Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Springald dreamt she was back at Redwall, paddling in the Abbey pond. Cool, wet banksand slopped between her footpaws as she splashed happily about. Sister Portula and the Abbot came strolling across the dewy lawn. Although the mousemaid could hear what they were saying, their voices sounded different.

“All gone! Every flippin’ thing is confounded well gone, wot?” Springald wakened to see the reddish evening light through clouds of dust. Horty was stamping about outside the lean-to entrance, sobbing hoarsely. “Every blinkin’ drop t’drink, an’ every mouthful of scoff. Gone, gone, we’ve been robbed, flamin’ well looted!”

Bragoon grabbed the hare and shook him. “Stop that bawlin’, calm down an’ tell us wot ’appened.”

Springald gathered round with Fenna and Sarobando to hear Horty’s woeful tale.

“Couldn’t sleep, y’know, too bally hot, wot. I was jolly thirsty, too, so I got up an’ went outside t’get the canteen out of the haversacks. Some blighter’s filched the lot. They’ve left rocks in their place. Go an’ see f’y’self!”

It was true: five rocks sat holding down the rear of the lean-to, where the five packs of food and drink had been stowed.

Saro held up her paws. “Be still, there may be tracks, pawprints or dragmarks!”

She went down on all fours, eyes close to the dusty earth, nose twitching as she sniffed. A moment later, she stood up with a look of disgust on her face. “Nothing! Not a single trace. Must’ve been an experienced thief who did it.”

Bragoon commented wryly. “A beast would have t’be clever to survive in this wasteland. Well, that’s it! No good weepin’ o’er stolen supplies, we’ll just have t’get on with it. While ’tis dark the weather’s cooler, so we’ll travel by night, at the double. Right, Saro?”

The old squirrel nodded and began issuing guidelines. “Aye, mate. March fast an’ silent, no talkin’. We don’t know wot’s out there in the darkness. ’Tis strange territory, so stick together an’ hold paws. There’ll be no time for restin’.”

She wagged a stern paw at the young hare. “Listen good, Horty, this ain’t a game anymore, see. If you start yammerin’ on about food’n’drink, or causin’ any upset, ye’ll be riskin’ our lives. Just march, do as yore told an’ shut that great mouth o’ yours, d’ye hear?”

Horty placed a paw over his own mouth and drew the other paw across his throat in a slitting motion.

Springald nodded. “I think he’s gotten the idea. Quick march!”

Off they went into the day’s last crimson-tinged twilight—without food, drink or any hope of rest. The five small figures were dwarfed by the immensity of a dust-blown, trackless desert. Hidden eyes watched their departure, and sinister shapes rose from the earth to follow the questors.

27

The storm broke over Redwall at about the same time that Raga Bol killed Jibsnout. Foremole Dwurl gazed gloomily out of the dormitory window at the windswept deluge outside. He blinked as lightning illuminated the room and thunder barraged overhead.

“B’aint no use a throwen pepper at vurmints in ee gurt rainystorm. Bo urr, nay, zurr!”

Martha wheeled her chair to the window and peered out. “Hmm, I wonder how the vermin are coping with this downpour.”

Abbot Carrul sighed. “Who knows? Martha, please keep an eye on them. Right, let’s get on with this Council Meeting.”

Outside, fat raindrops beat a deafening tattoo on the walls of the Abbey, its lawns nearly underwater. Badredd and his gang had commandeered the gatehouse. They lay about, wrapped in sheets, blankets and window curtains, using the material to dab at their sorely inflamed nostrils. Sneezing had become pure agony, with the membranes of their nostrils and throats red-raw from the bombardment of hotroot pepper.

Plumnose was having the worst of it. Each time he sniffed, his pendulous nose wobbled and vibrated. Throwing off the bedspread he had been wearing, the suffering ferret made for the gatehouse door.

“Duh, I’b goin’ oudd inna rain tuh lay dowd an’ ledda rained water clear be node. Id mide wash idd out!”

Halfchop sneezed painfully as he volunteered to accompany him. “Kachuuub!”

The Abbey Council had decided on a desperate scheme. Twoscore of the most able-bodied Redwallers would storm the gatehouse and make an end of the vermin. They stood ready to go, each armed with some form of homemade weapon: kitchen knives tied to window poles formed spears, long-handled garden spades, forks and hoes, together with coopering mallets and stave hatchets from the cellars.

Toran, serving as commander of the group, leaned against the windowsill, going over the scheme for a second time. “Listen, friends, ’tis no use barricadin’ ’em in the gatehouse. We’ve got to make an end to it, invade the place, break in an’ slay every last one o’ them. No half-measures if we want a peaceful life for us an’ the little ’uns. I’ll go through the door first, the rest o’ you follow me. Show no quarter once yore inside! Sister Portula, Foremole Dwurl an’ yore two moles there, Burney’n’Yooler, you stay outside an’ get any who tries to break out an’ run off. Any questions?”

Muggum saluted with a copper ladle he had brought from the kitchen. “No, zurr, oi’ll do moi dooty, doan’t you’m wurry!”

Martha lifted him onto her lap and took the ladle. “Your duty is to stay here with the rest of us and guard the Abbey door. This storm has set in for a good while yet. Once it goes dark, Toran and his friends will have the advantage of night cover and rain. The vermin won’t be expecting them to attack. Meanwhile, we’ll guard the door and make sure only Redwallers get back inside. It’s a very important job, Muggum. Can you do it?”

The molebabe narrowed his eyes, glaring suspiciously at Toran’s attack party. “Ho, oi can do et, Miz Marth’, doan’t ee fret. They’m b’aint a-getten back in yurr iffen they’m b’aint theyselves!”

Toran shook the molebabe’s paw. “Well said, matey!”

Abbot Carrul stood up on one of the truckle beds and delivered a homily to his beloved Abbey creatures. Everybeast fell silent, respectfully bowing their heads as he spoke out.

“Fortune and fates be with you all,

you who fight for the right,

some will stand, others fall,

never to return this night.

But fear ye not, my loving friends,

be strong of limb and heart,

knowing that peace depends on you,

let courage play its part.

Tranquillity and calm spread wide,

through this our dear homeland,

justice and truth go by your side,

which evil cannot withstand.”

Though Martha did not say it, she wished now more than ever that her two friends, Sarobando and Bragoon, had stayed.

Thunder exploded overhead; jagged forks of lightning tore through the fading light. Raga Bol and his Searats pounded on Redwall Abbey’s main gate. Hearing the noise, Halfchop and Plumnose padded soggily to the gate.

Plumnose placed an ear against it, calling out, “Who’d dat?”

A sabre was at Flinky’s neck as he answered. “Sure, ’tis only me’n me mate Crinktail. We’re gettin’ drowned out here. Open up an’ let us in, Plummy!”

The two crewbeasts lifted the wooden bar, allowing the door to swing inward. Flinky and Crinktail were flung in, landing face down in the mud as the Searats poured through. Raga Bol seized the ferret’s nose and twisted it, bringing Plumnose up on his pawtips, squealing in agony.

“Yeeee! Ledd go!”

The captain let go and kicked Plumnose flat in the mud. “So yore the big bad warrior wot put this place to siege, eh?”