Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Not even a snigger greeted his little joke. Picking dried mud from his nosetip, the ferret replied dully, “Dis is duh way h’I went awright.”

The vermin gang had no supplies with them and were too tired to forage. Crinktail and Halfchop stretched out and began taking a nap in the warm sunlight. Plumnose, Juppa, Slipback and Flinky sat in a group, conversing in muted tones. Rogg and Floggo slouched nearby, their eyes half closed.

Badredd began feeling dozy in the midday heat, but he forced himself to sit up and look alert. He saw Slipback glance his way, then whisper something to Juppa. The little fox pointed the cutlass at them.

“Cut out the whisperin’, I’m warnin’ ye!”

Flinky grinned impudently and threw a lazy salute. “Ah sure, they wasn’t sayin’ ought bad about ye, sir. Wid yore permission, would it be alright if we was to sing?”

Badredd relaxed, shrugging indifferently. “Sing ’til yore tongues drop off, if’n ye’ve a mind to. But none o’ that gossipin’ an’ whisperin’ to each other!”

The four exchanged sly winks. Flinky began singing a lullaby in a soft soothing voice.

“All the walkin’ today that I’ve done, done, done,

trampin’ through mud in the sun, sun, sun,

it reminds me of the days when me dear ould mother said,

come on now liddle feller, time for bed . . . bed . . . bed.

So hush a-bye, looh ah-lie, baby close yore eyes,

an’ dream about the moon up in the starry skies.”

He repeated the verse again, even softer, with the other three vermin humming gently in the background.

Badredd’s head drooped forward slightly, the cutlass lying limp in his open paw. His thoughts drifted back to his own young seasons. Through a golden haze of memory, he was barely aware of Flinky’s singing. It was the same tune but with different words.

“It looks like the fox has gone to sleep, sleep, sleep,

Slippy now be quiet as ye creep, creep, creep,

an’ stick a good sharp spear straight through his head,

then the moment that he wakes up he’ll be dead, dead, dead!

So hush a-bye, don’t ye cry, foxy close yore eyes,

an’ ye’ll soon make lovely vittles for the ants an’ flies!”

The murderous scheme might have worked out successfully had it not been for Plumnose. He thought that the altered words were so funny that he clapped his paws and broke out into hearty guffaws.

“Duh, haw haw haaaw! Dat’s a gudd ’un, I like dat, Flink! Haw haw haw, wake up dead, berry gudd!”

Badredd snapped immediately back to reality. He caught Slipback, brandishing a spear not three paces from him. Grabbing up his cutlass, the fox raised it threateningly.

“Wot are yew up to, weasel?”

Slipback veered and went past him. He started jabbing at the shrubbery at the edge of the glade.

“Thought I saw those bushes movin’, Chief. It might’ve been that otter an’ the squirrel, er, Sagroon an’ Bando!”

Flinky interposed. “I know who ye mean, Bragoon an’ Saro. I saw the bushes move, too, Chief. Slipback could be right!”

Thinking swiftly, Badredd turned the situation to his advantage. “No sense in takin’ chances then. We’d best git movin’ fast. Come on, up on yore paws!”

Badredd drove them hard for the remainder of the day by adopting a simple but effective scheme. He ordered Rogg and Floggo to fire off arrows from time to time. The deadly shafts fell just short of the marchers’ rear, causing them to hasten forward. Oaths and curses accompanied the arrival of each arrow, but they kept going, knowing they were only getting tit for tat. The plot to rid themselves of the little fox had failed, but they realised that, had it been Burrad or Skrodd in Badredd’s place, Flinky and Slipback would have been slain as retribution. They were getting off lightly.

Progress was good. By evening, Badredd was heartened to hear Plumnose calling out, “Dere’s duh path at de end ob the trees!”

Sure enough, they had reached the border of the woodlands. In front of them lay the path, which ran down from the north to the south.

Flinky leaned on an elm trunk, smiling cheerfully as the fox came up to see. “Ah well, there ye are now, Chief. All we gotta do is follow that road t’the left an’ keep goin’ ’til we hit Redwall Abbey!”

14

Larks soared joyfully on the flatlands outside of Redwall, singing their hymns to the newborn day. Chiming a melodious bass line, the Abbey’s twin bells boomed out warmly. Indoors, all the young ones were already up and about, anticipating the arrival of Summer Feast.

Sister Setiva invariably rose to the tolling bells. Up and dressed, tidy and neat, she rapped on the sickbay door with her blackthorn stick, berating the sleepers within.

“Oot o’ those beds, ye great dozy lumpkins. If your no’ out here in a braces o’ shakes, ah’ll be in there an’ haul ye both oot by your tails!”

Bragoon poked a sleepy head from beneath his coverlet. “Hear that, mate? I think we’d best get up. Huh, I’d sooner face a regiment o’ vermin than that ole shrewnurse!”

Reaching out a paw, Saro grasped a bedside stool and rattled it noisily on the floor, calling out. “We’re both up, Sister, just makin’ the beds an’ tidyin’ round. We’ll be out there in a tick!”

Setiva’s shrill warning came back loud and clear. “Och, you’re a braw fibber. Ah’ll be doonstairs, keeping an eye out for ye. Laggardly sluggards!”

The pair sat up at the sound of her retreating stick taps. Saro yawned and thumped her head back on the pillows. “Just leave me here for the rest o’ the season, Brag. I’d forgotten how comfy a real bed feels. Mmmmmmmm!”

Leaping out of bed, the otter swished water from a ewer on his face and towelled it vigourously. “Fair enough, me ole bushtail, you stop there. I haven’t forgotten how good a Redwall brekkist tastes.”

Without bothering to wash, Saro pursued him downstairs. “I’m right with ye, ole ten bellies. You ain’t scoffin’ all the vittles afore I gets a crack at ’em!”

Martha had just finished making up a tray for herself and Old Phredd when she saw the pair rush in and begin loading up two trays from the long buffet tables set up in the kitchen passage. She giggled at the sight of them, helping themselves to some of everything, chuckling with delight at the food.

“Almond wafers with raspberry sauce, my favourite!”

“Oatmeal with apple’n’honey, just the stuff! Granmum Gurvel, me ole beauty, pass me some o’ that pastie. Wot’s in it?”

“Burr, ee mushenrooms an’ carrot, zurr, wi’ h’onion sauce.”

“Onion sauce! Gimme two portions, one for Starvation Saro!”

“Hah, lissen to ole bucket mouth! You get us two mint teas, Brag, an’ I’ll fill two beakers o’ Junty Cellarhog’s best damson cordial. Oh great, hot scones! Gimme, gimme!”

Leaving the buffet, they beamed at the haremaid over the tops of their laden trays. “Mornin’, Miss Martha, we’re just makin’ up for the lost brekkists, ain’t that right, Bragg?”

The otter winked roguishly. “Haharr, sleepin’ in a real bed gives a beast a powerful appetite.”

Martha looked up at their heaped trays. “I’m sure it does. Perhaps you’d like to take breakfast in the gatehouse with Phredd and me, away from all this bustle.”

Balancing the tray skilfully on his head, Bragoon began wheeling Martha’s chair. “An honour an’ a pleasure, miss. Besides, ’twill get us out of Sister Setiva’s way. Come on, afore she finds we ain’t made our beds or tidied the sickbay.”

Halfway across the lawn, Abbot Carrul caught up with them. “Oh dear, Martha, I’ve brought breakfast for Phredd, too.”