Loamhedge

39

In less than an hour the travellers had reached the hilltops. Below them the land took on a complete change. Gone was the arid dusty wasteland, replaced with an expansive green valley—not lush green like Mossflower woodlands but pleasant enough to appear refreshingly welcome to desert travellers. The whole area in the dip of the vale was dotted with brush, heather, grass and some stunted trees.

Toobledum whipped off his hat and made a sweeping gesture. “There ’tis, one an’ all. Loam’edge!”

Halfway down the slope, Fenna stooped to pick a few daisies. She crumbled some earth in her paws and sniffed it. “This was probably rich fertile country in some bygone time.”

The dormouse watched her braid the flowers into her tailbush. “Most likely it was, young missy. Mebbe those mice who lived around ’ere long ago tended the land an’ farmed it t’keep it that way.”

Horty stared about. “Don’t see any streams or runnin’ water.”

Toobledum plucked a daisy stem and chewed on it. “There’s underground water at the middle o’ the valley. I gets it cold’n’sweet from a well down there. Once we crosses the Abbey boundary I’ll take ye to it.”

They carried on downhill. When the dormouse was almost on level ground he kicked aside some long grass and shrubbery. “See ’ere, that’s the top o’ the ole boundary wall. It must’ve collapsed an’ been buried in the long ago, when the ground used to dance an’ shake.”

He exposed a line of coping stones, each one decorated with a skilful carving of a mouse. Toobledum straightened up, arching his back as he gestured around the valley bottom. “If’n ye takes the trouble, an’ yore fond o’ diggin’, y’can follow it all around in a big square. I’ve never bothered meself, ’cept when I needs stones for me ’ouse. Right then, come on one an’ all, don’t shilly-shally, ’tis lunchtime.”

They followed the old dormouse into a grove of stunted, knobbly trees, stopping as they reached a rickety hut, a rambling structure knocked together from odds and ends of stone, timber and debris.

Toobledum announced proudly, “Well, this is it, one an’ all, me likkle ’ome. Me’n Bubbub wouldn’t trade it fer a palace!” He set about lighting a fire beneath a rock slab oven, which stood outside the front door. Bubbub frisked happily about as the old dormouse sang.

“All round an’ round the land ye well may roam,

lots o’ places I ’ave rambled, far’n’near,

but there ain’t no nicer nest than me ol’ ’ome,

’tis so comfy an’ we loves it, oh so dear.

The moment that we gets ’ere, me an’ me likkle mate,

we lights a fire an’ puts the kettle on,

though we ain’t got much to eat, we gets along just great,

’cos two kin live ’ere just as well as one.”

Bragoon had a quiet word with Horty. “Give ’em all we can spare from the rations. Make it a lunch to remember for the ole beast an’ Bubbub.”

The young hare saluted smartly. “To hear is to obey, O Wise Otter, sah. I’ll make it a spread that none of us’ll forget!”

Fenna blew a sigh. “As long as you don’t serve us fried fruit salad again!”

Horty began rummaging through their meagre supplies. “Pish tush, miss! I shall treat that remark with the blinkin’ contempt it bally well deserves, wot!”

He did, however, cook a very passable meal. Drawing water from the dormouse’s well, Horty produced a tasty vegetable soup and some scones and honey, with penny- cress and comfrey cordial to wash it down.

Saro ate it with relish but could not resist a wry remark. “Mmm, tastes good, but I ain’t even goin’ to ask wot’s in it.”

Horty licked honey from his paws and reached for another scone. “Just as well really, marm. Wild frogs wouldn’t drag the recipe from me. We cooks have our secrets, y’know!”

Toobledum and Bubbub did the lunch full justice. Springald was astounded at the amount the little lizard ate.

The dormouse just laughed at Bubbub’s appetite. “Proper likkle famine face, ain’t he?”

Bragoon began questioning Toobledum, warming to the aim of their quest. “This spot we’re searchin’ for, it’s a grave I think. Lissen to these few lines, mate, an’ see if’n ye can throw any light on ’em.

“Beneath the flower that never grows,

Sylvaticus lies in repose.

My secret is entombed with her,

look and think what you see there.”

“I want ye to pay attention, Toobledum. Do ye know anyplace ’ereabouts that sounds like wot I’ve just said?”

The dormouse pulled down his hat brim, muttering darkly, “That’ll be the dead place. We never goes over there, do we, mate?”

Bubbub snuggled tight against the dormouse and shook his head.

Springald pursued the enquiry. “Whyever not? The dead never hurt anybeast, and I wager those buried there have been dead long before you were born.”

Toobledum shook his head. “Say wot ye likes, miss, but there’s nights when the wind blows an’ I’ve ’eard ’em moanin’.”

Horty took a light view of this sinister statement. “Maybe they get jolly hungry down there. Come on, old scout, up on your hunkers an’ show us where the old graveyard is, wot!”

The dormouse refused flatly. “I ain’t goin’ nowheres near that place, ye can go an’ see it for yoreselves. Walk south across the valley until ye see flat stones. They’re all laid this way an’ that, ye can’t miss ’em. That’s the buryin’ garden. I think it was once inside the ole Abbey. I’ve only been there once, an’ I ain’t goin’ there agin, nohow!”

Leaving the dormouse and his lizard, the five travellers set out, following his directions.

The ancient burying place was quiet and peaceful in the noontide sun. A few bees hummed, and grasshoppers chirruped on the still, warm air.

Saro sat down on one of the flat stones and looked about. “Nice ole spot, ain’t it. Sort of a garden o’ memories.”

Fenna brushed the dust from a lopsided oblong of limestone. “See what this says: Sister Ethnilla, victim of the great sickness, gone to the sunny slopes and silent streams.”

Bragoon traced a paw across the graven words. “Pore creature, there must be a lot of her kind buried ’ere. Sunny slopes an’ quiet streams, eh? I like that.”

Springald and Horty were inspecting the stones further afield.

The young hare’s voice interrupted the otter’s reverie. “I say, you chaps, what was the name we were lookin’ for, Sivvylaticus or somesuch? I think I’ve found it. Yoooohaaaw!”

Bragoon sprang upright as Horty’s yell disturbed the peace. “Wot’s that lop-eared noisebag up to now?”

Springald was shouting. “Over here, quick, Horty’s fallen down a grave!”

They dashed over to where the mousemaid was hopping about agitatedly as she pointed to a yawning dark hole. “Down there, he’s fallen right through. One moment he was standing, pointing to this big stone, then something broke and he vanished!”

The otter pulled her aside. “Stand clear, miss, or ye might be the next one to disappear.” He called down into the pitch-black space. “Horty, are ye alright, mate?”

There was no reply, just a faint echo of his own voice.