Loamhedge

14

Larks soared joyfully on the flatlands outside of Redwall, singing their hymns to the newborn day. Chiming a melodious bass line, the Abbey’s twin bells boomed out warmly. Indoors, all the young ones were already up and about, anticipating the arrival of Summer Feast.

Sister Setiva invariably rose to the tolling bells. Up and dressed, tidy and neat, she rapped on the sickbay door with her blackthorn stick, berating the sleepers within.

“Oot o’ those beds, ye great dozy lumpkins. If your no’ out here in a braces o’ shakes, ah’ll be in there an’ haul ye both oot by your tails!”

Bragoon poked a sleepy head from beneath his coverlet. “Hear that, mate? I think we’d best get up. Huh, I’d sooner face a regiment o’ vermin than that ole shrewnurse!”

Reaching out a paw, Saro grasped a bedside stool and rattled it noisily on the floor, calling out. “We’re both up, Sister, just makin’ the beds an’ tidyin’ round. We’ll be out there in a tick!”

Setiva’s shrill warning came back loud and clear. “Och, you’re a braw fibber. Ah’ll be doonstairs, keeping an eye out for ye. Laggardly sluggards!”

The pair sat up at the sound of her retreating stick taps. Saro yawned and thumped her head back on the pillows. “Just leave me here for the rest o’ the season, Brag. I’d forgotten how comfy a real bed feels. Mmmmmmmm!”

Leaping out of bed, the otter swished water from a ewer on his face and towelled it vigourously. “Fair enough, me ole bushtail, you stop there. I haven’t forgotten how good a Redwall brekkist tastes.”

Without bothering to wash, Saro pursued him downstairs. “I’m right with ye, ole ten bellies. You ain’t scoffin’ all the vittles afore I gets a crack at ’em!”

Martha had just finished making up a tray for herself and Old Phredd when she saw the pair rush in and begin loading up two trays from the long buffet tables set up in the kitchen passage. She giggled at the sight of them, helping themselves to some of everything, chuckling with delight at the food.

“Almond wafers with raspberry sauce, my favourite!”

“Oatmeal with apple’n’honey, just the stuff! Granmum Gurvel, me ole beauty, pass me some o’ that pastie. Wot’s in it?”

“Burr, ee mushenrooms an’ carrot, zurr, wi’ h’onion sauce.”

“Onion sauce! Gimme two portions, one for Starvation Saro!”

“Hah, lissen to ole bucket mouth! You get us two mint teas, Brag, an’ I’ll fill two beakers o’ Junty Cellarhog’s best damson cordial. Oh great, hot scones! Gimme, gimme!”

Leaving the buffet, they beamed at the haremaid over the tops of their laden trays. “Mornin’, Miss Martha, we’re just makin’ up for the lost brekkists, ain’t that right, Bragg?”

The otter winked roguishly. “Haharr, sleepin’ in a real bed gives a beast a powerful appetite.”

Martha looked up at their heaped trays. “I’m sure it does. Perhaps you’d like to take breakfast in the gatehouse with Phredd and me, away from all this bustle.”

Balancing the tray skilfully on his head, Bragoon began wheeling Martha’s chair. “An honour an’ a pleasure, miss. Besides, ’twill get us out of Sister Setiva’s way. Come on, afore she finds we ain’t made our beds or tidied the sickbay.”

Halfway across the lawn, Abbot Carrul caught up with them. “Oh dear, Martha, I’ve brought breakfast for Phredd, too.”

The haremaid indicated her two companions. “Don’t worry, Father, it won’t go to waste!”

The old hedgehog Gatekeeper welcomed them in. He reached for his nightshirt, then shook his head absentmindedly. “Hmm, must’ve gone to bed in my daytime habit. Look at me, putting my nightshirt on to start the day. What’s it all coming to, eh, eh?”

Phredd gestured at the volume lying on the table. “The account by Tim Churchmouse about the route to Loamhedge, when Matthias was searching for his son. If you two read it, you’ll learn of how to get there.”

Saro leafed briefly through the ancient pages. “Me’n Brag ain’t champion readers like you, sir. We’d rather see the map—that’ll tell us more.”

No sooner had Martha showed them the copy she had made of the map, than the squirrel and the otter glanced at one another and nodded.

Bragoon tapped his paw upon the map. “We’ve travelled this country afore. I can recall most of it—those high cliffs, the pine forest, river, desert an’ the great gorge. Dangerous country, eh Saro?”

The aging squirrel held the map this way and that as she studied it. “Aye, bad territory, though we came to it a different way. I remember those rocks, the ones shaped like a bell an’ a badger’s head, but I can’t bring that tall tree to mind.”

Bragoon tapped his rudder thoughtfully against the floor. “It prob’ly collapsed with age. This map was made seasons afore we were born. But ’tis the same area alright, riddled with vermin an’ all manner o’ perils. I was glad to get away from it!”

Martha looked disappointed. “Does that mean it’s too dangerous to make the journey?”

The otter laughed. “Haharr, wot ever gave ye that idea, me beauty? Danger’s wot me an’ Saro live on. We’d both end up dead afore our seasons was out livin’ at Redwall.”

The squirrel nodded mournfully. “All the good vittles an’ soft beds, that’d finish us off. Huh, if Sister Setiva didn’t.”

Abbot Carrul poured mint tea for Old Phredd. “Then when will you be going?”

Saro selected a hot scone and bit into it. “Straight after the Summer Feast, if’n we can still walk. Late noon prob’ly. We’ll travel southeast.”

After breakfasting they set off for the orchard to help with the festive preparations. Horty, with his two friends, Springald and Fenna, came out of the Abbey, carrying a trestle board. The young hare hailed Bragoon and Saro.

“Hello there, you chaps. Well, have you sorted out a jolly old way to Loamhedge for us, wot?”

Bragoon answered him rather abruptly. “Aye!”

Springald bounced up and down eagerly. “Oh good, when are we leaving?”

Fenna’s eyes shone happily. “A journey to Loamhedge. Great seasons, I’ve been looking forward to this!”

Horty looked from Bragoon to Saro excitedly. “Come on then, you bounders, who’s got my copy of the bally map? Remember, I’m the flippin’ pathfinder, y’know.”

Bragoon turned to face the trio, his voice stern. “This ain’t no daisy dance! Me’n my mate Saro’ll be makin’ the journey to Loamhedge . . . alone!”

Horty’s ears drooped. “But you said . . .”

Saro interrupted him. “We never said nothin’, young ’un. Yore the one whose been doin’ all the sayin’. Bragoon an’ me knows the country we got to go through. We can make it alone, but it’d be far too dangerous with three young ’uns in tow.”

Fenna was outraged. “You mean you aren’t taking us?”

Bragoon nodded. “That’s right, missy. ’Tis too much responsibility. We couldn’t show our faces back in this Abbey if’n ye were slain by vermin or killed in an accident. We’re goin’ alone, an’ that’s that!”

Springald tried to make an appeal to the Abbot. “What’s he talking about? We’ve as much right to go as they have! Martha’s our friend, too. Father, you’re the Abbot of Redwall. You make all the decisions here, tell them!”

Abbot Carrul beckoned the three young ones to him. Putting his paws about their shoulders, he spoke kindly. “Now, now, what Bragoon and Saro say makes sense. None of you has ever been further than the main gate. You’re far too inexperienced to make such a trip, trust me. Our two friends are thinking of your own good.”

Horty pulled away from the Abbot, his ears standing stiffly with indignation. “Tosh’n’piffle, sah! We’re young and strong. We can put up with anythin’ those two old fogies can! Bragoon and Saro are old chums of yours. That’s why you’re blinkin’ well siding with ’em. And anyhow, what flippin’ right have you to stop us goin’, wot?”

Springald and Fenna supported him volubly. “Horty’s right, it’s not fair. You let us think we were going all along, then changed your mind at the last moment!”

“Aye, it’s just because we’re young, and those two old wrecks want to grab all the glory for themselves. What do you think, Martha? Come on, tell them we’re right.”

Martha shook her head. “If the message from Sister Amyl, when she appeared in my dream with Martin the Warrior, had mentioned that you should go, I’d be the first to say yes. But only the two travellers, Bragoon and Saro, were included in the rhyme. So I’m afraid I must say no—not that my decision matters. Our Father Abbot has forbidden you to journey to Loamhedge, so you must abide by his word. Also, I trust Bragoon and Saro. They know of the dangers and are far more experienced at things like this than the three of you.”

Horty exploded. “It’s nothin’ but a confounded plot against us. Shame on all of you, shame I say!”

Abbot Carrul put his footpaw down sternly. “Enough of this talk! Arguing and casting insults is not the way in which any decent Redwaller should behave. Any more of this from you, Horty, or your two friends, and there’ll be three empty seats at the Summer Feast this afternoon!”

Horty glared back at the Abbot, his temper completely out of control. “Keep your rotten feast, blinkin’ bounders!”

The Abbot’s paw shot out. “Go to your rooms and stay there until you are ready to apologise, all three of you!”

The trio ran off, shouting, “Don’t worry, we wouldn’t be seen dead at your Feast!”

“Come on, leave those old greywhiskers to themselves!”

“You’ll be jolly well sorry, we’ll stay in the blinkin’ dormitory until we die of flippin’ starvation. So there!”

Abbot Carrul comforted Martha, who had become so upset that she had begun weeping. “There, there, Martha, don’t you waste tears on those three. Could you imagine Horty starving himself to death? ’Tis as unlikely as me trying to leap over the belltower. Give them a day and they’ll have changed their minds, trust me.” Carrul bowed slightly to Bragoon and Saro. “Please forgive the bad manners of those three young ones.”

Saro smiled wryly. “No need to apologise to us, friend. I can recall two, younger’n’Horty an’ his pals, two more bad-mannered liddle scuts ye never did see!”

Martha blinked through her tears. “Were you really that bad?”

Bragoon shuffled his rudder awkwardly. “Oh, much worse, missy. Take me word fer it!”

Abbot Carrul chuckled heartily. “Aye, now that you’ve come to mention it, ’tis a wonder you turned out so well!”

Bragoon clapped him on the back. “An’ ye, too, Carrul. Ye wasn’t exactly a model Dibbun as I remember!”

Whipping out a clean kerchief, the Abbot busily wiped away at Martha’s eyes. “Yes, well, that was a long time ago. Now then, missy, are you going to keep weeping and bring on the rain, or are you going to smile for our Summer Feast?”

She smiled happily. “Are you still going to carry on with the feast, Father, I mean after what just took place?”

Abbot Carrul reassured her. “Of course I am, no need to halt it because of three surly young ’uns. If they want to join in, all they have to do is apologise for their bad manners. Come on, friends, I wouldn’t miss my Summer Feast for anything!”

Set in the orchard against a background of ripening fruit and summer flowers, complete with sumptuously decked tables, the feast turned out to be a huge success. Freshly washed and dressed, the Redwallers took their places, waiting on the Abbot to start the proceedings. Martha sat between Bragoon and Saro. The three of them stared in awe at the magnificent spread. Salads, pasties and savouries were still being brought on trolleys by the servers. These were placed among the pies, tarts and flans. Jugs of various cordials and fizzes stood between trifles, crumbles, puddings and candied fruits. Loaves of many shapes and types, still fresh from the ovens, were set amid cheeses of different hues—from pale cream to golden yellow.

Everybeast, even the Dibbuns, ceased their chatter as Abbot Carrul stood up and recited a verse, specially written for the event.

“We celebrate this happy day,

with fair and right good reason,

in friendship, let us share the fruits,

of this fine summer season.

We seed and plant the fertile earth,

to use what she may give,

and thank the kindly summer sun,

which gives us joy to live.”

Granmum Gurvel, resplendent in a new floral-embroidered apron, called out. “You’m never spoked truer wurds, zurr!”

With that, the Summer Feast began in earnest. Junty Cellarhog tapped a barrel of strawberry fizz, which he had made the previous summer. Dibbuns squealed with delight as the bubbles tickled their mouths. Carving a wedge from a soft hazelnut cheese, Bragoon added it to his salad. Toran noticed him brushing away a teardrop.

“Wot’s the matter with ye, brother?”

The otter looked mournfully at the festive board. “Nothin’ really, I was just thinkin’ of all the Redwall feasts I’ve missed since me’n Saro left the Abbey.”

Toran scoffed. “Don’t fret, it looks like yore makin’ up for it with a will!”

Saro adopted a wheedling tone toward the ottercook. “Anybeast who can cook vittles like these should be famous. Toran, ole pal, why don’t ye come adventurin’ with me’n yore brother? You could cook for us an’ everybeast we meet.”

Toran lowered his eyes modestly. “No thankee, marm. I’m a mite too round in the waist for travellin’.”

Sister Portula put aside her plate in mock indignation. “Take our ottercook, indeed! Mayhaps you’d like to take Junty Cellarhog, too, in case you feel the need of a drink?”

Bragoon chortled. “Haharr, a capital idea, Sister!”

Abbot Carrul’s eyes twinkled as he joined the conversation. “I’m with you, Bragoon, a marvellous scheme! Take Toran and Junty, they’d make life much easier for you and Saro. However, I must insist that you take Sister Setiva along. If ever you are wounded, or fall ill, you’ll surely need a dedicated creature to care for you both. Agreed?”

Bragoon suddenly became interested in a bowl of plum pudding and meadowcream. He mumbled hastily, “Me’n’ Saro will make the journey alone, thankee Carrul.”

Good-humoured banter and cheerful gossiping carried on into the warm summer noontide, a perfect accompaniment to the delicious feast. Having eaten their fill, the Dibbuns ran off to play within the Abbey grounds.

After awhile, Saro glanced at the sun’s position and announced, “We’ll have t’get goin’ soon. Best be on the road afore we lose the daylight.”

Her otter friend patted his stomach. “Aye, though I reckon we won’t need much feedin’ for a day or two. That was the nicest food an’ the best company I can ever recall. Thankee, friends, for everythin’.”

The Abbot smiled. “It was our pleasure. I knew you’d be going today, so I’ve had two packs of provisions made up by Granmum Gurvel. They should last you quite a time. Inside them you’ll find all you need—the map, the poem telling of the location of Sister Amyl’s secret and extra garments to wear. Now, is there anything else you two would like to take, anything?”

Bragoon replied without hesitation. “I’d like to take with me the memory of a sweet song. Martha, would ye sing us a song to send us on our way?”

Saro added. “Aye, go on, missy, put the birds t’shame!”

The haremaid’s clear voice rang out into the still noon air. She sang for her two friends as she had never sung before. They sat entranced by Martha’s beautiful voice.

“I planted her gently last summer,

all in quiet evening shade,

within an orchard bower,

her little bed I made.

Alone I sat by my window,

as autumn leaves did fall,

they formed a russet cover for

My Rose of Old Redwall.

Through winter’s dreary days she slept

beneath the cold dark ground,

when all the earth was silent,

white snows lay deep around.

Bright stars came out above her,

as to the moon I’d call,

take pity on my dearest one,

My Rose of Old Redwall.

How the grass grew green and misty,

soft fell the rain that spring,

her dainty budded head arose,

and made my poor heart sing.

Then summer brought her just one bloom,

so white, so sweet and tall,

with ne’er a thorn to sully her,

My Rose of Old Redwall.”

Both the hardy old adventurers were sobbing like babes. Saro scrubbed roughly at her eyes. “Come on, mate, time to go. We’ll push ye as far as the gate, missy, so ye can wave us good-bye.”

They were met at the gatehouse by Foremole Dwurl and Granmum Gurvel, each carrying a pack of provisions. Old Phredd emerged from the gatehouse with a long, slender bundle, which he presented to Bragoon.

The otter stared at the strange object. “Thankee kindly, Phredd. What is it?”

Abbot Carrul answered. “It is the sword of Martin the Warrior. I want you to take it on your quest for Loamhedge. Should you need a weapon to defend yourselves, you could not have a finer one. I trust you both with the sword, and I know when the journey is done, you will bring it back safe to Redwall. May the spirit of Martin go with you, my friends, and the good wishes of all in this Abbey!”

Bragoon bound the still-wrapped sword across his shoulders. “Ye do us great honour. How could we fail with Martin’s sword to keep us company? Go back to yore Summer Feast now, an’ don’t fret. Me an’ Saro’ll bring back Sister Amyl’s secret—that is, providin’ it makes ye walk, Martha.”

The young haremaid’s eyes shone with resolution. “Walk? I’ll do better than that! One day I’ll dance for both of you. I’ll dance on top of that wall, right over the threshold, for my heroes Bragoon and Sarobando. I swear it upon my solemn oath in front of you both!”

Bragoon laughed. “Haharr, that’s the stuff, me darlin’!”

Saro swung her pack up on one shoulder. “So ye will, beauty, so ye will. Good-bye!”

They had only taken a dozen paces down the path to the south when Toran came running up and threw himself upon Bragoon. “Take care of yoreself, brother, an’ look out for Saro, too!”

Bragoon gasped for breath as he tried to pull free of Toran’s embrace. “We’ve taken care o’ each other since we was Dibbuns. If’n ye don’t let go of me, I’ll get me ribs crushed afore the journey’s started!”

Toran released his brother and stood weeping on the path. Bragoon looked away as Saro kissed the ottercook fondly.

“Go on now, ye great lump, back to yore feast. We’ll be just fine. But keep this in mind, Toran Widegirth, when we come back to Redwall ye’ve got to make us a feast, as good as the one we had today. Promise?”

Toran ran back to the Abbey, shouting, “That ’un today’ll look like afternoon tea to the feast I’ll make ye when ye return, I promise!”

They watched him go inside, then walked to the south wall gable and struck off southeast into Mossflower.