Loamhedge (4 page)

Abruc patted his stomach and winked at the young creature. “Now that's wot I calls a sea otter chowder. Nobeast can make it like yore mamma does, ain't that right, me 'eart?”

Marinu refilled her husband's bowl. “I wager you used to say that about yore own mamma's chowder. All it takes is clams, mussels an' shrimps, with some beans, chestnut flour, seaweed, carrots an' a few pawfuls of sea salt an' hotroot pepper. 'Tis simple to cook up.”

Young Stugg held out his bowl for a refill. “But you make it da best, 'cos yore our mamma!”

Marinu dipped her ladle into the pot they had brought out. “You'll soon be as big a flatterer as yore dad! Wipe that chin, you've got chowder all over it.”

Abruc looked over the rim of his bowl at Marinu. “So, how are you an' old Sork gettin' along with our big badger? D'ye reckon he'll live?”

Marinu wiped Stugg's chin with her apron hem as she spoke. “It looks like he will, though whether or not he'll waken fully we don't know. He might just fade away, after one of those death sleeps that last a few seasons. I never thought anybeast could be so deeply wounded an' live. Sork used fish glue to mend his skull bone. When that was all clean and set, I used long hairs from his own back as thread to stitch the skin back over. We set lots of spider web over it all. Give it a few days, then we'll wash it gently with valerian and sanicle to deaden any pain. Shoredog says he'll have to be moved to the old cave where it'll be quieter. We'll make him a big bed of silver sand and moss.”

Abruc nodded. “That should help. I'll keep a warm fire of pine an' sweet herbs burnin' there, night an' day.”

Marinu rose. “I'm going back inside. Sork wants to borrow some of the broth off'n my chowder to feed him. A hard task with such a big beast who's still senseless.”

When she had gone inside, Abruc and Stugg finished off the remaining food. The young otter sat watching his father attach a slim line, from the end of his rudder, to a thick root growing from the bankside. Abruc took a chunk of beeswax and began rubbing it into several more loose lines of tough flaxen fibre.

The sea otter eyed his young son. “Shouldn't you be off to yore bed, 'tis getting' late.”

Stugg rubbed some of the beeswax on his paw curiously. “Wot are you doin' wiv dat stuff, farder?”

Abruc explained as he worked. “I'm makin' a bowstring, a good stout one that won't rot or break under strain.”

Young Stugg pursued his enquiries. “Wotta you be wantin' a bowstring for, farder?”

Abruc answered patiently. “T'aint for me, it's for our big badger. I've got a feelin' he'll be well again some day. When the time comes, he'll be leavin' us to go westward.”

Stugg persisted. “Is a bowstring good to go westward wiv?”

His father began deftly plying the waxed fibres together. “Aye, son, that big feller's an archer. He'll have t'find 'imself the right wood t'make a new bow, but the least I can do is to plait him a proper bowstring. Then he'll be well armed to settle up with the vermin who tried to slay him an' murdered his ole friend.”

Stugg nodded. “I bet they be sorry then!”

Abruc stopped working momentarily. “Sorry ain't the word, young 'un. When a badger goes after his enemies, there ain't noplace they can run or hide from him. I'll wager our big beast will come down on 'em with the Bloodwrath!”

Unfamiliar with this strange word, Stugg posed a new question. “Wot's a Bloodraff, farder?”

Abruc shook his head decisively. “Bloodwrath is terrible, somethin' you don't ever want t'see or know about. Go on now, off to bed with ye, me son!”

Old Father Phredd was the Redwall Abbey Gatekeeper. He had once been Abbot, but his seasons caught up with him. Passing the position over to Carrul, he retired to the gatehouse. Phredd was ancient, probably the oldest hedgehog in all Mossflower, and enjoyed being very old, and rather eccentric as well. Although the Old Gatekeeper sought the privacy of his beloved gatehouse and slept a lot, when he was up and about, he could be rather sprightly. His skinny form, with drooping silver spikes, often caused a smile around the Abbey and its grounds. Phredd spoke to stones, trees, plants and flowers, carrying on long conversations and debating with the most everyday objects.

He had arrived late for lunch, shunning the main crowd that was now gathered in the orchard. Preparing his own plate in the deserted kitchens, Phredd first chose a scone. He prattled on to it as he made his way around the tables.

“Hee hee, you're a fine fresh fellow. Now what'll I have to go with you, eh, eh? Speak up!”

Placing an ear close to the scone, he cackled. “Teeheehee! Of course, some honey, a piece o' cheese and a beaker of soup—not too hot, just right for swigging, eh?”

Granmum Gurvel, the old molecook, came in from the orchard to draw off more cordial. She spied Phredd and watched him chatting away to the food until he caught sight of her.

Phredd waved his scone at her. “Oh, er, young Gurvel, g'day!”

She chuckled. “Hurr hurr, goo day to ee, zurr. Wot bee's ee soup sayin' to ee, sumthin' noice oi 'opes?”

Phredd sipped at the beaker and smacked his lips. “Oh yes, indeed, miss. 'Tis saying that you cooked it very nicely. Oh, it also asked if there was any pie about, eh?”

Gurvel went to her larder and took out a large pie. It was preserved plum and apple, the golden crust liberally dusted with maple frosting.

She cut a generous slice and gave it to him. “Thurr naow, old 'edgepig, doant ee let nobeast see that. Oi baked it speshul furr supper.”

Phredd nodded his thanks and skittered off out of the kitchens, conversing with the pie slice. “My my, you're a handsome fellow! What a splendid dessert you'll make. Come on, let's find a nice quiet corner, eh?”

Granmum Gurvel shook her head at Phredd's antics. She picked up the remainder of the pie. “Coom on, pie, back in ee larder again!”

The realisation of what she was doing caused the old molecook to smile. “Gurr, lack ee day, that Phredd got oi a talkin' to moi own pies naow, gurt seasons!”

 

Martha had finished her lunch. She, too, sought peace and quiet to continue her reading. Leaving her friends, she wheeled the chair indoors. Crossing Great Hall, she went straight to her favourite place. Harlequin hues of sunlight shafted down through the high, stained-glass windows onto the worn stone floor. Between two towering sandstone columns, a lantern glowed beneath a wondrous woven tapestry with a sword suspended to one side of it. The haremaid halted her chair in full view of the scene, golden motes of sundust floating slowly on the serene air.

Martha paused before opening Sister Portula's heavy book. She gazed up at the central figure in the tapestry, Martin the Warrior. A heroic, armour-clad mouse, the hero and champion of Redwall Abbey. Martha loved looking at his face—so strong and protective yet kindly, with a secret smile forever hiding in his eyes. The sword he was leaning on was
the very same one that hung on the wall—a legendary warrior's weapon, its only adornment, one red pommel stone set on the hilt. Martin's swordblade had been forged at Salamandastron, the badgers' mountain fortress on the west seashore. It had been made from a star fragment that had fallen from the skies.

No matter what position Martha took up when she visited the tapestry, Martin's eyes always seemed to be watching her. The haremaid could feel his presence so strongly that she often spoke to him. Keeping her voice low in the echoing hall, she nodded toward the warrior mouse.

“The rains stopped today. You can see by the sunlight in here that it's a beautiful spring day outside. I've come to do a bit of reading in peace. You should hear those Dibbuns singing in the orchard—they're so happy! Did you ever do much reading, Martin?”

“Hee hee, I don't suppose he did, a warrior like him, eh?” Phredd emerged from the shadows, where he had installed himself behind a column to enjoy his lunch.

Martha was slightly surprised at the old hedgehog's appearance. “Oh I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you were here.”

Phredd picked pie crumbs from his cheek spikes. “No need to be sorry, pretty miss, you carry on talking to your friend. I've had many a long chat with him, eh!”

The haremaid continued looking at the tapestry. “He looks so understanding, like a friend anybeast could talk to. Do you think he can hear us?”

Phredd patted her shoulder lightly. “Of course he can. I'm sorry for intruding. You carry on, miss. I'll just pop off to my gatehouse for an afternoon nap. Good day to you.”

He shuffled off, though Martha heard him reprimanding a corner bench. “You mind your own business an' don't be eavesdropping now, eh, eh!”

 

Martha opened the book but was only able to concentrate on it for a short while before her eyelids began to flicker and then droop. The peacefulness of her surroundings, combined with the warm sunlight pouring down from the windows, had woven its own spell. There, in the silence of Great Hall, the
small figure in the chair slept in a pool of tranquillity. Floating through the corridors of her mind came two mice—one, a maid of her own age clad in a gown of green; the other, Martin the Warrior.

His voice was as reassuring as soft breezes through a meadow. “I never did read much, Martha. It is good to read, all learning is knowledge. Read on, young one. Learn of Sister Amyl and the mice of Loamhedge.”

The haremaid could hear her own voice replying, “Learn what? Who is Sister Amyl?”

The young mousemaid standing beside the warrior pointed to Martha and spoke, every word burning itself into Martha's mind.

 

“Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,

my secret lies hid from view,

a 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.”

 

Both Martin and Sister Amyl raised a paw in farewell. The dream faded like wisping smoke as Martha slept on.

 

Around midnoon Martha was awakened rudely, her chair jolted as three pair of paws latched on to it. Horty, Springald and Fenna ran her speedily across Great Hall, whirling perilously around the huge stone columns.

Martha gripped the chair tightly. “Whoo! Slow down, please. Where are we going?”

Horty jumped up beside her, shouting, “Out to enjoy the jolly old fresh air, my beautiful skin'n'blister, you'll go mouldy sittin' indoors, wot! I say, you chaps, can't you make this thing go faster? Yaaaah!”

The chair struck a table edge and upturned. Springald and Fenna leapt aside, but Martha and Horty were shot out. Luckily, Martha landed on top of her brother, clutching Sister
Portula's volume to her. The chair skidded on a short distance, then lay still, one of its wheels still turning slowly.

Horty looked up into his sister's face. “Dreadfully sorry about that, old gel, just a bit of fun, wot. I say, are you hurt?”

Martha glared down from where she was sitting on him. “Lucky for you I'm not. Is my chair damaged?”

Springald and Fenna set the chair upright and examined it.

“No, not a mark on it, Martha!”

“Haha, old Toran knew what he was doing when he built this thing. Stay there, we'll lift you back in!”

In frosty silence, Martha allowed them to lift her back into the chair. The trio fussed about, folding the rug neatly about her lap and laying the volume on it.

Fenna smiled sweetly. “There, no real harm done, Martha. We were only trying to cheer you up, didn't mean to throw you like that.”

Hastily Springald backed her up. “Yes, we were going to take you for a quick spin around the walltop. Lovely view from there on a day like this.”

Horty waggled his ears in agreement. “Right you are, m'dear. There's still time for a toddle round the battlements, though we'll go slower this time. Word of honour, wot!”

Martha shook her head firmly. “Oh no, you three wildbeasts aren't taking me anywhere. Now go away! Please, leave me alone, I'm quite happy here!”

Horty scuffed his footpaw guiltily along the floorstones. “I say, y'won't tell anybeast about what happened, will you?”

Martha tapped her chair arm pensively. “Any beast like who?”

Horty fidgeted with his belt tab. “Er, like Toran, or Abbot Carrul or blinkin' old Sis Peculiar.”

Martha reminded him of the Infirmary Keeper. “Or Sister Setiva?”

Fenna's eyes went wide. “Oh please, don't tell her!”

The other two miscreants joined in with their pleas.

“She'll make us scrub the infirmary out and stitch sheets!”

“Aye, an' physick the blinkin' life out of us. Oh come on, charmin', beautiful Sis, say y'won't snitch to that monster!”

They looked so sorry for themselves that Martha relented.
“Alright, I won't say anything—provided you go away immediately and leave me in peace.”

Without a word the trio began to scramble away and were almost at the door when Martha suddenly recalled her dream.

“Wait, come back here, there's something I need you to do!”

Horty dashed back so hastily that he almost tripped and fell onto his sister's lap. “Anything, dear old skin'n'blister, we're yours to flippin' well command!”

Martha issued her modest requests, but she spoke firmly. “Fenna, I want you to go and seek out Abbot Carrul. Horty, you go and find Sister Portula, and mind how you address her. The message for both of them is this: Ask politely that if neither is too busy, would they please come to the gatehouse. There is an important matter I would like to discuss with them. Springald, push my chair to the gatehouse—at a reasonable pace, please.”

 

Brother Phredd poked his head around the gatehouse doorway, blinking and yawning. “Ah yes, young wotsername, come in please, and your friend, too. Always nice to have afternoon visitors, eh!”

As Springald pushed Martha over the threshold, the haremaid heard the mousemaid muttering. “Huh, I'm not stopping in some dusty old gatehouse on an afternoon like this!”

Martha fixed her with an icy smile. “Oh, you don't have to stay, you run off to the kitchens now. Have a word with Gurvel or Toran—tell them I'd like afternoon tea for four.”

Springald looked puzzled. “Afternoon tea for four?”

Martha wheeled round to face her. “Yes, afternoon tea, you know, scones and slices of cake, and a large pot of mint tea with honey. Hop along now, bring them straight back here, and don't spill the tea. Off you go, miss!”

To ensure Martha's silence, Springald had no option but to obey. With a sweep of her skirt she flounced off.

Old Phredd addressed the chair he was about to sit on. “Afternoon tea, how does that sound to you, quite nice, eh?”

In due course, Abbot Carrul and Sister Portula arrived. Both knew that Martha was a sensible creature and would not
summon them on some foolish errand. Brother Phredd had just seated them both, when another knock came on the door. He scratched his drooping spikes and muttered. “More visitors, quite an eventful afternoon, eh?”

Springald pushed the laden trolley in. She curtsied impudently at the Abbot. “Afternoon tea for four, Father!”

Martha forestalled any further smartness by nodding graciously at the mousemaid. “Thank you, miss, you may go now!”

Sister Portula watched the back of Springald's head shaking with rage as she exited the gatehouse and slammed the door. “Gracious me, you certainly put that young mouse in her place!”

Martha smiled demurely. “Yes, Sister, but she does need it now and again, doesn't she?”

Abbot Carrul took the haremaid's paw. “What was it you wanted to see us about, Martha?”

Over afternoon tea, Martha explained to her friends how she had fallen asleep. She told them of Martin's visitation, and of the young mouse who had accompanied him, ending with the short poem, which she recalled precisely.

 

“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.”

 

Abbot Carrul sat forward in his armchair. “Strange. What do you think, Sister?”

Portula put aside her tea. “Not many Redwallers are honoured by a visit from Martin the Warrior. We must heed all he says. His spirit is not just the essence of valour and honour, he is also the voice of knowledge and wisdom. Now, what is your own opinion of this incident, Martha?”