‘Aye, marm, otters believe in ’ome singin’.’
‘Skipper said it always works. Try it, Abbess marm. We’ll sing the verses if’n you an’ yore Redwallers ’elp out on the choruses!’
A smile spread gradually on the young Abbess’s face. ‘What a lovely idea. Listen, you Redwallers, we’re all going to join in and help sing my brother home.’
Everybeast agreed, with only one exception. Boorab. ‘I say, bit thick isn’t it? I’ve waited all flippin’ night for a bite o’ breakfast. Now I’ve just been served, what’ve I got to do, eh, wot? Abandon my scoff an’ start tra-la-laain’ away to some chap who won’t even jolly well hear it. Blinkin’ liberty if y’ask me, wot, wot wot?’
Mhera tried imitating Sister Alkanet’s famous frosty glare. ‘Sir, you may do as you please. Fill your face by all means, but if you do not join in the singing I will have you barred from the kitchens henceforth. Take note of my decree, Friar Bobb!’
The good Friar nodded vigorously. ‘Noted, Mother Abbess!’
Boorab cast aside his plate and beaker. ‘Steady on, chaps, confounded blackmailers . . . er, I mean, lovely day for a bit of an old warble, wot. Count me in. You otters there, what’re you waitin’ for, eh? Sing away, me buckos. Sing!’
Blekker and Swash, together with the other otters Skipper had sent back to the Abbey, lined up. After a bit of throat clearing they went at it lustily.
‘When will you return me darlin’, are you homeward bound?
See the golden sun a smilin’, warmin’ up the ground,
Here I stand an’ wait me beauty, though ’tis gettin’ late,
Listenin’ for the weary paws, a marchin’ to my gate.
What if the sky goes dark! Well I’ll light for you a lamp!
So I’ll see you comin’ dear. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
Are the drums a beatin’ bravely, o’er the lonely moor?
Are ye thinkin’ of your mother, standin’ at the door?
Do the banners stream out boldly, have the days been long?
Are you marchin’ down the road, listenin’ for my song?
What if the sky goes dark! Well I’ll light for you a lamp!
So I’ll see you comin’ dear. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
Is that a dusty cloud arisin’, out across the plain?
Is that me bonny rover now, come back to me again?
O Grandma turn the blankets down, an’ put the kettle on,
I’ve sung him home, no more to roam, my only one.
What if the sky goes dark! Well I’ll light for you a lamp!
So I’ll see you comin’ dear. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!’
Everybeast enjoyed the song so much they called for more. Mhera and Broggle picked up the verses as well as the chorus. They stood with the otters, singing out for all they were worth. Behind them, the Dibbuns led a march, backward and forward along the south ramparts, making a great show of shouting tramps aloud at the end of each chorus. Halfway through the third rendition, Nimbalo pulled Boorab out of line. The harvest mouse whispered to the hare, pointing south, to where the woodland jutted out in the distance to connect with the winding path. Mhera watched Nimbalo scramble up on to Boorab’s shoulders. He held on to Boorab’s ear with one paw, gesturing out with the other, then he started shouting. Filorn saw it too, and had a quick word with Blekker. The otter halted the singing, howling out in her stentorian baritone, ‘They’re on the path! Comin’ thisaway! I told ye it’d work!’
Boorab lifted Nimbalo down and took charge. ‘Well, what’n the name o’ sizzlin’ seasons have y’stopped singin’ for, eh? Don’t want to break the jolly old magic spell, do you? Hoarg, get down an’ open the gates. Throw wide your portals, old lad. The rest o’ you ditherin’ duffers form up behind me. Jump to it, now! We’ll march down the road singin’ to meet ’em, by the left, right’n’centre we will, wot, wot!’
Boorab sidestepped into the gatehouse, but he soon caught up with the singing marchers. He carried a banner made from an old tablecloth tied round a long window pole. Swaggering along jauntily, the hare was in his element, bellowing aloud, ‘Anybeast with a frog in their throat, let the frog do the singin’. Hawhawhaw! C’mon now, let’s rip the roof off . . .
‘What if the sky goes dark! Well I’ll light for you a lamp!
So I’ll see you comin’ dear. Tramp! Tramp Tramp!’
The ottercrew coming the other way saw the Redwall singing parade and doubled their march speed. Then they were trotting, and the pace hotted up even more, until they were running to meet the welcoming committee. Not to be outdone, Boorab waved his banner and yelled out orders.
‘Look at ’em go! Hah, we’ll see who meets who first, chaps. If it’s a bally charge they want, we’re the ones who’ll show ’em. Lay back the kitchen sink! Forward the buffs! Blood’n’vinegar an’ flyin’ fur! Eulaliaaa! Redwallers chaaaaaaaarge!’
They thundered down the path in a headlong stampede, and Boorab was knocked flying into the ditch. But even the fastest of runners were not as fleet of paw as Mhera and Filorn upon that day. The pair were well out in front, hurtling towards the ottercrew charging up from the south. Way out in front of them was one, a big strong figure who could outrun the wind. Filorn could see the dust pluming in his wake, Mhera could even hear his footpaws slamming the hard earth as he streaked towards them like summer lightning. They screamed together. ‘Deynaaaaaaaa!’
He swept them up as though they weighed nothing and ground to a halt hugging them both close. Then Nimbalo pounded up like a small juggernaut. Unable to stop himself, he bulled straight into Deyna, Mhera and Filorn, sending himself and them sprawling in a heap together. Instantly they found themselves surrounded by otters and Redwallers. Then they began to laugh, as happiness flowed from them, infecting everybeast. They laughed until the tears ran down their dusty faces, hugging one another as if they would never let go. The laughter rose into the air, startling birds in the soft autumn morning.
From that long-ago day when his father carried a babe out of the Abbey gates, Deyna, son of Rillflag, had returned home.
* * *
35
Gruven was in trouble. However, like all liars and cowards he kept on convincing himself that he could wriggle out of it and end up on top. The fact that Ruggan Bor had slain his mother meant little to him. Antigra had always been too pushy, constantly berating and nagging at him. Gruven was glad she was out of the way. What really rankled was the golden fox’s taking over his clan, but he could think of no way to reverse their positions. He was wholly frightened of Ruggan, an inscrutable creature, unlike anybeast Gruven had ever met. Ruggan Bor never showed any extremes of wrath or joy, never smiled or snarled. His fascinating golden eyes seemed to detect untruths without a single blink. Gruven could not face him for more than a moment. Every Juskabeast under his command knew Ruggan Bor to be highly intelligent, a redoubtable warrior Chieftain, and a ruthless killer. Gruven was gradually coming to realise this, and it made his blood run cold.
Double time was the order of the long trek back to the old camp. All the vermin kept up the pace without question or complaint. They slept little, ate frugally and went heavily armed. Ruggan Bor strode out at the head of his clan, talking to nobeast save to give orders or consult his Seers. At first, Gruven tried to establish some authority over the six Juska who were detailed to guard him. His efforts went unrewarded. When he complained of the marching speed, a tough lean vixen looped a rope about his waist and growled, ‘Keep up or we’ll drag ye the rest o’ the way!’
Gruven was forced to suffer the indignity. His blustering fell upon unsympathetic ears. ‘You dare to do this to a Taggerung? Hah, I could snap this rope with a single bite! My teeth are like knives!’
A big scar-faced rat prodded his bottom with a lance. ‘Yew start chewing that rope an’ ye’ll be wearin’ this lance fer a spine. Shut yer mouth an’ keep movin’, stoat!’
Gruven turned and spat at the rat’s footpaws, trying to act tough. ‘I won’t ferget yore face, rat
. Remember this: my name’s Gruven Zann Taggerung. I use lances like that as toothpicks!’
A muscular ferret marching alongside Gruven jabbed an elbow hard into his ribs, grinning at Gruven’s wince of pain. ‘Ye won’t ’ave no teeth t’pick if ’n I land a kick in yer mouth. Now stow the gab an’ quit slackin’!’
Gruven dragged on the rope, halting the vixen who was pulling him. ‘I’m not takin’ any more o’ this. I demand to speak with Ruggan Bor!’
He did not see the blow coming. The vixen belted him across the jaw with her carved spearbutt, snarling nastily, ‘Do ye now? Well ’e don’t want ter speak with you. Get marchin’!’
When they stopped for the night, Gruven was set apart from the rest, tied to a tree, with all six guards circling, watching his every move. The scar-faced rat thrust a bowl at him. It contained only water, with a stale crust of barley bread floating in it. The rat eyed him contemptuously. ‘Get that down ye an’ then sleep. We’ll be on the move agin soon as ’tis dawn!’
Gruven ate and drank swiftly, then huddled down to rest. His mind was still racing, rehearsing explanations. Where was the imaginary head of the slain Taggerung? Oh, it probably landed in the stream when he threw it away, it would be washed to the sea by now. Then what happened to the body? Ruggan Bor was no fool, he was certain to pose the question. The body? He would have to think about that one, and think fast too. They were covering ground at a rate three times quicker than his laggardly pace. It would not be long before they arrived at the old camp site. Gruven closed his eyes tightly. Think . . . think. Of course! He threw the body into the swamp. Yes, that was the place, the swamp where he sent Rawback to his death. Hahaha! Let them try to search a swamp. Ruggan Bor, huh, the pan-faced fox, aye, him and all his thick-headed lackeys. None of them were a match for Gruven Zann Taggerung. They couldn’t find their tails if they grew out of their noses! He would outthink them, he would outsmart them, the same way he had defeated Eefera and Vallug Bowbeast and the rest.
Gruven did not realise he had fallen asleep and was murmuring aloud, ‘What d’yer mean, never slew ’em? They’re all dead, ain’t they, an’ I’m the only one who’s left alive. Oh, I slew ’em right enough!’
The vixen leaned on her spear, watching Gruven. ‘Wot d’yer suppose that ’un’s babblin’ about?’
The muscular ferret scoffed. ‘Sez ’e’s slaying all kinds o’ beasts.’
Looking up from the lancepoint he was sharpening against a stone, the scar-faced rat commented drily, ‘Aye, in ’is sleep. That’s the only time that ’un’s slayed beasts. Got a coward’s streak, wider’n an oak trunk, from tip ter tail!’
Only one fire burned in the vermin’s makeshift camp, that of Ruggan Bor. He needed it for his Seers to predict. The golden fox sat watching the two old vixens casting shells and stones, burning feathers until the air smelled rank, and mumbling, always mumbling as they tried to read the omens. Which invariably had to be in the Juska Chieftain’s favour. He listened awhile, then stretched out, his sabre close to paw. ‘Tell me that last bit again.’
Ermath’s toothless face looked ghastly in the firelight. ‘Is the fox not related to the wolf, lord? There is none among vermin who can equal the fox for stealth, guile and ferocity. He alone carries the blood of the Great Vulpuz, Ruler of Hellgates!’
Ruggan ignored his old soothsayer. He had heard all that before. ‘Now, you, Grissoul, what did you say?’
Sawney Rath’s former Seer stared at the bones she had cast down.
‘He who has the Taggerung slain,
Shall take on the champion’s name,
Zann Taggerung, lord of Juskas all,
Beware the bells within Redwall!’
Ruggan’s golden eyes reflected the dancing flames. ‘What does all that mean? Tell me!’
Grissoul remained hunched over the scattered bones, unmoving. Ruggan Bor had witnessed Seers in a trance before, and he repeated the command. ‘Say the lines again and explain to me what they mean.’
Ermath was not overfond of Grissoul. The other vixen had been slowly usurping her position since Ruggan took over her clan. Ermath scuffled across to Grissoul and shook her roughly. ‘Answer the question. Speak when my lord commands ye!’
Grissoul did not respond. She slumped forward until her muzzle touched the ground. There was shock in Ermath’s voice. ‘Lord, she is dead!’
Ruggan Bor used the flat of his sabre blade to lift Grissoul’s head. He inspected the dead vixen and let her head drop down again. ‘She was old. Creatures die when they grow too old. Did you understand what she said? Can you remember the lines?’
Ermath cringed back into the shadows. ‘Nay, lord, ’tis not for me to read the omens of another Seer. Who knows what anybeast sees at the sight of Hellgates, where rules the—’
Ruggan cut her short as he lay down to rest. ‘Get my guards to bury her. ’Tis of no matter, the ramblings of a dying vixen. Leave me now, I will rest.’
Any dreams of bells, Taggerungs or Seers which crossed Ruggan Bor’s trails of sleep were forgotten when the impressive fox woke at dawn’s misty light.
Four days later, on a morning dampened by fine warm drizzle, the Juskabor clan reached the old campsite. Fires were lighted in the lee of sheltering dunes, and cooks began preparing the first hot meal they had eaten in a while. Ruggan Bor stared around. Pacing the ground, he unsheathed his sabre. ‘Bring the stoat Gruven here to me.’
Gruven was hauled forward on his rope by the six guards. He knew it was no good blustering to the golden fox, so he put on a casual air, as if he was in command of the situation.
‘Ah, Ruggan, the very beast I’ve been wanting to see. Well, here we are at last, eh. You know, I left this camp a simple warrior and returned as the Taggerung . . .’ His voice trailed off under Ruggan Bor’s unblinking stare.
‘The head, Gruven. Where did you leave the head?’
Again Gruven changed his attitude, drawing himself up regally. ‘My name is Gruven Zann Taggerung. I protest at your treatment of me. I will not speak until this rope is taken from me!’
The sabre whipped through the air, slicing the whiskers from the left side of Gruven’s muzzle. Ruggan Bor’s expression had not changed. ‘My next stroke will take off your ears, then I’ll start working down your body, bit by bit. Where is the Taggerung’s head?’
Gruven sat down on the sand and wept like a babe. ‘I threw it in the stream.’
‘What stream? There’s no stream around here.’
‘The stream! The stream! It’s back there in the woodlands!’
‘Which woodlands? Those northeast of here?’
‘Yes, yes! Over that way, that’s them!’
‘So, what did you do with the body?’
Unexpectedly, Gruven began to laugh. He looked straight up into the fox’s golden eyes, giggling and sobbing. ‘In the swamp! I threw it in the swamp! Heehee, the head too, all in the swamp, gone for ever, heeheehee!’
Ruggan nodded to the guards. ‘Get him up on his paws. Let’s go and find this swamp.’
Birds were singing, drizzle slackened off and the sun broke through as they entered the woodlands. Ruggan gave orders for his Juskabeasts to fan out and search for the boglands, whilst he and the six guards rested close to the tree fringe, with Gruven in their midst. Halfway through the afternoon a youngish fox came loping back to report.
‘Sire, we found the swamp, it’s a big ’un. First we thought there was nothin’ about ’cept a few frogs’n’lizards. But then we caught this crazy stoat. The rest are bringin’ ’im. Be ’ere soon, sire.’
‘That’s two crazy stoats we’ll ’ave now, hawhaw!’ the scarred rat whispered to the muscular ferret. He went silent as the golden eyes swept by him and came to rest on Gruven.
‘Do you know of a crazy stoat hereabouts?’
Gruven’s mood had changed. He looked completely mournful. ‘They’re dead, all dead, I killed ’em. All dead an’ gone!’
Ruggan heard the party bringing the prisoner in. He d
id not turn, keeping his eyes fixed on Gruven. Behind him a weasel called out, ‘Lord, this is the stoat, but ’e’s right off’n ’is skull, mad as a toad with a tail!’
The stoat was thrust forward, tightly bound. Ruggan saw Gruven’s eyes go wide in horror, his voice screeching hoarsely, ‘Rawback? Go ’way! Yore dead! Dead, I tell ye!’
Rawback looked plump and well, owing to a plentiful diet of frogs, lizards and other swamp inhabitants, but his eyes burned feverishly, and it was obvious his sanity had snapped at some point of his swampland sojourn. He put his head on one side and poked his tongue out at Gruven, then he turned to Ruggan Bor, as if sharing a confidential secret.
‘That’n there thought ’e’d done fer me, y’know. Aye, thought ’e’d sunk ole Rawback in the swamp. Hohoho! Right up ter me nose ’twas, but I ain’t no fool, I got out. Big branch, luvly branch, growin’ right over me ’ead. I grabbed it. Two days! Two days I was, pullin’ meself out, liddle diddy bit by liddle diddy bit. Hohoho! Fooled yer, didn’t I, Gruven? You ain’t no mate o’ mine no more. You wouldn’t push nobeast in a swamp, would ye, sir?’
Ruggan signalled the guards to untie Rawback. ‘Of course I wouldn’t, my friend. Sit down here by me. Bring him food and some blackberry wine, we’re going to talk together.’
Rawback clutched Ruggan’s paw and kissed it. ‘Blackberry wine an’ real vittles! Seasons smile on ye, sir. Ye don’t know wot this means t’me. Talk? I’ll talk to ye, me good sir. Wot d’you want ter know? Ole Rawback’ll tell ye!’
Gruven thought of making a dash for freedom, but the scar-faced rat’s lance tickled the nape of his neck and the muscular ferret’s spearpoint was a hairsbreadth from his stomach.
Rawback ate like a ravening wolf, ripping into warm ryebread and a roasted woodpigeon, guzzling blackberry wine until it dripped down his chin. Ruggan patted his back. ‘You’re one of the old clan, I can tell by your tattoos. Eat up, there’s plenty more where that came from. I want you to tell me about Gruven. Did he slay the Taggerung?’
The Taggerung (Redwall) Page 38
