House of Tribes

by Garry Kilworth

  ‘SHUT UP!’ shouted Pedlar.

  Little Prince blinked with his pink-rimmed eyes and cried in his peculiar sing-song voice.

  ‘Don’t you like talking to me, mouse with the savoury flesh? Do I bother you, sweetheart? Can I suck the marrow from your broken bones, when you are dead and boiled in brine? Can I? Can I? Can I lick your skull clean of its brain, and pick with my teeth between your toes? Can I?’

  ‘You’re disgusting,’ said Pedlar in contempt, and turned away from the white mouse to contemplate the wall.

  The next time Little Prince spoke, his voice had a semblance of normality. ‘I’ve been here a long time,’ he said. ‘All my life. I’ve lived in this cage since goodness knows when. Probably I was born here. My name is Little Prince but I’m an emperor of my domain. I rule over the captives in their cages. You have to obey me, you know. You have to be nice to me. My master won’t kill you until he sees me looking at you and licking my pink lips with my pink little tongue. Then he’ll stick pins through your eyes, into your brain, and boil you in brine. That’s because he knows I want to eat you. He enjoys watching me gobble the flesh of my own kind. He’s like that.’

  Pedlar said wearily, ‘Don’t you ever get tired of listening to yourself?’

  ‘Yes, all the time. That’s why I want you to listen to me. I’ll let you live a little longer if you’ll do that.’

  Pedlar sighed heavily, turning round, ‘What is it you want to say?’

  ‘Anything and everything,’ cried the Little Prince brightly. ‘Let’s play a game. I’ll think of something nice to eat and you have to guess what it is. All right? Go.’

  ‘Cheese,’ said Pedlar.

  ‘Nooooo!’ said Little Prince.

  ‘Cake.’

  ‘Nooooooooo! I’ll give you a clue. It’s the nicest nicest sweetmeat in all the world.’

  ‘A mouse,’ growled Pedlar.

  ‘Something specific.’

  ‘A mouse’s heart.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ cried Little Prince, delighted. ‘How did you guess so soon? You are a clever dirty little mouse. I like to save that bit for last, because it’s so soft and sweet, isn’t it? Shall we play another game?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Pedlar, ‘the sooner I die the better for me. Anything, even a slow death, would be better than lying here listening to your drivel. It’s the worst torture I’ve ever heard of in my life.’

  ‘That’s very hurtful,’ said Little Prince in a chastising tone. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, you nasty creature? I would be. I think I have a lovely voice. I speak with the notes of a song thrush. You should be happy that I’m making your last moments so beautiful. How can you complain, you sweetmeaty little mouse, you?’

  Pedlar groaned and turned again to the wall. You are the One who will walk with the many, he thought. Was this it, then? He was the One and the mice already eaten by Little Prince were the many whom he was about to join? For all their augury, for all their urgency, the ancestral voices had brought him to a dreadful end in a foreign place.

  PFEFFER KRANZ

  ‘I SEE A SMALL CHANGE IN THE PATTERNS OF LIGHT by that rafter. Ferocious, is that you?’ said a bodiless voice.

  ‘Yes – who’s that?’

  ‘It’s me, Fallingoffthings. I’m just on my way to the far side of the attic.’

  ‘Where are you, by the old stuffed chair?’ asked Ferocious.

  ‘No, near the broken clock.’

  ‘Still can’t see you. Never mind, catch you later, Fallingoffthings. I’m off to look for food.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  The two mice, members of the Invisible Tribe, parted silently, without actually seeing one another.

  The Invisibles were actually wood mice, with large rounded ears and large eyes. Bigger than a house mouse, but smaller than a yellow-neck, the wood mice Invisibles lived most of their life in the dark. They liked the dark. The attics were ideal for their nocturnal style of existence. They used their smell and hearing far more than other senses, yet they were able to distinguish shapes in the darkness where other mice would have seen nothing. Their gift from the Creator was in the nature of evaporation. Even when they were known to be there, allowed themselves to be evident, they appeared to be insubstantial, a piece of visible darkness. They were the velvet phantoms of the House and respected even by Gorm for their evanescence.

  Like Pedlar and his yellow-necked race, wood mice normally lived in woods and hedgerows, gardens and fields – they are also called long-tailed fieldmice – but sometimes they move into the giant snail shells alongside the nudniks. This is what had occurred with the original great-great-grandparents of the Invisibles, who came into the House to escape a particularly freezing winter – the worst for many nights – and founded their tribe. When spring came round again, many were reluctant to go back to the wild, since they had been born in the attic.

  There were essentially three attics: a roofspace sectioned off into three areas. The mice stayed mainly in the middle attic, though they occasionally spilled over into Merciful’s attic on one side, and Kellog’s on the other, depending on their number.

  The middle attic was a jungle of junk. There were trunks, boxes full of old clothes, artefacts ranging through a dressmaker’s dummy, photograph albums, suitcases, discarded furniture to bottles and broken toys. The Invisibles loved it, for it enabled them to move around from one hiding place to another.

  Mouselore said that the great Creator made junk first, and then the nudniks gradually spoiled things by turning each bit into something useful. But the attic held pure, unadulterated junk, straight from the hands of the Maker. It was brilliant for nests.

  Whispersoft had his in the bell of a battered trombone which hung from a nail in a rafter; Timorous’s nest was deep in the heart of a sea chest; a lacrosse racquet made a swaying hammock for the nest of Miserable; the wonderful balancer Fallingoffthings went through the ear of a diver’s helmet to reach the only mouse home with a picture window.

  Yes, it was a wonderful varied landscape in which the tribe of the Invisibles lived and died.

  Tribe it was, though not often called such: most mice simply referred to them as ‘the Invisibles’. They followed cryptic ways, secret paths, and the mystic silence of their approach and departure was renowned throughout the House. In the whole history of their existence as a colony, not one had been caught by either Spitz or Eyeball. Only Merciful, the owl, had ever actually eaten any of the adult Invisibles, though Kellog often stole babies from their nests. Owls are known for their Silent Killing, so it was a case of Silence meets silence, with the former carrying deadly blades and hooks about its person.

  Merciful swooped with never a whisper or a sigh, her thick, soft plumage ensuring a noiseless flight. She was an excellent and pitiless hunter, with a deadly accurate eye. Once marked, the prey was doomed, unless a place of safety was an instant away. Merciful’s beak and talons could open up a mouse quicker than the time it took to blink. Even Kellog was frightened of Merciful. Fortunately Merciful did not rely on the attic for her source of food, but went out into the wilderness at night to do her hunting. However, she was ever hungry and only the very cleverest of the Invisibles grew to adulthood in her domain.

  It was the strange habit of the Invisibles – none knew why, nor cared much – to name creatures contrary to their natures. Thus the mouse that spoke loudly was called Whispersoft, the brilliant swimmer went by the name of Goingdownfast, the agile balancer answered to Fallingoffthings, the most timid of them was hailed by the name Ferocious, and the noisiest of the group (though quiet in comparison to the mice of other tribes) was a yellow-neck who had been given the title of Treadlightly.

  Merciful had been named by the Invisibles on first entering the attic from the outside world. There had been strong lobbies for the names Compassionate and Kindly, but Merciful was the name which finally won over all others. Kellog, of course, was a rodent who spoke the language of all rodents and he was quick to inform everyone that he alr
eady had a name and wouldn’t look kindly on any creature giving him another one. Kellog was certainly not one from whom individuals hoped for a kindly look.

  Kellog’s main opponent amongst the Invisibles was Goingdownfast. Kellog’s nest bridged the gap between the outer wall and the water tank, and Goingdownfast liked to swim backwards and forwards across the tank when its custodian was absent. Kellog had sworn to kill this brave wood mouse, but had thus far been unable to catch him.

  One of the reasons why Kellog made his nest on the edge of the tank was so that he could control the water supply for the whole attic. Those who wished to drink at the waterhole while Kellog was present had to fall under the eye of the rat. Those in his disfavour had to wait until he was out on one of his trips around the House, before they quenched their thirst. Mice do not often need to drink, but it was galling to have to await someone else’s pleasure when they did want to. Goingdownfast could never drink while Kellog was at home and this incensed the great swimmer beyond endurance.

  At about the same time as Pedlar’s ears were being assaulted by the syrupy-sick tones of Little Prince, Goingdownfast was swimming across the water tank, his determined eyes just above the waterline, his nose taking in quick breaths of air. Beneath the surface his legs were kicking furiously, driving him forward over the wide stretch of water.

  Until now, Goingdownfast had been content to leave signs around Kellog’s nest: signs that showed he had simply been there, to irritate the brute and let him know he wasn’t invincible. A piece of cotton out of place – a button planted in the centre of the nest – things like that. However, Kellog had recently ravaged the nest of Goingdownfast and his mate, Nonsensical, and Goingdownfast wanted revenge. Goingdownfast knew he would have to keep the location of his own new nest a secret, for Kellog was going to be absolutely furious when he came home.

  It was dark and still in the middle of the tank, and Goingdownfast made hardly a ripple on the dusty surface of the water. His large keen eyes took in any small movement around the edges: spiders, insects and even floating dust motes. He did not want to be caught on Kellog’s territory. Kellog, being a ship rat, was of course an excellent swimmer.

  He reached the other side of the tank and climbed out. He could smell the offensive reek of Kellog’s nest. It wafted down – a kind of stale musty odour – to assail the nostrils. He wrinkled his nose and twitched his whiskers as he shook off the droplets of water from his coat. Then he fastidiously wiped his face clear of water using his paws, before he regarded the target of his attack.

  So! Kellog thought he could wreck the nest of an Invisible with impunity did he?

  The rat’s nest was fashioned along the same lines as a squirrel’s drey: spherical in shape with a single entrance hole. It was a great hollow ball made of strips of cardboard, rubber, electrical wiring, string, old felt, paper, cloth and slivers of wood. Anything, in fact, that Kellog had been able to pick up or tear loose. Decorating the south-facing wall was a beautiful red silk ribbon, incongruous with the rest of the dark, foreboding fortress. Had Kellog been in the wild, the nest would have been made of twigs and grass, but there were no such building materials to be had in the attics.

  Goingdownfast shivered as he stared at the black entrance hole, glad that he had observed Kellog leaving the nest that morning. It would have been fatal to have begun knocking the nest about, only to have its occupier emerge from that black hole. Just the thought made the mouse shiver.

  ‘So – to work!’

  He began pulling out the various strands of wire and string which held the nest together, getting them in his teeth and tugging hard until they came away from the main frame. It was hard work because Kellog was a good weaver and had entwined the strands very tightly in the construction of his home.

  Soon, however, Goingdownfast was tearing bits of dry paper away from the edges. Cardboard strips came off with a few determined tugs. The nest began to sag in a very satisfactory fashion. Its rounded bulging shape started to look decidedly oval, then flattish, until finally it collapsed.

  Goingdownfast, gulping for breath with the exertion of the task, stepped back and admired his destructive handiwork.

  ‘Saboteur!’ he congratulated himself.

  His was the artistry of the guerrilla, the freedom fighter. He could hit and run as well as any roof rat! Sneak in, devastate, sneak out. That was the method. Do it quietly, but do it effectively.

  His work done, Goingdownfast claimed the rat’s red ribbon as his trophy, put it in his mouth and slipped back into the cool waters of the tank. He swam silently back across its dusty surface. The whisper of spiders was louder than his strokes. The murmur of beetles was noisy in comparison. He reached the other side and climbed, dripping, out on to the edge. A brief shake of his coat and he was gone, in amongst the shadows, moving like a black ghost along the floorbeams.

  When he reached his brand new nest, tucked in the cab of a toy tin truck, he first of all quietly hid his silken trophy under its base. Then he went inside where his own Nonsensical was waiting to hear the news.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked him.

  ‘Right as a joist,’ he said, slipping his wet form in beside hers. ‘You should have been there.’

  ‘I would have been, if I could swim as well as you,’ she said, ‘but none of the Invisibles can do that.’ She added proudly, ‘You’re the best swimmer in the tribe.’

  ‘Oh, I’m just lucky to have the gift,’ he said, modestly. The nest was warm and smelt good. A comfortable feeling came over him, of drowsiness mingled with satisfaction. It had been a good hour’s work, one that would be remembered in tribal legends for some time to come. ‘Did I ever tell you youngsters, about the time long ago, many, many hours in the past, when a brave mouse called Goingdownfast destroyed the evil roof rat’s nest? Well this is how it happened…’

  MASCARPONE

  Kellog crouched on a beam, his black back hunched almost in a perfect arch. He had just eaten of some apples stored in the garden shed. The tribute he collected from the Savage Tribe was not enough to satisfy his hunger fully, though he could have survived on it if the necessity arose.

  Kellog and Tunneller had the House sandwiched between them, he at the top where he knew he belonged, and she at the very bottom. They both collected dues and therefore Kellog saw themselves as very much alike, though the mice would have pointed out that with Tunneller, you were getting a right of passage for your payment. Kellog would have countered with the argument that the mice were receiving something: the right to live.

  The Savage Tribe were the ones to pay him the tribute simply because they were the only tribe that had food to give. The others were as poor as church mice and Kellog simply could not be bothered to collect their dried crusts or book chewings.

  Thus, having travelled what was always a hazardous journey from the attics to the garden, using Merciful’s hole to get out and descend down the rough-cast wall cladding, then returning by the same way, Kellog felt he was entitled to a rest.

  He took a calculated risk using the owl’s hole, even at a safe time of night: Merciful would have ripped his throat open if she had caught him at it. But Kellog was waxing arrogant in his later nights and the older he grew the more imperious he became. It was to do with his status in the House, as the unassailable one, whose great, dark nest was feared by every mouse in the House. In that motley collection of attic debris he lived as the dread lord whose shape was terror to everyone from the leaders of tribes down to every mother’s smallest infant.

  For himself, Kellog feared little. He was afraid of the owl, it was true, but as long as he was cautious at dusk and dawn, the unsafe twilights, he would never be caught out. He was concerned about the nudniks, but he was very careful never to be seen by them, remaining between walls, beneath floorboards. He was worried by the cats, whose territories he never entered.

  The only thing he was really terrified of was being rhymed to death. All rats, everywhere, are fearful of being rhymed to death
by a clever rhymer. Even a wheel rat – fashioned from a dozen ordinary rats who have knotted their tails to form an invincible ring – even the twelve-hearted, twelve-headed wheel rat feared the rhymer.

  Kellog had heard, and knew it to be true, that a rat would stiffen to immobility, his mouth would fall wide open, his eyes would glaze over and his heart would stop, on hearing relentless rhymes of which the rat himself was the subject:

  Fie, rat, fie

  Thou must die.

  Stiffen back,

  Jaws fall slack,

  Eyes do start,

  Stop, thy heart.

  Spoken aloud, in front of him, this kind of rhyme would kill Kellog stone dead. Yet he had little to fear because no mouse knew of this vulnerability in rats and in any case none of the attic mice were clever enough to make killer rhymes. They didn’t have the ear for rhythm or rhyme. They knew nothing of metre and could not scan. They were poem deaf, so to speak, and unmelodic.

  The library mice were capable, of course, but this was why Kellog stayed well clear of the library. They’d once had an ace versifier among their number – Snurb-the-rhymer – but one fine night he’d left their cosy quarters, succumbing to the urge to become a real poet that wanders lonely o’er hill and dale. Kellog had never stopped rejoicing.

  One night, when the time came, Kellog would drive the Bookeaters from the House, in case his secret weakness was ever discovered. Until then, if ever he heard of another mouse who could rhyme, why, he told himself, he would rush upon the creature and kill it before it could speak a word.

  In his wakeful fancy he saw himself doing this act of great courage, but he was sometimes aroused from a deep sleep by terror, soaked in sweat, having dreamed that the mouse kept on speaking, even with a broken neck, and rhyming its deadly rhymes so very, very cleverly.