Astrid’s ‘battle-face’ was not pretty. She was most artistic at twisting her features into a mask of fury, which was intended to frighten her opponents. It did. It was the most terrifying vision Iban had ever witnessed. Her teeth were bared to the gums, her eyes were narrow slits of hatred, her nostrils were red and flared.
‘A – Astrid… I…’ he faltered.
Instantly the mask was replaced by a look of adoration. ‘Iban! Oh, Iban.’ She looked around her quickly, and then hissed fiercely, ‘Meet me on the pan shelf at midnight.’
Then she was gone before he could explain that Yo did not wish him to rediscover that enlightenment he had undergone the last time they had been together.
Iban hurried outside into the garden, where the harvest mice were hanging by their prehensile tails from bendy stalks of grass, dangling in front of the cracks in the woodshed wall. They were watching the battle going on inside. Iban could hear the shrill squeaking of Drenchie, the 13-K sidekick of Ulf, calling more warriors to her side to help her with the ferocious Thorkils Threelegs.
‘Bloodthirsty bunch,’ snapped Iban, jostling a grass stalk so that the resident harvest mouse had to grab at it with his claws to hang on.
Iban made his way cautiously through the jungle that was the back garden to the House. There were giant thistles on all sides, great purple-headed things covered in spikes, reaching up into the clouds. Iban was not used to the outdoors, though like all the Deathshead, he made this occasional pilgrimage to the home of Stone, the dormouse. The outdoors worried him. He liked the tight dark corners of small rooms. This world of blazing light was not to Iban’s liking at all.
He finally reached the hazel dormouse’s nest under the privy, knowing when he had come to the boundary of Stone’s territory by the fresh odour-line. He found Stone busying around, marking the extent of his territory with his urine.
‘Set yourself down, set yourself down,’ called the dormouse. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Iban found a spot in the shade of the privy where he felt relatively safe from whatever might swoop out of the sky and carry him off to kingdom come. Stone joined him a little while later, settling down beside him, curling his fluffy tail beneath his neat body.
Stone sighed, looking about him with a happy expression on his face. ‘Wonderful world isn’t it? Course, you house mice don’t know you’re living…’
‘I’m a yellow-neck,’ corrected Iban.
‘Yellow-neck, house mouse, what’s the difference when you’re stuck in that dusty old box? You should be out here, in the wild, eating proper food. Not that junk you get in there. Proper food. Fruit of the guelder rose, hawthorn, hazel and wild rose! That’s the stuff.’
‘If you say so,’ said Iban, unconvinced. ‘Personally, Stone, I think the outdoors is a pretty scary place. It makes me anxious. The stress would kill me within an hour.’
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said his larger companion. ‘You should try it before you make judgements. You’d soon get used to it. We have to get back to Nature, us mice. Show the rest of the creatures in this world what to do and where to go. Get some bark between your claws! Get some real soil in your creases! Thousands of nights ago, before the nudniks came to lead us astray, mice lived in unending grasslands… why they just stretched out for ever.’ His eyes became distant. ‘You wouldn’t have seen anything else, just waving grasses. And many different kinds. Dozens of varieties. Not just one or two, such as we get now. Dozens and dozens. Old grasslands. All sorts of seeds there were then. Gone now.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s sad that all those grasses have gone, but…’ All Iban knew was that he had been born and raised in the House. The House was all he had known, until he had decided to become a Deathshead. It was required of all Deathshead, even the followers of Yo, that they first learn everything there is to know, experience all things (the company of the opposite gender excluded); then, and only then – if they were followers of the god of Darkness and Ignorance – to try to forget it all.
One type of experience essential to a Deathshead was visits to the outside world. Iban had faithfully carried out this exercise, but he was not happy with what he had found. Whereas mice like Stone had quite the opposite view. Stone had visited the House once, and had announced his intention never to enter again.
‘Breathe that clean atmosphere!’ said the dormouse, filling his lungs with the garden’s air.
Iban, acutely aware of the proximity of the privy, thought the atmosphere anything but clean; especially since the privy was not emptied as often as it should have been, since it tended to be forgotten now that it was not the major bolt hole for nudniks in distress.
‘What about the pong?’ he said to Stone.
‘Country smells, country smells,’ said Stone in a satisfied sort of way. ‘Can’t live outdoors without a few whiffs of this and that.’
Iban let the subject drop. ‘The reason I came to see you,’ he said, ‘concerns a private matter. I need your advice.’
The dormouse wiped his whiskers with his paws. ‘Really? A spiritual warrior asking my opinion?’
Iban was very embarrassed. ‘Well, this is a worldly matter, you understand.’
‘Oh, well, speak on, speak on. Worldly matters are my forté. I know little about housely matters, you understand, but in worldly matters you are speaking to the expert.’
‘Well,’ continued Iban, ‘the thing is this – you know I’m dedicated to Yo and the path of darkness and ignorance?’
Even as he spoke, Iban distractedly bit into a stalk of something next to his ear.
The dormouse looked suitably sad. ‘Alas, yes, and you are unable – excuse me, please don’t chew on that campion, there are so few of them in the garden – if you’re hungry there’s plenty of herb robert over there. We’ve got herb robert growing out of our ears at present. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, you’re unable to forget all you know, who you are, and what you’re here for? Well, don’t worry Iban, these things will sort themselves out. I’m sure old Yo knows you’re trying very hard.’
Iban sighed and then blurted, ‘I’ve been affectionate with another mouse. I can’t say who.’
Stone blinked and shrugged. ‘All perfectly normal,’ he said in his old-mouse scholarly tone. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t need a female myself, of course, but can’t see any objection to other mice cuddling in the privacy of their own nests. Certainly as far as the environment is concerned, one should procreate when the urge is felt. The earth is a creative entity – it thrives on the production of new life, provided that life is organic, natural.’
Iban cried, ‘No, no, you don’t understand, because I’m a Deathshead I took vows of chastity.’
The dormouse nodded. ‘Ah, umm. See the point now. And I suppose you can’t stay away from the little temptress. Is that it?’
‘Exactly,’ sighed Iban. ‘My immortal soul is in agony.’
‘Mmmm,’ Stone considered. ‘In my experience the only way to get rid of one obsession is to find another that’s not quite as harmful.’
‘Like what?’ asked Iban.
Stone said, ‘To my mind, the one you already have is probably the least harmful. I mean, you could become obsessed with illness and death. Or with food and drink, like those ghastly cellar mice.’ He placed his fluffy tail over Iban’s back in a gesture of friendship. ‘Forget the state of your soul for a while. From what I know of Deathshead, a few smirches won’t do you much harm. There’s such a thing as too much purity, you know… you off then?’ called Stone, as Iban wandered away, back towards the House. ‘Be careful not to wade through any stitchwort, if you come across it. It’s becoming quite an unusual sight these hours…’
That night Iban fought a tremendous battle with himself – and lost. On the stroke of twelve, by the Great Clock in the hallway, he found himself amongst the copper-bottomed pans, waiting for Astrid to appear in the moonlight.
BOURSIN
The old and venerable I-kucheng, who might have be
en acknowledged as leader of the Deathshead, were they a hierarchical tribe, shuffled along the hallway past the Great Clock. Had he looked up at the Clock-face he might have recognized the eye of a female mouse of the Invisible Tribe, Hearallthings, peering out of the wind-up keyhole. Hearallthings, though she heard nothing, saw much, and was often a silent witness to events that occurred in the hallway. What she was witnessing now was the start of a peace mission.
Some few lengths behind I-kucheng came Skrang, her eyes on every nook and cranny they passed.
Suddenly a figure came dashing out of a niche in the woodwork below the stairs. Skrang darted forward, was on the intruder in a second, and had spun the creature off its feet with an Ik-to butt to the flank. Then, as the other mouse was lying on its back, legs in the air, she was instantly at its throat, threatening the exposed area with her bared teeth.
‘Don’t – don’t bite me,’ whispered the defeated mouse.
I-kucheng shuffled on, as usual unaware of the danger he had been in, saying over his shoulder, ‘Come, Skrang, we must speak to Gorm before the next hour…’
‘Why are you attacking my comrade?’ hissed Skrang to the supine figure on the floor.
‘That damned meddling judge,’ said the mouse. ‘He ruined my relationship with my family.’
‘His judgement is always wise, taking into consideration all aspects of any dispute.’
‘He’s a doddering old fool,’ snarled the mouse, ‘and he ought to be locked up somewhere.’
Skrang, having had this conversation many times before, and now weary of such exchanges, did not feel inclined to argue.
‘The next time I see you,’ she said, ‘I’ll tear your throat out, you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ said the mouse sullenly.
‘Dear me, dear me, we are going to be late,’ called I-kucheng over his shoulder. ‘Do hurry Skrang.’
Skrang let the mouse go and it dashed into the shadows of the hallway.
‘I’m coming,’ she said, wearily. ‘I’m following behind you, as always.’
‘Such an unsociable mouse,’ grumbled I-kucheng. ‘Never keeps me company properly. Always dawdling on behind…’
‘Stop muttering to yourself,’ said Skrang. ‘Mice will think you’re going senile.’
To get to the kitchen, their destination, they had to make a quick dash across a short corner of Eyeball’s living-room. Skrang had seen the cat being taken away in a carrying basket that morning, and knew she would return smelling like the medicine cupboard in the bathroom. She would be back – she always came back – but in the meantime the living-room was relatively safe. Spitz was in the parlour dozing and would not dare to enter Eyeball’s territory even during her absence. It was more than his life was worth to leave his ginger hairs on her cushions.
There were just two nudniks sitting drinking coffee, clinking their cups. They were chattering loudly, clacking their teeth together, making gestures with their free hands. There was a pink cloud of pong around them, sweet-smelling, flowery, but not at all to the taste of Skrang. One of them had something that looked like a squashed wastebin on its head. The other had a circle of coloured bones around its throat. Both were draped in bright curtains.
The two Deathshead squeezed under the kitchen door. A nudnik with thick-glassed spectacles was working at the kitchen sink. Occasionally it chased mice, when it saw them, so the two ambassadors of peace didn’t hang about. They quickly slipped behind the stove, where it was warm. Several Savage Tribe guards at once came running, ready to protect their territory.
‘It is I, I-kucheng, and my companion, Skrang.’
A sentry stared at them in the dim light and then waved his paws at the running guards.
‘False alarm. All’s well. Deathshead.’
Grumbling, the guards stopped in their tracks, then turned and went back to their warm nests. I-kucheng and Skrang were permitted to enter the kitchen. They headed straight for the nest of Gorm-the-old, who had heard the sentry’s shout. And by the time they had trekked behind the sink unit and dashed through the door to the boiler room, Gorm had roused his officers and called an Allthing.
‘To what do we owe this delightful visit?’ snarled Gorm. ‘The respected I-kucheng come to praise us for winning our most recent battle, has he?’
‘Certainly not,’ said I-kucheng, settling down before the council. ‘I don’t approve of war.’
‘I was being sarcastic,’ Gorm snapped.
‘Oh,’ said I-kucheng. ‘Wasted on me, Gorm. I should save it for those who can return it in kind.’
Gorm suggested, ‘Why don’t you just tell us why you’re here? We’re all waiting with bated breath.’
Ignoring the continued sarcasm, I-kucheng said in his infuriatingly calm voice, ‘The reason I’m here is because of the recent hostilities between the Savage Tribe and the 13-K. It’s got to stop, you know. There’s too much violence in the House. We’re just destroying each other. It’s bad enough that we have the two cats, an owl, a despotic rat and the nudnik Headhunter.’
Gorm shrugged his back. ‘We’ve always lived like that. We have to protect our own, or we’ll all starve.’
On his leader’s left, Elfwin said, ‘Gorm’s right. We have the bounteous larder. Everyone else in the House wants the larder. They can’t have it, so they send parties to raid it. We have to send out punitive retaliatory raids, or we’d be looked on as weak, and there would be more raids against us. It’s a vicious circle, I grant you I-kucheng, but I don’t see any solution. We have to remain at a constant state of war.’
Skrang drummed her tail angrily on the floor and stamped her feet. ‘You could decide to share what you have in the ever-full larder with the rest of the House, then everyone would be happy.’
Thorkils Threelegs snorted. He never sat high-nose when there were outsiders around, because he felt it emphasized the fact that he had a missing forelimb. It was his habit instead to crouch in a fighting position. This intimidated a lot of mice, but not Skrang.
‘What does that snort mean?’ she said. ‘You don’t approve of sharing?’
‘Damn stupid idea,’ said Thorkils. ‘Bloody idiotic.’
‘What he means,’ Gorm said, ‘is that there isn’t enough in the larder at any one time to go round. We know it looks a lot, and the divine larder’s never empty, but the fact is the nudniks eat most of what’s there. Then what they don’t eat, they give to the blasted cats and the dog. We do get a lot to eat in here, but it’s not enough to share around the House, and that’s a blasted fact – like it or lump it.’
Ketil, not regarded as one of the brightest of mice – even amongst the Savage Tribe who were renowned for fighting, but were considered a little short of the grey matter – sighed and said, ‘Yes, if we could get rid of the nudniks, the cats and dog would have to go too, and we’d have the measureless larder all to ourselves.’
Every eye in the Allthing swivelled round and stared at Ketil.
The little house mouse stared back at each one in turn and then said, ‘What? What did I say?’
‘You said,’ replied Gorm, ‘if we could get rid of the nudniks, the cats and dog would have to go too.’
‘So?’ squeaked Ketil, wondering if he had said something really moronic this time and would have to do extra guard duties. ‘So?’
Elfwin cried, ‘That’s brilliant!’
‘Is it?’ said the stunned Ketil, wondering whether or not he was being made fun of.
Gytha Finewhiskers added in an awed voice, ‘Not only the cats and the dog, but Little Prince and his master, the Headhunter. They’d all have to go, if the big nudniks went.’
Gorm took a deep breath. ‘What are we talking about here? I mean, let’s look at facts and figures. There’s five permanent nudniks in the House, right? Then the one with glass on its face that comes into the kitchen during the day…’
‘And don’t forget that every few days one more comes to use the sucking machine and wipe the shelves and stuff,’ said Sku
li.
‘That’s seven all together, isn’t it?’ said Gorm. ‘Astrid, is that seven…?’
‘Astrid’s not here,’ Elfwin interrupted. ‘I saw her near the pots-and-pans shelf earlier.’
Gorm muttered, ‘Never around when you want her these hours, that priestess. Doesn’t she know I called a tribal Allthing? Everyone’s supposed to be here.’ While the mental arithmetic was going on behind it, Gorm’s face was screwed up in concentration. ‘Well, I think that’s seven. Close enough, anyway.’
I-kucheng shook his head. ‘But this is unheard of. Never in all my hours have I heard of any house tribe managing to get rid of nudniks. They’re too big. They’re too stupid. I mean, they’re just like walking vegetables. What can you do with something of that size, which hasn’t the brain of a Brussels sprout? They just… are.’
‘The Headhunter isn’t stupid,’ said Thorkils, ‘that little maniac knows what he’s doing all right.’
‘The small ones do,’ replied Skrang, ‘but they seem to grow out of their brains.’
‘I’ve never heard of it happening,’ repeated I-kucheng. ‘Never in all my born hours. The nudniks have always been here, like great lumps of walking furniture. They fall and rise in numbers, even though they don’t ever seem to breed, but they’re always here.’
Skrang said, ‘I-kucheng is right. How would we get rid of the nudniks? It’s a dream.’
‘Damn pests, they are,’ growled Gorm, frustrated. ‘Pests! They don’t do anything except eat great dollops of food – masses of it in one swallow – and then lie around belching for the next hour.’
‘Sometimes they light up weeds and make smoke,’ suggested Ketil. ‘I made a nice nest out of one of the empty weed packets.’
‘Yes, we know all that,’ agreed Gorm with an impatient edge to his voice, ‘but do they ever do anything useful? Anything sensible? They don’t behave like proper animals at all. Not one of them marks its territory in any way, that’s how intelligent they are. They go into that little room near the big bedroom to urinate. What a waste of marking odour! Fancy chucking all that good wee down a white bowl…’
House of Tribes Page 11
