Sawney Rath chose his spot carefully. Within a half-day’s march of the ford, he camped the clan on the broad stream’s north side. Morning sunlight filtered through the trees as the band of assorted vermin sat, weary and miserable after their forced march from the coastal scrublands. Clad in his usual plain leather tabard, belted by a strap fashioned from fine brass links into which was thrust his amber-hilted knife with the sapphire pommel stone, Sawney, however, looked vital and eager, ready for anything. The only decoration he had was the Juskarath clan mark, a black stripe of dye running from skull to nosetip with two lines of red dots running parallel on either side. These moved as his mobile face did while he issued his orders.
“Rawback, you stay here with the others. Grissoul, Eefera, Dagrab, Felch, Ribrow and Vallug Bowbeast, you come with me. Remember this, Rawback, for I’ll hold you responsible. No fires, not even a wisp of smoke. Any food must be eaten as it is, no cooking. No tents or lean-to shelters, or sleeping either. Stay alert on your paws, everybeast. We’ll be coming back this way fast when we do, so be ready to move. Antigra, Wherrul, I want no sign left that Juskarath have been here. You’ll be in charge of cleaning up pawprints and tracks. When we return with the Taggerung we travel back west to the shores. I’ve no need to tell you what’ll happen to anybeast who disobeys my commands, or tries to cross me. Understood?”
There followed a jangling of bracelets and earrings as the vermin touched their left ears in silence, the clan sign of understanding. Sawney’s quick, vicious eyes roved back and forth over them, and then, without flinching, he drew his dagger and nicked the point against his own left ear in a challenging gesture.
“See how easily I shed my blood. I am Sawney Rath, and I can shed your blood far more easily. Keep that in mind!” He nodded to the six he had picked. “Come on, let’s go and get a Taggerung for our clan!”
*
Rillflag was astounded. He was muttering to himself as he laid little Deyna down on a bed of soft mosses by the streambank.
“Hoho, what a riverdog you’re goin’ t’be! Not only got that back wet in the runnin’ water, but you nearly swam away from your ole dad. I never knew a cub your size that’d swim right off. Mhera wailed enough t’frighten the birds when her back was wetted, but nary a sound out o’ you, Deyna!”
He tickled the otterbabe’s stomach roughly. Deyna doubled over and bit his father’s paw with tiny white milk teeth. Rillflag roared with laughter as he released his paw.
“Hahahahohoho! Proper liddle shark you are. Lucky there weren’t any tasty fishes swimmin’ in the water, or you’d ’ave ate ’em all, eh, son!”
He sat awhile, fondly watching the cub, trying to remember an otter streamsong as the babe’s eyes began to close in the warm midday sun.
“Ho if I was a stream I’d chance to go,
A-racin’ to the sea,
Yonder way fresh waters flow,
An’ that’s the way for me.
Splashin’ an’ soundin’,
Rudder ’round rock an’ log,
With pike an’ trout,
I’d frisk about,
A good ole riverdog!
Through leafy glades the waters call,
Across the open meadow,
An’ when I sight a waterfall,
Why down will go me head oh!”
Deyna’s eyes flickered as he fought against the slumbers that threatened to overcome him and he yawned aloud, giving out a squeaking sound. Rillflag turned his attention to the shallows, where movement had caught his eye.
“Hah, I see watershrimp. What do you say, liddle matey? Shall we catch some to take back to Redwall? You stay there an’ watch your ole dad. I’ll show you the way ’tis done!”
*
Sawney crouched behind a broad elm trunk on the other side of the stream, Grissoul at his side. He pulled the Seer close, whispering in her ear, “That’s no Taggerung, he’s a full-grown otter. What do we do now?”
“That one is no part of my vision,” the vixen Seer whispered back. “Thou canst do what thou likes with him; he is none of our concern.”
Felch the fox, Dagrab the rat and Vallug Bowbeast were hiding on the other side of the stream, behind a high-banked bend. Sawney slid back toward them, staying on the opposite bank until he was out of the big otter’s eyeline. Then he waved to Vallug, attracting his attention. Sawney pointed to Rillflag and made a gesture with both paws, as if firing a bow. Vallug nodded. It was a simple task for a skilled bowbeast.
Standing waist deep in the water, the otter straightened up with a double pawful of watershrimp. Too late he saw the ferret standing on top of the bank with bow drawn and a shaft notched onto the string. Vallug Bowbeast could hit a dragonfly on the wing; the big otter standing still in the stream presented an easy target. He fired and Rillflag lay dead in the water, an arrow in his heart.
Felch and Dagrab dashed along the bank toward Rillflag’s body. The fox pulled up sharply, almost tripping over the otterbabe that lay on the mossy bankside. He grabbed at the little creature, scrabbling to pick it up, but Deyna growled and bit his paw, drawing blood. Felch yowled and grabbed for the axe he carried in a shoulder strap.
“Yowch! Yer liddle savage. Bite me, would yer?”
Sawney was crashing through the shallows on the far side of the ford when he saw Felch raise the axe. Quick as lightning Sawney threw his knife, and Felch lay screaming beside the otterbabe, his right paw fixed to the axe handle by Sawney’s blade. The ferret Chieftain was across the ford in an instant. Stamping down on Felch’s wrist, he pulled the knife free, hissing dangerously in the fox’s agonized face, “ ’Tis your lucky day, Felch. I let you live. But if you even look at that babe the wrong way again I’ll carve you a new mouth, right across your stupid throat!”
Sawney picked up Rillflag’s cloak from the bank and wrapped the otterbabe in it, chuckling as it snapped at his paws. “You’re the one, all right!”
Vallug nodded at the slain Rillflag. “Warra you want doin’ with ’im, Chief?”
Sawney was happy. He smiled at the bowbeast and winked. “Push him out into center stream. He’ll float down to the sea and never be seen again. Good work, Vallug. Great shot!”
The ends of the cloak trailing in the water, Sawney waded across the ford to where his Seer was waiting.
“So then, Grissoul, is this what we came seeking? Tell me.”
The Seer opened the cloak and inspected Deyna. She held up the infant’s right paw, showing Sawney the marked pad. “See!”
The four-petal mark was pink and clear, like a tiny blossom. Sawney looked anxiously at Grissoul. “Well, is it really him?”
For answer the Seer took Sawney’s paw and placed it against the otterbabe’s footpaws. Then she spoke.
“Zann Juskarath Taggerung!”
Sawney recognized the ancient words, and translated them.
“Mighty warrior of our clan. Taggerung!”
*
Rawback the stoat climbed down from his lookout perch in an oak. “Break camp, Sawney’s comin’. Get ready t’move fast!”
Swift and silent the clan began breaking camp, though there was not much for them to do other than pick up their belongings. Shortly thereafter Sawney and the six vermin came hurrying in. The ferret made it clear he was in no mood to linger or display the prize he had taken.
“Stir yourselves, come on, move! Move!”
He stood watching as they packed gear on their backs and hastened to obey. To add extra menace to his demands he embellished the facts a little.
“If you don’t move sharpish there’ll be a horde of Redwall warriors on your tails before noon, and I hear they don’t take prisoners. ’Tis your own loss if you don’t keep up!”
Checking the last ones from the deserted campsite, Sawney walked backward as he followed them, the better to observe the two who were bringing up the rear. Wherrul and Antigra bent to their task of clearing up the tracks, dusting over the ground with clumps of groundsel that they had twined with stalks of strong-smelling wild watermint to dispel the vermin odors. Antigra could sense Sawney’s eyes upon her. She kept her gaze down and her back bent, one paw steadying the baby stoat who scrabbled about in the sling upon her back. Like Sawney, the pair walked backward, following the ferret Chieftain as he left the camp and took the trail in the wake of the Juskarath clan.
Half asleep on his back in the cloak hammock, Deyna gave a growl. Antigra heard it, and raised her eyes slightly. Sawney was staring at her, patting his precious bundle.
“Oh yes, I’ve got the Taggerung. Do you know how to greet him in the old Juska tongue? Zann Juskarath Taggerung, that’s what you say. Let me hear you say it, Antigra.”
Antigra’s eyes blazed hate as she spat out the phrase. “Zann Juskarath Taggerung!”
The smile on Sawney’s face was far more fearsome than any hateful glance she could give. Antigra felt herself tremble as he drew the blade from his belt.
“Zann. Great warrior. That is one of our new Taggerung’s titles by right. I won’t have another creature taking the name. You will call your brat Gruven, after his foolish father. It’s either that or I bury you both here. Take my word for it!”
Antigra lowered her eyes, bowing to Sawney Rath’s will. “Gruven he shall be.”
A moment later the camp lay deserted, the dust motes drifting down on to the sun-warmed ground. There was not a trace of anybeast in the silent glade. It was as if Sawney Rath and his Juskarath clan had never been there.
*
Ten times the sun had set over Redwall Abbey since Rillflag’s ill-fated journey. Old Hoarg, the ancient dormouse Gatekeeper, held his lantern high. A brawny Skipper of Otters and eight of his crew entered. Hoarg pulled up the cowl of his habit as damp spots fell from the dark cloudbanked night sky.
“Hmm, that rain is goin’ to get heavy. Wouldn’t surprise me if a storm broke soon. Well, Skip, still no sign of ’em, eh?”
The big otter placed his tattooed paws against the gate and slammed it shut, knocking down the long wooden bar and locking it. He shouldered his javelin wearily and prepared to follow his crewbeasts up to the Abbey. “Not a trace, matey,” he called back to Hoarg. “Not a single flippin’ whisker. An’ this rain ain’t goin’ to improve our chances tomorrow!”
As the crew seated themselves around a table in the kitchen a flash of lightning illuminated the stairway to Great Hall. Skipper waited until he heard a distant rumble of thunder. “ ’Twill hit ’ere afore midnight, I reckon.”
Friar Bobb hovered anxiously about a fat young squirrel who was pushing a food-laden trolley into the kitchen.
“Watch what you’re doing, Broggle. You’ll spill the watershrimp and hotroot soup. And mind that dip in the floor, you dozy beast!”
Skipper turned his gaze on the hapless Broggle, lowering his eyebrows and showing a row of clenched teeth in mock menace. “Is somebeast spillin’ good watershrimp’n’hotroot soup?”
Broggle pushed the trolley to the table, trembling. “N-n-n-no, sir. I ai-ai-ain’t spilled a drop, sir!”
Skipper’s face broke into a huge grin as he hugged the young kitchen assistant to him. “Well done, bucko. Serve it up an’ have some y’self!”
Broggle shook his head vigorously as Skipper released him. “N-n-no, sir, ’tis too ’o-’o-’ot for me. I m-made it jus’ the w-way you like it!”
The soup was served, with onion bread to dip in it and special cold mint and dandelion tea to cool the otters’ mouths. Friar Bobb placed another bowl on the table, this one containing extra hotroot essence, for those who liked their soup good and fiery, which the ottercrew did. When the soup was finished Broggle served dessert: an immense heavy fruitcake, with blackberry wine to wash it down.
Cregga and Foremole Brull joined them at the table. The Badgermum had only the usual question to ask.
“Still no trace of Rillflag and the little one?”
Skipper shook his big scarred head. “Sorry, marm. Ten days now, an’ anybeast’d think they vanished off the face of the earth. Where’s Filorn an’ the liddle maid Mhera? They usually comes down t’ see me.”
Foremole drummed on the tabletop with her heavy claws. “They’m oop in ee room, zurr, a-grieven an’ a-weepen sumthin’ turrible, pore h’otters.”
“They heard the main outer gate shutting, you see, Skip,” Cregga explained. “Now if Rillflag and the babe were with you they would have come straight up to see Filorn and Mhera. So they know there’s been no sign of them. No point in coming down just to hear bad news, is there?”
Skipper put aside his food. Blinking hard, he turned away and sniffed. “My ’eart an’ paws goes out to ’em, marm. Nobeast could ’ave searched ’arder than me’n’the crew ’ere. I feel as if I knows every blade of grass ’twixt ’ere an’ the ford, every rock’n’boulder. I’d give my rudder to find ’em alive an’ well!”
Cregga put out a paw and touched the otter’s craggy face. “I know you would, Skipper. You’re a goodbeast and a true friend. ’Tis a sad thing to say, but perhaps we may never find them. Maybe someday . . .”
Skipper nodded. “Aye, marm, I know what you mean. Maybe someday somebeast will come across their bones. Even then we won’t know the full truth. Be that as it may, me’n’the crew’ll be out searchin’ on the morrow, storm or fair. Rillflag was a matey o’ mine, an’ if’n he is dead then I’ll find his bones, just to give peace o’ mind to pore Filorn an’ young Mhera.” Skipper’s paw sought the javelin he had placed nearby, and his eyes grew hard as flint. “But if’n Rillflag and the babe was murdered, I’ll find the scumbeast who did it, on my oath I will. There won’t be enough of ’im to leave bones when I’m done with the coward. Nobeast I know could’ve bested that otter face-to-face. He would’ve fought twice as fierce, protectin’ the liddle cub. I wager you an acorn to an oak Rillflag was murdered by ambush!”
Sister Alkanet had been listening from the stairs of Great Hall. Now she entered the kitchen and came to the table.
“I’ve got an idea that might work. Why don’t you stop searching for Rillflag and the babe? Concentrate on scouring Mossflower for any creature you find there. Bring them back to Redwall. We can question them here; somebeast surely must have seen or heard something!”
Broggle appeared with his trolley to clear the platters away. “Th-th-that’s what I’d do, too. G-g-good idea, S-Sister!”
Skipper shrugged. “Well, we’ve tried everythin’ else an’ got nowheres. Maybe yore idea’ll work, Sister.”
Cregga rose from the table, politely stifling a yawn. “As you wish, then. Do you need any help from us, Skipper?”
The otter stroked his rudderlike tail reflectively. “If this storm’s blowed itself out by dawn we’ll start the search for anybeast roamin’ Mossflower then. Aye, marm, we could do with some Abbeybeasts to lend a paw. I never refuse a willin’ offer. If’n they want to volunteer I won’t refuse ’em!”
“S-sir, I—I’d like to vo-vo-volunteer!”
Friar Bobb shook his head. “Your job is here with me in the kitchens, Broggle, not scouring the woodlands.”
The blind Badgermum reached out and ruffled Broggle’s ears. “We can’t refuse a willing heart, Friar. Let him go.”
Skipper chuckled, pressing his big hardwood javelin into the young squirrel’s chubby paw. “That’s the spirit, matey. You’n’me between us, we’ll be a right pair o’ terrors!”
Broggle nearly overbalanced trying to lift the big javelin. “Any v-vermin’d better w-watch out for us, s-sir!”
Cregga began to feel her way to the door, smiling broadly. “Aye, Broggle, woe to the villains who run into you, but take good care of Skipper. He’s not a Redwall Warrior like you.”
*
Thunder exploded over Great Hall just as a vivid lightning flash illuminated the place in sudden white light. Cregga ran her paw along the walls, each stone familiar as she made her way toward the dormitory stairs. Over the din of the rain battering against the high windows, the badger’s keen ears detected another noise. It was the sound of somebeast weeping aloud, over by the far wall, where the great Redwall tapestry hung. Silently the blind Badgermum moved in that direction, holding out her paw until it came into contact with the tear-wet face of a young ottermaid. Drawing her close, Cregga held her comfortingly.
“Mhera, my pretty, I thought you were upstairs with your mother. What are you doing down here all alone?”
Mhera allowed the Badgermum to stem the tears with her apron. “Mama knew there’d be no news of Dad and little Deyna. She cried herself to sleep, and I did too. But the thunder woke me, so I came down here to ask Martin the Warrior if he knew what had happened to my dad and the baby.”
Cregga touched the tapestry, feeling the beautiful embroidery that countless paws had worked upon. Martin the Warrior mouse, Hero of Redwall, there had never been one braver than he. Martin was depicted standing in his armor, holding the great sword, whilst terror-stricken vermin fled from him in all directions. The Warrior had a strong but kindly face, and wherever anybeast stood in Great Hall he seemed to be looking at them, eternally watching over his beloved Abbey.
Cregga placed her paw on Mhera’s head. “My poor little one. Did he tell you anything?”
Mhera wiped a paw across her eyes. “Not really. I just stood here waiting for an answer, but none came. Then I began to feel happy and sad just looking at him. I decided to cry all of my tears out for the last time. I felt determined not to spend my life weeping, but to comfort and help my mama as best I could. I think Martin was trying to tell me to be strong. Does that sound silly, marm?”
Cregga felt her spirit lift. Mentally she thanked Martin. “No, little one, it sounds good and brave. Well, seeing as you have the desire to help others, you can guide me up to my room.”
Mhera managed a tiny smile. “Now that sounds silly, marm. Nobeast knows their way about the Abbey better than you. What need do you have of me?”
Cregga took Mhera’s paw and patted it. “I don’t tell this to every creature, but I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m a very very old badger whom everybeast relies upon for advice, about all sorts of things, especially Abbey matters. So I try to help as much as I can, but nobeast ever seems to ask if I need anything. Old Cregga can take care of this and old Cregga can sort that out. But who is there to help old Cregga? I tell you, Mhera, the older I get the more I need a friend.”
The ottermaid clasped the Badgermum’s big paw tightly. “I’ll be your friend, marm, forever.”
*
Cregga opened the door to her room and ushered Mhera in. Rain pattered heavy and drumlike on the window. The badger found her massive overstuffed armchair and collapsed into it with a grateful sigh. There was lots of room on the arm for the young otter to perch upon.
Cregga put her footpaws up on a worn buffet. “This room once belonged to a great friend of mine, Abbess Song. She passed on seasons before even your mother was born. Ah me, the times Song and I spent together. She was a happy creature, always singing; that’s why her name suited so well. If she were here now, looking at two miserable creatures like us, I know what she’d have to say.”
“Go on then, marm, tell me what Abbess Song would say.”
“She’d say, if that young otter’s your friend, tell her to stop calling you marm and call you by your name, Cregga. Then she’d say that the way to stop feeling sad and sorry is to think up an excuse for a feast. One involving all the Redwallers. Get everybeast feeling happy and you’ll feel happy yourself, that’s what Song always said.”
Mhera thought about this, but only for a second. “What a wonderful idea, Cregga! Let’s have a great feast. It’ll be summer’s first day when the new moon appears, six days from tomorrow. Is that a good excuse for a feast?”
A lightning flash lit up the badger’s silver-striped muzzle. “It’s a marvelous excuse, young ’un. We always have a feast at change of season, so let’s make this one an extra special feast. We’ll call it . . . er . . . what shall we call it?”
Mhera clapped her paws. “The Summer of Friendship feast!”
Cregga drummed her footpaws on the buffet. “Splendid! What a lovely idea, the Summer of Friendship feast. Now, besides the food we want lots of games, singing, dancing, poetry and musicians. We’ll be in charge of that part, and leave the food and drink to those who know best, the Friar and Drogg Cellarhog. First thing tomorrow the preparations begin. We’ll make this a feast to remember, eh, Mhera?”
The ottermaid agreed wholeheartedly. “We certainly will. My mama can help Friar Bobb; she’s a great cook, you know. It’ll help to take her mind off things.”
Cregga could fight her weariness no longer. A huge yawn escaped her lips. “Oh, dear. Wish I was as young as you again!”
Mhera plumped the pillows behind her friend’s head. “Sleep now, Cregga. You can get a lot of things done in dreams. Start planning our festivities. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Listening to the door close as Mhera crept back to her mother’s room, Cregga mused to herself in a drowsy murmur, “Get a lot of things done in dreams. What a wise young creature my young friend is. Yes, just the type Redwall needs . . . wise.”
*
Thundersound grew more distant, the lightning less frequent. The volume of rain decreased to a drizzle as the storm moved east from Redwall and the green vastness of Mossflower Wood. Peace fell over the Abbey. Cregga in her armchair, Dibbuns in their dormitories, grown creatures in their beds, slept on through the night hours calm and undisturbed. New-baked bread, flat oatcakes, scones and turnovers lay on the warming shelves in the kitchens, ready for breakfast. Red embers glowed in the oven fires, casting flickering shadows in the silence. Friar Bobb, who never left his beloved kitchens, snored gently upon the truckle bed in the cool larder. Skipper and his crew snored uproariously in Cavern Hole, sprawled on forms, tables and makeshift mattresses. Broggle, the fat little assistant cook, lay on the first stair, still gripping Skipper’s big javelin. He growled and showed his teeth in slumber, hunting evil foebeasts through the woodlands, and, of course, subduing and capturing every one of them.
You can get a lot of things done in dreams.