‘Stay where you are,’ snapped Pedlar, when the mouse was two lengths from him. ‘State your business.’
The mouse stopped and blinked, before picking its teeth with one of its claws.
‘No need for that, yer honour,’ said the creature in a slurred tone, going high-nose. ‘We’re all friendly like, down ’ere, ain’t we Flegm?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Yeah, that we are, Phart,’ came the reply from the mouse’s companion, followed by a loud belch and an apologetic, “Scuse my guts.’
Pedlar studied the mouse whom the other had called Phart. Though it was difficult to determine just what he was, he seemed to be a house mouse. Phart’s coat was matted and decorated with bald patches covered in eczema. What remained of his fur stuck up, ragged and unkempt, like clumps of grass on a frosty morning. The end of his tail was missing, his left ear was torn and three of his whiskers were bent. His eyes were red-veined and watery, above a puffy-looking nose and flaccid cheeks. Though he was running to fat, the muscles of his body looked worn and wasted, and great folds of skin hung from his belly. What was worse, Phart stank of something rotten, though it was difficult to conclude just what was the source – his breath or his body odour – or both.
‘Might I arsk,’ said Phart, suddenly taking the initiative with a haughty tone, ‘what you might be doing in Stinkhorn territory? Just arsken, you understand.’
‘Stinkhorn?’
‘That’s the name of this ’ere tribe, of what I’m proud to be known as chief.’ Phart drew himself up as best he could under the circumstances, though Pedlar was a good deal taller and had considerably better poise.
Pedlar went high-nose and looked around him. ‘How many in this tribe of yours?’ he asked.
‘That’s a leadin’ question, that is,’ sneered Phart. ‘But since you arsk, not a lot. Just Flegm ’ere, and yours truly. Used to be more, but our numbers is somewhat depleted. But me an’ Flegm, we fights like maniacs, don’t we Flegm?’
‘Yeah,’ came the reply, separated by slurps. ‘Maniacs.’
‘We fights anybody what comes in ’ere, looking for trouble, and sends ’em back where they come from. ’Ow did you come ’ere, by the way? We didn’t see you come in.’
‘Through the hole at the back of this chamber.’
‘Cellar. Cellar is what this is. From the ’ole in the back you say? Out of the maze then?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Then,’ said Phart, picking his teeth again, ‘you didn’t run into Tunneller?’
Pedlar said, ‘You mean the shrew? Oh, yes, we met each other.’
‘And?’
‘And we fought to a standstill.’
Phart swayed a little, moving insidiously closer. ‘You – fought – Tunneller?’ he whispered, hoarsely.
‘To a standstill. We parted enemies.’
‘Strewth!’ said Flegm from his position under the barrels. The scruffy little mouse let out a hacking cough before spitting something indescribable on to the floor. Once he’d divested himself of this unwelcome blob, he said to his chief, ‘He gave Tunneller a smacking, did he? Well, he’s likely to give you a walloping too then, ain’t he Phart?’
‘You keep your rotten tongue knotted,’ shouted Phart over his shoulder.
Then suddenly, Phart was right up next to Pedlar, invading his body space, breathing foul fumes into his nostrils as he pushed his disgusting nose amongst Pedlar’s whiskers.
‘Look, yer honour,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘we didn’t mean no harm, you understand? We got to protect our property, ain’t we. We got a right to do that. But you’re very welcome, very welcome indeed, yer honour. I couldn’t say how welcome you are. Our cellar is at your disposal. Would you care to partake in some liquid refreshment? We got plenty of red wine. We’ve already been indulgin’ somewhat, ourselves, so you’re very at liberty to join us for a few swigs.’
‘Red wine?’ said Pedlar, suddenly feeling quite thirsty. ‘I don’t think I know what that is.’
Phart laughed over his shoulder. ‘You ’ear that, Flegm?’
‘Why don’t you find out then, yer honour?’ called Flegm.
So Pedlar followed Phart over to the pool of red fluid lying on the floor of the cellar. There he bent his head and drank what tasted like heavy berry juice. The taste was good and he was soon lapping away with the other two mice. At first he remained wary of them and his surroundings, keeping a cool head and a sharp eye out. However, after a time, it didn’t seem to matter.
While they were still lapping the wine Flegm said to Phart, ‘Go on then. He’s from the Outside. Arsk ’im.’
Phart looked at Pedlar and cleared his throat. ‘You’re from the Outside, yer honour?’
‘I said I was,’ replied Pedlar.
‘That’s what I thort,’ said Phart. ‘Y’see, what me an’ Flegm ’ere want to know is, have you ever come across a sort of purple mushroom with red spots?’
‘What?’ said Pedlar, puzzled.
‘Simple question, ain’t it?’ snapped Flegm. ‘What’re you deaf or somethin’?’
‘Now, now, Flegm,’ said Phart, ‘his honour didn’t quite understand what I was talkin’ about.’ He turned back again to Pedlar. ‘See, it’s like this, yer honour. I had an uncle – the Great Bile ’is name was – what once went Outside and found these mushrooms. When he ate ’em, he saw beautiful visions and such. Made ’im feel like he was walkin’ on clouds of flour. Know what I mean?’
Pedlar was beginning to feel a bit like that himself. ‘I think so,’ he said.
‘Well then, can you take us – me an’ Flegm that is – to some mushrooms like them? We could – we could make you a honorary Stinkhorn if you did.’
‘Don’t know any such mushrooms,’ said Pedlar. ‘Sorry. Much as I would love the honour.’
Flegm tutted and said, ‘Bleedin’ useless,’ and Phart glared at Pedlar for a very long time.
Phart finally said, ‘You sure you’re not keepin’ these mushrooms to yourself?’
Pedlar said very emphatically. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if you keep looking at me like that I’ll bite your nose off.’
‘Sorry for breathin’,’ said Phart, and went back to his puddle of wine.
Pedlar realized that previously he had been too cautious about the wine, now he relaxed and let himself enjoy his drink. Then, not so many laps after that, there wasn’t any need to worry because he felt he could take on an army of weasels without any problems whatsoever. He felt careless and bold.
‘Thisss-is good,’ he said to the Stinkhorns. ‘You get musch of this stuff here?’
‘Oh, we gets the lot, in ’ere. Reds, whites, fizzies. You name it. There’s always a leak or two, somewheres about, an’ if there ain’t, we soon make one,’ Phart guffawed.
Said the flea-bitten Flegm, ‘Bottled stuff’s the best, but you don’t often get bottles broke, more’s the pity.’ He nudged Pedlar in a friendly fashion.
Pedlar suddenly felt inexplicably angry at being jostled in such a familiar fashion.
‘Don’t push me,’ he growled, giving Flegm his most menacing stare.
‘What?’ said Flegm, surprised. Then looking into Pedlar’s face, he cried, ‘Oh, strewth, we got one ’ere!’
‘One what?’ asked Phart, licking the drips off his whiskers and lifting his head.
‘One of them what gets stroppy with a bit of booze.’
Phart turned to stare at Pedlar, who was rocking back and forth on his feet now, and glaring at the other two.
‘Just don’t push me, thass all,’ he snarled.
‘Oh dear,’ said Phart. ‘I think you’re right, Flegm. I think we’ve got one and a ’alf.’
‘Just don’t push me,’ growled Pedlar, wondering why the floor seemed to be slipping away from under his feet.
‘Eloquent bozo, ain’t he?’ said Flegm. ‘Sort of plays fascinatin’ games with the language, don’t he? A vocabulary that takes yer breath away.’
The two house mice continued to sip at the wine, while keeping an eye on their new companion, who was now looking up at the ceiling. They watched, interested, as Pedlar’s head started swivelling slowly, as if he were trying to keep up with the turning of some unseen object. Then gradually, ever so gradually, Pedlar leaned over to one side, until he fell. He lay there in the dust of the cellar floor, panting heavily, his eyes wide with bewilderment. After a while they closed.
Pedlar woke some time later, with the sun directly in his eyes. His head was hurting and his stomach felt strange. Looking around, he saw the two mice he had met earlier hunched against the back wall of the cellar. Next moment, there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs and then the sun went out with a quick snap.
Phart and Flegm soon returned to his side.
‘You nearly got trod on by a nudnik,’ Flegm told him, not without some satisfaction in his tone. ‘Flippin’ great feet missed you by a whisker, mate. Good job it was the one with white head and face fur. Blind as a worm, that one.’
Pedlar sat high-nose and rubbed his eyes with his paws, causing jagged pains to pass across his brow.
‘You poisoned me,’ he croaked. ‘You’ve made me ill.’
‘We poisoned you,’ cried Phart. ‘That’s a joke! You poisoned yerself, more like. Nobody said you ’ad to guzzle our wine. You did that yourself, didn’t you? Admit it.’
‘You led me to the poison,’ Pedlar accused him.
Flegm cried, ‘It ain’t poison, it’s wine. If you can’t take it, you should stick to beer.’
‘Beer?’ groaned Pedlar.
‘Never mind,’ Phart told him. ‘In future, you should lay off all the good stuff. You threatened us with our lives, you did, tellin’ us not to push you. I knew you thought you was a hard nut, when you bragged about beating up Tunneller.’
‘I didn’t brag – and I didn’t beat her. I told you, we fought to—’
‘—a standstill. Yeah, yeah. We ’eard all that, pal. But nobody has got past Tunneller before now, so it’s just as good as beatin’ her, ain’t it?’
Pedlar did not feel inclined to argue with the two mice and crawled away to another part of the cellar.
‘Gone off to puke,’ he heard Flegm announce.
Pedlar stayed in the corner on a cool stone for some time, until he felt sufficiently recovered. He watched the other two go back to the wine puddle and start drinking again. It was strange how they weren’t affected by the poison, but Pedlar decided their bodies must be used to it. They had grown immune to a liquid that was obviously toxic to visiting mice.
Pedlar was wondering about the sunlight he had seen. One minute the sun had been at high noon, then next moment it was dark. And what was the sun doing inside the House in the first place? He went to Phart and asked him for an explanation.
‘Lights, that’s what it is. Ain’t you never seen lights before?’
‘You mean, like stars?’
‘Nah,’ snorted Phart, contemptuously. ‘Look, I know you come from the outside world, but I used to talk to Great Uncle Bile and I know about it too. I know there’s streetlights and whatnot. What about the travelling boxes the nudniks use? You must ’ave seen them with their lights on at night, shooting down the road?’
Pedlar recalled the farm track near the Hedgerow and made the connection. ‘Yes, are they the same sort of thing?’
‘Lights is lights. You got ’em all over the House. Sometimes they’re on, and sometimes not. Usually if a nudnik’s in the room, they’re on, unless it’s daytime, or a bedroom of course, then the nudnik could be sleeping, in which case they’d be off, if you see what I mean?’
‘I think so,’ said Pedlar. ‘Can you predict them?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Flegm. ‘Down ’ere in the cellar they’re never on until a nudnik comes. When you hear the door open, the light goes on the next second. Unless it’s the nudnik we call the Headhunter – sometimes that one comes down in the dark.’
‘Why? Who’s the Headhunter?’ asked Pedlar, alarmed.
‘Half-sized nudnik,’ stated Phart. Then blowing off and belching at the same time, he added proudly, ‘How about that then, Flegm? Both ends simultaneous.’
Pedlar ignored this crass show of vulgarity and enquired further after the Headhunter.
‘Why would it want to come down here in the dark?’
‘To catch us,’ nodded Flegm, darkly, ‘or any other live creature it can lay its hands on. It’s a demon, that one. Got Skabb last week. Skabb was another member of our tribe, until the Headhunter got him. Probably boiled poor old Skabb alive.’
‘This Headhunter nudnik? It likes to torture us?’
‘Us, cats, dogs, whatever. You should see its eyes. Straight out of hell, they are. I’ve seen the Headhunter pullin’ the legs off a spider, then squeezin’ the bulby body till it pops. The Headhunter wears a mouse’s skull on ’ere,’ Flegm pointed to a spot on his collarbone where a nudnik’s lapel would be, ‘like it was some sort of badge or somethink.’
‘Cats play with mouse bodies,’ said Pedlar. ‘I’ve seen them do it in the Hedgerow ditch.’
‘True,’ Phart admitted, ‘but cats haven’t got the devious nature what this small nudnik’s got. It’s clever, this one. Very, very clever. It’s shrewd, cunning and ten times more brainy than any cat.’
Pedlar decided the two Stinkhorns were probably exaggerating in order to impress him. The important thing was that he now understood the nature of house lights. They came on and went off without warning, but occasionally their state could be foreseen according to the movement of nudniks. Pedlar had not actually seen or encountered a nudnik. He was looking forward to the experience, because apparently they were not like any other animal. They stood high-nose the whole time, never going down to low-nose, except to sleep. Tinker had told him that when they slept they stretched their great galumphing bodies out full length and took up more flat space than a dozen cats.
‘I should like to see one of these nudnik creatures,’ he said to the Stinkhorn Tribe. ‘Could you arrange a sighting?’
‘We could, or we couldn’t, yer honour,’ replied Phart, after a long look at Flegm, ‘dependin’ on how much you can contribute to the tribe’s larder, eh?’
‘How do I do that? You mean I should go out and forage for food, to give to you?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Phart, ‘though I’m not sure about the word “forage”. Fight is more the word I’d use in that context. ’Ow about you, Flegm?’
‘Fight,’ confirmed his lieutenant. ‘Definitely.’
‘I have to fight for food? Who do I fight for it?’
Phart went high-nose and scratched his belly fleas. ‘Well, less see now,’ he said. ‘You could start with the Bookeater Tribe… but then they ain’t got no cheese, so that’s no good. They’re the weakest ones though.’
‘Nex’ to us,’ interrupted Flegm proudly, but he was given a glaring down by his chief, who otherwise ignored the remark.
‘…Then there’s the Invisibles,’ said Phart, ‘but you got to travel all the way to the attic to find them. They ain’t got no cheese either. You might have a go at the 13-K.’
‘I’ve heard about them,’ said Pedlar.
‘And finally, there’s the Savage Tribe. I wouldn’t go near the Savage Tribe unless you can kill a cat with one set of claws – that’s my advice. Easier to kill a cat than take on the Savage Tribe and walk away alive. Gorm would rip your ’eart out and feed it to his infants, soon as look at you.’
‘Why are they called the Savage Tribe?’ asked Pedlar. ‘I know it’s because they’re savage, but why are they so fierce?’
‘They got a lot to protect,’ sighed Phart. ‘They got the celestial larder in their territory. A larder is a food store what’s always full, see, and it’s got cheese in it. It never runs out. It’s like… I dunno, to someone like you, comin’ from the Outside, it’s like there was a harvest all year round.’ He moved in close to Pedlar, hi
s breath going up Pedlar’s nostrils. ‘You don’t want to have no truck with the Savage Tribe, yer honour. I’d stay away from them, if I was you. You can sometimes get a nice bit of cake, or bread, or even cheese and biscuit in the sittin’-room, or the library when one of the nudniks has been in there.’
‘Speaking of food,’ said Pedlar, looking round, ‘is there anything to eat around here?’
Phart stepped backwards quickly.
‘Oh, so you wants some of our grub now? I knew you was a scrounger, soon as I seen you. Comin’ in here, drinking our booze, arskin for grub? Whatsay, Flegm?’
‘Bleeding scrounger, that’s what he is,’ answered the faithful lieutenant.
Pedlar shook himself from head to toe. He was fed up with arguing with these two despicable creatures and decided to go off and look for food. There had to be something to eat in the cellar, even if it was a few seeds of something. He went nosing around, sniffing trails across the floor, until he picked up something which looked fairly promising. It was the odour of a root vegetable. He followed his nose, which led him to a sack in the corner. There was a hole in the sacking and he entered this to find himself amongst some potatoes. This was more like it! Potatoes were reasonable fare for a country mouse.
He ate his fill, feeling much better once there was something in his stomach. Then he left the sack by the hole he had entered, to find Phart and Flegm waiting for him with hurt expressions on their faces.
‘Don’t you feel any shame?’ asked Phart. ‘Stealin’ the food out of our mouths?’
‘What are you talking about? There’s enough potatoes here to feed an army of fieldmice for months,’ said Pedlar. ‘You won’t miss a few mouthfuls. In any case, where I come from, food doesn’t belong to you unless you’ve got it between your paws. First come, first eat.’
‘Down here it’s different,’ said Phart, ‘as you’ll soon learn. Down here supplies belong to whatever tribe whose territory it is. This is Stinkhorn country, and you’ve just pinched Stinkhorn grub.’
House of Tribes Page 4
