Read Online Loamhedge by Brian Jacques - Free Book Online Page B

the top of a small rise, peering back at the route they had come along. Wirga passed the word on to Glimbo.
    The one-eyed Searat rolled his milky orb in puzzlement. “Why does ’e wanna move? ’Tis nearly dark!”
    Wirga picked up her stolen belongings. “Hah! Yew go an’ ask ’im, if’n thee feels tired o’ livin’.”
    The crew gathered in sullen silence, watching their leader. He was still gazing eastward from the top of the rise. None of them dared make a move until he did.
    Raga Bol stared at the hostile heathland, muttering to himself. “Yore dead, stripedog, or ye should be. In the name o’ blood an’ thunder, where are ye?”
    He drew his cloak about him and shivered. Somewhere in Raga Bol’s evil mind he had felt Lonna Bowstripe’s threat.
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    In the gatehouse at Redwall Abbey, Martha and her friends were studying the history of Loamhedge. It made harrowing reading.
    Abbot Carrul shook his head sadly. “This is not the story of one creature, it is the history of many, all related to one writer, who set it down as a chronicle. I think that this poem, “The Loamhedge Lament,” by Sister Linfa, sums up most of the tragedy. I’ll read it out to you.”
    Martha’s eyes misted over as the Abbot recited the poem.
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    â€œWhere are the carefree sunlit days,
    when once amid tranquil bowers,
    Loamhedge mice would take their ease,
    to dream away happy hours?
    Where did the laughter go?
    Who stole the joy away?
    Heavy the heart that goes
    far from its home to stray.
    A sickness stole in to blight our lives
    like a spectre of unwanted doom.
    Midst grief and anguish it lingered,
    creeping through hall and room.
    Like wheat before the sickle,
    it laid our loved ones low,
    leaving us only one answer,
    to flee our home and go!
    Stalked by desolation now,
    left open to wind and rain,
    only in old memories dim
    would Loamhedge live again.”
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    The day’s last gleaming shone through the open door. Toran stood framed there, wiping his eyes on his cook’s apron. He had entered unnoticed and heard the whole thing.
    â€œLeave this now, and come back to the Abbey for supper, friends. Tomorrow morning ye can sit out on the wallsteps in the sunlight and study some more. Martha, come on, ’tis far too sad, sittin’ here at night readin’ of sickness an’ death.”
    The haremaid cast an imploring glance at Abbot Carrul. “But we must find out about Sister Amyl’s secret, and we must find out a way to discover where Loamhedge lies!”
    The Abbot shepherded her to the gatehouse door. “Toran’s right, miss, the night hours can be long and oppressive for such heavy stuff. Let’s go to supper in Cavern Hole and shed our sad mood for tonight. We’ll be much brighter, and more alert, in the morning.”
    Old Phredd the Gatekeeper waved them off. “Hmm hmm, you run along now. I’ll stay here awhile.”
    He watched them go, then wandered back into the little building, talking to a cushion he had picked up. “Hmm, the way to Loamhedge, now where’ve we seen that before? Chronicle of some bygone traveller I expect, eh, eh?”
    Climbing upon a chair, he peered at a row of books on a high shelf. Selecting one, Phredd blew the dust from its covers and smiled benignly at it. “Ah, there you are, y’old rascal. Hiding up there, heehee. Didn’t think I could see ye? Now what’ve you got to say for yourself, eh, eh?”
    Settling down in an armchair, he brought a lantern close and opened the book’s yellowed pages. “Heeheehee, we’ve met before, haven’t we? The recordings of Tim Churchmouse, now I recall ye! The journey to seek out Mattimeo, son of the warrior Matthias. Aye, that covered the Loamhedge Abbey territory, I’m certain it did!”
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    Toran had been keeping his eye on Martha throughout supper. The ottercook did not like to see