Brian Jacques - Redwall #15 - The Taggerung

"Top hole, sah. You're a born weaver of yarns, wot. Try some of Friar Bobb's damson cream pie. Bet y've never tasted anythin' as scrumptious as that, wot. Wot wot, hawhawhaw!"

Nimbalo bit into it and smacked his lips. "Thankee. It's good, very nice, but tell me, did ye ever taste a snakeyfish pie?"

The hare looked at him aghast. "Snakeyfish pie, sir? What in the name o' puddens is that? You haven't eaten one yourself, have you, old chap?"

Nimbalo winked at the horrified listeners. "Ye wouldn't believe me if'n I told yer!"

Chapter 31

Tendrils of blue smoke curled through the trees of south Mossflower Wood, wreathing upward from a fire of dead pinecones and fir branches on the rocky ledge of a riverbank. Skipper stirred the contents of a big pot, set on a tripod over the flames. He tasted it and waved his rudder.

"Swash, bring more watershrimp. Blekker, chop more 'otroot an' peppers, an' sliver some o' them scallions in with it!"

The two sturdy otter sisters, Swash and Blekker, brought the ingredients to him and watched as he stirred them into the pot of freshwater shrimp and hotroot soup. Skipper held out the ladle to the pair, proud of his cooking prowess.

"Sup that an' tell me wot ye think?"

They took turns, blowing on the ladle's contents and sipping.

"That's the stuff, Skip. It'd melt moss off'n a boulder!"

"Aye, only you can make shrimp'n'otroot soup like that, Skip!"

Skipper chuckled. "Don't tell yore ma that!"

Deyna was still unconscious. He lay strapped to the litter, scarcely breathing and woefully thin and pale looking. Swash mopped his fevered forehead with some moss she had dipped in the river. His muzzle was hot and dry to the touch.

"Skip, this pore feller ain't eaten in three days now. D'you think we should try an' feed him somethin'?"

But Skipper remained adamant, as he had since they left Redwall. "No vittles for Deyna, just a drop o' clear water now an' agin. We got to leave him like that until Rukky sees wot's best. I don't want to do the wrong thing by feedin' a bad-wounded otter. Right then, clear the decks, me buckos, fill yore bowls an' wait back by the bend for me. Mind an' leave plenty o' the soup for the otterfixer. Don't want 'er in a bad mood."

The crew filled their bowls and took off to await Skipper's return by the riverbend. When they had gone the otter Chieftain went to a massive old larch tree. It was long dead but still standing, its core rotted and eaten away by insects. Standing half a pace off, Skipper swung his rudder and whacked it against the hollow trunk.

"Whock! Whock!"

Behind him on the riverbank an incredibly ancient otter materialized from amid the rock ledges. Her fur was totally silver white, mostly hidden by a heavily ornamented black cloak and hood sewn with crystal shards, seashells, globules of amber and small bright polished stones. Her body was bent with age, and she leaned upon a knobbly stick. From beneath the hood of her cloak she peered out at Skipper. There was not a single tooth in her mouth, but the two eyes that watched him were brighter than her hooped gold earrings.

Skipper bowed. "Rukky Garge, me ole friend, 'tis a pleasure to see ye."

She sucked hard on her gums before replying. "Ahhr weel, 'tis der young riverpup. Did yeer famine-gobbed crew ayt up all Rukky's soup?"

The otter Chieftain helped her courteously up the bank to the pot. "Only the hard tasteless bits, me ole queen. I saved the best for you. Try a taste."

Rukky Garge spooned a ladleful, boiling, straight into her mouth and gulped it down. She licked her lips. " 'Tis a fact, ye kin make d'soup better'n myself can. So, well, ye never came to see Rukky fer nought. What izzit dat ails ye?"

Skipper pointed to the still form of Deyna. "I fetched this pore beast from the Abbey. He took an arrow; see the broken shaft still stuck in his chest? Yore the best otterfixer, my ole charmer. Can you make Deyna better agin?"

Rukky Garge sniffed the wound in Deyna's chest, pushed one of his eyelids up and looked at the upturned eye, rubbed his muzzle, felt all four paws, picked up his rudder, weighed it in her paw and let it drop, all the time muttering away. "Ahhr weel now, Redwall Abbey an' all de clever cratures. Couldn't be curin' a waspy sting atween dem, ahhhr no!"

Skipper broke his respectful silence. "So ye say, me ole darlin', but could you?"

Rukky went back to the pot and supped two more ladles of hot soup. "Dis a Juskabeast. Pictures'n'patterns on de face. Baaaad! Why you ask Rukky to do de otterfixin' for dis varmint, eh?"

Skipper gave his explanation as she made inroads on the soup. "Deyna's the son of an ole mate o' mine. He was taken by Juska when he was a cub. Rillflag was his father an' Filorn's his mother; she still lives at the Abbey, with his older sister Mhera."

The ancient otter repeated Mhera's name, drawing it out. "Meera, Meeeerraaaa! I like well dat name. I fix him!"

Skipper stood where he was, knowing that Rukky did not like shaking paws, or being touched in any way. "My thanks to ye, Rukky Garge. I'll keep the soup goin', good an' hot, night'n'day, whenever ye needs it."

She leaned forward on the knobbly stick. "Ahhr weel now, ye'll need lots o' d'soup. Dis Deyna won't be fixed in wan day. 'Twill be when de russet h'apples fall."

Skipper tried not to look surprised. "That's a long time, marm?"

She attempted to chew on a watershrimp. "So y'say, so y'say. Need longen time to be fixin' arrowhole. Gotta take varmint pictures off da face too, ho yerssss!"

Skipper raised his eyebrows. "You can do that, take off the tattoos?"

She gave up chewing and swallowed the watershrimp. "So I can, so I can. I make dat picture on yore paw, 'member!"

Skipper looked at the pike tattooed on the back of his paw. "Aye, you did, a long time ago I recall."

Rukky shrugged. "So, I put pictures on wid dye an' needle. I take dem off too. An' dat flower on Deyna's paw, I fix it up good, you see. Den he looken like yew, proper riverdog again, not varmint!"

Skipper had to carry Deyna into Rukky's cave and lay him on a long moss-covered shelf. The otterfixer's cave was like her cloak, studded from floor to ceiling with crystal, metal and semiprecious stones, amber, carnelian, peridot and black jet. Two firefly lanterns reflected off the decorations, making the interior dazzle and shine.

Skipper took out the blade of Sawney Rath. "This is for you, Rukky my ole sweet. A liddle gift."

She recoiled, drawing her paws into the voluminous cloak. "Pretty an' bad, baaaaad! I'll not touch d'thing. Stick in inna wall. Dat blade's shedded blood. Baaaaaad!"

Skipper buried the knifepoint in the cave wall. "Fair enough. Now wot d'ye want me to do?"

The ancient one made a dismissive gesture. "Geddout, go you! Make d'soup for Rukky, an' tell yore crew keep 'way, far 'way. Mebbe call if'n I need ye, young pup."

Skipper left the cave as Rukky began building a fire of special herbs and dried roots. Deyna lay motionless on the ledge, oblivious of all around him. Pale whitish smoke wafted around the cave, fragrant and exotic. The otterfixer opened a dark lacquered box and began choosing her instruments.

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Blekker and Swash were making a rush net to catch freshwater shrimps at the riverbend when Skipper loped up. The others of the ottercrew gathered around to hear his report.

"Rukky sez she can fix Deyna up, but he won't be fit to travel until early autumn, when the russet apples start t'fall. I'm goin' to stay an' keep the soup pot goin' for 'er. Blekker an' Swash, you carry the news back to Redwall. Deyna's mama an' sister'll want to know he's goin' to live. Oh, an' take a score o' the crew with ye. They can stop at the Abbey just in case any more vermin turn up at the gates!"