House of Tribes

by Garry Kilworth

  ‘What is it?’ cried Phart. ‘Can’t be a house, can it? S’too big.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Pedlar truthfully, ‘but I don’t like the look of it. There are no windows and only those two huge doors. It doesn’t look very welcoming.’

  Iban said, ‘I’m so exhausted I’m willing to try anything. Why don’t we wait until morning, then see it in the daylight? Maybe it’ll look more inviting?’

  They followed Iban’s suggestion and huddled close to the fence, to protect themselves from owls.

  When they woke, they were amazed to see a great oval grey shape floating outside the big hangar, tethered to the ground by various ropes and chains. Fixed to the bottom of this floating giant was something which looked as if it might be a house of sorts. Though it was a funny shape, it had windows all along it and a doorway.

  Fallingoffthings was sent to investigate this weird-looking house, and she went scuttling up one of the guy ropes with her usual skill, to enter the object. Not long afterwards she reappeared again, came running down the guy to the ground and reported.

  ‘There’s lots of chairs in there, and beds fixed to the wall, and a kitchen with lots of food.’

  ‘Any nudniks?’ asked Pedlar.

  ‘Quite a few,’ was the reply, ‘but I didn’t smell any cats there. Just a load of stupid nudniks, all stuffing their faces as usual. Food galore! I caught the scent of cheese.’

  ‘Sounds like the house for me,’ growled Gorm. ‘I’m willing to risk it. I’m fed up with this marching business.’

  ‘Wait a bit,’ said Pedlar. ‘There’s too much we don’t know yet. Where was this floating house last night, when we arrived?’

  ‘Who cares,’ snarled Thorkils Threelegs who was suffering more than most from sore feet and aching limbs, even though he had less of them. ‘Let’s damn well get in there.’

  Pedlar asked Fallingoffthings, ‘Were there any other mice? Or rats? How about a dog?’

  ‘None of those, as far as I could smell,’ said Fallingoffthings. ‘I had a good sniff round too. No droppings, no urine markings, nothing like that. It was very very – clean.’

  ‘Clean, eh?’ Pedlar said. ‘Well I, for one, mistrust clean places.’

  ‘I call an Allthing,’ shouted Gorm-the-old.

  ‘You’ve got no say,’ cried Gunhild. ‘I’m leader of the tribe now.’

  Gorm stepped forward a pace, thinking that now was the time for him to raise a rebellion.

  ‘Well, here I stand,’ he snarled, ‘and those who wish to stand with me, do so. I’ve had enough of taking orders from a jumped-up corporal and a hedgerow yellow-neck. Come on, who stands with Gorm-the-old?’

  There was an embarrassing silence amongst the other mice for a few moments, then Thorkils Threelegs slipped over to Gorm’s side, followed by Jarl Forkwhiskers. These three stood strong and defiant, staring down the rest of the expedition members. Finally, young Elisedd, the library mouse who had discovered the abandoned Little Prince, rushed over to join them.

  ‘Right,’ snarled Gorm, ‘that’s it then, is it? What about you, Elfwin – or you, Ulf? Are you going to continue to be browbeaten by this upstart?’

  Elfwin nodded her head. ‘If you mean Pedlar, I think he’s doing the best he can for us.’

  ‘I’m torn,’ said Ulf, ‘but I still think we have to trust the leader we started out with.’

  ‘I might join you, sweetie – I’m exhausted,’ cried Little Prince.

  ‘We don’t want you,’ shouted Thorkils. ‘You can go to hell with the rest of them.’

  ‘Huh! – suit yourself,’ replied Little Prince petulantly. ‘I was only teasing anyway.’

  ‘That’s it then,’ said Gorm. ‘Come on, you three. This is the house for us. There’ll be cheeses! Beloved cheeses of inestimable worth! I can smell their fragrance from here!’

  The four rebels had started for one of the guy ropes, when Astrid screamed after them, ‘Don’t do it! I see another terrible holocaust! A great whiteness lighting up the dark. A whiteness that devours! Come back!’

  Elisedd looked frightened on hearing this prophecy from the high priestess of the Savages. He wavered. One way lay cheese-and-fear, and the other way lay no-cheese-but-no-fear, and finally the negatives won and he ran back to the main group again.

  ‘Coward,’ snarled Gorm. ‘If you believe that old harlot, you’ll believe anyone.’

  ‘She’s always been right before,’ cried Pedlar. ‘You ignored her last time and that’s why we’re here.’

  ‘She’s a fake,’ shouted Gorm. ‘Just got lucky last time, that’s all.’

  With that he turned his back and led the precarious climb up the guy rope to the floating house above. Pedlar and the others watched the three ascend. They climbed until they were three dots on a thin black curving line. There was a heart-stopping moment when Thorkils Threelegs lost his grip and clung on by one claw, but through sheer tenacity he managed to find two more holds and remain on the mooring line.

  Finally, all three reached the top and disappeared into the floating house. It was the last the mice on the ground ever saw of them.

  Pedlar and his expedition set off along the edge of the fence, to avoid crossing that vast expanse of short grass. As he led them towards a corner there was a loud shout from the rear. Pedlar turned his head, to see that all his mice were now looking upwards. When he did so himself he was amazed to see the floating house. The mooring ropes and tethering chains had been cast off and the great grey structure, buffeted gently by the winds, was drifting skywards.

  Nudniks were rushing around on the ground, turning huge winches, securing the cast-off lines. They obviously expected the house to float away, for there was no smell of panic in the air, no jerky movements denoting terror. Instead some of them were waving farewell handkerchiefs and hats, and making excited yipping sounds.

  Gorm, Thorkils and Jarl were obviously on their way to a great adventure in the clouds. Pedlar almost envied them, thinking of what great adventures they might have. They were moving amongst the birds in their great and wonderful floating house.

  ‘I wonder how they feel?’ he said, wistfully.

  ‘Like gods I imagine!’ Elisedd cried, probably thinking how close to going with them he had been himself.

  But Little Prince muttered, ‘Sick, I should think, with all that rolling and swaying.’

  The great grey movable gradually turned its nose in the direction in which Pedlar and his mice were themselves heading. It came forward slowly, propelled by some unseen force. It passed high over the wandering tribes, and then entered the high country of the clouds, to be lost to their sight.

  BLEU DE BRESSE

  IT WAS A WHOLE NIGHT LATER THAT THE TRAVELLERS came across a nudnik hamlet of four or five houses. A vanguard of the best fighters was formed out of Gunhild, Highstander, Ulf, Drenchie, Whispersoft, Skuli, Gruffydd Greentooth and Rhodri. These intrepid eight went into the houses first, using any entrance they could find. In one after another, they met with stiff resistance from local tribes.

  ‘You in there,’ cried Gunhild, not wasting words, ‘won’t you welcome new comrades?’

  ‘Get lost!’ yelled them in there.

  ‘We’re strong and healthy,’ shouted Gunhild. ‘I’m good at drill.’

  ‘So? Go and find your own house…’

  As soon as Pedlar was told about the hostile tribes already in occupation, he knew that they had yet to find the Promised House, yet he also knew that it lay within reach.

  He called an Allthing just outside the hamlet to advise his mice accordingly. And so it was that the remnants of the House of tribes gathered together their strength and moved off into the wasteland again, leaving the hamlet behind. Before they had gone too far however, Gunhild and the rest of the Savage Tribe (all except Astrid) announced their intention of turning back.

  ‘I’m sure we can integrate if we declare ourselves fewer in number. You go on Pedlar, with the rest of them, and good luck to you!’

/>   So the 13-K, Bookeaters, Deathshead and Invisibles continued the march without the Savages. It took seven hours, and there it was. The Promised House.

  It stood on the far side of an uneven roadway: a ramshackle place with strange towers, tall windows and ramparts. Red ivy grew over the blue-slate roof. There was a rusted weather vane on one of the towers, bearing a cockerel with bent wattle. The grounds were extensive and reasonably well kept, without too many fussy little flowerbeds. There was a massive greenhouse, two sheds, a gazebo and many box-hedged walks.

  The mice surveyed this building, which looked very promising. Astrid commented favourably on it.

  ‘I have spoken with one or two local Shadows,’ she announced, ‘and they say the house has just been occupied by nudniks after a long period of being empty.’

  ‘That does sound promising,’ said Pedlar of the Promised House. ‘That would mean there probably aren’t any tribes in there yet.’

  Whispersoft was sent to investigate the new house and he came back an hour later.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not much in the way of furniture or carpets, but a huge kitchen, big enough for us all. Smells as though it’s been cooked in recently too. Caught a definite whiff of blue-vein…’

  ‘Any hostile tribes?’ asked Pedlar.

  ‘There’s a small bunch in there, but my guess is they’ve wandered in as individuals. They don’t seem to be at all organized and their territory markings are a bit haphazard, to say the least. I reckon we could absorb them, without too much trouble, into our own tribes.’

  ‘Is there a library?’ asked Frych-the-freckled, now pregnant for the umpteenth time by Hywel-the-bad.

  ‘Massive one – gift from the gods.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘the prognosis for the future is indeed favourable…’

  ‘Attics?’ asked Timorous.

  ‘Dozens of ’em – every tower has one for a start.’

  ‘It seems ideal.’

  ‘Cellar?’ croaked Phart.

  ‘Full of wine racks as far as the eye can see,’ announced Whispersoft. ‘You’ll be dead of liver failure in a week, Phart.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ cried Treadlightly. ‘Let’s get our Gypsy in out of the cold!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pedlar, ‘go on. However, for myself, now that I’ve seen the Promised House, I shan’t enter. I’ve led you here, my duty as pathfinder is done. You’ll have to go in without me. One of you is a leader yet to emerge. I know who it is and I think the mouse in question knows who it is, but it may take a little time for the rest of you to accept it.’

  The mice looked at him with stunned expressions.

  MYCELLA

  ‘What are you saying?’ cried Treadlightly.

  Little Prince murmured, ‘You can’t mean that – you have to come with us – we need you.’

  ‘My time with you is over, Little Prince, you know that better than anyone. You and I, we’re the only ones ever to spend time behind bars. My own time was relatively short, yours was almost an eternity. However, that time spent close to the nudniks has given you a keen insight into their ways. It gave you time to think, develop a brain. You, of all the mice, have the knowledge which will enable these lost ones from the old tribes to survive…’

  One or two mice, Treadlightly among them, understood by these words that Pedlar’s chosen successor was Little Prince. If they baulked at such a transition, from Fiend to Leader, they did not say so there. They respected Pedlar’s choice and there would be time enough for Little Prince to prove his worth.

  ‘Good luck to you all,’ said Pedlar. ‘Whispersoft, Frych, Ulf, everyone…’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ said Ulf. ‘I mean, you know you’re welcome.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Pedlar. ‘I’m sure, but I don’t want to explain it – except to Treadlightly…’

  Treadlightly was standing nearby looking sad.

  ‘…I’m sure you understand that.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Ulf.

  ‘Comprehended,’ Frych said.

  Skrang nodded thoughtfully.

  Iban said, ‘An honour to have known you.’

  ‘What?’ cried Hearallthings.

  Whispersoft, Nonsensical, Goingdownfast, Fallingoffthings, Ferocious, Timorous, Nesta, Mefyn and various others murmured their goodbyes. They might have been sad except that they were excited about the House of Promise.

  ‘Doesn’t seem bleedin’ right,’ sniffed Phart, staring at the House, ‘goin’ in without you.’

  ‘I’m very touched, Phart,’ replied Pedlar.

  Phart turned round and wrinkled his nose, making his ugly whiskers twitch.

  ‘Not you – I was talkin’ to Flegm, wasn’t I? Poor ole bleeder’s probably just an owl’s droppin’ by now, but I still talk to him sometimes, like he was here.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, squire,’ said Phart, relenting. ‘Have one on me, when you next find a keg.’

  ‘I will,’ replied Pedlar.

  One by one the mice filed past Pedlar and crossed the neat lawns to the House. Finally, only Treadlightly, carrying Gypsy in her mouth, was left. She put the infant down and stared at Pedlar without saying anything at first.

  Pedlar was firm. ‘I must go back to the Hedgerow.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘I would like to have seen Gypsy grow a little, but they’re soon off, aren’t they? They don’t need us for long, not young mice.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Treadlightly replied.

  ‘I don’t think she’ll miss me – not with so many other mice around.’

  ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘And she’ll have you – you’re the most important one,’ Pedlar nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll come back, some hour.’

  Treadlightly shook her head. ‘No you won’t.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re right – I probably won’t. I’d ask you to come with me but you know, you wouldn’t last a month in the Hedgerow.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – at least, what I mean is, we’ve had the best time. You look after yourself in the Hedgerow. Don’t take any chances with those foxes.’

  ‘No, I won’t – goodbye Treadlightly.’

  ‘Goodbye Pedlar.’

  With that she took Gypsy in her mouth and scampered across the lawn, turning to look back once, before entering the Promised House. Pedlar gave a deep sigh and set his face to the North, in which direction he believed his old Hedgerow to be. He wasn’t absolutely sure that was the right way, but there were certain signs, the sun and the moon, the prevailing wind, which might lead him to his home.

  It was sad about Treadlightly and him, but he could not go into another house. He had been born a rustic and he needed to get back to his roots. The hawthorn and the blackthorn were calling him. He wanted to wake up smelling hawkweed and hedge garlic. He wanted to see next spring in with the red-tailed bumblebee, the mason wasp and the burying beetle. He wanted to make his nest under the broad-leaved dock, next to the cockchafer larva and the gatekeeper’s pupa.

  He would miss Treadlightly, for a few hours, just as she would miss him, but one mouse was rarely linked to another for life. They might never forget each other, but they would soon be busy with new tasks: life was too interesting to be mooning about with a head full of sentiment. Treadlightly was part of him and he was part of her. This was a fact that would go with him to the end of his hours.

  The moon came out from behind a cloud and Pedlar found a ditch to use as his path.

  QUARK

  THE NIGHT WAS NEARING ITS END. THE OLD MOUSE named Tinker was busying himself collecting bits of fresh hay for his nest. There had been a storm in the early hours and some water had got into the burrow – nothing serious but the nest lining was damp and had to be removed. Tinker hated the extra work, but saw the need for it. His rheumatism would not let him sleep in a
damp bed.

  He fussed over which strands to take and which to leave, making sure there were no spiky thistle leaves in amongst the dried grass. There was nothing worse than waking up with a stabbing feeling in your back. Tinker liked his comfort in his old age. As a youngster he would have rolled over and dozed off again, but these hours once he woke it was hard to get back to sleep.

  His eyes were getting a little dim now, but he found a suitable stalk and nipped it neatly at the base. Then he dragged the piece to the nest. He believed it might be his imagination, but hay stalks were getting heavier by the night.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, oldster?’ jeered a big yellow-neck, lounging at the entrance to the burrow.

  Tinker stopped and sighed. The burrow had become overrun by a gang of young bullies. These burly micesters had rejected Hedgelore and decided they were entitled to idle away their hours, taking what they pleased from the burrow without giving anything in return. They stole food, and took the best nests, and generally made a nuisance of themselves.

  ‘Just making my bed,’ said Tinker.

  ‘Well make it nice and comfy,’ sneered the mouse, now joined by the worst of the bullies, ‘we might feel inclined towards a nap soon.’

  ‘Once we’ve had a good look at the daylight hours,’ scoffed his companion.

  It was true that they caroused well into the day, these young thugs, careless both of the noise they made and whether they were disturbing others at slumber. Just as they slept all night, when most decent mice were out foraging and nest-building. Their activities threw the burrow into disharmony and unhappiness.

  Tinker returned to the surface again after depositing his piece of straw and suffered more insults while he collected another.

  Halfway back to his nest, he looked along the ditch to see a lone figure stumbling under the giant nettles. The mouse, for it was definitely a mouse, seemed vaguely familiar. Tinker could have sworn it looked like his cousin, who had left the Hedgerow over 250 nights ago, to visit a distant house.