Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Lonna stood on the empty walkway, his chest heaving like a bellows, blood oozing from a dozen different wounds. The carcass of Raga Bol resembled a grotesque, oversized pincushion, pierced by an array of spears from Searats who had tried to fend off the badger’s advance.

Cautiously, Toran and his helpers approached from the west walltop. They froze as Lonna whirled around to face them, still holding Raga Bol’s slain body, the spears hanging from it rattling against the battlements. With a powerful heave, the big badger tossed his onetime enemy over the wall, listening to his body clattering through the tree limbs. Smiling like a Dibbun who had just learned a new trick, Lonna Bowstripe sat down, letting his footpaws dangle over the lawn.

“When Martha brought me to Redwall, I hoped I could be of some help to you.”

The ottercook sat down beside him. “Aye, an’ that ye were, mate, that ye were!”

Woodpigeons were startled from their roosts in Mossflower woodlands. They wheeled about in the night air, wondering why the bells of Redwall Abbey were pealing and booming out at such a late hour.

41

Bragoon crouched, staring down into the pit of the open grave where Horty had disappeared. Saro was fashioning a torch from twigs, grass and moss. Fenna lay flat on the edge of the hole, calling down.

“Horty, if you can hear me, then shout out!”

Springald centred the light of her chunk of rock crystal on the torchtop. Magnified sunrays produced a wisp of smoke, which grew into a small flame. Saro wafted it into a fire.

“I’m the climber, let me go first. Spring an’ Fenna, ye stay up ’ere in case we need anythin’. Fetch the rope, Brag.” Lowering herself over the edge, the aging squirrel dropped a bit, then landed on something solid.

“Stone steps, look!”

A dusty flight of narrow steps ran curving downward into the darkness. Bragoon coiled the rope about his shoulders and followed her carefully. “Slow down, mate—we don’t want t’lose you, too!”

Springald and Fenna watched until the light vanished around the curve, down into the gloom.

The mousemaid shuddered as she sat down by the broken covering stone. “I don’t like this place anymore. It looked so peaceful and sunny at first, but now there’s something about it that gives me the shivers. No wonder Toobledum wouldn’t come here. I hope Horty’s alright.”

Fenna was studying the big dark headstone, perched sideways at a crazy angle. “Horty’s indestructible, you’ll see.”

Bragoon’s head appeared at ground level. “Yore right there, miss. Lend a paw, you two!”

Saro was on the step behind him. Between them they carried the slumped form of Horty. Heaving and pulling, the four friends managed to lift the young hare onto solid ground, where he curled up as if asleep.

Saro patted his back. “He took a fall an’ landed on the left side of his head. Pore Horty’s got a fat ear, but there’s no real harm done.”

Fenna soaked some moss and dabbed at the swollen ear. “He’s taken his share of knocks on this trip. That’s a real thick ear he’s got there.”

The damp poultice must have worked: Horty groaned and tried to sit up but fell back, complaining miserably. “Yowch, I am awake! I say, d’you mind awfully not scrubbin’ a chap’s wounded ear with that filthy wet stuff. It stings like jolly blue blazes!”

Springald took out a flask of cordial which she had brought along. “Could you manage a sip of this?”

Horty grabbed it and downed the lot in three big gulps. “Not that it’ll do the noble young ear much good, but I’ve managed to wet my parched lips with it. Ooh, my achin’ lug!”

Fenna supported his head. “Poor Horty, it must hurt terribly.”

The young hare put on a pitiful face. “I must be close t’death. I say Fenn, old scout, you don’t happen to have a bite of scoff about you, wot?”

Bragoon stifled a laugh. “Nothin’ much wrong wid that ’un! Keep an eye on ’im, you two. We’re goin’ back down to take a look round there. Pass me some more wood an’ grass, Fenn. We got to keep the torch alight.”

Fenna bundled her cloak under Horty’s head. As the squirrelmaid began gathering more fuel for the torch, she shared her latest discovery with her companions.

“Now I know why Toobledum could hear moaning on windy nights from the buryin’ place. See that big dark stone, it’s the one that marked this grave. There’s words carved on it. Listen. ‘Sylvaticus. First Mother Abbot of Loamhedge Abbey. Loved by all creatures. Long in seasons and wisdom. Gone to her final rest. Forever in our thoughts.’ This is the very grave we’ve been seeking.”

Fenna indicated the beautifully carved motif at the top of the headstone. It was a lily in full bloom with a graceful stem sprouting curved and fluted leaves. The entire design was pierced right through the stonework. The squirrelmaid traced it with her paw.

“This is the flower that never dies. I’ll wager that the wind sings an eerie song through this carving on windy nights. You can’t blame Toobledum for steering clear of here.”

Bragoon regarded her with admiration. “Yore a bright young ’un, Fenn, that was well thought out. Take care of Horty now, we’ll be back afore ye know it.”

For the second time, the two old friends descended the stairs.

Not one to let an injury slip by unnoticed, Horty made the most of his thick ear as the two Abbeymaids ministered to him. “Salad! Now that’s the very stuff for a swollen ear, wot! Any hare’ll tell you, salad’s just the thing, an’ lots of it. Hold hard there, Spring old gel, what’s that sloppy mess? Tut tut, marm, you ain’t physickin’ me with that rubbish!”

Springald cradled the mixture in a dockleaf. “Don’t be such a Dibbun, Horty Braebuck. It’s a mud-and-moss poultice that will do your ear a power of good. Hold him, Fenn!”

Horty struggled in the squirrelmaid’s firm grip. “Gerroff me, you flamin’ torturesses. I’ll bet you took lessons from Sister Setiva on how to persecute wounded beasts. Yugh! That dreadful gloop’s gone right down me bloomin’ ear. You’ve done it now, I’ll be deaf on one side for the rest of me short young life. Rotters!”

Springald tugged the hare’s good ear sharply. “Do hold still! What can you expect if you hop about like that? Now, I’ll just dress it with some dock leaves.”

Horty looked blankly at her. “What rock thieves? Speak up!”

When the dressing was completed, he lay down in a sulk, while Springald cast a glance at the grave. “They’ve been gone an awfully long time. What d’you think, shall we go down there and check on them?”

Fenna nodded eagerly. “Yes, let’s do that. You stay here, Horty. Take a nap or something.”

They dropped over the edge onto the stairs, with their former patient calling after them.

“I say, what’s a cap an’ a dumpling? What’s up, have you both gone mad?”

Holding paws, Springald and Fenna managed the steps and, placing their backs against the rough stone wall, crept forward cautiously. The ground took a curve, dipping steeply. Slowly stumbling on, in total darkness, they were relieved to see the faint glow of a torch ahead. The muted voices of their friends could be heard.

Fenna called out to them. “Saro, Brag, is that you? We’ve come down for a little peek.”

The otter’s voice, which sounded rather grumpy, echoed back at them. “I told ye t’stay on top, you should be mindin’ Horty. Who knows wot that buffoon’ll be up to be’ind our backs!”

Saro’s voice interrupted him. “Oh, there’s no harm done, mate. Let ’em come an’ take a look.”