The Taggerung (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Boorab clapped them on their backs. ‘Splendid. Two towerin’ figures of otter muscle, wot! I’ll wager you could lift that instrument with me jolly well sittin’ atop of it, right?’

  It was the otters’ turn to swell their chests and flex their muscles. They chorused in agreement. ‘Right!’

  Skipper knew what was coming, and he chuckled as Boorab answered, ‘Good, then I won’t sit on the instrument. You two carry it an’ I’ll walk. I’m not lazy, y’know!’

  Skipper walked alongside Boorab. He was developing a liking for the comical hare. ‘Boorab the Fool, eh? You ain’t such a fool, matey, I can tell. That’s the queerest ole instrument I’ve ever clapped eyes on. What d’ye call it?’

  Boorab stumbled slightly, and gathered up his flapping robes. ‘That, sah, is a haredee gurdee. Made it m’self. Mandolin, drums, fiddle, flutes, bugles an’ harp, all in one. With a space in the mandolin bowl to carry one’s vittles. Empty now, as ill luck an’ a healthy appetite would have it.’

  Broggle trundled along between Skipper and Boorab, carrying the big otter javelin. Boorab cast an eye over the fat little squirrel. ‘Ah, my friend the rhymester. What do they call you, young sir?’

  ‘B-Broggle, M-Mr Boorab s-sir!’

  Boorab glanced across at Skipper. ‘How long has the little chap had that stammer, wot?’

  Skipper shrugged. ‘Long as I’ve knowed ’im.’

  Boorab turned back to Broggle. ‘Say ah!’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Now longer. Say aaaaaahhh!’

  ‘Aaaaaaahhhhhh!’

  ‘Excellent. Now sing out like this.’ The hare composed a small tune on the spot. ‘My name is Broggle, Mr Boorab saaaaah!’

  Skipper nodded at the young squirrel to do as he was bidden.

  Broggle took a deep breath and sang forth. ‘My name is Broggle, Mr Boorab saaaaaaaah!’

  The hare smiled. ‘Very good. Did y’notice anything, Broggle?’

  ‘N-no, s-sir?’

  Boorab chucked him lightly under the chin. ‘You never stammered once when y’had to sing.’

  An expression of awe and delight framed the young squirrel’s face. ‘I d-didn’t, s-sir?’

  ‘No of course y’didn’t, laddie buck. Try singin’ instead of talkin’. It’ll help, you’ll see, wot!’

  Suddenly Broggle brandished the javelin and sang out in a clear little voice.

  ‘I didn’t stammer once when I had to sing,

  So now I’m going to sing everything!’

  Boorab winked at Skipper. ‘Told you that chap was a good rhymester. We’ll soon get rid of that stammer, wot wot!’

  Skipper grinned from ear to ear. ‘I think ole Cregga Badgermum’s goin’ to like you, matey.’

  Broggle skipped ahead, waving the javelin and singing lustily.

  ‘I work in Redwall kitchens, with old Friar Bobb,

  ’Cos I’m the cook’s assistant, that’s my job!’

  The hare raised his eyebrows. ‘Assistant cook, wot? A fine chap t’know, I’d say. I think I’ll give the little grubslinger his singin’ lessons in the kitchen. Marvellous places, kitchens. Full of food, y’know.’

  Cregga was in the kitchens with Mhera, Filorn and Friar Bobb, beginning to work on a menu for the feast. Filorn realised that the others were trying to cheer her up, and to please them she joined in with the proceedings, her enthusiasm rising every time Mhera smiled at her.

  ‘Oh, Mama, say you’ll bake your apple and raspberry flan, with meadowcream and the pattern of mint leaves on top. Oh, please, we haven’t had it for ages!’

  Filorn fussed with her apron ties. ‘I’m not sure I can remember how to do it. The apples are very important. But it’s the wrong season for apples, is it not, Friar?’

  The fat Friar chuckled. ‘Not at all, marm. What sort o’ Friar would I be if’n I didn’t keep a good stock of last autumn’s russet apples in my larders? Nothin’ like a nice russet!’

  ‘Oh yes there is. Two nice russets, wot, hawhawhaw!’

  They were startled by the sudden appearance of the quaintly garbed hare. Friar Bobb grabbed his biggest ladle. ‘Who are you and what’re you doin’ in our Abbey?’

  Broggle marched in and pointed at the hare with Skipper’s lance.

  ‘Boorab is my friend,

  On that you may depend,

  He’s come to stay awhile,

  Be nice to him and smile!’

  Mhera went into a fit of chuckles. ‘Broggle, what are you singing like that for?’

  The bells on the hare’s cap and ears jingled as he did a hopskip towards the ottermaid and gave a low sweeping bow. ‘Why, my pretty one, well may you ask. But observe, when my pal Broggle sings he doesn’t stammer. Simple, wot?’

  Cregga’s booming voice brought the hare to instant attention. ‘Stand up straight, sah, ears upright, whiskers t’the front, paws in position an’ tail well fluffed. Identify y’self!’

  The hare threw a smart salute and rattled off his reply. ‘Boorab the Fool, marm! That’s B for Bellscut, O for Oglecrop, O for Obrathon, R for Ragglewaithe, A for Audube, B for Baggscut. Marm!’

  Cregga beckoned the hare to her. She put out a paw and ran it over his face and ears, nodding sagely. ‘Hah! That’s a Baggscut face all right. I should know, after commanding more than a thousand hares when I ruled the mountain of Salamandastron. Your grandfather, Pieface Baggscut, served under me as a leveret runner.’

  Boorab chuckled. ‘Stap m’whiskers, old Grandpa Pieface, eh wot? Now there was a beast who c’d lick his weight in salad, wot wot! I remember one time, I must’ve been no bigger’n young Broggle there . . .’ His voice faltered as the realisation of whom he was addressing hit him. He gulped.

  ‘Oh corks! Oh crumbs! Marm, oh, marm! You must be Lady Cregga Rose Eyes, Ruler of Salamandastron, the wild-eyed Warrior Queen, the Belle of the blinkin’ Bloodwrath, the kill—’

  ‘Silence! That’s enough of that, young Baggscut. And who told you to stand easy? Come to attention, sah!’

  Skipper, who had been listening from the doorway, came forward. The otter Chieftain held a long whispered conversation with Cregga, who held a huge handkerchief to her face. To anybeast watching it looked as if she had been taken by a fit of coughing, but in fact Cregga was bravely striving to stop herself roaring out with laughter. Mhera felt sorry for the odd hare, standing nervously to attention, ear and cap bells tinkling faintly, awaiting the pronouncement of his fate, and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, sir, it’ll be all right.’

  It took Cregga a considerable time to get her mirth under control, but at last she wiped her eyes and cleared her throat portentously.

  ‘I am informed that you are applying for the post of Redwall Abbey’s Master of Music, Occasional Entertainer Composer, Melodic Tutor and Instructor in all things lyrical. I understand that you have come on the recommendation of a goose that was treated here some while back. Is that correct?’

  Boorab the Fool brightened up instantly. ‘You’ve got it in one, marm. Y’won’t regret it, I promise you. Why, I’ll have the whole flippin’ Abbey singin’ an’ dancin’ from dawn to bally nightfall, just you wait’n’see, wot!’

  Cregga shut him up with a wave of her paw. ‘But you haven’t got the job yet. I’m not too sure we are in need of your services. Tell me, what would you want in return?’

  Boorab sucked his stomach in, trying to look like a beast who ate virtually nothing. ‘Want in return, marm? Merely a place to rest the old head an’ the odd pawful o’ fodder. I’m more of a dedicated artist of m’trade. The thought of food makes me sick sometimes. Why, a butterfly with no appetite eats more’n I jolly well do.’

  Cregga turned her face to Filorn and Mhera. ‘Hmm. What do you think? Shall I hire the hare?’

  Mhera was surprised her opinion had been asked. ‘Oh, please do, Cregga marm. Look at the way Mr Boorab is helping Broggle. Mama, say you want him to have the job.’

  Filorn could not help smiling at the look of noble dedication that Boorab was ra
diating in her direction. ‘I’ll go along with my daughter. I think you should let Boorab have the position, Cregga.’

  The badger sat stroking her chin until the tension grew unbearable for Boorab, and he flung himself at her footpaws. ‘Merciful marm, say y’will, I bally well beg you. Don’t leave a benighted Baggscut blunderin’ about in the storm an’ snow without a kindly crust to keep fur an’ ears together! Oh, me little furry friend Broggle, sing a line on my behalf!’

  The young squirrel obliged.

  ‘He wants to work in the kitchens,

  With me an’ Friar Bobb,

  So please Cregga Badgermum,

  Give him the blinkin’ job!’

  Cregga drummed her paws on the tabletop, then nodded. ‘Here’s my decision. I’ll put you on one season’s probation, Boorab, under the supervision of Filorn, Mhera, Broggle and Friar Bobb. Now, you four, keep your eyes on this hare. His meals must be the same size as any other Redwaller’s, no secret snacks or midnight feasts. If he is reported just once for raiding the larders, out of the gate he goes! Also, he will sleep and rise at the same time as everybeast. Unless he is ill, there will be no lying late abed, or nipping off to shady spots for a snooze. We will see how he behaves throughout this coming summer season. Do you agree with our terms, Boorab?’

  For answer, Boorab bowed formally, did a somersault of joy and began serenading them on his haredee gurdee, which two of Skipper’s crew had just brought in. It jangled and booped wildly as Boorab made up the words as he went along.

  ‘Derry cum day foll deeh,

  I pray you listen to me.

  I’ll compose this ditty upon the spot,

  To say you’re a jolly decent lot,

  Then you can judge for yourself or not,

  What an Abbey asset I’ll be,

  Derry cum day foil deeh!

  You lot won’t know you’re born,

  I’ll be up before each dawn,

  To serve you crumpets’n’tea in bed,

  To wake you gently I’ll stroke your head,

  I’ll warble sweetly until you’re fed,

  And you’ll never feel forlorn,

  ’Cos I’ll do this every morn!

  Sing derry cum dee all day,

  What a splendid hare you’ll say,

  He’s handsome, happy an’ modest too,

  An’ what a cook, why I’ll tell you,

  There’s nought this super chap can’t do,

  Let’s never send him away,

  Yes, I’ll wager that’s what you’ll say!’

  Boorab finished his song with a winning smile, made an elegant leg, bowed, picked up his haredee gurdee and overbalanced. He fell amidst a discordant crash of bugles, drums and twanging strings. Foremole Brull covered her eyes with a huge digging claw, patting Cregga sympathetically with the other.

  ‘Hurr, marm, oi bets ee be deloighted we’m gotten uz ee hurrbeast. Yurr, Skip, lend oi ee paw to ’elp ’im oop.’

  Boorab struggled from under the mammoth instrument. ‘Soup? Did somebeast mention soup? I say, you chaps, it must be time for dinner, wot?’

  Friar Bobb placed his head mournfully on Filorn’s shoulder. ‘My ole dad used t’say that feedin’ a hare was like chuckin’ pebbles down a deep well. You never fill it in a thousand long seasons!’

  * * *

  5

  Though it was still only early summer, hot noontide sun beat down on the shore. Below the flotsam-wreathed tideline clear turquoise shallows gave way to a bright blue sea. A mild southerly breeze chased the creamy spray atop swelling wavebanks as they rolled in to break noisily midst rock pools and sandy coves. Juskarath tents had been pitched on the beach, where dunes met the strand. Sitting on a blanket, the otterbabe waited hungrily for the next mouthful of food, which Grissoul was feeding him from a large scallop shell. Sawney hovered round them like an old mother hen, watching anxiously.

  ‘Be careful there’s no fish bones in that concoction!’

  The Seer used a mussel shell to transfer food to the babe’s mouth. ‘Fret thou not, there is nought in this but goodness, the white flesh of sole and young seaweed, cooked with a pinch of sea salt. I made it myself. See how he likes it?’

  Sawney tweaked the otterbabe’s stomach. The infant growled at him for disturbing its feed, and the ferret Chieftain chuckled. ‘Hoho. Did you hear that? My little Tagg has a temper. Eat it all up and grow strong, my son. Did they bring in some fresh young scallops for his supper?’

  Grissoul shrugged. ‘They say the tide is strong yet. When it ebbs they will search for some among the rocks.’

  Sawney’s mood changed. He whirled on a group lounging nearby. ‘Juskarath clanbeasts frightened of a few waves? Up, up off your idle backs and get foraging. Our Taggerung needs only the youngest, most tender scallops for his evening meal. You, Felch, take Antigra and the rest of your lazy crew. Get out of my sight, and I warn you, don’t come back with empty paws!’

  They hurried to obey. Sawney turned his back on them, to face four rats who came stumbling hot and tired down a steep dune. ‘Well, did you cut any sign of creatures tracking us?’

  Shaking his head, the lead rat hunkered down in the sand. ‘Nah, nary a pawmark or a bruised leaf. ’Tis more than twoscore days now. If they was comin’ after us we’d ’ave spotted ’em long since, Chief.’

  Sawney drew his blade and pointed it at the rat. ‘I asked for your report, not your opinion, Grobait. How far back did you search? Tell me the truth!’

  Grobait cringed visibly under Sawney’s ruthless eyes. ‘Close on a day back upstream, Chief. There wasn’t a sign of anybeast, I swear it on me oath!’

  Sawney toyed with the trackers as they nodded agreement with Grobait and sat waiting on their clan leader’s word. He turned, as if dismissing them.

  ‘A day upstream, eh? Well, let’s see you try a little further afield this time. Say two days upstream. Get going!’ He tossed his knife, catching it by the point, ready to throw. ‘Now go!’

  Allowing himself a humourless smile, Sawney strode off, listening to the laboured grunts of the rats as they clambered wearily back through the shifting sand to the dunetops.

  Standing shoulder-deep in a rockpool Antigra shielded her eyes as a wave cascaded over the stones. The other vermin who had been sent with her and Felch to gather scallops coughed and spluttered seawater. Antigra kept her gaze riveted on the ferret Chieftain, who was swaggering about among the tents, issuing orders. The stoat mother gritted her teeth.

  ‘Look at him, Sawney Rath the high and mighty clan chief, giving out commands like the warlord of a battlehorde. Run here, run there, fetch me this and give me that, bring the best of scallops. And what for? The supper of an otterbrat!’

  A weasel named Milkeye tossed a scallop into the bag slung about Wherrul’s neck and turned his one good eye on Antigra. ‘Better not let him ’ear yer talkin’ like that!’

  Antigra hurled a scallop against the rock, smashing the shell. ‘An ottercub, a mewling puking little riverdog, lying on a blanket in the shade, getting the choicest vittles specially cooked and fed to it. Look at my babe Gruven. I had to leave him lying there alone, out in the sun, while I forage for the next meal of a so-called Taggerung!’

  Milkeye rescued the broken scallop and sucked the contents from its smashed shell. ‘’Tis agin the clan law to speak like that about a Taggerung.’

  Antigra curled her lip in contempt. ‘You’ll see who the real Taggerung is when my son grows. He’ll be ten times tougher and faster than that spoilt little ruddertail, you wait and see. Since Sawney brought that creature to our clan he’s changed. Treading roughshod over us, killing and injuring his own tribe.’

  Felch held up his useless paw. ‘Aye, Antigra’s right, but who’s goin’ to challenge Sawney? He’s like lightnin’ with that blade of his.’

  Antigra flattened her back against the rocks, avoiding another shower from a breaking wave. ‘Sawney Rath’s father was even harder and swifter, but time caught up with him. I remember him be
ing the Taggerung when I was a young ’un. He lived on his legend. Sawney is older than us, growing out of his prime, more every season. We can wait. The time will arrive when his paw isn’t so strong, nor his eye so keen. That’s when I’ll take my revenge, aye, me and my son against him and his parentless brat!’

  Wherrul nudged Antigra. ‘Hush. ’Ere comes the vixen!’

  Grissoul came to the pool’s edge, calling to them over the booming surf. ‘Bring enough scallops for Sawney Rath too, and don’t be all day about it. I want thee to forage for wild celery and onion in the dunelands. Bring any fresh herbs ye see growin’ there also!’

  Wherrul hauled himself from the water, the bag of scallops clacking against his chest. ‘Young scallops cooked in wild celery’n’onion an’ herbs,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bowlful o’ that meself.’

  Milkeye elbowed the rat aside. ‘Huh! You’ll git wot yore given, like the rest of us, a lick of Sawney’s temper an’ leftover scraps!’

  Antigra reached out a paw and helped Felch ashore. ‘Don’t fret. It may take seasons yet, but we can wait. One day the tables will be turned, and then ’twill be us eating off the fat of the land!’

  At Redwall Abbey there was no shortage of good food. That same evening Redwallers shared the best of everything as they sat in a lantern-lit orchard to celebrate the Summer of Friendship feast.

  Before the food was served, the elders, counsellors and parents took their places. Smiling and nodding to one another, they watched as the newly formed Dibbuns’ choir filed in and stood in order of height, tallest standing at the rear, a line kneeling in front of them, and the front row, of the smallest, sitting cross-legged. All were holding tiny lanterns, and their clean robes and well-scrubbed faces were bright in the soft reflected light.

  Boorab strode majestically to the rostrum, which was the old upturned wheelbarrow decked out in summer blossoms. The hare made a dignified bow to the elders, and then, taking out a bulrush baton, he coughed formally.