Loamhedge Read online

  Sork placed Lonna’s paw by his side. “Be still, bigbeast, an’ thank the seasons ye are still alive. That face still needs a lot of healing, aye, an’ yore back, too. We’ll bring ye food an’ drink.” Sork and Marinu departed.

  Shoredog stood over Lonna, looking down into his injured face. “We never saw the vermin, but we know ’em. Raga Bol the Searat an’ his crew were the ones. His ship was wrecked beyond repair. They have gone westward, inland to where the weather’s fair an’ the pickin’s easier. Do ye know Raga Bol?”

  Lonna’s scar twitched faintly. “I do not know the scum, but I know of him. They say he kills for fun.”

  Young Stugg scowled. “My farder says Raga Bol be’s wicked!”

  Abruc tugged his son’s rudder. “Go an’ help yore mamma now.”

  Lonna watched the young otter shuffle off. “He’ll grow up to be a fine big creature someday.”

  Abruc smiled. “Aye, Stugg’s a good liddle son.”

  Abruc sought Lonna’s paw and pressed something into it. “Yore weapon was too badly broken to fix. I wove ye a new bowstring. Mayhap ye’ll need it when y’leave here.”

  Lonna held the cord where he could see it better. “Thankee, friend. ’Tis a fine, tough one, well woven and waxed. This is a good and thoughtful gift.”

  Abruc flushed with pleasure. “Ye have only to ask if ye need ought else. We’ll do our best to find it.”

  The giant badger closed his eyes, speaking softly. “I’d be obliged if you could get some ash shafts for arrows, and a few long stout yew saplings, so I can choose one to make a new bow from.”

  Shoredog replied. “We saved yore quiver an’ the arrows, too. Me an’ Abruc know some stream otters not too far from here. They coppice a yew grove. We can have ye a selection of good saplings by tomorrow night. Now sleep, Lonna, ye must rest if yore goin’ to get better. Relax an’ sleep.”

  A short time thereafter, Lonna allowed Marinu to feed him. Then he drifted off into slumber whilst Sork tended to his hurts. In his sleep he visioned Raga Bol, swinging down at his face with the broad-bladed scimitar. The big badger concentrated all his energy and thoughts on the Searat’s savage features.

  Mentally he began chanting, over and over, “Look and you will see me! Know that I am Lonna Bowstripe! The earth is not big enough for us both! I will come on your trail! I will find you, Raga Bol! I will seek you out no matter where! The day of your death is already written on the stones of Hellgates!”

  Whilst the big badger was sleeping, young Stugg crept in to see him. The expression of hatred on Lonna’s ruined features was so frightening that the young sea otter ran from the cave.

  Raga Bol was still out on the heathlands, trekking west with his Searats. They were camped on the streambank in what had once been a vole settlement. Amid the smoke and carnage of burning dwellings and slain voles, the barbarous crew fought among themselves over the pitiful possessions and plundered food.

  Wirga, the wizened old Searat who had healed Raga Bol’s severed stump, stood watching her master chewing on a strip of dried fish.

  With the silver hook tugging at the fish as he pulled to tear it apart, Bol grinned wickedly at Wirga. “See, I told ye, the further west we go, the better the pickin’s get. This stump o’ mine ain’t painin’ so much now. Aye, an’ the weather’s gettin’ better, too.”

  Wirga gestured round at the slain vole bodies lying on the bank. “Fling ’em in the stream an’ this’d make a good camp for the night, Cap’n.”

  Bol picked his teeth with the hooktip. “Aye, ’tis nice’n’restful ’ereabouts now. Hahaha!”

  Dutifully, Wirga laughed with him. Her cackling trailed off as she saw her captain go off into a vacant silence, his eyes opening wide as the fish fell unheeded from his mouth.

  Wirga stared at him anxiously. “What is it, Cap’n, a bone stuck in thy gullet? Let me take a look!”

  As she bent toward him, Raga Bol recovered and kicked her roughly away. “Break camp, we’re movin’ out!”

  The healer was bewildered at this sudden change. “But Cap’n, thee said . . .”

  Wirga narrowly dodged an angry slash from the silver hook.

  Bol booted the fire left and right, scattering it. “I said we’re movin’ out, we ain’t stayin’ in this place. Now shift yoreself an’ get the crew together!”

  He strode off, to the top of a small rise, peering back at the route they had come along. Wirga passed the word on to Glimbo.

  The one-eyed Searat rolled his milky orb in puzzlement. “Why does ’e wanna move? ’Tis nearly dark!”

  Wirga picked up her stolen belongings. “Hah! Yew go an’ ask ’im, if’n thee feels tired o’ livin’.”

  The crew gathered in sullen silence, watching their leader. He was still gazing eastward from the top of the rise. None of them dared make a move until he did.

  Raga Bol stared at the hostile heathland, muttering to himself. “Yore dead, stripedog, or ye should be. In the name o’ blood an’ thunder, where are ye?”

  He drew his cloak about him and shivered. Somewhere in Raga Bol’s evil mind he had felt Lonna Bowstripe’s threat.

  In the gatehouse at Redwall Abbey, Martha and her friends were studying the history of Loamhedge. It made harrowing reading.

  Abbot Carrul shook his head sadly. “This is not the story of one creature, it is the history of many, all related to one writer, who set it down as a chronicle. I think that this poem, “The Loamhedge Lament,” by Sister Linfa, sums up most of the tragedy. I’ll read it out to you.”

  Martha’s eyes misted over as the Abbot recited the poem.

  “Where are the carefree sunlit days,

  when once amid tranquil bowers,

  Loamhedge mice would take their ease,

  to dream away happy hours?

  Where did the laughter go?

  Who stole the joy away?

  Heavy the heart that goes

  far from its home to stray.

  A sickness stole in to blight our lives

  like a spectre of unwanted doom.

  Midst grief and anguish it lingered,

  creeping through hall and room.

  Like wheat before the sickle,

  it laid our loved ones low,

  leaving us only one answer,

  to flee our home and go!

  Stalked by desolation now,

  left open to wind and rain,

  only in old memories dim

  would Loamhedge live again.”

  The day’s last gleaming shone through the open door. Toran stood framed there, wiping his eyes on his cook’s apron. He had entered unnoticed and heard the whole thing.

  “Leave this now, and come back to the Abbey for supper, friends. Tomorrow morning ye can sit out on the wallsteps in the sunlight and study some more. Martha, come on, ’tis far too sad, sittin’ here at night readin’ of sickness an’ death.”

  The haremaid cast an imploring glance at Abbot Carrul. “But we must find out about Sister Amyl’s secret, and we must find out a way to discover where Loamhedge lies!”

  The Abbot shepherded her to the gatehouse door. “Toran’s right, miss, the night hours can be long and oppressive for such heavy stuff. Let’s go to supper in Cavern Hole and shed our sad mood for tonight. We’ll be much brighter, and more alert, in the morning.”

  Old Phredd the Gatekeeper waved them off. “Hmm hmm, you run along now. I’ll stay here awhile.”

  He watched them go, then wandered back into the little building, talking to a cushion he had picked up. “Hmm, the way to Loamhedge, now where’ve we seen that before? Chronicle of some bygone traveller I expect, eh, eh?”

  Climbing upon a chair, he peered at a row of books on a high shelf. Selecting one, Phredd blew the dust from its covers and smiled benignly at it. “Ah, there you are, y’old rascal. Hiding up there, heehee. Didn’t think I could see ye? Now what’ve you got to say for yourself, eh, eh?”

  Settling down in an armchair, he brought a lantern close and opened the
book’s yellowed pages. “Heeheehee, we’ve met before, haven’t we? The recordings of Tim Churchmouse, now I recall ye! The journey to seek out Mattimeo, son of the warrior Matthias. Aye, that covered the Loamhedge Abbey territory, I’m certain it did!”

  Toran had been keeping his eye on Martha throughout supper. The ottercook did not like to see his young chum so downcast. He chivvied her, hoping to lighten Martha’s mood.

  “Cheer up, beauty. If’n ye keep lookin’ like that, it’ll teem down rain tomorrow. Wot’s the matter, my mushroom ’n’barley soup too cold? Has the bread gone stale, the cheese too hard, not enough plums in the pudden? Speak up, droopy ears, does that strawberry fizz cordial taste musty?”

  The haremaid managed a wan smile. “No, Toran, it’s not that, the supper is delicious. It’s just that . . . oh, I don’t know.”

  Toran collared Horty, just as he was reaching for another helping of plum pudding. “Hear that, young starvation face? Yore sister doesn’t know wot’s wrong with her. Sing her a song an’ liven her up, or y’don’t get any more plum pud!”

  Horty had done this once or twice before, when Martha was a bit down. That, and Toran’s threat to cut off his plum pudding supply, galvanised the greedy young hare into action. He let rip with a special ditty he saved for such occasions.

  “What a gloomy little mug, wot wot,

  come on, let’s see you smile.

  With a scowl like that you’d frighten

  every beast within a mile.

  So chortle hahaheeheehoho!

  and brighten up for me,

  or I’ll send you to that Sister

  from the Infirmary.

  She’ll say ‘Wot have we here, wot wot?

  A face like a flattened frog?

  This calls for a bucket o’ physick, aye,

  now that should do the job!

  Will somebeast grab her nose,

  so she can’t hold her breath,

  then I’ll be able to grab a ladle,

  an’ physick the child to death!

  I’ll not have it said of me, I couldn’t do my job,

  an’ send a young ’un to her grave,

  with a grin upon her gob!’

  So chortle hohohahahee,

  an’ smile an’ giggle a lot,

  you can’t sit there all evenin’

  with a face like a rusty pot. Wot wot!”

  Martha was chuckling when she spied Sister Setiva, the Infirmary Keeper, making a beeline for her brother.

  Setiva had a stern manner, and a marked northern accent, coupled with a dislike for impudence. “Ach, ye flop-eared wretch, ah’ll physick ye tae death if’n ah lay paws on ye!”

  Horty hid behind Toran. “I say, sah, ’twas only a blinkin’ joke, y’know. Don’t let that old poisoner get me!”

  Martha wiped tears of merriment from her eyes as the Abbot leaned across to her and asked, “Better now, miss?”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you, Father. Oh, that Horty!”

  Sister Portula gave the Abbot a sidelong glance. “It’s all very well making plans to continue our studies out on the steps tomorrow, but look at the ruckus today. They were crowded around the gatehouse to see what we were doing inside. I think we’d best get ready to have lots of company tomorrow, Father—unless you can think of another way to keep our creatures distracted.”

  Abbot Carrul touched a paw to the side of his nose. “I’ve already thought of that, Sister. Do you not know what day it is tomorrow?”

  Portula shrugged. “A day like any other. Sunny, I hope.”

  Abbot Carrul stood up and murmured to her as he banged a ladle upon the tabletop to gain order. “Tomorrow is the first day of summer.”

  He raised his voice. “Your attention please, my friends!”

  A respectful silence fell upon the boisterous Redwallers. Everybeast was eager to hear what their Abbot had to say.

  “It is my wish that, as tomorrow is the first day of Summer Season, a sports day and a feast shall be held within the grounds of our Abbey. My good friend Foremole Dwurl will be in charge of the proceedings. I trust you will cooperate with him. Foremole Dwurl!”

  Redwall’s mole leader, a kindly old fellow, bowed low to the Abbot. Amid the raucous cheering and shouting, he climbed upon the table and stamped his footpaws to gain order.

  “Thankee, zurr h’Abbot. Naow, you’m all coom to ee h’orchard arter brekkist, an’ oi’ll give ee yurr tarsks. Hurr hurr, an’ all you’m Dibbuns make shore you’m be proper scrubbed!”

  Abbot Carrul looked over the top of his tiny glasses at Sister Portula. “Does that solve your problem, marm?”

  The good Sister looked slightly nonplussed. “But Father, Summer Season doesn’t start for two days yet.”

  Foremole Dwurl wrinkled his snout confidentially. “If’n you’m doant tell ’um, marm, us’n’s woant. Hurrhurr!”

  Silence reigned in Cavern Hole. Every Redwaller was tucked up in bed, anticipating the coming day’s delights. Summer Season feast and sports was always a joyous event on the Abbey calendar.

  Abbot Carrul pushed Martha’s chair across Great Hall to her bedroom, which was next to his on ground level. His voice echoed whisperingly about the huge columns as they went.

  “Did you notice that Old Phredd didn’t come in for supper this evening?”

  Martha voiced her concern. “Oh dear, I do hope he’s not ill!”

  The Father Abbot reassured her. “Not at all, that old fogy’s fit as a flea. He was rather anxious for us to get out of the gatehouse, though. I’ll wager a button to a barrel of mushrooms that rascal has information about Loamhedge hidden in his dusty archives, sly old hog!”

  Martha sat up eagerly. “Do you really think so, Father?”

  Carrul nodded. “I’m certain of it, miss. D’you know, I think our search is going to turn up some interesting and exciting stuff tomorrow.”

  The young haremaid wriggled with anticipation, since any prediction the Abbot made invariably came to pass. “Oh, I do hope so, Father. Maybe we’ll discover Sister Amyl’s secret. Wouldn’t that be wonderful!”

  Martha looked up as they passed the great tapestry. Was it just a trick of the flickering lanterns, or did she really see Martin the Warrior’s eyes twinkle at her?

  7

  Some leagues north of Redwall Abbey, the ragtag vermin gang blundered their way through the nighttime thickness of Mossflower woodlands. Skrodd swiped at the undergrowth with his former leader’s cutlass as he led the party.

  The big rat, Dargle, kept muttering under his breath, continuously criticising Skrodd. “Fancy trackin’ two beasts when yore lost, huh!”

  Tired and sleepy, the other vermin managed a weary murmur of agreement. Skrodd did not want to challenge Dargle directly—it was the wrong time and place for such a move. So he asserted his authority by bullying all and sundry. He turned on them, brandishing the cutlass.

  “Shut yer gobs an’ keep movin’. Lost? Hah! Youse’d be the lost ones if’n I wasn’t leadin’ ye!”

  Flinky enjoyed causing trouble. Disguising his voice, he called out behind the big fox’s back. “That’s no way t’be talkin’ to pore pawsore beasts!”

  Little Redd agreed with him. “Aye, we should be sleepin’ now instead o’ wanderin’ round an’ round all night long!”

  Although Flinky was the instigator, Redd was the unlucky one whose voice Skrodd identified. With a savage kick, Skrodd sent the small fox sprawling.

  Laying the cutlass blade against his neck, he snarled, “Ye liddle runt, say the word an’ ye can sleep ’ere fer good. I’ve took enough of yore moanin’!”

  Realising that he had gone too far, Flinky tried to remedy the situation by pulling Redd upright as he appealed to Skrodd. “Ah, come on now, sure he’s only a tired young whelp. No sense in slayin’ one of yore own mates. Let’s step out a bit, an’ I’ll sing a song to help us along, eh?”

  Skrodd relented, pointing his blade at the stoat. “Right, you sing. The rest o’ ye march, an’ shutt
up!”

  Flinky’s ditty put a little fresh life into the gang’s paws.

  “Ferrets are fine ould foragers,

  though frequently furtive an’ fey,

  stoats can sing sweetly fer seasons,

  so me sister used to say,

  but foxes are fine an’ ferocious,

  when faced with a fight or a fray,

  an’ rats remain rambunctious but only for a day!

  But wot about weasels, those wily ould weasels,

  they’re woefully wayward an’ wild,

  the ones they’ve whipped an’ walloped,

  will wail that weasels are vile,

  they’ve bullied an’ beaten an’ battered,

  they’ve tormented tortured an’ tripped,

  I’m sure any day their pore victims would say,

  steer clear o’ the weasel don’t get in his way,

  for of all the vermin ye’d care to recall,

  the weasel’s the wickedest wretch of all.

  An’ virtuous vermin will all agree,

  any weasel is worse than me!”

  There were four weasels in the gang: Slipback; his mate, Juppa; and two taciturn brothers, Rogg and Floggo. All of them protested volubly at Flinky’s song.

  “That ain’t right, foxes are worse’n weasels!”

  “Ye sing dat again, an’ I’ll wallop ye alright!”

  Skrodd’s bad-tempered shout quickly silenced them. “Shut yore faces back there, or I’ll show ye ’ow ferocious foxes can be. Sing somethin’ else, Flinky, an’ don’t insult nobeast!”

  Dargle called out, “Aye, an’ be nice to foxes, they’re easy hurt!”

  Skrodd fixed the big rat with an icy glare. “Aye, an’ they can hurt rats easily, too!”

  Dargle stared fearlessly back at him. “Ye don’t scare me, fox. Burrad was slayed by mistake. Us rats don’t make mistakes when we fight!”

  Skrodd never answered. Turning away, he continued to march, but the challenge was out in the open now. The rest of the gang exchanged nods and winks—a fight to the death was not far off. Skrodd pulled Little Redd up to the front with him and allowed him to walk by his side. The small fox felt honoured; normally he would be left trailing at the back of the gang.