Grissoul had a fire going in a small cave on the riverbank, a tiny island of light in the darkness. Outside, the clan huddled in their hastily erected shelters, mostly frayed pieces of canvas draped over branches and spearshafts. They ate what they had managed to forage that day on the journey westward. Squatting in any dry place, the vermin cursed the storm under their breath, hoping for fairer weather with the arrival of dawn.
Warm and dry inside the cave, Sawney Rath ate the remainder of a poached dace, which the Seer had caught to feed the otterbabe. Sawney watched the little creature with a fondness that was almost fatherly.
“Look at him, sleeping like a proper old riverdog. Did you see him tearing at the fish? Not much wrong with his appetite!”
Grissoul turned the babe’s paw lightly, exposing the birthmark. “It is interesting that fortune chose an otterbeast to be Taggerung. An intriguing choice.”
Sawney drew his knife. Holding it by the point, he placed the handle between the tiny paws. Deyna clasped it in his sleep. The Chieftain’s fierce eyes turned to the vixen Seer.
“Aye, it’s not usual, but otters grow big and tough, full of muscle and sinew. I’m sorry he wasn’t a ferret like me, but an otter will serve the purpose just as well. We have to live by the prophecy and the omens. Thank your fortunes it wasn’t a toad we found bearing the mark you foresaw!”
Grissoul agreed. “Aye, thank the fortunes!”
Sawney chuckled quietly, so as not to disturb his charge. “Look at him, holding the knife like a true assassin. This one will be a powerful force when he grows, mark my words.”
*
Rain pattered on a canvas groundsheet that had been fixed to the riverbank side close to the cave. Beneath it Antigra lay nursing the babe she now had to call Gruven. Two other vermin shared the shelter, Wherrul the rat and Felch, the fox whose paw Sawney had crippled with his blade. Wherrul had his nose close to the fox’s ear, complaining bitterly.
“It ain’t right, cully. We’ve carried the tents from the scrublands to the ford, an’ now we’re carryin’ them back the way we came. Where’s the sense in it, if we ain’t allowed to use them? Sittin’ out ’ere in the rain under bits an’ scraps o’ canvas, while Sawney’s got a dry cave, a fire an’ good cooked vittles. My back’s killin’ me from bein’ bent double all day, wipin’ out tracks. It ain’t right, I tell yer!”
Felch held up his injured paw, whispering a reply. “Lookit that. Me axe paw ruined for life. Sawney didn’t even allow me t’stop an’ bandage it. I ’ad to make do with a dollop of bankmud an’ a dock leaf. All because I looked the wrong way at that otterbrat. Huh! Taggerung! I never ’eard of no otter becomin’ a Taggerung. But I’ll bide me time, Wherrul, wait’n’see. One day Sawney’ll pay for what ’e did to me, I swear it!”
Hugging Gruven, Antigra closed her eyes, ignoring the whines and complaints of her companions. By listening hard she could hear Sawney and Grissoul’s voices echoing from the cave. Sawney was speaking of the otterbabe’s future.
“As he grows I’ll teach him all I know; the use of the blade, the teeth, the claws. I’ll teach him never to turn his back on an enemy, to be more tough and savage than anybeast. Vallug can instruct him in archery. Little Taggerung’ll be twice as fierce and fast as my father ever was. He’s my lucky charm; since the time I found him my stomach hasn’t troubled me.”
Grissoul stared into the fire, trying to extract messages from the flame-shapes and the pattern of the ashes. “Aye, the fortunes of the Juskarath grow by the way. Thou did well to heed the omens, Sawney Rath. But the babe must be taught speed. Quickness of the paw is everything. Give him a short and fast name to remind him of this.”
A thought caused Sawney’s eyes to light up. “Tagg! That’s what we’ll call him. Tagg!”
Grissoul brought forth certain objects from her pouch. “Now is the time to speak the ancient words and confirm him. Cover thine eyes when I put my paws o’er the flames.”
The Seer placed a hawk feather, a piece of flint and the gleaming skull of a small pike on the ground beside the otterbabe. Holding her clenched paw above the flames, she opened it suddenly. A blue flare rose from the fire for a brief moment, intense and bright, and Grissoul began to chant.
“Who can outrun the wind
Yet turn on a single leaf,
Stand silent as an amberfly
Or steal the breath from a thief?
The Taggerung!
Who can outswim a pike
Whose eyes are keen as the hawk’s,
Who brings death in his wake
Yet leaves no mark where he walks?
Zann Juskarath Taggerung!”
Sawney watched as the Seer painted the clan sign on the sleeping infant’s face. A black stripe flanked by red dots, with a small added lightning flash of blue on his left cheek, to denote that he was no ordinary creature. The little one slept through it all. Sawney lay down beside him, sharing the cloak. Grissoul had never seen the ferret Chieftain show tenderness toward any living thing, so she was astonished when Sawney spoke gently to the babe.
“Zann Juskarath Taggerung. My son Tagg!”
Outside, under the sheltering canvas, Antigra bit her lip until she tasted blood.
“Take the life of my mate, take the name from my son. I am strong, I can bear it. One day I will take it all back and add the title Taggerung to my son’s name. I hope you are strong then, Sawney Rath; strong enough to face a slow and painful death along with your new son Tagg. It will happen, I swear it on the memory of my mate Gruven!”
*
Within the hour following dawn over Mossflower Wood, mist tendrils rose from the treetops. Heralding a fine warm day, the sun stood high in a sky as blue as a kingfisher’s tail plumes. Skipper took his javelin from Broggle’s paws. Ears and whiskers twitching, the big otter signaled by waving the weapon at the searchers nearby.
“Down, mateys. Lie still’n’quiet!”
Broggle dropped to the damp grass, his eyes wide. “Wh-what is it, S-S-Skip?”
The otter threw a paw about Broggle’s shoulder. “Ssshhh, an’ listen!”
It was the strangest of sounds, like three or four creatures all playing instruments, jangling but tuneful. It sounded even odder when a wobbly voice warbled along with the music in an off-key tenor.
As whatever it was drew nearer, Skipper and Broggle had to stifle giggles at the ridiculous song.
“Collop a lee collop a loo,
Oh what I wouldn’t give to
Be eating a filthy great plate o’ salad,
Instead of composing this beautiful ballad.
A collop a lollop a lee oh loo,
Life’s hard without scoff ’tis true,
You can always eat a lettuce, but
A lettuce can’t eat you. Oooooohhhhhhh
Collop a lee a loo!
Hey ho for the life of a fool,
I recall my mater’s wise rule,
Eat at least ten meals a day,
Or else you’ll waste away she’d say,
Poor dear Mater so old and grey,
And fat as two bales of hay, hey ho. Oooooohhhh
Father said to me, ’M’lad, you know,
She’s goin’ to explode one day . . . I saaaaaaay.’
So both of us ran away. Hey!”
Crashing and stumbling through the undergrowth came a hare. On his head he wore what had been a three-pointed jester’s cap, but only the top point with its bell remained. The sides had been cut away, and in their place the hare’s ears formed the other two points, each with a small round bell attached to it. His outfit defied any accurate description; it was a flowing, trailing ragbag of harlequin silk, with bits catching on the bushes and tearing off as he toppled and staggered through the woodlands. The reason for his awkward gait was apparent: he was carrying a gigantic musical instrument. The thing had strings and levers, bells, small bugles, flutes and even a drum attached to it. He finally tripped and fell flat on his back. It did not seem to put him out a bit. He lay there, struggling with the instrument and still composing his ridiculous song.
“Oh the saddest sight on earth,
I’ll tell you for what it’s worth,
Is the sight of a chap with an empty tum,
Laid low in the grass without a chum,
A jolly pal, who’d stay close by,
An’ feed a poor fellow some apple pie,
Or perchance a slice of onion pastie . . .”
*
He stopped and gazed up at the faces of Skipper’s crew surrounding him. “I say, what rhymes with pastie?”
Broggle offered a suggestion without thinking. “Fastie?”
The hare looked thoughtful. “D’you think so? Let’s give it a try. Or perchance a slice of onion pastie, with which to break my morning fastie . . . hmm. Many thanks, old scout, but it’ll need a bit of workin’ on, wot!”
Two of the ottercrew lifted the instrument from the hare. Skipper grabbed him and pulled him upright. “Tell me, how long’ve ye been in these woods? Have ye seen anythin’ of a growed otter an’ a newborn otterbabe? Or did ye cross the path of any vermin lurkin’ ’ereabouts? Speak up!”
The hare blinked and flopped his long ears to either side. “Bit of a tall order, old lad, but here goes, wot! I’m merely a wayfarin’ traveler, passin’ through, y’might say. As for otters, big or small, haven’t spotted any, aside from your goodself. Not a sign of a vermin either, lurkin’ or disportin’ their scummy hides t’me view. Sorry I can’t help you, sah!”
Skipper eyed the odd creature up and down. “I think you’d best tell us yore name, matey, and what yore doin’ ’round here.”
Before he could stop him, the hare had seized Skipper’s paw and was shaking it heartily. “Matey? Do I detect a nautical twang, sah? Well, me name ain’t matey. Boorab the Fool at y’service, bound to take up an exalted position as Master of Music, Occasional Entertainer, Composer, Melodic Tutor and Instructor in all things lyrical. Without payment, of course. My services are rendered purely out of the kindness of my heart, y’know. The only remuneration I require is vittles. Food, sah. Grub, tucker, scoff, call it what y’will, as long as they’re not stingy with the portions, eh, wot wot! By the bye, do any of you chaps know the way to an establishment known as Redwall Abbey?”
Skipper broke the furious paw-shaking grip of Boorab. “Yore goin’ to Redwall Abbey?” He turned to Brother Hoben, who had volunteered for the search. “D’you know anythin’ about this, Brother?”
Hoben, being Recorder, had his paw on all Abbey business. He shook his head in bewilderment. “First I’ve heard of it. Tell me, Mr. Boorab, who appointed you?”
Boorab waggled his ears nonchalantly. “Nobeast really. One hears these things, y’know. Did you treat a goose with a bashed-up wing pinion last summer, perchance?”
Hoben recalled the incident. “We did! He spent quite a bit of time with us until Sister Alkanet got him flying again. Why do you want to know?”
Boorab relieved Drogg Spearback of a candied chestnut he had taken from his apron pocket, and chewed on it reflectively. “That was the very chap. Big white feathery cove, honked a lot. It was him who told me that your jolly old Abbey hasn’t got a hare, or a music master in residence there. So I thought I’d nip down an’ fill the post, wot. Hope no other bally hare’s beaten me to the blinkin’ job. Got to keep the old eye out for cads an’ rotters an’ job pinchers these days, y’know, wot!”
Drogg drew Skipper to one side. “I thinks we’d best take ’im t’the Abbey,” he murmured. “Cregga will decide what to do with ’im. What d’ye say, Skip?”
The brawny otter smiled as he shot a glance at the quaint beast. “Hmm. Hares are good mates, ’cept when yore sittin’ next to one at dinner. I think we’ll ’ave to take Boorab back with us, Drogg. Supposin’ ’e fell over again. With that thing lyin’ atop of ’im the pore creature might never get up. I couldn’t ’ave that on me mind an’ sleep easy. Makes y’feel responsible for ’im, don’t he?”
Drogg turned back to Boorab and gave him the good news. The hare was delighted, but he changed mood swiftly. Facing the ottercrew, he puffed out his narrow chest and acted as though he were challenging them.
“Right, laddie bucks, any of you think you’re stronger than me?”
Otters are fiercely proud of their agility and strength. Two hefty young ones sprang forward, a male and a female, and spoke together as one. “I am!”
Boorab clapped them on their backs. “Splendid. Two towerin’ figures of otter muscle, wot! I’ll wager you could lift that instrument with me jolly well sittin’ atop of it, right?”
It was the otters’ turn to swell their chests and flex their muscles. They chorused in agreement. “Right!”
Skipper knew what was coming, and he chuckled as Boorab answered, “Good, then I won’t sit on the instrument. You two carry it an’ I’ll walk. I’m not lazy, y’know!”
Skipper walked alongside Boorab. He was developing a liking for the comical hare. “Boorab the Fool, eh? You ain’t such a fool, matey, I can tell. That’s the queerest ole instrument I’ve ever clapped eyes on. What d’ye call it?”
Boorab stumbled slightly, and gathered up his flapping robes. “That, sah, is a haredee gurdee. Made it m’self. Mandolin, drums, fiddle, flutes, bugles an’ harp, all in one. With a space in the mandolin bowl to carry one’s vittles. Empty now, as ill luck an’ a healthy appetite would have it.”
Broggle trundled along between Skipper and Boorab, carrying the big otter javelin. Boorab cast an eye over the fat little squirrel. “Ah, my friend the rhymester. What do they call you, young sir?”
“B-Broggle, M-Mr. Boorab s-sir!”
Boorab glanced across at Skipper. “How long has the little chap had that stammer, wot?”
Skipper shrugged. “Long as I’ve knowed ’im.”
Boorab turned back to Broggle. “Say ah!”
“Ah!”
“Now longer. Say aaaaaahhh!”
“Aaaaaaahhhhhh!”
“Excellent. Now sing out like this.” The hare composed a small tune on the spot. “My name is Broggle, Mr. Boorab saaaaah!”
Skipper nodded at the young squirrel to do as he was bidden.
Broggle took a deep breath and sang forth. “My name is Broggle, Mr. Boorab saaaaaaaah!”
The hare smiled. “Very good. Did y’notice anything, Broggle?”
“N-no, s-sir?”
Boorab chucked him lightly under the chin. “You never stammered once when y’had to sing.”
An expression of awe and delight framed the young squirrel’s face. “I d-didn’t, s-sir?”
“No, of course y’didn’t, laddie buck. Try singin’ instead of talkin’. It’ll help, you’ll see, wot!”
Suddenly Broggle brandished the javelin and sang out in a clear little voice.
“I didn’t stammer once when I had to sing,
So now I’m going to sing everything!”
Boorab winked at Skipper. “Told you that chap was a good rhymester. We’ll soon get rid of that stammer, wot wot!”
Skipper grinned from ear to ear. “I think ole Cregga Badgermum’s goin’ to like you, matey.”
Broggle skipped ahead, waving the javelin and singing lustily.
“I work in Redwall kitchens, with old Friar Bobb,
’Cos I’m the cook’s assistant, that’s my job!”
The hare raised his eyebrows. “Assistant cook, wot? A fine chap t’know, I’d say. I think I’ll give the little grubslinger his singin’ lessons in the kitchen. Marvelous places, kitchens. Full of food, y’know.”
Cregga was in the kitchens with Mhera, Filorn and Friar Bobb, beginning to work on a menu for the feast. Filorn realized that the others were trying to cheer her up, and to please them she joined in with the proceedings, her enthusiasm rising every time Mhera smiled at her.
“Oh, Mama, say you’ll bake your apple and raspberry flan, with meadowcream and the pattern of mint leaves on top. Oh, please, we haven’t had it for ages!”
Filorn fussed with her apron ties. “I’m not sure I can remember how to do it. The apples are very important. But it’s the wrong season for apples, is it not, Friar?”
The fat Friar chuckled. “Not at all, marm. What sort o’ Friar would I be if’n I didn’t keep a good stock of last autumn’s russet apples in my larders? Nothin’ like a nice russet!”
“Oh yes there is. Two nice russets, wot, hawhawhaw!”
They were startled by the sudden appearance of the quaintly garbed hare. Friar Bobb grabbed his biggest ladle. “Who are you and what’re you doin’ in our Abbey?”
Broggle marched in and pointed at the hare with Skipper’s lance.
“Boorab is my friend,
On that you may depend,
He’s come to stay awhile,
Be nice to him and smile!”
Mhera went into a fit of chuckles. “Broggle, what are you singing like that for?”
The bells on the hare’s cap and ears jingled as he did a hopskip toward the ottermaid and gave a low sweeping bow. “Why, my pretty one, well may you ask. But observe, when my pal Broggle sings he doesn’t stammer. Simple, wot?”
Cregga’s booming voice brought the hare to instant attention. “Stand up straight, sah, ears upright, whiskers t’the front, paws in position an’ tail well fluffed. Identify y’self!”
The hare threw a smart salute and rattled off his reply. “Boorab the Fool, marm! That’s B for Bellscut, O for Oglecrop, O for Obrathon, R for Ragglewaithe, A for Audube, B for Baggscut. Marm!”
Cregga beckoned the hare to her. She put out a paw and ran it over his face and ears, nodding sagely. “Hah! That’s a Baggscut face all right. I should know, after commanding more than a thousand hares when I ruled the mountain of Salamandastron. Your grandfather, Pieface Baggscut, served under me as a leveret runner.”
Boorab chuckled. “Stap m’whiskers, old Grandpa Pieface, eh wot? Now there was a beast who c’d lick his weight in salad, wot wot! I remember one time, I must’ve been no bigger’n young Broggle there . . .” His voice faltered as the realization of whom he was addressing hit him. He gulped.
“Oh corks! Oh crumbs! Marm, oh, marm! You must be Lady Cregga Rose Eyes, Ruler of Salamandastron, the wild-eyed Warrior Queen, the Belle of the blinkin’ Bloodwrath, the kill—”
“Silence! That’s enough of that, young Baggscut. And who told you to stand easy? Come to attention, sah!”
Skipper, who had been listening from the doorway, came forward. The otter Chieftain held a long whispered conversation with Cregga, who held a huge handkerchief to her face. To anybeast watching it looked as if she had been taken by a fit of coughing, but in fact Cregga was bravely striving to stop herself roaring out with laughter. Mhera felt sorry for the odd hare, standing nervously to attention, ear and cap bells tinkling faintly, awaiting the pronouncement of his fate, and whispered, “Don’t worry, sir, it’ll be all right.”
It took Cregga a considerable time to get her mirth under control, but at last she wiped her eyes and cleared her throat portentously.
“I am informed that you are applying for the post of Redwall Abbey’s Master of Music, Occasional Entertainer, Composer, Melodic Tutor and Instructor in all things lyrical. I understand that you have come on the recommendation of a goose that was treated here some while back. Is that correct?”
Boorab the Fool brightened up instantly. “You’ve got it in one, marm! Y’won’t regret it, I promise you. Why, I’ll have the whole flippin’ Abbey singin’ an’ dancin’ from dawn to bally nightfall, just you wait’n’see, wot!”
Cregga shut him up with a wave of her paw. “But you haven’t got the job yet. I’m not too sure we are in need of your services. Tell me, what would you want in return?”
Boorab sucked his stomach in, trying to look like a beast who ate virtually nothing. “Want in return, marm? Merely a place to rest the old head an’ the odd pawful o’ fodder. I’m more of a dedicated artist of m’trade. The thought of food makes me sick sometimes. Why, a butterfly with no appetite eats more’n I jolly well do.”
Cregga turned her face to Filorn and Mhera. “Hmm. What do you think? Shall I hire the hare?”
Mhera was surprised her opinion had been asked. “Oh, please do, Cregga marm. Look at the way Mr. Boorab is helping Broggle. Mama, say you want him to have the job.”
Filorn could not help smiling at the look of noble dedication that Boorab was radiating in her direction. “I’ll go along with my daughter. I think you should let Boorab have the position, Cregga.”
The badger sat stroking her chin until the tension grew unbearable for Boorab, and he flung himself at her footpaws. “Merciful marm, say y’will, I bally well beg you. Don’t leave a benighted Baggscut blunderin’ about in the storm an’ snow without a kindly crust to keep fur an’ ears together! Oh, me little furry friend Broggle, sing a line on my behalf!”
The young squirrel obliged.
“He wants to work in the kitchens,
With me an’ Friar Bobb,
So please Cregga Badgermum,
Give him the blinkin’ job!”
Cregga drummed her paws on the tabletop, then nodded. “Here’s my decision. I’ll put you on one season’s probation, Boorab, under the supervision of Filorn, Mhera, Broggle and Friar Bobb. Now, you four, keep your eyes on this hare. His meals must be the same size as any other Redwaller’s, no secret snacks or midnight feasts. If he is reported just once for raiding the larders, out of the gate he goes! Also, he will sleep and rise at the same time as everybeast. Unless he is ill, there will be no lying late abed, or nipping off to shady spots for a snooze. We will see how he behaves throughout this coming summer season. Do you agree with our terms, Boorab? That’s the offer, take it or leave it.”
For answer, Boorab bowed formally, did a somersault of joy and began serenading them on his haredee gurdee, which two of Skipper’s crew had just brought in. It jangled and booped wildly as Boorab made up the words as he went along.
“Derry cum day foll deeh,
I pray you listen to me.
I’ll compose this ditty upon the spot,
To say you’re a jolly decent lot,
Then you can judge for yourself or not,
What an Abbey asset I’ll be,
Derry cum day foll deeh!
You lot won’t know you’re born,
I’ll be up before each dawn,
To serve you crumpets’n’tea in bed,
To wake you gently I’ll stroke your head,
I’ll warble sweetly until you’re fed,
And you’ll never feel forlorn,
’Cos I’ll do this every morn!
Sing derry cum de all day,
What a splendid hare you’ll say,
He’s handsome, happy an’ modest too,
An’ what a cook, why I’ll tell you,
There’s nought this super chap can’t do,
Let’s never send him away,
Yes, I’ll wager that’s what you’ll say!”
Boorab finished his song with a winning smile, made an elegant leg, bowed, picked up his haredee gurdee and overbalanced. He fell amidst a discordant crash of bugles, drums and twanging strings. Foremole Brull covered her eyes with a huge digging claw, patting Cregga sympathetically with the other.
“Hurr, marm, oi bets ee be deloighted we’m gotten uz ee hurrbeast. Yurr, Skip, lend oi ee paw to ’elp ’im oop.”
Boorab struggled from under the mammoth instrument. “Soup? Did somebeast mention soup? I say, you chaps, it must be time for dinner, wot?”
Friar Bobb placed his head mournfully on Filorn’s shoulder. “My ole dad used t’say that feedin’ a hare was like chuckin’ pebbles down a deep well. You never fill it in a thousand long seasons!”