The Taggerung (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Their meal was frugal, but enjoyable. Nimbalo played a few tunes on his whistle and they sat by the fire, watching the night draw in. When Nimbalo stopped playing, the otter went to the top of the rise. He ducked as a group of swifts winged low over him, then he listened carefully. Nimbalo sprawled in the hollow, watching him.

  ‘Wot’s the matter, big feller? Somethin’ up?’

  Tagg slid down beside him. ‘Birds flying low, I thought I heard a far off rumble, and the air feels heavy. There may be a storm on the way.’

  Dusting sand from his tunic, the harvest mouse stood up. ‘I’ve been in more storms than an ole gull at sea. We’d better make a move an’ find shelter. I tell ye, Tagg, you don’t wanna get caught in a storm on these flatlands.’

  Lightning flared briefly beyond the mountain. Tagg gathered his cloak and pack together, hearing the distant thunder rumble. ‘Sounds like it’ll be a bad one, mate. Come on!’

  Complete darkness fell as the moon became shrouded by heavy cloud. They hurried along the dry bed of a stream, feeling the first heavy raindrops strike their heads. Tagg pulled his waterproof cloak over them both. Nimbalo pointed. ‘Lucky ole us, matey. There’s a little cave in the side of the bank, I can just make it out.’

  Rain was sheeting straight down, lightning splitting the night skies in spectacular jagged rips and thunder booming overhead. Nimbalo skipped smartly up the bankside and held out a paw to his friend. ‘C’mon, ye great lump, inside afore ye get soaked!’

  Tagg huddled in alongside Nimbalo. There seemed to be plenty of room. They lay in the entrance, the cloak draped over their heads, watching the awesome spectacle of the huge summer storm. Tagg shuddered and wriggled with pleasure.

  ‘It’s great to watch a big storm, especially when you’re nice and dry and not caught out in it!’

  The harvest mouse elbowed him roughly. ‘Be still, willyer? Near rolled over an’ crushed me then!’

  Tagg pulled himself back from the cave entrance. ‘Sorry, pal. I’ll get back in here a bit. Hmm, this is quite a sizeable cave. Maybe we could light another fire, what d’you think?’

  Nimbalo turned round. He sniffed the interior air and froze. ‘Stay still, Tagg, stay still, fer pity’s sake!’

  Tagg answered him from the darkness. ‘Why?’

  Rustling coils and venomous hissings told him the reason even before Nimbalo whispered it into the menace-laden blackness.

  ‘Snakes!’

  Following both sides of the stream course up into the foothills, the hunting party came together again. Vallug found a broad shallow expanse where he was able to lead his followers across by a series of stepping stones which showed above the surface. They joined up with Eefera on the opposite side. Gruven saw Grobait resting, clutching a paw to his bottom, and sniggered. ‘I wouldn’t let any fish take a chunk out o’ my behind.’

  Eefera pushed roughly by him. ‘Easy fer you to say. You didn’t even have t’get yore paws wet. Any luck with tracks on yore side, Vallug?’

  ‘None. What about you?’

  ‘None, same as you. What d’ye think? Will we be wastin’ our time climbin’ the mountain to look for ’im?’

  Gruven interrupted them to air his opinion. ‘If no tracks lead up here, I reckon we’re on a fool’s errand. What’s the point of climbin’ a mountain? I said it was a stupid idea from the first!’

  Even Grobait could not keep the patronising tone out of his voice as he took it on himself to answer Gruven. ‘He was travellin’ upstream, not down. This is the only place he could go. So wot’s the use comin’ this far an’ not lookin’ on the mountain fer the otter? Mebbe we didn’t find any tracks, but he could’ve left the stream an’ found an easier way up. We’d be the ones lookin’ stupid, to come this far an’ not even bother takin’ a look up there!’

  Gruven indicated Grobait’s injury with a nod. ‘Well, you won’t get far with that wound. Wot d’you plan on doin’?’

  Grobait spat into the stream. ‘I’ll keep up, don’t fret yerself!’

  Vallug had been sniffing the air. He turned moodily on them. ‘You’d better keep up, both of yer. See that rock ledge up yonder? I’m gettin’ under it. The rest of ye’d best do the same if’n you don’t want to get caught in the storm!’

  Disregarding everybeast, Vallug started climbing. Gruven was about to make a smart retort when the first drops of rain splattered on his head. He joined the others following Vallug.

  ‘Lend us a paw ’ere!’ Grobait called as he struggled upright.

  Gruven could not resist snickering an answer. ‘Why? You’ve already got four like the rest of us.’

  They huddled under the ledge as the rain began sheeting down. A thunderclap caused Ribrow to jump, and he touched the ledge above him nervously. ‘This mightn’t be a safe place t’stay. S’pose the thunder an’ lightnin’ struck this mountain an’ collapsed it down on us? We’d all be crushed to death by these rocks!’

  Gruven snorted at the idea. ‘If yer frightened you don’t have t’stay ’ere. Go an’ sit out there with Grobait.’

  The injured rat had hardly moved. He lay by the swelling stream almost battered flat by the heavy downpour. Eefera stared callously at the prone figure. ‘That wound must’ve gone bad on ’im. He’s been limpin’ all day. Looks like ’is back leg’s stiffened up an’ gone useless.’

  A lightning flash illuminated Grobait’s pitiful figure. ‘Don’t lay out there,’ Dagrab shouted to him. ‘Come up ’ere!’ None of them made a move to help the wounded rat. Vallug sneered.

  ‘Grobait ain’t goin’ anywhere, unless the stream swells up an’ sweeps ’im away in the night. Save yer breath, Dagrab.’

  Gruven peered through the curtain of rain spilling from the ledge. ‘Yore the Bowbeast, Vallug. Put Grobait out of ’is misery.’

  Turning to Gruven, the big ferret smiled wickedly. ‘That ’un ain’t worth wastin’ an arrow on. But if it was you out there, well, I’d use an arrow, mebbe even two or three. I wouldn’t consider ’em wasted on you . . . Chief!’

  * * *

  15

  Very slowly Tagg drew his blade, whispering to Nimbalo, amid the hissing and slithering, ‘Pass me my cloak, mate. Do it very carefully; don’t make any quick or sudden moves. When I shout you must jump right out of this cave. Don’t hang about for me. I’ll be right behind you.’

  The otter put a paw behind his back, feeling Nimbalo pass him a corner of the cloak from his position at the cave mouth. Outside, the rain continued its onslaught. Below the cave there was a swirling, gurgling sound. The storm was filling up the dry bed of the stream. Tagg felt something dry and scaly slide over his footpaw. The weight and breadth of the reptile could mean only one thing. Adders!

  The vicious hissing increased. He figured there were at least six snakes in the darkened cave. Now they had scented other creatures and felt movement stir the air, they would be ready to strike with their poisonous fangs. Tagg acted with every fibre of his great strength and uncanny reflexes honed to their limit. Flinging the blanket-like cloak where he judged the adders to be gathered, he slashed low all about him and yelled, ‘Jump! Quick!’

  The harvest mouse was actually in mid-air when, propelled by a massive back somersault, Tagg cannoned into him. With a resounding splash they both hit the water. The otter grabbed Nimbalo with one paw and shoved him high, clear of the flood. Tagg slashed out with the blade held in his other paw, right down the ugly head of a big adder, with almost half its body length extended as it struck. Hissing madly it pulled back into the cave, its skull sliced to the bone.

  Tagg shoved off, swimming strongly, following the current, with Nimbalo still held high, yelling shrilly, ‘Don’t drop me! I can’t swim!’

  The otter was a powerful swimmer, even with one paw holding the harvest mouse clear of the swollen streamrace. He continued for quite a while, then his head broke the surface close to Nimbalo. ‘Are you all right, little mate?’

  The mouse kicked and squirmed. ‘All right? I’m near drow
ned by this rain! Get me ashore!’

  As soon as he spotted a rock, sticking sideways out of a fern patch a few lengths from the bank, Tagg abandoned the stream and set Nimbalo down. Slithering and sliding, they made their way up the bankside and stumbled to the welcome cover beneath the large stone chunk. Rolling thunder sounded more distant now; lightning flashed far off. Tagg wiped mud from his paws on to a fern and lay back.

  ‘Storm’s moving away now. The rain should slack off before dawn. Well, mate, we’ve lost our supplies and the cloak, but we’re lucky. We could’ve lost our lives to those serpents back there.’

  Using his tail as a probe, Nimbalo dug mud from his left ear. ‘Gave me a good ride, didn’t ye, big feller? I was foolin’, y’know; I’m a champion swimmer really. Faster’n a fish, that’s me!’

  Tagg went along with the joke, knowing his friend was lying. ‘Well, you scoundrel, I never knew you could swim, and me carrying you all that way, swimming with three paws an’ a rudder. Rascal!’

  Nimbalo tweaked Tagg’s ear affectionately. ‘Never mind, pal. Next time I’ll swim an’ hold you up over the water, I promise!’

  Tagg chuckled. ‘I’ll keep you to that promise, you rogue.’

  Sleep was out of the question. They sat watching the rain. It had slackened somewhat, but was still quite heavy, with a light breeze beginning to drive it sideways. Tagg sat Nimbalo on the lee side, taking most of the wetness on his right side. Nimbalo peered out on to the rainswept plain. ‘Can you see a light out there?’

  Tagg saw the dimly flickering glow. ‘Aye, and it’s coming this way.’

  They sat still and silent, the otter gripping his blade, as the light got closer. Nimbalo screwed his eyes up against the rain. ‘It’s some ole beast carryin’ a lantern!’

  Tagg slid the blade back into his belt and moved over a bit, to make room for the newcomer. It was an ancient shrew, bent almost double, covered in a blanket cloak and hobbling along with the aid of a blackthorn stick. Groaning faintly, he put the lantern down and sat between them. Throwing back his cloak hood, the shrew dug a spotted kerchief from it and wiped his whiskers.

  ‘Filfy night ’tis, plain filfy. Yew nearly fell into me den as youse climbed the bank back there. Hoho, that woulda been wot y’call droppin’ in fer a visit, wouldn’t it, me ole cullies?’

  He tapped the side of his lantern, and about six fireflies flared their tiny lights in response. The ancient shrew cackled. ‘Heeheehee! I’d a got ’ere sooner, but I ’ad to feed me pals. A liddle ’oney’n’water, that’s all they needs. Sparky bugs, they are. Now, wot are youse two doin’ out ’ere on a night like this?’

  Tagg allowed Nimbalo to act as spokesbeast. ‘We was about to ask you the same, me ole greysnout.’

  The shrew tapped Nimbalo’s paw with his stick. ‘Yore an ’ardfaced liddle ’arvest mousey. Wot’s yore name, eh?’

  ‘Nimbalo the Slayer. Everybeast round ’ere knows me!’

  The shrew sucked his toothless gums, looking Nimbalo up and down. ‘Well I don’t, but I’ll tell ye why I’m ’ere, Lamino, I come t’see if’n youbeasts was needin’ shelter in me den. ’Tain’t much but it’s all mine, an’ ’tis dry too. So, wot d’ye say, Limbow? Does you an’ yore big silent brudder want a night’s lodgin’, eh?’

  Tagg touched his paw to his nose politely. ‘Thankee, that’d be very nice. My name’s Tagg, sir.’

  The old one arose creakily and picked up his lantern. ‘Well, my name’s, er, er, Ruskem. Hah, ’tis so long since anybeast spoke it I’d almost forgotten. Come on then, Tugg, foller me. Come on, Minaglo, you can carry the lantern.’

  As they made their way back to the bank, Nimbalo whispered, ‘Wish he’d get me name right!’

  Tagg wiped rainwater from his eyes. ‘Don’t get too upset, mate; Ruskem has trouble remembering his own name, poor old beast. He must live all alone.’

  Ruskem’s den entrance was near the banktop above the waterline. He ushered them in with his stick. ‘In ’ere, Togg an’ Ninnybo, this is me ole den.’

  It was tiny inside. Tagg had to bend his head to avoid the ceiling. However, it was homely and comfortable, with a turf fire glowing in a stone hearth, an armchair, a bed, and thick rugs of woven moss and reeds carpeting the floor. Ruskem produced a ladle and two polished elm bowls, which he proceeded to fill from a big cauldron hanging over the fire.

  ‘Shrewburgoo, that’s wot ’tis, an’ don’t ask me wot’s in it. That pot ain’t been empty since I don’t know when. I just adds to it aught I c’n find, berries, fruit, roots an’ all manner o’ things. One fer you, Numbowl, an’ the big bowl fer Tigg. There’s a kettle o’ mint’n’comfrey tea on the ’earth, so ’elp yoreselves.’

  The shrewburgoo tasted wholesome and filling, though some parts of it tasted sweet and other bits were definitely savoury. Ruskem poured them tea, and saw Nimbalo’s eyelids start to droop.

  ‘Yore in need o’ slumbertime, Binflow. I’ll sleep in me chair, you take the bed. Fogg, yore too big fer either. You kin sleep on the rugs, they’re nice an’ soft.’

  Nimbalo swigged his tea off, flopped on the bed and fell asleep without further ado. Ruskem sat in his chair and sighed. ‘Don’t tell me yore story, Wagg. It’ll tire me ole brain out.’

  Tagg was gazing around the walls, which were filled with pieces of slate. Each one had a skilfully executed portrait of a shrew’s face on it, some male, others female. The otter smiled. ‘Oh, I won’t tell you my story, Ruskem, it bores me listening to it. These are good pictures. Who did them?’

  The shrew pointed to a lot of flint shards on the mantelpiece. ‘’Twas me. I like makin’ pitchers, got a good eye fer it. Those are my kin, ma, pa, grandma an’ grandpa. That ’un’s my ole missus, seasons rest ’er pore ’eart, the rest are me sons an’ daughters. Gone, all gone now. Thosethat ain’t died ’ave packed up an’ left. There’s on’y me now. But ’tis my ’ome an’ I likes it enough ter live wot seasons I got left right ’ere. You get some rest now, Flagg. Big feller like you needs plenty o’ shuteye. Nighty night!’

  Sometime during the night, Tagg woke up. Ruskem was snoring gently in his chair, but Nimbalo was talking in his sleep, sobbing too. In the dim glow of the turf fire, Tagg watched his friend tossing about on the bed, and listened to the harvest mouse’s disjointed ramblings.

  ‘But Papa, I’ve done all the work. I’m hungry. Ow! Ow! Please don’t beat me, Papa, I’ve done all the work. Where’s Mama? I want my mama! What . . . Oh, Mama, please come back . . .’

  Nimbalo sobbed heartbreakingly. Tagg rose quietly and stroked his friend’s head as gently as he could, murmuring, ‘Hush, matey, sleep easy now. Hush, hush.’

  Nimbalo’s eyes opened wide, and he sat up with his paws clenched. Tagg could tell he was still sleeping. Nimbalo’s voice grew hard. ‘Put that belt down, Papa! I said put it down, you ain’t goin’ to beat me with it no more. No more, I say!’

  Tagg pushed him back down and passed a paw over his eyes. ‘Sleep, now. Tagg’s here, mate. Sleeeeeep.’

  Nimbalo uttered a single word. ‘Tagg.’ His eyes closed and he slept peacefully for the remainder of the night. Tagg dozed off sitting by the fire. So, Nimbalo was a runaway who had received a hard upbringing from a cruel father. Now Tagg knew why his friend presented a tough exterior to all. He wanted to show he could not be bullied or beaten any more.

  Tagg woke late next morning. Nimbalo was still asleep, but Ruskem was up and about. He added mixed oats and barley and some strawberries to the shrewburgoo. Stirring in a chunk of honeycomb, he nodded to Tagg.

  ‘G’mornin’, Trogg. Wot d’ye think? Shall I toss in some wild celery an’ onions to this lot?’

  The otter wrinkled his nose and shook his head. ‘No, I think the strawberries an’ honey should be enough, sir. What’s the weather like outside, I wonder?’

  The ancient shrew poured tea from the kettle for his guest. ‘Fresh as a daisy an’ prettier’n a rosebud. Rain’s all gone, stream’s runnin’ muddy but full. What more could
a beast want?’

  Tagg went to the bed and shook the snoring harvest mouse. ‘A travelling partner who’s awake, that’s what I want.’

  Nimbalo sat up, rubbing his eyes and lying in his teeth. ‘I’m awake, I’m awake! Been awake fer blinkin’ ages, watchin’ youse two makin’ breakfast. Fooled yer, eh?’

  Ruskem passed him a steaming bowl. ‘Then try foolin’ yore stomach wid some o’ this, Bongbul!’

  When they had breakfasted, the old shrew sat back in his chair. Reaching down among the cushions, he pulled out two pieces of slate, with fair likenesses of Tagg and Nimbalo etched on them. He displayed them proudly.

  ‘Hah! I was up long afore youse pair. Well, wot d’ye think?’

  Tagg studied them. ‘They’re very good, sir, very good!’

  Ruskem was pleased with the otter’s verdict. ‘Heeheehee! Thankee, Blogg. I’ll put ’em up on me wall after yore gone. Youse kin be part o’ me family, eh!’

  ‘I don’t wanna be part o’ no fa—’

  Tagg clapped his paw over Nimbalo’s mouth and picked him up. ‘Let’s go outside and stretch in the fresh air, matey!’

  Ruskem put the portraits aside. ‘Wot’s wrong wid young Bimbo?’

  ‘Tummy trouble. He bolted down that hot breakfast.’

  Tagg swept Nimbalo out on to the sunlit bank. ‘No need to be insulting to the old fellow. He was honouring us by putting our pictures on the walls with his kin.’

  The harvest mouse looked shamefaced. ‘I better go back in an’ say I’m sorry to Ruskem.’

  Tagg patted his friend’s paw. ‘No need to. I don’t think he heard you. Just remember to be nice to him. He wasn’t obliged to help us, but he did.’

  Blinking against the sunlight, the ancient shrew hobbled out. ‘Heehee! See, I told ye. ’Tis a momin’ to be alive on. Nothin’ looks prettier’n these ’ere flatlands after a summer storm!’

  Nimbalo politely helped the old fellow to sit at the stream edge. ‘Yore right, sir. It certainly is!’

  Ruskem waved his stick back at the den. ‘Ye’ll find some liddle fruit loaves that I baked an’ two flasks o’ dannelion an’ burdock cordial in there. I take it yore bound fer the mountain? I was up there once. A strange an’ wunnerful place ’tis, but mind ’ow you go, especially you, young Bungalo.’