The Taggerung

TAGGERUNG

Prologue

My father always says that the life of a scholar is more rewarding than that of a cook. When I asked him why, he told me it is better to have ink on your paws than flour on your nose. But then he grew serious and explained to me that to be a Recorder at Redwall Abbey is a great honor. He said that my writings will form part of our Abbey's history. They will remain there for all creatures to see, forever and ever. Then he laughed and said that no matter how much care goes into the making of a piecrust, it disappears in the space of a single meal. So I am serving my apprenticeship under that good old mouse, Brother Hoben, our senior Recorder. Old Hoben sleeps a lot these days, so I get lots of practice. I am finding more and more that I like to write. My mother thinks my writing shows a great talent. But mothers are like that, aren't they?

I have been working since last winter on the strange tale of the Taggerung. I have spoken to many Redwallers about it in the evenings, and spent my days writing it up. What a story it is! Brother Hoben says that every good tale should have the proper ingredients and they are all here, believe me. Sadness and joy, comedy and tragedy, with a little mystery sprinkled throughout and quite a good dose of rousing action. Sounds a bit like a cooking recipe to me. Be that as it may be, I have finished writing the account. This evening I am due to start reading my narrative to all the Redwallers, in Cavern Hole. Winter is the best time for stories: a good warm fire, some tasty food and drink, and an attentive audience. Who could ask for more? I can see the snow lying deep on the ground outside our gatehouse; icicles are hanging from the trees instead of leaves. Daylight is fading as night steals in early. All that remains for me to do is to wash this ink off my paws, get my scarf .. . oh, and wake Brother Hoben. The old fellow is in his armchair, snoozing by the embers of the fire. Then it's off to Cavern Hole to read the tale to my friends. I'm really looking forward to it.

Would you like to come and listen? I'm sure you'll be welcome. If you don't know the way, then follow me and Brother Hoben, though it will take a while, as he shuffles quite slowly and has to lean on me. By the way, don't forget to wipe your paws before entering the Abbey. Oh, and another thing, please compliment my dad on his Autumn Harvest soup; I know that will please him. Right then, away we go. Watch out for Dibbuns throwing snowballs. Come on, we don't want to be late. Silly me, how can we be late? They can't start without me. I'm the one who will be reading the tale of the Taggerung, you know. But I've already told you that. Sorry. Up you come, Brother Hoben, you can sleep by the fire in Cavern Hole. But don't snore too loud or my mother will wake you up and tell you not to interrupt her talented daughter's wonderful story. That's mothers for you, eh!

Sister Rosabel,

Assistant Recorder of Redwall Abbey.

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Book 1

The Babe at the Ford

Chapter 1

The clan of Sawney Rath could feel their fortunes changing, much for the better. Grissoul had predicted it would be thus, and the vixen was seldom wrong. Only that day the clan foragers had caught a huge load of mackerel that had strayed into the shallows of the incoming tide. Fires blazed in the scrubland beyond the dunes that evening, as the fish, skewered on green withes, blistered and popped over the flames. Sawney was not as big as other ferrets, but he was faster, smarter and far more savage than any stoat, rat, weasel, fox or ferret among his followers. Anybeast could lay claim to the clan leadership, providing they could defeat Sawney in combat, but for a long time none had dared to. Sawney Rath could fight with a ferocity that was unequaled, and he never spared the vanquished challengers. Sawney's clan were nomads, sixty all told, thieves, vagrants, vagabonds and tricksters who would murder and plunder without hesitation. They were Juska.

Many bands of Juska roamed the coasts, woodlands and byways, but they never formed a united force, each choosing to go its own way under a strong Chieftain. This leader always tacked his name on to the Juska title, so that Sawney's clan came to be known as the Juskarath. Though they were little more than dry-land pirates, Juska vermin had quite a strict code of conduct, which was governed by seers, omens and superstition.

Sawney sat beneath the awning of his tent, sipping a vile-tasting medication that his seer Grissoul had concocted to ease the stomach pains that constantly dogged him. He watched the clan, noting their free and easy mood. Sawney smiled as some of the rats struck up a song. Rats were easily pleased; once they had a full stomach and a flagon of nettle beer they would either sing or sleep. Sawney was only half watching the rats, his real attention focused upon the stoat Antigra. She lay nursing her newborn, a son called Zann. Sawney could tell Antigra was feigning slumber from the hate-laden glances she threw his way when she thought he was not looking. Sawney Rath's eyes missed very little of what went on around him. He pulled a face of disgust as he sniffed the mixture of feverfew and treacle mustard in the cup he held, and, spitting into the fire, he muttered the newborn stoatbabe's name.

"Hah, Zann!"

Grissoul the Seer stole up out of the gathering darkness and placed a steaming plate of food by his side. He glanced up at the vixen. She was an odd-looking fox, even for a seer. She wore a barkcloth cloak that she had covered in red and black symbols, and her brow, neck and limbs were almost invisible under bracelets of coral, brass and silver. About her waist she wore a belt from which hung a broad pouch and bones of all kinds. One of her eyes was never still.

Sawney tipped the plate with his footpaw. "Am I supposed to eat this mess?"

She smiled coaxingly. "Yar, 'tis the mackerel without skin or bone, stewed in milkweed and dock. Thy stomach'll favor it!"

The ferret drew from his belt a lethally beautiful knife, straight-bladed, razor sharp, with a brilliant blue sapphire set into its amber handle. Delicately he picked up a morsel of fish on the knifepoint, and tasted it.

"This is good. I like it!"

Grissoul sat down beside him. "None can cook for thee like I." She watched him eating awhile before speaking again.

"Th'art going to ask me about the Taggerung, I feel it."

Sawney picked a sliver of fish from between his teeth. "Aye. Have there been any more signs of the Taggerung?"

Antigra interrupted by leaping up and thrusting her baby forward at them. "Fools!" she shouted defiantly. "Can't you see, my Zann is the Taggerung!"

The entire camp fell silent. Creatures turned away from their cooking fires to see what would happen. Sawney stood up, one paw holding his stomach, the other pointing the knife at Antigra.

"If you were not a mother nursing a babe you would be dead where you stand. Nobeast calls Sawney Rath a fool!"

Antigra was shaking with rage. The baby stoat had set up a thin wail, but her voice drowned it out.

"I demand you recognize my son as Taggerung!"

Sawney gritted his teeth. Thrusting the dagger back into his belt he turned aside, snarling at Grissoul. "Tell that stoat why her brat cannot be called Taggerung!"

Grissoul stood between them, facing Antigra, and took a starling's skull, threaded on thin twine, from her belt. She swung it in a figure of eight until the air rushing through the eye and beak sockets made a shrieking whistle.

"Hearken, Antigra, even a long-dead bird can mock thee. Shout all thou like, 'twill not make thine offspring grow to be the Taggerung. You it is who are a fool! Can thou not see the omens are all wrong? Even though you call him Zann, which means Mighty One, he will never be the chosenbeast. I see all. Grissoul knows, take thou my word now. Go back to your fire and nurse the babe, and be silent, both of ye!"

Antigra held the newborn stoat up high, shaking the babe until it wailed even more loudly. "Never!" she cried.

Sawney winced as his stomach gave a sharp twinge. He turned upon the stoat mother, roaring dangerously, "Enough! You have heard my Seer: the omens are wrong. Zann can never be called Taggerung. Unless you want to challenge me for the leadership of the clan and change the Juskarath law to suit yourself, I command you to silence your scolding tongue and speak no more of the matter!"

He turned and went into his tent, but Antigra was not prepared to let the matter lie. Everybeast heard her shout after him: "Then you are challenged, Sawney Rath!"

His stomach pains immediately forgotten, the ferret Chieftain emerged from the tent, a half-smile hovering around his slitted eyes. Vermin who had seen that look before turned away. Only Antigra faced him as he asked quietly, "So, who challenges me?"

He saw the creature, even before Antigra replied, "Gruven, the father of Zann!"

Gruven stepped forth from the shadows. In one hefty paw he carried a small round shield, in the other a tall slim spear, its point shining in the firelight. He struck a fighting stance, his voice loud and clear.

"I challenge you, Sawney Rath. Arm yourself and face me!"

Sawney had always liked Gruven. He was a valuable asset to the clan. Big, strong, but not too intelligent. Sawney shook his head and smiled patronizingly.

"Don't do it, Gruven. Don't listen to your mate. Put the spear and shield down; live to see your son grow up."

Antigra whispered something to Gruven that seemed to embolden him. He circled away from her, jabbing the spear in Sawney's direction. "I'll live to see my son become Taggerung. Now fight like a Juska, or die like a coward!"

Sawney shrugged off the insult. "As you wish." He turned, as if to fetch his weapons from the tent, then half swung back, as though he had forgotten to say something to the challenger. "Oh, er, Gruven ..."

There was a deadly whirr as the knife left Sawney's paw. Gruven coughed slightly, a puzzled look on his face, then fell backward, the blade buried in his throat up to its decorative handle. Sawney finished what he had been saying. "Don't ever hold your shield low like that, it's a fatal mistake. Grissoul, I'll see you in my tent."

Ignoring Antigra's wails, Sawney beckoned the vixen to sit beside him. "What have you seen?"

Grissoul emptied her bag of stones, shells and bones on the ground, nodding sagely. "See thou, my omens have fallen the same since the end of the last rain. Our Taggerung is born at last. There are other Juska clans abroad in the land, and any of these would deem it a great honor to count him as one of them. Such a beast is a talisman of great power. The Taggerung can change the fortunes of a clan. Nobeast is mightier; none can stand before a Taggerung. Long seasons have passed since such a warrior lived. Who would know this better than thee, Sawney, for was not thine own father the chosen one? Ah, those were glorious days. Our clan was the largest and most feared then. Everybeast had to bow their heads to your father. Zann Juskarath Taggerung! Can you not remember the respect he commanded wherever we went"

Sawney cut the Seer off impatiently. "Cease your prattle about my father. I know how great he was, but he's long dead and gone. Tell me more of this new Taggerung. How do you know he's born, and where do we find him?"

The vixen studied a single speedwell flower, which she had picked earlier that day. It was pale pink, with three fat petals and one thinner than the others. She smiled slyly.

"My visions tell me a mark shaped like this little blossom will be upon him, or maybe her, for who can tell if Taggerung be male or female?"

Just then a weasel called Eefera entered and gave Sawney his knife back, cleaned of blood traces. Sawney dismissed Eefera and placed the blade lightly against the Seer's nose.

"You said any clan would deem it an honor to count him as one of them. The Taggerung will be a male creature. Stop playing your little games and get on with it!"

Grissoul turned the knife blade aside with one paw. "He will have the speedwell mark on him, where I know not. See thou these two bones, fallen next to each other, with this shell across the ends of both? That means a river, or a stream, and the shell is for a place where those who dwell not in the waters may cross the stream. Do thou see it also?"

Sawney nodded. "That means a ford. The long path from north to south has such a ford, where the stream crosses it in Mossflower country, a good five-day march from here."

Grissoul closed her eyes, swaying back and forth. "Today I saw a hawk strike a dove in the air. Their cries mingled, and they gave out together a bell-like sound."

Sawney gave a start. "You mean the old Abbey of Redwall! That's the only place that gives out bell sounds in all that region!"

The Seer kept her eyes shut. "Methinks that would be it."

Sawney grabbed Grissoul's shoulder so tightly that her eyes popped open. He pulled her close, his voice like a rasp. "Speak not to me of Redwall. I would not go within a mile of it. I have listened to the talk around the campfires since I was nought but a whelp. The place is accursed!"

He released the quivering vixen and gestured dramatically. "I am not stupid. The history of Redwall Abbey has taught me a lesson. I know how many warlords and conquerors, with vast hordes and mighty armies to back them, have been defeated by the woodlanders who dwell behind those walls. Even in the seasons long before our great-grandsires' ancestors were born. You've heard their names, everybeast has. Cluny the Scourge, Slagar the Cruel, Ferahgo the Assassin and many others. All of them defeated and slain. But I'll tell you one name that won't be added to the list. Sawney Rath, Chieftain of the Juskarath!"

Grissoul spoke soothingly to calm Sawney's rising ire. "Nay, fret thou not. The bell sound omen is a warning, telling thee not to go near yon red Abbey. Beware the sound of the bell!"

Sawney spat neatly into the fire. "Hah! I already knew that. I'm as wise as any omen. Just tell me what part Redwall Abbey plays in all this?"

Grissoul gathered up her paraphernalia and cast them a second time. She stared at them, then pointed. "See thou those bones that fell foursquare with that red piece of stone at their center? Watch!" She lifted the red stone slightly, and an ant crawled from beneath it and ran over the bones. The Seer smiled triumphantly. "It means that the Taggerung will be a creature from the Abbey!"

Sawney placed a paw on the ground, and the ant ran onto it. The ferret held the paw close to his eyes, watching the insect circling a claw. "What manner of creature will it be?"

Grissoul pursed her lips. "Who can tell?" She inspected the pawprint Sawney had left in the sandy ground. "Five days from here, at the ford where waters cross the path. Then will thou see what sort of beast the Taggerung will be."

Sawney stood up and patted his stomach. "I feel better. Tell them to break camp; we travel tonight. To have a Taggerung in my clan will be the greatest of honors. My Juskarath will make the journey in four days. I want to be there early, in case other clan Seers have had visions. I'll slay anybeast who comes near that ford. Tell the clan to hasten or I'll leave them behind . .. aye, the same way I'm leaving Gruven here."

Grissoul stared at him, almost fondly. "Th'art a wise Chieftain, and ruthless too!"

Sawney checked her as she went. "One other thing. Once we have the Taggerung we travel back this way fast, to the sea and shores. Nobeast at Redwall must know 'twas my clan that took him. If the tales about them are true, they must be fearsome warriors, with a long paw for vengeance. I need to avoid a conflict with such beasts."

He waved a paw, dismissing his Seer. As he did so, the ant was hurled from its perch and fell into a basin of water. Sawney failed to notice it, but the ant swam!

Chapter 2

"After spring's soft rain is done,

At waning of the moon,

Four dry solid days of sun,

Will bring forth growth and bloom."

Drogg Spearback, Cellarkeeper of Redwall Abbey, patted the soft headspikes of Egburt and Floburt, his little grandhogs. "Well said, young 'uns. You finally got it right!"

Squinching her snout and tugging at her grandfather's heavy cellar apron, Floburt, the inquisitive one, piped up. "But Granddad, we ain't growthed an' bloomed. I'm still only likkle, an' so is Egburt. Why is that?"

The stout old hedgehog winked knowingly at his grandson. "Cummon, Egburt, you tell 'er why."

Egburt sucked the tassel of the girdle cord that circled the waist of his smock, pondering the answer. "Hmm, er, 'cos us isn't veggibles, we 'edgehogs, not plants."

Drogg chuckled until his stomach wobbled. Rummaging two candied chestnuts from his apron pocket, he gave them one each. "You've got a brain 'neath those spikes, young 'og!"

The hogbabes sat either side of their grandfather, on an upturned wheelbarrow in the orchard, enjoying the late spring noontide sun. Drogg spread both paws, gesturing around and about.

"See all that? Well, that's growth an' bloom for you! Plants, grass, fruit'n'flowers, springin' up like wildfire after the rains. Come midsummer we'll be up to our spikes in apples, pears, plums, damsons, strawberries, blackberries an' all manner o' berries. Lookit the salad crop, o'er yonder by the redcurrant hedge: radish, cucumber, cress, scallions, lettuce. Ready for gatherin' in, those are. Remember this, my liddle 'uns, you be plantin' stuff in the earth an' it'll grow quicklike. Save for the great trees like those in Mossflower Wood. They grow slower, stronger, just like us creatures, though trees live much longer'n we do."

Both little hedgehogs sat listening as they munched candied chestnuts. Drogg expanded his lecture, telling them of their heritage, Redwall Abbey. He loved the place with a fierce pride, which he communicated to them. "Plants, trees an' creatures, they come'n'go sooner or later. Not this ole Abbey, though! Lookit all this wunnerful red sandstone. Shines like dusty pink roses in late-noon sun. Nobeast who comes wantin' trouble can pass those big rampart walls of the main gate with the liddle gate'ouse beside it. I couldn't even guess 'ow old our great Abbey buildin' is. Bell tower, gables, columns, Great Hall, Cavern 'Ole, kitchens, dormitories, an' my cellars too. They must've been 'ere forever an' a day!"

Floburt dug her tiny paw into his broad apron pocket, searching for more nuts. Her granddad usually carried a goodly supply. "Have you been 'ere forever'n'aday, Granddad?"

Smiling, he shook his great spiked head. "Dearie me no, though I been an Abbeybeast longer'n most, save for ole Cregga."

Egburt joined his sister in rummaging in the apron pocket. "Ole Cregga the Badgermum? 'Ow long's she been 'ere, Granddad?"

Drogg pondered the question, chewing the milky sap from a grass stalk. "Hmm, let me see. Cregga is wot they call the last of the old 'uns. I think she's older'n some o' the trees 'ereabouts. Great warrior she was, but blinded in some ancient battle. Brother Hoben, the Recorder, says that Cregga has outlived two Abbesses, Tansy an' Song, both long gone. He says that she knew Arven the Champion an' my great-grand'og, Gurgan Spearback, many seasons afore I was born. So figger it out yoreself. 'Ow old d'you think Cregga is?"

Egburt's eyes grew wide as he tried to calculate the answer in hedgehog manner, by counting on his head-spikes. "Phwaw! She mus' be eleventeen mousing seasons old!"

Drogg allowed them to find the rest of his candied chestnut supply before he rose slowly. "Aye, at least that much, I'd say. I got to go now an' broach a barrel of October Ale for the counselors' meetin' tonight. You Dibbuns stay out o' trouble, an' don't go gettin' those nice clean smocks muddied up, or yore mum'll dust yore spikes with an oven paddle. Why don't you go an' see if there be any news of Filorn ottermum's babe? But mind, don't make a nuisance of y'selves. See you anon."

Both Dibbuns giggled at the idea of their mother spanking them with an oven paddle. She was far too gentle. Being sent early to bed was the limit of punishment for Redwall babes. When Drogg had departed, they clambered from the wheelbarrow and ran squeaking and jumping into the orchard. A tiny mole was exploring a clump of bilberry stalks, searching among the pink globe-shaped blossoms. Waving a pudgy digging claw in greeting, he called out in the quaint mole accent, "Burr, goo' day to ee. They'm bilbeez ain't a growed yet. Taken ee toime they be's!"

"My mum sez you get tummy ache from eatin' bilberries afore midsummer," Floburt commented sagely.

Gundil, the Dibbun mole, flicked his stubby tail scornfully. "Moi mum sez ee same thing, but oi loikes bilbeez, h'even if'n oi do gets tumbly h'ache." He ambled out of the bilberry clump and shrugged. "Bain't none thurr, tho'. Whurr us'n's be a-goen?"

Egburt pointed toward the Abbey. "We goin' t'see if Filorn ottermum's new baby be a-borned yet. Cummon!"

The three little chums wandered off paw in paw toward the Abbey. Once inside, they stopped off at Great Hall to play a favorite Dibbuns game. Almost lost amid the vastness of stone and timber beams, they hopped about on the floor, in and out of harlequin hues of sunshafts from the stained glass windows far above them.

Gundil gave a deep bass giggle, holding a paw to his face. "Hurrhurrhurr. Luk ee! Oi be's all purkle!"

Floburt twirled about in a pool of amber light. "An' I'm all gold, a solid golden 'ogmaid!"

Egburt chose a shaft of aquamarine blue, floundering upon his back as though he were drowning. "Save me! I'm unner the deep deep water! 'Elp!"

Floburt and Gundil dutifully rescued Egburt and all three fled downstairs into Cavern Hole, where preparations were under way for the counselors' meeting. Friar Bobb, a stout old squirrel, shooed them out with a rush broom.

"Come on, out out. You'll get trodden on, wandering about under everybeast's paws. Go and play elsewhere, you rascals. Quick now. Scoot!"

He made as if to run after them. The little pals thought it was great fun to be chased, and trundled off helter-skelter. Halting on the dormitory landing above the first flight of stairs, Gundil stifled his chuckles and peeked down the spiral stairwell. He tapped a paw against his velvety snout.

"Ee Froyer woan't foind us'n's oop yurr. Hurr, boi 'okey ee woan't!"

Shaking with glee, Egburt pointed to a door. "Let's 'ide in there unner the beds!"

Gundil stood on Egburt's back in his effort to reach the latch, but it still proved too high. Floburt was trying to clamber up on top of them both when somebeast inside heard and opened the door.

The trio of Dibbuns fell tail over ears into the room. Filorn the ottermum stood holding the door, smiling down at them.

"Well, well. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Gundil tugged his snout respectfully. "Uz cummed to see if'n ee likkle h'otter was borned, marm."

Rillflag, Filorn's husband, their daughter, a pretty little ottermaid named Mhera, and the great Badgermum Cregga were standing around a woven rush cradle in one corner. Mhera, who was four seasons older than the three Dibbuns, beckoned them over.

"He was born this morning. Come and see. He's beautiful!"

Cregga looked so huge and intimidating that the trio backed away slightly. A deep rumbling laugh came from the blind badger as she sensed their trepidation. Turning her sightless eyes in their direction, she whispered gently, "Oh, do come and look at him. He won't bite you. Neither will I. It's Gundil and the two little Spearbacks, isn't it?"

Floburt trotted dutifully over to the crib, with the other two trailing behind, wondering how the blind badger knew who they were. Standing on tip-paw, they gazed at the tiny new otterbabe. The little fellow stared solemnly back through sleepy dark eyes. Soft infant fur fuzzed out from his chubby cheeks, and a small pink tongue-tip showed as he yawned contentedly.

Mhera stroked his fluffy paw. "Isn't he the prettiest little cub you ever saw?"

Egburt looked up at her inquiringly. "Is that 'is name, Cub?"

Rillflag stroked his son's downy head, smiling. "No, cub is just a word for a babe. His name is Deyna. My great-grandsire was a warrior called Deyna, and he carried a mark from birth just like this little fellow, see."

He turned the babe's paw pad upward. Instead of being all black like the other three, this one only had black edging. In the center was a pink mark, like a four-leaf clover, with one piece thinner than the others. Gundil touched it.

" 'Tis loike ee likkle flower. Can ee babby coom owt an' play with us'n's, zurr?"

Rillflag shook his head in amusement. "Not yet. Next season, maybe."

Filorn took a box from the mantelpiece and let them each choose a piece of preserved fruit from it. "I'm sure you'll make good friends for little Deyna when he's old enough to be up and about. Run along and play now."

Cregga enveloped all three Dibbuns in her massive paws. "Not so fast there, rascals. I could hear you outside. You only came in here to hide from Friar Bobb, didn't you?"

Floburt shook her head vigorously. "Ho no, marm, 'onest we didn't. Us was comin' to see if Deyna was borned. Ole Friar Bobb chased us out o' Cavern 'Ole."

The blind badger tapped a paw against her forehead. "Of course, I'd almost forgotten, the counselors' meeting. Right, you three can help me manage those stairs. Slowly, now; my paws aren't as young as yours!"

"Hurr, doan't ee wurry, marm. Uz'll get ee thurr noicely!"

Hiding a smile, Cregga allowed the three to grasp her robe and guide her to the door. "Thank you. I'm sure you will!"

When they had gone, Mhera picked her new little brother up and walked around the room with him, talking softly to him as she had seen her mother doing.

"Who's going to grow up into a great big riverdog like his dad then, eh?"

Rillflag shook his head. "He ain't a real riverdog until his back's touched runnin' water."

Filorn took the baby from Mhera and held him close. "Don't you think he's a bit young for that?"

The big male otter shorted. "Not at all. My father took me to the river when I was his age, just as I took Mhera when she was born. Deyna will feel the running water on his back too!"

There was a note of pleading in Filorn's voice. "But he's so small. Perhaps you could wet his back in the Abbey pond, at the warm shallow edge?"

Rillflag was adamant. "The Abbey pond has no current; it doesn't run on to the sea. It's got to be running water. The ford, where the stream crosses the path, that's the place."

"I'll go with you, Father. I'll carry little Deyna."

Rillflag patted his daughter's shoulder. "No need for that. You stay here and help your mother. I can carry that little rogue, he weighs nothing. Me and Deyna will bring you back some fresh watershrimp and good long watercress. Maybe some hotroot too, if we spot any."

Filorn resigned herself to the fact that argument was useless. Her husband could be a very stubborn creature.

"Your father's right, Mhera. You'd only slow him down. We'll get a nice naming party organized while he and Deyna are away. Then, when he's made a real riverdog of our baby, we'll name him properly, like any other Redwaller."

Mhera took to the idea eagerly. "Yes! The moment you set off, Dad, we'll get organizing with Friar Bobb, Drogg Cellarhog, the Foremole and Sister Alkanet. I can start gathering mushrooms and scallions for pasties, Mama can get the ingredients ready for her fruit and honey cake, and we'll ask Drogg if he has a cask of strawberry fizz . . ."

Filorn held up both paws against her daughter's onslaught. "Enough, enough! I'm starting to feel worn out just listening to you. We'll make a start after your father's left. Er, when will you be setting off, dear?"

Rillflag took an old traveling cloak and fashioned it into a carrying sling across one shoulder. He selected a stout ash-handled spear, which would double as a traveling stave. "As soon as you've packed some food and drink for two warriors. Enough for three days should do. We don't plan on wasting time at the wayside, do we, Deyna?"

From his mother's arms, the baby otter gave a rough squeak. Rillflag nodded in his direction. "He said no."

All three burst out laughing.

Down in Cavern Hole the meeting of Redwall counselors was about to begin. A supper of spring vegetable soup, new-baked oatbread and wedges of white cheese studded with hazelnuts, with October Ale and apple flan, was being served to the counselors seated around the big table. Foremole Brull, Cregga Badgermum, Brother Hoben, Friar Bobb, Sister Alkanet and Drogg Cellarhog were present. Brother Hoben indicated an empty seat as he recorded the members' names.

"Where's Rillflag this evening? Anybeast seen him?"

Cregga leaned forward to accept a tankard of October Ale. "Otter business. I think he's got to take the little 'un for some ceremony or other. You know the way he is about otter rituals. Anyhow, I'll make his apologies for absence."

Friar Bob tapped the tabletop with his ladle. "On with the meeting, then. Sister Alkanet?"

The Sister was a thin, severe, no-nonsense type of mouse. She bowed formally to the others and began.

"Friends, this Abbey has been without Abbot or Abbess for far too long. I suggested this meeting so that the situation might be finally remedied. Have you any ideas?"

Foremole Brull held up a sizable digging claw. It was unusual for the moles to have a female leader, but Brull was solid as a rock and full of good common sense. She was liked by all.

"Yurr, oi doan't think et aportant. Ee Abbey be runnen noice'n'smooth unner Cregga Badgermum. Nowt amiss wi' urr; she'm gudd!"

A general murmur of agreement confirmed Brull's mole logic. Before Sister Alkanet could object, Cregga spoke for herself.

"You all know I'm not a real Abbess, never wanted to be. But when old Abbess Song went to her reward I took up the job of caretaker, in the absence of anybeast's being elected officially. I'm countless seasons older than the oldest among you, I'm blind, sometimes I ache all over and I sleep most of the day. However, as Brull says, the Abbey runs nice'n'smooth. I merely guide or advise. Redwallers are trusty, responsible creatures; they usually know what needs doing to keep the place up to the mark. I'm quite happy to leave things as they are, though even I won't last forever. If you're content with an ancient, blind badger sitting in as substitute, then I'll continue to do so. With your kind permission, of course."

Amid the applause from the counselors, Sister Alkanet, who was always the mouse to raise difficult issues, raised her paw. "Then what about a Champion? Redwall needs a defender like Martin the Warrior."

Friar Bobb's snort of impatience was heard by all, as he wagged his ladle at the Sister and gave vent to his feelings. "I've got four great plum puddings steaming in the kitchens, and I've also got a sleepy assistant. Young Broggle will probably let the puddings boil dry if I'm not there soon. Sister Alkanet, marm, you brought up this same question at this same meeting this time last season. I'll give you the same answer now as I gave you then. Redwall is strong. Tyrants and vermin warlords have broken their skulls against our walls. The Abbey is too hard a nut to crack, vermin everywhere know that. Only a fool would try to test our might. These days there is no need of perilous warriors and great swords"

Alkanet was up on her paws, pounding the table and objecting. "But what if there were, Friar? What if the day came when we woke to find the foe at our gates and no brave one to lead or defend us? What then, sir? What then?"

Cregga's big paw hit the tabletop, silencing further argument. "Enough! We are supposed to be responsible elders, not squabbling Dibbuns. Friar Bobb, you may return to your kitchens. I'm very fond of plum puddings; they mustn't boil dry. Now, Sister, in answer to your questions. Champions and Abbey Warriors have always arisen when the need is great. It would be presumptuous of us to appoint one; that is something nobeast save Martin the Warrior can do. Martin was the founder Warrior of Redwall. His sword hangs over the picture of him on the tapestry in Great Hall, and there it will stay until he chooses the next Warrior. When our Abbey is in danger, the spirit of Martin will enter some young Redwaller, and he or she will pick up the sword of Martin to defend us. So let us hear no more talk of electing a Champion. Sit down, friends, and let's do this good food justice. Brother Hoben, pass me the bread and cheese, if you please. Sister Alkanet, would you like to pour me some October Ale?"

As Alkanet leaned across to pour, Cregga whispered, "Come on, friend, smile. It doesn't hurt to look happy!"

The Sister was mystified as to how Cregga knew she was wearing a frown. She tried a smile as she filled the tankard. The blind badger smiled back and tapped her paw. "Thank you, Alkanet. That's much better!"

Soft perfumes of dog rose, vetchling, red clover and nightdewed grass lingered upon the still night air with hardly a breeze to disperse them. Rillflag strode energetically north on the old path, glancing up at the star-pierced vaults of the skies above. Slung upon his back was a bag of provisions; in one paw he held the spearstaff, the other rested beneath his cloak cradle, protecting the sleeping babe therein. He breathed deeply, listening to the distant tolling of Redwall Abbey's twin bells, Matthias and Methuselah, sounding the midnight hour.

Deyna moved slightly in slumber and gave a small growl. Rillflag felt a shudder of delight course through him, and he hummed an old otter tune to his son. Life was good. So good!

Chapter 3

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 river dog 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.

Leapin' an' boundin',

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-toface. 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. Ifn they want to volunteer I won't refuse 'em!"

"S-sir, II'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.

Chapter 4

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 Taggerungll 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 turn,

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 any thin' 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 tine 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!"

Chapter 5

Though it was still only early summer, hot noontide sun beat down on the shore. Below the flotsam-wreathed tideline clear turquoise shallows gave way to a bright blue sea. A mild southerly breeze chased the creamy spray atop swelling wavebanks as they rolled in to break noisily amidst rockpools and sandy coves. Juskarath tents had been pitched on the beach, where dunes met the strand. Sitting on a blanket, the otterbabe waited hungrily for the next mouthful of food, which Grissoul was feeding him from a large scallop shell. Sawney hovered around them like an old mother hen, watching anxiously.

"Be careful there's no fish bones in that concoction!"

The Seer used a mussel shell to transfer food to the babe's mouth. "Fret thou not, there is nought in this but goodness, the white flesh of sole and young seaweed, cooked with a pinch of sea salt. I made it myself. See how he likes it?"

Sawney tweaked the otterbabe's stomach. The infant growled at him for disturbing its feed, and the ferret Chieftain chuckled. "Hoho. Did you hear that? My little Tagg has a temper. Eat it all up and grow strong, my son. Did they bring in some fresh young scallops for his supper?"

Grissoul shrugged. "They say the tide is strong yet. When it ebbs they will search for some among the rocks."

Sawney's mood changed. He whirled on a group lounging nearby. "Juskarath clanbeasts frightened of a few waves? Up, up off your idle backs and get foraging. Our Taggerung needs only the youngest, most tender scallops for his evening meal. You, Felch, take Antigra and the rest of your lazy crew. Get out of my sight, and I warn you, don't come back with empty paws!"

They hurried to obey. Sawney turned his back on them, to face four rats who came stumbling hot and tired down a steep dune. "Well, did you cut any sign of creatures tracking us?"

Shaking his head, the lead rat hunkered down in the sand. "Nah, nary a pawmark or a bruised leaf. 'Tis more than twoscore days now. If they was comin' after us we'd 'ave spotted 'em long since, Chief."

Sawney drew his blade and pointed it at the rat. "I asked for your report, not your opinion, Grobait. How far back did you search? Tell me the truth!"

Grobait cringed visibly under Sawney's ruthless eyes. "Close on a day back upstream, Chief. There wasn't a sign of anybeast, I swear it on me oath!"

Sawney toyed with the trackers as they nodded agreement with Grobait and sat waiting on their clan leader's word. He turned, as if dismissing them.

"A day upstream, eh? Well, let's see you try a little further afield this time. Say two days upstream. Get going!" He tossed his knife, catching it by the point, ready to throw. "Now go!"

Allowing himself a humorless smile, Sawney strode off, listening to the labored grunts of the rats as they clambered wearily back through the shifting sand to the dunetops.

Standing shoulder-deep in a rockpool, Antigra shielded her eyes as a wave cascaded over the stones. The other vermin who had been sent with her and Felch to gather scallops coughed and spluttered seawater. Antigra kept her gaze riveted on the ferret Chieftain, who was swaggering about among the tents, issuing orders. The stoat mother gritted her teeth.

"Look at him, Sawney Rath the high and mighty clan chief, giving out commands like the warlord of a battlehorde. Run here, run there, fetch me this and give me that, bring the best of scallops. And what for? The supper of an otterbrat!"

A weasel named Milkeye tossed a scallop into the bag slung about Wherrul's neck and turned his one good eye on Antigra. "Better not let him 'ear yer talkin' like that!"

Antigra hurled a scallop against the rock, smashing the shell. "An ottercub, a mewling puking little riverdog, lying on a blanket in the shade, getting the choicest vittles specially cooked and fed to it. Look at my babe Gruven. I had to leave him lying there alone, out in the sun, while I forage for the next meal of a so-called Taggerung!"

Milkeye rescued the broken scallop and sucked the contents from its smashed shell. " 'Tis agin the clan law to speak like that about a Taggerung."

Antigra curled her lip in contempt. "You'll see who the real Taggerung is when my son grows. He'll be ten times tougher and faster than that spoilt little ruddertail, you wait and see. Since Sawney brought that creature to our clan he's changed. Treading roughshod over us, killing and injuring his own tribe."

Felch held up his useless paw. "Aye, Antigra's right, but who's goin' to challenge Sawney? He's like lightnin' with that blade of his."

Antigra flattened her back against the rocks, avoiding another shower from a breaking wave. "Sawney Rath's father was even harder and swifter, but time caught up with him. I remember him being the Taggerung when I was a young 'un. He lived on his legend. Sawney is older than us, growing out of his prime, more every season. We can wait. The time will arrive when his paw isn't so strong, nor his eye so keen. That's when I'll take my revenge, aye, me and my son against him and his parentless brat!"

Wherrul nudged Antigra. "Hush. 'Ere comes the vixen!"

Grissoul came to the pool's edge, calling to them over the booming surf. "Bring enough scallops for Sawney Rath too, and don't be all day about it. I want thee to forage for wild celery and onion in the dunelands. Bring any fresh herbs ye see growin' there also!"

Wherrul hauled himself from the water, the bag of scallops clacking against his chest. "Young scallops cooked in wild celery'n'onion an' herbs," he muttered under his breath. "I wouldn't mind a bowlful o' that meself."

Milkeye elbowed the rat aside. "Huh! You'll git wot yore given, like the rest of us, a lick of Sawney's temper an' leftover scraps!"

Antigra reached out a paw and helped Felch ashore. "Don't fret. It may take seasons yet, but we can wait. One day the tables will be turned, and then 'twill be us eating off the fat of the land!"

At Redwall Abbey there was no shortage of good food. That same evening Redwallers shared the best of everything as they sat in a lantern-lit orchard to celebrate the Summer of Friendship feast.

Before the food was served, the elders, counselors and parents took their places. Smiling and nodding to one another, they watched as the newly formed Dibbuns' choir filed in and stood in order of height, tallest standing at the rear, a line kneeling in front of them, and the front row, of the smallest, sitting cross-legged. All were holding tiny lanterns, and their clean robes and well-scrubbed faces were bright in the soft reflected light.

Boorab strode majestically to the rostrum, which was the old upturned wheelbarrow decked out in summer blossoms. The hare made a dignified bow to the elders, and then, taking out a bulrush baton, he coughed formally.

"Lady Cregga, respected elders, good creatures all, may I present tonight for your delight an' delectation"

"Wot's a dite of lectation?" little Floburt piped up, much to everybeast's amusement. Boorab silenced her with a severe twitch of his nose.

"Without further ado the Jolly Dibbuns Choir of Redwall will render for you, under my expert direction, a recently composed masterpiece, written by m'goodself, wot wot..."

"Wot wot!" several Dibbuns chorused together. The hare waggled his ears fiercely at them before continuing.

"... entitled, 'Welcome to the Feast'."

Boorab produced a small reed pitch flute and blew upon it, then attempted to get the key right. "Fahfahfah . . . Sooooooodomeelah . . . Lalalalahhhhh. One two . .. !"

The little ones made a ragged start but soon picked up the air.

"Welcome to the feast, the feast,

Oh welcome one and all.

Good creatures that you are, la la la,

Who dwell within Redwall.

The lark descends unto its nest,

The sun has sunk into the west,

And we are left all evening long,

To bring you light and song.

Sing out sing out each joyous beast,

Oh welcome to the feast, the feast,

We wish you happy seasons long,

And hope you liked our soooooong!"

Applause broke out as the final note drifted clear upon the summer night air. Boorab took a hasty bow and turned back to his Jolly Dibbuns Choir.

"Well done, chaps an' chapesses. Dismiss to your seats now. Not you, young Egburt. Come here, sir, this very instant!"

The little hedgehog quailed under his hare conductor's gaze. "Er, heehee, I sorry, sir. I sing d'right words nex' time."

Boorab held the quivering baton under Egburt's snout. "Fiend! Lyric wrecker! What were those words y'were singing? C'mon, spit it out. Recite 'em back t'me, sah!"

Egburt remained silent until his Grandpa Drogg growled, "You do as Mr. Boorab sez, young 'un, or 'tis straight up t'bed for ye. Go on, what were you singin'? Tell the truth!"

Egburt was left with no choice. Raising his spikes, he boomed out in a fine baby baritone:

"Ho welcome to the feast, you beast,

I hopes you trip an' fall,

I've got a fat grandpa, ha ha ha,

Who'll prob'ly eat it all.

The lark defends his feathery chest,

The sun has sunk into his vest,

If he don't bathe before too long,

There'll be an awful pong ..."

Boorab snapped the baton and covered his eyes. "Enough! Enough I say, you small spiked song destroyer!" The outraged hare turned abruptly to Drogg Spearback. "Well, sir, what the deuce d'you think of your grandson, wot?"

Stroking his grey headquills, Drogg eyed Egburt pensively. "Hmmm. If'n you ask me I think the liddle 'un shows a rare talent for rhymin' words together."

Boorab pondered Drogg's answer a moment, then he laughed. "Hawhawhaw! Well, frizzle m'whiskers, sah, y'could be right there. The rogue does have a certain turn of phrase, wot?"

Drogg patted his ample stomach proudly. "I reckon he gets it from me. Us Spearbacks was always good poets, fine singers too. Comes nat'ral to us!"

Brother Hoben, the old Recorder, had a wry sense of humor, despite his serious and learned look. Not averse to a bit of mischievous fun, he tapped Boorab.

"Excuse me, sir, but if I were you, being the official Abbey poet and musician, I'd say that Drogg was issuing a challenge!"

Cregga and several others caught on to Hoben's idea. They pounded on the tables, calling out, "A contest! Let's have a contest!"

Drogg shrugged." 'Tis fair enough wi' me. I don't mind."

Bells tinkled on Boorab the Fool's ears as they stood erect. "I accept the challenge, sah. A contest it is, an' may the best creature win, wot wot!"

Hoarg the dormouse piped up. "A contest then, but what's the subject to be?"

Cregga's keen ears detected the creaking of trolley wheels. "They're bringing the food to serve for our feast. Let's make that the subject. A musical verse praising our cooks' efforts!"

Boorab waggled his ears confidently. "Ask me t'sing about scoff? Pish tush, sah, a piece of cake. You're on a loser, me old pincushion. Like to go first?"

Drogg waved a paw airily. "Nay, sir, if'n yore so good, don't let me stop ye!"

Boorab stood to one side, striking a fine dramatic pose, one leg behind the other, ears laid soulfully back, paws bent at chest height in true hare singing fashion. Casting his eyes over the contents of the carts as the servers trundled them up to the tables, he coughed politely and launched into a speedily delivered verse.

"How can one count the praises of the vittles at Redwall?

Oh pure delight, oh wondrous night, I'll sing to one and all.

Thaaaaaaat blackberry pudden looks such a good 'un,

All covered in meadowcream.

And the hazelnut cake, well for goodness' sake,

I hope it's no jolly old dream.

That huge apple pie, oh me oh my, the crust is pipin' hot,

Good creatures be nice, an' save me a slice,

Or I'm sure I'll die, wot wot!"

Foremole Brull nudged a cart with her footpaw. It rolled gently to rest, right under Boorab's nose. The hare tried bravely to carry on singing with a hot mushroom pastie, dripping onion gravy, simmering under his nose.

"What rhymes with pastie, I'll try to sing fastly,

My nose tells me 'tis wrong,

This soon will grow cold, if I may make so bold,

Pray excuse a chap endin' his song!"

Unable to stand it any longer and disregarding cutlery, the gluttonous hare hurled himself barepawed upon the pastie. "Grmmff, I say, sninch grrmm, rotten ole mole cad, grmmff grrawff, put me off my ditty completely, grrmff snch, bounder!"

Drogg the Cellarhog fell off his chair laughing. "Ohohoho! Nobeast could follow that. Mr. Boorab, take a tankard o' my finest October Ale an' wet yore whistle. You win!"

Sister Alkanet helped herself to a plate of summerfruit salad and a mint wafer spread with soft white cheese. Looking prim and severe, she remarked to Brother Hoben, "That hare! What a bad example he's setting to the young ones!"

On the Dibbuns' table many Abbeybabes were imitating Boorab. Little Gundil was practically washing his face in a portion of deeper'n ever turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie, the moles' favorite dish. A tiny squirrel and an infant mousemaid were feeding each other pawfuls of summer vegetable soup. It looked as if they were trying to paint one another. Egburt and Floburt were at either end of an applecream flan, munching away, eager to see who would got to the center first. Table manners, spoons, forks and serviettes were completely ignored as each Dibbun went at it paw and snout, enjoying the fun and the food.

Sister Alkanet was about to rise and deal with them, but brother Hoben pressed her gently back into her seat. "Please, Sister, let them be. Dibbuns don't remain babes forever. To them 'tis all a game. Let them play it and have a good time."

Alkanet picked daintily at her salad and fumed. "It's not good manners. Look at the mess they're making. Look at those smocks, clean on this evening. Who'll get the job of washing them? Certainly not me!"

A fat kindly mole called Wummple poured a beaker of dandelion cordial and passed it to the Sister, chuckling. "Hurrhurrhurr. Doan't ee fret, marm, oi'll be ee washerbeast. You'm let they likkle h'infants be. They'm full of 'arpiness. Oi wishes oi cudd join 'em, burr aye!"

Cregga sat back, sipping at a small cup of elderberry wine, letting the festive feeling wash over her. Everybeast tried to press different delicacies upon the Badgermum, and she acknowledged them all pleasantly.

"Yurr, marm, oi saved ee summ turnip'n'tater'n' beetroot poi. Foremole Brull sez et makes ee grow big'n'strong!"

"Thank you, Gundil. I hope it makes me grow big and strong as you."

"Try some o' my best October Ale, marm. It's a new barrel."

"Put it down there, Drogg, I'll sample it later, thank you.

"Cregga, I saved you a slice of plumcake, it's delicious!"

"I'm sure it is, Friar. I was hoping you'd save some for me."

The big badger accepted everything graciously, knowing that her friends thought she did not know what was on the tables because of her blindness. Cregga, however, had extra-keen hearing and an amazing sense of smell and touch. Hot scones she could detect by their aroma, even before they were brought to the festive board. Cheese, ale, salads, bread, trifles, cakes and puddings: she could place them all in position uncannily, at their exact location in relation to where she sat.

Somebeast touched her paw, and without thinking she identified who it was. "Enjoying yourself, Skipper?"

The otter shook his head in amazement. "Aye, marm, 'tis a grand ould party. I brought you some o' the watershrimp an' 'otroot soup wot Mhera an' Filorn made. Stripe me rudder, I never tasted better in all me life, marm!"

Cregga mentally chided herself. She had not heard the voices of the ottermum and her daughter at table for a considerable time. She patted an empty space on the tabletop, indicating where Skipper should place the bowl of soup.

"Tell me, Skip, have you seen Mhera and Filorn anywhere?"

"In the kitchens last time I clapped eyes on 'em, marm. Why?"

Cregga rose from her seat carefully. "Sit in my chair and keep it warm for me, Skip. I'll not be gone for too long."

Cregga merged back into the orchard trees, not wanting anybeast to offer a paw to guide her. Silently, her paws touching familiar objects, she made her way back to the Abbey building. Like a great moonshadow she drifted noiselessly through Great Hall and down to the kitchens. Filorn and Mhera did not hear her enter. They were hugging each other, seeking comfort as their bodies shook with grief. No sooner did Cregga hear them weeping than she was at their side, holding them in her huge embrace.

"There, there, now, my good friends, what's brought all this about?"

Mhera turned her tearstained face up to the sightless eyes. "Oh, Cregga, I tried my best, I really did . . . but we miss Dad and little Deyna so much ..."

Sobs overcame the ottermaid's voice. Filorn continued haltingly where her daughter had left off.

"I knew that Mhera was trying to cheer me up after our loss, so I tried to be brave and not think about it. We busied ourselves and helped to organize the feast, and it worked for a while. But Skipper was so pleased with our freshwater shrimp and hotroot soup that he reminded us of poor Rillflag. It was my husband's special favorite, you see. So we couldn't help ... oh, dear!" A fresh burst of tears overflowed from Filorn.

Cregga herded them both into a corner. Sitting them down on a bundle of empty sacks, she whispered, "Stay there. I'll be back in a tick." She returned shortly with a flask and three tiny pottery cups, and sat down with the two otters. "This is very old strong damson wine, so sip it carefully."

The Badgermum filled the three cups, then waited until they had taken a couple of sips and dried their eyes.

"Tastes like sweet fire, doesn't it? I usually have a drop on winter mornings, just to get me up and about. There, that's better. I've seen lots of winters, you know, far more than anybeast I know. Every grey hair on my black stripes is a winter. Aye, I've seen friends too, good companions, die and pass over to the silent streams and sunlit glades. Oh, I'm not the hard old blind warrior everybeast thinks I am. I've grieved and shed tears, long and loud, for my departed loved ones. Don't be ashamed to weep; 'tis right to grieve. Tears are only water, and flowers, trees and fruit cannot grow without water. But there must be sunlight also. A wounded heart will heal in time, and when it does, the memory and love of our lost ones is sealed inside to comfort us."

Filorn clasped the badger's paw. "Thank you for your kind words, Cregga."

The Badgermum could not resist pouring them another small tot of the damson wine. "Oh, don't thank me, I'm speaking for all our Redwallers. 'Tis they who want to thank you for arranging and cooking most of this feast. Friar Bobb and young Broggle had almost the entire evening off because of your splendid efforts. As for me, well, I don't want to see you both hiding in these kitchens, and neither would your dad if he was here, Mhera. Isn't that right, Filorn?"

Drinking her wine off in one draft, the otter mother lost her breath for a moment, then stood up, nodding. "Whooh! Yes, that's right. Rillflag always used to say that time heals everything and life must go on."

Skipper was standing on a chair. He spotted the lantern Mhera was carrying and called out in a hoarse whisper, "Belay, mates, 'ere they come. Are ye ready?"

Loud cheers resounded as the trio entered the orchard. Redwallers gathered around to thank Filorn and Mhera.

"Many many thanks for the wonderful spread, ladies!"

"Hurr aye, missus, et wurr greatly impreciated boi all!"

"Never had a blinkin' scoff like it in me jolly old life, wot!"

While a molemaid presented each of the otters with a bouquet of flowers, Drogg tipped the wink to Boorab, who had the Jolly Dibbuns Choir ready with a song. Giving Egburt a swift warning glance, Boorab tapped his baton against the upturned wheelbarrow and started them off on the background harmony.

"Rum be diddle dee dum, be diddle dee dum, dee diddledy dum..."

The hare pointed an ear at his soloist. Broggle stepped to the front and sang out beautifully into the lantern-lit orchard.

"Ladies dear oh ho we thank you,

For this evening's wondrous feast,

Every Dibbun every elder,

From the greatest to the least.

We can say with paw on heart,

That your efforts did you proud,

So in tribute to your art,

Let us sing with joy aloud.

Ladies dear oh how we thank you,

And in truth we always will,

Knowing that your gracious beauty,

Is in keeping with your skill!"

Amid the applause, Foremole Brull pounded Broggle's back. "Gurtly dunn, young maister. Ee doan't be a-stammeren when ee singen. 'Tis ee marvel!"

The young squirrel flicked his bushy tail triumphantly. " No, marm, an' I don't stammer when I speak anymore, as you can see. Completely cured, thanks to my good friend Mr. Boorab. I sang the words in my mind as I spoke them at first, but now I don't even have to do that anymore. I just speak as I like an' out it comes, without a stammer or a stumble or a trip. Talk? It's the simplest thing on earth! Would you like to hear me recite the alphabet, forward, backward or sideways as you please? 'Tis quite simple, listen. . ."

Broggle was forestalled by Boorab's thrusting a honeyed hazelnut slice into his mouth. The hare pulled Brull to one side.

"Confounded young bounder found his voice earlier this evenin', an' now I can't shut him up. Lackaday, he's babblin' like a bally brook. There's no stoppin' him. Humph. Wonder if I did the right thing, givin' him my special lessons, wot?"

Brull poured the hare a tankard of strawberry fizz. "Nay, zurr, you'm can't teach ee young Broggler to stammer agin. Us'n's ull 'ave to put up wi' et. Hurr hurr hurr!"

Broggle buttonholed Mhera and Filorn. He had decided to practice his newfound speech powers on anybeast who would listen.

"Ahah, a very pleasant evening to you both. What a magnificent and sumptuous feast, or as my friend Mr. Boorab would say, super scoff, wot wot? Sumptuous. Now, there's a word I could never say when I stammered, but now it's sumptuous, superior, superlative, splendid! What a splendid word splendid is, just like the food you made for us and this smashing summer evening in our Abbey's awesome orchard. It's all too splendiferous for words, ladies!"

Filorn put a paw around Broggle's shoulder and laughed. "It certainly is, young squirrel, and all the better for hearing you speak properly for the first time. Congratulations!"

"Huh, easy for your mum to say," Friar Bobb muttered to Mhera out of the corner of his mouth. "She doesn't have a bedspace near Broggle in the kitchen larder. I'm going to kip down on the Abbey roof if he starts talking in his sleep. What are you laughing at, missie? It's not funny, y'know!"

Mhera took a drink of strawberry fizz from Boorab's tankard. "Oh, hahaha. Sorry, Friar, I'm not laughing at you. Hahaha. It's just that I feel happy all of a sudden!"

Boorab cast a jaundiced eye into his near-empty tankard. "Er, excuse me, my pretty young gel, but next flippin' time you start feelin' happy would you mind standin' next to some other chap's drink, wot!"

Little Gundil offered his beaker to Mhera. "Yurr, miz, you'm can taken ee drink o' mine."

The ottermaid was about to accept the offer when the hare neatly relieved the molebabe of his beaker.

"My turn to pinch somebeast's drink, old chap, wot!"

He swigged down a good mouthful, swallowed it and clapped a paw to his throat. A look of horror spread across his face. He charged off toward the Abbey pond, roaring, "Yaaaagh! It's 'orrible! I'm poisoned! I'm on fire! Whoooaah!"

Gundil stuck out a bottom lip as he inspected the empty beaker. "Hurr, et wurr only summ 'otroot zoop'n'dannyline wine an' 'ot minty tea wi' roasted chesknutters a-floaten in et. 'Tis moi fayvert drink. Vurry tasty, hurr aye!"

Mhera, Filorn, Friar Bobb, Cregga and Foremole Brull fell about laughing helplessly. Broggle wandered amongst them, waving a paw in the air and declaiming airily, "Taken aback was my unfortunate instructor, stricken by a cunning concoction, whilst about him many mingled in mirthful merriment. Truly the Summer of Happiness and Friendship was off to a memorable start, or should that be splendiferous start? I like that word, it's splendiferous!"

Book 2

Fifteen Seasons On

Chapter 6

Felch the fox had run, taking the blade of Sawney Rath with him. Trees, shrubs, bushes and grass merged into a green blur in the dawn rain as the fox staggered along on leaden paws. Felch had been running since midnight. He was glad of the rain, hoping that it would obliterate his tracks and throw his pursuer off the scent. Instinctively he knew that Sawney would send only one creature to hunt him down. The Taggerung. Blundering into nettlebeds and crashing through groves of fern, Felch felt a numbing terror constrict his aching chest. Who could escape the Taggerung? Now the weariness was pressing upon him; he could feel himself making stupid errors. Rain or no rain, he was leaving a trail that a one-eyed toad could follow. But the sound of a river in the distance drove him onward through north Mossflower. It was the only place where he could possibly stand a chance. Rainwater dropped from his nosetip onto his parched tongue, and he blinked away the raindrops that broke against his slitted eyelids. A fat woodpigeon, which had been feeding on the ground, whirred up in front of him. The startled fox let out a ragged yelp and tripped over an elm root. Ignoring the blood seeping from an injured footpad, he struggled upright and continued a crazily weaving course. River noise grew loud in his ears as he skirted a yew thicket, his heart rising at the sight in front of him: a high riverbank with alder and willows overhanging it. There were rocks sticking up from the water, which was deep with no shallows. Felch grabbed a leafy bough and scrabbled down. Cold swirling currents took his breath away for a moment as he landed shoulder-deep in front of a rock ledge. Pushing through the overhanging willow foliage, he wedged himself safely under the bank, out of the main current. Rain dappled the river surface, its noise making hearing difficult. The fox was bone weary, hungry, wet and miserable, but at least he was alive. His eyes flickered from side to side as he watched for any unusual movement around him, some inner sense suddenly telling him there was another creature nearby. From above, small fragments of rock and earth splashed into the water, and overhanging willow branches swayed, dipping downward into the current.

Felch held his breath, one paw inching underwater to the knife thrust in his belt. He could not see the banktop because of the jutting ledge he was hiding under, but he knew somebeast was up there, casting about in the rain for signs of him. It had to be the Taggerung! The fox brought Sawney's blade slowly out of the water, and with his good paw held it ready for an upward thrust. Felch had never been so afraid, but he was desperate. Taggerung or not, he was prepared to sell his life dearly, rather than be dragged back to the Juska camp to face Sawney Rath's vengeance.

His eyes flickered upward. On the bank above he could hear movement over the rain noise. A shower of pebbles hit the water, along to his right, then he caught the sound of a dead twig breaking underpaw further away. Felch, his heart pounding, remained motionless beneath the ledge for a long time, his vulpine sense stretched to the limit as he listened and watched. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally knew. The Taggerung had gone, he was sure of it. Shuddering with a mixture of relief, cold and exhilaration, Felch relaxed. He had escaped the Taggerung!

However, he knew that he would have to stay hidden until night. If the Taggerung was hiding somewhere nearby, waiting for his quarry to break cover and run, he would be disappointed. Felch was no fool. Having got this far, he was not going to betray himself with any sudden silly moves. Lowering the dagger until it was level with his face, the fox saw his breath misting the bright blade. He cursed inwardly. Maybe if Sawney's blade had not been in question the Juska Chieftain might not have sent the Taggerung to hunt him down. Perhaps he might have let Felch desert the clan, not thinking the fox of any great importance, merely an old follower with a useless paw.

The fox's eyes hardened as he recalled how mercilessly Sawney had ruined his paw with that same blade. A fierce determination swept over him, and he thrust the knife back into his belt. It belonged to him now! If he was no longer one of the Juskarath, he would take something with him, for all the long seasons of unrewarded service to Sawney Rath. Aye, the ferret would remember Felch the fox, every time he looked at the space in his belt where the blade used to be.

Since late spring Sawney had been harassing Antigra and her companions, as if expecting some sort of mutiny within the clan. He had come down hard on Felch, abusing and humiliating the fox at every possible opportunity. It had come to a head on the previous evening. Felch had been out foraging in the north sector of Mossflower's sprawling woodlands, and was returning to camp with a meager offering, a small trout he had found floating dead in a stream. Sawney stood watching him trying to slink into camp unnoticed. The Juska Chieftain was tossing his knife idly, catching it by the blade, just below its tip. He looked to be in a foul mood.

Sawney's rasping voice had stopped the fox in his tracks. "What's that dirty piece of rubbish you're sneaking back with?"

Felch avoided the ferret's irate stare. "It's a fish, a young trout I caught."

Sawney sniggered nastily, pointing with his knife. "You must've had a hard battle bringing in a monster like that. Hold it up so we can all see it. Go on, hold it up."

Felch raised the small dead fish halfheartedly, his eyes fixed on the knife Sawney was toying with. He could guess what was coming by the tone of Sawney's voice.

"I told you to bring a bird back, a big fat woodpigeon. I know an idiot like you has trouble telling the difference between a bird and a fish. But maybe I'm wrong, perhaps you didn't hear me right, Felch. Is it your ears?"

The fox didn't answer. Sawney, who was more than thirty pawsteps away, raised his blade, ready to throw. "Aye, I think it must be your ears. Let's take a look at one. Stand still, now. This shouldn't hurt. .. much!"

Felch ducked as the blade flashed from Sawney's paw. Even as fast as he moved, the fox could not avoid the blade's nicking his left eartip. Zipping past him, the knife disappeared into the woodland foliage.

Grissoul, who was squatting at a nearby campfire, cackled. "A goodly throw, but thou gave him too much warning. Felch did well to avoid thy blade. Let him live."

Sawney ran across to the cringing fox and kicked him. "If you don't find my blade, you'll die slowly, for 'twas you who lost it by moving when I told you not to. Find the knife, Felch, and I'll let you live. Though I'll still take that ear as a punishment for disobedience. Now get searching, addlebrain!" Another savage kick sent the fox scurrying off into the bushes on all fours.

It was not until nearly midnight that he discovered it, a fair distance from the camp. Rain had started to fall when the fox glimpsed a shaft of moonlight glimmering off the wet sapphire pommel stone. Felch tugged on the knife, which had buried its point deep in a sycamore trunk. He pulled it free, falling over backward in the process. Behind him the camp lay still, firelight gleaming hazily through the closed tents. Sawney and his clan lay sleeping. Felch knew his prospects were bleak. Sawney Rath would take his ear if he returned. Without thinking further, he thrust the blade into his belt and ran.

Beneath the bank ledge, with rainwater beating constantly on the river surface, Felch wedged himself tighter in. Weariness and fatigue overcame him, and despite the water's cold embrace he fell asleep.

Throughout the day the rainfall began to slacken from downpour to drizzle. By midafternoon the skies had cleared, giving way to warm sunlight. Steam rose from the banksides, wreathing around trailing willow fronds. Small flies began hovering close to the bank where the current ran more slowly. It was one such gnat, wandering around on the fox's nosetip, that wakened him. The first thing Felch saw was a tail rudder, decorated with two white fishbone tailrings. Fearfully he raised his eyes. Standing on a rock not a whisker-length out from the bank was a barbaric-looking young otter. His only clothing was a short barkcloth kilt, girdled by a broad eelskin belt. He wore two patterned flax wristbands and a single hooped gold earring. The eyes, piercingly dark, stared back at Felch from behind the face tattoos of the Juskarath clan. The otter carried no weapons, save for the knife, which he had removed silently from the sleeping fox's belt. Felch did not notice when the gnat stung his nosetip. He was not even aware that the rain had stopped and the sun was out. The young otter reached out gracefully and took hold of the fox's shoulder with his sinewy paw. Felch tried to shrink further back against the ledge. But the tremendous pawstrength wrenched him savagely forward, almost completely out of the water. He was dragged up onto the rock, his ear right next to the hunter's mouth. The voice he heard was a gentle whisper that chilled his blood more than any river cold.

"Nobeast escapes from me. I am the Taggerung!"

Chapter 7

Rainwater drummed against the high stained glass windows of Redwall Abbey. It had poured down since midnight of the previous day. Even the hardiest of workbeasts had left their outdoor tasks for dry ones indoors. Mhera and her faithful friend Gundil emerged from the kitchens to sit upon the cool stone steps to Great Hall. Brushing a paw across her brow, the ottermaid blew a sigh of relief. "Whooh, goodness me, it's hot in there, Gundil!"

The mole undid his apron and wiped the back of his neck. "Yuss, marm. If'n oi'd stayed thurr ee moment longer they'm be 'avin' ee roastified mole furr dinner. Hoo aye!"

Filorn's call reached them from the kitchens. "Mhera, Gundil, come and take this tray, please."

She met them just inside the kitchen entrance. Filorn was no longer a young ottermum. Her face was lined and she stooped slightly, but to her daughter she still looked beautiful. Mhera, who was now much taller than Filorn, touched her mother's workworn paw gently.

"Why don't you finish in there for the day? Go to the gatehouse and take a nap with old Hoarg in one of his big chairs."

Filorn dismissed the suggestion with a dry chuckle. "Food doesn't cook itself, you know. I'm well able for a day's labor. Huh! I can still work the paws from under either of you two young cubs!"

Gundil tugged his nose in courteous mole fashion. "Hurr, you'm surpintly can, marm. Boi 'okey, you'm a gurt cooker, all roight. But whoi doan't ee take a likkle doze?"

Filorn presented them with the tray she was carrying. "If I listened to you two I'd never get out of bed. Now take this luncheon up to Cregga Badgermum, and be careful you don't trip on the stairs. Gundil, you carry the flagon and Mhera can take the tray."

Cregga was dozing in her chair when she heard the approaching pawsteps. "Come right in, friends," she called. "Gundil, you get the door. Put the flagon down in case you drop it!"

They entered, shaking their heads in wonder. Cregga patted the top of the table next to her overstuffed armchair. "Put the tray down here, Mhera. Mmmm, is that mushroom and celery broth I can smell? Filorn has put a sprinkle of hotroot pepper on it, just the way I like it."

She checked Gundil. "Don't balance that beaker on the chair arm. Put it there, where I can reach it easily."

The mole wrinkled his snout. "Burr, 'ow do ee knoaw, Creggum? Anybeast'd think you'm 'ad ten eyes, 'stead o' bein' bloinded."

She patted his digging claw as he replaced the beaker. "Never you mind how I know. Hmph! That door has swung closed again. Open it for me, please, Mhera my dear. This room can get dreadfully stuffy on a rainy summer's day."

Mhera opened the door, but it would not stay open. "Warped old door. It's starting to close again, Cregga."

The badger blew on her broth to cool it. "Have a look in the corner cupboard. I think there's an old doorstop in there, on the bottom shelf."

Mhera did as she was bidden, finding the object immediately. "Oh, look, it's a little carved squirrel, made from stone, I think. No, it's made from heavy dark wood. Where's it from?"

Cregga dipped a barley farl in her broth and took a bite. "It belonged to Abbess Song. Her father, Janglur Swifteye, carved it from a piece of wood he found on the seashore. That was longer ago than I care to remember. Though I do recall that when Song was old she used it as a doorstop too. She gave it to me before she passed on. Why don't you take it, Mhera? When Song was young she was a lot like you in many ways. I was going to leave it to you when my time comes, but you might as well have it now."

Mhera took the carved statuette to the window and turned it this way and that, admiring it. "Thank you, Cregga, it's lovely. Abbess Song's dad must have been a very skilled carver, it looks so alive. What a pity it ended up as just a doorstop. Here, Gundil, take a look."

The mole took hold of the carved squirrel and inspected it closely, sniffing and tapping it with his digging claws. "Burr, wunnerful h'objeck. 'Tain't no doorstopper, tho'. This 'un's a bokkle."

Mhera looked at her molefriend curiously. "A bottle? You mean a sort of flagon?"

Gundil nodded sagely. "Ho urr. Oi see'd one afore. Moi ole granfer 'ad one shapened loike ee moler. Kep' beer in et ee did."

Cregga poured herself cold mint tea. "Tell us then, Gundil, how can a statue be a bottle? How would you get anything into it? Where's the top, where's the neck?"

The mole grinned from ear to ear with delight. "Hurrhurr, marm, see, you'm doan't be a knowen everythin' arfter all. Ee top is ee head an' you'm turn ee neck. Lukkee!" He twisted the statuette's head, and it came away from the neck. Inside had been cunningly carved out to form a bottlelike container.

Gundil passed it to the badger, and Cregga felt it all over with her huge paws. The Badgermum's voice went hoarse with excitement. "Mhera, your paws are daintier than mine. There's something inside. Can you reach in and get it out?"

Mhera's paw fitted easily into the cavity. She brought forth a scroll, held by a ribbon with a red wax seal. "It's an old barkcloth parchment with a ribbon and seal!"

Cregga abandoned her lunch and sat up straight. "Is there a mark upon the seal?"

Mhera inspected the seal. "Yes, Cregga, there's a letter S with lots of wavy lines going through it. I wonder what it means?"

The Badgermum knew. "The Abbess's real name was Songbreeze. Her sign was the S with breezes blowing through it. Can you see properly, Mhera? The light in here means nothing to me. Gundil, run and fetch a lantern, please. Hurry!"

Clearing the tray from the table, they placed both lantern and scroll upon it. Cregga felt the seal with her sensitive paws. It had stuck to both scroll and ribbon.

"What a pity to break this lovely thing. I would have liked to keep it, as a memento of my old friend Abbess Songbreeze."

"Yurr, you'm leaven et to oi, marm, oi'll get et furr ee!" From his belt pouch, Gundil took a tiny flat-bladed knife, which he used for special tasks in the kitchen. It was as sharp as a freshly broken crystal shard. Skillfully he slit the faded ribbon of cream-colored silk and slid the blade under the wax, cleverly lifting it away from the scroll in one undamaged piece.

Mhera held it up admiringly. "Good work, Gundil. It looks like a scarlet medallion hanging from its ribbon. Here you are, Cregga."

Taking it carefully, the Badgermum smiled with pleasure. "I'll treasure this. Thank you, Gundil. I'm sure nobeast but you could have performed such a delicate operation!"

Gundil scratched the floor with his footpaws, wiggling his stubby tail furiously, which moles will often do when embarrassed by a compliment. "Hurr, et wurrn't nuthin', marm, on'y a likkle tarsk!"

Mhera was practically hopping with eagerness. "Can we open the scroll now, Cregga!"

The blind badger pulled a face of comic indifference. "Oh, I'm feeling a bit sleepy. Let's leave it until tomorrow." She waited until she heard her friend's sighs of frustration. "Ho ho ho! Go on then, open it. But be sure vou read anything that's written down there loud and clear. I wouldn't miss this for another feast. Well, carry on, Mhera!"

The barkcloth had remained supple, and Mhera unrolled it with meticulous care. There were two pieces. A dried oak leaf fell out from between them, and she picked it up.

"There's two pages of writing. It's very neat; Abbess Song must have been really good with a quill pen. A leaf, too."

Cregga held out her paw. "Give me the leaf." Holding it to her face, she traced the leaf's outline with her nosetip. "Hmm, an oak leaf. I wonder if it's got any special meaning? What does Song have to say? Come on, miz otter, read to me!"

Mhera began to read the beautifully written message.

"Fortunate are the good creatures,

Dwelling within these walls,

Content in peaceful harmony,

As each new season falls.

Guided in wisdom by leaders,

One living, the other long dead,

Martin the Warrior in spirit,

And our chosen Abbey Head.

'Tis Martin who chooses our Champion,

Should peril or dangers befall,

But who selects the Abbess,

Or Abbot to rule Redwall?

I was once your Abbess,

A task not like any other,

To follow a path in duty bound,

I took on the title of Mother.

Mother Abbess, Father Abbot,

They look to you alone,

For sympathy, aid, and counsel,

You must give up the life you've known.

To take on the mantle of guidance,

As leaders before you have done,

Upholding our Abbey's traditions,

For you alone are the One."

There was a brief silence, then Cregga repeated the last line. "For you alone are the One!"

Mhera looked perplexed. "Me?"

Gundil climbed up and sat on the arm of Cregga's chair. "Wull, et surrpintly bain't oi. This yurr moler wurrn't cutted owt t'be no h'Abbess, no miz, nor a h'Abbot noither!"

Cregga chuckled, stroking the mole's furry head. "You've got a point there, friend. I couldn't imagine you in the robes of an Abbot."

Gundil folded his digging claws over his plump stomach. "Nor cudd oi, marm, gurt long flowen garmunts, oi'd trip o'er an' bump moi 'ead!"

Mhera held up a paw for quiet. "There's writing on this other page too, that's if you want to hear me read it?"

Gundil spoke out of the side of his mouth to Cregga. "Yurr, she'm a h'Abbess awready, bossen uz pore beasters abowt. We'm best lissen to miz h'otter!"

Mhera gave them a look of mock severity and coughed politely. "Ahem, thank you. Now, there are several things written down here. First of all it says this. Oak Leaf O.L."

Cregga passed her the leaf. "Here's the oak leaf. Take a close look at it, Mhera."

The ottermaid inspected it. "O.L. It's a bit faded, but Abbess Song wrote those two letters here on the leaf."

Gundil cast his eye over the two carefully inked letters. "Ho urr. O.L. Stan's furr h'oak leaf. Wurr ee h'Abbess a-tryen to tell us'n's sum think?"

Cregga gave his back a hearty pat. "That's sound mole logic, my friend. Read on, Mhera!"

The next lines Mhera read affirmed what Gundil had guessed.

"Though I am no longer here,

I beg, pay heed to me,

O.L. stands for Oak Leaf,

A.S. leaves you her key.

A.S."

Cregga caught on fast. "A.S. Abbess Song! It's simple really."

Mhera interrupted her. "Not as simple as you think. I .isten to the second verse.

"If you would rule this Abbey,

G.H. is the place to be,

At the T.O.M.T.W.

Look to the L.H.C."

Gundil scratched his snout in puzzlement. "Hoo urr, they'm a gurt lot o' letters!"

Mhera smiled confidently. "Let's go down to the gatehouse and find out, shall we!"

Cregga eased herself from the big armchair. "C latehouse?"

Mhera took her friend's paw. "Of course. G.H., gatehouse. Lend a paw here, Gundil."

Even with their help, the Badgermum had great difficulty managing the stairs. When they reached the bottom step Cregga sat down, shaking her huge striped head.

"You two carry on to the gatehouse. I'll wait here. I'm not as spry as I once was. Don't get that parchment wet with rain."

Mhera tucked the scroll carefully into her apron pocket. "But Cregga, don't you want to come with us and find out what it all means?"

The blind badger sighed wearily. "I'll only slow you down. You can let me know what you found out when you come back. Go on now, you two."

When they had gone, Boorab, who had been banished from the kitchens, sauntered by. The gluttonous hare was munching on a minted potato and leek turnover, which he hid hastily as he caught sight of Cregga.

"Er, how dee do, marm? Bit of inclement weather, wot wot?"

She held out her paw. "Help me up, please." As the badger was hauled upright, she sniffed the air. "I smell mint. Have you been plundering in the kitchens again?"

The hare's look of injured innocence was wasted on a blind badger. His earbells tinkled as he shook his head stoutly. "Shame on you, marm. I haven't been within a league of your confounded kitchens. I was down in Cavern Hole, composing a poem to your wisdom an' beauty an' so forth. But I'll bally well scrap the whole thing now. Hmph! Accusin' a chap of my honest nature of pinchin' pastries, wot!"

Cregga shrugged. "But I can still smell mint and I know that Friar Bobb is baking minted potato and leek turnovers for dinner tonight."

Boorab sniffed airily. "Well, of course you can jolly well smell mint. I always put a dab or two of mint essence behind each ear after my mornin' bath. Gives a chap a clean fresh smell, doncha know?"

Cregga inclined her head in a small bow. "Then forgive me. I apologize heartily. We'll share a turnover or two at dinner this evening. I like them best when the crust is dark brown and the potatoes have melted into the leeks."

Boorab fell into the trap unthinkingly. "Well, they're not quite at that stage yet, marm. The potato is still a bit lumpy and the crust is only light brown."

As he bit his lip, the badger patted Boorab's pocket, squashing the turnover against his stomach. "Aye, I'd leave them to cook properly, if I were you," she growled. "As far as I'm concerned, you're still on probation at Redwall."

The hare watched her lurch slowly off. Dipping his paw into the mess inside his pocket, he sucked it resentfully. "Fifteen blinkin' seasons' probation. Bit much for any chap, wot!"

Grass squelched underpaw in the rain as Mhera and Gundil hurried across the front lawns to the little gatehouse by the Abbey's main outer wall entrance. Gundil was about to knock when old Hoarg opened the door.

"What're you two doin' out in this? Yore wetter'n fishes in water. Come in, come in!" He tossed them a big towel to dry their faces. "So then, what brings ye here, Miz Mhera?"

Taking the parchment from her pocket, Mhera spread it on the table and told the ancient dormouse gatekeeper the whole story to date. Placing small rock crystal spectacles on the end of his nose, Hoarg inspected the document, staring at it for what seemed an age. The two friends maintained a respectful silence. Hoarg sat in an armchair and mused awhile. "Well then, you've come to my gatehouse to search for clues?"

Gundil sounded a trifle impatient. "Yurr, uz 'ave, zurr. May'aps you'm 'elp us'n's?"

The old dormouse nodded sagely. "Oh, I'll help ye all right. But first tell me, Mhera, do you think wisdom, patience, an' the ability not to rush at things would be good qualities in an Abbess?"

Mhera was very fond of the old gatekeeper. "Oh, I do, sir. Why d'you ask?"

Pursing his lips, Hoarg stared out of the window at the rain. "Hmm. Learning, too, I wouldn't wonder. Gatehouse is one single word, you know, not two separate ones. So this place would only be referred to as a single G on your scroll. Now I want you to take your time and think. Name me a place at Redwall Abbey that starts with the two letters G and H."

Mhera slammed her paw down on the table as realization hit her. "Great Hall, of course. Come on, Gundil!"

Hoarg's voice checked them as they dashed for the door. "There you go, rushin' off without thinking. I never make a move before I think anythin' out. I've solved the next bit of that puzzle. I know what T.O.M.T.W. means."

Mhera grabbed the scroll and stuffed it in her apron pocket, her paws aquiver with excitement. "Oh, tell us what it is, sir, please please tell us!"

"Only if you promise to go a bit slower in the future and stop to reason things out, instead of hurtlin' 'round like madbeasts."

"You'm roight, zurr. Us'n's be loike woise snailers frumm naow on, oi swurr to ee!"

Hoarg removed his spectacles and put them away slowly. "I could be wrong at such short notice, but I think that T.O.M.T.W. means Tapestry Of Martin The Warrior."

With his cheek still damp from the kiss Mhera had planted on it, Hoarg sat back in his armchair. He heard the door slam and the two sets of footpaws pounding away over the drenched lawn toward the Abbey building. The dormouse chuckled. "Ah, the speed and energy of younger ones. I'm glad I lost it a long time ago."

Closing his eyes, he went into a comfortable doze.

On entering the Abbey, wet and panting, the two friends spied Cregga. She was sitting on the floor of Great Hall, gazing up at the tapestry. Mhera skidded to a halt beside her.

"Cregga, how could you! Listen to that rain out there. You let us run all the way to the gatehouse and back!"

The Badgermum turned her sightless eyes toward them. "It came to me while I was sitting on the stairs, but you two had already charged off. What did Hoarg have to say?"

Gundil flopped on the floor and began drying his face on Cregga's habit sleeve. "Lots o' things abowt gooin' slow an' payin' 'tenshun an' lurrnen t'be woisebeasts, marm."

The badger dried Mhera's face on her other sleeve. "Good old Hoarg. I remember he was slow and methodical even when he was a Dibbun. Well, here we are. G.H. Great Hall, and there it is, T.O.M.T.W., the Tapestry Of Martin The Warrior. But I haven't the foggiest notion of what L.H.C. means, have you?"

Mhera stared up at the likeness of Redwall's greatest hero, armor-clad and armed with a sword. "No, I'm afraid not. There's one other thing that puzzles me also. What are we supposed to be searching for?"

Cregga put out a paw and touched the tapestry. "Wisdom maybe, knowledge perhaps, L.H.C. certainly, but where do we find it?"

"Hurr, marm, mebbe us'n's jus' sit 'ere an' arsk Marthen ee Wurrier. Thurr wurr never ee woiserbeast than 'im."

Mole logic won the day again. They sat staring at the mouse warrior, each with their own thoughts.

L.H.C.

Lower Hall Cavern?

Little Hot Cakes?

Lessons Have Commenced?

Let Him Choose?

The image of Martin began to swim and shimmer in -front of Mhera's eyes. It had been a long hard day, working in the kitchens, dashing about with trays, helping Cregga downstairs, rushing to and from the gatehouse. Cregga was already dozing as Mhera leaned her head against the badger's lap and fell into slumber, still pondering the puzzle.

Chapter 8

Sawney Rath had not slept well. He was awake long before dawn, wincing and rubbing at his stomach. Taking a beaker of boiling water from the cauldron that bubbled over the glowing embers of his fire, the Juskarath Chieftain sat down outside. Stars still studded the aquamarine sky, and the camp lay still and silent. Sipping at the steaming water, which seemed to relieve his aching gut slightly, Sawney mulled over the past fifteen seasons.

In many ways, Tagg was a puzzle to him. Maybe it was because Redwall Abbey had spawned his adopted son. Perhaps things might have been different if he had taken a wife from his own clan and fathered the future Taggerung. However, the omens were not to be denied, so he had done his best with the otterbabe from the ford bank, the one whose father he had ordered to be slain. While Tagg was small, Sawney had been enormously fond of him. The little otter showed all the physical signs of a Taggerung, swift as lightning and frighteningly strong. He was obedient too, not only to Juska laws and customs, but always to Sawney's wishes. Then he began to grow and think for himself. At first, Sawney admired Tagg's independence. However, gradually it began to cause a rift between them as the otter grew up. The seasons had been good and relatively peaceful, with hardly any killing raids or tribal strife. Then Sawney began noticing things he did not like in Tagg's nature. With a natural talent for weaponry, the knife in particular, the young otter could outfight, outrun or outthink any clanbeast, but in the few quarrels and fights he had he was always merciful at the end. Despite Sawney's urging, he would merely defeat his opponent and release him without punishing him further. Sawney often took him to task about this. Why had he not slain his adversary, or at least crippled him? It was not the way of a Juska, particularly a Taggerung, to show leniency to anybeast he had conquered. Tagg would smile oddly at Sawney and shrug, saying that there was no need for such actions once the challenger was beaten. The Juska Chieftain wanted to see his adopted son become a complete Taggerung, with the same truly barbaric nature he had seen in his own father. What if the clan had to go into battle, or on a killing raid? Sawney had never seen Tagg take a life. Would the young otter prove himself to be a true Taggerung when the moment came? Sawney still felt very close to Tagg, but he felt it was high time his adopted son learned the lesson that would gain him respect through fear. Tagg had to prove himself by slaying somebeast. When he brought Felch back, which Sawney did not doubt for a moment he would, the ferret decided that Tagg would be the fox's executioner. He tossed the remaining hot water away, his stomach suddenly feeling a lot better.

Felch could not believe he was still alive. He sat wet and shivering on the banktop where the Taggerung had hauled him. Soon the strange otter had a fire going. He tossed Felch a small traveling sack.

"Sit there," he ordered curtly. "Warm yourself by the fire, and take a drink. I'm not going to tie you up. Go on, drink. You'll not get far the state you're in. I'll go and get us some food." The fox nodded dumbly as Tagg strode off, calling back. "I won't be long. Keep that fire going."

He dived off the banktop. Felch did not hear a splash as the sleek hunter hit the water. The fox waited a moment, then, shouldering the bag, he crept carefully away from the fire and forced his water-stiffened limbs into a run. As he sped through the bushes, his mind was racing also. Had the Taggerung missed him earlier that day, when he passed along the banktop, above the hideout under the ledge? Maybe the Taggerung was not as skillful as everybeast said, perhaps he had found his quarry through a lucky accident. Felch rushed onward, assuring himself that he would not let himself be captured a second time.

Something flew by him at shoulder level, and the thwack of a hefty rudder laid the fox flat on his stomach. He tried to rise, but the breath was knocked from him as the Taggerung landed upon his back. A paw cuffed his ears soundly, then seized them and dragged his head backward. Felch felt Sawney's blade tickle his throat.

"You don't have much sense for a fox, do you?" the powerful otter snarled menacingly into his ear. "Now tell me, would you like to go on living, or do I slay you right here?"

"Mercy!" Felch managed to gasp hoarsely. "Don't kill me!"

Tagg pulled Felch upright, leading him by one ear like a naughty youngster back to the fire, where he sat him down. The fox cowered fearfully, but the Taggerung merely winked at him. "Right, mate, we'll start again. You stay here, I'll go and get us something decent to eat. Understood?"

The fox groaned as he rubbed the side of his face. "Understood!" Like a flickering sunshadow, the otter disappeared.

Unshouldering the sack, Felch tugged its drawstrings open with his teeth. Inside were four pears and a flask of nettle beer. He drank gratefully and began chewing on a pear. Then he threw some pine twigs on the fire and hunched up close to it, aching all over as life seeped back into his bruised body. Miserably he began to ponder his fate.

The fox's thoughts were interrupted when two nice-sized vendace, slung together by their gills on a reedstalk, landed slap next to the fire. With Sawney's blade, the otter cut two green willow twigs and passed them to Felch.

"Well, come on, do something for your keep. Spit those fish and cook 'em. Plenty there for two. I like vendace." He sat on the other side of the fire, watching the fox. "There's something on your mind, I can tell."

Felch set the fish to sizzling over the fire. "Why didn't you capture me this morning, when you passed by on the banktop? You must've known I was there."

The barbaric-looking otter took a pull at the flask. "Hah! That wasn't me, it was Gruven the stoat. You know, Antigra's son. He's the clumsiest tracker I ever saw. I was watching him from the other side of the bank. Nice soft moss there. I'd been tracking you all night and I was tired, so when I found you I took a nap. You weren't going anywhere. I knew Gruven wanted to make a name for himself by being first to nab you, so I left him a nice false trail. I saw him pass by in the rain. I could see you too, shaking like a leaf under the bank ledge opposite me. Aye, I'll wager Gruven's still tracking away somewhere. He's tough and nasty enough, but slow-witted."

The fish was delicious, and they shared the remaining pears and the last of the nettle beer. Felch felt his nerves returning to normal as he conversed with the Taggerung, aware of the fierce eyes behind the painted face, gleaming in the flames.

"You could've slain me. Why didn't you?"

The otter felt pity for his wretched captive, knowing that Sawney would have some terrible punishment in store for him, but he kept his heavily tattooed face immobile and shrugged, replying as if it were an everyday matter. "Sawney Rath told me to return to camp with two things, his fine blade and you, or your head as proof I found you."

Felch gulped visibly. "My head!"

Tagg twirled the knife in the air and caught it deftly. "I didn't want to mess my supply bag up and have to carry extra weight, so I'm returning you to Sawney alive."

The fox's whole body slumped. There was pleading in his eyes. "If you take me back Sawney will kill me himself."

The otter stared at the amber-handled knife. "I don't make the rules, Felch. You are Juskarath, you know our clan laws. You shouldn't have run."

Felch was about to stand up and reply, but he thought better of it and remained seated. "But Sawney was going to kill me anyway if I hadn't found the knife he had thrown at me. I had no choice, don't you see? There was nothing left for me but to run!"

Tagg pointed the blade at his captive. "You should be dead now, by rights. If Gruven had found you he'd have beheaded you on the spot. Be thankful you are alive, fox."

Felch leaned forward eagerly. "You spared my life. I'll always be gra"

The otter cut him short. "Save your breath, we've got a fast journey at dawn. Get some sleep, you'll need it. Don't forget, though: one false move and I'll make you wish that Gruven had captured you!"

The Taggerung threw more branches on the fire. He watched the fox until he was sure that Felch was deep in sleep, then he lay down himself and drifted into a light slumber, the blade still held relaxed but ready.

It was the dream that had visited his mind many times over the last fifteen seasons. A beautiful otter face, gentle and kind, and a soft voice murmuring things he could not quite make out. A younger face also, bright-eyed, pretty, repeating the same comforting noises. Soft clean linen against his cheek, aromas of the late spring and delicious food baking. A big male otter standing proudly close by, and the presence of a huge motherly beast hovering in the background. Then there were the walls, old, warm, red stone, everywhere about. Sunlight shafting through a window, turning them to the hue of dusty pink roses. It was a feeling of peace, happiness and safety he had never known running wild outdoors with the Juskarath clan. Tears coursed from under the lids of his closed eyes, dripping down onto the paw that held the knife. Suddenly he was awake, swiftly wiping his eyes and peering out into the still summer night. Behind him he could hear the slow swirl of riverwater. He stayed still as a stone, sensing everything about him, even a wood beetle, trundling by on some nocturnal errand. After a while he relaxed and checked on Felch. The fox was lying on his side, snoring lightly. The Taggerung lay down again, letting slumber wash over him, seeking again those visions he longed to see.

But this time it was a mouse standing in the corridors of his mind. A mouse? Instinctively he knew it to be no ordinary mouse. It was a male, a warrior, clad in battle armor, bearing a sword that was as beautiful as it was fearsome. He knew that if ever he stood against this mouse, he would meet his match. A warrior indeed! But for all that, the mouse smiled upon him, like a father meeting a beloved son. The mouse warrior spoke but a single word.

"Deyna!"

Then he was gone, faded into the dusty citadel of dreams.

Blue-grey woodsmoke from campfires drifted between the sun and shade of woodland trees. Covering his eyes with a paw, Sawney Rath noted the position of the sun standing in the sky at high noon. He turned his gaze onto the two creatures entering the clearing and spoke to the stoat Antigra without even deigning to look at her.

"You see, I told you. Here comes Tagg, my son, right on time!"

Antigra left off plucking the feathers from a dead dove, and threw a hate-laden glance at the Taggerung and his prisoner. Sawney continued to gloat and mock her.

"Nobeast living can hunt like my Taggerung. He was born of the storm and fathered by lightning on a moonless night! Hah! The food you are preparing for your sluggard son will have rotted in the cooking pot by the time he returns. Where do you suppose your precious Gruven is? Chasing butterflies ten leagues from here, I'll wager. Huh! He couldn't hunt on his own tail!"

The clan vermin crowded around the Taggerung and his prize, staring at their icon in awe and admiration. Shoving Felch ahead of him, the lithe otter strode through the crowd, like a pike through a minnow shoal. Grissoul stood smiling in front of Sawney's tent. She bowed fawningly.

"Thou did well! Zann Juskarath Taggerung!"

Sawney pushed the Seer aside and embraced his adopted son. "You did it! I knew you would, I said you'd return at high noon with both Felch and my blade, and here you are!"

The otter threw a paw about Sawney's shoulder. "That's the duty of a Taggerung, not to disappoint his Chief. Any food around? I'm famished!"

Sawney gave Grissoul a shove. "Go and get that roasted woodpigeon for my Tagg. Shift yourself, vixen, he's hungry!"

Eefera, one of Sawney's most trusted weasels, had Felch down on the ground, binding his paws with thongs. He pulled the fox upright. "One runaway, Chief, bound an' delivered!"

Sawney brought his face close to the fox, smiling dangerously through slitted eyes, his voice dripping menace. "Last night was your last night, Felch. Enjoy the rest of the day!"

The Taggerung whispered in Sawney's ear. "Punish him good, but don't kill him. That fox is still a useful beast. I think he's learned his lesson."

The ferret Chieftain patted the otter's cheek, still smiling. "Eat now, Tagg, and rest in my tent. Leave this to me. Our clan still carries the name of Rath; I make the rules here."

Tagg was halfway through his meal when Gruven came storming back into camp, thornstung and muddied. The stoat dashed past Antigra without even acknowledging her. Everybeast watched as he confronted the otter, sitting on the ground eating. Gruven pointed at Tagg and yelled, "A false trail! You sent me off on a false trail!"

The Taggerung rose slowly, wiping a paw across his mouth. "And you were clever enough to follow it. Well done, Gruven!"

The stoat was shaking from ear to paw with rage. "If you hadn't laid that trail I'd have taken the fox's head an hour after dawn!"

Grissoul was about to step in and remind Gruven of his lowly position in the clan when Sawney pulled her back. "Let them be. I want to see this."

Tagg shook his head. "An hour after dawn? Really? I don't think so. I'd already spotted Felch before that. Remember this, too. I was the one sent out to bring him back, not you, my foolish friend."

Gruven always carried a sword. Now he drew it in the blink of an eye. "I'm no friend of yours and I'm not foolish either. Huh, Zann Taggerung, you don't even have the guts to carry a weapon. So, who's the fool now, eh?"

The otter moved like chain lightning. He dealt Gruven an awful blow, just below the shoulder. It paralyzed his sword paw. Tagg's rudderlike tail thudded into his opponent's stomach, bending him double. The sword, which was still held loosely in the stoat's paw, its point against the ground, bent too, like a bow. A stunning crack from Tagg's paw to his adversary's chin sent the stoat crashing backward. The sword made a twanging noise as it left his grip and sailed off into the trees behind the clearing. Gruven lay flat on his back. The otter drew Sawney's blade from the back of his belt and threw. It buried itself alongside the stoat's face, clipping off several whiskers in the process. The Taggerung turned away.

Sawney put his footpaw in Gruven's face as he tugged the knife free from the ground. He held it out to the otter. "Take it and kill him, Tagg. He just tried to kill you!"

Tagg shook his head. "Gruven's probably killed me a thousand times in dreams, but he'll never get the chance to do it while he's awake. Why should I kill him? He amuses me. Besides, I'm still hungry."

He went back to his food. Sawney raised the knife to slit Gruven's throat, but suddenly burst out laughing. "Hahahahaha! He amuses you, that's a good one, hahahahaha! What a Taggerung our clan has, and he's still hungry? Hahaha!"

He took his footpaw from the stoat's face, leaving him to crawl off defeated but still alive. Sawney sat down beside Tagg. "I've never known a beast like you, my son, but you should learn to obey me, you impudent riverdog. When are you going to do as I say, eh?"

Tagg tore a leg from the roasted bird and gave it to Sawney. "Next time you give me an order, I promise. Tell me, though, have we ever been inside a building, I mean a real big place, built of reddish stone, with other otters in it, like me?"

Sawney stared at him oddly. "Never! No, we've never been in such a place!"

Tagg sat back, his food forgotten. "What about a mouse warrior, a real tough-looking beast, wearing armor and carrying a great sword, said his name was Deyna? Did we ever meet a creature like that?"

Sawney felt a twinge of his old pain griping in his stomach. His previous good mood began to dissolve. "An armored sword-carrying mouse named Deyna? What's the matter with you, son? Are you losing your mind?"

Tagg lay down and yawned. He gazed up at the sky. "No, it was just a dream I've been having."

Sawney hurled the roast woodpigeon leg into the fire. "A dream? I had a dream the other night, I dreamt I jumped off a cliff and flew, aye, flew like a bird! Who can say what rubbish and nonsense comes into a beast's mind when he's weary and sleeping? You're tired, Tagg. Go into my tent and get yourself a proper sleep, one without stupid dreams!"

Antigra sat watching her son eat. She was angry, but scared and relieved that neither Sawney nor the Taggerung had killed Gruven, who seemed to be taking the whole episode with sullen indifference. Antigra served him mint tea, sweetened with honey.

"You did wrong shouting out like that, my son. The same blade that took your father's life nearly slew you too."

Gruven spat gristle into the cooking fire. "What d'you expect me t'do, go an' thank them for sparing me?"

Antigra put a paw about his shoulder. "We must wait and bide our time until the right moment."

"You've been sayin' that for as long as I can remember," Gruven snarled, pushing aside his mother's paw. "I'm sick of waitin'. The right moment is now!"

"Wouldst thou tell me what moment that would be, Gruven?"

Mother and son glanced up, startled to see Grissoul the Seer standing close by. Guilt was all over Antigra's face, but Gruven replied with a surly scowl, "None o' your business, slybrush. What are you sneakin' around for? Did Sawney send you to spy on us?"

Shaking her numerous bracelets of coral, bone and silver, the vixen rolled her unstable eye in what she imagined was a friendly smile. She sat down between them. "Bold words for one who almost lost his life today. Did thou not teach thy son any sense, Antigra?"

The stoat mother smiled ingratiatingly. "All I could, but wisdom only comes with age. Mayhap you'd like to give Gruven some advice. Who knows, he might listen to one as wise as you, Grissoul. I will pay you for it. Wait!" Antigra went to her tent and brought out four dove eggs in a clay bowl, which she gave to the Seer. "I know you are very partial to these. They are fresh. My son is dining on the one that laid them."

The vixen pierced one with her tooth and sucked its contents down. She stowed the other three in her pouch. "Thou knows my weakness, stoat. The eggs are good. Hearken now, both of ye, an' listen to me. I saw ants this morning, fighting among themselves on their own anthill. I have seen other things of late. The omens are not good for the Juskarath. If I were thee, Gruven, I'd do nought to anger Sawney. His stomach is troubling him again; 'tis a dangerous sign. Make thy peace with Sawney Rath, be one of those in his favor. Mark my words, it could save both thy lives."

Gruven sniffed contemptuously, but his mother jabbed him with a stick of firewood. "Listen to the Seer's advice. What should we do, Grissoul?"

The vixen pointed to the remains of the roast dove. "Take thou a sling an' stones, Gruven, go out into the woodlands an' slay a pair of doves. I'll take them to Sawney as thy peace offering, an' praise thee to him as a good hunter an' a loyal clanbeast. He'll listen to me. Heed my advice, both of ye!" Grissoul rose to take her leave.

Gruven snorted. "Why should you care about us? You only came 'round here to see what you could get. Four dove eggs just for a pile of mumbo jumbo about ants an' the state o' Sawney's gut. Not bad, eh?"

The Seer gathered her painted cloak about her, staring down at the stoat and shaking her head pityingly. "Thou art a bigger fool than I thought thee to be, Gruven. I care for this Juska clan, not just two stoats. I can tell what is in thy heart, but if thou try to take vengeance on Sawney or the Taggerung, 'twill be the death of thee an' thy mother. My task is to stop our Juskarath being torn apart by strife. Sawney's moods, thy bad temper, they affect all. Where would I go if there were no clan to protect me? Get some sense into thy stubborn head an' heed my words!"

When the vixen had departed, Antigra brought a throwing sling and pouch of stones from the tent. "Do as she says, son. It's good advice."

Gruven spat into the fire and listened to the sizzle it made. "I'm not crawlin' back beggin' for Sawney Rath's favor, or that otter who thinks he's a Taggerung. Leave me alone. I'm tired, wanderin' Mossflower all night an' half the day."

Antigra lost her temper. She lashed the empty sling across Gruven's back. He winced but did not stir.

"As lazy as your father, that's what you are! I'll go and kill two doves myself, you bone-idle beast!"

Gruven called after her as she strode angrily off into the woodlands north of the camp. "Then go. I'm not scared of Grissoul, Sawney or anybeast!"

Cool shades of early evening fell upon the tent as Grissoul shook Tagg gently into wakefulness. "Come. Thy father wishes thee to attend him."

The otter sat up and stretched, flexing his lean sinewy frame. Taking a dipper of water from a nearby pail, he drank some and poured the remainder over his head. A good dreamless sleep had refreshed the Taggerung.

"What's that old ferret up to now, Grissoul?"

"He is about to deal with the runaway, an' he wants thee to witness the punishment."

Felch had his paws upstretched, bound to the thick bough of a beech tree. All the Juskarath vermin were assembled there on their Chieftain's command. Sawney stood impatiently twirling his favorite blade, the knife with the amber handle. He watched as the crowd parted to allow his Seer and the Taggerung through.

"Ah. So, did you have a good sleep, my son?"

Tagg noted the curious gleam in Sawney's eye. "Good enough, thankee. What are you going to do to Felch?"

Sawney licked the knife blade, tasting its cold steel. "I think I'll skin him alive. He'd make a nice tent flap, eh?"

A stricken silence fell upon the clan. Nobeast had ever imagined such cruelty, but they all knew their Chieftain was capable of it. Felch moaned pitifully. Though Tagg was horrified at the suggestion, he knew enough not to show it. Sawney watched him closely, waiting for a reaction.

A careless smile showed on the otter's face. He nodded toward Felch, remarking, "A stringy old worthless hide like this? I don't think it'd be worth your time and trouble."

Sawney laughed. "Haha, you're a cool one, Tagg!"

The otter shrugged. "No point getting excited over some mangy old runaway fox. Cut him down and let him go, I say. Make him clean up the camp on all fours for a season, starve him a bit to slow him down. That's what I'd do."

Sawney winced and rubbed his stomach with a paw. "But you're not me, are you? I'm the one who gives the orders and makes the decisions in this clan. Right?"

Tagg tried keeping the mood light. He nodded. "Right!"

To his surprise, Sawney grinned and hugged him fondly. "Zann Juskarath Taggerung! My strong right paw. No, I won't skin Felch alive. Remember when we last spoke, just before you took your nap this afternoon?"

Tagg disengaged himself from the ferret's hug. "Aye."

Sawney tossed his blade up and caught it neatly. "You do, good! Because I recall exactly what you said to me. You promised that you'd obey me next time I gave you an order."

Tagg was forced to agree. "That's what I said right enough."

Quick as a flash, Sawney Rath's eyes hardened. "Then I'm ordering you to skin Felch alive!" He took the otter's paw, closing it over the knife handle. "Obey me!"

The crowded clearing became as silent as a tomb. All eyes were upon the Taggerung, awaiting his reaction to the order.

Tagg turned his back on Sawney and strode to the side of the fox strung up to the beech bough. He raised the blade. Felch shut his eyes tight, his head shaking back and forth as his nerves quivered uncontrollably. With a sudden slash Tagg severed the thongs that bound him. Felch slumped to the ground in a shaking heap. Tagg's voice was flat and hard as he turned to face Sawney.

"I'm sorry to disobey your order. The fox is a sorry thief, but I will not take the life of a helpless beast."

Sawney's paw shot to his belt, forgetting that Tagg was holding his blade. Spittle sprayed from the ferret's mouth as he roared, "You'll do as I say! Don't try to give me excuses! Carry out my command! Do it! Do it now!"

Tagg sliced through the bonds that still held the fox's paws together. He spoke only one word. "No!"

Sawney was beside himself with fury. His voice rose to a scream. "Your promise was a lie! Do it, or I'll make you obey me!"

Tagg ignored him. He lifted Felch upright and rubbed life back into his numbed paws, whispering, "You may as well run for it again, wretched creature."

Felch dashed off into the trees. Sawney rapped out an order to the ferret, Vallug Bowbeast. "Kill him!"

Felch was still visible as he dodged between the trunks. Vallug ran forward a few steps. Keeping the fox in sight, he notched an arrow onto his bowstring and drew the weapon back. Tagg leaped in, a single swipe of his blade parting the string. Vallug saw the look in his eyes and backed off.

Sawney's face screwed up in pain as shafts of agony ran like lightning bolts through his stomach. He waved Grissoul away as the Seer ran to help him. Glowering at Tagg, he pointed an accusing paw.

"Traitor! You are not a true Taggerung to the Juskarath. I made a bad mistake when I took you in and called you my son!"

Tagg gave vent to his feelings. "Look around you, Sawney. Rats, stoats, ferrets, weasels and foxes. I'm the only otter in the whole clan. How can a ferret be father to me? I've never called you father, but I respected you as Chieftain until now. Did you think I am the sort of beast to skin a living creature alive? Well, the fox has run and I won't be the one to bring him back. You can't make me obey what your temper dictates. That isn't true Juska law!"

Sawney curled his lip in contempt. "What do you know of Juska law? This clan is mine! I make the law here. Eefera, Vallug, seize that otter. I'll teach him to defy me. Somebeast bring me a whip!"

Tagg had the blade in front of him. "First beast who tries to lay paws on me dies!"

Vermin who had chanced a pace forward froze. They had seen the otter growing up and knew his awesome strength and skill. Nobeast was prepared to tangle with the Taggerung. Tagg backed toward the trees, his blade still menacing.

"I no longer want to be with you or your clan, Sawney. You've become too dangerous for your own good. I've watched you change over the seasons from a clan chief to a bad old beast. I go my own way now. Our paths will never cross again, so I wish you better times and hope you learn to treat others more wisely!"

Tagg moved so swiftly that the trees soon swallowed him up. "Our paths will cross, otter," Sawney called after him, "oh yes they will. I'm going to track you down and slay you myself!" He wrenched a spear from the grasp of Eefera. "Nobeast leaves this camp. I'll bring him back myself, dead or alive. Well, what are you all staring at, eh? He's old, you're thinking, he's not as fast as that otter. Well, you just wait and see. I've got a brain. I'm smart, smarter than he'll ever be. He's not a Taggerung anymore. But I'm still Sawney Rath!"

They watched in silence as he loped off into the dense fastness of north Mossflower woodlands, hard on the trail of his new enemy. Grissoul sat on the ground and tossed her bones and pebbles. She stared at the way they fell, noting the position of each one. Wordlessly, the Seer shook her head and covered her eyes.

Chapter 9

The rain stopped somewhere between late afternoon and early evening. Friar Bobb fought his way through a small pack of Dibbuns to open the main Abbey door and let them out to play. They tugged impatiently at his robes and apron.

"Us wanna go out'n'play!"

"Open a door. 'Urry up, Firebobb!"

He swung the doors wide and was almost knocked flat by Abbeybabes stampeding out onto the wet sunlit lawn. Shaking his ladle at them in mock anger, the fat old squirrelcook roared aloud, "Anybeast's late back for dinner an' I'll make soup out o' their tails!"

The fresh breeze from the open door, combined with a broad band of sunlight and the ensuing noise, roused Mhera and her friends from their slumbers. Cregga sat up straight, causing Gundil and Mhera to fall over. The ottermaid rubbed at her eyes as she struggled upright.

"What... where... oh, dear, we must've slept for ages!"

Gundil shook his head ruefully. "Hurr, an' uz never solved ee probberlem."

Cregga scratched her stripes thoughtfully. "I think I did. L.H.C. could mean the Left High Corner of the Warrior's tapestry. I think we'll need a ladder to reach it."

Suddenly the dream she had been having tumbled in on Mhera. "No, no, it's the Lantern Holder Column. Martin told me!"

"Martin told you?" Cregga sounded incredulous.

Mhera fidgeted with her girdle, slightly embarrassed. "I'm not sure it was him and I don't really know if I was properly asleep. I saw his picture, just like the one there on the tapestry, and a lovely gentle voice echoed in my mind. Lantern Holder Column, that was all it said."

There were two fluted half-columns, flat against the wall, one either side of the tapestry. Both had small iron lanterns hanging from them, to illuminate the image of the Warrior at night. It was still daylight, so they were unlit. Mhera looked from one lantern to the other. "Lantern Holder Columns, but which one?"

She took down the lanterns from their hooked iron holders and examined them with Gundil, whilst the blind badger went carefully up and down each column, sniffing and running her paws over the stonework. It was not a successful exercise.

Brother Hoben the Recorder came toward them, pulling a little cart containing oil, candles, wicks and cleaning equipment. He watched their activities curiously. "What are you doing there, may I ask?"

Cregga immediately recognized the mouse Recorder's voice. "Ah, Brother Hoben. Come to refill the lanterns, I suppose."

Hoben took a pitcher of lilac-scented vegetable oil from his cart and went about his task. " 'Tis the Recorder's job, always has been. To shed the light of knowledge and learning by keeping our Abbey's records, and to shed illumination where it is needed. Every sixth day I come 'round, replacing candles, collecting old beeswax and trimming each lantern and lamp wick. As you can see, I make sure each one is topped up with fresh oil. Why do you ask? Is there something amiss?"

Taking him by the paw, the Badgermum led Hoben to the column on the left of the tapestry. She guided his paw-to a gap between the carved stones, where the cement pointing had been hacked out, leaving a slot. "Did you ever remove anything from here, a piece of paper, a slat of wood, perhaps a flat piece of slate?"

"Indeed I did, marm," Hoben answered immediately. "A flat piece of slate, just as you said. Though it was a while back now, let me see, eight, no nine seasons ago, or perhaps it was nearer ten, let me see"

Mhera interrupted him. "Pardon me, Brother, but it's not important how long ago you removed the slate. Have you still got it?"

The Recorder responded to her question in his most dignified manner. "Do I look like a mouse who throws things away willy-nilly, miz? As Recorder to Redwall Abbey it is my solemn duty to preserve anything at all that has writing on it in any form!"

"Hurr, then beggin' ee parden agin, zurr, wudd ee koindly take us'n's to whurr et be?"

Hoben directed one of his rare dry smiles at the mole. "Why, certainly. Follow me, please."

They followed him, Mhera wriggling and skipping, all agog. "It's got writing on it, Brother Hoben said so!"

Gundil grabbed her paw and leaned heavily on it. "Stop thoi jumpen an' frulliken abowt. 'Member wot oi said abowt h'Abbesses fallin' o'er on they'm 'eads!"

Old Hoarg stood at the gatehouse door, enjoying the sunny evening. He winked at Mhera and the mole. "Back agin, mates? Two visits in a single day; makes an old dormouse feel honored. What is it now?"

Hoben nodded to him and entered the gatehouse. "Some old records I want to dig out from the archives."

Hoarg held a paw to his lips. "Then dig 'em out quietly, Brother. Mhera's mama is takin' a nap in my big ole chair. Looks like she deserves it, too."

A feather from one of the cushions had lodged itself close to Filorn's mouth. It fluttered up and down as she breathed in and out. Gundil chuckled fondly. "Bless yore mum's 'eart, miz, she'm ee 'ardest wurrken creetur in all ee h'Abbey. Better cooker'n Froyer Bobb, too, hurr aye, but doan't ee tell 'im oi sedd so!"

Cregga stood with Gundil and Mhera in the doorway, watching Brother Hoben chunnering his way through dusty volumes.

"Hmm, autumn of the weeping willow . . . no, 'tis further back than that. Summer of the singing skylark, spring of the swooping swallows . . . ah, here it is. Winter of the ceaseless snows." He brought the book out into the open and dusted it off.

They sat on the lower walltop steps as Hoben flicked through the pages. He produced a wafer-thin oblong-shaped slate of a bluey grey hue and passed it to Mhera. "Is that the thing you're looking for?"

Mhera recognized Abbess Song's precise and well-formed script. She read aloud what it said.

"My first is third, like the sound of the sea,

My second's the center of you, not me,

My third is the end of him but not you,

My fourth starts a picture, not a view,

My fifth is in bean though not in been,

My sixth and seventh start seldom seen.

Sunrise and sunset, warmth and cold,

Put them together a sign will unfold."

Gundil lay flat on his back, holding his head in both paws. "Whoo urr, whutt be a pore molechoild t'make uv thatt? Et be's more'n moi likkle brain cudd stand!"

Mhera smiled at her molefriend. "Wait until you hear the rest. Listen to this.

"The strangest thing you've ever heard,

A point that makes a noisy word,

The other three make quieter pleas,

Let me start you off with 'teas'."

Cregga lay alongside Gundil, she too holding her head. "Move over, friend. That's more than my brain can stand too!"

Mhera tapped her tail on the step in frustration. "That's the second time I've been interrupted. There's another two separate lines to go yet. Will you two sit up and listen!"

Gundil sat up quickly, folding his paws and looking attentive. "Yurr, Creggum marm, us'n's better pay 'tenshun, or ee gurt h'Abbess'll make uz wash pots in ee kitchen."

The badger sat up, folding her paws primly. "Oops, sorry, Mother Abbess. Carry on, we're all ears!"

Mhera stifled a grin. "Stop calling me Abbess, you two, and listen. Here's the last two lines.

" 'Twixt water and stone I stand alone,

Sounding burnt but alive I survive!"

Brother Hoben preened his straggly whiskers thoughtfully. "Well, what do you think of that?"

Filorn had wakened and emerged from the gatehouse. She stood on the path below them and called up, "I think it's dinnertime, but you can sit on those damp steps all night if you like!"

Old Hoarg left the gatehouse and accompanied them across the lawn. "Minted potato'n'leek turnover, now there's a dish to set the ole mouth waterin'. Mmmmm!"

Helping their elders, Mhera and Gundil wended their way slowly over the rainwashed grass in the warm evening sunlight.

"What's for afters, Mama?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be surprised if Broggle and Friar Bobb have made a woodland trifle. They said they were going to."

"With flaked almonds and meadowcream, marm?" "Friar Bobb always says that's the way a woodland trifle should be, Brother."

"Hurr, be thurr any zoop furr starters, mum? Oi loikes I .oop!"

"Well, you should know, Gundil. You and my Mhera chopped the celery and carrots this morning."

"So us'n's did, mum. Oi'd furgotten to amember that, hurr hurr!"

"Cregga, you ole stripedog, can't you move any faster? By the sound of that dinner we'll be lucky to get any if Boorab gets to the tables first!"

"You're right, Hoarg. Come on, let's run!"

They entered the Cavern Hole breathless and laughing. Boorab was already seated next to his friend Drogg Cellarhog. The hare raised an eyebrow as he saw them taking their places.

"Late for dinner an' laughin' like frogs at a fry-up, wot? Not the sort o' thing one does in the mess. Very serious business, eatin'. Only time I laughed at table was one suppertime long ago when my big fat auntie's chair collapsed. She bumped her blinkin' head on the table an' passed out. Only laughed then because I got her bally share. Hawhawhaw, er, beg y'pardon!"

Redwallers were a bit surprised that Cregga had not taken the big chair at the main table, which was the customary place for anybeast acting as leader. Instead, she chose to sit among the younger element, creatures like Gundil, Egburt and Floburt, many seasons out of Dibbunhood but not yet considered adults. At the badger's request, Brother Hoben and Mhera, who was actually regarded as a proper young adult, sat down with Cregga. The big chair remained empty. Gossip hummed about freely. Redwallers liked to discuss the day's events over dinner. As the servers arrived with their trolleys, Cregga tapped the tabletop with a spoon. A respectful silence fell over all. Broggle, who was still called young Broggle for all his size, was selected by the Badgermum to say the grace. However, the squirrel had developed such a fine tenor voice that he always chose to sing it.

"When the day's work is done,

Then gather we all,

To dine in good company,

Here at Redwall,

On the fruits of our labors,

We harvest and tend,

Each helping the other,

As neighbor and friend.

May the seasons' fine fortune,

Roll on without cease,

And grant us fair weather,

In plenty and peace."

The blind badger shook her head in admiration. "Thank you, young Broggle. That was beautifully sung!"

Boorab dipped fresh crusty bread into a bowl of soft cheese and chives, commenting airily, "Indeed it jolly well was. Of course, he had an expert music tutor. Mustn't forget that, wot wot?" Then he abandoned further self-praise to concentrate on his life's greatest interest. Food.

Cregga addressed Brother Hoben so that all at table could hear her. "Tell me, Brother, you taught most of these young 'uns at Abbey School. Would you say they're a pretty bright lot?"

Hoben put aside his soup spoon and looked around. "Hmm. They may be bright now, but most of them were fat-headed dozy little Dibbuns when I taught them."

Mhera silenced the young ones' indignant squeaks and growls by throwing out a challenge. "Right then, let's see, shall we? The creature who can solve most lines of a riddle we have here can sit in the big chair at breakfast tomorrow. Also, with Cregga Badgermum's permission, they can have the entire day off, to do as they please."

The announcement caused a sensation among the young creatures.

"What's the riddle? Bet I can solve it!"

"Go on, go on, tell us what it is, Mhera!"

"Burr, oi'm ee gurtest riggle solverer as ever lived!"

"Oh no you're not, I am!"

Brother Hoben raised his voice. "Then stop chattering and listen to Mhera. Carry on, miz!"

" 'My first is third, like the sound of the sea.' That's the first line. Any ideas as to what it means?"

They stared blankly at Mhera until Floburt inquired, "Are there other lines? Perhaps you could read us one. They may connect up to give a meaning."

Drogg Cellarhog called across from another table. "She's right, miz. Read the lot out, 'tis only fair!"

Mhera had started her dinner. She slid the slate across to Hoben. "I'm famished. You carry on, Brother."

Hoben read the first eight-line poem, slowly and clearly. Immediately they began raising their paws, as if they were still at Abbey School, jigging up and down and calling, "Brother! Brother!"

Hoben pointed at Egburt with a small baton loaf. "You first!"

The young hedgehog scratched his spikes. "I still don't know what the first line means, but the answer to the second line is the letter O. 'My second's the center of you, not me.' O is in the center of the word you, Brother."

As Recorder, Hoben always carried a scrap of parchment and a charcoal stick. He produced them and began writing. "Very good, Egburt. Any more answers, please?"

A mousemaid named Birrel spoke up. "Third line, Brother. 'My third is the end of him but not you.' That's the letter M. It comes at the end of the word him."

Suddenly Mhera had solved the first line, but she was beaten to the answer by young Broggle.

"I've solved the first line! 'My first is third, like the sound of the sea.' Third letter of the alphabet is C. That sounds like the word sea, doesn't it?"

Mhera shook Broggle's paw. "Very clever, mate. That first line had me really baffled. Well done!"

Brother Hoben looked up from his writing. "Floburt, have you got an answer for us?"

The hogmaid fiddled shyly with her apron strings. "Aye, Brother, that line which goes, 'My sixth and seventh start seldom seen.' That's two letters. S and S. 'Seldom seen' starts with them. Er .. . is that right?"

Boorab's earbells tinkled as he applauded. " 'Course it's right, m'gel. I say, can I take a look at your funny old rhyme, wot?"

Hoben passed him the slate. The hare scanned it studiously.

"Ahah! Here's one you'd have to read to flippin' well come up with a solution, this fifth line. 'My fifth is in bean though not in been.' First bean's the bally bean you eat, second one's the been where you've jolly well been, wot. Anyhow, the answer's the letter A. Bit of a swizz, that one, if y'have to listen to it."

Boorab sat down and began tucking into his minted leek'n'potato turnover, nodding at Cregga. "You were right, marm, does taste better when the taters cook down into the leeks, all nice'n'mushy, eh wot!"

"Yurr, this 'un be ee letter P. Moi fourth starts ee pitcher but not ee view. Hurr aye, 'tis ee P all roight."

Brother Hoben chuckled at Gundil's great grin of triumph. "There you are, it wasn't more than your little brain could stand." He held up his paws to stop any further discussion. "Well done, class! I'll let you see what I've written down so far."

Hoben placed his notes in the center of the table. Like everything he did, they were perfectly numbered and laid out. Thus:

1 My first is third, like the sound of the sea C

2 My second's the center of you, not me O

3 My third is the end of him but not you M

4 My fourth starts a picture, not a view P

5 My fifth is in bean though not in been A

6 My sixth and seventh start seldom seen S S

Floburt could hardly contain herself. "It's a compass! The next two lines make it even clearer. Listen.

"Sunrise and sunset, warmth and cold,

Put them together a sign will unfold.

"The sun sets in the west and rises in the east. South is the warm country, north is the cold lands. I've put it together. The compass points: north, south, east and west!"

The Redwallers cheered as Drogg Cellarhog bowed and shifted the big chair back from the head of the table for his granddaughter.

"Sit ye down, my lovely. I'd say you was the winner, paws down!"

Foremole Brull confirmed Drogg's proclamation. "She'm wurr allus gurtly clever, h'even when she'm wurr ee h'infant!"