Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

When the tale ended, Bragoon sat staring at the haremaid’s unmoving footpaws, peeping from under her lap rug. The aging otter’s voice was extremely sympathetic. “What a terrible thing t’happen to a young ’un! An’ you’ve never been able to walk since ye can first remember?”

Martha shook her head. “No, sir, though ’tis not for the want of trying. I collapse every time I do, as if my footpaws were held there by two pieces of wet string.”

Saro was impressed by the young one’s frankness. “That’s a hard thing for anybeast t’bear. If’n ye don’t mind me askin’, Martha, wot d’ye do with yourself all day?”

Martha shrugged. “Oh, I get around. There’s always my kind friends to push me, though I can wheel myself around if I need to. I do a lot of reading and studying, too. Oh, that reminds me, Sister Portula, I left your book in the gatehouse. Old Phredd’s still up, I can see the light at his window from here. Let’s pay him a visit.”

They all strolled across to the gatehouse with Bragoon and Saro pushing Martha’s chair. Unusually for Phredd, he was wide awake and answered the door promptly.

“Young Martha, I was hoping you’d come. I see you brought all your friends, eh? Well come in, everybeast. You’ll have to find somewhere to sit, there’s not much room, y’know!”

Phredd spoke to the latch as he closed the door behind them. “Heehee, got something to show this haremaid, haven’t we?”

Martha sat up eagerly. “Have you found anything, sir?”

The old hedgehog sat on the side of his bed, opening Sister Portula’s book at a page he had marked. “Found something? Hah, the moment that race was over and I could rescue my armchairs back in here, I did some serious reading. There’s more important things in life than running oneself silly around walltops, y’know. After all, Martin the Warrior sent you a message that mustn’t be ignored, missy.”

Bragoon suddenly became interested. “Martin the Warrior sent ye a message, Martha? What did he say?”

The haremaid explained. “I fell asleep near the tapestry. Martin and another young mouse named Sister Amyl appeared to me. Martin told me to read, because reading is knowledge, then Sister Amyl spoke this rhyme to me.

“Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,

my secret lies hid from view,

the tale of how I learned to walk,

when once I was as you.

Though you cannot go there,

look out for two who may,

travellers from out of the past,

returning home someday.”

Saro looked very serious. “I remember Martin the Warrior spoke to me an’ Brag when we were young.”

Abbot Carrul peered over his spectacles in astonishment. “Martin spoke to you two? Did he really?”

Saro kept her face straight. “Oh aye, I’ll tell ye wot he said.

“Seek adventure, liddle mates,

go ye forth from Redwall’s gates.

Both of ye, wild and unchecked,

begone afore my Abbey’s wrecked!”

Bragoon chuckled. “She’s only jokin’, of course.”

Old Phredd glared at them both. “This is no joking matter. As soon as I saw you down by the pond today, I knew you were the two travellers from out of the past. Eh, eh, the two that Sister Amyl’s poem spoke of, right?”

Horty’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Right indeed, wot!”

Phredd tapped the open book he held. “Stop jabbering and listen, please, this is most important. I have found the story of Sister Amyl. It was written by another, Recorder Scrittum. He was the Loamhedge brother who put most of this story together—and very well he did it, too. Listen to this!”

They sat entranced as Phredd’s wavery tones brought the past back to life for them.

“ ‘The plague has come to Loamhedge, a great sickness is upon us. This morning we buried four, three sisters and one brother. Our infirmary is packed with the ill and suffering. I fear this Abbey has become a pest hole. Abbess Germaine and her Council have reached a bitter decision: if we are to survive, we must leave Loamhedge. It is almost unthinkable, is it not? Having to forsake our beautiful old home to wander in the wilderness. Germaine speaks of travelling to Mossflower country, where she has friends who will give us shelter. We are to take very little with us and live off the land as we go. These are hard and sad times, indeed.

“ ‘However, there is no other way for it. Poor Sister Amyl is a young mouse who has never walked. She makes her way about in a wheeled chair. Amyl has decided not to go with us. I pleaded with her, saying that I would care for her and push the chair to wherever we were bound, but she would not hear of it. Amyl said that the journey would be far too arduous and feared that she would hold us back. In a way she is right, since a wheeled chair cannot be hauled over hill and dale. There would be bad weather to contend with—rivers, swollen streams, rocks and swampland. Also, it will soon be wintertide. The Abbess does not know of Amyl’s decision yet. It is my sad duty to tell her of the situation. Young Sister Amyl is such a good creature. It will break my heart to leave her at Loamhedge, amid the dying.’ ”

Toran interrupted the narration by sniffing loudly and grubbing a paw across his moist eyes. “Pore liddle thing, left t’die in a deserted Abbey. I’d never leave ye to a fate like that, Martha, no matter wot it took!”

Bragoon grasped the haremaid’s paw. “Me either, miss!”

Martha forestalled Saro and the rest by holding up a paw. “I know you wouldn’t, none of you. . . .”

She caught sight of Old Phredd, glaring about impatiently. “Oops, sorry sir, we’ll be quiet, I promise!”

The Gatekeeper huffed, then leafed on to another marked page. “Thank you! Now let me read further into this narrative. Here is a section by Recorder Scrittum, concerning setting up camp on the first evening of the journey.

“ ‘Let me tell you of a miracle! Can I believe my eyes, you must take what I tell you as true, I have always been a faithful recorder, and never given to lying. Here was I, trudging along carrying my writing equipment and a sack of provisions. We were heading for a streambank with high sides, where there would be shelter for the brothers and sisters. I was travelling somewhere in the centre of the column, not having seen the Abbess, as she was leading up at the front. I came away from Loamhedge, filled with shame and remorse, being too overcome with grief to bid Sister Amyl farewell. I slunk off like a thief. Then, from the rear of the marchers, a mighty cheer rose up. I trekked back to see what was causing such jubilation. There across the heathland, limping slowly but walking without any shadow of a doubt, came young Sister Amyl!’ ”

Again, Phredd’s recital was interrupted when a hearty cheer came from his listeners. The old hedgehog made as if to slam the book shut.

“Do you want to hear the rest of this, or shall I lay back on my bed and go to sleep, eh, eh?”

Somewhat embarrassed, Abbot Carrul replied, “Forgive us, friend, we’ll stay silent. It was just that we felt so happy for Sister Amyl, we had to cheer.”

Phredd went back to his book, muttering, “Aye, so did I when I first read it. Ahem, allow me to continue. ‘Was it a miracle, or some sort of magic? I had told the Abbess of Amyl’s plight. She was sorrowful, of course, but informed me she would have a word with Amyl. What came of their conversation, I did not know. But here was my young friend, as large as life and up on her footpaws. Later that evening we sat by the fire, exhausted after the day’s long march. Sister Amyl lay wrapped in her cloak sleeping deeply. I sought out Abbess Germaine and spoke to her about the amazing happening. Here is what our great and wise Mother Abbess told me. She said that she had recalled a formula, given to her by an old healer, many seasons ago. Searching through her belongings, she had found the parchment. This she gave to Amyl, telling her that she must decide on her own whether to stay or whether to read the formula, learn from it and undertake the journey. Obviously, Sister Amyl must have read what was written on the parchment. Was it a magic spell, or some remedy of herbal medicine? The Abbess would not tell me.’ ”