Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The hefty rat Dargle muttered under his breath. “If ye think ye can take it, fox!”

Skrodd looked around at the vermin behind him. “Did somebeast say somethin’?”

Flinky rubbed his stomach. “Ah no, Chief, ’twas just me ould guts rumblin’ away. I knew that fish wasn’t fer me somehow.”

Bragoon and Saro had made camp in a grove of conifers, some miles south of where they had encountered the vermin.

Burying the fishbones beneath the deep layer of pine needles, the otter wiped his mouth. “Bit o’ fish like that makes a nice change, eh mate? Did ye manage to lay paws on any o’ that stuff they was drinkin’?”

The aging squirrel wrinkled her nose disgustedly. “That poison? Vermin-brewed nettle grog. Small wonder they’re stupid—it must’ve rotted what little brains they had. Best stick with clean streamwater until we get back to Redwall an’ get some decent drink.”

She lay back, viewing the star-dusted skies through the treetops. “Aah, t’be back home in the good ole Abbey. D’ye think they’ve forgiven us for the old Dibbun days?”

Her companion chuckled. “I certainly hope they have, we were a fearsome pair, mate. Hmmm, wonder if ole Granmum Gurvel’s still the Abbeycook. Hoho, the pies’n’scones we swiped off’n her kitchen windowsill. No wonder she turned grey!”

Saro shrugged. “There’s a lot o’ seasons run under the bridge since we were Abbeybabes. I don’t suppose pore old Gurvel will still be livin’. She was a great cook though.”

Bragoon nodded. “Aye, she was that. I’ll bet that little brother o’ mine Toran is Abbeycook now. Gurvel taught him a lot, y’know. He was always a goodbeast around kitchens an’ ovens.”

Saro hopped up and spread herself along a bough, directly above Bragoon’s resting spot. She reminisced hungrily.

“Scones, or fresh bread, with meadowcream an’ damson preserve. That’s what I could eat right now!”

Stretched on the ground, Bragoon yawned and sighed. “Don’t even mention it, mate. Let’s get a good night’s shuteye. We could make Redwall by afternoon tea tomorrow. You can fill yore face then. G’night, Saro.”

The squirrel ignored her friend and continued yearning. “October Ale! What could be nicer than a foamin’ beaker of good October Ale. Mmmm, with some brown farlbread an’ some yellow cheese with roasted hazelnuts in it. Simple but satisfyin’, eh Brag?”

The otter opened one eye. “Very acceptable. Now go t’sleep!”

Saro carried on as if she had not heard. “What would y’say to an apple’n’blackberry crumble, spread thick with meadowcream?”

Bragoon growled. “I’d say button yore lip an’ sleep. So goodnight!”

But Saro could not forget the subject of food. “Howsabout ice cold mint tea an’ a thick slice of heavy fruitcake with honey crystals in it. Ooooh!”

Bragoon sat up slowly. “I’d say ye was makin’ my pore stomach gurgle with all this vittle talk. Good . . . night!”

Saro licked her lips. “Or some of yore favourite, a big carrot’n’mushroom pasty, with onion gravy drippin’ an’ oozin’ out the sides, an’ . . . Yaahoooow!”

She was catapulted into the air as Bragoon hauled down hard on the bough, letting it go suddenly. Rising from the ground, Saro dusted herself off indignantly.

“Gettin’ touchy in yore old age, aren’t ye? Goodnight to ye, ole grumpy rudder!”

Bragoon snorted. “I swear ye were born chatterin’. Now goodnight, old gabby whiskers!”

Silence fell over the glade. Both lifelong friends drifted into the realm of slumber. They dreamt golden-tinged memories of their Dibbun seasons at the place they called home—Redwall Abbey.

6

The big badger’s eyes flickered, then opened slowly. He lay quite still, taking in his strange surroundings—a cave, peaceful and warm, with sweet aromatic wisps drifting languidly from a rockbound hearth. A fireglow cast flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. He felt secure and safe there with moss and soft, silver sand beneath him.

A movement near his head caught the badger’s attention. A young sea otter emerged.

“De old stripedog who was slayed, was he yore farder, sir?”

Though it pained him, he strained his neck to get a closer look at the young one. The badger’s voice, echoing in the cavern, sounded strange to his ears. “Nay, he was my friend, though a father could not have been kinder to me. He was called Grawn. I trust you put him to rest decently.”

The youngster nodded several times. “Shoredog an’ my farder made a bury hole. They putted rocks on him an’ yore bow, ’cos it was broked in halves.”

The badger’s big dark eyes glistened wetly. “I must thank your father and Shoredog. What do they call you?”

The young beast held out his paw politely. “I bee’s Stugg, son of Abruc an’ Marinu, sir.”

A massive paw took Stugg’s smaller one, enveloping it. “ ’Tis a pleasure to meet ye, Stugg. I am called Lonna Bowstripe. Is your father hereabout? I would speak with him.”

Lonna listened to young Stugg scamper from the cave calling shrilly. “Farder, farder, come quick! De big stripedog bee’s awake, his name be Lonna!”

In a short while, two male sea otters entered the cave, followed by two females, one very old, and Stugg following up the rear.

Lonna leaned forward slightly. “Thank you, my friends, for saving my life, caring for me and putting old Grawn to rest. Stugg told me you buried him well.”

Abruc pressed Lonna back down gently. “We did what was right for your companion. Only vermin leave the dead unburied. As for ye bein’ cared for, ’twas my wife Marinu an’ ole Sork who saw to yore well-bein’. You lie still an’ rest now, Lonna. By an’ by ye’ll get stronger. We’ll see to that.”

The big badger’s paw touched the long scar ridge that crossed his face diagonally from eartip to jaw. “I must grow strong again to repay the vermin who did this and murdered poor Grawn. Did you see them?”

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.”