Loamhedge by Brian Jacques Read Free Book Online

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.”
    Â 
    Abbot Carrul sat forward in his armchair. “Strange. What do you think, Sister?”
    Portula put aside her tea. “Not many Redwallers are honoured by a visit from Martin the Warrior. We must heed all he says. His spirit is not just the essence of valour and honour, he is also the voice of knowledge and wisdom. Now, what is your own opinion of this incident, Martha?”
    The haremaid tapped the cover of the book. “This is the history of Loamhedge that you loaned me, Sister. I think the answer lies inside it. That’s why I called you here. I am stillyoung, but you three have the knowledge of seasons on your side. I was hoping that you could help me. I never dreamed that there might be an answer to why I can’t walk. Do you think there is?”
    Old Phredd picked up the big tome and laid it on the table. He spoke to it, as it if were a living thing. “Well now, you dusty old relic, are you going to assist us with this little one’s problem, eh, eh?”
    He turned and gave Martha a toothless grin. “Heeheehee, I think he will. Though one can never really tell what a book says until one reads it, eh?”
    Abbot Carrul opened the book. “This may take some time, but we’re on your side, Martha. If there is a way to make you walk, rest assured, we’ll find it.”
    Martha could feel tears beginning to brim in her eyes. She blinked them away swiftly. “Thank you all, my good friends. But there is something that I don’t think the book can tell us. Who are the ones we must look out for? The two travellers from out of the past, returning home someday?”
    Sister Portula gazed out the window into the sunlit noon. “You’re right, Martha. I wonder who they could be.”

5

    North of Redwall, spring eventide filtered soft light through the leafy canopy of Mossflower Wood. Amid aisles of oak, beech, elm, sycamore and other forest giants, slender rowan, birch and willow stood like young attendants, waiting on their stately lords. Blue smoke drifted lazily upward through the foliage which fringed a shallow stream. Somewhere nearby, a pair of nightingales warbled harmoniously.
    The tremulous beauty was lost upon a small vermin band who had trekked down from the far Northlands. They had camped on the bank to fish. A fat, brutish weasel called Burrad was their leader. Beneath his ragged cloak he carried a cutlass, its bone handle notched with the lives he had taken. Burrad’s sly eyes watched his band closely. They were spitting four shiny scaled roach on green willow withes to grill over the fire.
    Drawing the cutlass, Burrad pointed it at the biggest fish. “Dat’n der is mine, yew cook it good fer me, Flinky!”
    The stoat called Flinky let out a pitifully indignant whine. “Arr ’ey, Chief, I caught dis wun meself, ’tis me own fish!”
    Despite his bulk, Burrad was quick. Bulling the stoat over, he whipped Flinky mercilessly with the flat of his blade.
    Covering his head, the victim screeched for mercy. “Yaaaaaargh, stop ’im mates, afore he kills me pore ould body! Yeeegh, spare me, yer mightiness, spare me. Aaaaagh!”
    Cruel by nature, Burrad thrashed Flinky even harder.Throwing himself upon the hapless stoat, he pressed the blade against Flinky’s scrawny neck, snarling viciously.
    â€œWot d’yer want, the fist or yore ’ead? ’Urry up an’ speak.”
    The cutlass blade pressed savagely down. Flinky wailed. “Yeeeeh, take de fish, I’ve only got one ’ead. Take de fish!”
    Burrad rose, grinning wolfishly as he kicked Flinky’s bottom. “Cook dat fish good, or yore a dead ’un!”
    He turned on the other eleven vermin gang members.