Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The badger took an amused glance at the dumpy figure of Granmum Gurvel, then set to with a will. Redwallers gazed in wonder as the hungry giant satisfied his appetite.

Sister Setiva even ventured a wry wink at Lonna. “Och, there’s nothin’ worse than a beast with a wee flimsy appetite, pickin’ away at his vittles, ah always say!”

Lonna accepted a full deep-dish apple-and-blackberry crumble from the Infirmary Keeper. He dug into it with gusto. “Aye, marm, but you must forgive me. They tell me I was a very fussy babe. It’s a wonder how I survived!”

His observation broke the ice; the Redwallers burst out laughing in appreciation of their visitor’s ready wit.

After the meal, they sat entranced, as Lonna related his story, which included his meeting with the travellers. The Dibbuns had infiltrated the gathering, slowly encroaching until they were sitting on Lonna’s footpaws. Craning their necks, they stared in goggle-eyed admiration at the one who had confessed to being a fussy babe. Lonna gained them extra time, interceding with the elders not to send the Abbeybabes up to bed. Infants were always a source of amazement to him, he marvelled at their minute size and lack of shyness with strangers.

Having finished his narrative, Lonna asked Martha to tell him of how she came to be walking. The haremaid obliged willingly. Muggum had managed to scale the badger’s footpaws and now sat upon his lap.

Tugging the badger’s paw, the molebabe succeeded in gaining his attention. “You’m surpinkly a gurt creetur! Zurr Lonn’, ’ow big bee’s yore bed?”

Lonna looked thoughtful and adopted a serious tone. “Hmm, it’s quite large, and wide, too, though I’ve give up carrying it around with me. Why do you ask, sir?”

Muggum waved a tiny paw generously. “You’m best take moi bed, Lonn. Oop in ee dormittees et bee’s!”

The talk went back and forth, encouraged by beakers of mulled October Ale for the elders and raspberry cup for the young ones. After awhile, the old ones fell into a doze; the Dibbuns, too, no longer able to keep their eyes open, curled up and slept where they chose.

Abbot Carrul took advantage of the lull in the conversation, murmuring to Lonna, “Come up to the kitchens, there’s an empty storeroom there. We’ll set up a sleeping place for you. But before that, I must talk to you, friend. We’ll formulate a plan to defeat the enemy and free this Abbey. Martha, Toran, Sister Portula, Brother Weld, would you come, too? I’d like you to take part in the discussion.”

That night, in the quiet of the storeroom, they formulated their plans. Lonna’s status as a seasoned warrior, and his expertise in the ways of his enemy Searats, earned him the main say in the discussion. His ideas made sense to his friends, although his first words were in the form of a request.

“I need more arrows, good stout shafts, and well pointed. Have you any in the building?”

Toran answered. “I’m sorry, Lonna, we haven’t, but I can look for some wood and make your arrows.”

Brother Weld interrupted the ottercook. “Last winter, Brother Gelf and I found an ash tree, which had collapsed outside the east wall. Skipper and his otters helped us to chop the trunk into firelogs. Gelf and I took about six sheaves of long branches from it and bundled them up. We planned on cutting them into smaller sizes to use in the orchard, for fencing and propping up berry vines. But we never got round to it. They’re still piled up under the belltower stairs. Those ash branches will be well seasoned now, perfect for making arrows!”

Toran patted Weld’s back. “Good work, Brother, bring them to the wine cellar. Pore Junty Cellarhog had a little forge and anvil down there. I can make arrowheads from barrel-stave iron, Junty kept a whole stock o’ the stuff.”

Lonna looked from one to the other enquiringly. “Flights?”

Sister Portula had an immediate answer. “There’s a whole cupboardful of grey goose feathers in my room. I’ll be glad to see the last of them. Two autumns back, Sister Setiva fixed the wing of a gosling, whose father was the leader of a goose skein. The geese were so grateful that they donated a load of loose feathers to me. I was supposed to cut the ends and use them as writing quills. Dearie me, they gave us enough for ten recorders to use for seven lifetimes. Please, Lonna, would you take them? If you’ll relieve me of the burden, I’ll recruit a team of elders to shape and bind them to your arrow shafts.”

The badger agreed readily. “Thank you, Sister, there’s no better flight for a shaft than a goose feather. I’ve been using gull feathers from the northeast shores, but they don’t have the strength and firmness of good goose plumage.”

Martha spoke. “You’ll have a full supply of arrows, Lonna.”

Stretched out on a heap of clean sacks, the big badger gazed up at the ceiling, sure now of what he was going to do. “Nobeast can live without food and water. Martha, I want you and a few others to patrol the windows all around the Abbey, where the Searats would find things to eat or drink.”

The haremaid replied. “You mean the orchard and the Abbey pond? There’s also a vegetable garden adjoining the orchard. Since the Searats arrived, they’ve taken water and fished from the pond, and as for the orchard, they’re hardly ever out of there and the vegetable garden. Isn’t that right, Father?”

Carrul clenched his jaw. “Correct, Martha. Those scum! I dread to think of the state our crops will be in. After all the hard work Redwallers did. Well, Lonna, you’ll have a fair view of it. Orchard, vegetable patch and pond—they are all clearly visible from our south-facing windows.”

Lonna reached for his bow and began running a small piece of beeswax up and down the string. “Perfect. How many arrows have I left in my quiver, Toran?”

The ottercook took a look and returned grinning. “Twenty-three . . . and a molebabe. Muggum’s sleeping in there!” The little mole grumbled dozily as Sister Portula extricated him. “Oi got to stop urr. Lonn’ bee’s sleepin’ in moi bed!”

Abbot Carrul took charge of the molebabe. “Then you can sleep in my big armchair, you rascal. In fact, I think it’s time we all got a rest, there’s lots to do once the day breaks. Right, Lonna?”

Bloodred tinges suffused the badger’s eyes, his bowstring twanging aloud as he tested it. He gritted one word from between his clenched teeth. “Right!”

The Abbot hurriedly ushered his charges from the storeroom. “We’ll leave you to your sleep now, friend. Goodnight.”

There was no reply. Closing the door behind them, Toran the ottercook exchanged meaningful glances with the Abbot. “Did ye see that, Father? Lonna’s possessed of the Bloodwrath!”

Martha looked from one to the other, perplexed. “What’s the Bloodwrath, some sort of sickness?”

Toran grasped her paw so hard that she winced. “Lissen to me, young ’un. You stay out o’ that beast’s way until his eyes clear up again. Badgers ain’t responsible for wot they do when Bloodwrath comes upon ’em, d’ye hear?”

The haremaid managed a frightened little nod. “Lonna wouldn’t hurt us, would he?”

The Abbot signalled Toran and the others to their beds. He walked through Great Hall with Martha, who was carrying the sleeping molebabe.

Carrul talked quietly with her. “Do as Toran has told you, pretty one. Only be close to Lonna when you have to. Creatures such as us know little of Bloodwrath, but grown badgers of his size can be very dangerous to anybeast when it strikes them. Take your friends tomorrow, patrol the south windows on the first and second floor. The moment you sight Searats in the grounds, report straight to Lonna. Then get out of the way. Redwallers have no business hanging around a badger who is taken by Bloodwrath. Believe me, Martha, I tell you that Lonna needs to avenge himself and his dead friend upon Raga Bol and his crew. He is here for no other reason. Go to your bed now and remember what I have said.”