The Taggerung (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Mountains rivers valleys seas,

  Whose little paws are these, are these?

  Meadows woodlands fields and shores,

  These little paws are yours, are yours!

  If you don’t give me a kiss,

  I will tickle paws like this!’

  It was many a long season since Mhera had heard her mother sing a baby song. Now Filorn was tickling the big rough paws. Mhera was totally startled by what happened next.

  Tagg was still senseless, but he smiled and opened his paws, pads upward. Just like any babe who wanted its mother to do it again. Nimbalo quickly removed the sword. There on Tagg’s open right paw was the four-petal mark, pink and distinctive as the day he was born with it.

  Filorn hugged Mhera. ‘I knew it deep inside me, ever since I saw him yesterday. This is my son! He’s returned home. He’s your brother, Mhera!’

  The ottermaid clasped the flower-marked paw between her own, and spoke his name loud and clear. ‘Deyna!’

  Nimbalo scratched the end of his nose. ‘Deyna! Y’mean Tagg’s name ain’t Taggerung no more?’

  Filorn shook her head, smiling at the harvest mouse. ‘His real name is Deyna; he has no other.’

  Nimbalo mused over the new name. ‘Hmm. Deyna. I don’t know whether I like that or not, it ain’t like Nimbalo the Slayer. Huh, just Deyna? Couldn’t we call ’im Deyna the Deadly or Deyna the Dagger or Deyna the Dangerous? Hoho, I likes that ’un. Deyna the Dangerous, great name!’

  Filorn tweaked the little fellow’s ear. ‘If I hear you calling him Deyna the Dangerous I’ll tell everybeast that your name is Nimbalo the Nuisance. Understood?’

  The harvest mouse shrugged unhappily. ‘Jus’ Deyna it is then, marm.’

  Sister Alkanet arrived with Broggle and Friar Bobb, who were carrying bowls of warm water, dressing cloths, ointments and herbal remedies. They waited to one side as she cleaned and inspected the wound. Her pronouncement was not a happy one, though she tried to sound optimistic.

  ‘The arrow has gone too deep. I haven’t the skill or experience to remove it. Though I must say, Deyna is the strongest and fittest beast I’ve ever seen. I’ve heard in the past of creatures living quite a normal life with arrowheads or spearpoints still in them. Deyna will live, but he’ll have to take things easy. I can cut away the arrow shaft, but the point will have to stay in him.’

  Skipper had been listening, and voiced his opinion. ‘Beggin’ yore pardon, marm, but Rukky Garge could fix Deyna up. Ole Rukky is the best otterfixer on earth.’

  Sister Alkanet waved her paws dismissively. ‘Rukky Garge is just some legend. There’s no such otter!’

  Filorn was inclined to agree. ‘I believe there was such an otter, but I heard she passed on many long seasons ago.’

  Skipper merely smiled and pointed to his rudder. ‘I was scarred deep there when I was a liddlebeast, but Rukky made the scar go away. I still goes to see ole Rukky, takes ’er freshwater shrimp an’ ’otroot soup now an’ agin. She’s like a gran’ma to me, marm. Hoho, she’s still kickin’ right enough.’

  Filorn clasped Skipper’s paw anxiously. ‘If she could heal my son I’d take her a hundred pans of shrimp and hotroot soup! I’d give her anything!’

  The otter Chieftain understood Filorn’s anxiety. ‘No need t’do that, but I know Rukky likes bright trinkets. She’s like a magpie, loves anythin’ bright’n’shiny, Rukky does.’

  Filorn opened her broad apron pocket. ‘I found this lying in the ditch this afternoon. Perhaps she’d like it, what do you think?’

  Skipper inspected the knife of Sawney Rath, with its brilliant sapphire, amber handle and bright silver blade. ‘I think she’d make a skeleton dance fer this beauty, marm!’

  Mhera shifted anxiously from paw to paw. ‘Let’s take him to her straight away!’

  Skipper appeared rather uncomfortable with this suggestion. ‘Be more’n my life’s worth, miz. Rukky’s a loner, very awkward pernickety ole body she is, won’t ’ave anybeast within a league of ’er. She don’t treat nobeast save otters these days, an’ then only as a favour to me’n’a few other otters. Look, you leave this to me. I’ll take Deyna an’ persuade Rukky to cure him. My crew can carry him most o’ the way, an’ we’ll drop in from time to time t’let you know ’ow he’s doin’. Mhera, you an’ yore mama trust me, I’ll take care o’ Deyna. I think you’ll be needed ’ere, ain’t that right, Sister?’

  Alkanet pursed her lips, bound, as usual, to have her say. ‘Correct, Skipper. Cregga is not young and full of energy. I took the arrowhead from her, but she’s slowly fading. She needs you by her side, Mhera. Filorn, you know how much Friar Bobb relies on your help, and the others too. I beg you to stay at the Abbey.’

  Filorn was impressed. She had never heard Alkanet beg anything from a living creature, so she gave in to her request.

  ‘Well, we’ve come through all these seasons not knowing whether Deyna lived. Now we do know, I suppose we’ll have to be patient a little longer, Mhera.’

  The ottermaid bowed obediently. ‘We’ll be patient, Mama, but it won’t be for long, I hope.’

  This time a bigger, more comfortable litter was made to transport Tagg. Sister Alkanet waited until they were ready to set off and then pulled Skipper to one side.

  ‘I’m surprised that a creature like you still believes in that old relic and her mumbo jumbo of spells and charms. Shame on you! Though I’ll be even more surprised if Deyna returns alive. How could you raise the hopes of Filorn and Mhera on stories and tales like that?’

  Skipper winked at the Sister. ‘Maybe I’ll surprise you again before too long, marm. Take care!’

  Nimbalo joined the ottercrew. Skipper looked enquiringly at the battleaxe-wielding harvest mouse. ‘Belay, mate, where d’you think yore off to?’

  The little fellow nodded at the litter. ‘Wherever me matey goes, that’s where I’m off to. Any objections?’

  Skipper was very tactful in dealing with the truculent mouse. ‘I can’t stop ye, ’specially since yore the one they calls the Slayer. But this ole otterfixer, Rukky Garge, if she sees any beast that ain’t an otter hangin’ about her den, she’ll turn us away. No matter wot condition yore matey’s in.’

  Nimbalo’s face was the picture of dejection. His lip quivered. ‘But me’n’Tagg’s always been together. Wot’ll I do without ’im? We stuck by each other through thick’n’thin, an’ now yore goin’ to take me matey away. Wot’ll I do ’ere, all on me own?’

  Mhera’s heart went out to Nimbalo. She took his paw. ‘Wait here at the Abbey with us. You’ll like it, I’m sure. It’s like being part of a big happy family.’

  Unknowingly, Mhera had mentioned the wrong word. Nimbalo growled. ‘Don’t talk t’me about families. I ain’t part of no family!’

  Skipper and his crew slipped quietly off with Tagg, leaving Mhera to practise her diplomacy on the irate harvest mouse. Tactfully, Filorn stepped into the breach.

  ‘I never met a warrior yet who wasn’t hungry. Come to the kitchens with me, Nimbalo the Slayer. Let’s see what I can find for you. Redwall food is the best anywhere, come on.’

  Boorab, who had been gently nodding off, came awake at the mention of food. ‘Ahem, charmin’ an’ kindly marm, permission to accompany you, wot.’

  Filorn was never less than gracious to her friend the hare. ‘Why of course, sir, you are cordially invited.’

  Mhera went to sit on Cregga’s bed. It had been impossible to carry the wounded badger upstairs, so mattresses had been laid for her beneath the tapestry of Martin, and she lay propped up on them. Sensing Mhera’s approach, the Badgermum smiled weakly. ‘Your mama could charm the birds from the trees. That little harvest mouse doesn’t know it, but he’s got all the qualities of a Redwaller. You must help to make him happy here, Mhera.’

  The ottermaid plumped up her friend’s pillows. ‘You mean we must help to make him happy here, Cregga.’

  The badger stroked Mhera’s cheek. ‘Maybe, if I’m still around, but n
obeast lives for ever.’

  Mhera sniffed and straightened the coverlet busily. ‘Now you can just stop that sort of talk, silly old badger. Deyna’s going to get well and so are you. I won’t listen to any morbid rambling ab—’

  Cregga put out a searching paw. ‘Mhera, what is it? What’s the matter?’

  The ottermaid held a green strip of cloth close to Cregga’s muzzle. ‘It’s one of those pieces of material. Faded green, homespun and scented with lilac. I found it just now, in the folds of your bedspread. I wonder who put it there. Do you know?’

  Cregga shook her great striped head slowly. ‘A blind creature who can hardly move, with a deep painful wound. How am I supposed to know anything? What does it say?’

  Mhera read the crude vertical capitals written on the fabric. ‘FITTAGALL. Oh, dear. What’s it all supposed to mean, Cregga?’

  A lot of Redwallers joined Nimbalo and Boorab in the kitchens, as there had been no proper meals served, owing to the day’s unusual events. Friar Bobb and Filorn aided by Broggle and Fwirl (now much recovered) managed a good makeshift buffet. Nimbalo sampled everything, from soup to desserts. Filorn sat down with him, encouraging the harvest mouse as he ate.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got lots of wonderful tales of the adventures you and Deyna had together. Perhaps you could tell us some? Here, let me fill your tankard with October Ale.’

  Nimbalo was suddenly in his element: lots of good food and drink, and an attentive audience. He shovelled turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie into his mouth and washed it down with a huge draught of the best October Ale.

  ‘Aaaahhhh! That’s the stuff t’give yer muscles like boulders, marm. Thankee. Now, where was I? Oh aye. Tagg, that’s Deyna, an’ me was surrounded by snakes one time.’

  Foremole Brull shuddered. ‘Burr, surrpints. Oi carn’t aboide ee gurt snakey beasters!’

  The harvest mouse gave her his reckless nonchalant grin. ‘Snakes, marm? Me’n’Deyna was never afeared of ’em!’ He rose and swaggered about outrageously.

  ‘There was one time me’n’my mate,

  We nearly met our fate,

  One dark night, midst a storm,

  Just to keep us dry an’ warm,

  We found a cave an’ a cheer we gave,

  We rushed in straight away,

  ’Twas full of snakes, for goodness’ sakes,

  All slithery black an’ grey.

  There was big snakes, small snakes,

  Every one was wide awake,

  Wrigglin’ an’ a hissin’ there,

  Tongues a flickerin’, tails a snickerin’,

  Enough t’curl yore blinkin’ hair.

  One bit me so I bit it back,

  An’ my mate gave one such a whack!

  We fought the serpents tooth’n’claw,

  For every one we slayed there was a dozen more.

  Then my ole mate, he took two sticks,

  An’ in the space of two short ticks,

  We grabbed those snakes, me’n’my chum,

  An’ knitted them up into an apron for his mum,

  Chuck one, hurl one, knit one, purl one,

  We never went there again,

  Don’t try to sleep, where the snakes are tummy deep,

  Take a snooze out in the rain!’

  Nimbalo took a bow amidst the applause and roars of laughter. Boorab presented him with a damson cream pie.

  ‘Top hole, sah. You’re a born weaver of yarns, wot. Try some of Friar Bobb’s damson cream pie. Bet y’ve never tasted anythin’ as scrumptious as that, wot. Wot wot, hawhawhaw!’

  Nimbalo bit into it and smacked his lips. ‘Thankee. It’s good, very nice, but tell me, did ye ever taste a snakeyfish pie?’

  The hare looked at him aghast. ‘Snakeyfish pie, sir? What in the name o’ puddens is that? You haven’t eaten one yourself, have you, old chap?’

  Nimbalo winked at the horrified listeners. ‘Ye wouldn’t believe me if’n I told yer!’

  * * *

  31

  Tendrils of blue smoke curled through the trees of south Mossflower Wood, wreathing upward from a fire of dead pine cones and fir branches on the rocky ledges of a riverbank. Skipper stirred the contents of a big pot, set on a tripod over the flames. He tasted it and waved his rudder.

  ‘Swash, bring more watershrimp. Blekker, chop more ’otroot an’ peppers, an’ sliver some o’ them scallions in with it!’

  The two sturdy otter sisters, Swash and Blekker, brought the ingredients to him and watched as he stirred them into the pot of freshwater shrimp and hotroot soup. Skipper held out the ladle to the pair, proud of his cooking prowess.

  ‘Sup that an’ tell me wot ye think?’

  They took turns, blowing on the ladle’s contents and sipping.

  ‘That’s the stuff, Skip. It’d melt moss off’n a boulder!’

  ‘Aye, only you can make shrimp’n’hotroot soup like that, Skip!’

  Skipper chuckled. ‘Don’t tell yore ma that!’

  Deyna was still unconscious. He lay strapped to the litter, scarcely breathing and woefully thin and pale looking. Swash mopped his fevered forehead with some moss she had dipped in the river. His muzzle was hot and dry to the touch.

  ‘Skip, this pore feller ain’t eaten in three days now. D’you think we should try an’ feed him somethin’?’

  But Skipper remained adamant, as he had since they left Redwall. ‘No vittles for Deyna, just a drop o’ clear water now an’ agin. We got to leave him like that until Rukky sees wot’s best. I don’t want to do the wrong thing by feedin’ a bad-wounded otter. Right then, clear the decks, me buckos, fill yore bowls an’ wait back by the bend for me. Mind an’ leave plenty o’ the soup for the otterfixer. Don’t want ’er in a bad mood.’

  The crew filled their bowls and took off to await Skipper’s return by the riverbend. When they had gone the otter Chieftain went to a massive old larch tree. It was long dead but still standing, its core rotted and eaten away by insects. Standing half a pace off, Skipper swung his rudder and whacked it against the hollow trunk.

  Whock! Whock!

  Behind him on the riverbank an incredibly ancient otter materialised from amid the rock ledges. Her fur was totally silver white, mostly hidden by a heavily ornamented black cloak and hood sewn with crystal shards, sea shells, globules of amber and small bright polished stones. Her body was bent with age, and she leaned upon a knobbly stick. From beneath the hood of her cloak she peered out at Skipper. There was not a single tooth in her mouth, but the two eyes that watched him were brighter than her hooped gold earrings.

  Skipper bowed. ‘Rukky Garge, me ole friend, ’tis a pleasure to see ye.’

  She sucked hard on her gums before replying. ‘Ahhr weel, ’tis der young riverpup. Did yeer famine-gobbed crew ayt up all Rukky’s soup?’

  The otter Chieftain helped her courteously up the bank to the pot. ‘Only the hard tasteless bits, me ole queen. I saved the best for you. Try a taste.’

  Rukky Garge spooned a ladleful, boiling, straight into her mouth and gulped it down. She licked her lips. ‘’Tis a fact, ye kin make d’soup better’n myself can. So, well, ye never came to see Rukky fer nought. What izzit dat ails ye?’

  Skipper pointed to the still form of Deyna. ‘I fetched this pore beast from the Abbey. He took an arrow; see the broken shaft still stuck in his chest? Yore the best otterfixer, my ole charmer. Can you make Deyna better agin?’

  Rukky Garge sniffed the wound in Deyna’s chest, pushed one of his eyelids up and looked at the upturned eye, rubbed his muzzle, felt all four paws, picked up his rudder, weighed it in her paw and let it drop, all the time muttering away. ‘Ahhr weel now, Reedwall Abbey an’ all de clever cratures. Couldn’t be curin’ a waspy sting atween dem, ahhhr no!’

  Skipper broke his respectful silence. ‘So ye say, me ole darlin’, but could you?’

  Rukky went back to the pot and supped two more ladles of hot soup. ‘Dis is a Juskabeast. Pictures’n’patterns on de face. Baaaad! Why you ask Ruk
ky to do de otterfixin’ for dis varmint, eh?’

  Skipper gave his explanation as she made inroads on the soup. ‘Deyna’s the son of an ole mate o’ mine. He was taken by Juska when he was a cub. Rillflag was his father an’ Filorn’s his mother; she still lives at the Abbey, with his older sister Mhera.’

  The ancient otter repeated Mhera’s name, drawing it out. ‘Meera, Meeeerraaaa! I like well dat name. I fix him!’

  Skipper stood where he was, knowing that Rukky did not like shaking paws, or being touched in any way. ‘My thanks to ye, Rukky Garge. I’ll keep the soup goin’, good an’ hot, night’n’day, whenever ye needs it.’

  She leaned forward on the knobbly stick. ‘Ahhr weel now, ye’ll need lots o’ d’soup. Dis Deyna won’t be fixed in wan day. ’Twill be when de russet h’apples fall.’

  Skipper tried not to look surprised. ‘That’s a long time, marm?’

  She attempted to chew on a watershrimp. ‘So y’say, so y’say. Need longen time to be fixin’ arrowhole. Gotta take varmint pictures off da face too, ho yerssss!’

  Skipper raised his eyebrows. ‘You can do that, take off the tattoos?’

  She gave up chewing and swallowed the watershrimp. ‘So I can, so I can. I make dat picture on yore paw, ’member!’

  Skipper looked at the pike tattooed on the back of his paw. ‘Aye, you did, a long time ago I recall.’

  Rukky shrugged. ‘So, I put pictures on wid dye an’ needle. I take dem off too. An’ dat flower on Deyna’s paw, I fix it up good, you see. Den he looken like yew, proper riverdog again, not varmint!’

  Skipper had to carry Deyna into Rukky’s cave and lay him on a long moss-covered shelf. The otterfixer’s cave was like her cloak, studded from floor to ceiling with crystal, metal and semi-precious stones, amber, carnelian, peridot and black jet. Two firefly lanterns reflected off the decorations, making the interior dazzle and shine.

  Skipper took out the blade of Sawney Rath. ‘This is for you, Rukky my ole sweet. A liddle gift.’

  She recoiled, drawing her paws into the voluminous cloak. ‘Pretty an’ bad, baaaaad! I’ll not touch d’thing. Stick in inna wall. Dat blade’s shedded blood. Baaaaaad!’