House of Tribes

by Garry Kilworth

  Timorous remained on the far shore. Even so he was quaking in fear. The only thing between death and himself was a stretch of water. Kellog needed the expanse of water to protect himself from his imaginary enemies, but at the same time he could not swim across it swiftly enough to catch a mouse on the far side.

  ‘When are you going to give me Goingdownfast?’ growled Kellog.

  ‘Soon,’ said Timorous. ‘I’ll have him for you soon. You must understand I have to get his trust back. We were enemies once and I have to wheedle my way back into his good graces, before he’ll trust me enough to come with me. It takes time and patience…’

  ‘I’m not a patient rodent,’ grumbled Kellog. ‘I want his eyes and liver. Why don’t you just show me where his nest is hidden? I can do the rest.’

  ‘He – he moves. Even I don’t know from one moment to the next where he’ll be. My plan is best, I assure you, Kellog. We’ll get him out in the open, away from all bolt holes, and then you can pounce. If you can just hang on, I’m getting closer to him every hour.’

  ‘Good. Well, it had better be soon, or I may have to settle for your eyes and liver instead.’

  Timorous hurried away, glad to be out of range of the sight and smell of the great rat whose sheer malevolence was enough to clog the air around the water tank, even without the musty odour of his unkempt coat.

  Timorous made his way to the nest of Goingdownfast and Nonsensical. It was cleverly hidden in the wedge between two rafters, camouflaged on the outside with wood shavings that had been aged, so that it looked like a piece of timber itself. Timorous called in a low voice.

  ‘Goingdownfast – it’s me – Timorous. I’ve come to say how sorry I am for all those times I’ve caused you upset… are you there, Goingdownfast?’

  ‘What do you really want?’ called Goingdownfast, in a not too friendly voice.

  Then Nonsensical’s voice cut in with, ‘Oh, come on, let’s hear what he has to say. It can’t do any harm, can it?’

  ‘Why’s he keep coming around here?’ grumbled Goingdownfast.

  ‘Because he’s sorry, I suppose. Come on in Timorous,’ called Nonsensical. ‘Come inside.’

  Timorous did as he was invited.

  While Timorous was busy apologizing to Goingdownfast for all the times he had been nasty to him, another mouse hurried by the entrance to the nest. She did not glance in because she did not see through the nest’s disguise and being deaf she was unable to hear them talking. Her name was in fact Hearallthings and she was on her way to the Clock in the hall.

  Hearallthings was the only mouse in the House who enjoyed being inside the Clock. She had in fact been born in there, when her very pregnant mother had used the Clock as a bolt hole to escape Eyeball one night. The shadow-coloured blue had been waiting in the corner-darkness of the cupboard-under and had ambushed three mice on their way along the hall. Hearallthings’ mother had been the only one to get away and she subsequently gave birth on the last stroke of midnight to seven little ones. Unfortunately, when she eventually ferried them out of the Clock, to the attics, she forgot Hearallthings, and left her behind. When mother eventually counted her young and realized to her horror that one was missing, Hearallthings was by that time as deaf as a post, from being left next to the Clock’s chimer.

  Now, Hearallthings needed her regular visits to the Clock. She got in the back and climbed up the chains, into the works, where the smell of oil was like perfume to her. There, amongst the ratchets and wheels, the cogs and levers and springs, she lay on the chimer shelf waiting for noon to happen. When it did, of course, she heard nothing, but the tremblings went through her as the whole case of the Clock vibrated. She loved those tremblings, was addicted to them, and would have risked worse than death to experience them when the need was upon her.

  So far Hearallthings had played but a very minor role in the Drive. Since she was deaf, she lived in a different world from the rest of the mice. Her world was a place of silence, where reality was lightly shaded in. Although she could lip- and body-read, Hearallthings was mostly isolated by her condition: a lonely mouse whom few approached for any kind of contact. However, she was soon to play a big part in the Great Nudnik Drive and become the heroine of the hour.

  GRUYÈRE

  IMPRESSIVE AS THE DEMONSTRATION WAS, THE MAGIC DID not work. The nudniks’ ears did not shrivel, their heads did not swivel on their necks and they continued with their bovine existence in the House without a pause.

  The library mice found another book, one with pictures of nudniks travelling in containers over water, and they decided that this must be the magic book for sending nudniks on long voyages into an Unknown whence they could never return. So Iago ate some of the book and came up with this very awe-inspiring spell:

  ‘The ability to establish a line of position by observation of a celestial body is based on the fundamental fact that, for any given instant of time, the altitude and azimuth of a celestial body in relation to the horizon of any assumed position of latitude can be calculated using formulas and tables made available to the mariner by the astronomer.’

  After Iago had finished this wonderful piece of rhetoric the mice expected the nudniks to vanish over the said horizon. How could such complicated magic go unheeded? But, as with the magic of Gruffydd Greentooth, nothing untoward happened.

  ‘Time to bring in Ulug Beg!’ went up the cry.

  Thus the great balancer, Fallingoffthings, was to be found at any moment of the hour limbering up and generally exercising her legs, making them supple, toning up her muscles. Other mice would stand and watch as Fallingoffthings turned her head, this way and that, getting out the cricks, making ready the shoulders that would carry Ulug Beg along the clothesline, high above the jungled garden.

  Since Merciful’s hole had to be used to reach the washing line which ran from the wall of the House to the abandoned treehouse where Ulug Beg had his monastic retreat, the mice had to wait until evening when the little owl would take to her wings and fly out into the purpling sky to hunt.

  Once she was Outside they gave her a good length of time to get away from the House, for Fallingoffthings would be extremely vulnerable out on the washing line. Indeed, there was no guarantee of protection from other predators either. Who was to say that a barn or tawny owl would not fly past just as Fallingoffthings made her precarious passage along the tightrope?

  Finally the time came for Fallingoffthings to nod briskly to those around her and set off. Once the mice had seen her go through Merciful’s hole, they all rushed to the side of the attic on which the line ran. From there they could look through cracks in the weatherboarding, at their heroine crossing the quiet evening on nothing but a slim piece of rope. Some watched the mouse as she stepped out on to the swaying line, while other eyes searched the skies for signs of winged death.

  Since the cracks in the weatherboarding were few and the mice were many, those with a view described what they saw to those without.

  ‘She’s on the line now – uh, uh, it’s swaying, she’s wobbling – no, she’s all right – she’s running now – yes, you should see her! Oh, and she’s there!’

  Fallingoffthings then disappeared into the ramshackle treehouse which some young nudnik had once used, but which had fallen into disrepair and neglect over the past several summers.

  Fallingoffthings was in the treehouse for a very long time, before she emerged, alone. She began the journey back along the swaying line to the House. The speculation was rife.

  ‘Ulug Beg is ill.’

  ‘Ulug Beg is close to death.’

  ‘Ulug Beg is dead and riddled with maggots.’

  ‘He won’t come,’ said Fallingoffthings breathlessly to Gorm-the-old. ‘Says he’s too old to go traipsing along washing lines on the backs of whippersnappers.’

  ‘What’s a whippersnapper?’ growled Gorm.

  ‘Me, I think.’

  There was an emergency Allthing called on the spot and it was decided that another mouse shou
ld go over with Fallingoffthings. Ideally, said Frych-the-freckled, it should be Gorm, who had met Ulug Beg in his younger nights before he was leader of the kitchen mice.

  ‘If he’s too old, I’m too damned old,’ growled Gorm. ‘And I’m too heavy to carry anyway.’

  ‘Send Thorkils Threelegs,’ yelled some joker outside the circle of leaders. ‘He’s got nimble feet.’

  This suggestion was ignored by all except Thorkils himself, who wanted to root out the joker and sever his jugular. Instead, Gorm suggested that someone familiar with the outside world should go: someone more in tune with Ulug Beg’s way of thinking. Someone who had recently been a Hedgerow mouse would be ideal, suggested Gorm casually.

  ‘What’s-his-name?’ growled Gorm, as if searching his mind for the name. The vagrant.’

  ‘Pedlar, you mean?’ bellowed Whispersoft.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Gorm with an innocent expression on his face. ‘Yes, that fellow Pedlar. Good at charming other mice, isn’t he? So I’ve heard, anyway. Good at wheedling himself into their good books. Surely he’s the right mouse for the job? He should be able to persuade Ulug Beg to come over here, if anyone can. I’ve heard that this Pedlar can con most mice to do anything – especially females.’

  ‘Ulug Beg’s a buck,’ replied Frych.

  ‘Yes, well, same principle,’ growled Gorm in a satisfied tone. ‘Same principle. Let’s see if this Pedlar is as good at balancing as he is at smarming.’

  ‘And if he falls off?’ asked Frych.

  ‘Nothing really lost,’ said Gorm, cleaning between his incisor teeth with his nail. ‘We’ll get someone else to go. I mean, it’ll be a great shame of course, and we’ll all be devastated, but the good of the cause comes first, you know. Patriotic duty and all that. Should think the fellow will jump at the chance.’

  Pedlar did not exactly jump at the chance to cross the washing line. He stared out through one of the cracks in the weatherboard and his eyes grew large and round. Still, he was a mouse – a Hedgerow mouse – and as such had done his share of balancing in his time. Usually there had been a network of twigs or corn stalks to stop him from falling too far and it had to be admitted the washing line was a long way up. But, he told himself, it didn’t matter whether the line was ten or twenty or a hundred-thousand lengths high. If you fell, you fell, and you might as well say goodbye world.

  ‘All right, I’m ready,’ he told Fallingoffthings. ‘You lead the way.’

  The sun had now gone down and the moon was out. Fallingoffthings went through Merciful’s hole and scrambled into the gutter. Pedlar did the same. The pair of them scuttled through the dead leaves gathering there, their tails sliding over the damp mush.

  When they reached the washing line tied to the drainpipe, Pedlar’s heart was knocking on his ribs.

  ‘This is it then,’ he said.

  ‘Now, don’t panic,’ said his companion. ‘Simply think of something else, something pleasant, and forget the drop. It’s all in the tip of the tail, Pedlar. That’s my secret. I’m really no better at balancing than any other mouse. The tip of the tail.’

  She waved her tail like a magic balancing whip.

  ‘I haven’t got a tip to my tail,’ groaned Pedlar.

  ‘Everyone’s got a tip to their tail, even creatures without tails – even nudniks – it’s not to do with the body, it’s to do with the mind.’

  ‘Right,’ Pedlar said, unconvinced. ‘Remember the tip of my tail and forget the drop.’

  ‘Forget everything to do with balancing. Just think of Treadlightly. Picture her beautiful face with its long silky whiskers.’

  ‘But if I don’t concentrate, I’ll fall.’

  ‘You won’t fall. Just do as I say.’

  Fallingoffthings went out on to the line first. Pedlar hesitated just a moment and then stepped out after her. There was a suppressed gasp from inside the House, behind the weatherboard, as the line began to sway dangerously.

  ‘Don’t look up or down,’ said Fallingoffthings calmly. ‘Don’t look at anything except the treehouse. Now tell me, where did you first meet Treadlightly?’

  They were moving along the line now and Pedlar’s limbs were beginning to tremble.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Keep moving, don’t stop – I said, where did you first meet Treadlightly? Did you fall – er – that is, were you attracted to each other straightaway?’

  ‘No – no, well, yes I suppose we did. She was with yooouuu…’

  The line was obviously slacker in the middle than at the ends and the swaying was quite dramatic now that they had reached the midway point.

  ‘Keep moving!’ said Fallingoffthings sharply. ‘Now, would you say Treadlightly threw herself at you?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Pedlar indignantly, almost unaware that his feet were still moving. ‘She was attracted to me, naturally – well, not naturally,’ he corrected, aware that this sounded very immodest, ‘I mean, we were naturally suited to one another. I was just as keen on her. I simply didn’t know it until we managed to be alone together.’

  The moon was a big round ball in the branches of the tree, caught there after rolling up the sky. Pedlar marvelled at how little it had changed since he’d last seen it. When he had been in the Hedgerow he had often stared up at the benign mellow object, wondering how it changed shape, why it changed shape. The moon was an old friend. It refused to be disentangled by the breeze that was trying to blow it out of the network of branches in the semi-bare autumn tree. Around him, the rest of the night was full of sounds – of foxes, birds and hedgehogs, of stoats and weasels, of mice and nudniks.

  ‘We’re there!’ said Fallingoffthings. ‘Well done.’

  Pedlar looked at his feet and found he was standing on the edge of a piece of wood. He was on the platform which held the house in the tree. The wood was rotten, there was the smell of decay about it, but it was certainly strong enough to hold a mouse.

  The treehouse in close-up did not inspire Pedlar with confidence. It was dark and gloomy and had a malevolent air about it. Normally he would not come within a double ditch of such a place.

  Fallingoffthings had gone inside, entering through one of the many holes in the clapboard wall.

  Pedlar followed her.

  If the outside of the structure was worrying, the inside was even worse. The autumn leaves had collected in great heaps on the rotten planks of the platform floor. There were spiders’ webs running in vast shrouds throughout the interior, and a multitude of bugs crawled and scampered over the twigs and other debris that had fallen through holes in the roof.

  Pedlar stood for a while and allowed his eyes to become used to the gloom. He could see Fallingoffthings standing high-nose near a corner of the room. After a while, when the splash of moonbeams on the floor was no longer so distracting, Pedlar could discern a huddled shape in the corner.

  If he had been alone, Pedlar would probably have run from the place, thinking he had encountered some hellish creature from the Otherworld. What he saw was hardly recognizable as a mouse. It was a shrivelled, wrinkled thing, with skin that rolled in creases the whole short length of its body: a sort of dark-dirty-grey colour. The eyes were rheumy around the rims, though bright and intense enough in the centre. The whiskers hung lank and almost seemed to form a straggly beard, such as the one Pedlar had seen on the face of the old nudnik who used the library so much. There was a tail, such as it was: a knobbly thread of a thing that trailed in the dirt behind the old mouse.

  ‘This is Ulug Beg,’ said Fallingoffthings. ‘One of the oldest mice in existence.’

  ‘The oldest mouse in existence,’ rumbled a husky voice. ‘If you know of another one, say so.’

  ‘I – I don’t think I’ve ever seen any creature as old as you,’ confessed Pedlar. ‘Even a nudnik.’

  ‘Oh, there are no nudniks older than me,’ corrected the heap of bones and fur in the corner.

  ‘You must know a lot of things,�
� gulped Pedlar. ‘You must have seen a great deal in your life.’

  ‘I know everything,’ remarked the old mouse. ‘Everything worth knowing that is. If there’s something I don’t know, you can forget it, give it a miss. There’s knowledge and then there’s trivia. I don’t need to concern myself with trivia.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you don’t,’ said Pedlar.

  ‘Now,’ rumbled Ulug Beg, ‘this is very nice and all that – a visit from the outside world – but as you will have gathered I’m a recluse, an eremite, a hermit. And I want to stay that way. This fellow told me something about chasing nudniks out of the House, but I’m much too old to go traipsing over washing lines now.’

  ‘Excuse me, Ulug Beg,’ said Pedlar, ‘but I don’t think you realize the seriousness of the problem. You see, the mice were always at war…’

  ‘Always have been in that House,’ grumbled Ulug Beg.

  ‘Yes, well we’ve put a stop to it. What we want to do next is drive out the nudniks and their pets – they eat such vast quantities of food – and having done that there should be enough food for all, without having to fight for it. Now I’m not really one of the House mice – I’m from the Hedgerow and have only recently come among them – but I can see the sense in what they’re doing.’

  ‘Can you now. Can you now. Well, there seems to be something wrong to me – some part of the equation which has got a little disjointed. However, I’ll grant you on the surface it seems a good plan. Who devised it?’

  ‘Gorm-the-old.’

  ‘That young whippersnapper? There’s bound to be something wrong with it then. I’ll put my mind to that problem. However, you seem extremely anxious to get rid of the nudniks, or you wouldn’t have bothered me. I like to be left alone, you know.’

  Pedlar said, ‘I can understand that. When I lived in the Hedgerow I was content enough, but since I moved into the House I find that sometimes – well, it just stifles me. There are mice everywhere.’