Loamhedge (27 page)

Sister Portula brandished the hooked window pole she had armed herself with. Normally a quiet and reserved old mouse, she surprised everybeast by calling out, “Well spoken, Toran. That's the most sensible thing I've heard so far. We can be what we are, not warriors but defenders! We can stick it out and delay them all summer until help arrives from Skipper and his crew. But it will be no easy thing. Remember that we are under siege. Food will run short, drinks will have to be
rationed, water cannot be used freely anymore. . . .”

Baby Buffle interrupted the good sister by piping up, “Nonomorragerrabaffinwirrawater!”

Martha gave Shilly a puzzled look. “What did he say?”

The little squirrel grinned from ear to ear and did a somersault. “Iffa water bee's short, Dibbuns can't not get baffed. Yeeheeheehee!”

Nobeast could resist laughing along with the overjoyed babes.

 

The storm finally subsided to a light drizzle. Scratching the back of his neck with his silver hook, Raga Bol rolled out of Old Phredd's bed and exited the gatehouse. Swigging from a flask of grog, he listened to the whimpers and wails from the pond. Blowfly was keeping Badredd and his little gang hard at it. The Searat captain gazed up at the majestic grandeur of Redwall Abbey. What a sight! Anybeast would be mad to bother with ships when he could own a place like this. Smiling wolfishly, he shouted toward the Abbey.

“Yore goin' to meet Cap'n Raga Bol tomorrer, mousies!”

Marching all night was a harrowing experience for the younger creatures. Saro and Bragoon, being used to such hardships, plodded doggedly on in silence. Fenna stumbled alongside them, her eyes constantly drooping shut. The squirrelmaid sorely regretted ever leaving Redwall and all its comforts. She did not know which she yearned for most—sleep, food or water. Springald was of a like mind, trudging onward in a straight line with her four companions, keeping quiet and trying not to inhale too much dust.

It was a cruel and forbidding outlook, the wasteland stretching all around, flat, silent and gloomy in the nighttime darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, daylight showed on the eastern horizon, a pale, misty mixture of dove-grey and orange.

Bragoon watched the faint apricot edge of morning sun slowly rising. He spoke softly. “That's a pretty sight, ain't it, mates?”

Horty hardly gave it a second glance. “Pretty, y'say? Pretty bloomin' awful if y'ask me, wot. I'd swap the blinkin' lot for a drop of water! Can't we stop now? You said march by night an' sleep durin' the day. Well, there's the jolly old day, an' I'm pawsore an' weary. So let's lay the old heads down, eh chaps?”

Saro pushed him onward. “Not just yet, we've got to keep goin' while 'tis cool. When the day gets hot, that's the time
for sleep. The more ground we cover, the sooner we'll be out o' this wasteland. Keep marchin', don't stop now.”

None of the travellers wanted to, but they carried on, knowing that it was the only sensible thing to do.

By midmorning, the sun was beating down remorselessly as small dust spirals danced on the hot breeze. There was still no sight of trees or streams amid the dun-hued wastes.

Bragoon finally halted. “We'll rest here until late afternoon!”

Saro began setting up a lean-to with cloaks and staves, weighting the cloak edges down with pieces of rock.

Horty raised a dust cloud as he slumped down. “If I could only lay paws on the rotters who swiped our grub'n'water. By the left! I'd kick their confounded tails into the middle o' next season, wot!”

Bragoon rested on his stomach in the small patch of shade. “Don't think about it, mate, yore only makin' things worse.”

Springald looked back at the ground they had covered. “Funny how the land seems to wobble and shimmer out there.”

Fenna curled up and closed her eyes. “That's just the heat on the horizon. It's a mirage, really.”

Saro shielded her eyes, peering keenly at the spectacle. She nudged the otter, directing his attention to it. “Don't look like no mirage to me, wot d'ye think, Brag?”

Bragoon squinted his eyes and watched intently. His paw strayed to the sword which lay by his side. “It might be just the heat waves, but it seems t'be movin' closer toward us. Then again, it could be the earth dancin'. Remember the ground shakin' like that the last time we was in this territory, Saro?”

The squirrel never let her gaze waver from the shimmering. “Aye, it made a rumblin' sound, too.”

Horty laughed wildly. “Hawhawhaw! Just listen to 'em, chaps. We're in the middle of bally nowhere, bein' baked alive, not a flamin' drop t'drink or eat. Now what, the ground has to start bloomin' well dancin'! Am I goin' off me flippin' rocker, or is it those two ramblin' duffers, wot?”

Bragoon and Saro exchanged glances, then went back to their watching.

Horty, however, would not be ignored. Gesturing with his paws, he flopped his ears dramatically.

“They're tellin' me the ground's doin' a jig. An' here am I, without a pastie to shovel down me face or a bucket o' cordial to wet me parched lips! Ah, lackaday an' woe is the handsome young hare, languishin' out here an' losin' me mind! I'm goin' mad, mad I tell ye! Stark bonkers an' ravin' nuts! 'Tis the dreaded thirstation!”

Springald shook her head. “Thirstation? Shouldn't that be thirstiness, or just thirst?”

Bragoon whispered to Saro. “That couldn't be the earth dancin', or we'd have felt the rumbles.”

Horty continued with his tirade. “Rumbles, rumbles? How could benighted buffoons such as you know about the rumblings of a sad tragic hare, whose life is bein' cut short by the contagious thirstation an' tummyrumbles?”

The otter's tail caught him a firm thwack across the rear. “Shuttup, young 'un, get to sleep an' quit yore shoutin'!”

Horty subsided meekly, but still muttered to have the last word. “Beaten by the bullyin' Bragoon into shallow slumber. Goodnight, fair comrades, or is it good day, wot?”

Within a short time, the three young ones were asleep. Sarobando was dozing, too, but Bragoon lay on his stomach, chin resting on both paws. Through slitted eyelids he scanned the wastelands to the rear of the lean-to. They drew closer. Now he could distinguish them, not as heat shimmers but as small, patchy bumps. Moving silently, betrayed only by odd puffs of dust, they edged nearer. Then they halted. One bump detached itself from the pack and advanced.

Saro came awake as Bragoon touched her ear. He nodded toward the moving object, twitching his tail against the squirrel's footpaw. Saro prepared herself, knowing the signal well. One . . . Two . . . On the third twitch they both attacked. Springing in the air and leaping forward, both beasts threw themselves bodily on the thing. It squeaked aloud. Immediately the ground came alive. Squeaking and whistling, hundreds of small shapes raised an enormous dust cloud as they fled. The captured one wriggled and bit madly, but it could not escape its captors. It was disguised by a cloak woven from tough, coarse grass. Bragoon and Saro swiftly wrapped it into a bundle, trapping the beast within.

Saro drew a small blade. “Haharr, got ye, thief, be still or I'll slay ye!”

Bragoon crouched with his sword poised, defending his friend's back against attack. Saro dragged the bundle inside the lean-to, rapping out orders to the trio, who were now awake.

“Grab ahold o' that. Jump on it if it tries to escape!”

Springald and Fenna held the thing tight. Horty pulled off the covering. It was a small, goldish-brown mouselike beast with a long tail and a white-furred stomach. Temporarily stunned, it lay gazing up at them through huge, dark eyes.

The otter came bounding in; sword upraised he menaced it. “Our food'n'water, where is it? Speak or die, robber!”

The creature gave vent to a piercing cry. “Feeeeeeeeeeee!”

This was followed by a sound from outside, like hundreds of tiny drums.

Saro stepped out of the shelter. “Curl me bush, come an' take a look o' this, mates!”

A billowing dust cloud was rising from footpaws drumming the earth. When it settled, a hundred or more of the mouselike beasts stood facing them. They all wore grass cloaks about their shoulders.

Fenna whispered to Saro. “Good grief, what do we do now?”

The older squirrel answered quietly out of the side of her mouth. “Say nothin'. Leave this to me, mate.”

Bragoon emerged from the shelter, dragging his prisoner by the tail. Hoisting the creature up, he swung the sword of Martin. The otter's voice roared out. “Give us back our food'n'water, or this 'un's a deadbeast! D'ye understand me? I'll slay 'im if'n ye don't obey!”

For an answer, they once again set up a loud drumming with their footpaws:
Brrrrrrrrrrr!
Then they stood silent, watching Bragoon as the dust settled.

The captive one glared fearlessly up at the otter. “Chiiiiiiirk—kill me! We of the Jerbilrats give nobeast water. Chiiik, sooner give our blood than water!”

Springald was surprised. “Rats? They're handsome little things. They've got beautiful, big dark eyes. They look far too nice to be rats!”

Saro turned fiercely on the mousemaid. “Just shut yore
mouth, miss, I don't care 'ow nice they look. They've told ye wot they are—a rat's a rat, an' that's that. Hold yore tongue, an' leave the talkin' to Brag!”

The otter yelled back at the massed Jerbilrats. “Hah, so ye can unnerstand me. D'ye think I'm foolin'?”

He struck with the sword, snipping a whisker from the Jerbilrat. As the drumming resumed, Bragoon raised his sword. “Next one takes this robber's head off. Give us our supplies!”

Fenna whispered urgently to Horty. “He's not really going to chop off a defenceless creature's head, is he?”

Horty shrugged. “Simple case o' survival out here. Either we get the rations back or we peg out an' perish, wot!”

The Jerbilrat actually smiled at Bragoon. “I die, one less mouth to feed—that saves water. Kill me, riverdog.”

Saro sighed. “Don't give us much choice, does 'e?”

The otter let his sword drop. “I never slew a helpless beast.”

Saro winked. “I know, mate, we ain't murderers. Let me try.”

Hauling the Jerbilrat up by its ears, she dealt it a slap. “I know ye ain't givin' us our supplies back, but I'll slap ye round 'til sunset if'n y'don't tell me where water is.”

Saro made a wavy motion, describing a stream or river. “Water, like this.” She gave the beast a heavier slap. “Talk!”

The Jerbilrat shrugged. “Two days southeast maybe, don't know.”

Saro struck again. “Then find out, 'cos yore comin' with us!”

The creature snarled. “I'm Jiboa the Jerchief. I'll kill you—I'm not afraid to kill, like that riverdog is!”

Saro took a length of rope, knotting it firmly around Jiboa's neck. She smiled grimly. “Ole Bragoon's the merciful one, I ain't so soft 'earted. I don't take no lip from cheeky-faced rats. Now take us to the water, or I'll make ye wish my mate had killed ye!”

A swift kick to the rear set Jiboa moving. “Your water might be gone now. Dancing earth can shift streams down great cracks in the ground.”

Saro flicked the rope against the back of his neck. “Ah, go an' tell that t'the frogs. Ye just get us there.”

Cancelling all plans to sleep by day, the travellers broke camp and set off into the dry, hot morn. They kept glancing
back as the entire Jerbilrat pack continued to follow them. When Jiboa thrummed his footpaws, the rats drummed back in answer. He smirked at Saro.

“Feeeeeee! Old toughbeast, eh? Jerbilrats can go without water longer than you and the others. You'll weaken sooner or later. Then my rats will slay you all, you'll see.”

Saro jerked the rope sharply, causing Jiboa to fall on his own tail. She winked craftily at him. “Funny 'ow ye can't do two things at once. Seems every time ye try, then ye fall over.”

Jiboa scrambled upright. “Stupid treejumper, I can walk'n'talk!”

Saro tugged the rope and pulled him over again. “Wrong! Every time you say somethin' nasty, bump, down ye go. But if'n ye was to shout out that y'can see water, ye'd regain yore sense o' balance right away. Unnerstand?”

There was neither shade nor shadow when the sun was directly overhead. Horty began complaining once more. “Oh shed a tear for a thirsty young hare, an' if it's wet I'll drink it, wot. I say, you chaps, wouldn't you just love to wet the old whistle at a cool runnin' stream? If the odd fish swam by, then one could eat an' drink at the same jolly old time, wot. Phew, I'm so hot'n'dry that you could make a blanket of my tongue!”

Fenna gave him a sharp nudge. “You're showing us up in front of those Jerbilrats, moaning and whining like that. They'll think we're soft and weak. Now try to behave like a Redwaller, and stop all that nonsense!”

Horty stiffened his ears, saluted and stepped out smartly. “Right, old gel, leave it to Hortwill Braebuck, Esquire. I'll sing t'the clod-faced old savages, wot, here goes!”

Horty, with his talent for making up songs as he went, launched into an insulting ditty about Jerbilrats. Fenna and Springald giggled as they joined in the refrain at the end of each verse.

 

“Oh a Jerbilrat's a creature,

without one redeemin' feature,

beware of him, pay heed to what I say.

He'll sneak up on one quite sudden,

and devour one's pie or pudden,

an' he'll rob your bloomin' water anyday . . . Anyday!

 

If one ever meets a jerbil,

one must be extremely careful,

an' keep one's drinks tight under lock and key,

for 'tis a widely held belief,

that the scruffy little thief,

will sup every single drop quite happily . . . Happily!

 

For a jerbil's just a rat,

who has never had a bath,

so be careful that you stay upwind of him.

'Cos the smell would blow one's hat off,

or put any decent rat off,

an' kill all the flies around a rubbish bin . . . Rubbish bin!

 

Jerbil manners are disgraceful,

they're so spiteful an' ungrateful,

so arrogant an' sly an' so unjust.