Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Martha stifled a cry of disappointment, nevertheless listening dutifully as Phredd continued reading.

“ ‘Next morning I dropped to the rear of the column and walked with Sister Amyl, whose pace was getting stronger and more sure as the day went on. I told her what I had gleaned from the Abbess and faced her with the question: What was written on the parchment?

“ ‘Amyl gave me one of her rare, secretive smiles and refused to speak of it. All that day I persisted, harassing her to divulge the information. It was only after a full day’s march through sleeting rain and harsh country that she relented. We were camped beside a rocky tor, huddled in our cloaks around the fire, when she finally spoke. Her words are etched into my memory, and here they are, for what it’s worth. The message on the parchment would be of no use to you. It would only have a meaning for somebeast who is greatly troubled in mind or body. Once I had learned what the old healer’s rhyme was, I left the parchment behind at Loamhedge. I carry its power within me now, but any creature in need of those words must seek it out for themselves.

“ ‘Beneath the flower that never grows,

Sylvaticus lies in repose.

My secret is entombed with her,

look and think what you see there.

A prison with four legs which moved,

yet it could walk nowhere,

whose arms lacked paws, but yet they held,

a wretched captive there.’ ”

Phredd closed the book decisively, addressing its cover. “My bed calls me. I bid you a weary goodnight.”

Bragoon protested. “Is that all there is?”

Abbot Carrul reassured the otter. “If there was more, my old friend would have told you. Right, Phredd?”

The ancient Abbey Gatekeeper reached for his nightshirt. “Right indeed, young Carrul. I have given you all the information that is of interest to you, namely, Sister Amyl’s story. We already have a map of the route to Loamhedge that was used by Matthias in his search for his son Mattimeo.”

Saro yawned and stood up stretching. “We’ll look at that tomorrow. After all that racin’ an’ jiggin’, I’m ready for bed, too. That poem of Sister Amyl’s, ’tis a real tail twister an’ no mistake. Flowers that never grow, prisons with four legs an’ no paws. An’ who in the name o’ fur’n’bush is Sylvaticus lyin’ in repose?”

Old Phredd poked his head through the neck of the nightshirt. “Sylvaticus was the first Abbess of Loamhedge. Don’t know where I learned that, must have been at Dibbun School. Hmmm, that was more seasons ago than I care to remember. Funny how old little facts stick in one’s mind. Don’t slam my door when you leave, it doesn’t like being slammed. Goodnight!”

They strolled back to the Abbey through the balmy night air, discussing the whole thing.

Martha turned to Bragoon and Saro, who were pushing her chair. “Phredd said that you were the two travellers from the past. Do you believe him?”

Bragoon nodded. “Of course we do, beauty. Don’t ye fret now, me’n my mate’ll bring that parchment back from Loamhedge for ye. Ain’t that right, Saro?”

The aging squirrel’s reply left Martha in no doubt. “Aye, I’ll wager a split acorn to a cream tea on it, missy. We’ll have ye up’n’dancin’ in no time!”

The haremaid’s face was a picture of joy to behold. “I will dance someday just for you, my good friends. Tomorrow I’ll make a copy of Sister Amyl’s poem so you can take it with you in case you forget the words.”

Horty did a small hopskip of eagerness. “Splendid idea, my wise an’ pretty sis. I’ll take charge of it, like a sort of jolly old mapfinder. Wot!”

Bragoon and Saro exchanged glances, and the otter murmured, “We’ll have to see about that.”

Further discussion was cut short. Sister Setiva met them at the Abbey doorway. She stood in a pool of golden light, holding up a lantern. The stern old Infirmary Keeper cast a jaundiced eye over the new arrivals.

“Ah’m tae shew ye to yore beds. There’s two spare ones in the room next tae mine.”

Bragoon bowed appreciatively to her. “It’ll be a treat to sleep in a real bed again, Sister.”

Saro agreed. “Aye, after some o’ the places we’ve laid our heads down. But we’ll be up at the crack o’ dawn, ready to lend a paw with yore problem, Martha.”

Bragoon thumped his rudder down firmly. “Ye can bet yore brekkist on that, missy. We won’t let ye down!”

Martha clasped their paws fondly. “Pleasant dreams to both of you.”

The pair found themselves being prodded, none too gently, with Setiva’s blackthorn stick.

She commanded them in a no-nonsense voice. “Follow me tae mah sickbay, an’ ’twill be woe betide either of ye if ah hear just one wee snore disturbin’ mah rest, d’ye ken?”

Bragoon saluted her smartly. “Oh, we’re kennin’ away like a pair o’ good ’uns, Sister. Lead on!” They grinned at each other, listening to the shrewnurse while she chunnered away to herself as she shuffled upstairs.

“Ach, I’ll have tae dig oot fresh sheets an’ coverlets! Ah’m thinkin’ they’re big enough tae make their ain beds, great roarin’ villains! Ah’ll nae sleep a whit taenight, knowin’ they two are in the next room tae mine!”

Opening the infirmary door, she glared at her guests. “Wipe the mud off ye’re paws an’ the silly grins offn’n ye’re faces. Ah’ll be inspectin’ yon sickbay on the morrow, an’ ah’ll skelpit the pair o’ ye if’n there’s one wee thing oot o’ place, d’ye ken? Ah bid ye a silent guidnight!” She slammed the door and retreated into her own chamber.

Bragoon burst out sniggering as Saro called out in imitation of Setiva’s far northern accent.

“Aye, we ken, Sister, an’ a guidnight to ye, too, the noo!”

The Sister’s strict tone rang out from the adjoining room. “Ah’ll be in there wi’ mah stick if there’s anither sound, so get tae sleep an’ no talkin’!”

Saro whispered in Bragoon’s ear. “Goodnight, mate.”

12

Early morn found the northeast skies showing more promise of decent weather. Outside the holt of Shoredog, pleasant sunlight was turning the mist into a warm yellow haze over the stream.

Lonna Bowstripe limped out with the rest of the sea otters to witness the arrival of the otter known as Garfo Trok. He had come in a peculiar-looking craft, a long, battered old boat with rounded stern and for’ard ends. It had a rickety cabin erected amidships and sported a square, heavily-patched sail, which was furled around a much repaired crosspiece.

Garfo was a stream otter, a jovial, fat beast. He wore an old iron helmet that resembled a cooking pot, and a permanent smile on his broad, friendly face. Shipping his paddling pole, Garfo waddled ashore and began singing in a dreadfully toneless voice.

“ ’Tis a long ways down the stream, me lads,

when a beast ain’t got no grub oh,

wid a belly like a wind-blowed sail,

aboard this leaky tub oh.

If I fell overboard like this,

all thin’n’pale’n’slack oh,

a pike’d take one look at me,

an’ quickly chuck me back oh!

Me ribs are showin’ through me fur,

I’m frightened o’ the weather,

in case a sudden gust o’ wind,

whips me off like a feather.

Me cheeks are sunken hollow,

an’ me nose is wintry blue, lads,

me rudder’s covered in green mold,

I’m sufferin’ from the Doodads!

Take pity on this riverdog,

an’ feed me good ole vittles,

some skilly’n’duff to stop me bones,

a-clackin’ round like skittles.