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Wirga gestured round at the slain vole bodies lying on the bank. “Fling ’em in the stream an’ this’d make a good camp for the night, Cap’n.”

Bol picked his teeth with the hooktip. “Aye, ’tis nice’n’restful ’ereabouts now. Hahaha!”

Dutifully, Wirga laughed with him. Her cackling trailed off as she saw her captain go off into a vacant silence, his eyes opening wide as the fish fell unheeded from his mouth.

Wirga stared at him anxiously. “What is it, Cap’n, a bone stuck in thy gullet? Let me take a look!”

As she bent toward him, Raga Bol recovered and kicked her roughly away. “Break camp, we’re movin’ out!”

The healer was bewildered at this sudden change. “But Cap’n, thee said . . .”

Wirga narrowly dodged an angry slash from the silver hook.

Bol booted the fire left and right, scattering it. “I said we’re movin’ out, we ain’t stayin’ in this place. Now shift yoreself an’ get the crew together!”

He strode off, to 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.

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.

“Where 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.”

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.

“Leave 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!”

Toran had been keeping his eye on Martha throughout supper. The ottercook did not like to see his young chum so downcast. He chivvied her, hoping to lighten Martha’s mood.

“Cheer up, beauty. If’n ye keep lookin’ like that, it’ll teem down rain tomorrow. Wot’s the matter, my mushroom ’n’barley soup too cold? Has the bread gone stale, the cheese too hard, not enough plums in the pudden? Speak up, droopy ears, does that strawberry fizz cordial taste musty?”

The haremaid managed a wan smile. “No, Toran, it’s not that, the supper is delicious. It’s just that . . . oh, I don’t know.”

Toran collared Horty, just as he was reaching for another helping of plum pudding. “Hear that, young starvation face? Yore sister doesn’t know wot’s wrong with her. Sing her a song an’ liven her up, or y’don’t get any more plum pud!”

Horty had done this once or twice before, when Martha was a bit down. That, and Toran’s threat to cut off his plum pudding supply, galvanised the greedy young hare into action. He let rip with a special ditty he saved for such occasions.

“What a gloomy little mug, wot wot,

come on, let’s see you smile.

With a scowl like that you’d frighten

every beast within a mile.

So chortle hahaheeheehoho!

and brighten up for me,

or I’ll send you to that Sister

from the Infirmary.

She’ll say ‘Wot have we here, wot wot?

A face like a flattened frog?

This calls for a bucket o’ physick, aye,

now that should do the job!

Will somebeast grab her nose,

so she can’t hold her breath,

then I’ll be able to grab a ladle,

an’ physick the child to death!

I’ll not have it said of me, I couldn’t do my job,

an’ send a young ’un to her grave,

with a grin upon her gob!’

So chortle hohohahahee,

an’ smile an’ giggle a lot,

you can’t sit there all evenin’

with a face like a rusty pot. Wot wot!”

Martha was chuckling when she spied Sister Setiva, the Infirmary Keeper, making a beeline for her brother.

Setiva had a stern manner, and a marked northern accent, coupled with a dislike for impudence. “Ach, ye flop-eared wretch, ah’ll physick ye tae death if’n ah lay paws on ye!”

Horty hid behind Toran. “I say, sah, ’twas only a blinkin’ joke, y’know. Don’t let that old poisoner get me!”

Martha wiped tears of merriment from her eyes as the Abbot leaned across to her and asked, “Better now, miss?”

She nodded. “Yes, thank you, Father. Oh, that Horty!”

Sister Portula gave the Abbot a sidelong glance. “It’s all very well making plans to continue our studies out on the steps tomorrow, but look at the ruckus today. They were crowded around the gatehouse to see what we were doing inside. I think we’d best get ready to have lots of company tomorrow, Father—unless you can think of another way to keep our creatures distracted.”

Abbot Carrul touched a paw to the side of his nose. “I’ve already thought of that, Sister. Do you not know what day it is tomorrow?”