‘Oh, get on with it, you great long-eared windbag!’
Boorab glared at old Hoarg, who had shouted out the remark. ‘Fie on you, sah. Even windbags have feelin’s!’ Then, drooping his ears and waving a limp paw, Boorab soulfully began.
‘’Twas winter one summer an’ spring was in bloom,
The turnips were twittering gaily,
As I cleaned out my humble room,
Three times I do it, twice daily!
When a mole flew in by my window,
He bid me good night and day too,
His eyes were yellow, his nose was green and his tail was pinky blue.
That mole gave me a very odd stare,
Which I put in me pocket for later,
He then asked me if I was a hare,
Or a rascally impersonator?
I replied to him, in accent grim,
“Good sir, I’m a him not a her,
I’m a him that’s a hare not a her that’s a him,
And the least is as large as the greater!”
“If you’re a hare that’s a him,” he quoth,
As he left my room with a leap,
“When I return this leap, you’ll be,
Not a hare or a him, but a-sleep!’”
Boorab bowed elegantly, tripped over his robes and leaped up in the same instant, calling out to Filorn, ‘Who could compete with that pulsatin’ performance, marm, wot? Deliver the toothsome old trifle to me room at once, so I won’t have to share it with these talentless bounders. Don’t applaud too loud, chaps. Only doin’ me job, y’know. Modest as ever, that’s me!’
The trifle was immense, a real beauty. It was displayed in the gatehouse doorway. Helped by Mhera and Fwirl, Cregga mounted the steps, at Filorn’s request, to deliver her judgement. She held forth her paws for silence.
‘What a wonderful entertainment. You’ve made my task very difficult. I was going to award the trifle to Boorab, but you all heard him say that he required no trifling reward. So, I’ve decided to give the prize to all the Dibbuns who took part. It’s such a huge trifle that I’m sure it’s far too much for any onebeast!’
Laughter and cheers greeted the Badgermum’s popular decision. The Abbeybabes dragged the trifle inside the gatehouse and slammed the door.
Mhera turned to Brother Hoben. ‘Well, Brother, have you had time to think about the piece of cloth and the lettering on it?’
Hoben took out the article in question and stared at it. ‘I’ve racked my brains until my head’s aching, but I’m afraid it’s a complete mystery to me. Sorry, Mhera.’
Friar Bobb picked the cloth up. ‘Is this your latest find? What is it?’
Fwirl put her chin in both paws glumly. ‘We haven’t the faintest idea, sir. D’you think Cregga will know?’
They took it to the Badgermum, who sniffed it and felt it. ‘Faint scent of lilac, that’s about all I can say. What is the lettering on it? Read it to me, please, Broggle.’
‘HITTAGALL. All in capital letters, marm, written in a downward line. Is that any help?’
Cregga passed the cloth back to Brother Hoben. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t mean a thing to me.’
Looking thoroughly downcast, the good Brother sighed. ‘Then that’s it, we’re defeated. ’Twas all for nothing.’
Mhera slapped her rudder down hard against the step. ‘Well I’m not defeated, I’ll solve that riddle somehow. I’m not going to give up hope or let it beat me!’
The friends strolled paw in paw back to the Abbey, their air of gloom not even dissipated by Boorab, who was pounding the gatehouse door, pleading with the Dibbuns inside.
‘Have a bally heart, little chaps, open up for a poor starvin’ hare, wot! I’d have given you a jolly good share if I’d won the trifle, honest I would, cross me ears an’ hope to turn blue. Come on, open up an’ be reasonable, little bods. At least let me lick the bowl. If I die of the horrible hungers it’ll be your fault, y’know. Festerin’ bounders! Trifle thieves, meadowcream marauders! I hope you all get the screamin’ tummyache. Cads!’ He loped off and caught up with Mhera and her friends. ‘I say, you lot look pretty sad, wot. Did you want to win the trifle too?’
Mhera smiled weakly. It was one thing having plenty of fighting spirit and stern resolution, but she was as baffled as the rest. Brother Hoben was right; all their questing had amounted to nothing. The entire thing was still a mystery.
* * *
17
It was the evening of their second day upon the mountain, and still the hunters had not sighted any sign of their quarry. Vallug Bowbeast sat shivering over a small fire made from odd twigs and dead heather. He stared out at the tracks of his own party, crisscrossing the snowfields which ran up towards the peak. His stomach made a squirling noise. It needed food, but there was none whatsoever to be had. Eefera was the first to show over the high ridge. He trudged down to the glimmering fire, long bluish shadows of eventide creeping down after him. White steamy breath issued from his mouth as he sat down beside Vallug.
‘’Tis difficult to catch yer breath up ’ere. Huh, I see you packed in searchin’. ’Ow long’ve ye been squattin’ ’ere warmin’ yer paws?’
Vallug stared into the paltry wisps of flame. ‘Long enough t’do some thinkin’.’
The weasel glanced sideways at the big ferret. ‘Thinkin’, eh? Tell me about it.’
The Bowbeast nodded up at the peak. ‘Ain’t no vittles up ’ere, we never brought robes or cloaks. We could freeze or starve t’death, an’ nobeast of the Juska clan would ever know wot became of us.’
Eefera thrust his paws closer to the fire. ‘Aye, there’s some truth in that. We’ve been on this stinkin’ mountain almost two days now, an’ not a track, nary a single pawmark that the otter’s been even near the place. Vallug, do ye think that ’e could’ve put one over on us? I mean laid a false trail along that riverbank, jus’ to make it look as if ’e was comin’ ’ere?’
Vallug said what his companion was thinking. ‘An’ give us the slip so’s ’e could go elsewhere?’
Eefera shrugged. ‘But where’s ’e gone?’
Vallug lowered his voice as if eavesdroppers were about. ‘That’s wot I been thinkin’ about. You remember ole Grissoul mutterin’ about omens an’ prophecies? She was the one who saw the Taggerung at the river ford where it ran across the long path. Sawney told me somethin’ about a big place with bells. ’Twas a long time back, but I can recall it. Sawney didn’t want t’go near that place, said it was dangerous an’ filled with warriors.’
Eefera nodded impatiently. ‘Aye, I remember all right. Redwall, ’e called it. Grissoul spoke about the red place like ’twas magic. Wot d’you think, Vallug?’
The Bowbeast curled his lip scornfully. ‘There ain’t no such thing as magic. I never seen nobeast that one o’ my arrows couldn’t stop. I think that otter I slew, the liddle one’s father, I think that ’e came from the Redwall place. I’ll tell yer wot else I’m thinkin’. I’ll wager that sometime in ’is seasons with the Juskarath, that Taggerung ’eard of Redwall too. If’n that otter’s laid a false trail fer us t’follow, then ’e’s bound for Redwall, the place where ’e was born!’
Eefera had been listening so intently that his paw strayed into the flame. He drew it back sharply and rubbed snow on it.
‘Right, Vallug! Yore right! So, wot’s the plan?’
Vallug picked up his bow and shouldered it. ‘We go after ’im. I don’t mean those other fools an’ Gruven. Leave ’em ’ere on the mountain. Like I said, they’ll freeze or starve t’death up ’ere an’ nobeast will ever know, ’cept us.’
Eefera smiled wickedly. ‘An’ we won’t tell, will we. They was all killed, Gruven too. By pikes, serpents, drownded, all of ’em. Sad, ain’t it, mate?’
It was Vallug’s turn to smile. He nudged Eefera. ‘Aye, ’twas an ’ard job, tryin’ to save ’em. We was lucky to get back alive, me’n’you, but we slayed the otter between us, eh!’
Vallug spat on his paw and offered it
to Eefera. ‘No sense in ‘angin’ round ’ere, mate. Let’s git goin’ afore those other block’eads come back. I couldn’t stand another night of Gruven’s company, braggin’ one moment, whinin’ the next . . .’
Eefera spat on his paw and gripped Vallug’s to seal their pact. ‘Yah, the cold an’ ’unger’ll take care of ’em. Come on, back t’the sunny woodlands an’ a chance o’ some decent vittles!’
Vallug stood to one side deferentially. ‘Good idea, mate. After you.’
Eefera did a mock bow, but stayed where he was. ‘Nay, friend, you go first.’
They stared hard at one another, eye to eye, then both broke out into false hearty laughter and strode off together. Neither of the two vermin wanted to expose his back to the other.
The stream did as many turns as a switchback, rambling and meandering hither and yon. Tagg and Nimbalo were not in any hurry, each enjoying the other’s company. Eventide of the second day found them camped on a grassy spur where the waterway forked, one branch disappearing into the flatlands and the other rounding a fairly swift-flowing bend which took the water back into the base of the mountain.
Tagg tested the flow with his footpaw. ‘Shall we go this way tomorrow? It looks as if the current flows into some underground caves. Would you like to try it, mate?’
The harvest mouse threw more turf on the fire. ‘’Twill be a bit of a bumpy ole ride on our log. Aye, let’s try it. In the mornin’, though; we’ll rest tonight. Y’know, these fruit loaves wot Ruskem gave us, they’re pretty good. I like ’em!’
The otter cut a chunk from one with his blade. ‘Ruskem’s dandelion an’ burdock cordial’s very tasty too. Try some.’
Nimbalo took hold of his friend’s paw as he passed the flask. ‘Where’d ye get that mark on yore paw from? It’s like the shape of a speedwell flower. Is it a tattoo?’
The otter glanced at the mark, then ran a paw over his heavily marked face. ‘No, I think ’tis some sort of birthmark. These on my face are tattoos, put there long before I can remember. They’re clan marks, to show I belong to a certain tribe.’
He allowed Nimbalo to touch the tattoos. The mouse snorted. ‘Bit silly, ain’t it? If’n ye ever want to leave the tribe, then yore stuck wid yore face all marked with a big black stripe an’ red dots an’ the blue lightnin’ flash on yer left cheek.’
Tagg’s paw strayed to feel the flash. ‘Juska law says that the only time you leave the tribe is when you’re dead. I’m marked for life now, but at least I can get rid of these!’
He pulled off his woven wristbands, unsnipped the big gold earring from his ear, and flung them into the stream. Nimbalo smiled sympathetically at his big friend. ‘You ain’t ’ad much fun runnin’ round with that tribe, ’ave yer? Well, never mind, Tagg me ole tater, you got a new life now, an’ you got Nimbalo the Slayer as a pal, so come on, cheer up!’
Tagg lay back, gazing up at the stars. ‘I’m tired, pal. Play something for me, a peaceful tune.’
Nimbalo tootled his reed flute and played awhile, then, putting it aside, he quietly sang a traditional harvest mouse ditty.
‘When the corn is so heavy it bends on the stalk,
See the berries are purple with bloom,
And the wild oats do rustle as if they could talk,
There I watch for the gold harvest moon.
Then if you will help me friend,
Stay here oh do not roam,
And we’ll sit by the fire,
In my harvest mouse home.
There’ll be lots of good food when the work is all done,
And a barrel of old barley beer,
Mellow cheese and fresh bread, for everyone,
While the babes sleep in peace without fear.
We’ll gather the fruit,
And the sweet honeycomb,
And some wood for the fire,
Of my harvest mouse home.’
Nimbalo put aside his flute and lay down with a long sigh. ‘Aaaah. I forget the rest. Pretty, ain’t it, Tagg? Nothin’ like the real thing, though. My life ain’t been no bed o’ roses, oh no. Let me tell yer about wot I went through, mate . . .’ He glanced over and saw his otterfriend was already fast asleep. ‘Oh well, maybe some other time.’
The fire burned low as four little shadowy figures watched the camp. Three of them wore new belts about their tiny waists, Tagg’s two wristbands and his golden earring, which had landed on the water and floated off downstream. The one who was minus a new belt whispered to his three companions, ‘Yik yik, ’arvest mousey gotta nice belt. Jus’ fitta me!’
The biggest of the four clipped him soundly over the ear. ‘Shushyerrupp! Yew wakey da biggin an’ we get all eated up!’ He patted his new gold earring belt thoughtfully before delivering the noisy one a clip across his other ear. ‘Go gerrem ole Bodjev, tellim bring alla Cavemob. Go go!’
He sloshed resentfully off along the streamshallows, calling back in a loud whisper, ‘Doncha pinch d’mousey belt while I ’way!’
The larger one sent him on his way with a kick in the tail. ‘Go on, go on, shout louder, nip’ead. Wake alla mounting up!’
One of the two wearing a wristband belt held a paw to his mouth. ‘Shushyer, Alfik, dey wakey up an’ us don’t gerra no likkle snakeyfishes, fryken ’em alla way!’
Within a short while, Bodjev, the tiny fat Chieftain of his pigmy shrew tribe, returned with a large bunch of his warriors, each bearing a pine club, tipped with flint shards, over his shoulder. He threw himself down alongside Alfik, his son, hissing with shock as he caught sight of Tagg.
‘Wow wow! Whereja find dat monister? Lookarra size of ’im!’
Alfik wrinkled his long nose in a show of careless bravery. ‘Ho, I jus’ finded d’beast, sleepyin’ ’ere. Warra us do now, Daddy?’
Bodjev glared at his son and clipped him a good one on the ear. ‘You norra Squidjee nomore. Worr I tellya? Chief’s name Bodjev, only Daddy when you was likkle. Bodjev now, ‘member dat!’
One of the Cavemob tribe called out a warning as Tagg groaned and rolled over in his sleep. ‘Y’be shushed or d’big fella come awakey!’
Bodjev could not identify the voice, so he satisfied himself by dispensing clipped ears to any shrew within reach. ‘Who you tella to shushed? Talk t’me like dat! All shushed now, wait for da snakeyfishes to come. Den after dat we catcher d’mousey anna bigga monister!’
Tagg glimpsed the mouse warrior with the beautiful sword, wandering through the corridors of his mind. He pursued him, but, unable to run, he floated helplessly through a warm pink mist, calling out the mouse’s name. ‘Deyna! Deyna!’
The warrior mouse halted and turned, shaking his head and smiling. Touching a paw to his armoured breastplate he spoke one word. ‘Martin!’ Then he disappeared, leaving the sleeping otter mystified. If he was Martin, then who was Deyna?
Further dreams were shattered. Both Tagg and Nimbalo leaped up amid a sea of slithering silver. They slipped and fell flat as the slim shining shapes slid over them. Wild squeaks rent the dawnlight. Pigmy shrews were everywhere, striking wildly at the silvery threadlike mass with small clubs and shouting to one another.
‘Dink a dink! Gerra snakeyfishes!’
‘Yik yik, chukkem inna water!’
‘Dinky dink dink! Plenny snakeyfishes, brudders!’
Tagg grabbed Nimbalo. Kicking his way through the wriggling mass, he made it to the top of a rocky mound and stared in wonder at the scene around him. Nimbalo knew what the glimmering threads were. He had seen them once before on the flatlands.
‘Elvers, mate! Those are little tiny eels. They travel on the dewy grass, shoals an’ shoals of ’em. They can go fer many a league. But where’d all the baby shrews come from?’
Tagg watched the shrews as they raced about killing the elvers, dispatching each one with a quick blow to the head from their flint-tipped clubs. Dead elvers were tossed into the water and washed away downstream into the mountain caves. As they struck out with their clubs, the shrews squeaked triumpha
ntly.
‘Dink! Gorra nudder one!’
‘Dink a dink! I gorra two snakeyfishes!’
Expertly they flicked the dead elvers into the water with their clubtips. Tagg shook his head. ‘They aren’t babies. Some of them have grey whiskers. Those are fully grown shrews. I’ve never seen anything like it!’
Nimbalo was taller than the tallest shrew by more than a head. He stood on tip-paw and puffed out his chest scornfully. ‘Huh, I knew that, mate. Crowd o’ liddle nuisances if y’ask me, wakin’ us up jus’ so they can stock up their larders with elvers!’
The shrews did not let up their mass kill until a good while later, by which time most of the elvers had passed. They slid away like mobile tinsel, the morning sun reflecting off their packed masses as they glided into the distance. Their countless numbers were scarcely affected by the slaughter.
Alfik and Bodjev approached the mound, clubs at the ready. The Chieftain’s son wiggled his nose ferociously at Tagg. ‘We be’s Cavemobs, my daddy a chief. Who be’s you?’
Tagg was about to reply when Bodjev clipped Alfik’s ear. ‘Wot I tellya, nit’ead? My name be’s Bodjev!’ He shook his head almost apologetically at Tagg. ‘Norra brains, norra manners. Yik yik, younger shrews dese seasons alla same. No respecks!’
Nimbalo bristled at the father’s treatment of his son. ‘No need t’be whackin’ ’is lug like that, mate!’
This gave Tagg an idea. Very gently he kicked Nimbalo’s bottom and rolled his eyes expressively at the pigmy shrew Chieftain. ‘I know exactly what you mean, sir. They’re always speaking when they’re not spoken to. Put a latch on your lip, young Nimbalo!’
Bodjev held his fat stomach as he chuckled. ‘Yikyikyikyik! Go make playplay, yew two’s. I be’s Bodjev. Wot be’s you name?’
Tagg held out his paw courteously. ‘Pleased to meet you, Bodjev, sir. My name’s Tagg.’
The Taggerung (Redwall) Page 19