Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

It was a long and wearying night, but the Redwallers kept going. Pines grew thick about them, obscuring even the stars in the sky. Stumbling on through the dense carpet of rotting pine needles, Springald bumped into a tree trunk.

“Oof! There won’t be a part of me that’s undamaged if we go on at this rate. A torch would help us to see where we’re going.”

Bragoon urged her on. “Just keep goin’, missy, there’ll be no torches. One spark can start a fire among pine trees, an’ the whole woodland’d be ablaze bafore ye could blink. Besides, a torch would be like a beacon for those vermin to follow.”

Springald felt foolish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

The otter said nothing, but he was exhausted and bad-tempered after having to run all night, burdened with Horty. He snapped at the mousemaid. “ ’Tis not much good bein’ sorry now, Miss Mouse. If’n you three would’ve stayed put at the Abbey, we wouldn’t be in this fix!”

Fenna came to her friend’s defence. “We only came after you because we thought we could help. Besides, now that we’re free, we can get on searching for Loamhedge.”

But Bragoon was not to be appeased. “Free, eh, don’t make me laugh! You think those rats won’t come after us? Lissen, I know rats, they won’t rest ’til they’ve got us all in the cookin’ pot. Ask Saro, we’ve fought flesh eaters like them afore. The only way to make ’em give up is to kill ’em, an’ there’s too many of the scum for that!”

A quavery voice echoed out of nowhere. “Oh, far too many! They’ve eaten most of us, you know.”

Bragoon stood stock still, his eyes scouring the night woods. “Who said that?”

From a small hillock of pine needles built up round the base of a trunk, the voice answered, “If you remove your great heavy rudder from my neck, I’ll tell you!”

The otter leaped to one side as an old rabbit shoved his head through the mound.

“Sorry to startle you like that, I’m sure. If the Darrat are hunting you, I’d be pleased to hide you. Only for awhile, though—they eat anybeast who harbours fugitives.” The ancient rabbit shrugged. “But Darrat will eat a creature for no reason at all. So, d’you want me to hide you?”

Saro indicated the unconscious Horty. “Just until this ’un’s fit for travel agin, thankee.”

The rabbit’s name was Cosbro. He took them to the hollow log in which he lived. It was a cunningly contrived dwelling, a great elm trunk overgrown with all manner of moss and nettles. One end of it backed against a standing rock, the other was artfully concealed by thistles and wild lupins. Cosbro carefully parted these, creating a little gap which allowed them to squeeze through one at a time. Once they were all inside, the old rabbit rearranged the outer thistles and lupins, rendering the entrance invisible to the casual observer.

Springald looked about: it was a very neat little home. Lit by four lanterns containing fireflies, its illumination dim but adequate. They sat down on a carpet of dried grass and springy moss.

Fenna made Horty comfortable, remarking, “I’ve never heard of a rabbit living inside of a tree before.”

Cosbro preened his meagre whiskers. “Neither have the Darrat, young ’un. That’s what makes it such a perfect place. I’ve often sat in here, listening to them digging holes as they searched for rabbits—they dig out anything that looks like a burrow. Clods, they have no imagination at all.”

Bragoon smiled at the old one. “But where do the other rabbits around here live?”

Cosbro shook his head sadly. “There are no other rabbits left. Only me, sitting inside this log, poor fool that I am.”

Saro patted his paw gently. “You ain’t no fool, me friend. It takes a clever beast to survive in this country. How many rabbits were there, an’ how’d ye come to be livin’ here?”

Cosbro shrugged. “We were too many to count one time, long ago. Our families had no written history. All I have to remember my ancestors by are ancient poems and ballads passed down by word of mouth. Woe is me, sometimes I think I must be the last rabbit left in all the land.”

Saro felt sorry for the pitiful old creature. She passed him a flask of dandelion and burdock cordial.

“Wet yore whistle with this, ole mate. Maybe ye’d like to tell us one of yore poems from the ole days, eh?”

Cosbro sipped the cordial, closing his eyes blissfully. “Ahhh, dandelion and burdock, tastes like nectar to me. Aye, ’tis many long seasons since I tasted ought as good as this. Have you ever heard of a poem called ‘The Shadowslayers’?”

He looked from one to the other, but they shook their heads. Helping himself to a longer sip, Cosbro licked his lips. “When I was younger, I could skip through such verses. But, alas, the weight of seasons has descended upon me. My mind forgets a lot of things these days. So, my friends, here is the poem, as best as I can recall it.

“Lo the golden days are gone,

the happy laughter long fled,

now silence falls o’er Loamhedge walls,

lone winds lament the dead.

The Shadowslayers sent us forth,

some south and east, some west and north.

The wise ones said ’twas vermin foul,

their blood, their teeth, their fur,

which brought the plague that laid us low,

with more than we could bear.

When families die before our eyes,

we learned, ’tis folly to be wise.

Leave everything ye own now, flee,

run if ye can, go far and wide,

linger not here, to grieve and weep,

those tears have all been cried.

The mouse Germaine said, ‘Woe, ’tis true,

The Shadowslayers will come for you.’

The mice went first, escaped their fate,

they traversed north and west;

what was left of us remained,

to lay our dead to rest.

We travelled then, us piteous few,

who’d seen what Shadowslayers could do.

My father’s father spake these words,

as had his kin, from time untold,

wand’ring exiled o’er the land,

growing up, and growing old.

Recalling to their dying breath,

how once the Shadowslayers brought death.”

Cosbro took another drink and sighed wearily. “I myself wrote that final verse, though there were many more. They told of our family names and histories. But I’ve forgotten the words, shame on me!”

Fenna thought it was the saddest thing she had ever heard.

Springald spoke comfortingly to the ancient hare. “I hope that if ever I live to your age, I would remember the half of it, sir.”

Horty chose that moment to waken from his stupor. “Remember what, wot? I say, did we escape those blighters? Jolly good show, chaps, where are we now? Someplace far a-blinkin’ way, I hope. Owch, my flippin’ head’s given me jip!”

He tried to stagger upright and banged his head on the log. “Yowhooyooch! Who left that up there, confounded oaf!”

Saro threw herself across his face, stifling further cries. She whispered fiercely. “Shuttup, addlebrain, I can hear somethin’ goin’ on outside!”

Kappin Birug and a crowd of Darrat rats halted alongside the log. Those inside held their breath in frozen silence. Sounds of the vermin poking about with spearbutts and slashing at shrubbery could be heard by those in the log. Outside, Birug climbed up and sat upon the log. Dawning sunlight slanted through the trees as he glanced down at the Darrat rats resting upon the grass.

“Any of you be High Kappins, eh?” They stared owlishly at one another, then shook their heads. Birug jumped up, performing a dance of rage upon the log. Pointing his spear at them, he screeched.

“Den why you not searchin’, mudbrains? Search! Search! Find dem, y’want me to do everythink, eh? Search!”