‘I hope you’re right, Diddycoy,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re right.’
Then came memories of dear old Tinker in the next chamber, always worried about Pedlar’s ancestral voices. Well, look where those voices had got him now! And he still had not found ‘the many’ who needed him.
‘Never mind, yer honour,’ said a rasping voice from behind the curtain. ‘You can go back, one hour.’
Pedlar almost jumped out of his skin. Then he smelled the sour breath, the odour of the wine, and the rankness of unlicked fur. His whiskers twitched with distaste. He nosed aside the left-hand curtain, and there, nibbling between his paws, was Phart.
‘Nice to see you, yer honour,’ said Phart, his red-rimmed and vein-crazed eyes blinking rapidly. ‘I heard you was now livin’ with the Bookeaters. Strange lot of coves, them. Start burbling them weird words at you, don’t they?’ He gave a little shiver. ‘Bet they’d turn you into cat’s leavin’s, soon as look at you, eh?’
‘They’ve been very kind to me,’ said Pedlar, ‘so don’t you go running them down, Phart.’
Phart went high-nose and looked haughty. ‘Well, I bet you miss some of our grub, don’t you? Them books is all right in an emergency, but it’s like eatin’ bleedin’ dust after a while, ain’t it?’
Pedlar nodded. ‘I can’t argue with you there.’
‘I was thinkin’,’ said Phart, getting a distant look. ‘How would you like some nice cheese. Have you ever ate cheese? Sort of yellow stuff, made out of milk?’
‘I’m told it’s very nutritious,’ said Pedlar.
‘Nu… nutritious?’ cried Phart, going low-nose again in his astonishment at this understatement. ‘Why, it’s the very life-blood of the mouse nation! Cheese is, sort of crumbly and yet smooth at the same time. Cheese has got this pungency what’ll make your senses reel. Cheese is… is cheese.’
‘You – you wouldn’t happen to know where we could get some?’ said Pedlar, salivating at this description.
‘Me? I know where everythink is. I’m the source of all information, me. You must’ve heard that Outside?’
‘No, I haven’t, but what about it? Can you take me to some of this – cheese?’
Phart nodded conspiratorially, his moth-eaten face going very close to Pedlar’s precious whiskers and breathing fumes into his sensitive nostrils.
‘Just follow Phart, yer honour. He’ll find you enough cheese to fill yer belly for a couple of hours.’
Phart led the way back through Claude’s Hole, under the floorboards, between the walls. The leader of the Stinkhorn tribe moved very carefully, now that he was outside his own territory, the cellar. At times Pedlar almost became exasperated at his caution, thinking they would not reach the cheese this side of noon. Finally they reached a dark open area with soft felt underfoot. It was a place of rafters and floorbeams and it struck cool on the fur.
Phart’s teeth were chattering when he finally stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pedlar. ‘Are you cold?’
‘Cold? Yeah, that’s what I am, cold. Never mind there’s a bleedin’ owl up here somewhere. Never mind Kellog’s got his nest here too!’
‘Oh, you mean you’re scared,’ said Pedlar. ‘Where are we then?’
‘We’re in the land of the Invisibles, that’s where. They’re a wood-mice tribe of the attic. You won’t see ’em though. Not unless they want you to. Come on. The cheese ain’t far from here.’
Still quivering with fright, Phart led the way. Pedlar decided that cheese really must be a wonderful food, if Phart was prepared to go through this kind of terror to get some. Of course, Pedlar himself was none too keen on owls. Out in the wilds of the Hedgerow they were the most feared of the flying predators. Tawny owls, barn owls, the murderous short-eared owl and the deadly little owl. They were the silent killers, the great grey faces of the night. Mercifully, he supposed, you wouldn’t really know what had hit you if an owl snatched you from life.
When Pedlar peered into the dim distance, he could ascertain vague shapes of all kinds: rounded, sharp cornered, angular, smooth. There was a mysterious mountainous country beyond, where the light was ancient and soft dust had settled like a sheet over the whole region.
Pedlar swished his long tail nervously as he crept after Phart. There was also the famous Kellog to consider. Rats were known throughout the mouse world as being vicious creatures. Common rats were bad enough, but Pedlar had been told a roof rat would bite your head off as soon as tread on your tail. He considered what he was doing: following an unreliable creature like Phart into the unknown, into a place where owls and roof rats ruled. It was rather foolish.
Suddenly something in the darkness made Pedlar stop in his tracks. He sniffed the air, his whiskers twitching.
What was that absolutely delicious aroma of something that had gone off?
Phart, aware that Pedlar had halted, turned in the deep gloom and regarded his face.
‘Ah, smelt it have you? Nice ain’t it? Sort of sets you tingling from whiskers to tail, don’t it?’
‘Is that the cheese?’ whispered Pedlar, awed.
‘That’s the stuff. Nice bit of blue-vein by the smell of it. You get all different sorts. This kind is sort of oldish and a bit more moist than most. Not like the runny stuff, of course, but softer than the solid yellow cheese. Makes your toes quiver, this one.’
Phart continued to lead the way through the cobwebs and dust and fluff of the attic, until they came near to some boxes. Pedlar could see a square of light lying flat on the floor, and guessed there was some kind of trap door there. Near to the trap door was a flat wooden object with a wire contraption on it. It was on this object that the piece of cheese stood.
Pedlar moved a little closer to the piece of flat wood and Phart suddenly stepped back a couple of paces.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pedlar. ‘Don’t you want any cheese?’
‘Eh?’ said Phart, sounding nervous and picking at his nose with a claw. ‘Oh, yeah, yeah. In a sec. You – er – you go first. I’ll – I’ll have a bit when you’re finished. After all, ha, ha, you ain’t tasted it before, eh? New experiences ought to be witnessed, didn’t they?’
‘You still seem very nervous,’ said Pedlar, wondering exactly what was the matter with the house mouse. ‘Is the owl around?’
‘Well, yes and no – look, why don’t you just grab the cheese and we’ll get out of here pronto?’
Pedlar went over to the little wooden board and stared at the cheese in the middle. It seemed to be sitting on a spike or something, but it didn’t look too difficult to pull off. The wood had a nudnikky smell about it, but then so did a lot of the things in the House: books, furniture, carpets. Everything smelled of nudnik. Phart was right. It was best just to grab the cheese and get away from rat-owl country.
‘Go on, go on, get it!’ cried Phart in a shrill voice. ‘What are you waiting for? Get the bleedin’ cheese, you country nit…’
Pedlar turned and glared at Phart. ‘Don’t call me names, cellar mouse. You’ll find I have a nasty bite if I’m called to use it.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Phart, his breath coming out in a whistle. ‘I’m just sort of – sort of sweaty at the moment. Probably comin’ down with something. Don’t take any notice of me.’
Phart was looking around him the whole time, his eyes round and white. He was high-nose, as if he wanted to look over the beams around them, for any approaching enemy.
Pedlar decided it was now or never. He moved forward for the cheese.
‘Good, good,’ murmured Phart. ‘Lovely…’
Pedlar stepped cautiously on to the wooden platter. It seemed all right. Nothing untoward happened. He moved to the middle of the board and sniffed the cheese. Good heavens, he thought, this is succulent food! He licked it with his long red tongue. Delicious!
Phart was running backwards and forwards now, his eyes on Pedlar and the cheese. He was muttering to himself, but the words were too soft for Pedlar to unders
tand. Pedlar turned again and prepared to snatch the cheese.
A voice from the rafters shouted: ‘Look out, you fool. JUMP!’
Pedlar instinctively leapt sideways.
There was a tremendous SNAP! and the board flipped high in the air. Pedlar blinked, not knowing what had happened. He felt a slight nip at the end of his body. When he looked he saw that the tip, just a fraction, of his tail had gone. He was bewildered. What on earth had happened? Where was Phart? Who was it that had shouted?
‘Who’s there?’ asked Pedlar, looking up. ‘Who called?’
A voice close by, from the shadows, responded.
‘My name is Whispersoft,’ said the voice, loudly. ‘What were you playing around that snap-trap for? You could have been killed. Are you that hungry?’
‘Snap-trap?’ said Pedlar, feeling foolish at talking to the shadows. ‘I’ve never heard of snap-traps.’
‘Where have you been living? They’re set by nudniks,’ cried the voice. ‘They put a bit of cheese on the trap to tempt you, then when you bite – BANG – the wire guillotine breaks your neck, or your back. Or traps you by the leg so you have to gnaw through it to escape. Nasty things, snap-traps. Lucky I came along, or your carotid artery would be squashed against a lump of wood right at this moment…’
‘Yes, I have to thank you for that,’ said Pedlar, trying to peer into the gloom. ‘Phart probably wasn’t aware that the trap was ready to go off…’
‘Phart?’ exploded the voice in the shadows. ‘Phart, damn his name to hell. That flea-bitten excuse for a house mouse brought you here did he? You’re more naive than I thought you were. Phart, my friend, was after the cheese. He couldn’t get it until the trap had been sprung – they’re always ready to go off by the way – and you were the idiot he chose to spring it for him. He would have walked over your twitching body to get the bounty and then left you for dead.’
Pedlar was at first astounded by the unseen mouse’s words, then incensed.
‘You mean that swill would have had me killed for a lump of rotten cheese?’
‘Phart would poison his own babies for a lump of rotten cheese,’ cried the voice. ‘Phart would eat his own grandmother if she was made of cheese.’
‘I’ll kill him,’ snarled Pedlar. ‘I’ll bite his blasted head off!’
‘If you can catch him,’ shouted the mystery voice. ‘He’s probably halfway to the cellar by now, and still running. He won’t hang around now his plan’s been discovered.’
‘Why are you shouting?’ said Pedlar, looking around the attic nervously. ‘Won’t you attract attention to us?’
‘Can’t help it,’ cried the mouse. ‘That’s why they call me Whispersoft. Well, can’t stand here chatting all night either. I’m off. Good luck, yellow-neck.’
‘Pedlar,’ said Pedlar.
There was no reply. Pedlar thought he saw a ripple in the grey shades amongst the warp and weave of the shadows, but he couldn’t be sure. He heard nothing either. Whispersoft’s voice might be loud, but his tread was light. Not even a swishing of a tail in the dust. Not even the brushing of whiskers against wood. Simply an acute awareness of the settling of fine dust on rafters and the sense that the air was now less dense in a certain corner of the world.
Pedlar turned his attention back to the cheese. Now that the trap had been sprung, he saw no reason not to eat the bait. He went back to the board and forced himself to step on it once again. It was not easy, not after he had witnessed the vicious springing of the wire. Instinct told him to stay away from such traps, never to set paw on one again. However the cheese was delicious. It was absolutely scrumptious.
When he had eaten his fill, Pedlar took some of the cheese in his cheeks, hoping to carry it back to Ethil and Rhodri in the library. However, before he had scrambled a few paces, the light changed dramatically. He looked up, to see a huge feathered shape flying across the attic, towards a hole at the end of the House. It landed on a beam and stared around it, obviously preparing to go out hunting, but cautious.
The owl!
He swallowed in fright, and the cheese went down.
Pedlar had lost many brothers, sisters and cousins to owls. They had such an array of weapons on their face and feet, such a swift silent glide, such a keen eyesight in dim light, that once they had you marked for prey there was nothing left to do but rub noses with your loved ones, wish them all they wished for themselves, and then bid the world adieu.
Pedlar stopped, his heart beating fast.
The owl inched its way along a rafter, its eyes glowing orange in the thin shafts of light coming from its entrance hole. It was a little owl, the characteristic white spots on its neck forming a ‘V’. Squat, with a large head, it bobbed a little as it shuffled along its perch.
It was truly a monster.
Pedlar-remained-ab-solutely-still-not-even-breath-ing.
Then when the creature finally took off and flew out of the hole, he crept away, staying low and near to a floor-beam, slipping over, under and between a row of rusted nails that projected from the beam, as if he were winding soft wool around them. Only when he was through the hole and between the walls did he allow himself to expel the shallow air in his chest and breathe deeply. Only then did he allow himself to be angry with Phart again.
So angry was he that he couldn’t help himself savaging an innocent old matchbox that some nudnik had left to gather dust between the walls. He leapt on it and ripped the box to shreds in fury, scattering the pieces over the long narrow cavity. Just the right proportions – that is, Phart-sized – the box made a good inanimate substitute for the missing chief of the Stinkhorn Tribe. The action helped to relieve Pedlar’s feelings a little. Once that was over, he went on his way, finding his path through the maze of walls back to the library again.
When he arrived back amongst the books, he was amazed to see that the world was just the same. Activity in the library had carried on as normal while he had twice been within a whisker of death. It was as if the House had its own rhythm and this had not been altered by Pedlar’s presence among its occupants. In fact Ethil passed him by with a cheery greeting, as if he had not left the library at all!
Rhodri, however, stared at Pedlar’s tail.
‘What has occurred?’ asked the library mouse. ‘You look as though you’ve been in a fracas.’
‘Not a fight exactly,’ said Pedlar, remembering the missing tip of his beautiful long tail with dismay. ‘But something of the sort. Will it grow again do you think?’
Rhodri was unfortunately a very honest mouse.
‘Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don’t. More often than not, they don’t.’
‘Thanks, you’re a great comfort,’ said Pedlar.
‘If I were you,’ said Rhodri, ‘I’d hie along to Frych-the-freckled and get her to magic it for you. She’s a very good shaman, you know. She can cultivate a really good spell sometimes that will leave your eyes watering.’
‘I don’t want my eyes watering, I want my tail back,’ complained Pedlar.
Nevertheless, he did go along to Frych later in the hour and asked her if she could do anything about the tip of his tail. She told him she could, but he had to believe she could. There followed a strange ceremony in which an ancient language was used and a lot of weaving and dancing was done around Pedlar’s inert body. He felt acutely embarrassed when Frych chanted poems at his tail. It was all he could do to prevent himself from bursting out laughing. That would never have done, though, for Frych-the-freckled was deadly serious about her sorcery.
When it was all over, Pedlar asked Frych what he could do in return.
‘You will discover opportunities to facilitate Frych before the epoch has incinerated itself.’
‘Will I?’ said Pedlar. ‘All right then. Thanks.’
For the next few hours he inspected his tail-tip, hoping for some sign of change, but eventually he forgot all about it and only remembered when someone else mentioned it.
CAERPHILLY
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nbsp; ‘ASSUNDOON! ASSUNDOON!’ THE BATTLE CRY OF THE Savage Tribe sounded shrilly over the kitchen floor tiles as house mice came hurtling out of their holes. Although it was night, moonlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating the racks of pots and pans, knives, the fine china in the Welsh dresser and the everyday crockery on the shelves.
‘Smash their nests!’ came back the answering cry from the invaders, the 13-K Gang. ‘Steal their young!’
This raid, this battle, all battles in the House, had as their root cause one thing, one single nutritious delicacy – cheese, oh cheese of inestimable worth! – which could always be found in the kitchen. Cheese was the salt, the truffles, the roasted humming-birds’ wings dipped in honey, the sheep’s eyeballs, the ducks’ tongues, the blowfish, the caviar of the mouse world. Its aroma was more mystical, more wonderful, than myrrh or frankincense. Its taste was sublime. Its many textures could be discussed by mice, young and old, for hours on end. A mouse would argue the merits of one cheese over another until old age crept upon him. A mouse would hold open debate on the best of the best cheeses. Heaven, they would proclaim from the corners of the skirting-board, was fields fashioned of hard cheese, with runny cheese fountains. Hell was a cheese-less land where only the occasional tantalizing whiff of a rotten cheese might drift around to torment its denizens. A mouse would die for cheese. A mouse would kill for cheese. Cheese was the ultimate food. The many-textured, many-coloured cheeses of the Earth were unequalled, with their multiple flavours, soft or hard, their characters, their personalities, their blue veins, their red rinds, their deeply pungent odours, their glorious, glorious differences.
It was for cheese that mice fought to the death.
One or two skirmishes began around the entrance to the kitchen from the woodshed on this account, but the main objective of the raiders was of course the pantry. It was to this point that defenders of the Savage Tribe rushed. Gorm-the-old, with a snarl on his terrible visage, went immediately to the forefront of the battle and sank his teeth into the flank of a 13-K warrior, causing that creature to scream in agony.
House of Tribes Page 8
