Loamhedge: A Tale of Redwall - Softcover

Jacques, Brian

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0142403776 ISBN 13: 9780142403778

Publisher: Firebird, 2005

Synopsis

The Redwall series is soon to be a Netflix original movie!

The sixteenth installment of the bestselling Redwall saga sheds light on the Abbey's ancient origins in a thrilling adventure.

Loamhedge, the deserted Abbey, has been forgotten for countless seasons. What secrets do it's ruins hold? When it becomes clear that wheelchair-bound Martha might be cured by a formula buried there, two old warriors are inspired by the spirit of Martin the Warrior himself to go on a quest for the ancient Abbey and three young rebels are determined to go with them. Meanwhile. the giant badger Lonna Bowstripe thirsts for vengeance as he relentlessly pursues Raga Bl and his murdering crew of Searats...who are on their way to attack Redwall itself.  The valiant Abbeybeasts must defend their home, but how can they, when their boldest warriors are away on their quest? Will Redwall fall to vermin invaders at last?

Perfect for fans of T. A. Barron’s Merlin saga, John Flanagan’s Ranger’s Apprentice series, and J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series.

About this title

About the Author

"I sometimes think it ironic for an ex-seaman, longshoreman, truck driver, policeman, bus driver, etc., to find success writing children's novels," says Brian Jacques (pronounced "Jakes"). Yet it is all too true. With the publication of his first children's book in 1987, the award-winning Redwall, Jacques' fresh talent has received exceptional praise from reviewers in the United States and England. Newbery Award winner Lloyd Alexander called it "a fine work, literate, witty, filled with the excitement of genuine storytelling. Young people will surely be captivated. I hope they give their elders a chance to share the delights."

A well-known radio personality in his native Liverpool--as well as an actor, stand-up comic, and playwright--Brian Jacques is the host of "Jakestown" on BBC Radio Merseyside. Ever the performer, Jacques is well-known for applying his acting and entertainment background to his lively presentations to legions of young fans at schools across the United States and England.

Brian Jacques was born in Liverpool, England on June 15th, 1939. Along with forty percent of the population of Liverpool, his ancestral roots are in Ireland, County Cork to be exact.

He grew up in the area around the Liverpool docks. His interest in adventure stories began at an early age with reading the books of: Daniel Defoe, Sir Henry Rider Haggard, Arthur Conan Doyle, Sir Thomas Malory, Robert Michael Ballantyne, Robert Louis Stevenson, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Kenneth Grahame. He attended St. John's School, an inner city school that had its playground on the roof. On his first day at St. John's, at the age of ten, he had an experience that marked his potential as a writer. When given an assignment of writing a story about animals, he wrote about the bird that cleaned a crocodile's teeth. The teacher could not, and would not, believe that a ten year old could write that well. When young Brian refused to falsely say that he had copied the story, he was caned as "a liar". He had always loved to write, but it was only then, that he realized that he had a talent for writing.

Some teachers at St. John's proved to be good role models. As Mr. Jacques recalls:

"My favourite teacher was Mr. Austin Thomas. He looked like Lee Marvin. Big Man. A Captain in World War II. He came to school on a big bush bike with the haversack on back. He was a man's man. Always fair. I was fourteen at the time when Mr. Thomas introduced the class to poetry and Greek literature. (Because of him, I saved seven shillings and sixpence to buy The Iliad and The Odyssey at this dusty used book shop.)"

This interest in poetry extended to Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Goldsmith.It was also at St. John's that Brian met a teacher, Alan Durband (who also taught two Beatles, Paul McCartney and George Harrison), who, more than thirty years later would bring about a major change in his life.

After Brian finished school at fifteen, he set out to find adventure as a merchant seaman. He travelled to many far away ports, including New York, Valparaiso, San Francisco, and Yokohama. Tiring of the lonely life of a sailor, he returned to Liverpool where he worked as a railway fireman, a longshoreman, a long-distance truck driver, a bus driver, a boxer, a bobby (Police Constable 216D), a postmaster, and a stand-up comic.

 

Penguin mourns the passing of celebrated children’s book author Brian Jacques

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Loamhedge

By Brian Jacques

Firebird

Copyright © 2005 Brian Jacques
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780142403778

Chapter One

Lashing rain, driven by harsh biting winds from the sea,scoured the land from the bleak salt marshes to the stuntedscrub forest. Abruc the sea otter bent against the strain of aloaded rush basket. It was tied to his shoulders and beltedacross his brow to stop it from spilling backward.

Holding on to his father's paw, young Stugg trottedalongside, plying his parent with interminable questions,which Abruc did his best to answer.

"H'are you veddy veddy strong?" Scrunching his eyes against the wind, Abruc could nothelp smiling at his inquisitive little son. "I have t'be strong.I've got to feed you, your mamma an' the whole family.That's my job, I'm a father."

Stugg sucked his free paw, digesting this informationwhilst he thought up another question. "Den why can'tStugg sit atop of your basket no more?"

Abruc adjusted the belt to ease the strain on his neck."Because you've growed since last season. Yore gettin' to bea big feller now, a fine lump of an otter. Soon you'll be carryin'yore ole dad an' the basket. Let's put a move on, Stugg,so we can make it into the woods by dark. It'll be good totake a rest out o' this weather."

With the sound of the grey northeast sea pounding intheir ears, both the sea otters squelched through the desolatesalt marshes toward the weather-bent scrub forest.

Daylight ebbed into early evening as they entered the shelterof the trees. With a grunt of relief, Abruc swung his basket tothe ground. It was brimfull of edible seaweed, scallops,mussels and shrimp-a full two days' work, gleaned fromthe coast of the barren northeast waters. Abruc sat on afallen pine. Sensing his father's weariness, Stugg climbedup behind him and began gently rubbing his brow.

Abruc relaxed, sighing gratefully. "Hmmmm, that's nice.I was beginnin' to think that strap'd cut the top off me skull.Huh, where'd I be then?"

Stugg giggled. "Wiv a half offa head, silly ole farder!" The sea otter cautioned his son. "Hush now, not so loud.There might be Coast Raiders about. Huh, they'd cut thetops off'n our skulls, just to watch us die."

Wide-eyed, Stugg crouched down against his father,speaking in a hushed whisper. "Mamma says CoasterRaiders be's naughty vermints!"

His father pushed dry pine needles into a small heap,shaking his head grimly. "Naughty ain't the word for thatscum. They're evil, cold-blooded murderers. Cruelty is justfun to the likes o' them. Right, young 'un, I suppose yorehungry now?"

Nodding eagerly, Stugg whispered, "I'm starfished!" Abruc chuckled. Starfished was a word all the young onesused, a cross twixt starving and famished.

He patted Stugg's head fondly. "Nothin' worse'n astarfished otter. You stay here, keep yore eyes'n'ears open,an' lay low. I'll go an' find us a snug berth for the night."

He pulled a sack from under his cloak, tossing it to hisson. "Sort through the rest of those rations an' see wot youwant for supper. I'll be back soon."

Abruc knew the woods well, he recalled a spot not too faroff. It was a good dry place, sheltered by a rock ledge. Silentas a night breeze, he weaved his way through the dark,twisted trees, straight to the exact location. He had campedthere before. Halting slightly short of his destination, hepaused. Something did not feel quite right about the area.Abruc sniffed the air and listened carefully, his animal instinctaroused. He caught the faint sound of ragged breathing.Drawing his long dagger, he crept forward, peeringkeenly into the shadows, his neck hairs bristling.

For supper Stugg had selected two flat loaves, some of hismamma's apple and blackberry preserve and their last flaskof plum cordial. If his father lit a fire, they could maketoasted preserve sandwiches and warm cordial. The youngotter was a pretty fair cook, often having helped hismamma to prepare meals. There was not much else to dobut wait in silence for his father's return. Stugg set out thefood and sat next to the basket of supplies.

Abruc came speeding out of the darkness to his son's side.Crouching beside Stugg, he gripped his paws tightly. Thesea otter's voice was urgent and breathless from running.

"Listen carefully, little mate. Could you find yore wayback home to our holt on yore own?" Stugg was taken aback by the unusual request. "Er, I finkso, what's a matter, farder?" Abruc gripped his son's paws tighter. His voice soundedharsh. "Answer me-yes or no! Could you find yore wayback home?" Stugg had never seen his father like this. He nodded, hisown voice sounding small and scared. "Yes, Stugg knowd'way!" Abruc released the young otter's paws. "Good, nowhere's wot y'must do, son. Find Shoredog. Tell him to bringthe crew to the spot by the rock ledge, he'll know where Imean. Say that they best bring rope, canvas an' poles.Enough t'make a stretcher to carry a wounded, giantstripedog. That's if'n he's still alive when they reach here."

Words poured from Stugg's mouth like running water."A giant, a stripedog, a wounded one? I never see'd a giantstripedog afore! What happened? Will he get deaded ..." Abruc grabbed Stugg and shook him, something he hadever done before. He hissed at him through clenched teeth."Shut yore mouth, son! Don't stand here askin' questions!Go now, run, don't stop for anythin'. The life of anothercreature depends on you. Go!"

Young Stugg took off like a madbeast, pine needles scatteringfrom under his paws as he tore homeward throughthe nighttime forest. Abruc watched until his son was out ofsight, then gathered up their belongings and dashed back tothe camp beneath the ledge.

Swiftly he heaped dry pine needles and cones with a fewtwigs. Using the steel of his knife blade against a chunk offlint, he soon had a small fire burning. It was sheltered bythe overhanging rock and could not be seen from a reasonabledistance. Abruc viewed the scene around him. Twobadgers, one very old, the other about two seasons into hisadult growth, lay stretched out, side by side. Small and grizzled,the oldest of the pair was obviously dead, slain byvarious weapon thrusts. As he turned to the youngerbadger, a brief glance at the churned-up ground and theblood-flecked rock confirmed the sea otter's suspicions. Hisjaw clenched angrily. "Dirty murderin' Raiders!"

The younger badger was still alive. Abruc had seen oneor two badgers in his lifetime, but not as big as this fellow.He was truly a giant-tall, deep of chest and broadbackedwith massive paws and powerfully muscled limbs.

The sea otter winced as he inspected the fearsome woundto the badger's head. A long jagged slash, from eartip toneck, had ripped across the badger's face. Narrowly missingthe eye, it had ploughed across the brow, through thewide-striped muzzle, across the jaw line to the side of thecreature's throat.

Abruc, with only a limited knowledge of healing,staunched the blood with his cloak. Lifting the badger'shead, he cradled it in his lap, dabbing away at the dreadfulrift and murmuring to the unconscious beast.

"Seasons o' salt, matey, 'tis a miracle yore still alive! Y'musthave a skull made o' rock. I know you can't hear me,but don't worry, big feller, our crew will do the best we canfor ye. There's one or two good healers at our holt."

Abruc sat rambling away to the senseless badger, knowinghe could do little else until help arrived.

It was close to midnight. Rainladen wind hissed throughthe scrub forest, carrying with it salt spray from the thunderingseas. Beside the guttering embers of his little fire,Abruc had dozed off, still holding the badger's head.

At the front of the otter crew, Shoredog pointed with hislantern, hurrying forward. "There they are, mates!"

Little Stugg reached his father first. "I bringed them,farder!"

Abruc patted the youngster's paw. "Yore a good olescout. Unnh, somebeast get me out from under this giant'shead. Me limbs have gone asleep on me from holdin' hisweight."

Willing paws assisted him upright. Shoredog shook hishead as he viewed the injured badger. "Great seasons, lookitthe mess the pore creature's in. I fears there ain't much hopefor 'im. I never set eyes on a wound bad as that 'un!"

Stugg caught sight of his mother and tugged at her paw."Issa giant stripedog goin' to die, mamma?"

Abruc's wife Marinu nodded at Shoredog's grandma,Sork. "Not if'n we can help it, Stugg. Come on, crew, getsome warm blankets around that badger an' strap him to astretcher. Easy now, don't jolt the pore beast too much."

Everybeast knew that Marinu and Sork were the besthealers in all the southeast.

Stugg grinned broadly. Now that he had succeeded in hismission, he proceeded to take charge of the situation, stridingabout and issuing orders. "You all hear my mamma,pick dat stripedog up careful!"

Marinu was about to pull her son to one side when Abrucmurmured to her, "Let the young 'un be, he did well tonight."

As the otter crew manoeuvred the huge badger onto thehuge stretcher, Shoredog gave a surprised bark. "Blood'n'thunder,lookit that!"

Beneath the injured creature a mighty bow and a quiverof long arrows lay half covered in the loose sand and pineneedles. The badger had fallen backward upon the bow, hishefty bulk breaking the weapon in two pieces. One jaggedhalf was stuck into his hip. Marinu halted the bearers untilshe and Sork had extracted the splintered yew wood. Thebig fellow grunted faintly as they padded and dressed thewound.

Stugg jumped up and down triumphantly. "He be's alive,d'stripedog maked noise!"

Old Sork looped the birchbark quiver over Stugg's head.It scraped the ground, the arrows were taller than he. Sorkshooed the young one aside. "Aye, mayhap he is. Now youcarry those an' stay out the way."

A score of otters bore the badger off on a litter of pine poles,sailcloth and rope, padded with dead grass and soft moss.Stugg stayed behind with his father and Shoredog to burythe dead badger. It was only a shallow grave, but theyfound slabs of rock to top it off with. Abruc wedged thetwo pieces of broken bow, with the string still joining them,into the foot of the grave. They would serve as a marker. Allthree sea otters gazed down at the sad resting place.

Abruc shook his head. "Pore old beast, we don't evenknow wot name he went by. He looked weak, an' small. Abadger that age should've spent out his seasons restin' inthe sun. I wonder wot kin he was t'the big 'un. Mebbe hisfather?"

Stugg pressed his face against Abruc and wept. He couldnot imagine anybeast losing a father. He sobbed brokenly."Who would kill someone's farder like that?"

Shoredog looked up from smoothing the earth aroundthe stones. "Only beast I knows who kills like that is RagaBol." The name struck fear into Abruc. "Raga Bol! Has he beenhere?" Shoredog stood upright, dusting off his paws. "Whileyou an' Stugg were gone, Rurff the grey seal visited ourholt. He saw the Searats' ship wrecked on the rocks, furthernorth up the coast. Raga Bol an' about fifty vermin crewcame ashore. They headed down this way, but pickin's arescarce on this northeast coast, so they've probably marchedinland. They ain't got a ship anymore. I was just rousin' ourcrew to search for you an' Stugg, when the young 'un comesrunnin' to tell me you need help."

Shoredog took one of the straps on Abruc's basket. "Letme help ye with this, mate, 'tis a good haul."

They set off back to their holt, with Stugg stumbling overthe quiver of long arrows. Abruc shrugged philosophically. "It's a bad spring, coldan' stormy. Let's hope summer's a bit better when it comes.At least we won't have Raga Bol an' his villains to worryabout. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky, really."

Young Stugg hitched the arrows higher on his back. Theystill dragged along the ground as he muttered aloud. "Moreluckier than d'poor stripedogs, I appose."

A brief smile crossed Shoredog's weathered face. "Thatyoung 'un of yores is growin' up quick mate!"

Dawn glimmered chili and blustery over the heathlandssome two leagues west of the northeast sea. Wet, hungryand dispirited, Raga Bol's crew of Searats huddled round asmoking fire down a ravine. They stared miserably at adeep, rain-swollen stream running nearby. From further upthe bank the vermin could hear their captain's shrieks andcurses rending the air.

Rinj, a sly-faced female, gnawed at a filthy clawnail,glancing from one to the other. "Ye t'ink Bol's lost the paw?It'ought Wirga cudda sewed it back on, she's a good 'ealer."

A lanky, gaunt rat named Ferron picked something fromhis teeth and spat it into the stream. "Sewed it back on!Have ye gone soft in the skull? Last I saw, Cap'n Bol's pawwas 'angin' on by a string o' skin. We should've stayed wellclear o' those two stripedogs!"

Rinj wiped firesmoke from her blearing eyes. "The littleole one wuz no trouble, he didn't know wot 'it 'im, goneafore ye could wink."

Ferron winced as Raga Bol's screeches and curses redoubled."Aye, but wot about the big 'un, eh? I thought Cap'nBol killed him wid the first blow of his big sword!"

Glimbo, the captain's first mate, pushed Rinj away fromthe fire and installed his fat, greasy bulk close to the flames.One of his eyes was a milky sightless orb; the other rovedaround the crew as he warmed his paws.

"Never in me days seen Bol 'ave to strike a beast twicewid that blade. But that big stripedog came back after thefirst whack an' got his teeth in good. Just as well that Bolstruck again, or he would've lost more'n one paw. Mark mywords, stripedogs are powerful dangerous beasts!"

The heathland was a barren region, made drearier by theday's unabated rain. Down in the ravine a huge bonfireblazed to dispel the harsh weather. Every Searat of the crewsat watching their captain. Tall and sinewy, with a restlessenergy that could be glimpsed in his fiery green eyes, RagaBol was an impressive rat by any measure. He sat wrappedin a fur cloak, his left pawstump hidden from view. TheSearat's right paw rested on the carved bone hilt of a heavy,wide-bladed scimitar, protruding from his waistband. Thecrewbeasts could feel Raga Bol's eyes on them. Rain sizzlingon the fire and wind fanning the flames were the onlysounds to be heard as they waited on their captain's word.

Finally, Raga Bol rose and snarled bad-temperedly atthem, firelight reflecting from his hooped brass earringsand gold-plated fangs. "We march west at dawn. Anybeastwho don' want to go, let 'im speak now, an' I'll bury 'imright'ere!"

Not one of the Searat crew said a word. Raga Bol nodded."West it is then. Blowfly, get me two runners."



Continues...

Excerpted from Loamhedgeby Brian Jacques Copyright © 2005 by Brian Jacques. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Firebird
• Publication date: 2005
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0142403776
• ISBN 13: 9780142403778
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 424