The Taggerung (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Filorn reassured the gluttonous hare. ‘I’ll see you’re well supplied, Mr Boorab. Sister, is there anything special our Guard Commander must eat for his injury?’

  Alkanet cast a frozen glare at the hare. ‘Just food!’

  Boorab bowed and smiled broadly at her. ‘Just food, eh? Wonderful thought, marm, wot!’

  That night Mhera had the strangest dreams she had ever experienced. In the meandering pathways of sleep she saw a beloved face from the past: Rillflag, her father. The ottermaid ran towards him through a misty early morning field. He smiled, holding his paws wide to embrace her, and she called out, ‘Papa, Papa!’

  She recalled his face so well, yet it was not exactly as she remembered it. There was something different. He looked younger. He vanished bit by bit as Mhera tried to run faster, calling his name. Down, down he sank into the swirling, milky-hued vapour. She ran to the spot and knelt down. It was the bank of a river. Sunlight dispersed the foggy tendrils, and the ottermaid stared into the cool dark waters. But it was not her own reflection gazing back at her, it was Martin the Warrior. He held up one paw pad foremost, pointed at the front of it with the other, and spoke just one word. ‘Taggerung!’

  Then she was sitting on her mother’s lap, on the old wheelbarrow in the orchard. Deyna, the little brother she had lost many long seasons ago, was beside her. Filorn looked radiant, young and beautiful, happy as any ottermum with her young ones. Mhera stopped tossing and turning in her sleep. She lay still and contented, listening to her mama sing.

  ‘Bells o’er the woodland

  Sound sweet and so clear,

  They peal across meadows and streams.

  Small birds sing along,

  Hear their echoing song,

  Whilst bees hum about their small dreams.

  So slumber on, little one,

  Safe here with me,

  All in the warm afternoon.

  When the long day is done

  And deep night’s shade is come

  I will bring you the stars and the moon!’

  * * *

  28

  Tagg woke up scratching. He was itching all over. Still with his eyes half closed, he wiggled a paw in his ear and spat out something that was wandering over his lip. Nimbalo was sitting by the fire, cooking breakfast, his fur plastered wetly against him. He watched the otter scratching madly and shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Sorry, mate. It was dark, ’ow could I tell I’d picked a campsite right inna middle of a bloomin’ ant trail? Pond’s over there.’

  Tagg tore past him and did a bounding dive into the still waters of a small lake, ignoring Nimbalo’s shout of ‘Wouldn’t mind a perch or a fat ole trout fer brekkist, mate!’

  Swimming powerfully, Tagg crossed and recrossed the waters, and then he sped back to the lake’s centre and dived. It felt so good that he frisked about like an otterbabe, performing underwater somersaults and chasing his rudder playfully. Nimbalo left off cooking to gaze on the unbroken sheet of lake surface, muttering to himself as he waited for his friend to surface.

  ‘C’mon, you ole riverdog, this scoff’ll be cold if’n ye stay down there all day!’

  Breaking the surface on the far side of the lake, Tagg leaped out shaking himself, then bent down and was lost to sight. Nimbalo snorted impatiently, shouting as he went back to cooking, ‘Wot’s goin’ on over there, matey? Found more ants t’play with?’

  Tagg came bounding back with his tunic slung over one shoulder. He spilled the contents out in front of Nimbalo. ‘Look, button mushrooms and cress. I found them growing over there. Anything nice to eat? I’m starving!’

  Nimbalo served the food, chuckling. ‘Pancakes an’ honey an’ pear cordial, but don’t tell the ants!’

  Tagg smiled ruefully at the thought of the insects. ‘You little puddenhead, fancy picking a camp in an ant run!’

  Nimbalo shuddered and wriggled. ‘Ugh! I really earned me title durin’ the night, mate. I must’ve slayed about two ’undred ants every time I rolled over!’

  The cress was sweet and fresh, and the mushrooms had a wonderful nutty flavour. They finished breakfast by eating as many as they could.

  After breaking camp, the two friends headed into the woodlands, still following the vermin tracks. It was a golden morning, with vagrant breezes chasing small fluffy clouds across a soft blue sky. A vague excitement was stirring in Tagg’s mind. He did not recognise the country, yet it felt friendly. He stopped for a moment and leaned against an ancient hornbeam.

  ‘Nimbalo, have you ever had the feeling that you know a place, yet you haven’t been there before? I mean . . .’

  The harvest mouse nodded confidently. ‘I know wot y’mean, Tagg, though ’tis ’ard to explain. I used t’make a rhyme about it when I was rovin’ the flatlands. Lissen.

  ‘There’s many’s the patch that I ain’t trod,

  Nor ever been before there,

  An’ yet it seems as close to me,

  As some ole coat I’ve wore, sir.

  Some streams’n’rivers, rocks’n’fields,

  That I have come upon, sir,

  I’m seein’ them for my first time,

  Yet I knows every one there.

  Now was I here ten seasons back,

  Did I sit ’neath that tree there,

  An’ if I pass this way agin,

  Then will I meet meself, sir?’

  The harvest mouse had saved a few mushrooms. He tossed one up and caught it deftly in his mouth. ‘Y’see wot I mean?’

  He tossed another mushroom up. Tagg nudged him out of the way and caught it in his mouth. ‘Aye, it’s as clear as porridge on a winter’s morn. Nimbalo!’ The harvest mouse had suddenly rushed ahead. ‘Come back here. What is it?’

  Dodging between the trees, Nimbalo was pointing upward. ‘Look, mate! Look!’

  There in the distance was Redwall Abbey, the morning sun reflecting off its old red sandstone bulk, rearing into the sky.

  Within a short distance of the outer walls Tagg and Nimbalo halted, breathless at the sight of the colossal Abbey up close. Nimbalo strained his head back, staring up at it.

  ‘Great seasons o’ swamps’n’streams, ants never built that lot, mate!’

  Tagg could hardly believe his eyes. It was a dream coming true. ‘I’m getting that funny feeling again, mate!’

  Nimbalo reminded him of their mission. ‘Let’s git outta the way for a bit an’ figger out wot we’re goin’ t’do. Get be’ind these bushes, Tagg.’

  The otter came back to reality. He took his friend’s wise counsel and ducked down behind a coppiced hazel bush. ‘You’re right, we can’t go marching up and banging on their door. Nobeast in there would know us. Then there’s the vermin, five of them if the tracks are to be believed. We could be ambushed by them as we stood gawking at that place. So, what’s the plan, Nimbalo?’

  His friend made a calming gesture with both paws. ‘We takes it slow’n’easy at first. This is the way I sees it. We’ll split up an’ take different ways, keep t’the trees, not let ourselves be seen. I’ll meet ye back ’ere in the late noon. If one of us makes contact with anybeast inside an’ gets hisself welcomed in then we’re both all right. But keep yore eyes peeled for those vermin. If y’see them, don’t go mad an’ start slayin’ the villains, an’ I won’t either. When we meets back ’ere, then we’ll make another plan an’ set up an ambush on them. Right?’

  Tagg took Nimbalo’s paw and shook it. ‘Right. Good plan, mate. Oh, here, you take my blade.’

  The harvest mouse was puzzled. ‘Why’s that?’

  Tagg did not want Nimbalo to be unarmed if he met the vermin, but to save his friend’s pride he gave another reason, one which was just as valid. ‘It won’t matter so much if the Abbeybeasts see a harvest mouse with a knife, but a big otter like me, with a tattooed face, if they see me carrying a weapon, what then, eh?’

  Nimbalo thrust the blade through his belt. It looked like a sword on his tiny frame. ‘Yore right, mate. Hmm, this is
a nice blade. I could get used to it. Jus’ the sort o’ thing Nimbalo the Slayer needs.’

  They split up, Tagg taking the east wall going south, Nimbalo going in the opposite direction.

  Egburt came dashing into Great Hall, colliding with Mhera and Cregga, who were going to the infirmary to visit Fwirl. The Badgermum leaned on Mhera as she halted the hedgehog in his tracks.

  ‘Whoa there, speedy, where are you off to in such a hurry?’

  Egburt thrust a wooden serving tray into Mhera’s paws. ‘It’s Mr Boorab, he’s gone. See for y’self, miz!’

  Cregga tapped the tray impatiently. ‘Gone? Where’s he gone and what’s that thing? Tell me, Mhera!’

  The ottermaid studied the tray briefly before replying. ‘It’s a serving tray. Boorab has written a message on it with a charcoal stick. Listen. “Dear chums’n’chaps, gone to get help from Skipper and co. Dashed silly but brave I know. Don’t go weeping and wailing for me, only if I don’t make it back, then I hope you’ll bawl your bonces off for a blinkin’ season, wot. Tell Filorn to start cookin’ now, yours truly will be rather peckish on his return. Also, if one knows there’s stacks of grub waitin’, then one will try one’s hardest to return. Rather! Regards to all, keep a light burnin’ in the jolly old window. Yr faithful probationary music master and Guard Commander, Bellscut Oglecrop Obrathon Ragglewaithe Audube Baggscut. PS. Tell Drogg to keep my haredee gurdee well greased. PPS. Tell miss Fwirl to refuse any physicks if she wants to live. PPPS. I hope old Hoarg’s bucket recovers from that arrow (haha). Only joking, got to go, chin up, chest out, wot!”’

  Cregga shook her head and leaned down more heavily on Mhera. ‘The flop-eared idiot. I knew many such hares long ago. Brave, foolish and reckless, or perilous, as the Long Patrol would say. Let’s hope fervently that he makes it! Egburt, I’m promoting you to Commander of the Wallguard in Boorab’s absence. Are you able for the job, young hog?’

  Egburt performed an excellent parody of the hare. ‘Able, marm, able’s my second name, wot wot. Your wish is my command, I won’t say another word, attention, smart salute, eyes right, and I’ll bid ye a good day. Quick march, one two one two, pick that step up there, laddie buck!’

  Eefera released his prisoners and issued them with their weapons. They stood looking bewildered. Vallug sounded almost friendly as he addressed them.

  ‘Surprised t’find yoreselves alive an’ kickin’ today, eh? Well so am I. Those beasts be’ind the walls must be softer’n we thought they was, which is all the better fer us. Now, we’re goin’ to take a nice liddle walk, up north a bit, across the path an’ into the ditch, then back down t’the main gates o’ Redwall. Keep yore ’eads down low; they can use slings from those walltops. We’ve give ye back yer weapons, so try an’ look just a bit like Juska warriors. I’ll be be’ind youse all the way. First one makes a wrong move an’ I’ll spit ’em with an arrer. Wot are yew lookin’ at me like that for, Gruven? Cummon, speak up.’

  No matter how hard he tried, Gruven could not shake off his fear of Vallug. It was as if the Bowbeast was looking for an excuse to kill him. Gruven’s paws trembled uncontrollably as he tried to speak around the lump of panic welling in his throat.

  ‘I, er, wasn’t lookin’ at ye.’

  Vallug brought his face close to Gruven’s. ‘Say sir.’

  ‘I wasn’t lookin’ at ye . . . sir.’

  Vallug grinned wolfishly at Eefera. ‘If only ’is mammy could see ’im now. Come on, let’s get goin’.’

  Eefera went ahead to show the way, Vallug followed in the rear, keeping the three sandwiched between them. They had not gone far when Eefera raised a paw and halted them. He signalled Vallug to hold the three in silence, then ducked off amid the shrubbery.

  Nimbalo scarce had time to do a half turn before Eefera’s spearbutt crashed down upon his skull. Slinging the little fellow over his shoulders, Eefera made his way back to the others. He dumped the unconscious harvest mouse on the ground in front of them.

  ‘See wot I found, mates. Lookit wot’s in the mousey’s belt, Vallug. Now tell me the Taggerung ain’t inside Redwall Abbey!’

  Vallug took the knife almost reverently from Nimbalo’s belt. ‘Sawney Rath’s blade! Well slit me gizzard an’ stew me tripes! Yore right, this is where Taggerung’s got to be!’

  None of them had ever seen Nimbalo before, so they took him to be a Redwaller. Vallug prodded the field mouse’s limp form with his bow. ‘Makes yer wonder wot this ’un’s doin’, totin’ the knife around, don’t it? I ’ope you ain’t killed ’im.’

  Eefera took a prod at Nimbalo with his spearhaft. ‘Looks dead. No, wait, I think I seen ’is nose twitch. Dagrab, you’n’Gruven can carry ’im. If’n the mousey comes round ’e’ll be valuable to us. Must be somebeast special if’n that otter give ’im the blade. Come on, we ain’t got all day.’

  They trekked off north, to where they could cross the path and gain the safety of the ditch without being seen from the Abbey.

  Between them, Drogg Cellarhog and Broggle helped old Hoarg up the east wallsteps, though there was no real need to. The ancient dormouse was fully recovered and felt very spry after his welcome discharge from Sister Alkanet’s sickbay.

  ‘By hokey, there must’ve been somethin’ in that physick. I feel like a Dibbun this mornin’. Heeheehee!’

  Drogg allowed Hoarg to scamper away up the steps. He shook his spiky head admiringly and clapped Broggle’s back. ‘Wish I felt like that. Miz Fwirl will soon be up an’ about, I ’ear. ’Ow did she look when ye visited ’er?’

  The assistant cook smiled thankfully at Drogg. ‘She’s fine, thank you, and ten times better since I gave her the flowers and your wonderful flask of cordial. Sister Alkanet shooed me out after a while, because Cregga and Mhera had come to visit. You know the Sister, said she didn’t want a crowd round Fwirl’s bed. I’ll go up and see her again later.’ He turned and looked up to the ramparts. ‘I don’t think Hoarg likes it up there. He’s coming back down.’

  Waving his paws and making exaggerated shushing noises, Hoarg descended the steps nimbly. ‘Keep yore voices down. I just saw a vermin roamin’ about in the woodlands. Come an’ take a peep, he might still be there!’

  Three heads popped over the battlements, watching Tagg moving towards the southeast wallcomer. The otter looked back over his shoulder, causing the spies to crouch down swiftly upon the parapet. Hoarg shuddered.

  ‘Real vermin, that ’un. Did y’see his face, covered in tattoos! He looks as nasty savage a piece o’ work as ever I set eyes on. Bet he’s killed more’n a few pore innocent creatures!’

  Drogg interrupted the old Gatekeeper’s tirade. ‘Wot was the vermin up to when ye first saw ’im, Hoarg?’

  ‘Couldn’t see clear, but it looked t’me like he was tryin’ the east wicker gate below us. Good job ’tis well locked.’

  Broggle was shaking, though not with fear; the rage was plain on his face. He clenched his paws resolutely. ‘That vermin could be the scum who put an arrow in my Fwirl. Great tattooed scumfaced coward, let’s capture him!’

  Drogg stared at the squirrel incredulously. ‘Capture him? An’ how are we goin’ t’do that, pray? Did you get a proper look at the beast? He could eat the three of us!’

  But Broggle was not to be denied. He bared his teeth viciously. ‘We won’t give him the chance, friends. He’s already tried to open the east wicker gate. I’ll wager an acorn to an oak that he’ll try the south wicker gate when he reaches there. Well, the blaggard’s going to find it unlocked. We’ll be waiting just inside the doorway with clubs, to welcome him to Redwall!’

  Drogg’s face was serious. He took hold of Broggle’s paw. ‘It’s dangerous. Are you sure ye want to do this?’

  Fired by Broggle’s plan, old Hoarg suddenly became belligerent. ‘I say let’s do it. Those cowards are goin’ t’pay for stickin’ an arrow in my ear. We’ll show ’em that Redwallers aren’t fools they can shoot at as they please. I’m with ye, Broggle!’

  Drogg b
ecame infected by the warlike pair. ‘Then count me in too, mates! We’ve got a bit o’ time; the rascal didn’t look to be in any great ’urry. You two nip down an’ open the wicker gate bolts, quietly as y’can. I’ll go an’ get us some weapons. We’ll make the vermin sorry they ever messed about with Redwall warriors!’

  Tagg strolled slowly and silently along the outside of the southern wall, keeping alert for any sign of the Juska vermin. He stopped often, running his paws across the massive sandstone blocks, awed by the colossal scale of Redwall. Tree cover thinned out, and he found himself on open ground. Crouching close to the wall, he made his way carefully, ever watchful for the foe. About halfway along he encountered a recess in the stonework. It was a small door, stoutly made from seasoned oak. This was a wicker gate, similar to the one he had encountered in the east wall. Bending low, to avoid hitting his head on the peak-arched lintel, Tagg gave the door an experimental push. It opened slightly. He pushed harder, crouching down and poking his head inside to see what lay beyond the wall ’twixt ramparts and Abbey building. A wooden barrel-coopering mallet and two hard ash axe handles hit the back of his head simultaneously. He dropped like a log.

  Hoarg did a little victory dance. ‘Heehee, poleaxed by an axe pole, heeheehee!’

  Broggle silenced the old Gatekeeper sternly. ‘Stop that, Hoarg, or we’ll all be in trouble!’

  Drogg placed a footpaw on the back of their fallen foe. ‘Trouble? How so?’

  Broggle, who had come down from his peak of anger, explained, ‘If Cregga or Mhera finds out, we’ll be in for the lecture of our lives. Endangering the Abbey by unbolting a wallgate and almost letting in the vermin. Then it’ll be why didn’t we let them know, so that the thing could be planned properly, instead of running off in haste on spur of the moment madcap schemes? You know the sort of thing they’d say.’

  ‘Aye, I know exactly, young feller.’ Hoarg stared down at the stricken Tagg. ‘Ugly-looking great beast, ain’t he? With all them tattoos it’s impossible to tell what kind of creature he be. So, what do we do with him now, slay him?’