Mhera looked perplexed. ‘Me?’
Gundil climbed up and sat on the arm of Cregga’s chair. ‘Wull, et surrpintly bain’t oi. This yurr moler wurrn’t cutted owt t’be no h’Abbess, no miz, nor a h’Abbot noither!’
Cregga chuckled, stroking the mole’s furry head. ‘You’ve got a point there, friend. I couldn’t imagine you in the robes of an Abbot.’
Gundil folded his digging claws over his plump stomach. ‘Nor cudd oi, marm, gurt long flowen garmunts, oi’d trip o’er an’ bump moi ’ead!’
Mhera held up a paw for quiet. ‘There’s writing on this other page too, that’s if you want to hear me read it?’
Gundil spoke out of the side of his mouth to Cregga. ‘Yurr, she’m a h’Abbess awready, bossen uz pore beasters abowt. We’m best lissen to miz h’otter!’
Mhera gave them a look of mock severity and coughed politely. ‘Ahem, thank you. Now, there are several things written down here. First of all it says this. Oak Leaf O.L.’
Cregga passed her the leaf. ‘Here’s the oak leaf. Take a close look at it, Mhera.’
The ottermaid inspected it. ‘O.L. It’s a bit faded, but Abbess Song wrote those two letters here on the leaf?’
Gundil cast his eye over the two carefully inked letters. ‘Ho urr. O.L. stan’s furr h’oak leaf. Wurr ee h’Abbess a tryen to tell us’n’s sumthink?’
Cregga gave his back a hearty pat. ‘That’s sound mole logic, my friend. Read on, Mhera!’
The next lines Mhera read affirmed what Gundil had guessed.
‘Though I am no longer here,
I beg, pay heed to me,
O.L. stands for Oak Leaf,
A.S. leaves you her key.
A.S.’
Cregga caught on fast. ‘A.S. Abbess Song! It’s simple really.’
Mhera interrupted her. ‘Not as simple as you think. Listen to the second verse.
‘If you would rule this Abbey,
G.H. is the place to be,
At the T.O.M.T.W.
Look to the L.H.C.’
Gundil scratched his snout in puzzlement. ‘Hoo urr, they’m a gurt lot o’ letters!’
Mhera smiled confidently. ‘Let’s go down to the gatehouse and find out, shall we!’
Cregga eased herself from the big armchair. ‘Gatehouse?’
Mhera took her friend’s paw. ‘Of course. G.H., gatehouse. Lend a paw here, Gundil.’
Even with their help, the Badgermum had great difficulty managing the stairs. When they reached the bottom step Cregga sat down, shaking her huge striped head.
‘You two carry on to the gatehouse. I’ll wait here. I’m not as spry as I once was. Don’t get that parchment wet with rain.’
Mhera tucked the scroll carefully into her apron pocket. ‘But Cregga, don’t you want to come with us and find out what it all means?’
The blind badger sighed wearily. ‘I’ll only slow you down. You can let me know what you found out when you come back. Go on now, you two.’
When they had gone, Boorab, who had been banished from the kitchens, sauntered by. The gluttonous hare was munching on a minted potato and leek turnover, which he hid hastily as he caught sight of Cregga.
‘Er, how dee do, marm? Bit of inclement weather, wot wot?’
She held out her paw. ‘Help me up, please.’ As the badger was hauled upright, she sniffed the air. ‘I smell mint. Have you been plundering in the kitchens again?’
The hare’s look of injured innocence was wasted on a blind badger. His earbells tinkled as he shook his head stoutly. ‘Shame on you, marm. I haven’t been within a league of your confounded kitchens. I was down in Cavern Hole, composing a poem to your wisdom an’ beauty an’ so forth. But I’ll bally well scrap the whole thing now. Hmph! Accusin’ a chap of my honest nature of pinchin’ pastries, wot!’
Cregga shrugged. ‘But I can still smell mint and I know that Friar Bobb is baking minted potato and leek turnovers for dinner tonight.’
Boorab sniffed airily. ‘Well of course you can jolly well smell mint. I always put a dab or two of mint essence behind each ear after my mornin’ bath. Gives a chap a clean fresh smell, doncha know?’
Cregga inclined her head in a small bow. ‘Then forgive me. I apologise heartily. We’ll share a turnover or two at dinner this evening. I like them best when the crust is dark brown and the potatoes have melted into the leeks.’
Boorab fell into the trap unthinkingly. ‘Well, they’re not quite at that stage yet, marm. The potato is still a bit lumpy and the crust is only light brown.’
As he bit his lip, the badger patted Boorab’s pocket, squashing the turnover against his stomach. ‘Aye, I’d leave them to cook properly, if I were you,’ she growled. ‘As far as I’m concerned you’re still on probation at Redwall.’
The hare watched her lurch slowly off. Dipping his paw into the mess inside his pocket, he sucked it resentfully. ‘Fifteen blinkin’ seasons’ probation. Bit much for any chap, wot!’
Grass squelched underpaw in the rain as Mhera and Gundil hurried across the front lawns to the little gatehouse by the Abbey’s main outer wall entrance. Gundil was about to knock when old Hoarg opened the door.
‘What’re you two doin’ out in this? Yore wetter’n fishes in water. Come in, come in!’ He tossed them a big towel to dry their faces. ‘So then, what brings ye here, miz Mhera?’
Taking the parchment from her pocket, Mhera spread it on the table and told the ancient dormouse gatekeeper the whole story to date. Placing small rock crystal spectacles on the end of his nose, Hoarg inspected the document, staring at it for what seemed an age. The two friends maintained a respectful silence. Hoarg sat in an armchair and mused awhile. ‘Well then, you’ve come to my gatehouse to search for clues?’
Gundil sounded a trifle impatient. ‘Yurr, uz ’ave, zurr. May’aps you’m ’elp us’n’s?’
The old dormouse nodded sagely. ‘Oh, I’ll help ye all right. But first tell me, Mhera, do you think wisdom, patience, an’ the ability not to rush at things would be good qualities in an Abbess?’
Mhera was very fond of the old gatekeeper. ‘Oh, I do, sir. Why d’you ask?’
Pursing his lips, Hoarg stared out of the window at the rain. ‘Hmm. Learning, too, I wouldn’t wonder. Gatehouse is one single word, you know, not two separate ones. So this place would only be referred to as a single G on your scroll. Now I want you to take your time and think. Name me a place at Redwall Abbey that starts with the two letters G and H.’
Mhera slammed her paw down on the table as realisation hit her. ‘Great Hall, of course. Come on, Gundil!’
Hoarg’s voice checked them as they dashed for the door. ‘There you go, rushin’ off without thinking. I never make a move before I think anythin’ out. I’ve solved the next bit of that puzzle. I know what T.O.M.T.W. means.’
Mhera grabbed the scroll and stuffed it in her apron pocket, her paws aquiver with excitement. ‘Oh, tell us what it is, sir, please please tell us!’
‘Only if you promise to go a bit slower in future and stop to reason things out, instead of hurtlin’ round like madbeasts.’
‘You’m roight, zurr. Us’n’s be loike woise snailers frumm naow on, oi swurr to ee!’
Hoarg removed his spectacles and put them away slowly. ‘I could be wrong at such short notice, but I think that T.O.M.T.W. means Tapestry Of Martin The Warrior.’
With his cheek still damp from the kiss Mhera had planted on it, Hoarg sat back in his armchair. He heard the door slam and the two sets of footpaws pounding away over the drenched lawn towards the Abbey building. The dormouse chuckled. ‘Ah, the speed and energy of younger ones. I’m glad I lost it a long time ago.’
Closing his eyes, he went into a comfortable doze.
On entering the Abbey, wet and panting, the two friends spied Cregga. She was sitting on the floor of Great Hall, gazing up at the tapestry. Mhera skidded to a halt beside her.
‘Cregga, how could you! Listen to that rain out there. You let us run all the way to the gatehouse and
back!’
The Badgermum turned her sightless eyes towards them. ‘It came to me while I was sitting on the stairs, but you two had already charged off. What did Hoarg have to say?’
Gundil flopped on the floor and began drying his face on Cregga’s habit sleeve. ‘Lots o’ things abowt gooin’ slow an’ payin’ ’tenshun an’ lurrnen t’be woisebeasts, marm.’
The badger dried Mhera’s face on her other sleeve. ‘Good old Hoarg. I remember he was slow and methodical even when he was a Dibbun. Well, here we are. G.H. Great Hall, and there it is, T.O.M.T.W., the Tapestry Of Martin The Warrior. But I haven’t the foggiest notion of what L.H.C. means, have you?’
Mhera stared up at the likeness of Redwall’s greatest hero, armour-clad and armed with a sword. ‘No, I’m afraid not. There’s one other thing that puzzles me also. What are we supposed to be searching for?’
Cregga put out a paw and touched the tapestry. ‘Wisdom maybe, knowledge perhaps, L.H.C. certainly, but where do we find it?’
‘Hurr, marm, mebbe us’n’s jus’ sit ’ere an’ arsk Marthen ee Wurrier. Thurr wurr never ee woiserbeast than ’im.’
Mole logic won the day again. They sat staring at the mouse warrior, each with their own thoughts.
L.H.C.
Lower Hall Cavern?
Little Hot Cakes?
Lessons Have Commenced?
Let Him Choose?
The image of Martin began to swim and shimmer in front of Mhera’s eyes. It had been a long hard day, working in the kitchens, dashing about with trays, helping Cregga downstairs, rushing to and from the gatehouse. Cregga was already dozing as Mhera leaned her head against the badger’s lap and fell into slumber, still pondering the puzzle.
* * *
8
Sawney Rath had not slept well. He was awake long before dawn, wincing and rubbing at his stomach. Taking a beaker of boiling water from the cauldron which bubbled over the glowing embers of his fire, the Juskarath Chieftain sat down outside. Stars still studded the aquamarine sky, and the camp lay still and silent. Sipping at the steaming water, which seemed to relieve his aching gut slightly, Sawney mulled over the past fifteen seasons.
In many ways, Tagg was a puzzle to him. Maybe it was because Redwall Abbey had spawned his adopted son. Perhaps things might have been different if he had taken a wife from his own clan and fathered the future Taggerung. However, the omens were not to be denied, so he had done his best with the otterbabe from the ford bank, the one whose father he had ordered to be slain. While Tagg was small, Sawney had been enormously fond of him. The little otter showed all the physical signs of a Taggerung, swift as lightning and frighteningly strong. He was obedient too, not only to Juska laws and customs, but always to Sawney’s wishes. Then he began to grow and think for himself. At first, Sawney admired Tagg’s independence. However, gradually it began to cause a rift between them as the otter grew up. The seasons had been good and relatively peaceful, with hardly any killing raids or tribal strife. Then Sawney began noticing things he did not like in Tagg’s nature. With a natural talent for weaponry, the knife in particular, the young otter could outfight, outrun or outthink any clanbeast, but in the few quarrels and fights he had he was always merciful at the end. Despite Sawney’s urging, he would merely defeat his opponent and release him without punishing him further. Sawney often took him to task about this. Why had he not slain his adversary, or at least crippled him? It was not the way of a Juska, particularly a Taggerung, to show leniency to anybeast he had conquered. Tagg would smile oddly at Sawney and shrug, saying that there was no need for such actions once the challenger was beaten. The Juska Chieftain wanted to see his adopted son become a complete Taggerung, with the same truly barbaric nature he had seen in his own father. What if the clan had to go into battle, or on a killing raid? Sawney had never seen Tagg take a life. Would the young otter prove himself to be a true Taggerung when the moment came? Sawney still felt very close to Tagg, but he felt it was high time his adopted son learned the lesson which would gain him respect through fear. Tagg had to prove himself by slaying somebeast. When he brought Felch back, which Sawney did not doubt for a moment he would, the ferret decided that Tagg would be the fox’s executioner. He tossed the remaining hot water away, his stomach suddenly feeling a lot better.
Felch could not believe he was still alive. He sat wet and shivering on the banktop where the Taggerung had hauled him. Soon the strange otter had a fire going. He tossed Felch a small travelling sack.
‘Sit there,’ he ordered curtly. ‘Warm yourself by the fire, and take a drink. I’m not going to tie you up. Go on, drink. You’ll not get far the state you’re in. I’ll go and get us some food.’ The fox nodded dumbly as Tagg strode off, calling back, ‘I won’t be long. Keep that fire going.’
He dived off the banktop. Felch did not hear a splash as the sleek hunter hit the water. The fox waited a moment, then, shouldering the bag, he crept carefully away from the fire and forced his water-stiffened limbs into a run. As he sped through the bushes, his mind was racing also. Had the Taggerung missed him earlier that day, when he passed along the banktop, above the hideout under the ledge? Maybe the Taggerung was not as skilful as everybeast said, perhaps he had found his quarry through a lucky accident. Felch rushed onward, assuring himself that he would not let himself be captured a second time.
Something flew by him at shoulder level, and the thwack of a hefty rudder laid the fox flat on his stomach. He tried to rise, but the breath was knocked from him as the Taggerung landed upon his back. A paw cuffed his ears soundly, then seized them and dragged his head backwards. Felch felt Sawney’s blade tickle his throat.
‘You don’t have much sense for a fox, do you?’ the powerful otter snarled menacingly into his ear. ‘Now tell me, would you like to go on living, or do I slay you right here?’
‘Mercy!’ Felch managed to gasp hoarsely. ‘Don’t kill me!’
Tagg pulled Felch upright, leading him by one ear like a naughty youngster back to the fire, where he sat him down. The fox cowered fearfully, but the Taggerung merely winked at him. ‘Right, mate, we’ll start again. You stay here, I’ll go and get us something decent to eat. Understood?’
The fox groaned as he rubbed the side of his face. ‘Understood!’ Like a flickering sunshadow, the otter disappeared.
Unshouldering the sack, Felch tugged its drawstrings open with his teeth. Inside were four pears and a flask of nettle beer. He drank gratefully and began chewing on a pear. Then he threw some pine twigs on the fire and hunched up close to it, aching all over as life seeped back into his bruised body. Miserably he began to ponder his fate.
The fox’s thoughts were interrupted when two nice-sized vendace, slung together by their gills on a reedstalk, landed slap next to the fire. With Sawney’s blade, the otter cut two green willow twigs and passed them to Felch.
‘Well, come on, do something for your keep. Spit those fish and cook ’em. Plenty there for two. I like vendace.’ He sat on the other side of the fire, watching the fox. ‘There’s something on your mind, I can tell.’
Felch set the fish to sizzling over the fire. ‘Why didn’t you capture me this morning, when you passed by on the banktop? You must’ve known I was there.’
The barbaric-looking otter took a pull at the flask. ‘Hah! That wasn’t me, it was Gruven the stoat. You know, Antigra’s son. He’s the clumsiest tracker I ever saw. I was watching him from the other side of the bank. Nice soft moss there. I’d been tracking you all night and I was tired, so when I found you I took a nap. You weren’t going anywhere. I knew Gruven wanted to make a name for himself by being first to nab you, so I left him a nice false trail. I saw him pass by in the rain. I could see you too, shaking like a leaf under the bank ledge opposite me. Aye, I’ll wager Gruven’s still tracking away somewhere. He’s tough and nasty enough, but slow-witted.’
The fish was delicious, and they shared the remaining pears and the last of the nettle beer. Felch felt his nerves returning to normal as
he conversed with the Taggerung, aware of the fierce eyes behind the painted face, gleaming in the flames.
‘You could’ve slain me. Why didn’t you?’
The otter felt pity for his wretched captive, knowing that Sawney would have some terrible punishment in store for him, but he kept his heavily tattooed face immobile and shrugged, replying as if it were an everyday matter. ‘Sawney Rath told me to return to camp with two things, his fine blade and you, or your head as proof I found you.’
Felch gulped visibly. ‘My head!’
Tagg twirled the knife in the air and caught it deftly. ‘I didn’t want to mess my supply bag up and have to carry extra weight, so I’m returning you to Sawney alive.’
The fox’s whole body slumped. There was pleading in his eyes. ‘If you take me back Sawney will kill me himself.’
The otter stared at the amber-handled knife. ‘I don’t make the rules, Felch. You are Juskarath, you know our clan laws. You shouldn’t have run.’
Felch was about to stand up and reply, but he thought better of it and remained seated. ‘But Sawney was going to kill me anyway if I hadn’t found the knife he had thrown at me. I had no choice, don’t you see? There was nothing left for me but to run!’
Tagg pointed the blade at his captive. ‘You should be dead now, by rights. If Gruven had found you he’d have beheaded you on the spot. Be thankful you are alive, fox.’
Felch leaned forward eagerly. ‘You spared my life. I’ll always be gra—’
The otter cut him short. ‘Save your breath, we’ve got a fast journey at dawn. Get some sleep, you’ll need it. Don’t forget, though: one false move and I’ll make you wish that Gruven had captured you!’
The Taggerung threw more branches on the fire. He watched the fox until he was sure that Felch was deep in sleep, then he lay down himself and drifted into a light slumber, the blade still held relaxed but ready.
It was the dream that had visited his mind many times over the last fifteen seasons. A beautiful otter face, gentle and kind, and a soft voice murmuring things he could not quite make out. A younger face also, bright-eyed, pretty, repeating the same comforting noises. Soft clean linen against his cheek, aromas of the late spring and delicious food baking. A big male otter standing proudly close by, and the presence of a huge motherly beast hovering in the background. Then there were the walls, old, warm, red stone, everywhere about. Sunlight shafting through a window, turning them to the hue of dusty pink roses. It was a feeling of peace, happiness and safety he had never known running wild outdoors with the Juskarath clan. Tears coursed from under the lids of his closed eyes, dripping down on to the paw which held the knife. Suddenly he was awake, swiftly wiping his eyes and peering out into the still summer night. Behind him he could hear the slow swirl of riverwater. He stayed still as a stone, sensing everything about him, even a wood beetle, trundling by on some nocturnal errand. After a while he relaxed and checked on Felch. The fox was lying on his side, snoring lightly. The Taggerung lay down again, letting slumber wash over him, seeking again those visions he longed to see.
The Taggerung (Redwall) Page 8
