BOOK TWO
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Fifteen Seasons On
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6
Felch the fox had run, taking the blade of Sawney Rath with him. Trees, shrubs, bushes and grass merged into a green blur in the dawn rain as the fox staggered along on leaden paws. Felch had been running since midnight. He was glad of the rain, hoping that it would obliterate his tracks and throw his pursuer off the scent. Instinctively he knew that Sawney would send only one creature to hunt him down. The Taggerung. Blundering into nettlebeds and crashing through groves of fern, Felch felt a numbing terror constrict his aching chest. Who could escape the Taggerung? Now the weariness was pressing upon him; he could feel himself making stupid errors. Rain or no rain, he was leaving a trail that a one-eyed toad could follow. But the sound of a river in the distance drove him onward through north Mossflower. It was the only place where he could possibly stand a chance. Rainwater dropped from his nosetip on to his parched tongue, and he blinked away the raindrops which broke against his slitted eyelids. A fat woodpigeon, which had been feeding on the ground, whirred up in front of him. The startled fox let out a ragged yelp and tripped over an elm root. Ignoring the blood seeping from an injured footpad, he struggled upright and continued a crazily weaving course. River noise grew loud in his ears as he skirted a yew thicket, his heart rising at the sight in front of him: a high riverbank with alder and willows overhanging it. There were rocks sticking up from the water, which was deep with no shallows. Felch grabbed a leafy bough and scrabbled down. Cold swirling currents took his breath away for a moment as he landed shoulder-deep in front of a rock ledge. Pushing through the overhanging willow foliage, he wedged himself safely under the bank, out of the main current. Rain dappled the river surface, its noise making hearing difficult. The fox was boneweary, hungry, wet and miserable, but at least he was alive. His eyes flickered from side to side as he watched for any unusual movement around him, some inner sense suddenly telling him there was another creature nearby. From above, small fragments of rock and earth splashed into the water, and overhanging willow branches swayed, dipping downward into the current.
Felch held his breath, one paw inching underwater to the knife thrust in his belt. He could not see the banktop because of the jutting ledge he was hiding under, but he knew somebeast was up there, casting about in the rain for signs of him. It had to be the Taggerung! The fox brought Sawney’s blade slowly out of the water, and with his good paw held it ready for an upward thrust. Felch had never been so afraid, but he was desperate. Taggerung or not, he was prepared to sell his life dearly, rather than be dragged back to the Juska camp to face Sawney Rath’s vengeance.
His eyes flickered upward. On the bank above he could hear movement over the rain noise. A shower of pebbles hit the water, along to his right, then he caught the sound of a dead twig breaking underpaw further away. Felch, his heart pounding, remained motionless beneath the ledge for a long time, his vulpine sense stretched to the limit as he listened and watched. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally knew. The Taggerung had gone, he was sure of it. Shuddering with a mixture of relief, cold and exhilaration, Felch relaxed. He had escaped the Taggerung!
However, he knew that he would have to stay hidden until night. If the Taggerung was hiding somewhere nearby, waiting for his quarry to break cover and run, he would be disappointed. Felch was no fool. Having got this far he was not going to betray himself with any sudden silly moves. Lowering the dagger until it was level with his face, the fox saw his breath misting the bright blade. He cursed inwardly. Maybe if Sawney’s blade had not been in question the Juska Chieftain might not have sent the Taggerung to hunt him down. Perhaps he might have let Felch desert the clan, not thinking the fox of any great importance, merely an old follower with a useless paw.
The fox’s eyes hardened as he recalled how mercilessly Sawney had ruined his paw with that same blade. A fierce determination swept over him, and he thrust the knife back into his belt. It belonged to him now! If he was no longer one of the Juskarath, he would take something with him, for all the long seasons of unrewarded service to Sawney Rath. Aye, the ferret would remember Felch the fox, every time he looked at the space in his belt where the blade used to be.
Since late spring Sawney had been harassing Antigra and her companions, as if expecting some sort of mutiny within the clan. He had come down hard on Felch, abusing and humiliating the fox at every possible opportunity. It had come to a head on the previous evening. Felch had been out foraging in the north sector of Mossflower’s sprawling woodlands, and was returning to camp with a meagre offering, a small trout he had found floating dead in a stream. Sawney stood watching him trying to slink into camp unnoticed. The Juska Chieftain was tossing his knife idly, catching it by the blade, just below its tip. He looked to be in a foul mood.
Sawney’s rasping voice had stopped the fox in his tracks. ‘What’s that dirty piece of rubbish you’re sneaking back with?’
Felch avoided the ferret’s irate stare. ‘It’s a fish, a young trout I caught.’
Sawney sniggered nastily, pointing with his knife. ‘You must’ve had a hard battle bringing in a monster like that. Hold it up so we can all see it. Go on, hold it up.’
Felch raised the small dead fish half-heartedly, his eyes fixed on the knife Sawney was toying with. He could guess what was coming by the tone of Sawney’s voice.
‘I told you to bring a bird back, a big fat woodpigeon. I know an idiot like you has trouble telling the difference between a bird and a fish. But maybe I’m wrong, perhaps you didn’t hear me right, Felch. Is it your ears?’
The fox didn’t answer. Sawney, who was more than thirty pawsteps away, raised his blade, ready to throw. ‘Aye, I think it must be your ears. Let’s take a look at one. Stand still, now. This shouldn’t hurt . . . much!’
Felch ducked as the blade flashed from Sawney’s paw. Even as fast as he moved, the fox could not avoid the blade’s nicking his left eartip. Zipping past him, the knife disappeared into the woodland foliage.
Grissoul, who was squatting at a nearby campfire, cackled. ‘A goodly throw, but thou gave him too much warning. Felch did well to avoid thy blade. Let him live.’
Sawney ran across to the cringing fox and kicked him. ‘If you don’t find my blade, you’ll die slowly, for ’twas you who lost it by moving when I told you not to. Find the knife, Felch, and I’ll let you live. Though I’ll still take that ear as a punishment for disobedience. Now get searching, addlebrain!’ Another savage kick sent the fox scurrying off into the bushes on all fours.
It was not until nearly midnight that he discovered it, a fair distance from the camp. Rain had started to fall when the fox glimpsed a shaft of moonlight glimmering off the wet sapphire pommel stone. Felch tugged on the knife, which had buried its point deep in a sycamore trunk. He pulled it free, falling over backwards in the process. Behind him the camp lay still, firelight gleaming hazily through the closed tents. Sawney and his clan lay sleeping. Felch knew his prospects were bleak. Sawney Rath would take his ear if he returned. Without thinking further, he thrust the blade into his belt and ran.
Beneath the bank ledge, with rainwater beating constantly on the river surface, Felch wedged himself tighter in. Weariness and fatigue overcame him, and despite the water’s cold embrace he fell asleep.
Throughout the day the rainfall began to slacken from downpour to drizzle. By mid afternoon the skies had cleared, giving way to warm sunlight. Steam rose from the banksides, wreathing around trailing willow fronds. Small flies began hovering close to the bank where the current ran more slowly. It was one such gnat, wandering around on the fox’s nosetip, that wakened him. The first thing Felch saw was a tail rudder, decorated with two white fishbone tailrings. Fearfully he raised his eyes. Standing on a rock not a whisker-length out from the bank was a barbaric-looking young otter. His only clothing was a short barkcloth kilt, girdled by a broad eelskin belt. He wore two patterned flax wristbands and a single hooped go
ld earring. The eyes, piercingly dark, stared back at Felch from behind the face tattoos of the Juskarath clan. The otter carried no weapons, save for the knife, which he had removed silently from the sleeping fox’s belt. Felch did not notice when the gnat stung his nosetip. He was not even aware that the rain had stopped and the sun was out. The young otter reached out gracefully and took hold of the fox’s shoulder with his sinewy paw. Felch tried to shrink further back against the ledge. But the tremendous pawstrength wrenched him savagely forward, almost completely out of the water. He was dragged up on to the rock, his ear right next to the hunter’s mouth. The voice he heard was a gentle whisper which chilled his blood more than any rivercold.
‘Nobeast escapes from me. I am the Taggerung!’
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7
Rainwater drummed against the high stained glass windows of Redwall Abbey. It had poured down since midnight of the previous day. Even the hardiest of workbeasts had left their outdoor tasks for dry ones indoors. Mhera and her faithful friend Gundil emerged from the kitchens to sit upon the cool stone steps to Great Hall. Brushing a paw across her brow, the ottermaid blew a sigh of relief. ‘Whooh, goodness me, it’s hot in there, Gundil!’
The mole undid his apron and wiped the back of his neck. ‘Yuss, marm. If’n oi’d stayed thurr ee moment longer they’m be ’avin’ ee roastified mole furr dinner. Hoo aye!’
Filorn’s call reached them from the kitchens. ‘Mhera, Gundil, come and take this tray, please.’
She met them just inside the kitchen entrance. Filorn was no longer a young ottermum. Her face was lined and she stooped slightly, but to her daughter she still looked beautiful. Mhera, who was now much taller than Filorn, touched her mother’s workworn paw gently.
‘Why don’t you finish in there for the day? Go to the gatehouse and take a nap with old Hoarg in one of his big chairs.’
Filorn dismissed the suggestion with a dry chuckle. ‘Food doesn’t cook itself, you know. I’m well able for a day’s labour. Huh! I can still work the paws from under either of you two young cubs!’
Gundil tugged his nose in courteous mole fashion. ‘Hurr, you’m surpintly can, marm. Boi ’okey, you’m a gurt cooker all roight. But whoi doan’t ee take a likkle doze?’
Filorn presented them with the tray she was carrying. ‘If I listened to you two I’d never get out of bed. Now take this luncheon up to Cregga Badgermum, and be careful you don’t trip on the stairs. Gundil, you carry the flagon and Mhera can take the tray.’
Cregga was dozing in her chair when she heard the approaching pawsteps. ‘Come right in, friends,’ she called. ‘Gundil, you get the door. Put the flagon down in case you drop it!’
They entered, shaking their heads in wonder. Cregga patted the top of the table next to her overstuffed armchair. ‘Put the tray down here, Mhera. Mmmm, is that mushroom and celery broth I can smell? Filorn has put a sprinkle of hotroot pepper on it, just the way I like it.’
She checked Gundil. ‘Don’t balance that beaker on the chair arm. Put it there, where I can reach it easily.’
The mole wrinkled his snout. ‘Burr, ’ow do ee knoaw, Creggum? Anybeast’d think you’m ’ad ten eyes, ’stead o’ bein’ bloinded.’
She patted his digging claw as he replaced the beaker. ‘Never you mind how I know. Hmph! That door has swung closed again. Open it for me, please, Mhera my dear. This room can get dreadfully stuffy on a rainy summer’s day.’
Mhera opened the door, but it would not stay open. ‘Warped old door. It’s starting to close again, Cregga.’
The badger blew on her broth to cool it. ‘Have a look in the corner cupboard. I think there’s an old doorstop in there, on the bottom shelf.’
Mhera did as she was bidden, finding the object immediately. ‘Oh, look, it’s a little carved squirrel, made from stone, I think. No, it’s made from heavy dark wood. Where’s it from?’
Cregga dipped a barley farl in her broth and took a bite. ‘It belonged to Abbess Song. Her father, Janglur Swifteye, carved it from a piece of wood he found on the seashore. That was longer ago than I care to remember. Though I do recall that when Song was old she used it as a doorstop too. She gave it to me before she passed on. Why don’t you take it, Mhera? When Song was young she was a lot like you in many ways. I was going to leave it to you when my time comes, but you might as well have it now.’
Mhera took the carved statuette to the window and turned it this way and that, admiring it. ‘Thank you, Cregga, it’s lovely. Abbess Song’s dad must have been a very skilled carver, it looks so alive. What a pity it ended up as just a doorstop. Here, Gundil, take a look.’
The mole took hold of the carved squirrel and inspected it closely, sniffing and tapping it with his digging claws. ‘Burr, wunnerful h’objeck. ’Tain’t no doorstopper, tho’. This ’un’s a bokkle.’
Mhera looked at her molefriend curiously. ‘A bottle? You mean a sort of flagon?’
Gundil nodded sagely. ‘Ho urr. Oi see’d one afore. Moi ole granfer ’ad one shapened loike ee moler. Kep’ beer in et ee did.’
Cregga poured herself cold mint tea. ‘Tell us then, Gundil, how can a statue be a bottle? How would you get anything into it? Where’s the top, where’s the neck?’
The mole grinned from ear to ear with delight. ‘Hurrhurr, marm, see, you’m doan’t be a knowen everythin’ arfter all. Ee top is ee head an’ you’m turn ee neck. Lukkee!’ He twisted the statuette’s head, and it came away from the neck. Inside had been cunningly carved out to form a bottle-like container.
Gundil passed it to the badger, and Cregga felt it all over with her huge paws. The Badgermum’s voice went hoarse with excitement. ‘Mhera, your paws are daintier than mine. There’s something inside. Can you reach in and get it out?’
Mhera’s paw fitted easily into the cavity. She brought forth a scroll, held by a ribbon with a red wax seal. ‘It’s an old barkcloth parchment with a ribbon and seal!’
Cregga abandoned her lunch and sat up straight. ‘Is there a mark upon the seal?’
Mhera inspected the seal. ‘Yes, Cregga, there’s a letter S with lots of wavy lines going through it. I wonder what it means?’
The Badgermum knew. ‘The Abbess’s real name was Songbreeze. Her sign was the S with breezes blowing through it. Can you see properly, Mhera? The light in here means nothing to me. Gundil, run and fetch a lantern, please. Hurry!’
Clearing the tray from the table, they placed both lantern and scroll upon it. Cregga felt the seal with her sensitive paws. It had stuck to both scroll and ribbon.
‘What a pity to break this lovely thing. I would have liked to keep it, as a memento of my old friend Abbess Songbreeze.’
‘Yurr, you’m leaven et to oi, marm, oi’ll get et furr ee!’ From his belt pouch, Gundil took a tiny flat-bladed knife, which he used for special tasks in the kitchen. It was as sharp as a freshly broken crystal shard. Skilfully he slit the faded ribbon of cream-coloured silk and slid the blade under the wax, cleverly lifting it away from the scroll in one undamaged piece.
Mhera held it up admiringly. ‘Good work, Gundil. It looks like a scarlet medallion hanging from its ribbon. Here you are, Cregga.’
Taking it carefully, the Badgermum smiled with pleasure. ‘I’ll treasure this. Thank you, Gundil. I’m sure nobeast but you could have performed such a delicate operation!’
Gundil scratched the floor with his footpaws, wiggling his stubby tail furiously, which moles will often do when embarrassed by a compliment. ‘Hurr, et wurrn’t nuthin’, marm, on’y a likkle tarsk!’
Mhera was practically hopping with eagerness. ‘Can we open the scroll now, Cregga!’
The blind badger pulled a face of comic indifference. ‘Oh, I’m feeling a bit sleepy. Let’s leave it until tomorrow.’ She waited until she heard her friends’ sighs of frustration. ‘Ho ho ho! Go on then, open it. But be sure you read anything that’s written down there loud and clear. I wouldn’t miss this for another feast. Well, carry on, Mhera!’
The
barkcloth had remained supple, and Mhera unrolled it with meticulous care. There were two pieces. A dried oak leaf fell out from between them, and she picked it up.
‘There’s two pages of writing. It’s very neat; Abbess Song must have been really good with a quill pen. A leaf, too.’
Cregga held out her paw. ‘Give me the leaf.’ Holding it to her face, she traced the leaf’s outline with her nosetip. ‘Hmm, an oak leaf. I wonder if it’s got any special meaning? What does Song have to say? Come on, miz otter, read to me!’
Mhera began to read the beautifully written message.
‘Fortunate are the good creatures,
Dwelling within these walls,
Content in peaceful harmony,
As each new season falls.
Guided in wisdom by leaders,
One living, the other long dead,
Martin the Warrior in spirit,
And our chosen Abbey Head.
’Tis Martin who chooses our Champion,
Should peril or dangers befall,
But who selects the Abbess,
Or Abbot to rule Redwall?
I was once your Abbess,
A task not like any other,
To follow a path in duty bound,
I took on the title of Mother.
Mother Abbess, Father Abbot,
They look to you alone,
For sympathy, aid, and counsel,
You must give up the life you’ve known.
To take on the mantle of guidance,
As leaders before you have done,
Upholding our Abbey’s traditions,
For you alone are the One.’
There was a brief silence, then Cregga repeated the last line. ‘For you alone are the One!’
The Taggerung (Redwall) Page 7
