Loamhedge (26 page)

Give this ripsnorter some rosehip water,

or cordial fine made from dandelion,

give me a barrel it's mine all mine,

just tip me the nod or give me a wink,

an' I'll drink an' drink an' drink . . .

an' dri . . . hi . . . hi . . . hiiiiiiiink!”

 

Saro covered her ears with both paws and roared, “Enough! I can't stand no more o' that caterwaulin', give that hare a drink. Give everybeast a drink!”

Fenna passed the canteen around, allowing each of the group one good mouthful. Horty was onto his second swig when the otter snatched the canteen from him and stoppered it. “Ye great guzzlin' gizzard, don't ye know when t'stop?”

Horty gave him a hurt look and belched. “Beg pardon, sah. Miserable blinkin' bangtail, I barely wet me lips, wot!”

Bragoon grabbed the young hare by his fluffy tailscut and tugged hard. “One more word and ye'll be wearin' this as a bobble twixt yore ears. Now belt up an' march!”

It was hard, hot and dusty out on the flatlands, but they
trekked doggedly onward. Even the breeze was like the heat from an open oven door. With neither shade nor shadow to shelter from the ruthless eye of the blazing sun, it soon became an effort to walk.

Bragoon licked his dry lips. Dropping his pack, he crouched down on his hunkers. “Phew! I tell ye, mates, I never knew a day could get so hot. We'll rest here awhile.”

The aged squirrel set about making things comfortable. She laced their cloaks together and made a lean-to. Weighting one end of the cloaks with their supply packs, she propped up the other end with two travelling staves. “That'll give us a bit o' shade. Get under it, an' we'll take another drink. Mebbe we'll have a nap 'til it gets cooler. Then we can travel in the evenin'.”

The otter dug a beaker out of his pack. “Good idea, mate. Fenna, pass me the canteen. I'll measure our drinks out, so nobeast gets any less.” Here he glanced at Horty. “Or more than the others!”

They were each allowed one half-beaker, which they sipped gratefully.

Horty quaffed his off in a single gulp. “Bit measly, wot! Where's the food?” He was the only one who felt like eating; the others stretched out and tried to rest.

Fenna watched the hare stuff down candied fruits. “That will make you even thirstier. The sweetness will start you wanting to drink more.”

Horty waggled his ears at her. “Oh pish tush an' fol de rol, miss, I like eatin', doncha know!”

Bragoon opened one eye, remarking ironically, “Ye like eatin', really? I'd never have known if'n ye hadn't told me so! Put that haversack back on the cloak ends, or the wind'll blow our shelter away.”

Springald dreamt she was back at Redwall, paddling in the Abbey pond. Cool, wet banksand slopped between her footpaws as she splashed happily about. Sister Portula and the Abbot came strolling across the dewy lawn. Although the mousemaid could hear what they were saying, their voices sounded different.

“All gone! Every flippin' thing is confounded well gone,
wot?” Springald wakened to see the reddish evening light through clouds of dust. Horty was stamping about outside the lean-to entrance, sobbing hoarsely. “Every blinkin' drop t'drink, an' every mouthful of scoff. Gone, gone, we've been robbed, flamin' well looted!”

Bragoon grabbed the hare and shook him. “Stop that bawlin', calm down an' tell us wot 'appened.”

Springald gathered round with Fenna and Sarobando to hear Horty's woeful tale.

“Couldn't sleep, y'know, too bally hot, wot. I was jolly thirsty, too, so I got up an' went outside t'get the canteen out of the haversacks. Some blighter's filched the lot. They've left rocks in their place. Go an' see f'y'self!”

It was true: five rocks sat holding down the rear of the lean-to, where the five packs of food and drink had been stowed.

Saro held up her paws. “Be still, there may be tracks, pawprints or dragmarks!”

She went down on all fours, eyes close to the dusty earth, nose twitching as she sniffed. A moment later, she stood up with a look of disgust on her face. “Nothing! Not a single trace. Must've been an experienced thief who did it.”

Bragoon commented wryly. “A beast would have t'be clever to survive in this wasteland. Well, that's it! No good weepin' o'er stolen supplies, we'll just have t'get on with it. While 'tis dark the weather's cooler, so we'll travel by night, at the double. Right, Saro?”

The old squirrel nodded and began issuing guidelines. “Aye, mate. March fast an' silent, no talkin'. We don't know wot's out there in the darkness. 'Tis strange territory, so stick together an' hold paws. There'll be no time for restin'.”

She wagged a stern paw at the young hare. “Listen good, Horty, this ain't a game anymore, see. If you start yammerin' on about food'n'drink, or causin' any upset, ye'll be riskin' our lives. Just march, do as yore told an' shut that great mouth o' yours, d'ye hear?”

Horty placed a paw over his own mouth and drew the other paw across his throat in a slitting motion.

Springald nodded. “I think he's gotten the idea. Quick march!”

Off they went into the day's last crimson-tinged twilight—without food, drink or any hope of rest. The five small figures were dwarfed by the immensity of a dust-blown, trackless desert. Hidden eyes watched their departure, and sinister shapes rose from the earth to follow the questors.

The storm broke over Redwall at about the same time that Raga Bol killed Jibsnout. Foremole Dwurl gazed gloomily out of the dormitory window at the windswept deluge outside. He blinked as lightning illuminated the room and thunder barraged overhead.

“B'aint no use a throwen pepper at vurmints in ee gurt rainystorm. Bo urr, nay, zurr!”

Martha wheeled her chair to the window and peered out. “Hmm, I wonder how the vermin are coping with this downpour.”

Abbot Carrul sighed. “Who knows? Martha, please keep an eye on them. Right, let's get on with this Council Meeting.”

 

Outside, fat raindrops beat a deafening tattoo on the walls of the Abbey, its lawns nearly underwater. Badredd and his gang had commandeered the gatehouse. They lay about, wrapped in sheets, blankets and window curtains, using the material to dab at their sorely inflamed nostrils. Sneezing had become pure agony, with the membranes of their nostrils and throats red-raw from the bombardment of hotroot pepper.

Plumnose was having the worst of it. Each time he sniffed, his pendulous nose wobbled and vibrated. Throwing off the bedspread he had been wearing, the suffering ferret made for the gatehouse door.

“Duh, I'b goin' oudd inna rain tuh lay dowd an' ledda rained water clear be node. Id mide wash idd out!”

Halfchop sneezed painfully as he volunteered to accompany him. “Kachuuub!”

 

The Abbey Council had decided on a desperate scheme. Twoscore of the most able-bodied Redwallers would storm the gatehouse and make an end of the vermin. They stood ready to go, each armed with some form of homemade weapon: kitchen knives tied to window poles formed spears, long-handled garden spades, forks and hoes, together with coopering mallets and stave hatchets from the cellars.

Toran, serving as commander of the group, leaned against the windowsill, going over the scheme for a second time. “Listen, friends, 'tis no use barricadin' 'em in the gatehouse. We've got to make an end to it, invade the place, break in an' slay every last one o' them. No half-measures if we want a peaceful life for us an' the little 'uns. I'll go through the door first, the rest o' you follow me. Show no quarter once yore inside! Sister Portula, Foremole Dwurl an' yore two moles there, Burney'n'Yooler, you stay outside an' get any who tries to break out an' run off. Any questions?”

Muggum saluted with a copper ladle he had brought from the kitchen. “No, zurr, oi'll do moi dooty, doan't you'm wurry!”

Martha lifted him onto her lap and took the ladle. “Your duty is to stay here with the rest of us and guard the Abbey door. This storm has set in for a good while yet. Once it goes dark, Toran and his friends will have the advantage of night cover and rain. The vermin won't be expecting them to attack. Meanwhile, we'll guard the door and make sure only Redwallers get back inside. It's a very important job, Muggum. Can you do it?”

The molebabe narrowed his eyes, glaring suspiciously at Toran's attack party. “Ho, oi can do et, Miz Marth', doan't ee fret. They'm b'aint a-getten back in yurr iffen they'm b'aint theyselves!”

Toran shook the molebabe's paw. “Well said, matey!”

Abbot Carrul stood up on one of the truckle beds and
delivered a homily to his beloved Abbey creatures. Everybeast fell silent, respectfully bowing their heads as he spoke out.

 

“Fortune and fates be with you all,

you who fight for the right,

some will stand, others fall,

never to return this night.

 

But fear ye not, my loving friends,

be strong of limb and heart,

knowing that peace depends on you,

let courage play its part.

 

Tranquillity and calm spread wide,

through this our dear homeland,

justice and truth go by your side,

which evil cannot withstand.”

 

Though Martha did not say it, she wished now more than ever that her two friends, Sarobando and Bragoon, had stayed.

 

Thunder exploded overhead; jagged forks of lightning tore through the fading light. Raga Bol and his Searats pounded on Redwall Abbey's main gate. Hearing the noise, Halfchop and Plumnose padded soggily to the gate.

Plumnose placed an ear against it, calling out, “Who'd dat?”

A sabre was at Flinky's neck as he answered. “Sure, 'tis only me'n me mate Crinktail. We're gettin' drowned out here. Open up an' let us in, Plummy!”

The two crewbeasts lifted the wooden bar, allowing the door to swing inward. Flinky and Crinktail were flung in, landing face down in the mud as the Searats poured through. Raga Bol seized the ferret's nose and twisted it, bringing Plumnose up on his pawtips, squealing in agony.

“Yeeee! Ledd go!”

The captain let go and kicked Plumnose flat in the mud. “So yore the big bad warrior wot put this place to siege, eh?”

He roared with laughter as the ferret held a paw tenderly around his bruised nose and pointed to the gatehouse. “Nodd me. Badredd's in dere, he did idd!”

The little fox was half asleep as the gatehouse door crashed off its hinges. He was dumbstruck at the sight that greeted him. Raga Bol strode forcefully in, squinting one eye as he glared ferociously around.

“Which one of ye is Badredd?”

The crew, terrified out of their wits by half a hundred Searats leering through the doorway at them, pointed quickly at the fox. Raga's polished pawhook latched into Badredd's belt, jerking the fox face-to-face with him. The barbaric captain's murderous eyes bored into the fox's numbed gaze. “So then, liddle laddo, yore the mighty Badredd?”

Speech deserted him, Badredd could only stammer. “Y . . . Y . . . Yu . . . Ya . . . y-y-y-”

Raga Bol shook him like a rag doll, covering the little fox with spittle as he roared into his face. “Don't stan' there makin' noises like an idjit! Are ye or aren't ye Badredd, ye runty buffoon?”

The fox nodded furiously, as he heard his own voice squeak out, “Yis!”

The sea captain turned to his crew, gold fangs asparkle as he grinned at them. “Well now, ain't that nice. Say 'ello to our new cap'n, buckoes!”

There was loud guffawing and shouts of ridicule from the Searats.

“Pleased t'meet yer, I'm shore!”

“Mercy me, 'e do look fierce, don't 'e?”

“I'd watch 'ow ye talk to ole Badredd. Looks like an 'ard master t'me, a cold 'earted killer!”

“Hawhawhaw! Aye, lookit 'is sword. Hawhawhawhaw!”

The Searat captain wrenched the broken cutlass from his victim's belt. He held it under Badredd's nose. “Does your mamma know ye've been playin' wid this? Dearie me, yew could cut yerself. Naughty fox!”

Raga Bol's crew laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. When the fox's own crew began smiling and chuckling, the big Searat turned on them savagely.

“Wot are you lot laughin' about, eh? Stupid clods, lettin' yoreselves be ordered about by a liddle oaf with a busted sword. Gerrout of 'ere, all of ye, clear out!”

The vermin scurried to obey, cringing and ducking as they
had to pass Raga Bol, who was partially blocking the doorway. Still dragging Badredd along by his belt, Raga strode out into the sheeting rain, issuing orders to his Searats.

“Glimbo, Ferron, Chakka, you stay in the liddle 'ouse wid me. Ringear, lock that big gate, nobeast gets in or out. Post a watch on it. The rest of ye, take shelter where ye can find it. Blowfly, take a rope's end an' keep an eye on this lot.”

He indicated the fox's crew with a nod. Finally, Raga turned his attention to the hapless Badredd. Thrusting the broken cutlass into the fox's shaking paws, he snarled, “Now then, me laddo, yew'd better be a good cook, or ye'll find yoreself bein' served up as vittles. D'ye hear me?”

Badredd nodded miserably as Raga Bol continued barking out orders. “Git yoreself down t'that pond an' take yore crew along. I wants fish fer me brekkist, a good fat 'un, an' no excuses. Just 'ow yer catches an' cooks it is yore bizness. But if'n it ain't on the table, done perfectly, when I wakes up . . . then ye'd best cut yore own throat wid that toy sword, 'cos ye won't wanna face Raga Bol. Now get to it sharpish!”

He flung Badredd face first into the mud. Then, turning on his paw, the big Searat strode inside the gatehouse.

The little fox raised his head, weeping and spitting out wet soil, thankful he was still alive. But for how long? The barbarous rat had set him a near impossible task. How was he going to catch a big fish and cook it in the midst of a thunderstorm, with rain pounding furiously down?

Thud!
A blow from a knotted rope's end made him arch his back. Blowfly landed another one, this time across Badredd's rump.

“Up on yore hunkers, foxy! Yew 'eard wot the cap'n said. Step lively now. Youse others, bring that blanket t'make a tent fer me. I ain't sittin' round in the rain watchin' ye makin' Cap'n Bol's brekkist. All down t'the pond now, at the double!”

He drove them forward with the rope's end.

 

A horrified silence had fallen over the Abbey dormitory. One word from Old Phredd cut the air like a knife. “Searats!”

Shilly followed this up with a question. “Wot bee's a Searat?”

Toran bent down to the small truckle bed and pulled up
the covers to the squirrelbabe's chin. All around the dormitory, Dibbuns were sleeping peacefully. The ottercook wrinkled his nose at Shilly.

“A Searat, me dear? Just some naughty ole beast. Nothin' for ye to get upset about, go t'sleep now.”

Abbot Carrul sat down on a hill of slingstones in the middle of the floor. “How many of them are in the grounds of our Abbey?”

Martha replied from her seat at the window. “Hard to count in the dark and rain, Father, but there's certainly more than twoscore of them, all rats, and armed to the fangs. Surely we can't overcome that many!”

An old mousewife called Mildun began sobbing in a panic. “We'll all be dragged out of our beds and murdered, I know we will, us and those poor little babes. Ooooooohhhhhhh!”

The haremaid immediately issued a harsh scolding. “Stop that right now!”

Shocked into silence, Mildun shrank from the sharp reproof, listening intently as Martha continued in a stern voice. “There's no call for that behaviour, marm, all you'll do is cause worry to everybeast. Don't let me hear an outburst like that from you ever again. Now if you've anything to say, then make it helpful. Don't be a beast of ill omen, and keep your voice down. We don't want the little ones taking fright. Do you hear me?”

Mildun sniffed and mumbled into her kerchief. “Sorry, Martha.”

Abbot Carrul turned grateful eyes to the haremaid. “Thank you, miss. Well, the whole situation has changed now—for the worse, I'm sad to say. An attack against such numbers of those savage rats is out of the question. So what do we do now? I'm open to helpful suggestions.”

Foremole Dwurl raised a powerful digging claw. “Tunnels owt, zurr, me'n moi moles can make ee gurt tunnel. Uz'll all be safe frumm ee vurmints then, oi reckerns!”

As hope sprang anew in the Redwallers, they began chattering and clamouring aloud.

Toran silenced them with a sudden bark. “A fine idea, sir, but let's not be too hasty. Yore plan calls for a bit o' discussion. Now one at a time—you first, Father Abbot.”

Carrul folded both paws into his wide sleeves. “Thank you, Toran. First, let me say this. Our Foremole's plan is a sensible one. The Dibbuns, and anybeast who chooses to go with them, will be safe from harm. As for myself, I must remain here where my duty lies. I could never desert my beautiful Abbey.”

The ottercook seconded him. “Nor I, Carrul. It ain't right leavin' Redwall wide open to Searats an' vermin. I stay!”

Martha struck the arm of her chair resolutely. “Redwall Abbey is my home, the only home I've ever known. I'm not moving from here!”

Every voice in the room was raised. “We stay! We stay!”

Foremole Dwurl wrinkled his nose apologetically. “Oi bee's sorry oi menshunned et naow.”

Abbot Carrul placed a paw about the faithful mole's shoulders. “You've no need to be sorry, friend, it was a good idea. The trouble is that nobeast wants to go now. So what do we do next?”

Muggum would not be denied his say. The molebabe waved the copper ladle, which had become his chosen weapon. “Us'n's foights, zurr, that bee's wot us do. Foight!”

Sister Setiva relieved Muggum of the ladle to stop him from giving anybeast a whack as he waved it about. “Och, ye wee terror, hush now an' pay heed tae yore elders!”

Toran picked up the molebabe and made an announcement to the assembly. “This liddle feller's right, we must fight. But it won't be no kill-or-be-killed sort o' last stand. Oh no, mates, we'll fight an' defend the Abbey, stave off any attacks. Even if that means we'll have t'fight all summer long, until the Skipper brings his ottercrew back 'ere from the Northshores. Then together we can deal with those savages outside.”