The Taggerung (Redwall) Read online

  Mhera allowed the Badgermum to stem the tears with her apron. ‘Mama knew there’d be no news of Dad and little Deyna. She cried herself to sleep, and I did too. But the thunder woke me, so I came down here to ask Martin the Warrior if he knew what had happened to my dad and the baby.’

  Cregga touched the tapestry, feeling the beautiful embroidery that countless paws had worked upon. Martin the Warrior mouse, Hero of Redwall, there had never been one braver than he. Martin was depicted standing in his armour, holding the great sword, whilst terror-stricken vermin fled from him in all directions. The Warrior had a strong but kindly face, and wherever anybeast stood in Great Hall he seemed to be looking at them, eternally watching over his beloved Abbey.

  Cregga placed her paw on Mhera’s head. ‘My poor little one. Did he tell you anything?’

  Mhera wiped a paw across her eyes. ‘Not really. I just stood here waiting for an answer, but none came. Then I began to feel happy and sad just looking at him. I decided to cry all of my tears out for the last time. I felt determined not to spend my life weeping, but to comfort and help my mama as best I could. I think Martin was trying to tell me to be strong. Does that sound silly, marm?’

  Cregga felt her spirit lift. Mentally she thanked Martin. ‘No, little one, it sounds good and brave. Well, seeing as you have the desire to help others, you can guide me up to my room.’

  Mhera managed a tiny smile. ‘Now that sounds silly, marm. Nobeast knows their way about the Abbey better than you. What need do you have of me?’

  Cregga took Mhera’s paw and patted it. ‘I don’t tell this to every creature, but I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m a very very old badger whom everybeast relies upon for advice, about all sorts of things, especially Abbey matters. So I try to help as much as I can, but nobeast ever seems to ask if I need anything. Old Cregga can take care of this and old Cregga can sort that out. But who is there to help old Cregga? I tell you, Mhera, the older I get the more I need a friend.’

  The ottermaid clasped the Badgermum’s big paw tightly. ‘I’ll be your friend, marm, for ever.’

  Cregga opened the door to her room and ushered Mhera in. Rain pattered heavy and drumlike on the window. The badger found her massive overstuffed armchair and collapsed into it with a grateful sigh. There was lots of room on the arm for the young otter to perch upon.

  Cregga put her footpaws up on a worn buffet. ‘This room once belonged to a great friend of mine, Abbess Song. She passed on seasons before even your mother was born. Ah me, the times Song and I spent together. She was a happy creature, always singing; that’s why her name suited her so well. If she were here now, looking at two miserable creatures like us, I know what she’d have to say.’

  ‘Go on then, marm, tell me what Abbess Song would say.’

  ‘She’d say, if that young otter’s your friend, tell her to stop calling you marm and call you by your name, Cregga. Then she’d say that the way to stop feeling sad and sorry is to think up an excuse for a feast. One involving all the Redwallers. Get everybeast feeling happy and you’ll feel happy yourself, that’s what Song always said.’

  Mhera thought about this, but only for a second. ‘What a wonderful idea, Cregga! Let’s have a great feast. It’ll be summer’s first day when the new moon appears, six days from tomorrow. Is that a good excuse for a feast?’

  A lightning flash lit up the badger’s silver-striped muzzle. ‘It’s a marvellous excuse, young ’un. We always have a feast at change of season, so let’s make this one an extra special feast. We’ll call it . . . er . . . what shall we call it?’

  Mhera clapped her paws. ‘The Summer of Friendship feast!’

  Cregga drummed her footpaws on the buffet. ‘Splendid! What a lovely idea, the Summer of Friendship feast. Now, besides the food we want lots of games, singing, dancing, poetry and musicians. We’ll be in charge of that part, and leave the food and drink to those who know best, the Friar and Drogg Cellarhog. First thing tomorrow the preparations begin. We’ll make this a feast to remember, eh, Mhera?’

  The ottermaid agreed wholeheartedly. ‘We certainly will. My mama can help Friar Bobb; she’s a great cook, you know. It’ll help to take her mind off things.’

  Cregga could fight her weariness no longer. A huge yawn escaped her lips. ‘Oh, dear. Wish I was as young as you again!’

  Mhera plumped the pillows behind her friend’s head. ‘Sleep now, Cregga. You can get a lot of things done in dreams. Start planning our festivities. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Listening to the door close as Mhera crept back to her mother’s room, Cregga mused to herself in a drowsy murmur, ‘Get a lot of things done in dreams. What a wise young creature my young friend is. Yes, just the type Redwall needs . . . wise.’

  Thundersound grew more distant, the lightning less frequent. The volume of rain decreased to a drizzle as the storm moved east from Redwall and the green vastness of Mossflower Wood. Peace fell over the Abbey. Cregga in her armchair, Dibbuns in their dormitories, grown creatures in their beds, slept on through the night hours calm and undisturbed. New-baked bread, flat oatcakes, scones and turnovers lay on the warming shelves in the kitchens, ready for breakfast. Red embers glowed in the oven fires, casting flickering shadows in the silence. Friar Bobb, who never left his beloved kitchens, snored gently upon the truckle bed in the cool larder. Skipper and his crew snored uproariously in Cavern Hole, sprawled on forms, tables and makeshift mattresses. Broggle, the fat little assistant cook, lay on the first stair, still gripping Skipper’s big javelin. He growled and showed his teeth in slumber, hunting evil foebeasts through the woodlands, and, of course, subduing and capturing every one of them.

  You can get a lot of things done in dreams.

  * * *

  4

  Grissoul had a fire going in a small cave on the riverbank, a tiny island of light in the darkness. Outside, the clan huddled in their hastily erected shelters, mostly frayed pieces of canvas draped over branches and spearshafts. They ate what they had managed to forage that day on the journey westward. Squatting in any dry place, the vermin cursed the storm under their breath, hoping for fairer weather with the arrival of dawn.

  Warm and dry inside the cave, Sawney Rath ate the remainder of a poached dace, which the Seer had caught to feed the otterbabe. Sawney watched the little creature with a fondness which was almost fatherly.

  ‘Look at him, sleeping like a proper old riverdog. Did you see him tearing at the fish? Not much wrong with his appetite!’

  Grissoul turned the babe’s paw lightly, exposing the birthmark. ‘It is interesting that fortune chose an otterbeast to be Taggerung. An intriguing choice.’

  Sawney drew his knife. Holding it by the point, he placed the handle between the tiny paws. Deyna clasped it in his sleep. The Chieftain’s fierce eyes turned to the vixen Seer.

  ‘Aye, it’s not usual, but otters grow big and tough, full of muscle and sinew. I’m sorry he wasn’t a ferret like me, but an otter will serve the purpose just as well. We have to live by the prophecy and the omens. Thank your fortunes it wasn’t a toad we found bearing the mark you foresaw!’

  Grissoul agreed. ‘Aye, thank the fortunes!’

  Sawney chuckled quietly, so as not to disturb his charge. ‘Look at him, holding the knife like a true assassin. This one will be a powerful force when he grows, mark my words.’

  Rain pattered on a canvas groundsheet which had been fixed to the riverbank side close to the cave. Beneath it, Antigra lay nursing the babe she now had to call Gruven. Two other vermin shared the shelter, Wherrul the rat and Felch, the fox whose paw Sawney had crippled with his blade. Wherrul had his nose close to the fox’s ear, complaining bitterly.

  ‘It ain’t right, cully. We’ve carried the tents from the scrublands to the ford, an’ now we’re carryin’ them back the way we came. Where’s the sense in it, if we ain’t allowed to use them? Sittin’ out ’ere in the rain under bits an’ scraps o’ canvas, while Sawney’s got a dry cave, a fire an’ good cooked vittl
es. My back’s killin’ me from bein’ bent double all day, wipin’ out tracks. It ain’t right, I tell yer!’

  Felch held up his injured paw, whispering a reply. ‘Lookit that. Me axe paw ruined for life. Sawney didn’t even allow me t’stop an’ bandage it. I ’ad to make do with a dollop of bankmud an’ a dock leaf. All because I looked the wrong way at that otterbrat. Huh! Taggerung! I never ’eard of no otter becomin’ a Taggerung. But I’ll bide me time, Wherrul, wait’n’see. One day Sawney’ll pay for what ’e did to me, I swear it!’

  Hugging Gruven, Antigra closed her eyes, ignoring the whines and complaints of her companions. By listening hard she could hear Sawney and Grissoul’s voices echoing from the cave. Sawney was speaking of the otterbabe’s future.

  ‘As he grows I’ll teach him all I know; the use of the blade, the teeth, the claws. I’ll teach him never to turn his back on an enemy, to be more tough and savage than anybeast. Vallug can instruct him in archery. Little Taggerung’ll be twice as fierce and fast as my father ever was. He’s my lucky charm; since the time I found him my stomach hasn’t troubled me.’

  Grissoul stared into the fire, trying to extract messages from the flame-shapes and the pattern of the ashes. ‘Aye, the fortunes of the Juskarath grow by the day. Thou did well to heed the omens, Sawney Rath. But the babe must be taught speed. Quickness of the paw is everything. Give him a short and fast name to remind him of this.’

  A thought caused Sawney’s eyes to light up. ‘Tagg! That’s what we’ll call him. Tagg!’

  Grissoul brought forth certain objects from her pouch. ‘Now is the time to speak the ancient words and confirm him. Cover thine eyes when I put my paw o’er the flames.’

  The Seer placed a hawk feather, a piece of flint and the gleaming skull of a small pike on the ground beside the otterbabe. Holding her clenched paw above the flames, she opened it suddenly. A blue flare rose from the fire for a brief moment, intense and bright, and Grissoul began to chant.

  ‘Who can outrun the wind

  Yet turn on a single leaf,

  Stand silent as an amberfly

  Or steal the breath from a thief?

  The Taggerung!

  Who can outswim a pike,

  Whose eyes are keen as the hawk’s,

  Who brings death in his wake

  Yet leaves no mark where he walks?

  Zann Juskarath Taggerung!’

  Sawney watched as the Seer painted the clan sign on the sleeping infant’s face. A black stripe flanked by red dots, with a small added lightning flash of blue on his left cheek, to denote that he was no ordinary creature. The little one slept through it all. Sawney lay down beside him, sharing the cloak. Grissoul had never seen the ferret Chieftain show tenderness towards any living thing, so she was astonished when Sawney spoke gently to the babe.

  ‘Zann Juskarath Taggerung. My son Tagg!’

  Outside, under the sheltering canvas, Antigra bit her lip until she tasted blood.

  ‘Take the life of my mate, take the name from my son. I am strong, I can bear it. One day I will take it all back and add the title Taggerung to my son’s name. I hope you are strong then, Sawney Rath; strong enough to face a slow and painful death along with your new son Tagg. It will happen, I swear it on the memory of my mate Gruven!’

  Within the hour following dawn over Mossflower Wood, mist tendrils rose from the treetops. Heralding a fine warm day, the sun stood high in a sky as blue as a kingfisher’s tail plumes. Skipper took his javelin from Broggle’s paws. Ears and whiskers twitching, the big otter signalled by waving the weapon at the searchers nearby.

  ‘Down, mateys. Lie still’n’quiet!’

  Broggle dropped to the damp grass, his eyes wide. ‘Wh-what is it, S-S-Skip?’

  The otter threw a paw about Broggle’s shoulder. ‘Ssshhh, an’ listen!’

  It was the strangest of sounds, like three or four creatures all playing instruments, jangling but tuneful. It sounded even odder when a wobbly voice warbled along with the music in an off-key tenor.

  As whatever it was drew nearer, Skipper and Broggle had to stifle giggles at the ridiculous song.

  ‘Collop a lee collop a loo,

  Oh what I wouldn’t give to

  Be eating a filthy great plate o’ salad,

  Instead of composing this beautiful ballad.

  A collop a lollop a lee oh loo,

  Life’s hard without scoff ’tis true,

  You can always eat a lettuce, but

  A lettuce can’t eat you. Oooooohhhhhhh

  Collop a lee a loo!

  Hey ho for the life of a fool,

  I recall my mater’s wise rule,

  Eat at least ten meals a day,

  Or else you’ll waste away she’d say,

  Poor dear Mater so old and grey,

  And fat as two bales of hay, hey ho. Oooooohhhh

  Father said to me, “M’lad, you know,

  She’s goin’ to explode one day . . . I saaaaaaay.”

  So both of us ran away. Hey!’

  Crashing and stumbling through the undergrowth came a hare. On his head he wore what had been a three-pointed jester’s cap, but only the top point with its bell remained. The sides had been cut away, and in their place the hare’s ears formed the other two points, each with a small round bell attached to it. His outfit defied any accurate description; it was a flowing, trailing ragbag of harlequin silk, with bits catching on the bushes and tearing off as he toppled and staggered through the woodlands. The reason for his awkward gait was apparent: he was carrying a gigantic musical instrument. The thing had strings and levers, bells, small bugles, flutes and even a drum attached to it. He finally tripped and fell flat on his back. It did not seem to put him out a bit. He lay there, struggling with the instrument and still composing his ridiculous song.

  ‘Oh the saddest sight on earth,

  I’ll tell you for what it’s worth,

  Is the sight of a chap with an empty tum,

  Laid low in the grass without a chum,

  A jolly pal, who’d stay close by,

  An’ feed a poor fellow some apple pie,

  Or perchance a slice of onion pastie . . .’

  He stopped and gazed up at the faces of Skipper’s crew surrounding him. ‘I say, what rhymes with pastie?’

  Broggle offered a suggestion without thinking. ‘Fastie?’

  The hare looked thoughtful. ‘D’you think so? Let’s give it a try. Or perchance a slice of onion pastie, with which to break my morning fastie . . . hmm. Many thanks, old scout, but it’ll need a bit of workin’ on, wot!’

  Two of the ottercrew lifted the instrument from the hare. Skipper grabbed him and pulled him upright. ‘Tell me, how long’ve you been in these woods? Have ye seen anythin’ of a growed otter an’ a newborn otterbabe? Or did ye cross the path of any vermin lurkin’ ’ereabouts? Speak up!’

  The hare blinked and flopped his long ears to either side. ‘Bit of a tall order, old lad, but here goes, wot! I’m merely a wayfarin’ traveller, passin’ through, y’might say. As for otters, big or small, haven’t spotted any, aside from your goodself. Not a sign of a vermin either, lurkin’ or disportin’ their scummy hides t’me view. Sorry I can’t help you, sah!’

  Skipper eyed the odd creature up and down. ‘I think you’d best tell us yore name, matey, and what yore doin’ round here.’

  Before he could stop him, the hare had seized Skipper’s paw and was shaking it heartily. ‘Matey? Do I detect a nautical twang, sah? Well, me name ain’t matey. Boorab the Fool at y’service, bound to take up an exalted position as Master of Music, Occasional Entertainer Composer, Melodic Tutor and Instructor in all things lyrical. Without payment, of course. My services are rendered purely out of the kindness of my heart, y’know. The only remuneration I require is vittles. Food, sah. Grub, tucker, scoff, call it what y’will, as long as they’re not stingy with the portions, eh, wot, wot! By the bye, do any of you chaps know the way to an establishment known as Redwall Abbey?’

&nbs
p; Skipper broke the furious paw-shaking grip of Boorab. ‘Yore goin’ to Redwall Abbey?’ He turned to Brother Hoben who had volunteered for the search. ‘D’you know anythin’ about this, Brother?’

  Hoben, being Recorder, had his paw on all Abbey business. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘First I’ve heard of it. Tell me, Mr Boorab, who appointed you?’

  Boorab waggled his ears nonchalantly. ‘Nobeast really. One hears these things, y’know. Did you treat a goose with a bashed-up wing pinion last summer, perchance?’

  Hoben recalled the incident. ‘We did! He spent quite a bit of time with us until Sister Alkanet got him flying again. Why do you want to know?’

  Boorab relieved Drogg Spearback of a candied chestnut he had taken from his apron pocket, and chewed on it reflectively. ‘That was the very chap. Big white feathery cove, honked a lot. It was him who told me that your jolly old Abbey hasn’t got a hare, or a music master in residence there. So I thought I’d nip down an’ fill the post, wot. Hope no other bally hare’s beaten me to the blinkin’ job. Got to keep the old eye out for cads an’ rotters an’ job pinchers these days, y’know, wot!’

  Drogg drew Skipper to one side. ‘I thinks we’d best take ’im t’the Abbey,’ he murmured. ‘Cregga will decide what to do with ’im. What d’ye say, Skip?’

  The brawny otter smiled as he shot a glance at the quaint beast. ‘Hmm. Hares are good mates, ’cept when yore sittin’ next to one at dinner. I think we’ll ’ave to take Boorab back with us, Drogg. Supposin’ ’e fell over again. With that thing lyin’ atop of ’im the pore creature might never get up. I couldn’t ’ave that on me mind an’ sleep easy. Makes y’feel responsible for ’im, don’t he?’

  Drogg turned back to Boorab and gave him the good news. The hare was delighted, but he changed mood swiftly. Facing the ottercrew, he puffed out his narrow chest and acted as though he were challenging them.

  ‘Right, laddie bucks, any of you think you’re stronger than me?’

  Otters are fiercely proud of their agility and strength. Two hefty young ones sprang forward, a male and a female, and spoke together as one. ‘I am!’