Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Briggy looked scathing. “Huh, Long Tails? My ole Granpa whopped those rats seasons afore I was born. Guorafs drove ’em off into the desertlands south o’ the great gorge. They shouldn’t trouble ye, though the desert might. ’Tis a long dusty trek to the gorge. D’ye want us t’come with ye?”

Saro clapped the stout old shrew’s shoulder. “No, mate, you git back to yore river, that’s what ye know best. We’ve managed one desert by ourselves, another one won’t make much difference. We’ll be fine!”

Briggy seemed relieved. “I thankee fer that, Sarobando. I don’t like bein’ far from runnin’ water anytime. But I’ll tell ye wot I’ll do. We’ll bring the boats back to where we drop youse off, say in about six days. I’ll pick ye up for the return journey. There’s a secret route I know that’ll take ye back to the flatlands below the plateau. It means shootin’ a mighty waterfall to git down there. But don’t fret, my crews kin do it if anybeasts can. ’Twill get ye back ’ome to Redwall much faster.”

Bragoon shook the old shrew’s paw heartily. “Yore a real friend, true blue’n never fail, Log a Log Briggy!”

The shrew chieftain rose from beside the fire. “Think nothin’ of it, mate. I’m off t’me bed, if’n that young Horty ain’t stolen it. Us old ’uns need sleep as much as the young do. Pleasant dreams, ye pair o’ rips!”

The aging otter and his lifelong friend sat by the fire awhile. Bragoon stared into the flames. “We’re gettin’ too old for this sorta thing, Saro. I think when this adventure’s over I’ll settle back down at Redwall. Maybe that brother o’ mine’ll teach me to be a cook.”

The squirrel stared levelly at him. “If’n that’s wot ye want, then fair enough, matey. I’ll be by yore side wherever ye are.”

The otter chuckled drily. “An’ so ye will be, we been together since we was Dibbuns. I wouldn’t know where to turn widout ye.”

That night they slept by the fire, dreaming dreams of the sunny old days at the Abbey when they were both young tear-aways together.

34

Martha was up at dawn, trying out her newfound skill—walking! At first it was painful and slow, but the progress she was making, holding on to things for support, was remarkable. With the aid of Sister Setiva’s blackthorn stick, which the Infirmary nurse had parted with happily, the haremaid wandered joyfully along Great Hall.

Martha laughed inwardly at what Setiva had said: “Och, take this auld thing an’ use it in good heath, ma bonny lass. Ah’ve only kept it tae threaten Dibbuns with—not that they ever took much notice, the wee villains!”

The young haremaid manoeuvred the stairs, pausing every few moments to revel in her newfound freedom. Walking!

Abbot Carrul came up behind her, watching Martha’s progress, until she turned and noticed him.

“Good morning, Father Abbot, it’s a fine morning!”

Carrul beamed back at her. “ ’Tis the finest of mornings, young miss, and all the better for seeing you up and about!”

As Toran came out onto the dormitory landing, he waved down to them. “Now then, you two gabby idlers, why ain’t ye bringin’ brekkist up to the pore beasts on guard, eh?”

Martha started eagerly back downstairs. “Breakfast for how many, sir—one, two, ten? It’ll be up there directly!”

Granmum Gurvel came trundling through Great Hall, heading a small convoy of moles who were pushing four trolleys. She brandished her best copper ladle at Martha.

“Ho no you’m woant, brekkist bee’s ee cook’s tarsk roun’ yurr. Miz Marth’, you’m ’asten oop to ee durmitrees an’ set ee on a churr. Rest yore paws naow. Doo ee hurr?”

Brother Weld had joined Toran on the landing. “Best do as she says, or old Gurvel’ll skelp your tail with her ladle. That’s one old molecook who’ll stand no nonsense.”

Breakfast in the dormitory was a makeshift affair, rather inconvenient for most but huge fun for the Dibbuns. The Abbeybabes, who thought everything was a game, perched in the oddest places, singing, playing and eating together. Sister Portula was trying to coax Muggum, and several of his cohorts, down from a shelf, where they were bouncing up and down as they squabbled over hot scones and honeyed oatmeal.

In a state of despair, she turned to Martha. “Oh dear, I do wish the Searats weren’t here and we were back to normal. Just look at those little ones, they’re getting very wild. But with no Abbeyschool, and having to spend all day indoors, who can blame them?” Portula looked to Martha for comment, but the haremaid was not listening. Her joyous mood dispersed, she stood gazing forlornly out the window.

The kindly Sister showed concern. “Martha, dear, is something the matter, what’s wrong?”

Toran was close enough to hear his young friend’s reply. “I’m sorry, Sister, but I can’t help feeling sad, I’ve just realised something. What a waste of time it all is. Bragoon and Saro, together with Horty, Springald and Fenna, have gone off questing for Loamhedge. Little do they know that I need no cure or remedy. Suddenly I can walk! My brother and good friends are far away from Redwall—who knows what deadly danger or injury may befall them? There was no real need for them to go. Oh, fate can be so cruel at times. I feel responsible and guilty about the whole thing!”

Sister Portula comforted her. “You must not blame yourself, Martha. None of this was your doing, was it, Toran?”

The ottercook had strong feelings about Martha’s supposed dilemma, and he minced no words in telling her so. “Wot’s all this nonsense, don’t ye be talkin’ that way, Martha! Huh, ye could go on all day, worryin’ about this an’ that, an’ supposin’. Lissen, I’ll give ye a suppose. Supposin’ yore friends an’ my brother an’ Saro hadn’t gone, eh? Things would’ve turned out totally diff’rent, fate would’ve cast other lots for everybeast. You mightn’t ’ave been at that window in yore chair last night, but those Searats may’ve changed their plans. Then where’d ye be now, Martha? I’ll tell ye, still sittin’ stuck in a chair!

“So don’t ye dare say that there was no point in our good friends undertakin’ a mission to find a cure for ye, Martha Braebuck! An’ don’t talk t’me of danger or injury. If’n Brag an’ Saro ’ave anythin’ t’do with it, the only ones sufferin’ perils an’ wounds will be anybeasts who tries to stop ’em! So quit complainin’ an’ supposin’, miss. Be grateful that ye can go runnin’, on yore own footpaws, to greet the travellers when they return to our Abbey!”

Martha had never heard Toran speak so forcefully, or truly. Wiping her eyes, the haremaid clasped her friend’s paw fervently. “Thank you, Toran, you’re right. What a silly creature I am!”

The ottercook turned away, brushing a paw across his own eyes. “No you ain’t, yore our Martha. Now put a smile on that face, an’ get those liddle villains down of’n that shelf afore they fall an’ ’urt themselves!”

Sharpening his silver hooktip on the wall, Raga Bol lounged in the gatehouse doorway. Bright summer morn had done nothing to ease his foul mood. Dreams of the big stripedog had begun haunting him afresh, plus he was still smarting from the previous night’s shameful defeat. Striving to put thoughts of the badger from his mind, he took out his mean temper on every crewrat in sight, snarling menacingly at them.

“Belay there, Wirga, ain’t there any vittles left, where’s me brekkist? Ahoy, you there, stop scrapin’ mud off’n yoreself, an’ grubbin’ at yer eyes like some snotty liddle whelp. Go an’ get some vittles for yore cap’n, sharpish!”