Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Toran picked up the molebabe and made an announcement to the assembly. “This liddle feller’s right, we must fight. But it won’t be no kill-or-be-killed sort o’ last stand. Oh no, mates, we’ll fight an’ defend the Abbey, stave off any attacks. Even if that means we’ll have t’fight all summer long, until the Skipper brings his ottercrew back ’ere from the Northshores. Then together we can deal with those savages outside.”

Sister Portula brandished the hooked window pole she had armed herself with. Normally a quiet and reserved old mouse, she surprised everybeast by calling out, “Well spoken, Toran. That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard so far. We can be what we are, not warriors but defenders! We can stick it out and delay them all summer until help arrives from Skipper and his crew. But it will be no easy thing. Remember that we are under siege. Food will run short, drinks will have to be rationed, water cannot be used freely anymore. . . .”

Baby Buffle interrupted the good sister by piping up, “Nonomorragerrabaffinwirrawater!”

Martha gave Shilly a puzzled look. “What did he say?”

The little squirrel grinned from ear to ear and did a somersault. “Iffa water bee’s short, Dibbuns can’t not get baffed. Yeeheeheehee!”

Nobeast could resist laughing along with the overjoyed babes.

The storm finally subsided to a light drizzle. Scratching the back of his neck with his silver hook, Raga Bol rolled out of Old Phredd’s bed and exited the gatehouse. Swigging from a flask of grog, he listened to the whimpers and wails from the pond. Blowfly was keeping Badredd and his little gang hard at it. The Searat captain gazed up at the majestic grandeur of Redwall Abbey. What a sight! Anybeast would be mad to bother with ships when he could own a place like this. Smiling wolfishly, he shouted toward the Abbey.

“Yore goin’ to meet Cap’n Raga Bol tomorrer, mousies!”

28

Marching all night was a harrowing experience for the younger creatures. Saro and Bragoon, being used to such hardships, plodded doggedly on in silence. Fenna stumbled alongside them, her eyes constantly drooping shut. The squirrelmaid sorely regretted ever leaving Redwall and all its comforts. She did not know which she yearned for most—sleep, food or water. Springald was of a like mind, trudging onward in a straight line with her four companions, keeping quiet and trying not to inhale too much dust.

It was a cruel and forbidding outlook, the wasteland stretching all around, flat, silent and gloomy in the nighttime darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, daylight showed on the eastern horizon, a pale, misty mixture of dove-grey and orange.

Bragoon watched the faint apricot edge of morning sun slowly rising. He spoke softly. “That’s a pretty sight, ain’t it, mates?”

Horty hardly gave it a second glance. “Pretty, y’say? Pretty bloomin’ awful if y’ask me, wot. I’d swap the blinkin’ lot for a drop of water! Can’t we stop now? You said march by night an’ sleep durin’ the day. Well, there’s the jolly old day, an’ I’m pawsore an’ weary. So let’s lay the old heads down, eh chaps?”

Saro pushed him onward. “Not just yet, we’ve got to keep goin’ while ’tis cool. When the day gets hot, that’s the time for sleep. The more ground we cover, the sooner we’ll be out o’ this wasteland. Keep marchin’, don’t stop now.”

None of the travellers wanted to, but they carried on, knowing that it was the only sensible thing to do.

By midmorning, the sun was beating down remorselessly as small dust spirals danced on the hot breeze. There was still no sight of trees or streams amid the dun-hued wastes.

Bragoon finally halted. “We’ll rest here until late afternoon!”

Saro began setting up a lean-to with cloaks and staves, weighting the cloak edges down with pieces of rock.

Horty raised a dust cloud as he slumped down. “If I could only lay paws on the rotters who swiped our grub’n’water. By the left! I’d kick their confounded tails into the middle o’ next season, wot!”

Bragoon rested on his stomach in the small patch of shade. “Don’t think about it, mate, yore only makin’ things worse.”

Springald looked back at the ground they had covered. “Funny how the land seems to wobble and shimmer out there.”

Fenna curled up and closed her eyes. “That’s just the heat on the horizon. It’s a mirage, really.”

Saro shielded her eyes, peering keenly at the spectacle. She nudged the otter, directing his attention to it. “Don’t look like no mirage to me, wot d’ye think, Brag?”

Bragoon squinted his eyes and watched intently. His paw strayed to the sword which lay by his side. “It might be just the heat waves, but it seems t’be movin’ closer toward us. Then again, it could be the earth dancin’. Remember the ground shakin’ like that the last time we was in this territory, Saro?”

The squirrel never let her gaze waver from the shimmering. “Aye, it made a rumblin’ sound, too.”

Horty laughed wildly. “Hawhawhaw! Just listen to ’em, chaps. We’re in the middle of bally nowhere, bein’ baked alive, not a flamin’ drop t’drink or eat. Now what, the ground has to start bloomin’ well dancin’! Am I goin’ off me flippin’ rocker, or is it those two ramblin’ duffers, wot?”

Bragoon and Saro exchanged glances, then went back to their watching.

Horty, however, would not be ignored. Gesturing with his paws, he flopped his ears dramatically.

“They’re tellin’ me the ground’s doin’ a jig. An’ here am I, without a pastie to shovel down me face or a bucket o’ cordial to wet me parched lips! Ah, lackaday an’ woe is the handsome young hare, languishin’ out here an’ losin’ me mind! I’m goin’ mad, mad I tell ye! Stark bonkers an’ ravin’ nuts! ’Tis the dreaded thirstation!”

Springald shook her head. “Thirstation? Shouldn’t that be thirstiness, or just thirst?”

Bragoon whispered to Saro. “That couldn’t be the earth dancin’, or we’d have felt the rumbles.”

Horty continued with his tirade. “Rumbles, rumbles? How could benighted buffoons such as you know about the rumblings of a sad tragic hare, whose life is bein’ cut short by the contagious thirstation an’ tummyrumbles?”

The otter’s tail caught him a firm thwack across the rear. “Shuttup, young ’un, get to sleep an’ quit yore shoutin’!”

Horty subsided meekly, but still muttered to have the last word. “Beaten by the bullyin’ Bragoon into shallow slumber. Goodnight, fair comrades, or is it good day, wot?”

Within a short time, the three young ones were asleep. Sarobando was dozing, too, but Bragoon lay on his stomach, chin resting on both paws. Through slitted eyelids he scanned the wastelands to the rear of the lean-to. They drew closer. Now he could distinguish them, not as heat shimmers but as small, patchy bumps. Moving silently, betrayed only by odd puffs of dust, they edged nearer. Then they halted. One bump detached itself from the pack and advanced.

Saro came awake as Bragoon touched her ear. He nodded toward the moving object, twitching his tail against the squirrel’s footpaw. Saro prepared herself, knowing the signal well. One . . . Two . . . On the third twitch they both attacked. Springing in the air and leaping forward, both beasts threw themselves bodily on the thing. It squeaked aloud. Immediately the ground came alive. Squeaking and whistling, hundreds of small shapes raised an enormous dust cloud as they fled. The captured one wriggled and bit madly, but it could not escape its captors. It was disguised by a cloak woven from tough, coarse grass. Bragoon and Saro swiftly wrapped it into a bundle, trapping the beast within.