Loamhedge

21

Martha did not sleep a wink on the night that the vermin were sighted. It was as if some unreasoning panic was welling up in her. Vermin, at the very gates of her beloved Abbey! Restlessly she roamed Great Hall, propelling the little cart which held her chair, by pulling it along with the crutch that Toran had made for her.

Moonlight sent pale shafts of light in varied hues as it shone through the stained-glass windows onto the worn stone floor. Travelling through the patches of dark and light, the young haremaid arrived at the tapestry of Martin the Warrior. She gazed up at the figure of the heroic mouse. It was illuminated by a small lantern on either side.

Martha voiced her fears and worries to her friend. “Oh Martin, what shall we do? Sarobando and Bragoon have left the Abbey, and all on my silly little behalf. Abbot Carrul gave Bragoon your great sword to take with him. I’d stay in my chair forever, if only they were back here at Redwall. The safety of this Abbey and all my friends here is far more important than foolish dreams of being able to walk. With my brother and the other young ones gone, who will help us against the vermin? The very thought of those cruel, murderous vermin getting inside our gates is horrible!”

“Here now, young Martha, what’s all this?”

She gave a start as the Abbot loomed up out of the shadows. “Father Abbot, I thought you’d gone to your bed.”

Carrul sat down on the edge of the cart and looked over the top of his glasses at her. “And I thought you had, too, miss.”

The sound of the main abbey door opening caused them both to pause. The Abbot’s loud whisper echoed around the hall columns.

“Who’s there?”

Toran’s voice replied. “ ’Tis only me an’ Foremole Dwurl, Father. We just been relieved o’ wallguard by Junty Cellarhog an’ Weld.” The pair joined Martha and Abbot Carrul.

Dwurl tugged his snout politely. “Wot bee’s you’m a-doin’ settin’ daown yurr? Shudd be snorin’ abed, ’tis orful late.”

The Abbot put on his wise face. “Oh, we were just discussing a few things, weren’t we, Martha?”

The haremaid managed an important little cough. “Ahem, yes, just small bits of business. What’s it like out there, Toran? Any more news of the, er, vermin?”

The ottercook sat back on his rudder. “No, miss, they ain’t up to much. Their fires are burnt low, I think they’re sleepin’. We’ve been watchin’ the ditch outside the front gate, t’other side o’ the path, makin’ sure they don’t try t’sneak along it.”

Martha asked the question she had been anxious to have answered. “Aren’t you afraid?”

Toran rubbed his wide midriff thoughtfully. “Bless yore ’eart, pretty one, o’ course we are. Only a fool’d say he wasn’t. We’re afraid as any sensible beast should be, but we ain’t scared. Wot I mean is, we’re only afraid for the safety of others—Dibbuns, an’ young ’uns like yoreself. But if’n we got to do somethin’ about it, we ain’t scared o’ vermin.”

Foremole licked his lips. “Oi’m a-feared.”

Toran raised his eyebrows at this remark. “You, afeared?”

A huge grin creased the mole leader’s homely face. “Aye, zurr, afeared oi’ll fall asleep an’ miss ee brekkist. Oi’m a-thinken oi’ll go to ee kitchens an’ get a h’early wun!”

Martha laughed at the mole’s comical logic. “What a great idea, sir, I think we’ll join you!”

The kitchen was crowded with Redwallers of a like mind, even Dibbuns. Nobeast could sleep with the excitement of the night. Granmum Gurvel and three young moles were busy filling baked apples with honey and chopped hazelnuts.

Gurvel curtsied to the Abbot as she bustled by. “Coom in an’ sit ee daown, zurr, an’ you’m h’others, too. Et bee’s a gudd job moi ole bones can’t be a sleepen, so oi’m a keepen moiself bizzied.”

They found seats around the kitchen table and began pouring a sauce of meadowcream and rosehip over their baked apples. Everybeast was watching the Abbot as he paused before eating to address them.

“What we need are some good contingency plans, my friends. Seeing as most of us are here, I’ll take any suggestions.”

Muggum was sitting up on a shelf, among the spice jars, with his cohort of Dibbuns. The molebabe raised his spoon. “Oi says chop ee vermints tails offen wi’ a gurt rusty knoife, an’ barth ’em in ’ot soapy watter. Hurr, they’m soon bee’s glad to run away arter that. Ho urr aye!”

This met with hearty applause and much sneezing from the Dibbuns, two of whom had opened a hotroot pepper jar. Amused by this, Abbot Carrul tried to keep a straight face as he spoke to Sister Portula, who was recording the meeting. “Not a bad idea! Write it down, Sister, and don’t forget the bit about hot soapy water. We’ll keep it in mind.”

Sister Setiva, after wiping several noses and glaring the Dibbuns into silence, held up a paw. “As soon as ah’ve finished eating, ah hope some o’ ye will join me tae search around for more things tae use as weapons.”

Martha was among those who volunteered. But Toran had other plans for her. “You’d never be able to search the attics upstairs, me beauty. I think ye should be in charge of the Dibbuns’ safety. Seasons forbid that anythin’ should happen to the liddle ’uns with vermin camped next to our gates. Will ye do it, Martha?”

Immediately the haremaid agreed. “I’d be glad to. Right, come on you villains, off that shelf and up to bed. Last one up washes all the pots and dishes, eh, Granmum Gurvel?”

Gurvel picked up her big ladle. “You’m said the vurry thing oi wuz abowt t’say, Miz Marth!”

An almighty scramble followed as Dibbuns climbed down from the shelves and fled upstairs squealing.

Abbot Carrul waited until the noise subsided. “Next suggestion please!”

Badredd lay awake down in the ditch, trying to ignore the stentorian snores of those around him. He longed for the dawn, when he could take possession of his magic sword. What did it look like? He imagined it as a solid gold blade with a crosshilt and grip crusted with rubies, pearls and emeralds. Of course, he would not mind too much if it were made from silver with jetstones and sapphires for adornment.

Mentally he went through a speech he had prepared for the woodland bumpkins who lived behind the wall. Badredd silently practised it, making sweeping paw movements to emphasise its drama. “Throw wide your gates! Tremble at my name, for I am Badredd, commander of a vermin horde.”

He paused here, wondering if his scruffy little band could constitute a horde. No matter, those woodland oafs had probably never seen a horde, much less taken a head count of one. He continued his oratory. “You are looking at death, all of ye! Unless you deliver unto Badredd the magic sword that is rightfully his.”

He questioned the last phrase—it needed something, a word or two to prove that the sword’s ownership was never in doubt. Hah, that was it! He embellished his flowery recitation thus: “For did not my father, Reddblade, Warlord of the Northern Mountains, proclaim it so? ‘Give unto my son Badredd his sword. It lies within Wallred, I mean, Redwall. To the mighty warrior goes the magic sword!’ ” He flung out his paw and caught Halfchop a smack on the chin.

The rat awoke, holding his chin in his good paw. “Mmmph, wot did ye do that for, Chief?”

But Badredd was too fired up to waste time with arguments. “Get further along that ditch an’ see if’n ye can make it so that yore level with the big gate!”

Halfchop peered at him in the predawn darkness. “Wot for?”

Badredd shoved him forward. “If’n ye make it safely, give me a signal. I’ll follow up with the rest o’ the crew. That way we’ll be in place when it gets light. They’ll get the shock o’ their lives when they see me climb out o’ the ditch an’ demand the magic sword. Go on, don’t hang about!”

Blundering forward, Halfchop stepped on a thistle and banged into the ditch’s sidewall. “ ’Tis no good, I can’t see a thing. Why don’t ye wait ’til dawn?”

Badredd drew his cutlass. “Because I want it done now. There’ll be one less in the crew if’n ye stand there rubbin’ yore chin an’ makin’ excuses. Now get goin’!”

Halfchop picked up a red-ended branch from the embers of a fire. He went off, blowing it back to burning light and muttering, “Alright, then, but I ain’t goin’ without a light!”

Up on the northwest rampart corner, Brother Weld nudged Junty Cellarhog. “Is that somebeast coming along the ditch carrying a light?”

The burly hedgehog watched as a small burning beacon grew closer. “Aye, so ’tis, Brother. I wager that’s a vermin, up to no good, I’ll be bound. Better stop the rascal afore he sets fire to our front gate.”

There was always a variety of things in Junty’s big apron pocket. He dug a paw in and rummaged about. A slow smile lit up his heavy features as he produced a big barrel bung made from a knot he had gouged out of an oak log. “This should do!”

Though ponderous and not given to quick flings, Junty was accurate and very powerful.

Halfchop was never very sure of what fractured his muzzle and wrecked his nose. But he never forgot the sound as it hit him. Kachunk!

Badredd saw the rat’s light snuffed out with a gentle hiss as it fell into some stagnant water. He went and shook the weasel brothers, Floggo and Rogg, awake. “Rouse yore bones there. Go an’ fetch ole Halfchop back ’ere. He went wanderin’ off up the ditch. It looks like the idiot’s fallen over. Go on, move! It’ll soon be dawn.”

When they returned, hauling the senseless rat, Badredd blew on the embers and stirred the fire. He winced as he saw the damage to Halfchop’s face. Awakened by the commotion, Flinky dug some dried herbs out of his pouch and lit them so that they smouldered. The weasels held the rat’s head steady as Flinky pushed the smoking herbs under his nose. Halfchop’s eyes opened immediately when the pungent fumes got to him.

Badredd squatted beside him. “What happened?” Halfchop looked at the fox quizzically as he repeated the question. “Who did that to ye, what happened?”

Halfchop spoke . . . just one word—“Kachunk!”

Flinky put aside the smouldering herbs. “Wot did ye say, mate?”

Halfchop looked at Flinky as if seeing him for the first time. He looked at Badredd the same way and spoke the word again. “Kachunk!”

Losing his patience, Badredd pawed the cutlass edge menacingly. “Talk sense! I asked ye wot happened. Keep sayin’ that stupid word an’ I’ll kachunk ye, good an’ proper!”

Halfchop leaned close and whispered in the fox’s ear. “Kachunk!”

As Flinky saw the cutlass beginning to rise, he stepped in and stayed his crew leader’s paw. “Ah now, leave him alone, Chief. The pore ould rat’s not in his right mind at all. How d’ye feel, matey, better now?”

Halfchop smiled foolishly over his swollen muzzle. “Kachunk!”

Dawn crept in from the east, pale pink and lilac in a creamy haze. Dewdrops bedecked the flatlands beyond the ditch. Redwall Abbey’s twin bells tolled out the opening of a new summer day. Martha watched Toran, Abbot Carrul and several others mounting the gatehouse steps. Frustration tinged the haremaid’s plea to them.

“Let me come up on the ramparts, I want to see what’s happening. Oh please, I feel so helpless down here!”

Toran shook his head. “It might get a bit dangerous up here, me pretty. Best ye stop down there an’ look after the Dibbuns.”

Little Shilly the squirrelbabe made a scramble for the steps. “Cummon, we all go up onna wall. Then Miz Marth’ gotta be up dere wiv us’n’s!”

Sister Setiva ran down and blocked the Dibbuns’ way. “Och no ye don’t, mah wee babes. Ah’ll come o’er tae the orchard wi’ ye an’ Martha. We’ll see if any blackberries are ripe enough tae be picked yet. A guid idea, eh?”

Squeaking with delight, the Abbeybabes pushed Martha’s chair across the lawns so fast that the haremaid was forced to hold on tight to the arms.

Sister Setiva chased after them, shouting in her thin, reedy voice, “Slow down, ye naughty creatures, go easy wi’ Miss Martha!”

Junty and Brother Weld kept an eye on the ditch as they made their way along to the threshold over the main gate. Throwing a brief salute, the Cellarhog made his report to the Abbot. “Looks like they’re makin’ a move, Father. Comin’ this way!”

The wall party was armed with a variety of window poles, kitchen utensils and tools. Apart from one or two slings and bags of pebbles, there were no real weapons to be found within the bounds of the peaceable Abbey. Toran gave Junty a sling and some stones. He tossed a long ash stave to Brother Weld.

“These ain’t much, but they’re better’n nothin’, friends.”

Now the vermin crew had reached the spot directly below where the Redwallers stood. They halted, only the tops of their heads visible. Silence fell as they waited, standing in a muddy pool of ditchwater.

Toran whispered to Abbot Carrul. “Let them state their business first.”

The silence from below became rather protracted, then a voice spoke out. “Kachunk!”

This was followed by Badredd hissing, “Somebeast, shut that fool up!”

Curiosity overcame Old Phredd the Gatekeeper, who called out, “What do ye want? Speak up!”

Badredd had envisioned himself leaping boldly from the ditch to state his demands. However, he was far too short for such a thing, so several of the crew had to lift him up and boost him onto the path. It was a totally undignified procedure. The little fox landed, sprawling on the dust and gravel. He sprang up quickly, took a swaggering step forward and tripped over his cutlass.

Having heard a few stifled giggles from the walltop, Badredd glared up frostily at the assembled Redwallers, putting on his toughest snarl. “Ye’ll laugh the other side of yore faces afore this day’s done!” Puffing himself up to his full height, he continued. “I’m Badredd, Warlord of the Vermin Horde. Nobeast can stand against me. I come from the Northlands where we drink our enemies’ blood!”

The Abbot bowed his head politely. “I bid you a good morning, Sir Badredd. I am Father Abbot Carrul of Redwall. Is there any way I can be of service to you? Mayhaps you might need food or supplies to continue your journey?”

At the mention of food, the rest of the vermin crew climbed out of the ditch eagerly, but the little fox forestalled them by answering the Abbot scornfully. “We don’t want yore food, mouse. Our journey’s end is here, at this Wallred place. You’ve got a magic sword here. I want it—bring it t’me now!”

The Abbot stared coolly down at him. “There is no such thing as a magic sword at Redwall Abbey.”

Badredd drew his cutlass with a swish, pointing it at Carrul. “You lie! Bring that sword out to me, old fool, or it will go badly with ye!”

Toran stepped up to the Abbot’s side, roaring down at the fox, “Don’t ye dare call the Abbot of Redwall a fool or a liar! If he says there’s no magic sword here, then you’d best get the mud out o’ yore ears an’ listen. Now shift yoreself, vermin. Get up the road with that raggedy-bottomed bunch. Quick, or I’ll come down there and kick yore tail back t’the Northlands!”

Shaking with rage, Badredd turned and nodded to his two archers, the weasel brothers. “Fire!”

Two arrows zipped from their bows. Toran flung himself upon the Abbot, knocking him down below the battlements. One arrow flew harmlessly overhead, the other grazed the ottercook’s shoulder.

Toran winced as he yelled, “Down, everybeast!”

The Redwallers immediately dropped below the parapet. Junty Cellarhog fitted a stone into his sling and whirled it. He popped up and let fly. Though it was a speedy shot, and not too accurate, it did hit Badredd on the footpaw. He screeched out in pain as Crinktail and the rest of the crew jumped back into the ditch, taking him with them.

There was an uneasy silence. Then Flinky called out in a wheedling voice. “Ah, look now, friends, why don’t ye just throw the ould magic sword to us an’ we’ll be on our way, I promise!”

This was followed by a tirade from Badredd. “Sword or no sword, I vow I’ll slay ye all an’ take yore Abbey from ye. This is war, d’ye hear me?”

Two broken halves of the arrow which had struck Toran were flung into the ditch. The ottercook sat watching Sister Portula bind his wound with her apron. He laughed and shouted back contemptuously to the fox, “War, eh? Go on then, let’s see ye take Redwall from us. A dirty liddle band o’ vermin scum, ye’d have no chance!”

Down in the ditch, Flinky gazed levelly at Badredd and nodded. “Sure an’ I believe the big riverdog’s right. How could a crew as small as ours take that fine big place? ’Tis all made o’ stone an’ locked up tight.”

Badredd nursed his footpaw, shooting a hateful glance at the stoat. “Whose side are ye on, theirs o’ ours?”

Flinky spread his paws expressively. “Ah now, Chief, I’m with you. But ye got to admit, things ain’t exac’ly goin’ our way, are they now?”

Badredd narrowed his eyes, well aware that Flinky could be a sly one at times. “So, what d’ye suggest?”

The stoat winked secretively. “Make ’em think we’ve gone away. I’ll wager we could catch ’em off guard after a day or two.”

Granmum Gurvel came panting up the wallsteps, carrying a big wooden pail of kitchen rubbish with the arrow that had missed the Abbot sticking out of it. The old mole blinked indignantly. “Yurr, see wot appinged? Oi wurr just crossin’ ee lawn to put ee rubbish on moi compost ’eap. That thurr h’arrer comed roight out’n ee sky an’ stucked in moi pail!”

Junty Cellarhog took it from her. “Don’t fret, marm, it missed ye!”

Back in the ditch, Badredd was mulling over Flinky’s idea. “How many days do we wait?”

Junty’s voice interrupted further conversation. The Cellarhog was whining piteously. “Sir, we’ve got somethin’ here for ye.”

Badredd leaped up. “Lend a paw ’ere, get me outta this ditch. We won’t be waitin’ any longer. Hah! They’ve seen sense at last, that’ll be my magic sword!”

They boosted him up out of the ditch. He was back a moment later—dripping with leftover oatmeal, potato peelings, onion skins and old cooking oil. Laughter and hoots of derision rang out from the walltops. Badredd was speechless with rage. The crew backed off from him, holding their noses at the odour from yesterday’s kitchen rubbish.

He clawed at the mess. “I don’t care how long I got to wait, they’re deadbeasts, all of ’em. They can’t treat Badredd like that!”

Halfchop smiled at him. “Kachunk!”

Toran sat in the orchard, surrounded by the Dibbuns, telling the tale to them whilst Sister Setiva and Martha tended his wound. The incident, while being humorous, worried Martha.

“I wish Sarobando and Bragoon were here now.”

The ottercook patted his newly bandaged shoulder. “Don’t upset yourself, young ’un. Those vermin’ll leave when they find there’s nought here for ’em except the ole pail o’ rubbish. Ain’t that right, Sister?”

Setiva knotted off the bandage neatly. “Aye, like as not. Ye say there’s but ten o’ the rogues altogether. Hmm, they shouldnae be much trouble. Aye, but ’twould be fine if we had some otters or shrews aboot the place.”

Toran stood up and flexed his paw. “Huh, ye’ll not find otters around here, save for me. They’ve gone off to camp on the seashores all summer. As for shrews—well, they go wherever the streams an’ rivers take ’em. I know we ain’t got many at Redwall of fightin’ age, but we’ll do at a pinch.”

Martha folded the rug across her lap. “I hope you’re right. I’d hate to see vermin get into Redwall. What would happen to these little ones?”

Muggum picked up a stick. “Uz foight ’em, miz, we’m gurt fierce Dibbuns. B’ain’t that roight, Shilly?”

The squirrelbabe, and all the other Dibbuns, set up a fearful clamour. Brandishing sticks, wooden spoons and stones, they paraded up and down, scowling, growling and shouting dire threats.

Though Martha could not help smiling inwardly, she covered her ears and looked shocked. “Dearie me, I wouldn’t like to be a vermin with all these great rough warriors around. Would you, Toran?”

Her friend nodded. “Aye, miss, thank the seasons we can sleep safe in our beds. These liddle ’uns are reg’lar terrors!”

The smallest of the Dibbuns, the tiny shrew called Buffle, picked up a stone which was far too big for him. He fell over backward and sat there muttering unintelligible sounds.

“Gurrumvurbilbultumcuchachukchuk!”

Toran removed the stone from Buffle’s stomach. He picked the babe up with one paw and set him on Martha’s lap. “Well, I wonder what that’s all about?”

Yooch, who seemed to be the only one who could understand Buffle, translated. “Buffle sez he eat vermins all up!”

Sister Setiva cleaned a few dandelion seeds from the shrewbabe’s whiskers. He tried to bite her paw. Setiva raised her eyebrows. “Och, ye wee terror, don’t ye dare tae eat me all up!”

Buffle clenched his tiny paws and came out with a long torrent of garbled baby talk.

Martha turned to Yooch. “What’s he saying now?”

Yooch giggled. “Buffle sayin’ lotsa naughty fings!”

Sister Setiva looked shocked. “Time for your nap, young shrew!” She swept him off protesting loudly. Setiva was a no-nonsense shrewnurse and ignored Buffle’s tirade. “Och, ye can stop all that gobbledygook—ah’m no’ impressed!”