It was baking hot out on the flat scrublands. Dry heather, furze and teasel dotted the landscape, grasshoppers everywhere kept up a dry chirruping, butterflies in swarms visited every scrap of flowering vegetation. Bees hummed busily as they bumbled around the blossoming heathers. Tagg strode out energetically, tasting the light lemonish tang of some dandelion buds he was sucking, his eyes on the cool white of the snowcapped mountain, shimmering in the distance. The place belied the name flatlands. Hollows, hummocks and rises, combined with dry watercourse beds, made it extremely lumpy going. At midnoon he found sheltering shadow in the lee of an oddly shaped hillock. Conserving his meager rations, Tagg ate sorrel, wild onions and some cornsalad leaves. He drank sparingly from his remaining flask of pear cordial and dozed off with the background noises of the heathlands lulling him into slumber.

It was not shouts or screams that wakened him, but a series of smothered grunts, mingled with hissing noises. He listened until he located the sounds, which came from the other side of the hillock where he was resting. Tagg drew his blade and went to investigate.

He had seen smooth snakes before, but this one was a particularly large specimen, light grey in color, with a narrow head and a dark stripe across both eyes. The snake had a harvest mouse in its coils and was trying to crush it to death by constricting its slim smooth-scaled body. However, the mouse was a game little fellow, and he kept struggling loose and inflicting some sharp bites upon the predator’s flanks. Never once did he shout or cry out for help. Tagg admired his courage and jumped smartly in to help. Stamping down, he pinned the snake’s head to the sandy ground and grabbed its tail firmly, straightening it out. Once the reptile had nowhere to anchor itself for purchase it was virtually helpless. Tagg winked at the harvest mouse.

“Best get out o’ the way, friend. This villain’s not going to be very pleased when I let him go!”

The harvest mouse straightened his little yellow tunic and bared his teeth. He performed a dance of rage. “Then pass me that dagger o’ yourn, mate, an’ I’ll chop that stringy mouse mangler into bite-sized bits, the scaly-nosed scumtail, the fish-eyed field forager, the legless land lizard! Just gimme the blade, an’ I’ll show that ’un how t’make a new tunic out of snakeskin!”

Tagg was taken aback at the mouse’s ferocity. He flicked him aside with his rudder. “I said stay clear. I’ll deal with this.”

The mouse was practically doing somersaults in his anger. “Well, gerron with it an’ quit jawin’, will ye? You came along just when I had that snake well an’ truly whipped. Don’t stand there like a weasel on a washin’ line. Kill it!”

Tagg twirled his knife so he was holding the blade, and dealt the smooth snake two sharp blows on its head. It went limp.

“There, that’s put him to sleep for a while, though he’ll have a rare old headache when he wakes. Come on, let’s get going.”

The mouse stamped his footpaw and ground his teeth. “Y’mean you ain’t going to slay the blaggard? Are ye soft in the head or wot? Fine big lump of an otter like you an’ you can’t even kill a rotten reptile! Wot’s wrong with ye, eh?”

Tagg swung the mouse up onto his shoulders and strode off. “Bloodthirsty little scoundrel, aren’t you? No reason to kill the snake; you got away all right. By the way, my name’s Tagg.”

A tiny paw appeared for him to shake. “Please t’meetcher. I’m Nimbalo the Slayer. Next time y’see me finishin’ off a snake, just leave us alone, will ye?”

Tagg tried his best to stop laughing. “How did y’come to be out here alone, Nimbalo?”

“Got taken by an eagle,” the harvest mouse replied airily. “Caught me asleep, y’know. Anyhow, he was flyin’ me off t’the mountain, so I broke his claws an’ dropped off down here. I fell into some soft sand, an’ that’s where that overgrown worm found me. Huh! Lucky for it I was a bit dazed!”

Tagg now had his laughter under control, and merely nodded. “It certainly was, Nimbalo, but where did you come from? I mean, your tribe, your family, where do they live?”

Nimbalo gave the otter’s ear a tug. “Bit nosy, ain’t you? Where do I come from? Oh, ’ere an’ there, y’know. I’ve been ’round the rocks a few times, matey. As for families an’ tribes, huh, who needs them? They ain’t nothin’ but a load o’ bother. Nimbalo the Slayer travels alone!”

Tagg raised his eyebrows as the mouse shifted position. “Except when you’re traveling with me, eh?”

Nimbalo leaned over Tagg’s head and stared down into his eyes. “Don’t contradict me, riverdog. It don’t pay to cross Nimbalo. Any’ow, what’re you doin’ ’round this neck o’ the land? Let’s ’ear you doin’ a bit of talkin’ fer a change.”

The otter told Nimbalo the story he had made up for Botarus and the squirrel, about being captured by vermin and trying to escape being one of their tribe. The harvest mouse chuckled.

“Yore right there, Tagg. Steer clear o’ tribes an’ families, they’ll only bring ye grief. So, why are ye goin’ to the mountain?”

Tagg stared longingly at the snowy peak ahead. “It’s hard to say, really. It looks so cool and clean, sort of free and away from it all. I think the mountain might be a good place to live, though I’ve never been there. Have you?”

Nimbalo spread his paws expansively. “Mountains, I’ve been ’round ’em, down ’em, up ’em an’ about ’em. I’ve crossed more mountains than you’ve ate dinners, me ole mate!”

Tagg halted. He took the harvest mouse down from his shoulders and faced him. “You’ve certainly led a long and adventurous life, my friend. Tell me, how many seasons old are you?”

Nimbalo started to count upon his whiskers, then dismissed it. “A lot older’n you, pal, by a good stretch. Ho yerss, us ’arvest mice could fool anybeast. We’re usually about ten times older than ye’d think!”

The otter put his next question flatly. “Why do you tell so many lies, Nimbalo? Don’t you ever tell the truth?”

Nimbalo punched Tagg’s paw lightly and grinned. “Truth? What’s the truth, eh? Just a pack o’ lies made up by otherbeasts so you’ll believe ’em. Of course I always tell lies. What’s wrong wid that, Tagg? They don’t ’urt you, do they?”

Tagg stood bemused, stuck for an answer. His companion swaggered jauntily onward, in his odd hopskip manner.

“Come on, me ole riverdog. Life’s too short t’worry about things like that. I’ll go to the mountain with ye. Hah, suppose I’ll ’ave to. Big honest streamwalloper like you, ye need a smart ’un like me to look after ye. Well, are you comin’?”

Over the remainder of the day, Tagg grew quite fond of Nimbalo, who was an excellent traveling partner and never at a loss for words. At one point he had Tagg cut him the thick stem from a gentian flower. Nimbalo gnawed holes in it, hollowed it out and made a whistle. As they trekked along a dry streambed he kept Tagg amused by tootling tunes on it and singing comic ditties in between.

“I’m the fiercest mouse livin’ in all the wide land,

Me fur is so fine an’ me muscles are grand,

If I ever meet with some ole vermin band,

I give all the rogues a good towsin’!

For although I’m real savage, me temper I’ll bide,

But beware of me dander, ye’d best step aside,

Or you’ll find out why so many blaggards’ve died,

Givin’ lip to Nimbalo the Slayer!

When I meet a bad crew all the warriors do hide,

’Cos me fame goes afore me both far an’ both wide,

But to mothers an’ young ’uns I bow with great pride,

That’s the way o’ Nimbalo the Slayer!

So take care when you see this mouse passin’ by,

I can knock ye out flat with the wink of me eye,

You just ask any mousemaid, she’ll blush an’ she’ll sigh,

He’s a hero, Nimbalo the Slayer!”

Nimbalo turned and winked at Tagg. “Oh, I fergot to mention, I’m modest too!”

*

Summer evening shades began falling as the hot day drew to a close. The two friends made camp in a hollow on top of a rise. Tagg was pleasantly surprised by Nimbalo’s foraging and cooking skills. Gathering dried turf, the otter lit a fire and awaited Nimbalo’s return, as the harvest mouse had insisted on finding food by himself. Purpling layers of cloud backed the mountain, tapering off to gold and red toward the west, sweet aromas came from the turf fire. Tagg settled himself comfortably on the sandy slope of the dip, savoring the beauties of twilight. Nimbalo broke the spell on his return. He tossed a bunch of roots and vegetation onto Tagg’s chest, leaping over the top of the rise and shouting, “Halloo the camp! Stir yore stumps, big feller, let’s get supper goin’. I’m starved!”

Tagg inspected the tangle of vegetation. “What’s all this, mate?”

Nimbalo rummaged cheerfully through the mass. “I can see yore used to woodland vittles. These are flatlands food. See, whitlow, tastes just like cabbage, pennycress, touch bitter, but nice. There’s comfrey roots, pepperwort an’ bindweed flowers. You’ll like them, they’re sweet.”

Tagg sniffed the flowers appreciatively. “Hmm, lovely smell. Hope they taste as good. Ah, dandelion leaves and roots, wild strawberries and some blackberries. I’ve got some fruit and wild oatcakes the voles gave me and most of a flask of pear cordial.”

Using both paws, Nimbalo hauled the blade from Tagg’s belt. “Sounds good, mate. I’ll start choppin’ the salad with this sword of yours. Keep that fire low, though. Turf don’t give off much smoke, it just glows. Those vermin you said was trackin’ you, any idea where they might be?”

Tagg gestured to the mountain’s east side. “Probably over that way. They were following a stream, so I went off in the opposite direction. I can’t see them troubling us yet awhile. Maybe when we’re on the mountain we might run into them. Do you carry a weapon, Nimbalo?”

Baring his teeth in a ferocious grin, the mouse replied, “These is all the weapons I need, mate, teeth an’ paws. If I needs more you can cut me a big stick.”

Their meal was frugal, but enjoyable. Nimbalo played a few tunes on his whistle and they sat by the fire, watching the night draw in. When Nimbalo stopped playing, the otter went to the top of the rise. He ducked as a group of swifts winged low over him, then he listened carefully. Nimbalo sprawled in the hollow, watching him.

“Wot’s the matter, big feller? Somethin’ up?”

Tagg slid down beside him. “Birds flying low, I thought I heard a far-off rumble, and the air feels heavy. There may be a storm on the way.”

Dusting sand from his tunic, the harvest mouse stood up. “I’ve been in more storms than an ole gull at sea. We’d better make a move an’ find shelter. I tell ye, Tagg, you don’t wanna get caught in a storm on these flatlands.”

Lightning flared briefly beyond the mountain. Tagg gathered his cloak and pack together, hearing the distant thunder rumble. “Sounds like it’ll be a bad one, mate. Come on!”

Complete darkness fell as the moon became shrouded by heavy cloud. They hurried along the dry bed of a stream, feeling the first heavy raindrops strike their heads. Tagg pulled his waterproof cloak over them both. Nimbalo pointed. “Lucky ole us, matey. There’s a little cave in the side of the bank, I can just make it out.”

Rain was sheeting straight down, lightning splitting the night skies in spectacular jagged rips and thunder booming overhead. Nimbalo skipped smartly up the bankside and held out a paw to his friend. “C’mon, ye great lump, inside afore ye get soaked!”

Tagg huddled in alongside Nimbalo. There seemed to be plenty of room. They lay in the entrance, the cloak draped over their heads, watching the awesome spectacle of the huge summer storm. Tagg shuddered and wriggled with pleasure.

“It’s great to watch a big storm, especially when you’re nice and dry and not caught out in it!”

The harvest mouse elbowed him roughly. “Be still, willyer? Near rolled over an’ crushed me then!”

Tagg pulled himself back from the cave entrance. “Sorry, pal. I’ll get back in here a bit. Hmm, this is quite a sizable cave. Maybe we could light another fire, what d’you think?”

Nimbalo turned around. He sniffed the interior air and froze. “Stay still, Tagg, stay still, fer pity’s sake!”

Tagg answered him from the darkness. “Why?”

Rustling coils and venomous hissings told him the reason even before Nimbalo whispered it into the menace-laden blackness.

“Snakes!”

*

Following both sides of the stream course up into the foothills, the hunting party came together again. Vallug found a broad shallow expanse where he was able to lead his followers across by a series of stepping-stones that showed above the surface. They joined up with Eefera on the opposite side. Gruven saw Grobait resting, clutching a paw to his bottom, and sniggered. “I wouldn’t let any fish take a chunk out o’ my behind.”

Eefera pushed roughly by him. “Easy fer you to say. You didn’t even have t’get yore paws wet. Any luck with tracks on yore side, Vallug?”

“None. What about you?”

“None, same as you. What d’ye think? Will we be wastin’ our time climbin’ the mountain to look for ’im?”

Gruven interrupted them to air his opinion. “If no tracks lead up here, I reckon we’re on a fool’s errand. What’s the point of climbin’ a mountain? I said it was a stupid idea from the first!”

Even Grobait could not keep the patronizing tone out of his voice as he took it on himself to answer Gruven. “He was travelin’ upstream, not down. This is the only place he could go. So wot’s the use comin’ this far an’ not lookin’ on the mountain fer the otter? Mebbe we didn’t find any tracks, but he could’ve left the stream an’ found an easier way up. We’d be the ones lookin’ stupid, to come this far an’ not even bother takin’ a look up there!”

Gruven indicated Grobait’s injury with a nod. “Well, you won’t get far with that wound. Wot d’you plan on doin’?”

Grobait spat into the stream. “I’ll keep up, don’t fret yerself!”

Vallug had been sniffing the air. He turned moodily on them. “You’d better keep up, both of yer. See that rock ledge up yonder? I’m gettin’ under it. The rest of ye’d best do the same if’n you don’t want to get caught in the storm!”

Disregarding everybeast, Vallug started climbing. Gruven was about to make a smart retort when the first drops of rain splattered on his head. He joined the others following Vallug.

“Lend us a paw ’ere!” Grobait called as he struggled upright.

Gruven could not resist snickering an answer. “Why? You’ve already got four like the rest of us.”

They huddled under the ledge as the rain began sheeting down. A thunderclap caused Ribrow to jump, and he touched the ledge above him nervously. “This mightn’t be a safe place t’stay. S’pose the thunder an’ lightnin’ struck this mountain an’ collapsed it down on us? We’d all be crushed to death by these rocks!”

Gruven snorted at the idea. “If yer frightened you don’t have t’stay ’ere. Go an’ sit out there with Grobait.”

The injured rat had hardly moved. He lay by the swelling stream almost battered flat by the heavy downpour. Eefera stared callously at the prone figure. “That wound must’ve gone bad on ’im. He’s been limpin’ all day. Looks like ’is back leg’s stiffened up an’ gone useless.”

A lightning flash illuminated Grobait’s pitiful figure. “Don’t lay out there,” Dagrab shouted to him. “Come up ’ere!” None of them made a move to help the wounded rat. Vallug sneered.

“Grobait ain’t goin’ anywhere, unless the stream swells up an’ sweeps ’im away in the night. Save yer breath, Dagrab.”

Gruven peered through the curtain of rain spilling from the ledge. “Yore the Bowbeast, Vallug. Put Grobait out of ’is misery.”

Turning to Gruven, the big ferret smiled wickedly. “That ’un ain’t worth wastin’ an arrow on. But if it was you out there, well, I’d use an arrow, mebbe even two or three. I wouldn’t consider ’em wasted on you . . . Chief!”