Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

yet it could walk nowhere,

whose arms lacked paws, but yet they held,

a wretched captive there.”

Springald shrugged. “Well, there are clues in that rhyme. But look around, what do you see? A broken tree stump, two big rocks shaped like a badger’s head and a bell! Besides that, all we have is a map, made so far back that nobeast can remember. Is this all the information you brought with you from the Abbey? Bit thin, isn’t it?”

Bragoon drew patterns in the dust with his paw. Then he and Saro cast rueful looks at each other.

Fenna spoke to them. “Wasn’t there something else, a big volume about how a party of Redwallers found Loamhedge in bygone seasons?”

The otter explained limply. “Aye, missy, there was, but we never took the time or the trouble to try readin’ it. We ain’t no scholars, that much is plain, ain’t it, mate?”

Saro nodded dolefully. “Right, we thought that, ’cos we’d been atop o’ the high cliffs an’ onto the plateau one time, we knew this country. Our mistake, I s’pose. We should’ve let one of you young ’uns read the book out to us. You ain’t like us. Livin’ in the Abbey all yore lives, you managed t’get some learnin’. Me’n ole Brag, we ran away when we was young, didn’t get much schoolin’.”

Fenna wanted to take them to task for going off on such a quest without proper information, but they looked so crestfallen. She also felt it would be unfair to berate two creatures of such skill and craft, all of which they had gained in the hard school of travel and experience. Scholars they might not be, but adventurers they certainly were.

A shout interrupted her thoughts. “What ho there, you curmudgeons! Handsome young hare approachin’ with visitors! Put aside your weapons. They’re friendly, an’ they enjoyed my blinkin’ breakfast, too!”

Bragoon thumped his rudder down in astonishment. “Horty, what’n the name o’ silly seasons . . . ?”

The young hare marched up to the stump with his two new friends—a large fat dormouse, pulling a cartload of twigs and wasteland debris; and, at his side, a tiny sand lizard held by a braided lead.

Horty grinned from ear to ear. “Meet my new pal Toobledum, survivor an’ hermit of the wastelands, wot! Oh, an’ this other ferocious creature is Bubbub, his faithful sandsniffer. I say, these coves really appreciate my cookin’, they scoffed the bloomin’ lot!”

Springald cried indignantly, “Well thanks for nothing. I scarcely took a bite of that food!”

Horty pawed his nose at her. “Serves you jolly well right, after the way you lot carried on about my fine cookin’!”

Toobledum, a cheery dormouse, wore an outrageously floppy woven grass hat, which he tipped to them. “Pleased t’meetcher, one an’ all, friends o’ the cook, are ye! Well, Horty’s led ye this far pretty good, I’d say.”

Saro glared at the young hare, paws on hips. “Led us this far, eh? I wager you’ve been tellin’ Mister Toobledum a right ole pack o’ fibs!”

Horty waffled for a moment, then changed the subject completely. “I say, chaps, here’s a wheeze. Guess where Toobledum lives? Go on, tell ’em, Toob!”

The dormouse sat down and lightly scratched Bubbub’s emerald-green sides. The little sand lizard arched its back with pleasure. Toobledum looked up at them from beneath the wide brim of his hat.

“Lives? Me’n likkle Bubbub lives at Loam’edge, that’s where we lives. Sand lizards ain’t like most reptiles, y’know. Get ’em young enough an’ they’re good likkle tykes.”

Bragoon stared open-mouthed at the dormouse. “Y’mean to tell us you actually lives at Loamhedge?”

The floppy hat wobbled wildly as Toobeldum nodded. “All me life. Youngest o’ sixteen I was, left ’ome an’ came out here t’fend fer meself. Loam’edge h’aint no Redwall, like the big place Horty told me that ’e rules. But ’tis ’ome, an’ we like it, don’t we likkle Bubbub?” The tiny sand lizard nodded and romped over to Fenna to be stroked and tickled.

Springald treated the dormouse to one of her prettiest smiles. “Could you show us the way to Loamhedge, sir?”

He flushed under his hat brim. “Ain’t no sir, missy, only an ole Toobledum, but I’ll show ye the way willin’ly!”

Fenna left off petting Bubbub, who nudged at her for more. “You will show us the way. Now?”

Dusting himself off, the dormouse rose with a grunt. “Now’s as good a time as any, me pretty one. Long as ye let my pal Horty cook me another good mess o’ vittles.”

Bragoon clapped the young hare’s back so heartily that he almost knocked him flat. “Well o’ course, the champion quest leader an’ expert cook an’ ruler o’ Redwall would be only too glad to cook for ye, matey!”

Toobledum passed the towing rope of his cart to Saro. “I’d be obliged if’n ye pull the ole cart fer me, marm. Me paws gets weary from luggin’ it far’n’wide. Come on, likkle Bubbub, let’s go ’ome.”

He trundled off into the wasteland, chattering animatedly. “Nice to find somebeast t’jaw with, it gits lonely out ’ere. Likkle Bubbub don’t speak, y’see. I collects useful stuff, goes far’n’wide t’find it. Firewood, nice stones, bits o’ this’n’that. Don’t never waste nothin’ out ’ere, I always sez. If’n ye got gear to cast off, then throw it me way!”

They journeyed on, mainly south by Bragoon’s reckoning, with Toobledum talking ceaselessly, and Bubbub frisking along on his lead, moving from one to another in his efforts to find more stroking.

A camp was made out on the wastelands that evening. The dormouse donated some wood from his cart to make a fire. He was all agog in anticipation of his next meal.

“Well, Cooky, wot’s fer supper? Me’n likkle Bubbub’s feelin’ peckish. Somethin’ nice, I ’ope!”

Springald grinned pointedly at Horty. “Oh, don’t worry, Cooky will turn out something delicious, I’m sure.”

The young hare was beginning to tire of his role as cook. He rummaged through the dwindling supply in the ration packs. “Hmm, I expect I’ll create some superb dish, but we’re runnin’ a bit low on the old tucker, wot. Oh, fiddlesticks! Why’s it left t’me to do all the blinkin’ cookin’ an’ slavin’ round here, while you flamin’ lot sit on your tails an’ loll around? Huh, bit bloomin’ thick, I’d say!”

Fenna joined in the teasing. “Cheer up, Mighty Ruler of Redwall, I expect you have an army of skivvies to serve you back at the Abbey. Excuse me, you’re not frying another fruit salad, are you?”

Borrowing an iron pot that had been clanking along on a hook beneath Toobledum’s cart, Horty answered airily. “As a matter o’ fact, marm, I’m inventin’ some scone soup, with a few wild onions, some sage, carrots, a leek or two an’ some crumbled oatscones. Followed by fresh strawberry surprise, with dandelion tea to drink.”

It was a surprisingly tasty meal. They downed it with relish. Fenna had one comment to make about the dessert. “What’s in this strawberry surprise, Cooky?”

Horty grimaced. “Wish you’d stop callin’ me Cooky. Oh, the strawberry surprise? I made it with some dried apple, preserved plums an’ a piece o’ fruitcake I found at the bottom of a ration pack. There ain’t a flamin’ strawberry in the whole thing—that’s the surprise. Good, eh?”

Toobledum and Bubbub licked their bowls. The dormouse belched. “Parn me one an’ all. We liked it. Any second ’elphins?”

Toobledum listened to the rhyme which had been dictated to Recorder Scrittum by Sister Amyl. Fenna read it out to him, but the dormouse was at a loss to cast any light on it. “Flowers wot never grows, an’ four-legged prisons wid no arms? Means nought to us, does it, likkle Bubbub?”