Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

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.