The Taggerung (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Hahaha! So you stayed t’get yourself killed, eh?’

  Tagg did a forceful twirl. His rudderlike tail thwacked hard, right across his opponent’s forehead, sending it down again. Like a flash he was upon it, straddling the creature’s chest, his blade across its throat. ‘Be still! Still, I say! Don’t move, or you’ll be the one who gets killed. Be still, I warn you!’

  Two glittering eyes grinned wildly up at him. ‘Hahahaha! Kill me then, vermin. Go on, get it over with!’

  Reversing the knife, Tagg thwacked his opponent between the eyes, stunning it again. Piecing together the thongs which had bound him, he tied an end round one of the beast’s paws. He dragged it upright and slammed it face forward against the nearest alder. Running the thong around the trunk, he tied it to the beast’s other paw and let it slump down into a sitting position, paws spread, embracing the tree it was bound to. Tagg staggered down to the water’s edge and lay flat in the shallows, letting the cold streamwater wash the aches from his body. Then, feeling refreshed, he went to where he had hidden his coracle and found the pack of supplies given him by the voles. Having eaten a few small cakes of oats and dried fruit, he drank some pear cordial and felt much better.

  Tagg curled up in the coracle and dozed away the remaining night hours with his blade held ready. At dawn’s first light he strolled cautiously back up to the clearing. His prisoner was still there, bound to the tree, sitting with its forehead resting against the trunk, muttering away.

  ‘Vermin won’t escape me, oh no, I’ll track him an’ bring him back an’ watch him die, nice an’ slow. Beggin’, pleadin’ an’ moanin’, just like all scum-mouthed vermin do.’

  As Tagg got closer, he realised it was a squirrel, a big old strong female, clad in a tunic of what looked to be skins of weasels, rats and foxes. Tagg sat down in a spot where the squirrel could see him and spoke to her quietly.

  ‘Why did you try to kill me? I’m not a vermin.’

  She stared at him scathingly awhile, then answered, ‘Painted face, gold earring, eelskin belt, fancy patterned wristbands, an’ you tell me you’re no vermin. You even carry an assassin’s blade. Don’t tell me you ain’t a vermin. Go an’ take a look at yourself in a shady pool down by the stream. Go on, then come back here an’ tell me what you see . . . vermin!’

  ‘Karrr, she be right, she be right, vermin you be!’

  Drawing his blade, Tagg whirled round to face the eavesdropper. A large male bittern, practically invisible because of his brown, black and fawn plumage, came up from the riverbank reeds. Stalking gracefully along on thick green legs, he halted between Tagg and the squirrel, splaying his strong talons and poking a long needle-pointed beak in the otter’s direction.

  ‘Kaburrrrr! You not fool Botarus. I see verminbeasts, hunting the banks they be. On this stream, both sides. Kurrrrrr!’

  Tagg nodded, knowing now that hunters had been sent after him. ‘How many of them? Where are they now?’

  The black iris of the bittern’s umber eye widened. ‘Think you I be fool? I tell and you be calling them to you.’

  The squirrel gave an insane chuckle. ‘Hahaha! Let him call ’em. You free me, Botarus, an’ I’ll kill ’em all, every murderin’ vermin mother’s son of ’em!’

  Tagg stowed the knife in his belt. ‘The last thing I want to do is call them. I’m not a vermin, they’re the vermin. They’ve been sent to hunt me down and slay me!’

  Botarus put his head on one side, the bright eye questioning. ‘You they hunt, these vermin? For why?’

  Tagg did not want to go into the long story, so he made up an answer which was not far from the truth.

  ‘I am an otter, see. I am not ferret, fox, rat, weasel or stoat. I was captured by them, and they tried to make me a vermin too. I escaped, and now they hate me and want to kill me.’

  The bittern pondered Tagg’s answer before replying, ‘Krrrrrrum! Then why want you to kill my friend?’

  Tagg pointed to the squirrel. ‘Her? I had no intention of killing her, she wanted to kill me! I was only protecting myself. That’s why I had to tie her up!’

  Botarus looked at the squirrel and nodded towards Tagg. ‘Krrrror! Riverdog he be, truth I think he speaks!’

  Tagg tapped his rudder impatiently on the grass. Drawing his blade he slashed through the thong, freeing the squirrel. ‘There, is that good enough for you two?’

  The squirrel bounded upright, pointing an accusing paw at him. ‘Then why d’you look an’ dress like a vermin, eh?’

  Botarus held his position between both creatures. ‘Krrrrrrr! Told you that already the riverdog has. Where be you going on yonder volecraft?’

  Tagg pointed north. ‘To the mountain.’

  Botarus preened his chest feathers carefully. ‘Karrrrr. Go ye not by water in the volecraft. Ahead of you they be, the vermin. Seeing not your craft, passed by here yesterday they did. Here leave your craft. Overland go, sweep round west by north. To the path I will take you myself.’

  Tagg bowed his head politely. ‘Thank you, Botarus. Wait, please, I’ll get my food.’

  Tagg went back to the coracle and collected his stores, Botarus and the squirrel following him. The squirrel watched him shoulder his supply sack. ‘Give me the food. I want it!’

  Tagg did not like the tone of his former foe’s voice. However, he emptied some food out on to the ground, adding a flask of drink. ‘Here is half of what I have. I need food for myself. You can take the coracle too, and if any vole asks you how you came by it, tell them it was a gift from me, Tagg.’

  The squirrel inspected the boat as Tagg gathered up his cloak. He turned to see her brandishing the paddle.

  ‘Your blade, it’s a good one, I’ll have that too!’

  Botarus shot out his long leg and knocked the paddle out of the squirrel’s paws. He glared fiercely at her. ‘Enough you have, Madd. Stop you here now. With me Tagg goes, back I’ll be by eventide. Riverdog Tagg, come you!’

  The otter gave a wary berth to the squirrel, who picked up the paddle and shook it at him.

  ‘Hahaha! Come back this way sometime an’ visit me. So that I can kill you, vermin. Hahahahahaaaa!’

  Tagg and Botarus made their way through the alders and into sparser woodlands. Tagg sighed with relief.

  ‘Thank you, Botarus. I’m glad to be shut of that beast. I heard you call her Madd. Is that her name?’

  The big bittern shrugged. ‘Mad she be, so Madd I call her. She knows not any other name.’

  Tagg strode swiftly to keep pace with Botarus. ‘Madd is a good name for her. She’s a nasty dangerous beast.’

  ‘Krrrror, so would you be, were you her,’ Botarus commented drily. ‘Killed her family, vermin did, for dead they left her. Three days lay she there. Found her I did, wound in her head, deep, so deep. Any otherbeast ’twould have killed outright. Together now we’ve been, long long seasons. Not easy to get along with is Madd.’

  Tagg smiled at the bittern. ‘Then why do you stay with her?’

  Botarus smiled back, the gleam in his eyes sudden and savage. ‘I like not the vermin either. As mad as her I am sometimes.’

  Approaching mid day they reached the limits of the woodlands. Tagg could see the mountain clearly slightly off to his right, still far off. Botarus pointed his beak out across the flatlands and outlined the route.

  ‘Go you that way, ’twill keep ye clear o’ the stream and your enemies. Krrrr, watch you, Tagg, there be drylands an’ wetlands before foothills you reach. Live there many reptiles do, active in summer they be. Tread you careful an’ fare you well!’

  Botarus went into an ungainly run, but once he took to the air there was nothing awkward about his graceful flight. He soared and wheeled to gain height, then flew off with a long cry. ‘Krrrrrrooooooooommmmmmm!’

  * * *

  14

  It was baking hot out on the flat scrublands. Dry heather, furze and teasel dotted the landscape, grasshoppers everywhere kept up a dry chirruping, butterflies in swarms visited ev
ery scrap of flowering vegetation. Bees hummed busily as they bumbled around the blossoming heathers. Tagg strode out energetically, tasting the light lemonish tang of some dandelion buds he was sucking, his eyes on the cool white of the snowcapped mountain, shimmering in the distance. The place belied the name flatlands. Hollows, hummocks and rises, combined with dry watercourse beds, made it extremely lumpy going. At mid noon he found sheltering shadow in the lee of an oddly shaped hillock. Conserving his meagre rations, Tagg ate sorrel, wild onions and some cornsalad leaves. He drank sparingly from his remaining flask of pear cordial and dozed off with the background noises of the heathlands lulling him into slumber.

  It was not shouts or screams which wakened him, but a series of smothered grunts, mingled with hissing noises. He listened until he located the sounds, which came from the other side of the hillock where he was resting. Tagg drew his blade and went to investigate.

  He had seen smooth snakes before, but this one was a particularly large specimen, light grey in colour, with a narrow head and a dark stripe across both eyes. The snake had a harvest mouse in its coils and was trying to crush it to death by constricting its slim smooth-scaled body. However, the mouse was a game little fellow, and he kept struggling loose and inflicting some sharp bites upon the predator’s flanks. Never once did he shout or cry out for aid. Tagg admired his courage and jumped smartly in to help. Stamping down, he pinned the snake’s head to the sandy ground and grabbed its tail firmly, straightening it out. Once the reptile had nowhere to anchor itself for purchase it was virtually helpless. Tagg winked at the harvest mouse.

  ‘Best get out o’ the way, friend. This villain’s not going to be very pleased when I let him go!’

  The harvest mouse straightened his little yellow tunic and bared his teeth. He performed a dance of rage. ‘Then pass me that dagger o’ yourn, mate, an’ I’ll chop that stringy mouse mangler into bite-sized bits, the scaly-nosed scumtail, the fish-eyed field forager, the legless land lizard! Just gimme the blade, an’ I’ll show that ’un how t’make a new tunic out of snakeskin!’

  Tagg was taken aback at the mouse’s ferocity. He flicked him aside with his rudder. ‘I said stay clear. I’ll deal with this.’

  The mouse was practically doing somersaults in his anger. ‘Well gerron with it an’ quit jawin’, will ye? You came along just when I had that snake well an’ truly whipped. Don’t stand there like a weasel on a washin’ line. Kill it!’

  Tagg twirled his knife so he was holding the blade, and dealt the smooth snake two sharp blows on its head. It went limp.

  ‘There, that’s put him to sleep for a while, though he’ll have a rare old headache when he wakes. Come on, let’s get going.’

  The mouse stamped his footpaw and ground his teeth. ‘Y’mean you ain’t going to slay the blaggard? Are ye soft in the head or wot? Fine big lump of an otter like you an’ you can’t even kill a rotten reptile! Wot’s wrong with ye, eh?’

  Tagg swung the mouse up on to his shoulders and strode off. ‘Bloodthirsty little scoundrel, aren’t you? No reason to kill the snake; you got away all right. By the way, my name’s Tagg.’

  A tiny paw appeared for him to shake. ‘Pleased t’meetcher. I’m Nimbalo the Slayer. Next time y’see me finishin’ off a snake, just leave us alone, will ye?’

  Tagg tried his best to stop laughing. ‘How did y’come to be out here alone, Nimbalo?’

  ‘Got taken by an eagle,’ the harvest mouse replied airily. ‘Caught me asleep, y’know. Anyhow, he was flyin’ me off t’the mountain, so I broke his claws an’ dropped off down here. I fell into some soft sand, an’ that’s where that overgrown worm found me. Huh! Lucky for it I was a bit dazed!’

  Tagg now had his laughter under control, and merely nodded. ‘It certainly was, Nimbalo, but where did you come from? I mean, your tribe, your family, where do they live?’

  Nimbalo gave the otter’s ear a tug. ‘Bit nosy, ain’t you? Where do I come from? Oh, ’ere an’ there, y’know. I’ve been round the rocks a few times, matey. As for families an’ tribes, huh, who needs them? They ain’t nothin’ but a load o’ bother. Nimbalo the Slayer travels alone!’

  Tagg raised his eyebrows as the mouse shifted position. ‘Except when you’re travelling with me, eh?’

  Nimbalo leaned over Tagg’s head and stared down into his eyes. ‘Don’t contradict me, riverdog. It don’t pay to cross Nimbalo. Any’ow, what’re you doin’ round this neck o’ the land? Let’s ’ear you doin’ a bit of talkin’ fer a change.’

  The otter told Nimbalo the story he had made up for Botarus and the squirrel, about being captured by vermin and trying to escape being one of their tribe. The harvest mouse chuckled.

  ‘Yore right there, Tagg. Steer clear o’ tribes an’ families, they’ll only bring ye grief. So, why are ye goin’ to the mountain?’

  Tagg stared longingly at the snowy peak ahead. ‘It’s hard to say, really. It looks so cool and clean, sort of free and away from it all. I think the mountain might be a good place to live, though I’ve never been there. Have you?’

  Nimbalo spread his paws expansively. ‘Mountains, I’ve been round ’em, down ’em, up ’em an’ about ’em. I’ve crossed more mountains than you’ve ate dinners, me ole mate!’

  Tagg halted. He took the harvest mouse down from his shoulders and faced him. ‘You’ve certainly led a long and adventurous life, my friend. Tell me, how many seasons old are you?’

  Nimbalo started to count upon his whiskers, then dismissed it. ‘A lot older’n you, pal, by a good stretch. Ho yerss, us ’arvest mice could fool anybeast. We’re usually about ten times older than ye’d think!’

  The otter put his next question flatly. ‘Why do you tell so many lies, Nimbalo? Don’t you ever tell the truth?’

  Nimbalo punched Tagg’s paw lightly and grinned. ‘Truth? What’s the truth, eh? Just a pack o’ lies made up by otherbeasts so you’ll believe ’em. Of course I always tell lies. What’s wrong wid that, Tagg? They don’t ’urt you, do they?’

  Tagg stood bemused, stuck for an answer. His companion swaggered jauntily onward, in his odd hopskip manner.

  ‘Come on, me ole riverdog. Life’s too short t’worry about things like that. I’ll go to the mountain with ye. Hah, suppose I’ll ’ave to. Big honest streamwalloper like you, ye need a smart ’un like me to look after ye. Well, are you comin’?’

  Over the remainder of the day, Tagg grew quite fond of Nimbalo, who was an excellent travelling partner and never at a loss for words. At one point he had Tagg cut him the thick stem from a gentian flower. Nimbalo gnawed holes in it, hollowed it out and made a whistle. As they trekked along a dry streambed he kept Tagg amused by tootling tunes on it and singing comic ditties in between.

  ‘I’m the fiercest mouse livin’ in all the wide land,

  Me fur is so fine an’ me muscles are grand,

  If I ever meet with some ole vermin band,

  I give all the rogues a good towsin’!

  For although I’m real savage, me temper I’ll bide,

  But beware of me dander, ye’d best step aside,

  Or you’ll find out why so many blaggards’ve died,

  Givin’ lip to Nimbalo the Slayer!

  When I meet a bad crew all the warriors do hide,

  ’Cos me fame goes afore me both far an’ both wide,

  But to mothers an’ young ’uns I bow with great pride,

  That’s the way o’ Nimbalo the Slayer!

  So take care when you see this mouse passin’ by,

  I can knock ye out flat with the wink of me eye,

  You just ask any mousemaid, she’ll blush an’ she’ll sigh,

  He’s a hero, Nimbalo the Slayer!’

  Nimbalo turned and winked at Tagg. ‘Oh, I fergot to mention, I’m modest too!’

  Summer evening shades began falling as the hot day drew to a close. The two friends made camp in a hollow on top of a rise. Tagg was pleasantly surprised by Nimbalo’s foraging and cooking skills. Gathering dried turf, t
he otter lit a fire and awaited Nimbalo’s return, as the harvest mouse had insisted on finding food by himself. Purpling layers of cloud backed the mountain, tapering off to gold and red towards the west, and sweet aromas came from the turf fire. Tagg settled himself comfortably on the sandy slope of the dip, savouring the beauties of twilight. Nimbalo broke the spell on his return. He tossed a bunch of roots and vegetation on to Tagg’s chest, leaping over the top of the rise and shouting, ‘Halloo the camp! Stir yore stumps, big feller, let’s get supper goin’. I’m starved!’

  Tagg inspected the tangle of vegetation. ‘What’s all this, mate?’

  Nimbalo rummaged cheerfully through the mass. ‘I can see yore used to woodland vittles. These are flatlands food. See, whitlow, tastes just like cabbage, pennycress, touch bitter, but nice. There’s comfrey roots, pepperwort an’ bindweed flowers. You’ll like them, they’re sweet.’

  Tagg sniffed the flowers appreciatively. ‘Hmm, lovely smell. Hope they taste as good. Ah, dandelion leaves and roots, wild strawberries and some blackberries. I’ve got some fruit and wild oatcakes the voles gave me and most of a flask of pear cordial.’

  Using both paws, Nimbalo hauled the blade from Tagg’s belt. ‘Sounds good, mate. I’ll start choppin’ the salad with this sword of yours. Keep that fire low, though. Turf don’t give off much smoke, it just glows. Those vermin you said was trackin’ you, any idea where they might be?’

  Tagg gestured to the mountain’s east side. ‘Probably over that way. They were following a stream, so I went off in the opposite direction. I can’t see them troubling us yet awhile. Maybe when we’re on the mountain we might run into them. Do you carry a weapon, Nimbalo?’

  Baring his teeth in a ferocious grin, the mouse replied, ‘These is all the weapons I need, mate, teeth an’ paws. If I needs more you can cut me a big stick.’