The Taggerung (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Grissoul gathered up her paraphernalia and cast them a second time. She stared at them, then pointed. ‘See thou those bones which fell foursquare with that red piece of stone at their centre? Watch!’ She lifted the red stone slightly, and an ant crawled from beneath it and ran over the bones. The Seer smiled triumphantly. ‘It means that the Taggerung will be a creature from the Abbey!’

  Sawney placed a paw on the ground, and the ant ran on to it. The ferret held the paw close to his eyes, watching the insect circling a claw. ‘What manner of creature will it be?’

  Grissoul pursed her lips. ‘Who can tell?’ She inspected the pawprint Sawney had left in the sandy ground. ‘Five days from here, at the ford where waters cross the path. Then will thou see what sort of beast the Taggerung will be.’

  Sawney stood up and patted his stomach. ‘I feel better. Tell them to break camp; we travel tonight. To have a Taggerung in my clan will be the greatest of honours. My Juskarath will make the journey in four days. I want to be there early, in case other clan Seers have had visions. I’ll slay anybeast who comes near that ford. Tell the clan to hasten or I’ll leave them behind . . . aye, the same way I’m leaving Gruven here.’

  Grissoul stared at him, almost fondly. ‘Th’art a wise Chieftain, and ruthless too!’

  Sawney checked her as she went. ‘One other thing. Once we have the Taggerung we travel back this way fast, to the sea and shores. Nobeast at Redwall must know ’twas my clan that took him. If the tales about them are true, they must be fearsome warriors, with a long paw for vengeance. I need to avoid a conflict with such beasts.’

  He waved a paw, dismissing his Seer. As he did so, the ant was hurled from its perch and fell into a basin of water. Sawney failed to notice it, but the ant swam!

  * * *

  2

  ‘After spring’s soft rain is done,

  At waning of the moon,

  Four dry solid days of sun,

  Will bring forth growth and bloom.’

  Drogg Spearback, Cellarkeeper of Redwall Abbey, patted the soft headspikes of Egburt and Floburt, his little grandhogs. ‘Well said, young ’uns. You finally got it right!’

  Squinching her snout and tugging at her grandfather’s heavy cellar apron, Floburt, the inquisitive one, piped up. ‘But Granddad, we ain’t growthed an’ bloomed. I’m still only likkle, an’ so is Egburt. Why is that?’

  The stout old hedgehog winked knowingly at his grandson. ‘Cummon, Egburt, you tell ’er why.’

  Egburt sucked the tassel of the girdle cord which circled the waist of his smock, pondering the answer. ‘Hmm, er, ’cos us isn’t veggibles, we ’edgehogs, not plants.’

  Drogg chuckled until his stomach wobbled. Rummaging two candied chestnuts from his apron pocket he gave them one each. ‘You’ve got a brain ’neath those spikes, young ’og!’

  The hogbabes sat either side of their grandfather, on an upturned wheelbarrow in the orchard, enjoying the late spring noontide sun. Drogg spread both paws, gesturing round and about.

  ‘See all that? Well, that’s growth an’ bloom for you! Plants, grass, fruit’n’flowers, springin’ up like wildfire after the rains. Come midsummer we’ll be up to our spikes in apples, pears, plums, damsons, strawberries, blackberries an’ all manner o’ berries. Lookit the salad crop, o’er yonder by the redcurrant hedge: radish, cucumber, cress, scallions, lettuce. Ready for gatherin’ in, those are. Remember this, my liddle ’uns, you be plantin’ stuff in the earth an’ it’ll grow quick like. Save for the great trees like those in Mossflower Wood. They grow slower, stronger, just like us creatures, though trees live much longer’n we do.’

  Both little hedgehogs sat listening as they munched candied chestnuts. Drogg expanded his lecture, telling them of their heritage, Redwall Abbey. He loved the place with a fierce pride, which he communicated to them. ‘Plants, trees an’ creatures, they come’n’go sooner or later. Not this ole Abbey, though! Lookit all this wunnerful red sandstone. Shines like dusty pink roses in late noon sun. Nobeast who comes wantin’ trouble can pass those big rampart walls of the main gate with the liddle gate’ouse beside it. I couldn’t even guess ’ow old our great Abbey buildin’ is. Bell tower, gables, columns, Great Hall, Cavern ’Ole, kitchens, dormitories, an’ my cellars too. They must’ve been ’ere for ever an’ a day!’

  Floburt dug her tiny paw into his broad apron pocket, searching for more nuts. Her granddad usually carried a goodly supply. ‘Have you been ’ere forever’n’aday, Granddad?’

  Smiling, he shook his great spiked head. ‘Dearie me no, though I been an Abbeybeast longer’n most, save for ole Cregga.’

  Egburt joined his sister in rummaging in the apron pocket. ’Ole Cregga the Badgermum? ’Ow long’s she been ’ere, Granddad?’

  Drogg pondered the question, chewing the milky sap from a grass stalk. ‘Hmm, let me see. Cregga is wot they call the last of the old ’uns. I think she’s older’n some o’ the trees ’ereabouts. Great warrior she was, but blinded in some ancient battle. Brother Hoben, the Recorder, says that Cregga has outlived two Abbesses, Tansy an’ Song, both long gone. He says that she knew Arven the Champion an’ my great-grand’og, Gurgan Spearback, many seasons afore I was born. So figger it out yoreself. ’Ow old d’you think Cregga is?’

  Egburt’s eyes grew wide as he tried to calculate the answer in hedgehog manner, by counting on his headspikes. ‘Phwaw! She mus’ be eleventeen thousing seasons old!’

  Drogg allowed them to find the rest of his candied chestnut supply before he rose slowly. ‘Aye, at least that much, I’d say. I got to go now an’ broach a barrel of October Ale for the counsellors’ meetin’ tonight. You Dibbuns stay out o’ trouble, an’ don’t go gettin’ those nice clean smocks muddied up, or yore mum’ll dust yore spikes with an oven paddle. Why don’t you go an’ see if there be any news of Filorn ottermum’s babe? But mind, don’t make a nuisance of y’selves. See you anon.’

  Both Dibbuns giggled at the idea of their mother spanking them with an oven paddle. She was far too gentle. Being sent early to bed was the limit of punishment for Redwall babes. When Drogg had departed, they clambered from the wheelbarrow and ran squeaking and jumping into the orchard. A tiny mole was exploring a clump of bilberry stalks, searching among the pink globe-shaped blossoms. Waving a pudgy digging claw in greeting, he called out in the quaint mole accent, ‘Burr, goo’ day to ee. They’m bilbeez ain’t a growed yet. Taken ee toime they be’s!’

  ‘My mum sez you get tummy ache from eatin’ bilberries afore midsummer,’ Floburt commented sagely.

  Gundil, the Dibbun mole, flicked his stubby tail scornfully. ‘Moi mum sez ee same thing, but oi loikes bilbeez, h’even if’n oi do gets tumbly h’ache.’ He ambled out of the bilberry clump and shrugged. ‘Bain’t none thurr, tho’. Whurr us’n’s be a goen?’

  Egburt pointed towards the Abbey. ‘We goin’ t’see if Filorn ottermum’s new baby be a borned yet. Cummon!’

  The three little chums wandered off paw in paw towards the Abbey. Once inside, they stopped off at Great Hall to play a favourite Dibbuns game. Almost lost amid the vastness of stone and timber beams, they hopped about on the floor, in and out of harlequin hues of sunshafts from the stained glass windows far above them.

  Gundil gave a deep bass giggle, holding a paw to his face. ‘Hurrhurrhurr. Luk ee! Oi be’s all purkle!’

  Floburt twirled about in a pool of amber light. ‘An’ I’m all gold, a solid golden ’ogmaid!’

  Egburt chose a shaft of aquamarine blue, floundering upon his back as though he were drowning. ‘Save me! I’m unner the deep deep water! ’Elp!’

  Floburt and Gundil dutifully rescued Egburt and all three fled downstairs into Cavern Hole, where preparations were under way for the counsellors’ meeting. Friar Bobb, a stout old squirrel, shooed them out with a rush broom.

  ‘Come on, out out. You’ll get trodden on, wandering about under everybeast’s paws. Go and play elsewhere, you rascals. Quick now. Scoot!’

  He made as if to run
after them. The little pals thought it was great fun to be chased, and trundled off helter skelter. Halting on the dormitory landing above the first flight of stairs, Gundil stifled his chuckles and peeked down the spiral stairwell. He tapped a paw against his velvety snout.

  ‘Ee Froyer woan’t foind us’n’s oop yurr. Hurr, boi ’okey ee woan’t!’

  Shaking with glee, Egburt pointed to a door. ‘Let’s ’ide in there unner the beds!’

  Gundil stood on Egburt’s back in his effort to reach the latch, but it still proved too high. Floburt was trying to clamber up on top of them both when somebeast inside heard and opened the door.

  The trio of Dibbuns fell tail over ears into the room. Filorn the ottermum stood holding the door, smiling down at them.

  ‘Well, well. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?’

  Gundil tugged his snout respectfully. ‘Uz cummed to see if’n ee likkle h’otter was borned, marm.’

  Rillflag, Filorn’s husband, their daughter, a pretty little ottermaid named Mhera, and the great Badgermum Cregga were standing around a woven rush cradle in one corner. Mhera, who was four seasons older than the three Dibbuns, beckoned them over.

  ‘He was born this morning. Come and see. He’s beautiful!’

  Cregga looked so huge and intimidating that the trio backed away slightly. A deep rumbling laugh came from the blind badger as she sensed their trepidation. Turning her sightless eyes in their direction she whispered gently, ‘Oh, do come and look at him. He won’t bite you. Neither will I. It’s Gundil and the two little Spearbacks, isn’t it?’

  Floburt trotted dutifully over to the crib, with the other two trailing behind, wondering how the blind badger knew who they were. Standing on tip-paw they gazed at the tiny new otterbabe. The little fellow stared solemnly back through sleepy dark eyes. Soft infant fur fuzzed out from his chubby cheeks, and a small pink tongue-tip showed as he yawned contentedly.

  Mhera stroked his fluffy paw. ‘Isn’t he the prettiest little cub you ever saw?’

  Egburt looked up at her enquiringly. ‘Is that ’is name, Cub?’

  Rillflag stroked his son’s downy head, smiling. ‘No, cub is just a word for a babe. His name is Deyna. My great-grandsire was a warrior called Deyna, and he carried a mark from birth just like this little fellow, see.’

  He turned the babe’s paw pad upward. Instead of being all black like the other three, this one only had black edging. In the centre was a pink mark, like a four-leaf clover, with one piece thinner than the others. Gundil touched it.

  ‘’Tis loike ee likkle flower. Can ee babby coom owt an’ play with us’n’s, zurr?’

  Rillflag shook his head in amusement. ‘Not yet. Next season, maybe.’

  Filorn took a box from the mantelpiece and let them each choose a piece of preserved fruit from it. ‘I’m sure you’ll make good friends for little Deyna when he’s old enough to be up and about. Run along and play now.’

  Cregga enveloped all three Dibbuns in her massive paws. ‘Not so fast there, rascals. I could hear you outside. You only came in here to hide from Friar Bobb, didn’t you?’

  Floburt shook her head vigorously. ‘Ho no, marm, ’onest we didn’t. Us was comin’ to see if Deyna was borned. Ole Friar Bobb chased us out o’ Cavern ’Ole.’

  The blind badger tapped a paw against her forehead. ‘Of course, I’d almost forgotten, the counsellors’ meeting. Right, you three can help me manage those stairs. Slowly, now; my paws aren’t as young as yours!’

  ‘Hurr, doan’t ee wurry, marm. Uz’ll get ee thurr noicely!’

  Hiding a smile, Cregga allowed the three to grasp her robe and guide her to the door. ‘Thank you. I’m sure you will!’

  When they had gone, Mhera picked her new little brother up and walked round the room with him, talking softly to him as she had seen her mother doing.

  ‘Who’s going to grow up into a great big riverdog like his dad then, eh?’

  Rillflag shook his head. ‘He ain’t a real riverdog until his back’s touched runnin’ water.’

  Filorn took the baby from Mhera and held him close. ‘Don’t you think he’s a bit young for that?’

  The big male otter snorted. ‘Not at all. My father took me to the river when I was his age, just as I took Mhera when she was born. Deyna will feel the running water on his back too!’

  There was a note of pleading in Filorn’s voice. ‘But he’s so small. Perhaps you could wet his back in the Abbey pond, at the warm shallow edge?’

  Rillflag was adamant. ‘The Abbey pond has no current; it doesn’t run on to the sea. It’s got to be running water. The ford, where the stream crosses the path, that’s the place.’

  ‘I’ll go with you, Father. I’ll carry little Deyna.’

  Rillflag patted his daughter’s shoulder. ‘No need for that. You stay here and help your mother. I can carry that little rogue, he weighs nothing. Me and Deyna will bring you back some fresh watershrimp and good long watercress. Maybe some hotroot too, if we spot any.’

  Filorn resigned herself to the fact that argument was useless. Her husband could be a very stubborn creature.

  ‘Your father’s right, Mhera. You’d only slow him down. We’ll get a nice naming party organised while he and Deyna are away. Then, when he’s made a real riverdog of our baby, we’ll name him properly, like any other Redwaller.’

  Mhera took to the idea eagerly. ‘Yes! The moment you set off, Dad, we’ll get organising with Friar Bobb, Drogg Cellarhog, the Foremole and Sister Alkanet. I can start gathering mushrooms and scallions for pasties, Mama can get the ingredients ready for her fruit and honey cake, and we’ll ask Drogg if he has a cask of strawberry fizz . . .’

  Filorn held up both paws against her daughter’s onslaught. ‘Enough, enough! I’m starting to feel worn out just listening to you. We’ll make a start after your father’s left. Er, when will you be setting off, dear?’

  Rillflag took an old travelling cloak and fashioned it into a carrying sling across one shoulder. He selected a stout ash-handled spear, which would double as a travelling stave. ‘As soon as you’ve packed some food and drink for two warriors. Enough for three days should do. We don’t plan on wasting time at the wayside, do we, Deyna?’

  From his mother’s arms, the baby otter gave a rough squeak. Rillflag nodded in his direction. ‘He said no.’

  All three burst out laughing.

  Down in Cavern Hole the meeting of Redwall counsellors was about to begin. A supper of spring vegetable soup, new-baked oatbread and wedges of white cheese studded with hazelnuts, with October Ale and apple flan, was being served to the counsellors seated round the big table. Foremole Brull, Cregga Badgermum, Brother Hoben, Friar Bobb, Sister Alkanet and Drogg Cellarhog were present. Brother Hoben indicated an empty seat as he recorded the members’ names.

  ‘Where’s Rillflag this evening? Anybeast seen him?’

  Cregga leaned forward to accept a tankard of October Ale. ‘Otter business. I think he’s got to take the little ’un for some ceremony or other. You know the way he is about otter rituals. Anyhow, I’ll make his apologies for absence.’

  Friar Bobb tapped the tabletop with his ladle. ‘On with the meeting, then. Sister Alkanet?’

  The Sister was a thin, severe, no-nonsense type of mouse. She bowed formally to the others and began.

  ‘Friends, this Abbey has been without Abbot or Abbess for far too long. I suggested this meeting so that the situation might be finally remedied. Have you any ideas?’

  Foremole Brull held up a sizeable digging claw. It was unusual for the moles to have a female leader, but Brull was solid as a rock and full of good common sense. She was liked by all.

  ‘Yurr, oi doan’t think et aportant. Ee Abbey be runnen noice’n’smooth unner Cregga Badgermum. Nowt amiss wi’ urr; she’m gudd!’

  A general murmur of agreement confirmed Brull’s mole logic. Before Sister Alkanet could object, Cregga spoke for herself.

  ‘You all know I’m not a real Abbess, never w
anted to be. But when old Abbess Song went to her reward I took up the job of caretaker, in the absence of anybeast’s being elected officially. I’m countless seasons older than the oldest among you, I’m blind, sometimes I ache all over and I sleep most of the day. However, as Brull says, the Abbey runs nice’n’smooth. I merely guide or advise. Redwallers are trusty, responsible creatures; they usually know what needs doing to keep the place up to the mark. I’m quite happy to leave things as they are, though even I won’t last for ever. If you’re content with an ancient, blind badger sitting in as substitute, then I’ll continue to do so. With your kind permission, of course.’

  Amid the applause from the counsellors, Sister Alkanet, who was always the mouse to raise difficult issues, raised her paw. ‘Then what about a Champion? Redwall needs a defender like Martin the Warrior.’

  Friar Bobb’s snort of impatience was heard by all, as he wagged his ladle at the Sister and gave vent to his feelings. ‘I’ve got four great plum puddings steaming in the kitchens, and I’ve also got a sleepy assistant. Young Broggle will probably let the puddings boil dry if I’m not there soon. Sister Alkanet, marm, you brought up this same question at this same meeting this time last season. I’ll give you the same answer now as I gave you then. Redwall is strong. Tyrants and vermin warlords have broken their skulls against our walls. The Abbey is too hard a nut to crack, vermin everywhere know that. Only a fool would try to test our might. These days there is no need of perilous warriors and great swords—’

  Alkanet was up on her paws, pounding the table and objecting. ‘But what if there were, Friar? What if the day came when we woke to find the foe at our gates and no brave one to lead or defend us? What then, sir? What then?’

  Cregga’s big paw hit the tabletop, silencing further argument. ‘Enough! We are supposed to be responsible elders, not squabbling Dibbuns. Friar Bobb, you may return to your kitchens. I’m very fond of plum puddings; they mustn’t boil dry. Now, Sister, in answer to your question. Champions and Abbey Warriors have always arisen when the need is great. It would be presumptuous of us to appoint one; that is something nobeast save Martin the Warrior can do. Martin was the founder Warrior of Redwall. His sword hangs over the picture of him on the tapestry in Great Hall, and there it will stay until he chooses the next Warrior. When our Abbey is in danger, the spirit of Martin will enter some young Redwaller, and he or she will pick up the sword of Martin to defend us. So let us hear no more talk of electing a Champion. Sit down, friends, and let’s do this good food justice. Brother Hoben, pass me the bread and cheese, if you please. Sister Alkanet, would you like to pour me some October Ale?’