Loamhedge

38

Having camped by the rocks and spent the night there, the travellers got their first clear view of them at sunrise next morn. Fenna found Horty, who had already risen, blowing on the embers of the previous night’s fire and adding twigs to rekindle the flames. In high spirits, the young hare waved his ears at her.

“Mornin’, fair Fenn’. Lots of twigs blown up against the rocks by the blinkin’ wind, wot. Jolly useful to a first-class rivercook. What ho, you lazy lot, rise’n’shine, eh! So, here we are at the old Badger an’ Bell. Thoughtful cove, whoever named ’em—they look just like an enormous bloomin’ bell an’ a blinkin’ huge badger’s bonce!”

Springald blinked sleep from her eyes and gave Horty a sidelong glance. “Really, have you just noticed that?”

Saro got between them. “Don’t start again, you two. Horty, ole scout, ole lad, ole boy, wot’s for breakfast?”

The garrulous hare giggled. “Heeheehee, would you believe fried fruit salad, marm?”

Springald came wide awake then. “Horty, you’re joking?”

Bragoon had sidled up. With the tip of his sword he speared a slice of plum from the flat rock that served as a frying pan. The otter chewed it pensively. “Our cook ain’t jokin’, marm. Hmm, it don’t taste too bad!”

As Saro tried a morsel, winks were exchanged all round, behind Horty’s back. The aging squirrel merely nodded. “I suppose y’can’t be too picky out in this country. I’ve ate worse an’ survived.”

Fenna prodded at the food with a twig. “Do we have to eat it?”

Closing her eyes, Springald gulped a piece down. “It’s either that or starve. Fried fruit salad? Only a hare could think up a breakfast like that!” Horty’s ears rose like flagstaffs and his cheeks bulged out. The outraged hare was about to give them a piece of his mind, when something out on the wasteland distracted his attention.

“Cads! Bounders! You rotten, ungrateful . . . I say, chaps, is that somebeast crouchin’ down out there?”

Bragoon leaped up, wiping his swordblade. “Come on, let’s find out!”

They spread out and made for the distant shape. Slowly and cautiously they approached the object. Then Fenna, who had the best eyesight, ran forward, calling to them. “That’s no crouching beast, it’s nothing but a big battered old tree stump!”

The fragmented piece of conifer stood almost as tall as Bragoon’s shoulder. He tapped it with his sword.

“Y’know wot this is? All that’s left o’ that big tree on the map—Lord o’ Mossflower. We crossed over the great gorge by walkin’ across its trunk!”

Saro circled the broad base. “A shame, really. ’Twas a mighty tree in its seasons. Right, mate, ’tis time we took a look at the stuff you brought from the Abbey.”

Bragoon drew out the tattered scraps of parchment he had carried since the day they left Redwall. “Let’s take a look then. Loamhedge can’t be too far now. Maybe we’ll find some clues that’ll help.”

Horty was never a beast who took kindly to studying. He watched them unfolding a scrap of parchment. “Borin’ old stuff, I’ll go back an’ break camp, wot!”

Bragoon passed the piece of paper to Springald. “Yore a bright young ’un, read this out to us. I don’t see too good for readin’ lately. Think I might need those eyeglasses like Carrul an’ Old Phredd wears when they reads things.”

Springald studied the neat script. “Martha copied this out. It says here that it’s Sister Amyl’s rhyme. Listen.

“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.”

Bragoon winked at Saro. “That was us, we’re the travellers from out the past. I wonder how young Martha is.”

Saro folded the parchment up, returning it to the otter. “I wish she could’ve been fit t’make this trip with us. Now there was a young maid who had an ’ead on her shoulders. Huh, no clues there, though. Wot does that other bit say?”

Beside the map sketch, Bragoon had only one other piece of parchment. He offered it to Saro. “You read it, mate.”

After unfolding it, the aging squirrel gave it to Fenna, without a second glance. “My readin’ is terrible, I never payed attention at Abbeyschool. Just like you, Brag, but I ain’t makin’ excuses about needin’ eyeglasses. You read it, Fenna. I bet you was a good learner.”

The squirrelmaid straightened the creased document. “Martha tells us here that this is something which was copied by somebeast named Recorder Scrittum. The words are Sister Amyl’s, but Scrittum recorded them for her.

“Beneath the flower that never grows,

Sylvaticus lies in repose.

My secret is entombed with her,

look and think what you see there.

A prison with four legs which moved,

yet it could walk nowhere,

whose arms lacked paws, but yet they held,

a wretched captive there.”

Springald shrugged. “Well, there are clues in that rhyme. But look around, what do you see? A broken tree stump, two big rocks shaped like a badger’s head and a bell! Besides that, all we have is a map, made so far back that nobeast can remember. Is this all the information you brought with you from the Abbey? Bit thin, isn’t it?”

Bragoon drew patterns in the dust with his paw. Then he and Saro cast rueful looks at each other.

Fenna spoke to them. “Wasn’t there something else, a big volume about how a party of Redwallers found Loamhedge in bygone seasons?”

The otter explained limply. “Aye, missy, there was, but we never took the time or the trouble to try readin’ it. We ain’t no scholars, that much is plain, ain’t it, mate?”

Saro nodded dolefully. “Right, we thought that, ’cos we’d been atop o’ the high cliffs an’ onto the plateau one time, we knew this country. Our mistake, I s’pose. We should’ve let one of you young ’uns read the book out to us. You ain’t like us. Livin’ in the Abbey all yore lives, you managed t’get some learnin’. Me’n ole Brag, we ran away when we was young, didn’t get much schoolin’.”

Fenna wanted to take them to task for going off on such a quest without proper information, but they looked so crestfallen. She also felt it would be unfair to berate two creatures of such skill and craft, all of which they had gained in the hard school of travel and experience. Scholars they might not be, but adventurers they certainly were.

A shout interrupted her thoughts. “What ho there, you curmudgeons! Handsome young hare approachin’ with visitors! Put aside your weapons. They’re friendly, an’ they enjoyed my blinkin’ breakfast, too!”

Bragoon thumped his rudder down in astonishment. “Horty, what’n the name o’ silly seasons . . . ?”

The young hare marched up to the stump with his two new friends—a large fat dormouse, pulling a cartload of twigs and wasteland debris; and, at his side, a tiny sand lizard held by a braided lead.

Horty grinned from ear to ear. “Meet my new pal Toobledum, survivor an’ hermit of the wastelands, wot! Oh, an’ this other ferocious creature is Bubbub, his faithful sandsniffer. I say, these coves really appreciate my cookin’, they scoffed the bloomin’ lot!”

Springald cried indignantly, “Well thanks for nothing. I scarcely took a bite of that food!”

Horty pawed his nose at her. “Serves you jolly well right, after the way you lot carried on about my fine cookin’!”

Toobledum, a cheery dormouse, wore an outrageously floppy woven grass hat, which he tipped to them. “Pleased t’meetcher, one an’ all, friends o’ the cook, are ye! Well, Horty’s led ye this far pretty good, I’d say.”

Saro glared at the young hare, paws on hips. “Led us this far, eh? I wager you’ve been tellin’ Mister Toobledum a right ole pack o’ fibs!”

Horty waffled for a moment, then changed the subject completely. “I say, chaps, here’s a wheeze. Guess where Toobledum lives? Go on, tell ’em, Toob!”

The dormouse sat down and lightly scratched Bubbub’s emerald-green sides. The little sand lizard arched its back with pleasure. Toobledum looked up at them from beneath the wide brim of his hat.

“Lives? Me’n likkle Bubbub lives at Loam’edge, that’s where we lives. Sand lizards ain’t like most reptiles, y’know. Get ’em young enough an’ they’re good likkle tykes.”

Bragoon stared open-mouthed at the dormouse. “Y’mean to tell us you actually lives at Loamhedge?”

The floppy hat wobbled wildly as Toobeldum nodded. “All me life. Youngest o’ sixteen I was, left ’ome an’ came out here t’fend fer meself. Loam’edge h’aint no Redwall, like the big place Horty told me that ’e rules. But ’tis ’ome, an’ we like it, don’t we likkle Bubbub?” The tiny sand lizard nodded and romped over to Fenna to be stroked and tickled.

Springald treated the dormouse to one of her prettiest smiles. “Could you show us the way to Loamhedge, sir?”

He flushed under his hat brim. “Ain’t no sir, missy, only an ole Toobledum, but I’ll show ye the way willin’ly!”

Fenna left off petting Bubbub, who nudged at her for more. “You will show us the way. Now?”

Dusting himself off, the dormouse rose with a grunt. “Now’s as good a time as any, me pretty one. Long as ye let my pal Horty cook me another good mess o’ vittles.”

Bragoon clapped the young hare’s back so heartily that he almost knocked him flat. “Well o’ course, the champion quest leader an’ expert cook an’ ruler o’ Redwall would be only too glad to cook for ye, matey!”

Toobledum passed the towing rope of his cart to Saro. “I’d be obliged if’n ye pull the ole cart fer me, marm. Me paws gets weary from luggin’ it far’n’wide. Come on, likkle Bubbub, let’s go ’ome.”

He trundled off into the wasteland, chattering animatedly. “Nice to find somebeast t’jaw with, it gits lonely out ’ere. Likkle Bubbub don’t speak, y’see. I collects useful stuff, goes far’n’wide t’find it. Firewood, nice stones, bits o’ this’n’that. Don’t never waste nothin’ out ’ere, I always sez. If’n ye got gear to cast off, then throw it me way!”

They journeyed on, mainly south by Bragoon’s reckoning, with Toobledum talking ceaselessly, and Bubbub frisking along on his lead, moving from one to another in his efforts to find more stroking.

A camp was made out on the wastelands that evening. The dormouse donated some wood from his cart to make a fire. He was all agog in anticipation of his next meal.

“Well, Cooky, wot’s fer supper? Me’n likkle Bubbub’s feelin’ peckish. Somethin’ nice, I ’ope!”

Springald grinned pointedly at Horty. “Oh, don’t worry, Cooky will turn out something delicious, I’m sure.”

The young hare was beginning to tire of his role as cook. He rummaged through the dwindling supply in the ration packs. “Hmm, I expect I’ll create some superb dish, but we’re runnin’ a bit low on the old tucker, wot. Oh, fiddlesticks! Why’s it left t’me to do all the blinkin’ cookin’ an’ slavin’ round here, while you flamin’ lot sit on your tails an’ loll around? Huh, bit bloomin’ thick, I’d say!”

Fenna joined in the teasing. “Cheer up, Mighty Ruler of Redwall, I expect you have an army of skivvies to serve you back at the Abbey. Excuse me, you’re not frying another fruit salad, are you?”

Borrowing an iron pot that had been clanking along on a hook beneath Toobledum’s cart, Horty answered airily. “As a matter o’ fact, marm, I’m inventin’ some scone soup, with a few wild onions, some sage, carrots, a leek or two an’ some crumbled oatscones. Followed by fresh strawberry surprise, with dandelion tea to drink.”

It was a surprisingly tasty meal. They downed it with relish. Fenna had one comment to make about the dessert. “What’s in this strawberry surprise, Cooky?”

Horty grimaced. “Wish you’d stop callin’ me Cooky. Oh, the strawberry surprise? I made it with some dried apple, preserved plums an’ a piece o’ fruitcake I found at the bottom of a ration pack. There ain’t a flamin’ strawberry in the whole thing—that’s the surprise. Good, eh?”

Toobledum and Bubbub licked their bowls. The dormouse belched. “Parn me one an’ all. We liked it. Any second ’elphins?”

Toobledum listened to the rhyme which had been dictated to Recorder Scrittum by Sister Amyl. Fenna read it out to him, but the dormouse was at a loss to cast any light on it. “Flowers wot never grows, an’ four-legged prisons wid no arms? Means nought to us, does it, likkle Bubbub?”

The tiny lizard shook its head and nestled under Saro’s paw. The dormouse bedded down by the fire, letting the hat brim cover his face. “I ain’t clever like you beasts, I’m just an old Toobledum. No matter, ye can search for yore own clues around Loam’edge in the mornin’. We’ll git there afore midday. I’ll bid ye ’appy dreams one an’ all, g’night!”

Bragoon settled down with the sword close to paw. “I’ll stay awake for first watch, mates.”

Toobledum’s voice came from under the hat. “You git some sleep, I’ve taken Bubbub off ’is lead. That likkle feller’s better’n any sentry, ’e’ll stand guard all night for ye.”

Horty grinned with relief at Fenna. “Saves us a job, wot!”

The squirrelmaid curled up in her cloak beneath the cart. “Indeed it does. Goodnight, Cooky.”

The young hare’s ears shot up stiffly. “Cooky yourself, miss! Go an’ boil your blinkin’ heads, the bloomin’ lot of you!” He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the replies.

“Nighty-night, Cooky!”

“Not staying up to plan breakfast then, Cooky?”

“I expect he has a special menu writer to do it for him back home at Redwall, don’t you, Cooky?”

“A leader with stout paws, a wise ruler of an Abbey an’ a cooky with a heart o’ gold. Ain’t we the lucky ones!”

Next day dawned on the wasteland, a warm flood of glorious colours, muted by dusty haze. The travellers ate a cold breakfast, eager to be on their way. Toobledum lingered, gossiping and trying to spin the meal out. It was only after gentle prodding that Bragoon urged the dormouse to get under way. Saro took Bubbub’s lead, and Springald volunteered to pull the cart. They took up the rear, while Toobledum walked in front with Horty and Fenna. Ambling slowly along, the dormouse chatted with them.

They had been marching awhile, when Bragoon began having suspicions about the route. He called to Toobledum, who was still talking at length with Horty and Fenna, “Now then, matey, when d’ye reckon we’ll be at Loamhedge?”

Without turning around, the dormouse shouted his answer. “Oh, it won’t be ’til after lunch, I’m thinking. But don’t ye fret, we’re makin’ fair progress, one an’ all.”

Nodding knowingly, the otter whispered to Saro. “Aye, I thought so, this ole buffer’s got us on a vinegar trip.”

She glanced quizzically at the otter. “Wot are ye talkin’ about, mate?”

Keeping his voice low, Bragoon explained. “See those hills off to the right? We’ve been followin’ them east instead o’ south. Can ye see ’ow slow Toobledum’s walkin’, did ye notice how he lingered over brekkist?”

Saro was becoming impatient. “Spit it out, mate. Wot’s goin’ on?”

The otter conveyed his thoughts to her. “Well, we ain’t exactly goin’ the wrong way, the dormouse’ll get us there, sooner or later. But he’s stringin’ the trip out so we’ll feed ’im agin at lunchtime. Trouble is, the old feller loves vittles too much, an’ he mightn’t have much food at ’ome. So he wants to scoff our rations an’ have Horty doin’ all the cookin’ for ’im!”

Saro looked down at Bubbub. “Is that right?”

The little sand lizard grinned and nodded as the squirrel patted him. “Well, the crafty ole grubswiper!”

Bragoon winked at her. “I’ll fix that fat swindler, mate!”

He called aloud to Toobledum. “We ain’t stopping fer lunch. Best press on to Loamhedge. When we arrives we’ll have a big lunch an’ a good rest.”

The dormouse immediately altered course and speeded up, heading for the hills as he answered. “Aye, good idea. Foller me, I’ve just remembered a good shortcut. We’ll be there afore ye know it!”

Saro whispered to Bragoon. “Lookit liddle Bubbub there, I’ll swear he just sniggered.”