Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The haremaid indicated her two companions. “Don’t worry, Father, it won’t go to waste!”

The old hedgehog Gatekeeper welcomed them in. He reached for his nightshirt, then shook his head absentmindedly. “Hmm, must’ve gone to bed in my daytime habit. Look at me, putting my nightshirt on to start the day. What’s it all coming to, eh, eh?”

Phredd gestured at the volume lying on the table. “The account by Tim Churchmouse about the route to Loamhedge, when Matthias was searching for his son. If you two read it, you’ll learn of how to get there.”

Saro leafed briefly through the ancient pages. “Me’n Brag ain’t champion readers like you, sir. We’d rather see the map—that’ll tell us more.”

No sooner had Martha showed them the copy she had made of the map, than the squirrel and the otter glanced at one another and nodded.

Bragoon tapped his paw upon the map. “We’ve travelled this country afore. I can recall most of it—those high cliffs, the pine forest, river, desert an’ the great gorge. Dangerous country, eh Saro?”

The aging squirrel held the map this way and that as she studied it. “Aye, bad territory, though we came to it a different way. I remember those rocks, the ones shaped like a bell an’ a badger’s head, but I can’t bring that tall tree to mind.”

Bragoon tapped his rudder thoughtfully against the floor. “It prob’ly collapsed with age. This map was made seasons afore we were born. But ’tis the same area alright, riddled with vermin an’ all manner o’ perils. I was glad to get away from it!”

Martha looked disappointed. “Does that mean it’s too dangerous to make the journey?”

The otter laughed. “Haharr, wot ever gave ye that idea, me beauty? Danger’s wot me an’ Saro live on. We’d both end up dead afore our seasons was out livin’ at Redwall.”

The squirrel nodded mournfully. “All the good vittles an’ soft beds, that’d finish us off. Huh, if Sister Setiva didn’t.”

Abbot Carrul poured mint tea for Old Phredd. “Then when will you be going?”

Saro selected a hot scone and bit into it. “Straight after the Summer Feast, if’n we can still walk. Late noon prob’ly. We’ll travel southeast.”

After breakfasting they set off for the orchard to help with the festive preparations. Horty, with his two friends, Springald and Fenna, came out of the Abbey, carrying a trestle board. The young hare hailed Bragoon and Saro.

“Hello there, you chaps. Well, have you sorted out a jolly old way to Loamhedge for us, wot?”

Bragoon answered him rather abruptly. “Aye!”

Springald bounced up and down eagerly. “Oh good, when are we leaving?”

Fenna’s eyes shone happily. “A journey to Loamhedge. Great seasons, I’ve been looking forward to this!”

Horty looked from Bragoon to Saro excitedly. “Come on then, you bounders, who’s got my copy of the bally map? Remember, I’m the flippin’ pathfinder, y’know.”

Bragoon turned to face the trio, his voice stern. “This ain’t no daisy dance! Me’n my mate Saro’ll be makin’ the journey to Loamhedge . . . alone!”

Horty’s ears drooped. “But you said . . .”

Saro interrupted him. “We never said nothin’, young ’un. Yore the one whose been doin’ all the sayin’. Bragoon an’ me knows the country we got to go through. We can make it alone, but it’d be far too dangerous with three young ’uns in tow.”

Fenna was outraged. “You mean you aren’t taking us?”

Bragoon nodded. “That’s right, missy. ’Tis too much responsibility. We couldn’t show our faces back in this Abbey if’n ye were slain by vermin or killed in an accident. We’re goin’ alone, an’ that’s that!”

Springald tried to make an appeal to the Abbot. “What’s he talking about? We’ve as much right to go as they have! Martha’s our friend, too. Father, you’re the Abbot of Redwall. You make all the decisions here, tell them!”

Abbot Carrul beckoned the three young ones to him. Putting his paws about their shoulders, he spoke kindly. “Now, now, what Bragoon and Saro say makes sense. None of you has ever been further than the main gate. You’re far too inexperienced to make such a trip, trust me. Our two friends are thinking of your own good.”

Horty pulled away from the Abbot, his ears standing stiffly with indignation. “Tosh’n’piffle, sah! We’re young and strong. We can put up with anythin’ those two old fogies can! Bragoon and Saro are old chums of yours. That’s why you’re blinkin’ well siding with ’em. And anyhow, what flippin’ right have you to stop us goin’, wot?”

Springald and Fenna supported him volubly. “Horty’s right, it’s not fair. You let us think we were going all along, then changed your mind at the last moment!”

“Aye, it’s just because we’re young, and those two old wrecks want to grab all the glory for themselves. What do you think, Martha? Come on, tell them we’re right.”

Martha shook her head. “If the message from Sister Amyl, when she appeared in my dream with Martin the Warrior, had mentioned that you should go, I’d be the first to say yes. But only the two travellers, Bragoon and Saro, were included in the rhyme. So I’m afraid I must say no—not that my decision matters. Our Father Abbot has forbidden you to journey to Loamhedge, so you must abide by his word. Also, I trust Bragoon and Saro. They know of the dangers and are far more experienced at things like this than the three of you.”

Horty exploded. “It’s nothin’ but a confounded plot against us. Shame on all of you, shame I say!”

Abbot Carrul put his footpaw down sternly. “Enough of this talk! Arguing and casting insults is not the way in which any decent Redwaller should behave. Any more of this from you, Horty, or your two friends, and there’ll be three empty seats at the Summer Feast this afternoon!”

Horty glared back at the Abbot, his temper completely out of control. “Keep your rotten feast, blinkin’ bounders!”

The Abbot’s paw shot out. “Go to your rooms and stay there until you are ready to apologise, all three of you!”

The trio ran off, shouting, “Don’t worry, we wouldn’t be seen dead at your Feast!”

“Come on, leave those old greywhiskers to themselves!”

“You’ll be jolly well sorry, we’ll stay in the blinkin’ dormitory until we die of flippin’ starvation. So there!”

Abbot Carrul comforted Martha, who had become so upset that she had begun weeping. “There, there, Martha, don’t you waste tears on those three. Could you imagine Horty starving himself to death? ’Tis as unlikely as me trying to leap over the belltower. Give them a day and they’ll have changed their minds, trust me.” Carrul bowed slightly to Bragoon and Saro. “Please forgive the bad manners of those three young ones.”

Saro smiled wryly. “No need to apologise to us, friend. I can recall two, younger’n’Horty an’ his pals, two more bad-mannered liddle scuts ye never did see!”

Martha blinked through her tears. “Were you really that bad?”

Bragoon shuffled his rudder awkwardly. “Oh, much worse, missy. Take me word fer it!”

Abbot Carrul chuckled heartily. “Aye, now that you’ve come to mention it, ’tis a wonder you turned out so well!”

Bragoon clapped him on the back. “An’ ye, too, Carrul. Ye wasn’t exactly a model Dibbun as I remember!”

Whipping out a clean kerchief, the Abbot busily wiped away at Martha’s eyes. “Yes, well, that was a long time ago. Now then, missy, are you going to keep weeping and bring on the rain, or are you going to smile for our Summer Feast?”

She smiled happily. “Are you still going to carry on with the feast, Father, I mean after what just took place?”