The big otter was almost close to tears himself. "Of course I will. Anything for you, mate, anything!"
Nimbalo stood up, dusting himself down. "Will ye come with me, over t'the farm? I want Papa to see that I never turned out worthless an' lazy."
Tagg forced a jolly laugh for his friend's benefit. "Hohoho, worthless and lazy, you? Come on, matey, we'll show the miserable old sourface how his son looks now. Lead on, Slayer!" He winked at Jurkin as they disembarked from the raft. "Hold the boat for us, will you, matey? We've got a small errand ashore. We'll be back by suppertime."
The Dillypin Chief tightened off a mooring rope. "Righto, Tagg, supper'll be ready an' waitin'. There'll be all kinds o' good vittles cooked up from the stuff we got today."
Beyond the far side of the water meadow, Tagg and Nimbalo made their way through a grove of trees. They emerged on the edge of a small flatland, which was sectioned and cultivated. Directly across the field was a thatched cottage. The harvest mouse halted and gave the scene a brief glance.
"Hmm, things ain't changed much. Same ole patch o' dirt. Strange, though. Somethin's not quite right."
Tagg looked down at his friend's furrowed brow. "Like what?"
Nimbalo gnawed at his lip. "There's no sign o' Papa. 'E usually works 'til dusk. If 'e was in the farm'ouse there'd be smoke risin' from the chimbly, an' there ain't a single wisp. Somethin's wrong, I can feel it!" He took off at a run across the field, his paws sending young lettuce and radishes flying, Tagg hard on his tail.
"Nimbalo, stop! Wait for me! Slow down, mate!"
But the harvest mouse had kicked open the unlatched door and dashed inside. Tagg put on a burst of speed and chased in after him, halting immediately as he crossed the doorstep.
There in a pool of afternoon sunlight from the single window sat Nimbalo, amid the wreckage of what had once been his home. Chairs were smashed, curtains and coverlets ripped and food trampled everywhere. Nimbalo's father lay dead, stretched out with a gaping wound in his chest.
Tagg knelt and studied a bloodstained pawprint in the dust. He breathed one word. "Gruven!"
Nimbalo had been sitting head in paws by his father's body. At the sound of Tagg's voice he looked up at the wall above the fireplace, where two nails were driven. "They killed 'im with 'is own axe. Lookit that wound, only one weapon could've done that. Papa kept an ole battle-axe over the fireplace there. Ohhhh, Tagg! I know 'e was only a mean-spirited misery of a mouse, but why'd they slay 'im like that an' wreck the place they way they did? Ohhhh, Papa, Papa, wot was it made you like ye were?"
Tagg placed a paw gently on Nimbalo's shoulder. "Is there anything I can do, friend?"
The harvest mouse sniffed and scrubbed a paw across both eyes. "No, mate, 'cept leave me alone 'ere awhile. You go an' wait across the field. Go on, I won't keep ye long."
Tagg closed the door behind him as he left.
Sitting in the tree shade at the field's edge the otter stared at the farmhouse, feeling immensely sad for his little friend. Nimbalo had been nervous on the way over from the water meadows. It had caused him to laugh and joke about what a horrible old grouse his papa had been, and how he was going to show him that his son had not turned out the same. Poor Nimbalo. This was the last thing he had expected. What a homecoming for him.
Tagg wondered what his own father had been like, his mother too. He knew from Ribrow that his father was dead, but maybe, just maybe, he had a mother somewhere. Did she ever wonder what had become of her baby son? The otter sat for a long time puzzling various unknown bits of his former life, and then he saw a wisp of white smoke rising from the farmhouse chimney.
Nimbalo emerged, carrying a heavily buckled belt and a nail from the chimney wall. Closing the door, he took a rock and nailed the belt to the doorjamb. Passing the belt through the door handle, he tugged, buckling it tight, locking the door shut securely. He sniffed, scrubbed at his eyes one last time and straightened his shoulders. Tagg rose and greeted his friend as he paced back across the field.
"You look a bit better now, mate. Ready to go?"
The harvest mouse nodded briskly. "I cleaned the place up, made a fire out o' some broken furniture an' dressed Papa in a clean smock. I sat 'im in 'is favorite chair an' then locked the place up with that. . . er, I locked the place up good'n'tight. D'ye think Papa would've liked that, Tagg?"
The otter took his friend's paw as they walked away. "I'm sure he would have, Nimbalo. You did right."
Nimbalo pulled Tagg to a halt. "Don't you ever tell anybeast about this, especially those Dillypin 'ogs. Promise me ye won't breathe a word!"
Tagg winked knowingly. "Mateys don't tell otherbeasts their secrets."
They skirted the water meadow, making for the raft. Nimbalo waved to the hedgehogs on deck, muttering to Tagg in an undertone, "When we do catch up with yore vermin, one of 'em'll be carryin' a battleaxe. Leave that 'un to me, 'e'll be the beast who slew my father. I'll pay that feller back in full!" Nimbalo's eyes were as hard as ice-coated granite. Tagg nodded.
As long as he lived, Tagg would never be able to figure his friend out. That night aboard the raft, Nimbalo was the very life and soul of things, laughing, singing and bantering with the hedgehogs. Supper was a spectacular affair. Jurkin had baked a massive outsized dish, which he called allfruit duff. It was a huge soft-crusted crumble, with every fruit or berry they had gathered smeared with honey and baked inside it. The whole thing was covered with a thick white sauce that tasted of vanilla and almonds. It was very tasty; heavy, but satisfying.
Jurkin sat with Tagg, laughing at Nimbalo's antics. "That liddle mouse o' yourn, lookit 'im now singin' an' scoffin' with my 'ogs, yet only this noon 'e looked like a thunnercloud. Where did you two go when ye left the raft?"
The otter shrugged carelessly. "Picking up vermin tracks. Seemed they circled the water meadow, but they're still headed downriver. Nimbalo's just happy that we're still hot on their trail."
Jurkin spooned himself another bowl of his allfruit duff. "That's the way all travelers widout a vessel go. We're still on their tails, right enough. But we'll prob'ly part company with them in the mornin' when we reach the big rocks, where the trail splits. Hoho, lookit Nimbalo doin' the pawspike dance. I thought only 'ogs knew 'ow t'do that 'un."
Tagg winked at the Dillypin Chief. "You'd be surprised at what my little mate knows!"
Nimbalo was in his element, standing in line with the hedgehogs, doing all the actions and singing aloud. It was a very old chanting dance, performed only by the Dillypin tribe. However, the harvest mouse was a quick learner.
"Rum chakka chum chakka chum chakka choo!
I'm a Dillypin who are you?
Choo chakka choo chakka choo chakka chah!
River'ogs is wot we are.
Tap y'paws tap y'spikes tap y'snout an'turn,
Bow to y'partner like a swayin' fern,
'Round an' 'round now, tap that paw,
Who's that knockin' on my door?
Rap chakka chap chakka chap chakka chin!
Ho 'tis you, well come on in.
Chin chakka bin chakka bin chakka choo!
I can dance as good as you.
Clap y'paws, shake y'spikes, touch snouts with me,
Sail down the river right to the sea,
Wot'll we find there wild an' free,
Golden sands an' silv'ry sea.
Whoom chakka boom chakka boom chakkawhoa!
Hold on tight an' away wegoooooooo!"
They all dashed forward, clasping paws, and collapsed laughing on the deck. Leaping up, Nimbalo led the scramble for flagons of cold pale cider, which had cooled in the river current, tied in a sack trailing astern of the raft.