Robald wiggled his eyebrows knowingly. ‘Most creatures would think that, my friend; a common misconception, I fear. Over the seasons I’ve found this route the shorter by a considerable time. The stream course meanders and winds far too much. Trust me, my way is altogether more convenient.’
Tagg could see the woodland fringe through the layers of midday heat haze. ‘Looks like he’s right,’ he murmured to Nimbalo. ‘This is a quicker way.’
‘Aye, prob’ly is, mate,’ the harvest mouse whispered out the corner of his mouth, ‘but I jus’ wish ole Robald’d give ’is face a rest. Huh, ’e could talk the leg off’n a table!’
The hedgehog smiled patronisingly at Nimbalo. ‘I could not help but overhear your remark, friend Nimbalo. Quite incorrect, of course; it would take physical force to remove a table leg. However, as to my verbosity, I fear you are right. When deprived of company one tends to practise the art of conversation far more than one normally would. Had you seen my abode prior to its present state, you would have promptly noticed the absence of birds, bees, wasps, midges, and sundry other creatures frequenting the area. They invariably leave after listening to my interminable prattling. Forthright by name and Forthright by nature, as Great Aunt Lollery often says. I speak my mind, you see, always and often, even since infancy.’
Tagg and Nimbalo strode out with a will, speeding up their pace and leaving the talkative Robald behind. The otter had to stifle his laughter as Nimbalo impersonated the hedgehog. ‘Spoke ’is mind since infancy? Hahaha, can you imagine that ’un when ’e was an ‘ogbabe, sittin’ up in the cradle an’ spoutin’ away like that? H’i say, Great Auntie Lollery, frazzle me up a measured portion of the ole oatmeal porridge inna pan, but make certing the fire is at the correct temperature, will ye? Ho yes!’
Robald had now fallen far behind. ‘I say,’ he called, ‘would you kindly do me the courtesy of accommodating your pace to mine? I feel distinctly breathless!’
‘Then stow the gab, y’ole windbag,’ Nimbalo shouted back. ‘Button up yore mouth an’ let yore paws do the work. We ain’t stoppin’ for ye!’
Robald broke into a scurrying waddle and caught them up. ‘Point taken. I am suitably chastened, and from hereonin my lips shall remain sealed. Thank you for your comments, friend Nimbalo.’
Hot and dusty, they arrived at the fringe of the sheltering trees, entering gratefully into the cool shade of woodlands dappled by the noontide sun. Robald was about to sit on the moss beneath a broad spreading oak when Tagg hauled him back on to his paws.
‘If you’re worried about Aunt Lollery there’s no time to rest. Which way do we go now?’
Robald gestured with weary resignation. ‘You are right, of course, friend Tagg. Over that way. The stream grows quite broad there, where it joins the river. In a moment or two of walking you’ll hear the watersounds. Extremely soothing to one’s nerves after crossing the exposed flatlands.’
He was right. Within the space of a short walk they reached the point where river met stream. Laburnum, willow and spindle trees trailed their drooping branches gracefully into the placid dark waters of a calm inlet. Robald quickened his pace and hurried out on to a spur dotted with cranberry, water mint and flowering rush. A huge raft was moored there, which seemed to upset Robald. He jumped up and down stamping his paws.
‘No! No! Nononono! Why oh why did I pick the same time to visit as those confounded Dillypins?’
Tagg raced to join the hedgehog. ‘Robald, what is it? Has something happened to your nurse?’
The hedgehog pointed an accusing paw at the raft. ‘Don’t you see, it’s those uncouth ignoramuses. Those . . . those . . . great spiked louts. The Dillypins, I mean!’
His rantings were cut short as a small rough-looking hogbabe emerged from the shrubbery behind them and whacked Robald’s footpaw with a little club. He hopped about in agony as the hogbabe threw back his head and went into gales of gruff laughter.
‘Ahohohoho! Gotcha dat time, h’uncle Robald. Hohohohoho!’ The babe brandished his club and went after Nimbalo’s paws. Tagg picked him up in one paw and took his club away.
‘Where’s your mum and dad? Quick, before I eat you!’
The hogbabe showed no fear, merely pointing along the stream. ‘Down dere, h’eatin’ up Lollery’s pancakes. I show ya. Lemme down!’
Robald limped along in the rear as Tagg and Nimbalo hurried through the trees after the speeding hogbabe. Rounding a sharp curve in the streambank he pointed to a cottage. It was all a woodland cottage should be, built from logs and roofed with sod and moss on larch trellis. A neat little garden of flowers and vegetables with a white rock border skirted the front. Rough laughter, singing and the strains of odd instruments came from behind the cottage. Robald hobbled up, a look of despair and pain on his chubby features.
‘Forgive me, but I’d much rather you had found the three vermin here than that ill-disciplined lot. Oh well, you’d better come and meet the other side of Great Aunt Lollery’s family. No relation to the Forthrights, I’m glad to say!’
Chaos reigned in the back garden. Fat rough hedgehogs, their spikes adorned with flowers and trailing weeds, were guzzling down food, drinking and having belching contests, singing, fighting, dancing and completely ignoring the visitors. A homely greyspiked hedgehog, old and thin, dressed in a spotless white smock and a flowery apron, was frying pancakes on top of an outdoor oven. The three newcomers drew close, wordlessly watching her. She tipped a thick paste of ground corn and nutmeal on to the hot stone oventop, where it spread and fried quickly before she flipped it skilfully over with a broad thin slate. As the bottom fried she ladled honey and chopped berries on top, then folded the whole thing in two and served it to a waiting hedgehog. Looking up from her task she smiled at Robald.
‘I think you smelt my pancakes, master Robald. Would you and your friends like some? Of course you would. Now, what brings you here? I only visited you two days ago. Oh, there I go, chatting on without introducing myself. I’m Great Aunt Lollery.’
The otter bowed politely. ‘My name’s Tagg and this is Nimbalo. Pleased to meet you, Aunt Lollery. We came here because we thought you might be in danger from three vermin we are tracking.’
The hedgehog she had been serving was a particularly big, tough specimen. He chuckled scornfully. ‘Three vermints? Hohoho! Y’mean those three who tried callin’ on us as Lollery was cookin’ brekkist? Well, ye’ve missed ’em, mate. Afore they’d even crossed the stream we sent the bullies on their way with a few good lumps t’think about, eh, Lollery!’
Lollery waved a paw at the three newcomers and continued the tale. ‘It was so funny. There I am, cooking breakfast, when one of the babes comes to me and says that there’s three beasts across the stream, who must’ve smelled my good cooking. So I went out and there they were, two stoats and a rat, all tattooed up, just like you, Mr Tagg. Hmph! They weren’t very polite, I can tell you. One of them wades into the water waving a sword, saying he was going to chop me into fishbait if I didn’t give them vittles. Of course he was shouting so loud that Jurkin here heard him. So the whole Dillypin family came out, loaded up their slings and gave those vermin a pounding they richly deserved!’
Jurkin unwound a hefty sling from his waist, fitted a big round riverpebble into it and whirled the thing overhead. ‘Aye, us Dillypins knows ’ow t’swing a rock. Gimme a target.’
Tagg pointed. ‘Poplar branch sticking out there, see?’
Jurkin whipped off the stone. It zipped through the air and snapped off the poplar branch with a resounding Crack! Grinning, he held out the sling to Tagg. ‘Wanna try it, riverdog?’
The otter smiled and shook his head. ‘Not really, mate. See that woodrush flower in front of the poplar?’
Jurkin squinted. ‘Y’mean that ’un growin’ low down agin the trunk?’
Tagg’s blade flashed through the air. It landed quivering in the poplar trunk, pinning the star-shaped woodrush flower through its centre. Tagg winked broadly at Jurkin. ‘Want to t
ry it, spikedog?’
Robald pulled Tagg away, beckoning him urgently to sit and eat. It was obvious that Robald was no friend of Jurkin.
‘Aunt Lollery has made us some of her delicious pancakes. We’d be well advised to consume them before some Dillypin does.’
Great Aunt Lollery brought the pancakes over to the table, and poured everyone a beaker of greensap milk. Serving Tagg first, she whispered, ‘You eat ’earty now, sir, an’ pay no heed to that Jurkin.’
Nimbalo tucked into his food, remarking to Robald, ‘Wot’s ole Jurkin glarin’ at Tagg like that for? Lookit the face on ’im. You’d think ’e was sittin’ on a wasp.’
‘Jurkin’s a decent enough type, as far as Dillypins go,’ Robald explained. ‘But he’s always got to be top hog wherever he goes. You shouldn’t have showed him that knife trick, Tagg. He can’t do it, so now he’s working himself up to challenge you to some silly game that he knows he’s best at. If I were you I’d keep my eye on him.’
Robald’s prediction turned out to be correct. Jurkin and his crew became extra noisy, tussling with each other and bumping into Tagg’s table without apologising. Then they started flicking small pebbles at one another. Jurkin waited until a young hog was between him and Tagg, and then flicked a pebble lazily at the youngster, who was swift enough to dodge it easily. The pebble struck Tagg on his cheek, which seemed to cause great hilarity among the Dillypins, Jurkin laughing loudest.
Tagg picked up the pebble, calling cheerfully to Jurkin, ‘Not much of a shot, mate. You’d better learn to throw properly!’
The otter tossed the pebble back over his shoulder and batted it hard with his tail. It zinged off, whacking the tip of Jurkin’s nose painfully. Clapping a paw to his injured snout, Jurkin waited until the other Dillypins had stopped laughing. He hid the anger in his eyes by smiling at Tagg.
‘Good job yore on’y a riverdog, or I’d spiketussle ye!’
Placing a paw against his forehead with the claws spread wide, Tagg smiled back at the big hedgehog. ‘Oh, don’t let that stop ye, spikedog. Will this do?’
Spiketussling is the hedgehog form of wrestling, in which two hogs lock headspikes and try to throw each other. Tagg was offering his outspread pawclaws as spikes. Jurkin grimaced fiercely.
‘Claws’ll do fer spikes, if’n yore fool enough to try it, mate. I’ve been spiketusslin’ champion o’ the Dillypins since I was a babe. Come on, mate, an’ I’ll teach ye a lesson y’won’t forget!’
He charged Tagg immediately, head down, spikes extended. The otter leaped over the table and met the onslaught, locking his claws into Jurkin’s powerful headspikes. Dillypins scattered to get out of the way and benches and tables were overturned as the two roared aloud, pushing one another back and forth around the garden. Shrubs cracked, grass flew and leaves showered from low tree branches. Hedgehogs yelled.
‘Give it the neckwhip, Jurkin, you’ve got ’im!’
Jurkin twisted his neck suddenly, but Tagg went with it, turning a somersault and landing upright. He saw the surprise on Jurkin’s face as he carried on the manoeuvre by throwing another somersault in the same direction. Unable to halt his momentum, the hedgehog flew into the air, landing with a heavy thud on the ground. Belying his hefty bulk, he leaped up, and Tagg did it again, somersaulting so that his opponent was immediately floored once more. He repeated the move every time Jurkin rose. Six times the hedgehog hit the floor, then he tried to rise and fell back panting hoarsely. Tagg leaned over Jurkin, holding him down, grinning into his face.
‘Good game, eh? Want to try some more, spikedog?’
Jurkin held his paws up submissively. ‘Ye’ve cracked every spike on me back, y’great riverwhomper!’
Releasing Jurkin’s spikes, Tagg helped him up. He grasped the hedgehog’s paw and shook it firmly, announcing aloud, ‘I’ve never tangled with a beast so powerful in all my life. Good job you never got up again, mate, or you’d have licked me!’
Jurkin held Tagg’s paw up, calling to all his crew, ‘This is my matey Tagg. Anybeast wants to fight with ’im ‘as got t’fight with me too. Loll, bring more pancakes, will ye!’
Robald shook his head as he watched the pair scoffing pancakes and swigging greensap milk like brothers. ‘I’m afraid it’s all a bit beyond me, Nimbalo. Just look at them. Only a moment ago I thought they were trying to kill each other.’
The harvest mouse shook his head admiringly. ‘Aye, my mate Tagg’s like nobeast ye’ve ever met!’
Tagg told Jurkin his story. The hedgehog demolished a pancake as he listened, then he grunted approvingly. ‘So, yore trackin’ these three vermin, Tagg? They’re ’eaded downstream an’ into Mossflower Wood, y’know. That’s the way they went when we sent ’em packin’!’
Tagg rose from the table, licking honey from his paws. ‘Downstream into Mossflower, eh? Then I’m bound to go after them, friend. Goodbye, ’twas nice meeting you!’
Jurkin rose from the table with him. ‘Then ye’ll be sailin’ with the Dillypins, you an’ the mousey. We’re goin’ that way too, so save the wear on yore paws, matey. Now I ain’t takin’ no fer an answer: you sail with us as far as we can track ’em afore they goes off inter the woodlands!’
Before they left, Nimbalo took issue with Robald and Great Aunt Lollery, whom he had grown fond of. ‘Now lissen, Robald me ole pincushion, never you mind livin’ out on the flatlands alone an’ ’avin’ this good ‘ogwife runnin’ after ye ten times a season with vittles. Yore Aunt Lollery ain’t gettin’ any younger, an’ you should be livin’ ’ere with ’er. If’n I ’ad a Great Aunt Lollery, I wouldn’t leave ’er defenceless on ’er own, I’d keep ’er comp’ny an’ take better care of ’er!’
Robald stood looking shamefaced. ‘Now you come to point it out, friend Nimbalo, I have been a touch selfish. You’re right, of course. I’ll stay here with my kind nurse, if she’ll have a fat lonely hermit, that is.’
Lollery fidgeted with her spotless apron and sniffed. ‘Oh, go on with you, master Robald. I promised your mama I’d look after you. Goodness knows ’tis a trek out on to those flatlands, carryin’ great baskets o’ vittles to ye. You’re welcome to stay with me for ever. Sometimes a body gets so lonely in this liddle cottage that even the Dillypins are a welcome sight!’
That evening the sprawling raft took off into midstream, loaded with Dillypin hedgehogs of all shapes, ages and sizes. Tagg sat on the tiller rail with Nimbalo and Jurkin, holding several ropes apiece. These were attached to hogbabes, to stop them falling in the water as they wrestled and played all over the broad deck. At the raft’s centre was a construction, part hut, part tent, complete with chimney, oven and galley fire, though there would be no cooking done that night, due to the fact that Great Aunt Lollery had provisioned them out with all manner of excellent food: cheeses, breads, puddings, cakes, drinks, and extra supplies of her renowned pancakes, which were marvellous, hot or cold. Robald and his nurse waved them off from the bank as the peculiar vessel caught the midstream current and sailed off.
‘Goodbye, friend Tagg, pleasant sailing, friend Nimbalo, thank you for all your help. I’d still be stuck in a ball of mud if you hadn’t chanced along. Take care of yourselves!’
‘Goodbye Mr Nimbalo, Mr Tagg, goodbye Dillypins!’
The hedgehogs lined the deck, singing their farewell.
‘Off down the streams away we go,
Where we’ll land up I don’t know,
With good ole grub an’ lots o’ drink,
We’ll sail along until we sink.
Sink! Sink! Sink!
We’re Dillypins an’ we don’t care,
As long as sky an’ wind is fair,
An’ when we spot the foe we say,
Yore just a good stonethrow away.
Way! Way! Way!
Weigh anchor mates we’re outward bound,
But we’ll be back next time around,
O’er swirlin’ stream an’ rushin’ foam,
To eat you out o’ house an’ home.
Home! Home! Home!’
Lulled by the watersounds and late evening sunrays flickering scarlet through drooping treetops, Tagg lay down on a woven deckmat. The little hogs had been hauled in by their mothers for supper and bed, and apart from the first nocturnal birdsong echoing from the dense woodlands things were fairly quiet. Jurkin held the tiller steady. He watched Nimbalo’s head starting to nod and Tagg’s eyelids growing heavy.
‘Best get yore ’eads down, mates; it’s been a long day for ye. Go on, sleep. I’ll keep this ole scow on course an’ watch for signs of the vermin.’
Tagg allowed his eyes to close as he answered, ‘Thankee, mate. I’ll wake around midnight and take a turn on the tiller, then you can catch a nap too!’
Nimbalo curled up close to Tagg’s footpaws, yawning cavernously. ‘Ah, this is the life! Wake me next season, but do it gently, an’ I’d like some ’ot pancakes an’ dannylion tea when y’do. Yowch! Keep that footpaw still, ye great ruffian, or I’ll sling yer in the water!’
Jurkin chuckled at the idea. ‘Savage liddle beast, ain’t ’e?’
Nimbalo opened one eye and growled, ‘One more word out o’ you, needlebritches, an’ you’ll find out why they calls me Nimbalo the Slayer!’
Once more Tagg’s dreams were a kaleidoscope of red warriors, vermin faces and inexplicable events. He was running through deep woodlands, trying to catch up with the elusive figure of the mouse warrior, calling out after him, ‘Deyna, stop, wait for me!’
Amid the trees, the warrior turned, waving his wondrous sword. He called back things Tagg could not understand. There was a look of urgency on the armoured mouse’s face. Tagg felt a sudden kinship with him, a desire to go with him, to help with whatever needed to be done. Then Vallug appeared, a murderous snarl on his face as he fired an arrow from his bow. It was too late to dodge the shaft, but Tagg thrust out a paw to protect himself. He roared with pain as the arrow pierced it.
The Taggerung (Redwall) Page 25
