Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Shielding her eyes against the sun, Saro watched the predators bearing their limp prey off into the cloudless sky as Bragoon and the hare approached her.

She shook her head ruefully. “I wish I’d learned t’do that whistle. Never could get the hang of it, though. Burn me brush! Is that water you’ve got there, Horty?”

Shedding all his trappings, the young hare sank wearily down. “Indeed it is, marm, but I’m afraid you’ll jolly well have to com’n’get it for yourselves. I’m whacked out!”

Bragoon took the yoke from him and sat it across his shoulders, then lifted the two gourds. “Ye did well, mate, take a rest now.”

The elderly squirrel and the two Abbeybeasts sat amid the wasteland dust, gulping down the life-giving liquid. The otter soaked a cloth, allowing it to dribble into Fenna’s mouth. He wiped her face with the damp material, cautioning them, “Drink slower, or ye’ll be sick. This young un’ll be right as rain soon. So, wot ’appened, mate?”

Saro looked up from the gourd. “Just afore dawn, I scented the adder. Huh, I can sniff those things a mile off!”

She continued drinking as Springald took up the tale. “We knew it was somewhere close, stalking us. It was too dangerous to stay inside the lean-to, the snake would’ve found us. So we sneaked quietly off, but the adder saw us and came right on our track. I’ve never seen an adder before—horrible beast! I was scared clean out of my wits. Good job you found us in time, we couldn’t have carried Fenna much further. And, Bragoon, will you teach me that whistle? It saved our lives!”

The otter lifted Fenna onto his back. “Some other time, miss. Let’s get this ’un into the pineforest shade. We found a stream over that way. I’ll take ye to it.”

Saro closed her eyes dreamily. “A pine forest an’ a whole streamful o’ beautiful babblin’ water. Lead on, mate!”

They entered the pines when it was midday. Horty raced ahead until he found the stream. He ran toward it, turning his head to shout, “This is the place, chaps! Hawhaw, wait’ll I tell you what old Brag did to a gang of bullyin’ reptiles last night. He gave ’em the towsing of their lousy lives, he . . . nunhhhhh!”

Without paying attention, Horty had run full head-on into a thick, low pine branch. He was laid flat out, unconscious.

Saro ran to him and lifted his head. “Stone-cold senseless! That makes two we got to nurse now. Why didn’t the lop-eared gallumper look where he was goin’?”

The remainder of the afternoon was spent beside the stream. Springald looked after her two friends whilst the older pair went foraging for food. It was so pleasant in the shade of the tall pines. Besides tending the invalids, the mousemaid had time to paddle and wash in the stream. It was a cool and peaceful spot with sunlight and shadow dappling everywhere. Fenna was recovering nicely when Bragoon and Saro returned. The two old campaigners brought with them wonderful chestnut-coloured mushrooms, wild onions, dandelion buds and a variety of edible roots and berries.

Bragoon was heartened by the sight of the squirrelmaid. “Feelin’ better, eh, beauty? Well, we can’t light no cookin’ fires in a pine forest like this, ’tis too risky. Do ye fancy a nice salad, miss?”

Fenna watched the otter chopping everything finely with his swordblade. “Salad would be perfect, thank you!”

The moment the aroma of freshly cut food assailed his senses, Horty revived. “Oh goody! I say, you chaps, please pass the salad. Owchowchoooh! Me flippin’ bonce is splittin’. Can y’see any of me brilliant young brains leakin’ out, wot?”

Fenna could not stifle a giggle. “Oh, poor Horty, you’ve got a lump like a boulder, right twixt your ears. I’m sorry for laughing, it must be very painful.”

The young hare winced when he touched the large swelling. “Painful ain’t the word, Fenn old gel, it’s absobally agonisticful. Don’t think I’ll last the day out, actually. Don’t shed too many bitter tears when I turn me paws up an’ peg out. ’Twas all done bravely in the line of duty. Wot!”

Saro inspected the injury. “Hah, it looks like a duck egg growin’ out o’ yore skull. Don’t worry, though, you’ll live. I’ve got just the thing for that. Sit still an’ eat yore salad while I go an’ make a poultice.”

She spent some time at the stream, gathering certain things and soaking them in the water. On her return, the aging squirrel tore strips off a cloak for binding.

Horty pulled back apprehensively. “Don’t hurt a dyin’ young beast in his final moments. Be merciful, marm!”

Bragoon held the hare’s paws as Saro worked. She tweaked Horty’s whiskers whenever he moved. “Be still, ye great ninny! This is a compress of duckweed, dock, watercress, sainfoil an’ streambed mud. Twill do ye a world o’ good!”

When she had finished, the others had to turn away their faces to keep from bursting out into laughter. Horty sat dolefully munching salad. Atop his head sat a high turban of cloak strips, herbs and mud, secured with a tie beneath his chin. Both of Horty’s ears flopped out at the sides. He glared at Bragoon, who was biting down on his lip to contain a guffaw.

“What’s the flippin’ matter with your face, chucklechops? D’you find somethin’ funny about a wounded warrior, wot wot?”

The otter brought himself under control. “Who, me? No, mate, but I wouldn’t go near any bumblebees if’n I was ye. They might be lookin’ fer a new hive! Hohohohoho!”

Seeing there was no salad left, Horty rose regally and stared down his nose at the mirth-struck quartet. “Tut tut, I shall be carryin’ on alone, without any aid from those I once called friends. Huh, bunch of whinnyin’, witless woebetides. Fie upon you all, say I!” He stalked off in high dudgeon, his turban dressing awobble as he stooped to avoid branches.

Fenna grasped her sides, tears of laughter rolling down both cheeks as she gasped out, “Heeheehee, come on, I’m, haha, well enough to travel now. Ohahahahhh! We’d better go along with him just in case he, heeheehee, backs into a sharp branch, and we, hahahahaaaa, have to tie a turban to his tail. Whoohoohoohoo!”

The pine forest was a vast area. As evening fell, it became dark, swathed in a gloomy, green light. Horty was still not talking to anybeast, but the urge to utter some noise was so great that he struck up a mournful dirge.

“ ’Tis a sad lonely life, I have oft heard it said,

to go wanderin’ about with this wodge on one’s head,

for I travel alone o’er desert an’ lea.

Why, even the midges and ants avoid me,

while the ones I called pals an’ the comrades I know,

all laugh ’til their rotten, cruel faces turn blue.

There’s a grin on the gob of each pitiless cad,

as they scoff at the plight of a poor wretched lad,

but I’ll carry on bravely, I won’t weep or cry,

an’ I’ll have my revenge on ’em all when I die.

My ghost will sneak up while they’re laid snug in bed,

an’ I’ll hoot spooky whoops through this thing on my head.

Then they’ll cry out ‘Oh Horty, forgive us, please do’

as my spirit howls loudly . . . ‘Yah boo sucks to you!’ ”

When night fell, Horty broke down and wept inconsolably. Springald crept through the gloom and found him sitting on a log, feeling sorry for himself. She put a paw around him.

“Horty, don’t cry. What’s the matter? This isn’t like you.”

He shoved her paw away. “Yaaah, gerroff me, you don’t care, no flippin’ one bally well bloomin’ cares about me!”

Bragoon took a firmer approach. “Come on now, mate, wot’s all this blubberin’ about, eh?”

Horty snapped a small twig and flung it at the otter, but it missed. “You ain’t no mate o’ mine, none of you lot is! I’m starvin’ t’death, I’ve got a molehill growin’ out me head, my poor skull aches like flamin’ thunder, an’ now I’m goin’ blind. I can hardly see a paw in front o’ me!”