Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Shoredog felt the fur on the nape of his neck begin to prickle. “But if yore a Seer, ye must have known Grawn was goin’ t’die, didn’t ye?”

Lonna’s eyes left the flames momentarily. “Aye, I knew the old beast had not long to go, but I didn’t know the manner of his death. Grawn was old and very ill. He wished to end his days at the badger mountain of Salamandastron. I was taking him there, and I knew my own fate was also linked to the mountain.”

Abruc leaned forward. “Do ye know where this mountain is?”

Lonna turned back to contemplating the fire. “I have never been there, but I feel I am guided to it by my mind’s eye. It is far to the west, on the shores of the great sea. When my business with the Searats is done, that is where I’ll go. I will not return to this place again. That is why I must travel alone.”

As they sat silently by the fire, Marinu came and lifted the sleeping Stugg from Lonna’s lap. All the other otters had retired for the night. Only the three of them—Lonna, Abruc, and Shoredog—remained.

Shoredog broke the silence. “Garfo Trok, he’s the answer!”

Abruc nodded vigorously. “Right, mate, good ole Garfo!”

Lonna stared from one to the other. “What are you talking about—who’s Garfo Trok?”

Shoredog rose and picked up his warm cape. “Skipper o’ the Nor’east Riverdogs, that’s who Garfo is. He runs a riverboat. Garfo will take ye westward along the waterways. That should save time an’ strain on that back o’ yores, Lonna. Ye’ll pick up Raga Bol’s trail in half the time ye’d take limpin’ along step by step.”

Shoredog hurried from the holt, calling back to Abruc. “I’ll be back with Garfo by midday. Tell the cooks to pack plenty o’ vittles, especially nutbread!”

Abruc nudged Lonna cheerfully. “Ye’ll like ole Garfo, that otter knows waterways like the back of ’is rudder.”

Happy but puzzled, Lonna smiled at the sea otter. “I’m sure I will, but what’s all this about vittles and nutbread? I eat only lightly when I’m travelling.”

Abruc stood up and stretched. “Ye may do, Lonna, but Garfo Trok ain’t a beast that’s ever stinted ’isself when it comes to vittles, particularly nutbread. Why, that ole dog’d go to Hellgates for a loaf! Now get yoreself off an’ rest, ye’ve a big day tomorrow!”

After Abruc had gone, Lonna stretched out by the fire, intending to sleep there for the remainder of the night. Before he closed his eyes, he spent several minutes intensely concentrating on the red embers, repeating mentally, “Rest not too deeply, Raga Bol! Know that I am coming for you! As surely as night follows day, I am coming!”

Raga Bol and his crew were sleeping. They had made it out of the hills and moorlands into the first fringes of heavy forest. A spark from the campfire touched Ferron’s nose, startling him awake. The gaunt rat sat bolt upright, rubbing at the stinging spot. He saw Raga Bol sit up as well, waving his silver hook and mumbling as he tried to come fully awake.

“Go ’way, yore dead! Get away from me, d’ye hear?” The Searat captain caught Ferron looking strangely at him across the fire. “Who are ye gawpin’ at, long face, eh?”

Ferron knew better than to answer back. Instead, he lay back down and closed his eyes. All the crew had been saying the same thing. Lately Cap’n Bol was acting very strange.

9

Dawn was only moments old, but Redwall Abbey was awake and buzzing. Today was the special day Abbot Carrul had promised. Breakfast was already being served from a large buffet table, set up in the passage outside the kitchens. With laden platters, the Redwallers sat down to eat at anyplace which took their fancy. Horty and his friends looked out from the dormitory window at the scene below. Dibbuns thronged together on the broad front step of the Abbey, spooning down bowls of oatmeal mixed with honey and fruit. Anybeast wanting to dine outside had to step carefully over them to reach the lawns or the orchard. It was a jumble of happy confusion.

Muggum waved his beaker at the passing elders, who tip-pawed around him. “Yurr, moind ee paws, you’m nearly trodded in this choild’s brekkist. Whurr’s ee manners? Hurr!”

Warm sunlight was rapidly dispersing the mist into a golden haze. Fenna the squirrelmaid leaned out over the dormitory sill and dropped a fragment of scone down into the hood of Sister Setiva’s habit, giggling as she drew back inside.

“Did she notice it?”

Horty reassured her. “Not at all. She’s toddled off down to the pond with Brother Gelf. Hahaha! I expect old Setiva’ll be set upon by the first blinkin’ bird that spots it. Should liven her up, wot!”

Springald watched the Infirmary Sister balancing her tray gingerly as she crossed the lawn. “Huh, pity help the bird who tries to set upon her. She’ll bath it in the pond and physick it silly. Look out, here comes Father Abbot!”

The mischievous trio ducked below the windowsill as Abbot Carrul, Toran, Sister Portula and Martha emerged from the Abbey. Toran lifted Martha’s chair over the step and assisted Portula with a trolley full of food. They set out for the gatehouse together, with Abbot Carrul stretching his paws and breathing deeply.

“My my, it’s a good-to-be-alive day. Let’s hope we get a few hours of peace to tackle our studies.”

Toran had to rap loudly on the gatehouse door to gain attention. Old Phredd could be heard inside, arguing with an armchair.

“Come out my way and let me see who ’tis. It’s your fault, being so comfy and allowin’ me to sleep like that!”

A moment later, his frowzy, prickled head poked around the door. “Oh, er hmm. Good morning, I suppose it’s morning, isn’t it? Of course, if ’twas noon, the sun would be much higher, eh, eh?” Dabbing his face in a bowl of water, the ancient hedgehog absentmindedly wiped his eyes on Martha’s lap rug. “There, that’s better. Oh good, I see you brought breakfast with you. Splendid, I’m starving!”

Martha ate very little, trying to hold back her impatience as Phredd slowly munched his way around the food. Toran, however, got to the point right away.

“Well then, sir, how did yore studyin’ go? Did ye find out anythin’ useful about Loamhedge?”

Phredd nodded toward a dusty book lying on his bed. “Oh, that. Take a look in the old volume there. I read it until I could keep my eyes open no longer. Hmm, quite interesting really, an exciting little story, eh?”

Martha opened the book, its pages yellow with age and so brittle that they were cracking and beginning to flake. She read aloud from the neatly scribed lines of purple, faded ink. “Written by Tim Churchmouse. Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country . . .”*

Phredd interrupted her as he dealt with a hazelnut roll. “It was written in the seasons of Abbot Mordalphus. The account of Mattimeo, son of Matthias the Abbey Champion. All about abduction and slavery, a search, a chase and so on. If you’re looking for a route to the old Abbey of Loamhedge, the descriptions are very long and complicated, but there’s a map included that should be a help. Actually I only got a third of the way through the account before I dropped off. . . .”

Abbot Carrul shook his head in wonder. “In the seasons of Mordalphus, . . . Dearie me! That book must be nearly as old as time itself!”

Sister Portula put aside her beaker of mint tea. “The land will have changed a lot since then, what with rains and floods altering water courses and storms blowing down trees. There’ll be new areas of woodland grown over the ages, and I don’t know what. Do you think it will be much help, Toran?”