Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

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’ shuttup!”

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!”