House of Tribes

by Garry Kilworth

  Kellog called softly, ‘If you dare to drink while I am in residence, you do so at your peril, mouse.’

  Timorous had paused on the edge of the water tank, on the far side of the reservoir. ‘I didn’t come to drink, I came to talk,’ he replied, looking behind him nervously.

  ‘Why do you look over your shoulder? Is someone with you?’

  ‘No,’ said Timorous. ‘I want to make sure I wasn’t followed.’

  This promised to be an interesting meeting. Kellog did not normally live a very interesting life. He ate, he slept, he prowled the House, but rarely anything happened which was out of the ordinary, except that his nest got wrecked by cowardly mice while he was doing these ordinary things. A mouse who wished to speak to him in private, who was afraid of being overheard, now that was interesting.

  ‘Swim over the tank,’ Kellog said. ‘I want you on this side.’

  Timorous hesitated, seemingly afraid.

  ‘Come on,’ said the big roof rat. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Do you promise?’ asked Timorous.

  Kellog said, ‘I promise,’ then under his breath he added, ‘for what it’s worth.’

  After another short period of indecision Timorous finally entered the water and swam across, his back and the top of his head shining with wetness. He climbed out the other side and approached Kellog.

  The mouse stared at the rat, aware of the immensity of the beast: the great humped back, covered in coarse dark hair; the thick snaking tail; the great head embedded with piercing eyes, and the mouth with its large teeth. The mouse shuddered from head to foot, recalling the atrocities perpetrated by this giant.

  ‘Hello Kellog,’ Timorous said.

  ‘What else do you have to say before I kill you,’ snarled Kellog. ‘Quickly now.’

  ‘You – you promised!’ said Timorous in dismay.

  ‘Promised?’ the rat’s eyes glittered. ‘Do you think I need to honour such a promise? I’m a roof rat, you’re a wood mouse. Do roof rats take any note of wood mice?’

  ‘Not as such,’ breathed Timorous, ‘but if they bring you something worthwhile, then they might.’

  ‘What is it that you’ve brought?’ asked Kellog. ‘I can take it anyway, whatever it is.’

  ‘Not this you can’t,’ replied Timorous quickly, ‘because it’s in my head.’

  ‘I’ll crack your skull open and suck it out!’

  ‘It’s a plan. By in my head, I mean in my thoughts. You can’t learn a plan unless I tell it to you. Listen to this – “My enemy’s enemy is my friend” – do you understand that? It’s an old saying. I’m your enemy’s enemy, therefore I must be your friend…’

  That phrase Timorous had used sounded a bit too much like poetry for Kellog’s liking but to his credit he didn’t flinch. Poetry was a killer in the wrong mouth but this visiting mouse didn’t look like he could trim his own coat, never mind rhyme a rat to death. So Kellog decided on the confrontational approach that came naturally to him.

  ‘What is this? A lecture?

  Timorous shifted his feet, going high-nose. ‘No, no. Not a lecture. A gift. The gift of a perfect plan for catching Goingdownfast.’

  A plan for catching Goingdownfast? Now that was something quite different. Kellog became even more interested. His great head moved in the darkness of his nest.

  ‘You mean you’re turning traitor?’ he said softly. ‘Betraying your own kind?’

  ‘Not turning traitor,’ Timorous cried, vehemently. ‘You can only betray your friends. This – this creature that I give you has humiliated me too many times, has stolen the mate I wished to have for myself, has usurped my position in the tribe. Goingdownfast is no friend of mine.’

  ‘So I hear, so I hear. Go on.’

  Timorous’s voice became a little calmer. ‘You hate Goingdownfast for your own reasons, as he hates you, but you can’t catch him. I can give him to you. I can arrange to have him in a certain place, at a certain time, so that you can ambush and kill him. Let’s get rid of him before it’s too late. Then we can all enjoy our new freedom without troublemakers like him!’

  The great rat thought about this as he studied the wood mouse before him. The situation was unusual enough to warrant caution. No mouse had ever come to him before, willing to betray a member of its own tribe. But then again, no mouse had ever hated another as much as this one seemed to hate Goingdownfast. It was the sort of hatred that could not be faked. The conflict between them was evidently deep.

  ‘I will make sure you get him,’ repeated Timorous, unable to keep the venom out of his tone.

  ‘Good, good, so be it then, but if you fail me, you know I will eat your heart.’

  Timorous said, ‘I shall not fail, I will prevail.’

  ‘What?’ cried Kellog, recoiling.

  ‘I said I won’t let you down, I’ll succeed.’

  ‘Never mind – go,’ the rat said quickly.

  Timorous left and Kellog shuddered. The mouse had rhymed, but it had surely been an accidental coupling of sounds, not a planned intimidation? A mouse’s ear was not tuned finely enough for rhyme. It was made for picking up discordant sounds, to warn it of strangers, not harmonies. Kellog relaxed. Just an unhappy coincidence, a slip of the tongue, nothing more.

  STRACCHINO

  Phart had been summoned to the presence of the mighty Gorm and he was feeling very nervous.

  The Stinkhorns, named after a fungus, had once been a much larger tribe than they were now, but the females had all upped and deserted the drunken males one hour, having had enough of revelries, wassails and lazy boisterous bucks who were never good for much but eating potatoes and drinking wine and beer.

  So the tribe had gradually diminished in size, with the Stinkhorn females becoming integrated instead into the kitchen ranks of the Savage Tribe, until only Phart and Flegm were left. Phart assumed leadership and Flegm was quite happy for him to do so.

  Now, as leader of the tribe, Phart had been summoned. He went to the appointed place with trepidation in his heart, going over in his mind all the things he had done in the past few hours, trying to figure out if Gorm might have taken offence at any of them. Try as he would, he couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. If he had done something wrong, it was not evident to him, especially in his state.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ growled Gorm in disgust, when Phart met him behind the kitchen range.

  Phart didn’t argue with this observation. ‘Sorry, yer honour,’ he mumbled.

  Gorm shook his great gnarled head and sighed, clearly giving up on this pathetic creature before him.

  ‘Phart, I’ve called you here in your capacity as leader of the Stinkhorn Tribe, because we need you. Unfortunately, we need all able living souls, and it’s been suggested to me that you’re included in that group…’

  Gorm really was in top form, but Phart was wise enough not to guffaw at the dry humour.

  ‘…we’re planning on driving the nudniks out of the House. You’ll have a part to play in that, though I’m not sure what it is at the moment.’

  The import of Gorm’s statement sunk in.

  ‘Drive out the nudniks, yer honour? Wass – what’s that for? I mean, why?’

  ‘That’s not your concern,’ said Gorm importantly. ‘All you need to know is that you’re required to help with it. You got any problem with that?’

  ‘Not me, yer honour. I live to serve.’

  ‘Good. Well, that’s all then. Back to your cellar. Oh, by the way,’ Gorm made his words sound like a casual afterthought, ‘you know this yellow-neck, Pedlar?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Phart warily.

  ‘Hmmmm. What – er – what do you think of him?’

  Phart shrugged, wondering what answer was required. Did Gorm like Pedlar, or dislike him? It was necessary to be noncommittal until the truth was known.

  ‘He’s an Outsider, ain’t he? I mean, you know what Outsiders are like.’

  ‘Impudent oafs,’ nodded Gorm. ‘Thieves and waster
s. Into all sorts of thuggery – luring away innocent females, stealing food, insinuating themselves in the good graces of fellow mice.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ replied Phart, getting his cue. ‘Bloody uppity swines, if you ask me. This Pedlar’s no different. One of the worst, I’d say.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ nodded Gorm, seemingly satisfied. ‘Well, that’s it. Don’t stand there gawking. I’ll call you again when the plans have been finalized. And Phart?’

  ‘Yes, yer honour.’

  ‘Glad you’re with us. Just wanted to round up the stragglers. We need every mouse we can get. Some of us may not survive this dangerous stroke, but the nation will go on to greater glory by our selfless actions.’

  A trickle of pale fear went through Phart’s frame. ‘Dangerousss?’ he murmured.

  Gorm-the-old revealed his teeth in a nasty sneer. ‘Your bit will be, if I have anything to do with it.’

  Phart’s heart shrank to the size of poppy seed. ‘Yes, well, if I’m not fit enough meself, there’s the rest of the Stinkhorn Tribe to help out. I’m sure they’ll be ready to do their duty.’

  ‘You’ll be fit, don’t worry,’ confirmed Gorm, with a hard nod.

  Phart left Gorm and went back to the cellar, his mind in a numbed condition. Yet it was not too numb to register that Gorm had used their tête-à-tête to mention only one mouse by name. That bleedin’ Outsider what called himself Pedlar and liked to deprive other mice of their rightful cheese. By the end of his drunken musing, Phart had convinced himself that what had just taken place was a coded instruction from Gorm to the effect that this Outsider mouse had to be seen off the premises. And he, Phart, had been chosen for the deed. Or had he?

  The Stinkhorn leader staggered off to find Flegm, his cohort, needing to consult him about what lay ahead for their illustrious tribe.

  CHAUMES

  Stone was lecturing some harvest mice out in the wilds of the garden, where the grasses grew unkempt and high, and the prehensile tails of the mice were of great use to them. Stone liked harvest mice, because they seldom entered houses. It was true that they did go in occasionally, some of them to live, but they were not like house mice, who preferred to be indoors, and they certainly didn’t take up residence as often as yellow-necks and wood mice. Harvest mice liked to eat insects of an evening and they couldn’t get enough of those inside the House.

  Elegant at a distance, close to the harvest mice were sort of skeletal, big-footed and small-bodied. There were black guard hairs amongst their orange russet dorsal colours, the belly fur being white. They were good listeners. When you’re the smallest rodent around, you tend to listen while a bigger mouse speaks. Stone thought of them as Nature’s little favourites, decorating the grasses with their slight forms.

  ‘The paths of mice and nudniks crossed thousands and thousands of nights ago, back in the mists of time, before the coming of trees,’ he said to the dangling creatures before him. ‘Nudniks started harvesting the grasses, like corn, and mice sort of latched on to them. Now the whole world is full of corn and vegetables and we don’t need nudniks any longer. It’s time we turned our backs on them.’

  One of the harvest mice swung back and forth from a campion stalk by her tail.

  ‘We don’t need them anyway,’ she said smugly. ‘We don’t share food with the nudniks – not like the house mice.’

  ‘Ah, but you do. I’ve seen you going to the dustbins. You’re not averse to plundering them, are you?’

  The harvest mouse inspected her toes, rather than compromise herself by answering this question.

  ‘Anyway,’ said another harvest mouse, ‘I’ve heard that Gorm-the-old is raising a revolt against the nudniks. They’re going to be driven out of the House.’

  ‘Who said that?’ asked Stone, looking around. He had no idea until now that the spirit of the times had caught up with his own feelings about the nudniks.

  ‘I did,’ said a mouse dangling from a cow-parsley stalk.

  ‘No, no – I mean, where does the remark originate from? From whom did you obtain your information?’

  ‘You sound like one of the Bookeaters I’ve heard about,’ sniffed the harvest mouse. ‘Anyway, it’s common knowledge. Everybody knows there’s going to be a Great Nudnik Drive when Old Man’s Beard is on the Hedgerow…’

  Having uttered those historic words, the very first time they had been spoken aloud by an Outsider, the harvest mouse felt quite faint and almost fell from his stalk. It was as if the words had been placed in his mouth by the gods, to be uttered for the benefit of history. Later, there would be mice who would try to recall that harvest mouse’s name, but unfortunately for the oral storytellers, that name was never passed down the annals of mouse history. He or she remained anonymous thereafter, and mouse history was the less rich for it.

  Stone’s eyes were shining. ‘That’s what they’re saying? Well, well, I knew that one hour the time would come for mice to assert themselves! So, at last we come to it – the nudniks will be vanquished, the House will return to its natural state, and mice will find their true destiny.’

  ‘Eh?’ said another harvest mouse. ‘What natural state? What true destiny.’

  Stone shook his head, having said enough. ‘Never you mind, young whippersnapper,’ he muttered. He felt he needed time to think about this wonderful news. ‘All right, you’re dismissed you lot.’

  ‘Dismissed?’ cried a mouse. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  But Stone wasn’t listening. He was wandering back to the privy area where he could sit in the sun and think. Stone knew, if the mice in the House didn’t, that all the nudniks in residence (except one) ranged between ancient and very ancient. He knew this because they all had white or grey hair on top of their heads – or in the case of one, no hair at all – and they walked stiffly and awkwardly. One could hardly walk at all. The furniture in the House, the mats and rugs, the beds, and the nudniks themselves – all smelled of life at the wrong end of the ageing process. The pets, the dog and the cats, were not groomed as often as they should be, and Witless was never given a bath. All these were signs of overripe nudnik bodies.

  Finally, there was the biggest sign of all: the mere fact that the House was overrun with mice, had a rat and an owl in the attic, proved that the nudniks did not notice or were past caring about their surroundings.

  There was the Headhunter of course, the half-grown nudnik. The reason he was out of control was because all the other nudniks were past the age where they were able to control one of their own young. The Headhunter had arrived last winter and was, as far as Stone was concerned, a temporary resident.

  Since the Headhunter’s parents were not with him, Stone deduced that something must have gone wrong with them. Perhaps they had been killed by nudnik predators? Stone didn’t know whether any such predators existed, but he guessed there was something nudniks were afraid of, or why would they lock themselves inside the giant snail shells and only come out very occasionally?

  And Gorm and his motley crew had decided to drive these old nudniks out of their shell? Stone had never heard of that happening before, and he had talked with all sorts of rodents, all kinds of rats, voles, shrews and even a wandering giant coypu once. Still, there was always a first time, and the fact that the nudniks were ancient creatures was in favour of the mice.

  But there was the delicious thought, in Stone’s mind ever since the harvest mouse’s words had fallen on his ears, that the whole plan might backfire on the house mice. Stone didn’t want any great harm to come to Gorm and company, but there was the chance that the forthcoming Revolution might see the mice themselves driven from the House, and back out into Nature where they belonged.

  To Stone, that was a wonderful idea, and one that gave him his own reason to look forward to the Great Nudnik Drive.

  GOUDA

  In the attics it seemed strange to no one but Pedlar that Treadlightly was always in the same vicinity as himself. He did think it was a little unusual, but si
nce he enjoyed her company, he didn’t remark on it to her. They were both busy gnawing at individual crusts one hour, when the most extraordinary thing happened. An unknown house mouse was passing by when it suddenly leapt at Pedlar. If the Hedgerow yellow-neck hadn’t been quick, the house mouse would have sunk its teeth into Pedlar’s throat.

  Pedlar managed to kick out with his hind legs and drive off the attacker, but he was left very shaken.

  Treadlightly rushed over to him. ‘I saw that!’ she said in a shocked voice. ‘What was it all about?’

  ‘An assassin?’

  These ominous words were spoken by Goingdownfast who had been nearby, digesting his own crust. ‘Someone wants you out of the way, yellow-neck. Who have you upset recently? Or to be more specific, who in the Savage Tribe have you annoyed? For I know who that was. It was Jarl Forkwhiskers, one of Gorm’s number.’

  ‘They must really want rid of you, to send an assassin at a time like this, when they should be concentrating on finalizing plans for the Great Nudnik Drive.’ This was Treadlightly’s view.

  ‘It’s a pity,’ said Goingdownfast, ‘that you didn’t hold on to him. We could have tortured him and got him to talk.’

  Pedlar shuddered. He knew why he’d been targeted by Gorm and his gang. It was because he was ‘the One’. Nevertheless he did the only thing he could. He took it upon himself to visit Gorm-the-old. Pedlar believed in direct confrontation and he wanted things settled, one way or the other, between the Savage Tribe chieftain and himself. He did not want assassins sneaking up on him at any given moment, leaping out of the shadows, jaws clashing, teeth gnashing. He could do without all that looking-over-the-shoulder stuff. So, after taking the sensible precaution of asking Skrang to accompany him, Pedlar went to meet with Gorm.

  BEL PAESE

  SKRANG, BEING A DEATHSHEAD, OPENED THE WAY FOR this meeting. She was well respected, an excellent travelling companion and was used to dealing with leaping assassins. Anyone coming at Pedlar out of the dark was likely to be given a sharp Ik-to bite on a painful part of the anatomy.