good berth on my vessel. We’ve got a journey upriver t’make at dawn. I’ll put ye to the oars, that’ll toughen yore muscles up a bit. You git yore rest now, an’ you, too, Jigger.”

  Horty gathered up some bread, cheese and pear cordial. “Right y’are, Cap’n Briggathingee. I’ll just take along a light snack to guard the young body against night starvation. I suffer from it terribly, y’know. I was born with the illness. I say Jigger, old lad, not takin’ any rations with you? Well, suit y’self, laddie buck, but don’t come pesterin’ me durin’ the flippin’ night.”

  Jigger, however, was not listening. He had found a new object for his admiration. The young shrew was all smiles and attention for Springald. Carefully he helped the mousemaid aboard the logboat that he was travelling on.

  “Watch yoreself, Miz Spring, these boats are tricky craft. You take some o’ my cushions an’ a soft blanket. Sleep up in the prow, that’s the best spot aboard!”

  The pretty mousemaid played him up outrageously, fluttering her eyelashes and allowing him to make up her bed. “Oh thank you, my friend, that’s so kind of you!”

  Fenna scooted in and flopped down on the cushions. “Plenty of room for us both here, Spring. Thanks, Jigger mate!”

  Sitting by the fire with Briggy and her otter friend, Saro watched the young ones with amusement. “Nice to see ’em gettin’ on well t’gether, eh?”

  Stirring the flames with his rapier, Briggy laughed. “Haharr, bless ’em, they’re only young once. The seasons soon fly by, ain’t that right, Brag, ye ole battler?”

  Bragoon polished Martin’s sword with a piece of damp bark. “Ye never spoke a truer word, ole pal. Me’n Saro have gotten quite fond o’ those three young ’uns, they’re made of the right stuff. Now an’ agin we gotta yell at ’em, but they learn fast. By the way, on that chart o’ mine it says Long Tails an’ desert beyond the river. Will that mean danger for us?”

  Briggy looked scathing. “Huh, Long Tails? My ole Granpa whopped those rats seasons afore I was born. Guorafs drove ’em off into the desertlands south o’ the great gorge. They shouldn’t trouble ye, though the desert might. ’Tis a long dusty trek to the go
rge. D’ye want us t’come with ye?”

  Saro clapped the stout old shrew’s shoulder. “No, mate, you git back to yore river, that’s what ye know best. We’ve managed one desert by ourselves, another one won’t make much difference. We’ll be fine!”

  Briggy seemed relieved. “I thankee fer that, Sarobando. I don’t like bein’ far from runnin’ water anytime. But I’ll tell ye wot I’ll do. We’ll bring the boats back to where we drop youse off, say in about six days. I’ll pick ye up for the return journey. There’s a secret route I know that’ll take ye back to the flatlands below the plateau. It means shootin’ a mighty waterfall to git down there. But don’t fret, my crews kin do it if anybeasts can. ’Twill get ye back ’ome to Redwall much faster.”

  Bragoon shook the old shrew’s paw heartily. “Yore a real friend, true blue’n never fail, Log a Log Briggy!”

  The shrew chieftain rose from beside the fire. “Think nothin’ of it, mate. I’m off t’me bed, if’n that young Horty ain’t stolen it. Us old ’uns need sleep as much as the young do. Pleasant dreams, ye pair o’ rips!”

  The aging otter and his lifelong friend sat by the fire awhile. Bragoon stared into the flames. “We’re gettin’ too old for this sorta thing, Saro. I think when this adventure’s over I’ll settle back down at Redwall. Maybe that brother o’ mine’ll teach me to be a cook.”

  The squirrel stared levelly at him. “If’n that’s wot ye want, then fair enough, matey. I’ll be by yore side wherever ye are.”

  The otter chuckled drily. “An’ so ye will be, we been together since we was Dibbuns. I wouldn’t know where to turn widout ye.”

  That night they slept by the fire, dreaming dreams of the sunny old days at the Abbey when they were both young tear-aways together.

  34

  Martha was up at dawn, trying out her newfound skill—walking! At first it was painful and slow, but the progress she was making, holding on to things for support, was remarkable. With the aid of Sister Setiva’s blackthorn stick, which the Infirmary nurse had parted with happily, the haremaid wandered joyfully along Great Hall.