Robald’s home was a turf hut up on the bank. It had been plundered and wrecked. The big stout hedgehog dug a broken-down old armchair from the wreckage, righted it, and dusted it off.

“They never found my emergency rations, fortunately for us.” Removing a few slats of wood, he revealed a cupboard full of food. “Plumcake, damson cordial, nutcheese, fruit biscuits, spikebeer, candied apples and Great-Aunt Lollery’s raisin teabread. They missed this little lot. Oh, don’t stand on ceremony, help yourselves, friends. Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll clear up later.”

As Tagg used his blade to slice the plumcake and teabread, the hedgehog told his story.

“Last night I was quietly dozing the sunset away when I was attacked. Can you believe it, set upon in one’s own domicile. Three vermin, ruffianly louts they were, came at me whilst I was half asleep. I didn’t even get a chance to reach for my club. One villain had a sword, kept jabbing at me, so what else could a body do? I rolled myself up into a ball, as we hogs are apt to do when in danger. But did that stop them? It certainly did not, the fiends! They tied me with my own rope, bound me painfully tight, so I became stuck in the curled-up position. Then without so much as a by-your-leave they rolled me up and down the bank for what seemed like an eternity. Lucky for me I got a hollow reed into my mouth, so I could breathe a little. Well, what more can one say? They played at their wicked game until I became the mudball you encountered today. Then they had the colossal nerve to ransack my dwelling and eat a pot of mushroom soup and a carrot and turnip flan. Just as well that Great-Aunt Lollery had visited a day earlier. She can’t stand vermin!”

Tagg felt he had to interrupt. “Who’s Great-Aunt Lollery?”

The hedgehog raised his eyebrows as he poured damson cordial. “Silly me, I forgot to mention, she’s not my great-aunt really. She was my old nurse in my younger and better seasons. Lives in the woodlands now, won’t move out here at any price. She’s my cook, you know, and a hog more skilled in the culinary arts I’ve yet to meet. Dear old Great-Aunt Lollery, what a treasure she is. Goodness me, you don’t think I made all this food, do you? Hah! Couldn’t cook to save my life. She was only saying on her latest visit, as she always does, Master Robald, she says, you’d burn a salad if you didn’t have Lollery to look after you! She’s right, too. Why, I remember last winter . . .”

Tagg interrupted again. “Did you by chance hear the vermin’s names, sir?”

Robald Forthright consumed a fruit biscuit topped with cheese at one bite, nodding vigorously. “Oh, yes, indeed I did. One was called Chief, stoat I think; there was another stoat too, Rawback, and a rat, ratess she was, name of Dagrab. Great seasons, where do they get these odd names, eh?”

Suddenly Robald put aside his food. “Good grief, I’ve just thought on, if they follow the streamcourse they’re bound to come out in the woodlands, right by Great-Aunt Lollery’s cottage. Oh dearie me, doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?”

Tagg stood up, quickly putting together enough food to eat as they traveled. “You’d best show us the way to your nurse’s cottage, Robald.”

The hedgehog picked up his carved sycamore club. “Do you think I shall need this? It’s fearfully heavy and I’ve never had cause to use it before. I’m not sure I could, really.”

Nimbalo stood tapping his tail impatiently. “Sling it away, mate. No use totin’ a club if’n ye can’t use it.”

Robald put the weapon aside gingerly. “Quite! Follow me, please.”

He set out across the flatlands. Tagg scratched his head, bemused. “I thought you said your nurse lived in the woodlands close to the streambank. What are we going this way for? Wouldn’t it be best to follow the course of the stream?”

Robald wiggled his eyebrows knowingly. “Most creatures would think that, my friend; a common misconception, I fear. Over the seasons I’ve found this route the shorter by a considerable time. The stream course meanders and winds far too much. Trust me, my way is altogether more convenient.”

Tagg could see the woodland fringe through the layers of midday heat haze. “Looks like he’s right,” he murmured to Nimbalo. “This is a quicker way.”

“Aye, prob’ly is, mate,” the harvest mouse whispered out the corner of his mouth, “but I jus’ wish ole Robald’d give ’is face a rest. Huh, ’e could talk the leg off’n a table!”

The hedgehog smiled patronizingly at Nimbalo. “I could not help but overhear your remark, friend Nimbalo. Quite incorrect, of course; it would take physical force to remove a table leg. However, as to my verbosity, I fear you are right. When deprived of company one tends to practice the art of conversation far more than one normally would. Had you seen my abode prior to its present state, you would have promptly noticed the absence of birds, bees, wasps, midges and sundry other creatures frequenting the area. They invariably leave after listening to my interminable prattling. Forthright by name and Forthright by nature, as Great-Aunt Lollery often says. I speak my mind, you see, always and often, even since infancy.”

Tagg and Nimbalo strode out with a will, speeding up their pace and leaving the talkative Robald behind. The otter had to stifle his laughter as Nimbalo impersonated the hedgehog. “Spoke ’is mind since infancy? Hahaha, can you imagine that ’un when ’e was an ’ogbabe, sittin’ up in the cradle an’ spoutin’ away like that? H’I say, Great-Auntie Lollery, frazzle me up a measured portion of the ole oatmeal porridge inna pan, but make certing the fire is at the correct temperature, will ye? Ho yes!”

Robald had now fallen far behind. “I say,” he called, “would you kindly do me the courtesy of accommodating your pace to mine? I feel distinctly breathless!”

“Then stow the gab, y’ole windbag,” Nimbalo shouted back. “Button up yore mouth an’ let yore paws do the work. We ain’t stoppin’ for ye!”

Robald broke into a scurrying waddle and caught them up. “Point taken. I am suitably chastened, and from hereonin my lips shall remain sealed. Thank you for your comments, friend Nimbalo.”

Hot and dusty, they arrived at the fringe of the sheltering trees, entering gratefully into the cool shade of woodlands dappled by the noontide sun. Robald was about to sit on the moss beneath a broad spreading oak when Tagg hauled him back onto his paws.

“If you’re worried about Aunt Lollery, there’s no time to rest. Which way do we go now?”

Robald gestured with weary resignation. “You are right, of course, friend Tagg. Over that way. The stream grows quite broad there, where it joins the river. In a moment or two of walking you’ll hear the watersounds. Extremely soothing to one’s nerves after crossing the exposed flatlands.”

He was right. Within the space of a short walk they reached the point where river met stream. Laburnum, willow and spindle trees trailed their drooping branches gracefully into the placid dark waters of a calm inlet. Robald quickened his pace and hurried out onto a spur dotted with cranberry, water mint and flowering rush. A huge raft was moored there, which seemed to upset Robald. He jumped up and down, stamping his paws.

“No! No! Nononono! Why oh why did I pick the same time to visit as those confounded Dillypins?”

Tagg raced to join the hedgehog. “Robald, what is it? Has something happened to your nurse?”

The hedgehog pointed an accusing paw at the raft. “Don’t you see, it’s those uncouth ignoramuses. Those . . . those . . . great spiked louts. The Dillypins, I mean!”

His rantings were cut short as a small rough-looking hogbabe emerged from the shrubbery behind them and whacked Robald’s footpaw with a little club. He hopped about in agony as the hogbabe threw back his head and went into gales of gruff laughter.

“Ahohohoho! Gotcha dat time, h’Uncle Robald. Hohohohoho!” The babe brandished his club and went after Nimbalo’s paws. Tagg picked him up in one paw and took his club away.

“Where’s your mum and dad? Quick, before I eat you!”

The hogbabe showed no fear, merely pointing along the stream. “Down dere, h’eatin’ up Lollery’s pancakes. I show ya. Lemme down!”

Robald limped along in the rear as Tagg and Nimbalo hurried through the trees after the speeding hogbabe. Rounding a sharp curve in the streambank, he pointed to a cottage. It was all a woodland cottage should be, built from logs and roofed with sod and moss on larch trellis. A neat little garden of flowers and vegetables with a white rock border skirted the front. Rough laughter, singing and the strains of odd instruments came from behind the cottage. Robald hobbled up, a look of despair and pain on his chubby features.

“Forgive me, but I’d much rather you had found the three vermin here than that ill-disciplined lot. Oh well, you’d better come and meet the other side of Great-Aunt Lollery’s family. No relation to the Forthrights, I’m glad to say!”

Chaos reigned in the back garden. Fat rough hedgehogs, their spikes adorned with flowers and trailing weeds, were guzzling down food, drinking and having belching contests, singing, fighting, dancing and completely ignoring the visitors. A homely greyspiked hedgehog, old and thin, dressed in a spotless white smock and a flowery apron, was frying pancakes on top of an outdoor oven. The three newcomers drew close, wordlessly watching her. She tipped a thick paste of ground corn and nutmeal onto the hot stone oventop, where it spread and fried quickly before she flipped it skillfully over with a broad thin slate. As the bottom fried she ladled honey and chopped berries on top, then folded the whole thing in two and served it to a waiting hedgehog. Looking up from her task, she smiled at Robald.

“I think you smelt my pancakes, Master Robald. Would you and your friends like some? Of course you would. Now, what brings you here? I only visited you two days ago. Oh, there I go, chatting on without introducing myself. I’m Great-Aunt Lollery.”

The otter bowed politely. “My name’s Tagg and this is Nimbalo. Pleased to meet you, Aunt Lollery. We came here because we thought you might be in danger from three vermin we are tracking.”

The hedgehog she had been serving was a particularly big, tough specimen. He chuckled scornfully. “Three vermints? Hohoho! Y’mean those three who tried callin’ on us as Lollery was cookin’ brekkist? Well, ye’ve missed ’em, mate. Afore they’d even crossed the stream we sent the bullies on their way with a few good lumps t’think about, eh, Lollery!”

Lollery waved a paw at the three newcomers and continued the tale. “It was so funny. There I am, cooking breakfast, when one of the babes comes to me and says that there’s three beasts across the stream, who must’ve smelled my good cooking. So I went out and there they were, two stoats and a rat, all tattooed up, just like you, Mr. Tagg. Hmph! They weren’t very polite, I can tell you. One of them wades into the water waving a sword, saying he was going to chop me into fishbait if I didn’t give them vittles. Of course he was shouting so loud that Jurkin here heard him. So the whole Dillypin family came out, loaded up their slings and gave those vermin a pounding they richly deserved!”

Jurkin unwound a hefty sling from his waist, fitted a big round riverpebble into it and whirled the thing overhead. “Aye, us Dillypins knows ’ow t’swing a rock. Gimme a target.”

Tagg pointed. “Poplar branch sticking out there, see?”

Jurkin whipped off the stone. It zipped through the air and snapped off the poplar branch with a resounding Crack! Grinning, he held out the sling to Tagg. “Wanna try it, riverdog?”

The otter smiled and shook his head. “Not really, mate. See that woodrush flower in front of the poplar?”

Jurkin squinted. “Y’mean that ’un growin’ low down agin the trunk?”

Tagg’s blade flashed through the air. It landed quivering in the poplar trunk, pinning the star-shaped woodrush flower through its center. Tagg winked broadly at Jurkin. “Want to try it, spikedog?”

Robald pulled Tagg away, beckoning him urgently to sit and eat. It was obvious that Robald was no friend of Jurkin.

“Aunt Lollery has made us some of her delicious pancakes. We’d be well advised to consume them before some Dillypin does.”

Great-Aunt Lollery served the delicious pancakes, pouring everyone a beaker of greensap milk. Serving Tagg first, she whispered, “You eat ’earty now, sir, an’ pay no heed to that Jurkin.”

Nimbalo tucked into his food, remarking to Robald, “Wot’s ole Jurkin glarin’ at Tagg like that for? Lookit the face on ’im. You’d think ’e was sittin’ on a wasp.”

“Jurkin’s a decent enough type, as far as Dillypins go,” Robald explained. “But he’s always got to be top hog wherever he goes. You shouldn’t have showed him that knife trick, Tagg. He can’t do it, so now he’s working himself up to challenge you to some silly game that he knows he’s best at. If I were you I’d keep my eye on him.”

Robald’s prediction turned out to be correct. Jurkin and his crew became extra noisy, tussling with each other and bumping into Tagg’s table without apologizing. Then they started flicking small pebbles at one another. Jurkin waited until a young hog was between him and Tagg, and then flicked a pebble lazily at the youngster, who was swift enough to dodge it easily. The pebble struck Tagg on his cheek, which seemed to cause great hilarity among the Dillypins, Jurkin laughing loudest.

Tagg picked up the pebble, calling cheerfully to Jurkin, “Not much of a shot, mate. You’d better learn to throw properly!”

The otter tossed the pebble back over his shoulder and batted it hard with his tail. It zinged off, whacking the tip of Jurkin’s nose painfully. Clapping a paw to his injured snout, Jurkin waited until the other Dillypins had stopped laughing. He hid the anger in his eyes by smiling at Tagg.

“Good job yore on’y a riverdog, or I’d spiketussle ye!”

Placing a paw against his forehead with the claws spread wide, Tagg smiled back at the big hedgehog. “Oh, don’t let that stop ye, spikedog. Will this do for spikes?”

Spiketussling is the hedgehog form of wrestling, in which two hogs lock headspikes and try to throw each other. Tagg was offering his outspread pawclaws as spikes. Jurkin grimaced fiercely.

“Claws’ll do fer spikes, if’n yore fool enough to try it, mate. I’ve been spiketusslin’ champion o’ the Dillypins since I was a babe. Come on, mate, an’ I’ll teach ye a lesson y’won’t forget!”

He charged Tagg immediately, head down, spikes extended. The otter leaped over the table and met the onslaught, locking his claws into Jurkin’s powerful headspikes. Dillypins scattered to get out of the way and benches and tables were overturned as the two roared aloud, pushing one another back and forth around the garden. Shrubs cracked, grass flew and leaves showered from low tree branches. Hedgehogs yelled.

“Give it the neckwhip, Jurkin, you’ve got ’im!”

Jurkin twisted his neck suddenly, but Tagg went with it, turning a somersault and landing upright. He saw the surprise on Jurkin’s face as he carried on the maneuver by throwing another somersault in the same direction. Unable to halt his momentum, the hedgehog flew into the air, landing with a heavy thud on the ground. Belying his hefty bulk, he leaped up, and Tagg did it again, somersaulting so that his opponent was immediately floored once more. He repeated the move every time Jurkin rose. Six times the hedgehog hit the floor, then he tried to rise and fell back, panting hoarsely. Tagg leaned over Jurkin, holding him down, grinning into his face.

“Good game, eh? Want to try some more, spikedog?”

Jurkin held his paws up submissively. “Ye’ve cracked every spike on me back, y’great riverwhomper!”

Releasing Jurkin’s spikes, Tagg helped him up. He grasped the hedgehog’s paw and shook it firmly, announcing aloud, “I’ve never tangled with a beast so powerful in all my life. Good job you never got up again, mate, or you’d have licked me!”

Jurkin held Tagg’s paw up, calling to all his crew, “This is my matey Tagg. Anybeast wants to fight with ’im ’as got t’fight with me too. Loll, bring more pancakes, will ye!”

Robald shook his head as he watched the pair scoffing pancakes and swigging greensap milk like brothers. “I’m afraid it’s all a bit beyond me, Nimbalo. Just look at them. Only a moment ago I thought they were trying to kill each other.”

The harvest mouse shook his head admiringly. “Aye, my mate Tagg’s like nobeast ye’ve ever met!”

Tagg told Jurkin his story. The hedgehog demolished a pancake as he listened, then he grunted approvingly. “So, yore trackin’ these three vermin, Tagg? They’re ’eaded downstream an’ into Mossflower Wood, y’know. That’s the way they went when we sent ’em packin’!”

Tagg rose from the table, licking honey from his paws. “Downstream into Mossflower, eh? Then I’m bound to go after them, friend. Goodbye, ’twas nice meeting you!”

Jurkin rose from the table with him. “Then ye’ll be sailin’ with the Dillypins, you an’ the mousey. We’re goin’ that way too, so save the wear on yore paws, matey. Now I ain’t takin’ no fer an answer: you sail with us as far as we can track ’em afore they goes off inter the woodlands!”

Before they left, Nimbalo took issue with Robald and Great-Aunt Lollery, whom he had grown fond of. “Now lissen, Robald me ole pincushion, never you mind livin’ out on the flatlands alone an’ ’avin’ this good ’ogwife runnin’ after ye ten times a season with vittles. Yore Aunt Lollery ain’t gettin’ any younger, an’ you should be livin’ ’ere with ’er. If’n I ’ad a Great-Aunt Lollery, I wouldn’t leave ’er defenseless on ’er own, I’d keep ’er comp’ny an’ take better care of ’er!”

Robald stood looking shamefaced. “Now you come to point it out, friend Nimbalo, I have been a touch selfish. You’re right, of course. I’ll stay here with my kind nurse, if she’ll have a fat lonely hermit, that is.”

Lollery fidgeted with her spotless apron and sniffed. “Oh, go on with you, Master Robald. I promised your mama I’d look after you. Goodness knows ’tis a trek out onto those flatlands, carryin’ great baskets o’ vittles to ye. You’re welcome to stay with me forever. Sometimes a body gets so lonely in this liddle cottage that even the Dillypins are a welcome sight!”

*

That evening the sprawling raft took off into midstream, loaded with Dillypin hedgehogs of all shapes, ages and sizes. Tagg sat on the tiller rail with Nimbalo and Jurkin, holding several ropes apiece. These were attached to hogbabes, to stop them from falling in the water as they wrestled and played all over the broad deck. At the raft’s center was a construction, part hut, part tent, complete with chimney, oven and galley fire, though there would be no cooking done that night, due to the fact that Great-Aunt Lollery had provisioned them out with all manner of excellent food: cheeses, breads, puddings, cakes, drinks, and extra supplies of her renowned pancakes, which were marvelous, hot or cold. Robald and his nurse waved them off from the bank as the peculiar vessel caught the midstream current and sailed off.

“Goodbye, friend Tagg, pleasant sailing, friend Nimbalo, thank you for all your help. I’d still be stuck in a ball of mud if you hadn’t chanced along. Take care of yourselves!”

“Goodbye, Mr. Nimbalo, Mr. Tagg; goodbye, Dillypins!”

The hedgehogs lined the deck, singing their farewell.

Lulled by the watersounds and late-evening sunrays flickering scarlet through drooping treetops, Tagg lay down on a woven deckmat. The little hogs had been hauled in by their mothers for supper and bed, and apart from the first nocturnal birdsong echoing from the dense woodlands things were fairly quiet. Jurkin held the tiller steady. He watched Nimbalo’s head starting to nod and Tagg’s eyelids growing heavy.

“Best get yore ’eads down, mates; it’s been a long day for ye. Go on, sleep. I’ll keep this ole scow on course an’ watch for signs of the vermin.”

Tagg allowed his eyes to close as he answered, “Thankee, mate. I’ll wake around midnight and take a turn on the tiller, then you can catch a nap too!”

Nimbalo curled up close to Tagg’s footpaws, yawning cavernously. “Ah, this is the life! Wake me next season, but do it gently, an’ I’d like some ’ot pancakes an’ dannylion tea when y’do. Yowch! Keep that footpaw still, ye great ruffian, or I’ll sling yer in the water!”

Jurkin chuckled at the idea. “Savage liddle beast, ain’t ’e?”

Nimbalo opened one eye and growled, “One more word out o’ you, needlebritches, an’ you’ll find out why they calls me Nimbalo the Slayer!”

Once more Tagg’s dreams were a kaleidoscope of red warriors, vermin faces and inexplicable events. He was running through deep woodlands, trying to catch up with the elusive figure of the mouse warrior, calling out after him, “Deyna, stop, wait for me!”

Amid the trees, the mouse turned, waving his wondrous sword. He called back things Tagg could not understand. There was a look of urgency on the armored mouse’s face. Tagg felt a sudden kinship with him, a desire to go with him, to help with whatever needed to be done. Then Vallug appeared, a murderous snarl on his face as he fired an arrow from his bow. It was too late to dodge the shaft, but Tagg thrust out a paw to protect himself. He roared with pain as the arrow pierced his paw.

“Be still, ye great daft lump. Look wot you’ve gone an’ done to yoreself. ’Old ’im still, Jurkin!”

Tagg woke to find the hedgehog pinning him flat, whilst Nimbalo tugged at his paw.

“Pass me that blade, mate, that’ll get it out!”

Tagg looked up at Jurkin. “Wh-what happened?”

Shaking his head, the big rough hedgehog relieved the otter of his knife and gave it to Nimbalo.

“Wot ’appened? You tell me, matey. I think you was ’avin’ a nightmare. Kickin’ an’ roarin’ away like a madbeast. Pore ole Nimbalo ’ere was near knocked overboard, then you turns over facedown an’ slams yore paw right onto a big deck splinter.”

Tagg flinched as the harvest mouse released his paw and held a long pine splinter in front of his eyes.

“Lookit that. Size of a blinkin’ cob o’ firewood!”

Jurkin fetched a herbal paste, cleaned Tagg’s paw and put a light softbark dressing on it, talking as he worked.

“Aye, that must’ve been some kind o’ dream, Tagg. Can you remember wot it was about?”

Tagg winced as the paste entered his deep splinter wound. “I can only recall fragments, red warriors, a room with walls of red stone, a mouse warrior carrying a great sword. I think his name is Deyna, I’m not sure.”

Jurkin tied off the dressing. “Sounded to me like you was dreamin’ of Redwall Abbey.”

Tagg felt his neckfur prickle at the sound of the name. “Redwall Abbey? What’s that, and why should I be dreaming of it?”

Jurkin’s spikes rippled evenly as he shrugged. “Sorry, mate, I can’t tell ye that. But from wot you was shoutin’ I knew it was summat to do with Redwall Abbey an’ Martin the Warrior mouse. I know the place, I was there once.”

The otter’s eyes went wide with astonishment. “I thought all of this was only some imaginary place in my dreams. But you were there! Tell me about it, Jurkin. Please!”

Jurkin stroked his cheekspikes. “Ain’t much to tell. My ole mum’n’dad took me there for a summer when I was just a liddle ’og. We went t’visit some fat ole cellarhog, a first cousin of a second brother twice removed, or summat like that. I remember, though, ’twas the ’appiest season o’ my life. What a wunnerful place, Redwall Abbey. There was mice an’ squirrels, moles, an’ otters an’ ’edge’ogs, just like me’n’you, mate, all livin’ together there in peace. The vittles, oh, they was better’n anythin’ you ever put in yore mouth. Er, that warrior mouse you mentioned, ’is name’s not Deyna, it’s Martin the Warrior. I saw ’is picture, woven on a big tapestry there, an’ the sword too, ’angin’ on the wall. Martin was one of the creatures who ’elped t’build Redwall Abbey, long long ago. They say ’e’s been dead fer many seasons, but the spirit of Martin still ’elps an’ protects that Abbey, aye, an’ everybeast in it. Redwall’s a very special place, Tagg.”

The otter was bewildered by his friend’s revelations. “But . . . but who is Deyna?”

The hedgehog’s brow furrowed. “I dunno. I’m tellin’ ye wot I recall of Redwall, but that was a long time ago, mate. I can’t remember everythin’, y’know!”

Tagg clenched his bound paw and stared hard at it. “Sorry, Jurkin. Neither can I. That’s why I was asking you.”

Nimbalo sat looking from one to the other and shaking his head. Tagg caught the look of comic amusement on his friend’s face.

“What’s the matter with you, grinning away, with a face on you like a mole sitting on a feather?”

The harvest mouse rested his chin on one paw. “Wot a pair, eh? Yore tellin’ Jurkin about some ole dream you ’ad, an’ Jurkin’s tellin’ you about the place in yore dream. A place that ’e’s been to!”

Jurkin stared hard at Nimbalo. “So?”

Puffing out his little chest, Nimbalo roared, “So why don’t ye tell Tagg where the place, this Redwall Abbey, is, eh? Then ’e can go an’ see fer hisself!”

It struck Tagg like a hammer blow. “Right! Tell us where Redwall is, mate!”

The Dillypin Chief gnawed thoughtfully on a facespike. “Er, if I can remember . . .”