Tagg had been following the telltale signs. He looked up. ‘Redwall? You mean they’re going to the same place I’m heading?’
Jurkin kept his eyes on the bank and shallows. He shrugged. ‘Mebbe so. We’ll find out tomorrer when we comes t’the big rocks. We’ll stop then, an’ if’n y’see their trail goin’ off inland, then you’ll know fer sure. Great pins’n’prickles, lissen to that liddle mousemate o’ yourn. ’E’s a worse fibber’n me!’
Nimbalo was entertaining the Dillypins hogs, who sat around listening wide-eyed as he related a monologue of his adventures. Waving a celery stick, he parried and thrust at invisible foes as he leaped about, reciting dramatically.
‘I’m Nimbalo the Slayer, haha hoho,
A strange ole name ye may say,
So I’ll tell ye how I won me title,
Long ago, on a fine summer day.
I was the son of a mighty King,
Me an’ two hundred others,
Half of them was sisters of course,
But the other two halves was brothers.
We was out on a picnic one evenin’,
In a forest all dark’n’thick,
Some picked ants out the pudden,
While I just picked on a nick.
Suddenly we was under attack,
By ten thousand vermin, ’twas bad,
Some began shoutin’ for ’elp an’ aid,
An’ others for mum an’ dad!
There was wilful weasels, rotten rats,
Fat foxes, fierce ferrets an’ stoats,
With swords an’ knives, to take our lives,
An’ one had a spear in ’is coat!
When this I did spy, hoho sez I,
It looks like you scum wanna fight?
So I slew a score wid my left paw,
An’ another twelve with me right.
“That mouse is a slayer,” their leader cried,
“But by me spear he’ll die!”
So I knocked that rat flat,
With a swipe of me hat,
An’ the crust off a dead apple pie.
Then takin’ a sword, his whiskers I chopped,
All the while he was shoutin’ out “Save me!”
But in the din ’twas hard to hear,
I thought he was shoutin’ out “Shave me!”
Those villains dashed off in a panic,
’Cos they saw I was in a bad mood,
“Go boil yore bottoms,” I shouted,
(An’ other things far more rude).
That’s why me name’s Nimbalo,
An’ I’m a Slayer bold,
I’ll fight the good fight,
From morn until night,
But not if me supper gets cold!’
‘Did you chase da naughty villuns an’ catch ’em, mista Nimbal?’ a hogbabe piped up when the applause had died down.
The harvest mouse chomped on his celery sword. ‘No, they caught me an’ killed me, but I’ll get ’em next time!’
Tagg shook his head in mock despair at his friend. ‘You’re a dreadful fibber, Nimbalo.’
Patting his well-filled stomach, the harvest mouse winked. ‘After that good lunch, matey, I’m a sleepy dreadful fibber. I think ’tis about time fer me noontide nap.’ He stretched out on a deckmat and was soon snoring.
It was not long after that Tagg noticed the hogbabes and young ones chattering excitedly.
‘We’re coming up t’the water meadows,’ Jurkin explained. ‘They likes to paddle in the shallows an’ pick berries. Some good ’uns grow round there. But if’n yore in an ’urry, Tagg, we’ll sail on by ’em.’
Tagg would not hear of the idea. ‘No no, let the little ’uns have their fun. We can always make up the time later. I like water meadows too, you know.’
Jurkin chuckled. ‘So do I, mate. Thankee.’
The hogbabes were all agog, dancing and waving their paws. ‘Warty medders! There’s a warty medders!’
The barge hove in to the vast woodland-fringed area. It was a pretty sight. No more than waist deep, the entire expanse was carpeted in water lilies, plant life and bulrushes. All manner of insect life, including many beautiful butterflies, hovered on the still noontide air. Whooping and yelling, the Dillypins scooted off, some to paddle, others to gather berries and fruit. Tagg left Nimbalo sleeping and joined a bunch of mothers and babes with baskets. They found pears, apples, hazelnuts, blackberries, raspberries and wild damsons, all round the farflung margin.
They returned aboard in the late noon, happy with their harvest, speculating on the flans, pies, puddings and preserves which would be made with them. The otter put down the two babes he had been carrying shoulder high and waved to Jurkin, who had stayed aboard the raft.
‘I enjoyed that. ’Twas well worth it, mate. Where’s Nimbalo?’
The Dillypin leader nodded for’ard. ‘Sittin’ up yon with a face like stone. ’E woke just after you went, been sittin’ like that all afternoon.’
Nimbalo did not even look up when Tagg sat beside him. Never had the otter seen his harvest mouse friend so glum and depressed. By the marks on his face he had obviously shed tears. Tagg leaned close and lowered his voice.
‘What’s up, matey? Are you all right?’
Nimbalo continued gazing into the water. ‘Aye, I suppose so. It’s just this place, I can’t stand it.’
Tagg was astonished. The water meadow was a place of great beauty. ‘Why, what’s so awful about it? Tell me.’
Nimbalo indicated the far margin with a nod. ‘Jus’ beyond there was where I was reared by my papa. I never knew my mother. Maybe she died when I was young, that’s wot I like to think. But ’twas prob’ly Papa drove ’er to run off. ’E was a hard cruel beast. I hid in these ’ere reeds many a time, when Papa was goin’ to take a belt to me, for not doin’ the chores the way ’e wanted ’em done. There was jus’ me an’ Papa t’keep the farm goin’. I was never allowed any friends. Little food an’ lots o’ beltin’, that was my life. Said ’e did it to bring me up proper. Papa used to trade with beasts usin’ the river, like these Dillypins. I never met ’em, Papa made me stay ’ome an’ scrub out the farm’ouse. Always took ’is belt off t’me when ’e got back. Said I was lazy an’ shiftless. Enny’ow, one night when I’d growed a bit, Papa took the belt off once too often, I fought with ’im an’ ran off. Never been back since. That’s why I ain’t fond o’ this place: ’twas my ole stampin’ grounds. Will ye do me a favour, Tagg?’
The big otter was almost close to tears himself. ‘Of course I will. Anything for you, mate, anything!’
Nimbalo stood up, dusting himself down. ‘Will ye come with me, over t’the farm? I want Papa to see that I never turned out worthless an’ lazy.’
Tagg forced a jolly laugh for his friend’s benefit. ‘Hohoho, worthless and lazy, you? Come on, matey, we’ll show the miserable old sourface how his son looks now. Lead on, Slayer!’ He winked at Jurkin as they disembarked from the raft. ‘Hold the boat for us, will you, matey? We’ve got a small errand ashore. We’ll be back by suppertime.’
The Dillypin chief tightened off a mooring rope. ‘Righto, Tagg, supper’ll be ready an’ waitin’. There’ll be all kinds o’ good vittles cooked up from the stuff we got today.’
Beyond the far side of the water meadow, Tagg and Nimbalo made their way through a grove of trees. They emerged on the edge of a small flatland, which was sectioned and cultivated. Directly across the field was a thatched cottage. The harvest mouse halted and gave the scene a brief glance.
‘Hmm, things ain’t changed much. Same ole patch o’ dirt. Strange, though. Somethin’s not quite right.’
Tagg looked down at his friend’s furrowed brow. ‘Like what?’
Nimbalo gnawed at his lip. ‘There’s no sign o’ Papa. ’E usually works ’til dusk. If ’e was in the farm’ouse there’d be smoke risin’ from the chimbly, an’ there ain’t a single wisp. Somethin’s wrong, I can feel it!’ He took off at a run across the field, his paws sending young lettuce and
radishes flying, Tagg hard on his tail.
‘Nimbalo, stop! Wait for me! Slow down, mate!’
But the harvest mouse had kicked open the unlatched door and dashed inside. Tagg put on a burst of speed and chased in after him, halting immediately as he crossed the doorstep.
There in a pool of afternoon sunlight from the single window sat Nimbalo, amid the wreckage of what had once been his home. Chairs were smashed, curtains and coverlets ripped and food trampled everywhere. Nimbalo’s father lay dead, stretched out with a gaping wound in his chest.
Tagg knelt and studied a bloodstained pawprint in the dust. He breathed one word. ‘Gruven!’
Nimbalo had been sitting head in paws by his father’s body. At the sound of Tagg’s voice he looked up at the wall above the fireplace, where two nails were driven. ‘They killed ’im with ’is own axe. Lookit that wound, only one weapon could’ve done that. Papa kept an ole battleaxe over the fireplace there. Ohhhh, Tagg! I know’e was only a mean-spirited misery of a mouse, but why’d they slay ’im like that an’ wreck the place the way they did? Ohhhh, Papa, Papa, wot was it made you like ye were?’
Tagg placed a paw gently on Nimbalo’s shoulder. ‘Is there anything I can do, friend?’
The harvest mouse sniffed and scrubbed a paw across both eyes. ‘No, mate, ’cept leave me alone ’ere awhile. You go an’ wait across the field. Go on, I won’t keep ye long.’
Tagg closed the door behind him as he left.
Sitting in the tree shade at the field’s edge the otter stared at the farmhouse, feeling immensely sad for his little friend. Nimbalo had been nervous on the way over from the water meadows. It had caused him to laugh and joke about what a horrible old grouse his papa had been, and how he was going to show him that his son had not turned out the same. Poor Nimbalo. This was the last thing he had expected. What a homecoming for him.
Tagg wondered what his own father had been like, his mother too. He knew from Ribrow that his father was dead, but maybe, just maybe, he had a mother somewhere. Did she ever wonder what had become of her baby son? The otter sat for a long time puzzling various unknown bits of his former life, and then he saw a wisp of white smoke rising from the farmhouse chimney.
Nimbalo emerged, carrying a heavily buckled belt and a nail from the chimney wall. Closing the door, he took a rock and nailed the belt to the door jamb. Passing the belt through the doorhandle he tugged, buckling it tight, locking the door shut securely. He sniffed, scrubbed at his eyes one last time and straightened his shoulders. Tagg rose and greeted his friend as he paced back across the field.
‘You look a bit better now, mate. Ready to go?’
The harvest mouse nodded briskly. ‘I cleaned the place up, made a fire out o’ some broken furniture an’ dressed Papa in a clean smock. I sat ’im in ’is favourite chair an’ then locked the place up with that . . . er, I locked the place up good’n’tight. D’ye think Papa would’ve liked that, Tagg?’
The otter took his friend’s paw as they walked away. ‘I’m sure he would have, Nimbalo. You did right.’
Nimbalo pulled Tagg to a halt. ‘Don’t you ever tell anybeast about this, especially those Dillypin ’ogs. Promise me ye won’t breathe a word!’
Tagg winked knowingly. ‘Mateys don’t tell otherbeasts their secrets.’
They skirted the water meadow, making for the raft. Nimbalo waved to the hedgehogs on deck, muttering to Tagg in an undertone, ‘When we do catch up with yore vermin, one of ’em’ll be carryin’ a battleaxe. Leave that ’un to me, ’e’ll be the beast who slew my father. I’ll pay that feller back in full!’ Nimbalo’s eyes were as hard as ice-coated granite. Tagg nodded.
As long as he lived, Tagg would never be able to figure his friend out. That night aboard the raft, Nimbalo was the very life and soul of things, laughing, singing and bantering with the hedgehogs. Supper was a spectacular affair. Jurkin had baked a massive outsized dish, which he called allfruit duff. It was a huge soft-crusted crumble, with every fruit or berry they had gathered smeared with honey and baked inside it. The whole thing was covered with a thick white sauce which tasted of vanilla and almonds. It was very tasty; heavy, but satisfying.
Jurkin sat with Tagg, laughing at Nimbalo’s antics. ‘That liddle mouse o’ yourn, lookit ’im now singin’ an’ scoffin’ with my ’ogs, yet only this noon ’e looked like a thunnercloud. Where did you two go when ye left the raft?’
The otter shrugged carelessly. ‘Picking up vermin tracks. Seemed they circled the water meadow, but they’re still headed downriver. Nimbalo’s just happy that we’re still hot on their trail.’
Jurkin spooned himself another bowl of his allfruit duff. ‘That’s the way all travellers widout a vessel go. We’re still on their tails, right enough. But we’ll prob’ly part company with them in the mornin’ when we reach the big rocks, where the trail splits. Hoho, lookit Nimbalo doin’ the pawspike dance. I thought only ’ogs knew ’ow t’do that ’un.’
Tagg winked at the Dillypin chief. ‘You’d be surprised at what my little mate knows!’
Nimbalo was in his element, standing in line with the hedgehogs, doing all the actions and singing aloud. It was a very old chanting dance, performed only by the Dillypin tribe. However, the harvest mouse was a quick learner.
‘Rum chakka chum chakka chum chakka choo!
I’m a Dillypin who are you?
Choo chakka choo chakka choo chakka chah!
River’ogs is wot we are.
Tap y’paws tap y’spikes tap y’snout an’ turn,
Bow to y’partner like a swayin’ fern,
Round an’ round now, tap that paw,
Who’s that knockin’ on my door?
Rap chakka chap chakka chap chakka chin!
Ho ’tis you, well come on in.
Chin chakka bin chakka bin chakka choo!
I can dance as good as you.
Clap y’paws shake y’spikes, touch snouts with me,
Sail down the river right to the sea,
Wot’ll we find there wild an’ free,
Golden sands an’ silv’ry sea.
Whoom chakka boom chakka boom chakka – whoa!
Hold on tight an’ away we – goooooooo!’
They all dashed forward, clasping paws, and collapsed laughing on the deck. Leaping up, Nimbalo led the scramble for flagons of cold pale cider, which had cooled in the river current, tied in a sack trailing astern of the raft.
‘Let me liddle niece Tingle give a song!’ Jurkin called.
Tagg joined the rest in encouraging the young hogmaid. ‘Aye, come on, Tingle, give us a song!’
Tingle obliged shyly. She had an unusual soft husky little voice.
’Old places I travelled long seasons ago,
Kind faces of friends I have seen,
What’s round the riverbend, dear I don’t know,
’Tis a land where my heart’s never been.
Will I sit in the shade of tall willows above,
If I gaze in the stream may I see,
There standing beside, the one that I love,
Or all sad and alone must I be?
The tears I have shed here are mingled and gone,
Through waters which flow without end,
And I must drift, ever seeking that one,
Waiting there round some far riverbend.’
Tingle threw her apron up over her face and scurried off amid hearty applause and shouts of ‘More! More!’
Jurkin mopped his eyes with a spotty kerchief and sniffed aloud. ‘That’s me favourite song. Ain’t she a luvly singer!’
‘She certainly is,’ Tagg agreed, ‘and that song was beautiful!’
Jurkin stowed his kerchief away quickly. ‘Aye, an’ guess who wrote it? That plum-faced oaf Robald. Wonders never cease, eh? Where’d a fool who’s never ’ad a fight in ’is life get the brains to write summat like that? Hoho, Nimbalo, changed yore tune agin? Now yore weepin’!’
The harvest mouse glared at the big Dillypin hog. ‘No I wasn
’t, I was sneezin’. Jus’ some cider went down the wrong way. So wipe that stoopid grin off’n yore face or I’ll do it for yer, big as ye are!’
Jurkin held up his paws, feigning terror. ‘No offence, matey, don’t start slayin’ anybeast, we’re ’avin’ a good time. Cummon, Tagg, are ye goin’ t’get up an’ give us a song or a dance, matey?’
The otter shook his head ruefully. ‘Where I was brought up, singing and dancing were the last things anybeast was called on to do. I’m only good at the use of weapons, or at using my body as a weapon. ’Tis what I was trained for.’
Jurkin waved a paw airily. ‘Then show us a bit o’ that. Stand clear, Dillypins, give my mate Tagg a bit o’ room!’
The otter expelled a great sigh and shrugged. ‘All right, then, if you really must. Keep your eyes on my blade.’
Tagg whipped out the beautiful knife and began twirling it with one paw. It spun until it was nought but a shining blur.
‘Heyya hupp!’
As he shouted, Tagg struck the spinning blade with his other paw. It flashed off and stuck deep in the cabin wall. With an enormous somersault he was alongside the wall, pulling the knife out almost on the instant it struck. The blade began twirling again. This time he was facing Nimbalo as his paw shot out. The harvest mouse yelled, throwing himself flat on the deck. A concerted ‘Aaahhhh!’ arose from the hedgehogs, who thought Nimbalo had been slain. With a powerful leap, Tagg was at Nimbalo’s side, helping him up. The harvest mouse patted his chest, throat and both ears, thoroughly shaken.
‘Wh-where’s the blade?’
Tagg threw back his head and laughed. ‘I don’t know. Ask Jurkin.’
Looking mystified, Jurkin scratched his headspikes. ‘I dunno, mate. Where’d it go?’
Tagg pointed downward. ‘Look between your footpaws!’
The blade was there, still quivering. Jurkin jumped back a pace. ‘Seasons o’ spikes’n’stickles, ’ow did ye do that?’
Tagg whipped the blade free and resumed spinning it. His paw flicked out and everybeast ducked. He chuckled. ‘Where is it now, eh?’
They looked between their footpaws, at the deck and the cabin wall. Jurkin narrowed his eyes. ‘Stuck in somewheres.’
The Taggerung (Redwall) Page 28
