Loamhedge (29 page)

The one-eyed Searat, who had been enjoying the blaze, saluted his leader quizzically. “Ye don't want a fire then, Cap'n?” He recoiled, his face now splattered with spittle from the captain's furious rant.

“Can't ye see they've blocked the doorway, fool? Rubble won't burn, we need that wood to pile up agin that 'eap. We can climb up on it through the winders!”

Raga Bol sat down on the lawn, chopping at the grass with his blade and shouting out, “Can't ye use yore brains? 'Ave I got to do all the thinkin' round 'ere?”

Blowfly came plodding up from the gatehouse. “Cap'n, the vermin gang are gone. The gate's open, they must've escaped!”

Bol gritted each word out slowly, as if he was speaking to a dim-witted infant. “Well, go an' bring 'em back! Glimbo, you go wid 'im, an' don't show yer ugly faces back 'ere widout every last one of 'em. Go!”

 

Martha had heard every word. She smiled at the Abbot. “Well, that's a few less to bother us.”

Sister Setiva ducked her head aside as a stretcher load of
debris hurtled out of the window space. “Och, but did ye hear yon Searat? They're goin' tae make a ladder tae scale the heap o' muck. Whit are we to do now?”

Just then, Foremole Dwurl clumped into the dormitory, his face wreathed in a happy smile as he announced, “We'm no need to wurry o'er water nomores, zurr. Moi molers h'un-covered a gurt well, daown in ee cellars!”

Sister Setiva pursed her lips. “Och grand, but ah don't see how that's goin' tae help us fight Searats off!”

Toran shook Dwurl by his muddy digging claw. “That's a spot o' luck, me ole mate! Keep throwin' rubble out o' the windows, an' tell yore crew to start bringin' up pails o' water, as much as they can!”

The ottercook winked roguishly at Martha. “We'll see 'ow far the rats get, tryin' to scale a mudhill.”

The haremaid clapped her paws gleefully. “Very good, Toran, what a splendid idea! Gurvel, keep making those pepper bombs. In a day or two those Searats will wish they'd never heard of Redwall Abbey!”

Little Muggum flung a pawful of debris moodily out the window. “Hurr, they'm founded watter. Oi 'speck uz Dibbuns bee's a getten barthed agin.”

Sister Setiva patted the molebabe fondly. “Och aye, but ye can throw the soapy bathwater oot o'er the rats!”

Within the hour, Old Phredd had penned a poem about what he envisaged. Martha laughed along with the rest as the ancient Gatekeeper read it aloud to the defenders.

 

“They won't leave this Abbey, all filthy and scabby,
when this war is done.

Our foes will retreat, looking clean nice and neat,
every Searat's son.

Oh won't it be splendid, when this siege is ended,
like roses they'll smell,

washed by bathwater sweet, looking fresh in defeat,
as away they run.

 

Come one and come all, dirty vermin we'll call,
should you need a scrub,

don't worry or fear, we've got bathwater here,
you may take a tub.

Wash the mud out your ears, so you'll hear us my dears,
for 'tis truth to tell,

you will know how it feels, with a clean pair of heels,
from a Redwall Farewell!”

 

Raga Bol watched as Ferron and Rojin barred and shut the big wallgates. Wirga followed him inside the gatehouse, waiting silently on his command. The Searat slumped down on Old Phredd's bed, speaking his thoughts as he gazed up at the ceiling.

“Tonight, once 'tis dark, we attack. You stay 'ere wid a few o' the crew. Light a fire, make lots o' noise, they'll think we're all round by this gate'ouse. I'll take the rest an' storm the Abbey by surprise. Tell Ferron to gather all the wood that ain't burned. We'll need it to get up the rubble. I'll be inside afore that ole Abbotmouse knows it. I'll teach those bumpkins to defy Raga Bol. The floors in there'll be awash wid blood by the time I'm done!”

Wirga ventured some questions. “Do I leave the gates locked, Cap'n? What if Blowfly an' Glimbo return with the prisoners? Or my three sons, what if they return with Jibsnout?”

Raga Bol looked sideways at his Seer. “They got paws'n'voices, ain't they? Let 'em bang on the gates or call for ye to open up.”

Wirga humbled her tone, knowing she was touching on a delicate subject. “Jibsnout and my sons are gone overlong now, they should have returned. Thou wouldst know then if the big stripedog still lives.”

Bol snapped up off the bed. “Wot do I care about yore whelps, or Jibsnout, eh? I gave 'em a job to do, they should be doin' it. As fer the stripedog, mention 'im agin an' I'll let daylight through yore skinny carcass. Now get out an' give my orders to Ferron an' the crew. We attack tonight!”

Horty looked around blankly, spreading his paws. “Gone? Where in the name o' seasons have they gone to? They were supposed t'wait here, wot!”

Bragoon held up a paw. “Quiet, mate, don't move, stay still!” He cast around, starting in a small circle and going wider. “If ye go shufflin' about with those big paws o' yores, this dusty ground'll get disturbed. Ahah! Here's their tracks, aye, an' one other, too. Quick, mate, grab all the gear an' foller me!”

Horty gathered up the cloaks and staves which had formed the lean-to. Burdened by this, plus the two gourds of water on his yoke, he staggered after the otter. Bragoon, having shed his share of the water, was forging ahead swiftly.

Horty protested. “I say, old bean, that's a bit wasteful, ain't it, leavin' behind good water that you had to carry half the blinkin' night?”

Bragoon kept his eyes on the trail as he answered. “Can't stop now, got t'get to our mates fast—'tis a matter o' life an' death. Keep up as best ye can!” Hurrying forward, the otter began emitting an odd, piercing whistle.

Horty plodded on, twitching his ears in disapproval. “Huh, matter of life'n'death, an' the bounder's whistlin' if y'please? Wouldn't mind, but it's not even a flippin' catchy tune. The bally beast's brains have gone to his rudder if y'ask me, wot!”

Eventually Bragoon spotted the three figures, out on the arid plain. Springald and Saro were shuffling along facing backwards, supporting Fenna. Closely following the otter and his three companions, an adder was slithering, its forked tongue flickering out, sensing prey, the fatigued trio ahead of it. Hearing the sound of Bragoon's high-pitched whistle, the snake turned, bunching its coils and hissing viciously. Not as big as some serpents the otter had encountered, it was a male, just beginning to get its growth. But angry and deadly enough to deal a fatal bite with one speedy strike of its venomous fangs. Continuing to whistle, Bragoon drew his sword and moved closer, making ready to fight if necessary. The otter smiled grimly. His ploy had worked: the hunting adder had now become the hunted, its fate sealed.

Before the old warrior could strike, the young hare bawled out a warning. “Look out, pal, here come those blinkin' buzzards again!”

Like thunderbolts out of the blue vaults of morning, two large adult birds whizzed down. With total disregard for the snake's venomous fangs, they struck their quarry with lightning speed. The murderous beaks and talons of both buzzards snuffed out the adder's life with savage skill and ferocity. The dead snake was still writhing in the dust whilst they continued their frenzied attack. Then it went still, and the hawks screeched out their victory cry.

Shielding her eyes against the sun, Saro watched the predators bearing their limp prey off into the cloudless sky as Bragoon and the hare approached her.

She shook her head ruefully. “I wish I'd learned t'do that whistle. Never could get the hang of it, though. Burn me brush! Is that water you've got there, Horty?”

Shedding all his trappings, the young hare sank wearily down. “Indeed it is, marm, but I'm afraid you'll jolly well have to com'n'get it for yourselves. I'm whacked out!”

Bragoon took the yoke from him and sat it across his shoulders, then lifted the two gourds. “Ye did well, mate, take a rest now.”

The elderly squirrel and the two Abbeybeasts sat amid the wasteland dust, gulping down the life-giving liquid. The otter soaked a cloth, allowing it to dribble into Fenna's mouth. He
wiped her face with the damp material, cautioning them, “Drink slower, or ye'll be sick. This young un'll be right as rain soon. So, wot 'appened, mate?”

Saro looked up from the gourd. “Just afore dawn, I scented the adder. Huh, I can sniff those things a mile off!”

She continued drinking as Springald took up the tale. “We knew it was somewhere close, stalking us. It was too dangerous to stay inside the lean-to, the snake would've found us. So we sneaked quietly off, but the adder saw us and came right on our track. I've never seen an adder before—horrible beast! I was scared clean out of my wits. Good job you found us in time, we couldn't have carried Fenna much further. And, Bragoon, will you teach me that whistle? It saved our lives!”

The otter lifted Fenna onto his back. “Some other time, miss. Let's get this 'un into the pineforest shade. We found a stream over that way. I'll take ye to it.”

Saro closed her eyes dreamily. “A pine forest an' a whole streamful o' beautiful babblin' water. Lead on, mate!”

They entered the pines when it was midday. Horty raced ahead until he found the stream. He ran toward it, turning his head to shout, “This is the place, chaps! Hawhaw, wait'll I tell you what old Brag did to a gang of bullyin' reptiles last night. He gave 'em the towsing of their lousy lives, he . . . nunhhhhh!”

Without paying attention, Horty had run full head-on into a thick, low pine branch. He was laid flat out, unconscious.

Saro ran to him and lifted his head. “Stone-cold senseless! That makes two we got to nurse now. Why didn't the lop-eared gallumper look where he was goin'?”

The remainder of the afternoon was spent beside the stream. Springald looked after her two friends whilst the older pair went foraging for food. It was so pleasant in the shade of the tall pines. Besides tending the invalids, the mousemaid had time to paddle and wash in the stream. It was a cool and peaceful spot with sunlight and shadow dappling everywhere. Fenna was recovering nicely when Bragoon and Saro returned. The two old campaigners brought with them wonderful chestnut-coloured mushrooms, wild onions, dandelion buds and a variety of edible roots and berries.

Bragoon was heartened by the sight of the squirrelmaid.
“Feelin' better, eh, beauty? Well, we can't light no cookin' fires in a pine forest like this, 'tis too risky. Do ye fancy a nice salad, miss?”

Fenna watched the otter chopping everything finely with his swordblade. “Salad would be perfect, thank you!”

The moment the aroma of freshly cut food assailed his senses, Horty revived. “Oh goody! I say, you chaps, please pass the salad. Owchowchoooh! Me flippin' bonce is splittin'. Can y'see any of me brilliant young brains leakin' out, wot?”

Fenna could not stifle a giggle. “Oh, poor Horty, you've got a lump like a boulder, right twixt your ears. I'm sorry for laughing, it must be very painful.”

The young hare winced when he touched the large swelling. “Painful ain't the word, Fenn old gel, it's absobally agonisticful. Don't think I'll last the day out, actually. Don't shed too many bitter tears when I turn me paws up an' peg out. 'Twas all done bravely in the line of duty. Wot!”

Saro inspected the injury. “Hah, it looks like a duck egg growin' out o' yore skull. Don't worry, though, you'll live. I've got just the thing for that. Sit still an' eat yore salad while I go an' make a poultice.”

She spent some time at the stream, gathering certain things and soaking them in the water. On her return, the aging squirrel tore strips off a cloak for binding.

Horty pulled back apprehensively. “Don't hurt a dyin' young beast in his final moments. Be merciful, marm!”

Bragoon held the hare's paws as Saro worked. She tweaked Horty's whiskers whenever he moved. “Be still, ye great ninny! This is a compress of duckweed, dock, watercress, sainfoil an' streambed mud. Twill do ye a world o' good!”

When she had finished, the others had to turn away their faces to keep from bursting out into laughter. Horty sat dolefully munching salad. Atop his head sat a high turban of cloak strips, herbs and mud, secured with a tie beneath his chin. Both of Horty's ears flopped out at the sides. He glared at Bragoon, who was biting down on his lip to contain a guffaw.

“What's the flippin' matter with your face, chucklechops? D'you find somethin' funny about a wounded warrior, wot wot?”

The otter brought himself under control. “Who, me? No,
mate, but I wouldn't go near any bumblebees if'n I was ye. They might be lookin' fer a new hive! Hohohohoho!”

Seeing there was no salad left, Horty rose regally and stared down his nose at the mirth-struck quartet. “Tut tut, I shall be carryin' on alone, without any aid from those I once called friends. Huh, bunch of whinnyin', witless woebetides. Fie upon you all, say I!” He stalked off in high dudgeon, his turban dressing awobble as he stooped to avoid branches.

Fenna grasped her sides, tears of laughter rolling down both cheeks as she gasped out, “Heeheehee, come on, I'm, haha, well enough to travel now. Ohahahahhh! We'd better go along with him just in case he, heeheehee, backs into a sharp branch, and we, hahahahaaaa, have to tie a turban to his tail. Whoohoohoohoo!”

The pine forest was a vast area. As evening fell, it became dark, swathed in a gloomy, green light. Horty was still not talking to anybeast, but the urge to utter some noise was so great that he struck up a mournful dirge.

 

“ 'Tis a sad lonely life, I have oft heard it said,

to go wanderin' about with this wodge on one's head,

for I travel alone o'er desert an' lea.

Why, even the midges and ants avoid me,

while the ones I called pals an' the comrades I know,

all laugh 'til their rotten, cruel faces turn blue.

There's a grin on the gob of each pitiless cad,

as they scoff at the plight of a poor wretched lad,

but I'll carry on bravely, I won't weep or cry,

an' I'll have my revenge on 'em all when I die.

My ghost will sneak up while they're laid snug in bed,

an' I'll hoot spooky whoops through this thing on my head.

Then they'll cry out ‘Oh Horty, forgive us, please do'

as my spirit howls loudly . . . ‘Yah boo sucks to you!' ”

 

When night fell, Horty broke down and wept inconsolably. Springald crept through the gloom and found him sitting on a log, feeling sorry for himself. She put a paw around him.

“Horty, don't cry. What's the matter? This isn't like you.”

He shoved her paw away. “Yaaah, gerroff me, you don't care, no flippin' one bally well bloomin' cares about me!”

Bragoon took a firmer approach. “Come on now, mate, wot's all this blubberin' about, eh?”

Horty snapped a small twig and flung it at the otter, but it missed. “You ain't no mate o' mine, none of you lot is! I'm starvin' t'death, I've got a molehill growin' out me head, my poor skull aches like flamin' thunder, an' now I'm goin' blind. I can hardly see a paw in front o' me!”

Fenna took over, grasping the weeping hare's shoulders. “Don't be silly, Horty Braebuck, and listen to me. What's all this carrying on for, eh? You're hungry, right? Tell me when you
aren't
hungry! What then, your head's aching? Stands to reason, you've suffered a nasty bang on it. But as for going blind, that's nonsense! It's so dark in this forest at nighttime that none of us can see much. Here, take hold of this stick and follow me. Don't keep fiddling with that dressing on your head or it'll never get better. Saro, have you any food left?”

The squirrel produced a few mushrooms. “I saved these.”

Fenna gave the mushrooms to Horty. “Eat them slowly, take small bites and chew each mouthful twenty times. Come on, up you come, we've still got a lot of ground to cover yet.”

They marched all night, with Bragoon scouting ahead and Saro keeping them on course. The otter returned in dawn's first glimmer, bringing with him a heap of ripe bilberries in his cloak.

“Lookit wot I found! I think there must be a river ahead, I could hear the sound of running water in the distance. Sit down an' get yore gums round a few o' these, Horty mate, they're nice'n'ripe. We'll rest 'ere awhile.”

Horty was considerably less sorrowful when there was food in the offing. “Mmmm, better'n those measly mushrooms. I say, you chaps, I can see better. Flippin' bandage must've fell down over me eyes last night, wot. Oh corks, now everything's gone flippin' green! Why's it all green?”

Springald explained. “Because it isn't properly light yet, it's the day breaking over the treetops. Pines grow so thick in here that it makes the light look green.”

But Horty would not be convinced. “Fiddlesticks, you're
only sayin' that t'make a chap feel better. Ah well, I don't mind spendin' the rest o' me life in a green fug. Hawhaw, lookit old Brag, sour apple face, an' you, too, Spring, little lettuce features, an' you Fenn, young grassgob!”

Saro stared at him pointedly. “Ye missed me out?”

Having devoured all the available berries, Horty lay back and closed his eyes. “Hush now, let a chap get some rest, cabbage head!”

The squirrel chuckled. “That's more like the ole Horty we all know an' dread.”