Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Carrul took the sleeping Muggum from Martha and went into his room. The haremaid looked up at the figure of Martin the Warrior on his tapestry. There was no need of visitations or dream speeches from the gallant protector of Redwall. His eyes seemed to say it all. She bowed respectfully to Martin, then went to her bed, still puzzled but obedient to her Abbot and the guiding spirit of her Abbey.

Death came to Redwall at dawn. A Searat came bursting into the gatehouse and raised Raga Bol from the bed where he had lain sprawled and twitching in broken dreams. “Cap’n, the stripedog’s just kilt Cullo an’ Baleclaw. They was fishin’ in the pond an’ ’e slayed ’em both wid one arrer!”

Bol came upright, his silver hook thrusting through the rat’s baggy shirt as he dragged him forward. “Killed ’em wid one arrer! Have ye been at the grog agin, Griml?”

The rat wailed. “I saw it meself, Cap’n. They was stannin’ in the water, one afront o’ the other, when a big arrer pins ’em both through their neckscruffs, like fishes on a reed!”

Bol thrust Griml roughly out the gatehouse. “Rally the crew, an’ fetch Wirga t’me. Move yourself!”

Griml’s mate, Deadtooth, was crouching beside the wallsteps. He, too, had witnessed the slaying of two Searats with one arrow. Deadtooth caught up with Griml. “Wot did Bol say?”

Griml shrugged unhappily. “Not much, just booted me out an’ tole me t’bring the crew an’ fetch Wirga.”

Deadtooth persisted. “Don’t the Cap’n know Wirga’s dead? They found ’er just as it went light. Somebeast ’ad knocked the daylights outer ’er agin the wall. But ye knew that, didn’t ye? Yew shoulda told Bol.”

Griml nervously looked this way and that. “Hah, yew go an’ tell ’im, if’n ye dare. I don’t want no silver ’ook guttin’ me. I wish we was afloat at sea, like last springtime. I tell ye, mate, we’ve ’ad nought but bad luck since we dropped anchor in this rotten place!”

Griml caught sight of several Searats emerging from behind a small ornamental hedge where they had been sleeping. “Ahoy, youse lot, Cap’n wants ter see ye, right now at the gate’ouse, ye best jump to it . . .”

There was a piercing scream from the orchard as a crewrat staggered out, transfixed by an arrow. Still holding a half-ripe pear in his claws, he took one more pace and crumpled in a still heap. Griml gestured at him wildly. “See, wot did I tell ye? There’s Rotpaw gone now, a good ole messmate like ’im, off to ’ellgates afore a bite o’ brekkist passed ’is pore lips. I said this place is bad luck, didn’t I?”

38

Having camped by the rocks and spent the night there, the travellers got their first clear view of them at sunrise next morn. Fenna found Horty, who had already risen, blowing on the embers of the previous night’s fire and adding twigs to rekindle the flames. In high spirits, the young hare waved his ears at her.

“Mornin’, fair Fenn’. Lots of twigs blown up against the rocks by the blinkin’ wind, wot. Jolly useful to a first-class rivercook. What ho, you lazy lot, rise’n’shine, eh! So, here we are at the old Badger an’ Bell. Thoughtful cove, whoever named ’em—they look just like an enormous bloomin’ bell an’ a blinkin’ huge badger’s bonce!”

Springald blinked sleep from her eyes and gave Horty a sidelong glance. “Really, have you just noticed that?”

Saro got between them. “Don’t start again, you two. Horty, ole scout, ole lad, ole boy, wot’s for breakfast?”

The garrulous hare giggled. “Heeheehee, would you believe fried fruit salad, marm?”

Springald came wide awake then. “Horty, you’re joking?”

Bragoon had sidled up. With the tip of his sword he speared a slice of plum from the flat rock that served as a frying pan. The otter chewed it pensively. “Our cook ain’t jokin’, marm. Hmm, it don’t taste too bad!”

As Saro tried a morsel, winks were exchanged all round, behind Horty’s back. The aging squirrel merely nodded. “I suppose y’can’t be too picky out in this country. I’ve ate worse an’ survived.”

Fenna prodded at the food with a twig. “Do we have to eat it?”

Closing her eyes, Springald gulped a piece down. “It’s either that or starve. Fried fruit salad? Only a hare could think up a breakfast like that!” Horty’s ears rose like flagstaffs and his cheeks bulged out. The outraged hare was about to give them a piece of his mind, when something out on the wasteland distracted his attention.

“Cads! Bounders! You rotten, ungrateful . . . I say, chaps, is that somebeast crouchin’ down out there?”

Bragoon leaped up, wiping his swordblade. “Come on, let’s find out!”

They spread out and made for the distant shape. Slowly and cautiously they approached the object. Then Fenna, who had the best eyesight, ran forward, calling to them. “That’s no crouching beast, it’s nothing but a big battered old tree stump!”

The fragmented piece of conifer stood almost as tall as Bragoon’s shoulder. He tapped it with his sword.

“Y’know wot this is? All that’s left o’ that big tree on the map—Lord o’ Mossflower. We crossed over the great gorge by walkin’ across its trunk!”

Saro circled the broad base. “A shame, really. ’Twas a mighty tree in its seasons. Right, mate, ’tis time we took a look at the stuff you brought from the Abbey.”

Bragoon drew out the tattered scraps of parchment he had carried since the day they left Redwall. “Let’s take a look then. Loamhedge can’t be too far now. Maybe we’ll find some clues that’ll help.”

Horty was never a beast who took kindly to studying. He watched them unfolding a scrap of parchment. “Borin’ old stuff, I’ll go back an’ break camp, wot!”

Bragoon passed the piece of paper to Springald. “Yore a bright young ’un, read this out to us. I don’t see too good for readin’ lately. Think I might need those eyeglasses like Carrul an’ Old Phredd wears when they reads things.”

Springald studied the neat script. “Martha copied this out. It says here that it’s Sister Amyl’s rhyme. Listen.

“Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,

my secret lies hid from view,

the tale of how I learned to walk,

when once I was as you.

Though you cannot go there,

look out for two who may,

travellers from out of the past,

returning home someday.”

Bragoon winked at Saro. “That was us, we’re the travellers from out the past. I wonder how young Martha is.”

Saro folded the parchment up, returning it to the otter. “I wish she could’ve been fit t’make this trip with us. Now there was a young maid who had an ’ead on her shoulders. Huh, no clues there, though. Wot does that other bit say?”

Beside the map sketch, Bragoon had only one other piece of parchment. He offered it to Saro. “You read it, mate.”

After unfolding it, the aging squirrel gave it to Fenna, without a second glance. “My readin’ is terrible, I never payed attention at Abbeyschool. Just like you, Brag, but I ain’t makin’ excuses about needin’ eyeglasses. You read it, Fenna. I bet you was a good learner.”

The squirrelmaid straightened the creased document. “Martha tells us here that this is something which was copied by somebeast named Recorder Scrittum. The words are Sister Amyl’s, but Scrittum recorded them for her.

“Beneath the flower that never grows,

Sylvaticus lies in repose.

My secret is entombed with her,

look and think what you see there.

A prison with four legs which moved,