It was early December, and in the Annersley household Christmas preparations had begun.
Marcus and Kim Annersley felt their excitement mount as the festive season approached, each aware of the growing tension around them. Marcus, who was six, often spied on mummy as she bustled about the kitchen, mixing ingredients for the cakes and puddings that would adorn every dinner table in the house for the next few weeks. He would whisper each new treat to his sister in as quiet a voice as he could muster. "Mince pies!" He would say. "The Christmas pudding! I sawed her!" Before December was halfway through, Marcus was nearly mad with excitement.
Kim - seven-and-a-half (and ever so much more worldly-wise) - would scold him for his eagerness and instead secretly follow every twitch made by daddy as he watched the television advertisements for toys and games and puzzles. And for dolls. Kim loved dolls: every shape, size, colour and outfit, she wanted them all. Her letter to Father Christmas had asked for two things, and two things only. A crying doll, which wept if ignored for long periods of time, and a cat. A real cat, furry, and cute and . . . huggy. She could put a pink bow around its neck and pretend that it was a fierce tiger, owned by Luvvy, her favourite doll. Tiger and Luvvy would be the little girl's friends, and come to Christmas dinner where they would talk to her and play games after dinner.
The cat would be a replacement for Tansie, their old tabby cat who had died the year before last. Mummy had found her under the dining table, and daddy had taken her, put her in a small box lined with cotton wool and several of her favourite toys and had wrapped this in turn in Tansies favourite blanket. Then he had buried her down near the willow tree in the garden as Marcus and Kim stood nearby, weeping. He had refused to get another cat because, he said, the children were too young to play with one safely. Mr and Mrs Annersley had owned Tansie before they had children, he said, so it was different. Maybe when they were older.
But a year and a half later, they were older, and more responsibler, Kim thought, and Christmas was the time for presents, after all. Daddy had never taken away or blocked up the cat-flap Tansie had used. Maybe Santa was going to surprise them all this Christmas.
And it wasn't just the issue of a new cat, either, which occupied Kim. She had a theory about Christmas.
Whenever a doll advertisement came on the telly, daddy would go motionless, not moving a muscle until the advert finished. He would then nod his head sharply, once, and then cast a quick glance in the direction of his daughter. To Kim, this could mean only one thing: Santa had told daddy exactly what the little girl was getting, but had sworn him to secrecy by crossing his heart and hoping to die, stick a needle in his eye.
At school, most of Kim's friends were getting excited. They all wanted dolls, but some also wanted ballet shoes, a new television for their bedroom, computer games . . . all sort of things which Kim didn't care about. Though they were her friends, Kim thought that they were greedy and selfish, too concerned about getting bigger and better presents than anyone else.
But a doll and a cat would, for Kim, be the best presents ever. She was not interested in computer games and ballet, or a new CD or television set. Kim wanted a cat and a doll. If she didn't get what she wanted . . . well, Santa had better watch out, that's all.
Marcus looked out of the window to watch the rain running in heavy rivulets down the pane. He sighed and stepped back, letting the net curtain fall back into place.
"It's still raining," he whined. "It always rains at weekends."
Mummy nodded. "I know, sweetie, but it's warm indoors. Play a game with Kirsty. She'll play with you, won't you, darling?"
From where she was sat at the dining table, Kim sighed. "I was going to do some colouring," she said with some resignation. She knew she had to play with Marcus, because she had to be good. Santa had his list of good children, and they got presents. The bad children didn't. "Marcus can help me, if he wants."
Her brother turned back to the window, pulling the net up again. He didn't want to colour; he didn't want to sit with Kimmy. All he wanted to do was go out and play soldiers in the garden.
As he mumbled to himself, a grey shape moved swiftly across the gloom of the garden, and disappeared quickly behind the shed, where daddy kept all his old garden furniture squeezed against the wall. Marcus' breath caught. He waited, looking, but there was no more movement. He wondered briefly if he had imagined it, but quickly lost interest.
He let the net go again and wandered over to his sister. He picked up a green crayon as he knelt beside her.
"Can I draw a soldier?" He asked. "I'm really good at soldiers."
- 1 -
Nyeowr
Behind the weatherworn old garden shed, where the tatty gazebo cover was rolled up on top of two stacks of deckchairs, there was a space protected by the stone wall and the wooden shed wall. The chairs and cover provided a neat roof, helping keep the small ball of fur dry as she worked at a small hole in the shed wall.
As the hole widened, so the creature pushed her nose into it to test the size, before continuing with her efforts. For an hour she worked, finally splitting a small piece of wood away to open up an entrance.
She dragged herself through, shivering, into the dark beyond.
Her heavy belly throbbed. Soon, she would give birth and be rid of the weight, which slowed her down and made all her movements ungainly and ponderous. Her head pounded with the exertion of getting into the dryness, and she knew she must rest soon, or just keel over with exhaustion.
"Mrreeoow?" She asked. Is anyone here?
She was greeted with silence, but hesitated yet a while. Finally, satisfied that she was not in someone else's territory, the cat waddled to a corner and hauled herself up onto a workbench.
A large spider, big and black and juicy scuttled away. The cat swatted it with a lightning quick paw and ate it. Not the nicest of snacks for a pregnant cat, but she was tired and cold and wet. The spider would do. Once she had rested, she would look for a more filling meal down by the brook, which ran through the scrubland beyond the wall. A frog or a mouse would keep her fed for a while.
On top of an old chest of drawers was a pile of musty blankets. The cat settled down here, purring and working the coarse material with her claws. Through the dirty window she could see the lights of the house. Where there's people, she thought, there's rubbish: a bin to forage in and plant beds to look for beetles and spiders.
She had run past a willow tree hanging over a black pond. Perhaps there were fish there.
Nyeowr the cat called 'Velvet' by her old owners, purred happily to herself. For the first time in weeks she was warm, and dry, and comfortable. She would have her kittens here.
Giving a happy sigh, Nyeowr fell into an exhausted sleep.
Late that night, the rain stopped. By the time Nyeowr had realised that there was none of the incessant drumming on the shed roof, it was full dark and the lights were out at the house.
As she jumped down and left the shed, she got a faint sniff of . . . something. She wasn't sure what, exactly, but it smelled nasty. Like bad thoughts would smell, if you could smell them. It was faint, like it had not been here for a while, but she noticed it. When she had first come into the shed she had been tired and damp, her own musty scent filling her nostrils. Now, though, she noticed.
Ordinarily, Nyeowr was more than comfortable in defending herself; she had been on the streets for nearly four months, and had, in that time, fought several cats for food, the right to pass through their territory, or for self defence from bad minded tomcats looking to use up some energy. Now, pregnant as she was, she was slower than normal, and much, much more vulnerable. So she took note of the smell and vowed to sleep more lightly in future.
There were no stars visible, nor moon to be seen: clouds, angry and dark, filled the sky. A cold wind had risen, blowing the feel of more rain to come. Nyeowr knew that she needed to be quick.
She padded to the house, sniffing at the wall, the milk bottle, and the door. Her nose pressed against a small, transparent flap, causing it to more inward by the merest fraction. It was enough: rich smells assaulted her nose, borne on warm air.
Coffee she knew from her old home, the odour summoning memories of lying in a lap and having her ears gently scratched. There was also the familiar smell of boiled vegetables; not appetising in itself, but where there was boiled vegetables, there was usually . . . meat! It was there, she could almost taste the pork, rich and oily and full of goodness.
Nyeowr's mouth watered. She tried to push the flap forward again, but a dark catch beyond stopped it from moving any further. The smell drove her on. She tried to catch and pull the flap backward, but it would not come. She butted it, gently at first, and then harder and harder, before realising that she was making enough noise to wake the People inside.
She sat back to consider. People always left something. They never ate everything, and always threw the waste into those cold, shiny things. Bins! Every people had a bin!
As Nyeowr turned to look, she knocked the milk bottle, causing it to fall with a loud clatter. The sudden noise frightened her, and she ran for cover down to the bottom end of the garden, beyond the pond. A small tree against the brickwork made for an easy climb up the wall and down onto the dirt track beyond.
A small patch of ugly trees ringed with brambles and nettles led to a slight dip down to a little brook. Nyeowr hunted here until dawn, catching and devouring a dormouse and a frog.
As the sun slowly rose into the sky, casting away the rainclouds, but not the wind, Nyeowr cautiously made her way back to her shed.
When she re-entered the garden, however, a dark shape scurried across the grass and into a flowerbed. The smell was different to anything she had ever smelt before, and so Nyeowr inched forward to investigate. In her mind, her wise old mother whispered the old cat homily, curiosity kills cats. But not today, Nyeowr thought; she had been lucky finding the shed, and the wealth of food nearby. Today, curiosity would not kill a cat; today things will just keep getting better and better.
In the bushes, she found the shape, a black nose and two tiny black eyes poking out of a mass of spikes. As soon as she pushed forward to see better, the eyes and nose disappeared into the spiky ball.
"I'm not very tasty; I'm warning you," said a shrill voice.
"I've eaten," replied Nyeowr dryly. "I don't want to eat you. Actually, I don't want to get stabbed by you, but I am really not hungry."
"Promise?" Asked the ball.
"I promise." The cat sat and washed a paw with deliberate indifference. "My Given Name is Nyeowr, but you can call me Velvet."
The nose slowly reappeared, followed by the eyes. They stared nervously at the cat.
"You're a cat. Cats eat . . . things. Do you really, utterly, truly promise not to eat me?"
Despite herself, Nyeowr laughed. "I will not eat you, I swear it. Now, I have given you my names, and ask: what are you, and what are you called?"
The shape seemed to relax a little, though it still looked ready to roll into a ball at any moment. "I am a hedgepig," he said. "And my name is Dodger. Dodger the Hedger at your service, milady."
"Dodger?" Queried Nyeowr. "A strange name. But you are a strange creature," she pointed out.
The hedgepig nodded. "Aye. We hedgepigs have spikes to defend us against dogs or ca - uh, other creatures. Your fur is for warmth; mine is for protection."
Nyeowr smiled a friendly smile of encouragement. If she was going to live in this place - and she surely intended to! - then she needed to make a friend early on, especially if she didn't have any interest in, say, eating that friend at some stage. This funny little animal might be just the friend she was looking for.
Now gaining a confidence bolstered by the smile, the hedgehog drew himself up grandly. "I am called 'Dodger' because I am a fast runner. People move around in big, noisy monsters on those roads of theirs, and those monsters often squash hedgepigs. Usually the slow ones who cannot get out of the way in time. And all sorts of other animals. Even People get squashed by them sometimes, I've heard. But I have survived the flatlands where people take their monsters, having crossed them many, many times."
Nyeowr smiled at the funny little animal's pride. "That is good," she said. "Do you have a People Name?"
The hedgepig shook its head. "We hedgepigs are not pets, milady. Leastways, most of us aren't. I have no real name - monsters killed my parents while I was very young. 'Dodger' is my nickname."
"Are you here for the People's food?" Nyeowr asked, thinking of that delicious smell emanating from the house.
"No milady," replied Dodger. "I'm late for my Wintersleep. I need to find somewhere before the snows come. Woodpiles are ideal because frost doesn't get in there, but there's none about. So I was going to nestle down in behind them thick bushes there, and next to the corner of wall and fence.
"I have eaten my fill and thought I was ready. But behind these bushes was the best place I've found so far, and I can't remain here now: if you found me, so might the People." A tear leaked out of one eye.
"I am so tired," he said miserably.
Nyeowr did not even need to think. "I believe you and I could become friends, if you wish," she said softly. "I have found somewhere, Dodger, which is warm and dry, with no chance of frost. And it's close by. Now I'm willing to share it with you, as long as you don't snore." She remembered her old People, and the man who made the most frightful racket whilst asleep.
"Would that be comfortable for you during your . . . Wintersleep?"
"I do not snore, madam!" Cried Dodger with some indignation, but his eyes were bright, interested.
"I am sorry; I meant no offence to you, sir. I have a flippant nature, and I think that perhaps it was a poorly thought joke." Nyeowr tried to look contrite, but the odd animal looking at her with such pique, just made her feel more amused than anything. She tried a different tack.
"What is 'Wintersleep'"
The hedgehog shuffled forward. "Wintersleep is for some of us animals - those of us who aren't pets, that is, milady. We spend the winter asleep, so we don't see, or feel, the cold." He smiled a shy smile at the cat. "If you're sure you don't mind, and if you promise not to eat me when I'm in my Wintersleep, than I would be happy to see your place, milady."
Nyeowr turned and cautiously padded out form the bushes and across the lawn. She waited for the hedgepig to join her before moving round and into the comfort of the shed.
Once both were inside and Dodger was oohing and aahing she answered him. "If you make me promise just one more time," she said, "I might eat you just to shut you up."
With that, she climbed onto her pile of blankets and curled up.
Below, the hedgehog regarded her with some concern for a long while, before himself shuffling into a dark corner and dozing.
If I wake up later, he thought, I'll know if she was joking.
When Dodger awoke the next morning, he was surprised. This place was so very comfortable, all he could possibly have hoped for, that he could have gone into his Wintersleep here as if almost by chance. Yet he hadn't. His fear of his new 'friend' kept him flighty, on edge.
The cat was nowhere to be seen.
Dodger rose and stretched, his spikes splaying out at all angles. Despite filling ready for his hibernation, he had awoken hungry. His belly growled at him and he scramble out through the hole and into the cover of the deckchairs.
Twisting his way through, he was able to squeeze himself under the shed supports and root around for slugs in the damp dinginess. The ground was cold and hard, nearly frozen. This winter was going to be a killer. He hurried about his meal, went to toilet in the darkest corner, and returned to the shed.
As he settled down in his spot, Nyeowr reappeared, rushing in through the hole and turning quickly to peer out of the gap in the wood. Her fur stood on end; her tail was thick and bobbed from side to side as she twitched it about in her agitation.
Dodger was too afraid to make a noise. What if she had forgotten her offer of friendship made yesterday, and had decided that he would be much more interesting as a warm meal? He quaked in fear.
After a while Nyeowr's fur returned to it's usual state, and her tail stopped flicking about, as thin as it had been yesterday. She turned to regard the hedgehog.
"There are other cats around here," she said. "Nasty cats."
Dodger nearly keeled over in horror. "From the Manor House," he said slowly. If they had found him yesterday, instead of Nyeowr . . . well, he doubted he would be in the comfort of the shed now; he doubted he would be anything.
The frightened animals of the area lived in fear of Tom, the Manor House mouser, and his ever-changing little group of cronies, as they bullied, intimidated and ate - ate! - some of them on an almost daily basis. Since the old cat owned by the People had disappeared - died, perhaps; probably died, in fact - Tom had ran a rule of terror unheard of since the inception of the Brook Bend Fauna Charter.
He realised Nyeowr was staring at him, deeply focussed. "You look like you want to tell me something."
- 2 -
Big Bad Tom
The well-tended gardens of Brook Bend Manor were divided into three sections.
By far the largest was the rear lawn, where tiered patios led down to a table-flat expanse of grass, divided neatly by three yellow gravel paths which formed an arrowhead aimed at the patio steps. The central path ran on to a raised fountain, bordered by a low box hedge. Circling round this it continued on to a long rectangular pond full of enormous goldfish (Tom had caught a few of these over the years; the fish now rarely swam to the edge of their world). The other two paths led to the stables on the right, and a roman garden on the left, complete with statuettes and topiary, before angling back to meet at the pond.
Tom avoided the pond as much as possible, only nearing it if, in his need for mischief, he wanted to claw a fish. He had fallen into the water once, to be hauled out, cold, wet and terrified, by a laughing groundsman. For the few moments he was in the water, he had thrashed about, swallowing water, and was convinced he was about to die. The manor employee had gotten a savage swipe across the wrist for his troubles as he set the cat down, but had laughed again as the cat streaked back up the path to the house. Tom never forgot the humiliation, the cold, and the pressure of the water on his body. Mostly, though, he remembered the feeling of sheer fright that had spurred him on. And Tom hated remembering that.
So, although he would often go near the pond, or the brook, he was careful to ensure his footing was safe, and that he was in no danger. There was a small wooden bridge across the water outside the Manor grounds. Though he was careful not to let his cronies see, he moved across it as quickly as possible, his heart thumping, blood rushing in his ears.
At the front of the Manor house, the long, driveway, bordered with both beech and oak trees neatly separated the other two grassy areas. On the left was the croquet lawn - also used for bowling, on occasion - and the ornate hexagonal Victorian summerhouse. On the right was what was called the "Summer Lawn": simply a spread of neatly cut grass, dotted with a holly bush, a bird-bath, a sundial, a picnic table and several cast-iron chairs, a football goal, and a patch of fir trees which lay by the perimeter wall.
Across the grass, the brook cut across from left to right. The driveway ran over a solid stone bridge down to the gates. Where the water came through the perimeter wall, a pair of wrought-iron grills stopped unwelcome visitors and river flotsam from coming into the manor grounds. There was just enough room for a cat to squeeze through, and it was here that Tom and his cronies were able to make their way into the outside world.
From his hiding place under the holly bush, Tom and two of his cronies, Grip and Rags, watched the robin glide gently down and settle on the edge of the birdbath. Grip twitched as his instincts to pounce took control. He trembled, tensed . . . and received a sudden swipe from Tom.
"Not yet," hissed Tom. He was a large cat, broad and black furred. His green eyes were devoid of anything other than a cruel, calculating intelligence. A yellow fang poked from the corner of his mouth as he hissed an angry curse at the other cat.
Grip cringed. "Sorry, boss," he said.
The robin cheeped happily to itself as it stood, gazing at it its own reflection in the water.
"Where's Scabtail and Eyebright?" Demanded Tom.
Rags and Grip nodded their heads in the direction of a small copse of trees beyond the birdbath. "They're at the gardener's hut," Rags whispered.
"Good," nodded Tom. "Twice now that annoying little bird has gotten away from us, and I don't expect it to get away again. Am I clear?"
The others nodded.
"Good."
Tom inched forward, keeping his profile as low to the ground as possible. The previous day, Scabtail had left his tail standing upright, and the robin saw it, causing him to flee the sudden onrush of feline hostility charging across the lawn. The unfortunate cat had gotten his ear bitten as a result. The day before that, Tom had been distracted by a shout from one of the People in the Manor House, which made him jerk upright. Again, the robin had flapped to safety. But Tom had not been bitten as punishment.
Both times, though, the robin had flown to settle on the roof of the gardeners hut, hidden in the fir trees off to the side. Although the hut was People-sized, the close proximity of the trees meant that a climbing cat could get onto the roof easily: a scramble between branches, and a leap across, and bingo!. Tom had stationed the other two in the trees as a precaution.
The three cats sneaked as far as a row of potted shrubs lining the edge of the lawn, and peered between the pots to make sure the little bird was still within striking range. It was.
Tom inched a little closer, pushing between two pots, his teeth already bared. The robin had its back to him. Closer.
Closer.
Suddenly he burst into a sprint, rushing across the grass.
A crow, which had settled unseen onto the lower branches of one of the fir trees caarked a warning. The robin turned its head a fraction and saw the cat charging at it. He took to the skies immediately, just avoiding the desperate leap and slicing claws of the angry cat.
Tom landed with a frustrated hiss.
Those damned crows!
As the bird circled away to safety, flapping over the brook and out of sight, Tom turned and regarded the crow with a murderous cast to his eye. Those birds and their stupid Charter. He would get them. All of them. One day.
The crow merely gazed back with its head cocked to one side, a yellow eye looking right back at him.
Rags and Grip moved up to flank Tom.
The bird cawed once in derision and took flight, zigzagging between the trees . . . toward the gardener's hut! Tom couldn't believe his luck!
He raced on, the others following.
By the time he arrived at the hut, it was all over. A smear of blood lay across the slate roof. Two very satisfied cats stood either side of a misshapen black lump.
As Tom, Grip and Rags neared the hut, Scabtail yawned, revealing a row of very pointy teeth, capped in red. Eyebright stretched out, a deep, throaty purr rolling down to the others.
Scabtail finished his ostentatious yawn and reached out a paw. With a little difficulty, he pushed the black lump. Gravity took over: it slid, then rolled down the tiles, leaving behind another red smear, to fall to the grass with a soft thump.
A lifeless yellow eye gazed up as Tom, who beamed back down at it.
"One down," he said.
All five cats laughed.
Rags stepped forward and stuck his claws into the crow. "Fly now, birdie," he laughed.
Tom leapt at him, knocking him over as they fell into a tangle. The larger cat bent his head and bit painfully into Rags' throat as he used his superior weight and strength to restrain his minion.
"Never," he growled, "Never touch anything unless I say so." His face was terrible to behold: black rage defined his features. Tom's blood was up. He would do anything - anything at all - to destroy the charter. This first step would be the hardest.
They did not hear another crow caark out a warning, nor did they see a flight of birds circling above the trees, watching every move they made. The Parliament had seen everything.
- 3 -
The Charter
Dodger scratched at a flea biting his ear, using the pause to gather his thoughts. Nyeowr just stretched out and crossed her paws, waiting for the hedgehog to speak, her gaze wandering about the shed, tail slowly sliding back and forth.
"Well," said the hedgehog, "It's a bit odd, really."
"Try me," answered Nyeowr.
Dodger shrugged. "The Charter is the set of rules which governs how all the animals of the Brook Bend . . . interact with each other. It's like out laws. Yes that's what it is: our laws."
Nyeowr gazed steadily back at the hedgehog.
"Well, we . . . ah . . . we have all got on pretty well together since the Charter was created. Most of us, anyway.
"But a few years ago, the People of the Manor house - over the back there, beyond the wall - got a . . . uh . . . cat."
"A cat."
"Yes. Tom, his name is. He's a fearsome brute: all muscle and hatred. He seems to want to kill everything - everyone - in the Brooklands. He's horrible! A monster! All he's done since he arrived, is hunt and kill our citizens, and make everyone's life a misery."
Nyeowr nodded. "And I'm a cat."
The hedgehog gave a sickly smile. "Now I'm not saying you're like him. Of course I'm not."
"You wouldn't dare," Nyeowr interrupted dryly.
"Exactly. No -" Dodger looked flustered.
"Oh dear," he said, "This isn't going to well. Listen: if I can arrange for you to meet the Parliament, and if you agree to the Charter, I'm sure everyone will see you as a friend to the Brooklands."
"Parliament?"
"It's the government. The crows run everything."
"Crows."
"Yes."
"I see. And I have to see these birds and agree to their Charter before I can be sure I'm not going to be attacked by an agitated police squirrel some time in the spring."
Dodger frowned. "You're not taking this seriously," he accused.
"Well, no. You all let crows rule your lives."
The hedgehog nodded. "They always have," he said simply.
Seeing the look on her friend's face, Nyeowr felt guilty. "I'm sorry, Dodger," she said. "It just seems silly to me."
"You're an outsider," Dodger grumbled.
"True. Look, I don't know this Tom, and I'm not like him. Now I like it here. I would like to stay, if I may. So . . . if it means our friendship, I will meet your Parliament, and agree to your Charter."
A look of delight filled the hedgehog's grey face. "I can arrange that!"
Nyeowr nodded.
Dodger ran in tight little circles. "I can get them to meet you, and you can swear to the Charter, and we can all be friends, and - oh!"
"What is it?"
"I just remembered," replied Dodger. "I've never met the Parliament directly: my great-great-great grandparents swore our family to the Charter for twelve generations. I've seen them hold court, of course . . ."
"And?" Prompted Nyeowr.
Dodger cringed slightly. "Well . . . the crows . . . the Parliament. They scare me."
Nyeowr laughed.
The hedgehog frowned in indignation. "But I can arrange for you to meet them! Stop laughing! It's not funny!"
He scuttled to the hole. "I can arrange it," he said. "You'll see."
Nyeowr was still laughing when the hedgehog disappeared outside.
- 4 -
The Parliament of Crows
Late afternoon, and the throaty rumble told Dodger that the People had climbed into their monster and gone away to do their People things.
He cautiously poked his quivering nose out from under the shelter of the chairs and looked around.
Winter was coming in cold now. His breath misted in front of his nose and a gentle but cold wind dug into the soft fur around his eyes. The sky was a dull, leaden grey; thick, angry-looking clouds scudded across the sky carrying with them a promise of cold rain.
The colour was deepening in the garden: as the early evenings were eating into the day more and more, so everything took on black tones ever earlier. Already, some of the bushes were dark patches at the end of the garden. Without the People's lights, all would be black in an hour or so.
Already they were coming: five crows circling and flapping to land on the fence. As they did so, they shuffled sideways until they were all spaced about a hedgepig's length apart, with the largest in the middle. To its left, a one-eyed crow lifted its head and squawked at a sixth bird circling high overhead. A hoot answered it.
"They're here," whispered Dodger.
He felt Nyeowr push past; the cat strolled brazenly into sight of the birds, her tail flicking back and forth in an agitated manner. Sighing to himself he slowly followed her.
His eyes peered upward to follow the silhouette of an owl doing figure-of-eight's in the sky above. "He's the guard," the hedgehog hissed. "Keeping watch for the enemy, or for People."
"I see him," replied the Nyeowr. Her head twisted to face Dodger. "Do not worry. I understand the purpose of your Charter and your Parliament, and accept their authority here. I will not take them." Her teeth appeared as she grinned wickedly. "Unless I get . . . peckish."
Nyeowr leaned in close. "I am joking," she said. "Honest."
Dodger prayed silently that she was.
Though he continued gamely on, he trembled with fright. It's all right for cats, he thought. A cat can travel anywhere; People like cats, and crows are afraid of 'em. Who's afraid of hedgehogs? No one, that's who. Velvet will come out of this no different to the way she went in, but me - oh no: I'll be exiled, sure as my spikes are full of fleas. Hedgepigs can't travel as far, or as fast a cat - a cat! I'll be killed before even starting on my exile.
"Here are the Parliament's Justice," squawked One-Eye. His beak jabbed in the direction of the cat and hedgehog. Velvet and Dodger sat side-by-side, gazing up at the birds.
"And who are the Parliament's Justice?" Asked the big crow.
One-Eye remained silent.
For a moment, no one spoke. One-Eye caarked angrily.
"The Parliament awaits an answer."
"D - Dodger, Milord's," squeaked the hedgehog, trembling more than ever. He had never been this frightened before . . . well, except since the last time he had been this frightened. Probably when he first met Nyeowr, in fact.
"And why do you stand before us?" Asked One Eye in a deeply formal tone.
"I stand before you to follow this Parliament's bidding," Dodger replied, just as formally.
The crow's beak pointed at Nyeowr, who yawned, her mouth splitting her face as she feigned boredom. Cats, in general, do not like to feel coerced into anything. The crows erupted in an angry clamour of outraged squawking. The largest crow stretched out a black wing. Silence fell upon the garden.
"You come to accept the Charter; you come for the Parliament's justice, and you treat us with such contempt? Do not anger us, cat."
"She meant no offence," Dodger blustered quickly. He cast a quick frown at Nyeowr. "Did you?" He hissed.
"I meant no offence," Nyeowr affirmed out loud. She gave a smile, showing the two perfect rows of sharp teeth. "My apologies, my Lords. I am due to birth my litter soon, and their weight makes me tired." She yawned once more - for good measure - and then bowed her head. "I humbly ask your forgiveness."
"Doesn't look humble to me," Dodger muttered quietly to himself.
"Very well," One-Eye said in a short tone, obviously not mollified. "State your name, cat."
"Nyeowr," she replied. She fixed her eyes on the bird.
"And why do you stand before us?"
"I stand before you to agree the Charter of this place, and to follow this Parliament's bidding."
"Very well."
There was a long pause. Dodger began to panic once more. They had decided to refuse her? Was that what this was all about? Or was it worse than that, even?
Nyeowr remained silent. He eyes never left One-Eye for an instant.
Finally, the large crow spoke. Nyeowr's gaze flicked to him the moment his beak opened.
"The Charter was introduced many tens of years ago by our forebears," he said in a slow, deep caw.
"It was during the time of war among the People, when the animals of Brook Bend saw the injured People coming to stay at the Manor House; their wounds terrible to behold. This war was a frightful thing: People came with limbs missing, sight or hearing lost, minds gone, leaving an empty madness in their heads. Often they would be taken into the Manor gardens where they would scream and wail and terrify the creatures of the lands nearby.
"Our ancestors saw this suffering and decided then that there shall be no war between squirrel and badger, hedgehog and bird, cat or dog. They decided that the lands about here should be a fit and worthy place for their young to inherit. So the crows put the word out to meet in the copse beyond the brook to agree to live in peace. And they came, animals of all sizes; birds, mice and others. And a beacon was lit against the tide of darkness threatening to overrun the People.
"And so that beacon has been passed down to us. As it was the crows that decided on the charter, so it is now we crows who preserve and maintain the Charter agreed in the copse.
"People, with their poisons and their building and their farming have winnowed down our numbers. Many of the original agree-ers to the Charter have no descendants either living or still living within the Brook Bend area."
He preened himself for a moment before continuing.
"Some animals did not agree - rats, frogs and toads, some mink, fieldmice and dormice. We have ever tried to bring them in, but to no avail. They are outside the charter unless they ask to be bound to it. Do you, Nyeowr, cat?"
The five crows lined the fence. The largest turned his head in the jerky manner of birds and seemed to be listening to the low, whispered voices of the others. His black eye stared at the cat and the hedgepig, not blinking, a black gemstone twinkling in the reflected light of the setting sun.
Dodger hopped from foot to foot. He was nervous. His Wintersleep had been interrupted well before he was due to wake up, and he was terrified to discover that his cosy bed under the chest of drawers was soon to become a battleground between Nyeowr and her little army, and the gang led by Tom.
It had taken much gentle persuasion on the part of Nyeowr to get him to come and listen to the Parliament. He had tried to explain to his friend exactly what would happen during the Parliament's session, but she had not listened, or had not taken him seriously. Now, here they were. The crows were deliberating, and even to a tired old hedgehog like Dodger, the result would be inevitable.
He sighed to himself and glanced at Nyeowr.
She sat as still and as silent as stone, watching the crows as they quietly discussed the situation. She did not blink. Her tail remained curled about her haunches like a dead snake. Even her whiskers seemed to be untouched by the gentle wind.
For Dodger, time seemed to stretch on. The sun had just started to sink below the People's house when the crows opened their session; now it was nearly gone and night was upon them. There was no moon. Black clouds glided across the sky, obscuring to few stars bright enough to be visible at this time of day.
Finally, with a loud caark, the large crow flapped his wings once and turned his head back to the cat and hedgehog.
"We are in agreement," he said.
Dodger began to tremble. He knew what was coming; he had tried to tell Nyeowr, tried to warn her, but she had not listened. The crow would say those words, and war would erupt in the Brooklands. The carnage alone would be terrible, but that was not the worst thing: at some point, the People would notice something terrible was going on and investigate. Then Things would get really bad.
Nyeowr's tail batted him lightly across the nose. "Shh," she hissed. It was only then that Dodger had realised that he had been praying.
"We are decided," the large crow intoned. "This Parliament is dissolved."
All five birds flapped their wings in unison.
"The cat Tom, of Brooklands House, Peoplehome, has been found guilty of Mistreatment of Animals, by word and deed, under article four of the Brook Bend Fauna Charter. Moreover, he has been found guilty of the crime of murder: one of our number is no more - killed by that cat and his minions."
Dodger reeled in shock. One of the Parliament! He killed one of the Parliament.
"Guilty, guilty," the other four crows said. Caaw, caaw.
"It is, therefore," the lead crow continued, "with great sadness, that we declare this Parliament of Crows dissolved to be now reconvened as a Murder of Crows."
Nyeowr gasped. Her tail twitched. Dodger felt faint.
"The Murder is in agreement," said the crow. "The newcomer Nyeowr, of Annersley House Shed, is to pass sentence. Tom is to be banished, and his followers with him, from our lands. Nyeowr may resort to any means necessary to remove him, but he is to be gone by the next silent moon."
"Silent moon?" Nyeowr whispered.
"No moon," Dodger replied. "It's ten days away."
The cat stood. The crows appeared to tense.
"You honour," Nyeowr began. "The next silent moon will fall on the holiday People call Christmas. It's a time for peace and goodwill. May we not wait until the New Year, once my companion Dodger has had the remainder of his Wintersleep?"
The crow caarked angrily. "You will not question our decision! The Murder is decided. Tom will be banished within ten days from now, or you and your hedgepig will also be outlawed."
At that moment there was a rustle in the bushes below the fence. A small group of mice appeared and marched in perfect timing towards the cat and hedgehog. They were in six ranks of three, led by a larger, more robust mouse.
Once in front of the shocked Nyeowr, they stopped and swivelled round to face the fence.
The leader stared at Nyeowr for a moment, then turned his back on the cat and regarded the crows. None of the rodents had shown any fear in approaching a dangerous predator, and, as soon as their leader spoke, Dodger understood why.
"Your honours," squeaked the mouse. "May I have the privilege of announcing myself?"
The large crow silently nodded his assent.
"I am Sir Eldrick CheeseEater the third, leader of the Grand Order of Mice, and son to the late Sir Eldrick CheeseEater the second, Mouster of Brooklands House.
"I have, of late, been on an expedition to the Manor Pantry to requisition supplies for when the snows come. It was a successful expedition, marred by only the one casualty: young Neek was killed by a mousetrap in the wine cellar. We returned with provision enough for our colony, to discover . . ." He spun and jabbed an angry claw at Nyeowr. " . . . Cats! Our colony is under siege by a force of foul felines! Under Article Nine of the Charter, our rights are preserved! We are house mice, not dormice! I demand justice!" His voice had risen several octaves during his outburst, and now Dodger had a little difficulty in understanding the agitated high-pitched squeaking.
The lead crow inclined his head. "Friend Eldrick," he said in a soothing voice. "This cat is not the source of your troubles. This cat is party to the provisions of the Charter, and has agreed to act under our authority."
Eldrick slowly turned to look at Nyeowr. His retinue maintained their stance.
"Cats are not subject to the charter," he said. "Cats are . . . pets!" The word was dripping with contempt.
At that, the mice lost their discipline: angry chatter broke out amongst them, some turned and glared at Nyeowr and Dodger, others hurled abuse at the crows and each other.
"Enough!" The crow was furious. All five birds were flapping their wings and caarking loudly. "I will have Order! Order!" Cree-ark. Caar-eark.
Eldrick walked amongst his troops, exhorting them to return to their rigid order. After a few moments they did so, returning to the three ranks.
The crow continued. "This cat is not a pet. It is a free creature of the Brook Bend Charter. She has agreed to our authority, and will be treated as such by you, Mouster. She is no hunter of housemice, only the dormice and the rats of the Bankside. She has not slain you, friend Eldrick."
Sir Eldrick CheeseEater the Third suddenly became very still. Slowly, ever so slowly, he faced Nyeowr. The cat remained calm and unmoving. Her brown eyes regarded the little group of prey before her. Every instinct had to be saying pounce! Pounce! But she did not. More than ever, Dodger admired his friend.
She did, however, grin toothily at the mouse, showing her needle sharp fangs, which she slowly ran a moist, pink tongue across.
Sir Eldrick gulped and stepped back a couple of paces, into the group of troops.
"It is not for me to treat with a cat," Sir Eldrick squeaked. "As leader of this group, I should have a diplomat acting on my behalf."
He surveyed the other mice, his nose twitching, making whiskers tremble. "Aha! Pablo! Pablo will be my envoy."
He nudged a sturdy looking brown mouse forward.
"Envoy?" The other mouse - Pablo - demanded.
"Yes, you are my envoy. You will talk to the cat on my behalf." Eldrick inched still further back.
Pablo sighed. "Si signor." He trod carefully up to the cat and waved a paw at her, jerking his head in a 'come listen' gesture.
Confused, Nyeowr ducked her head; the mouse whispered something in her ear. She thought a moment, then nodded and sat up.
Pablo returned to address the little army of mice. "I have agreed with the signora that we will sing to her the ballad of the CheeseEater family as an introduction to our lord Eldrick. I hope this will show her that we have a history unusual for house mice."
Dodger nearly laughed aloud. A chorus of singing mice! This would be priceless.
"Uno, dos, tres . . ." Pablo began.
All the mice - including Sir Eldrick himself - began to sing, their voices high pitched, but in perfect harmony (except for Sir Eldrick, who was tuneless and obviously unfamiliar with the words, and so mmm'd and la-la-la'd off-key for much of the first three verses before giving up and nodding his head instead).
We sing the tale of the CheeseEater family
Of their riches, honour and congenital insanity;
They are the mice who we all aspire to be -
Oh, the glory of the CheeseEater family.
First was Baduin of France, from over the water
Who met a widowed mouse and fell in love with her daughter.
The greedy mother, she wanted a huge dowry
But was thrilled with the things that he brought her.
Their son was called Thimble and he was tiny of stature
But huge of heart - an absolute smasher.
He befriended a cat from down by the river;
They went into business as a pair of rat-catchers.
Business was booming: a fortune they made,
The whole place was swarming with rats carrying plague.
He lived to old age (while the cat sadly died)
And earned the respect of the friends that he made.
His grandson was called Eldrick, Eldrick the First
Also great of heart, but still greater of purse,
Who spent fortunes on poor mice when things were adverse
While his own lunacy slowly got worse.
Generations passed, and then came Balaneggar
Who got amazingly fat scoffing huge rounds of cheddar
And a ginger tom caught him whilst pigging in the larder
Now the poor greedy mouse couldn't be any deader.
Eldrick, Second of that worthy name, he came next
He first led our people on our mighty trek
Through hardship to the Manor House cellars
Where the big, nasty People still revile us as pests.
Now here we are following his son, Eldrick the Third
He's a little bit loony, but things could be worse.
He's got a short temper and his tone a little terse
So to please him we sat and created this verse.
Oh, he's got a short temper, but he's a really great mouse,
He took us all away from the old Manor house
To come and fight for the Murder of Crows,
Though to what purpose, only Eldrick knows.
Oh, we've come here to fight for the Murder of Crows,
Though to what purpose, only Eldrick knows.
Sir Eldrick took a little bow as the song finished, then did a second when he realised that there was no-one looking at him, his face cross.
A couple of the younger mice started the song again to a faster tempo, but were quelled by a fierce glare from Pablo. They nervously shuffled from foot to foot.
Sir Eldrick CheeseEater strode back to the front.
"A fine rendition, mice; a fine rendition. Perhaps too much history and not enough detail on my exploits, but - " He shrugged.
Turning to Pablo, he said: "I want two more verses involving me. I think perhaps the expedition to the Manor Pantry, and my brave part in it. Also, when we have helped this cat in its business, another telling of my outstanding heroism."
Pablo sighed. "Si, signor," he said.
Sir Eldrick suddenly realised that he was closer to Nyeowr, and darted back amongst the little group of mice.
There was silence for a moment. The crows were evidently enjoying the spectacle below them as cat and mice sat watching each other.
Finally, Nyeowr spoke. "If I remember correctly, you were demanding that the Parliament did not deal with me. That was before you started singing to me."
Pablo grinned.
Sir Eldrick spluttered.
"Of course I was, of course!" He stomped to the back of the group and peered up at the crows.
"I demand that this pet not be accepted to the Charter. As Mouster of Brook Bend, I insist!"
"Do you, indeed?" The lead crow asked in a low voice.
"Indeed I do." Sir Eldrick puffed himself up and scowled at the birds.
"Very well." All five crows cawed at once. Instantly, there was a loud flap of wings, clattering in the fading light. A dark shadow swooped out of the sky and settled on the fence next to the crows. A barn owl sat serenely looking down at the group of mice.
All were shocked rigid, except Sir Eldrick.
"Eeek!" He squeaked as he turned tail and charged through his troops to blunder into Pablo, sending both mice sprawling.
Pablo regained his feet and dusted himself down as he shook his head and muttered under his breath. But Sir Eldrick . . . ?
He rolled into something warm and soft. Once clambering back to his feet, he parted the fur in front of him and worriedly regarded the owl. "Barn owl," he rasped. "Barn owl, oh, life of me, a barn owl." He was transfixed, unable to take his eyes off the bird.
Until, that is, an upside down head came down to obscure his view. An upside down cats head.
Nyeowr licked her lips. "Fast food," she whispered to the mouse. "I like it. Home delivery, too."
Sir Eldrick reached out one paw and prodded the warm wall to his left. His whiskers began to tremble more.
He reached out another paw to feel the furry wall to his right.
His whiskers quivered rather violently.
He looked up at the cat's chin, and continued following the line of its neck up and up and up until it joined the body which nearly encompassed him completely. Eldrick's whiskers were a blur of frantic motion.
The walls shook as the cat began to laugh.
That was it. Sir Eldrick CheeseEater the Third screamed in horror and shot forward, narrowly missing Nyeowr's rapidly rising head. The Mouster bulldozed into his band of followers, still screaming.
Pablo grinned.
"As Sir Eldrick's envoy," he said, "I believe I am in a position to state our agreement. The housemice of Brook Bend will aid the cat and Dodger the Hedgehog in their mission.
He looked over his shoulder and flashed a smile at Nyeowr.
The crows caarked. "Good," said One-Eye. "Now that is settled. Our business here is finished."
Pablo nodded. "Peepy and Tippet, pick up Sir Eldrick - he appeared to be having difficulty standing. Let's go home." To Nyeowr and Dodger, he said: "We will visit to arrange a plan of action. Farewell, signora, signor."
The troupe of mice once more filed into the bushes and disappeared.
"Until the next Silent Moon," he said.
Nyeowr nodded silently.
"The next Silent Moon," Dodger said aloud. "Though Lord knows how," he muttered.
The crows took to the air, followed by the owl.
Within seconds, only the cat and hedgehog were left.
"Well, that wasn't so bad," Dodger said as they entered the shed.
"No," agreed Nyeowr. "In fact, it was rather fun."
- 5 -
Battle of the Brook
Despite the meeting and its result, there never was any plan formulated for ridding the Brooklands of Tom. There was never any need: events did as events do. They just happened.
The day after the meeting, Dodger offered to show Nyeowr around the Brook Bend lands, from Hadleigh's mill to the north, and the Haven Post to the south; from the Manor Wall and the Watergate in the west, and the Bonney fields in the east.
"Just so's you know where the Charter covers, like," the hedgehog said by way of explanation. "There's a bridleway which runs around most of the way."
The word was new on Nyeowr. "Bridleway?" She asked.
"It's a path for horses and People," Dodger replied. "The path by the brook is part of a bridleway; horses are frightened by the People's monsters."
"I've been in their monsters lots of times," the cat said quietly. "They are scary. I know how the horses feel."
"Did you not have bridleways in the city then?"
"No. Just roads and buildings and lots of People."
Dodger nodded sadly. "We hedgies know all about roads," he said.
So they took the grand tour. Even though it was Wintersleep time for many of the land's residents, Dodger was able to introduce Nyeowr to a group of squirrels living in a large oak tree near Hadleigh's Mill, a very sleepy barn owl called Talon (this was the same owl from the day before, though he was very sleepy - "We are nocturnal creatures," he mumbled, rather huffily), and to a fox living in a thick briar patch up near the Bonney Fields. Each time, Dodger proudly referred to Nyeowr as the one who would rid the Brooklands of Tom. Nyeowr became a trifle embarrassed by this.
As they trudged back down the path from the Mill to the houses, Dodger began grumbling about the owl.
"I can't stand him," he said. "He's always saying in his superior voice that owl are nocturrrrrnnnnallll. Well, so are we hedgies, but we don't moan on all day about being awake during daylight, even when the sun hurts our eyes an' all. No."
Nyeowr nodded again, as she had done on the several occasions the hedgehog had voiced this particular gripe.
"Ooh, look at me, I only come out at night, unless the crows want me to bully for them," Dodger mimicked, in the slow, drawling voice of the owl.
Nyeowr sighed to herself.
The bridleway curved around to run alongside the brook, following the slow course of the water. The sky was as gloomy as ever, and there was a promise of rain in the grey, pendulous clouds loitering above.
Suddenly, Nyeowr stopped and sat, sniffing at the air.
"What is it?" Dodger asked.
Nyeowr said, "I don't know. I'm not sure."
Dodger sniffed too. "It smells like . . ."
"Familiar. I've smelled it before, somewhere."
"I know!" Dodger began. "It's a ca-"
A grey blur streaked out of them, slashing at Nyeowr's ear. She moved her head just a fraction too slowly. A claw scratched her.
There was a sudden raucous noise; the blur was joined by four more, as more shapes ran at the surprised cat and hedgepig. Each blur was making a deep, resonant rumble in its throat. Nyeowr struck out at one, hissing herself, and jumped back at the creature spat.
Enemy cats surrounded them.
The largest stopped running. "You -" he nodded at Nyeowr, "- may join my gang. You're quite pretty. But you -" - Dodger - " - will leave here and never come back. Because if I ever see you again, little hedgehog, I will kill you and eat your head."
Dodger gulped.
Nyeowr turned to face Tom. "He's my friend," she said. "I don't like my friends being threatened."
"Sounds like you're threatening me," Tom grinned. "I like a feisty woman."
One of the other cats snickered.
"I like handsome toms," Nyeowr replied.
Tom smiled like a Cheshire Cat, all teeth and small eyes.
Nyeowr continued, "So that's why I don't want anything to do with you. You're a one cat ugly convention."
Dodger nearly fainted. He was already terrified, but this . . .? This was madness.
The smile left Tom's face, replaced instead by a grimace, which in turn became a murderous glare as he digested her words. Anger filled him, as it always did when he heard things he did not like.
"I'll get you for that," he growled.
Dodger knew what was coming. He darted - remarkably quickly for a hedgehog - between two of the cats and ran as fast as he could for the bridge. Nyeowr took a quick swipe at Tom, missing by a long way, and followed Dodger.
"Eyebright, Grip! After them!" Tom ordered. "Kill the spiky idiot, but just scratch the pet. She will come to me eventually, and she will be glad of it. Don't maim her, just show her who really runs things around here. If she's with the hedgehog, then she knows all about that charter. Now go!"
The two cats named leapt to follow. Nyeowr and Dodger had gotten such a good head start, they were just crossing the brook when they were caught.
A wooden bridge, really just several planks nailed to a basic frame lay over the brook. Though it looked flimsy and unstable, it could comfortably hold the weight of a People on a horse. Dodger was halfway across, and Nyeowr right at his shoulder when Eyebright and Rags caught up.
Nyeowr felt claws raking her sides and twisted to face her attacker. The other had bowled Dodger over, making him expose his defenceless belly.
Nyeowr and her assailant struggled against each other, hissing and spitting, clawing and biting.
Dodger thrashed his head around to try and avoid the slashing paws of the cat, making most miss, but feeling his skin part on a few occasions as the claws tore at him.
But then he heard a noise: a small cheer, followed by a high pitched battlecry: "For Sir Eldrick, and the Mice of the Manor!"
He saw several little shapes hurry past his head and begin attacking the cat. His attacker squealed in pain, and threw himself off.
The mice were jabbing their heads at the cat. Each one carried a small black . . . thing . . . in its mouth. Righting himself, Dodger saw what they were, and why they were hurting the cat so much.
Grip leapt back with an outraged, hurt hiss as another rose thorn pricked his leg. The mouse gripping it danced away out of reach as another drove in from a different angle, stabbing with vicious strength. He spun and gored his tormentor with his claws, swinging him over and thumping him down on the ground. The mouse tried to drag itself away, but its back was broken. Grip ignored another thrust of a thorn to savagely bite down on the injured mouse, killing it instantly.
A thorn pierced the skin and flesh at the foot of Grip's tail, right at his backside, forcing him to lunge forward out of range. He kicked out with a rear leg, feeling it make contact with something small, furry and breakable. Three more jabs to the shoulder and legs was the reply.
Wherever he turned, there was more pain from behind, or from the sides. Grip became very disheartened. He had joined up with Tom because he thought he could get whatever he wanted without having to root through dustbins for it. He had thought that a group of cats would comfortably cow any opposition from around here. He had thought it would be a laugh.
Except it wasn't. The mice were carving him up. Grip yowled as a well struck thorn dug in between his toes, into the soft flesh of his paw. He made his decision there and then. Pausing only to snap at a fat little mouse, Grip turned tail and ran over the bridge and down to the road.
Eyebright wasn't so clever. Though he managed to get the odd strike in at Nyeowr, it was the smaller female who had the best of this contest. For every successful scratch or bite he made, she got in three. Whenever he thought he had her pinned down, she was able to wrench herself away and graze her claws down his fur.
As they fought, Eyebright became steadily aware of a noise, which seemed to come from the trees nearby. As Nyeowr jumped back out of range of a swipe, Eyebright glanced up at the trees.
There was a group of five crows up there, all cawing down at the fight. They flapped their wings and shouted down encouragement to their allies. One-Eye was particularly vocal, screaming down advice at his own side, and insults at Eyebright. At no time, though, did any of them show even so much as a glimmer of interest in actually joining in.
Nyeowr bit at Eyebright's tail, causing the bigger cat to leap back. He danced forward again just as quickly, leaving Nyeowr's cheek feeling the sting of grazed skin, the claw only just missing her eye. Back and forth across the bridge they see-sawed, one gaining the upper hand and pressing the other back, then the other gaining the advantage.
Victorious in their own battle, Dodger and the mice came to aid their friend. They formed up in an ever-contracting ring around the combatants, pressing them closer and closer together. Whenever Nyeowr was forced back at the edge of the ring, they scattered, reforming as soon as she shot back at Eyebright. When it was he who neared them, they jabbed him with rose thorns or spikes, often making him lurch forward onto Nyeowr's claws.
Within moments both cats were fighting right at the edge of the bridge. The mice held their position, wary of moving any closer in case they accidentally toppled the wrong cat into the water.
It ended as suddenly as it began.
Nyeowr jumped high, twisting in the air so that she landed on Eyebright's back, all four sets of claws digging spitefully into his soft, tender flesh. He screamed in agony and reared up on his hindlegs.
As he did so, Nyeowr jumped off and aimed a donkey-kick at his rear end. Eyebright stumbled forward, missed his footing, and flopped over the edge. He fell with no feline grace at all, yowling until he his the water.
The last the victors saw of him was his splashing, half-drowning swimming style as he inched his way towards the bank.
The mice let up a great cheer.
Nyeowr painfully walked over to Dodger. Satisfied that he was all right, she turned her attention to the mice.
Sir Eldrick stood foremost, with Pablo at his side.
"You have my sincere thanks, Sir Eldrick," Nyeowr said. "Without you and your soldiers, this could have turned out very badly for us. Thank you."
The chief of the mice nodded gravely. "I apologise for insulting you," he said. "We are allies, after all." He held out a tiny paw.
Nyeowr reached out hers, and carefully shook paws with the Mouster.
"Signor, signora," Pablo interjected. "We should leave before the others get here."
Sir Eldrick nodded at his aide and bowed to Dodger and Nyeowr. The mice filed off the bridge and disappeared into the bushes.
Dodger looked up at the trees . . . but the crows had gone. He frowned at Nyeowr, but she just shrugged. "They were there," she said, "but I didn't see them leave."
"Now that's just typical," Dodger grumbled. "No help from the crows, no help from the owl - he's probably fast asleep. Nocturnal - I'll give him nocturnal . . ."
Nyeowr sighed, and the two friends continued on their way.
- 6 -
The Seer Duck
Dodger led the way as he and Nyeowr limped toward home. The bridge and the horror of the battle faded behind them as they went; though they carried their various wounds as a reminder of the fight.
The hedgehog had a scratched nose that itched madly, and one of his eyes was puffed up from a blow that would have taken his sight if a claw had been extended. His head ached, both from the whack and from the clamour of the fight. He was tired, bone tired, wishing desperately for his hibernation. He regretted sneaking into the garden in his search for some leaves to snuggle under, but was strangely glad to have met this cat and been a part of her great adventure.
In a strange way, he thought, I'm a hero.
Nyeowr was in worse shape than he was. True, she had fought harder; but then she was a cat. A long slash ran the length of her bulging belly. Blood matted her fur and dropped to the mud, marking their route for anything following behind. The tip of one of her ears was missing, and blood seeped from there, too. Her nose was cut, and she limped as she walked: one of her hind legs hurt.
Please make it, cat. Dodger repeated the words to himself so often it became a constant litany: make it, make it, make it.
They passed the dead bracken and gorse and on to the hard dirt path that led to the back wall of the Annersley house and the gate opening to the safety of the shed. A dormouse poked its nose out as they staggered on.
"Is it over?" He asked.
Dodger snarled a bitter reply: "Yes, it's over. Go back to your Wintersleep, fat mouse. If we won that battle, then we can win the war without your help. Go on! Go back to sleep!"
The dormouse shrunk back from the anger in Dodger's voice. "I was only asking," it said, petulantly.
"Well don't!" Dodger continued stomping on for a moment, then turned to see the dormouse still watching him. "Asking's no good! Questions don't help! Agree to the Charter - agree to help us! That's what you should do!"
"Charter? Pah! That pet you're so chummy with there was over here a few days ago, hunting and killing frogs and my kind. Some charter, that is, if she's a part of it, her a killer of us innocents. Some she had were in their Wintersleep!" The dormouse turned to scuttle back to its shelter.
"Wait!" Dodger hissed. The dormouse paused.
"That was before she agreed. Before! Now she's been fighting with mice! House mice! Sir CheeseEater's mice from the Manor!"
The dormouse shook his head.
Dodger frowned in disgust. "If Tom wins this war - and if not for this . . . pet . . . here, he would already have done! - then it's only a matter of time before he's down on this bank looking for you and your kind and scoffing you for breakfast! Well then, if that happens I won't care. I'll be leaving as quickly as I can, and be leaving you to them."
Dodger stopped and breathed hard. The dormouse gazed at him in silence.
"Join us," the hedgehog said slowly. "If we all join together, we can win. The Charter will bind us together, but we need numbers to make us strong. Stronger than him. With numbers, we can force Tom out of Brook Bend forever."
"I can't," squeaked the dormouse. "I'm too scared."
Dodger turned in disbelief and followed his friend, soon catching the cat.
A few yards down the track, and a sudden commotion from the river. It made both cat and hedgehog cower back against an old fallen tree, tired as they were. The cause of the noise splashed about before stumping up through the thin undergrowth and appearing right next to them.
It was a duck.
Nyeowr hissed as threateningly as she could, but it came out more as an exhausted sigh. She couldn't even work the old cat trick of standing her fur up to make herself look bigger and more imposing. Dodger let out a low growl.
The duck waved a dismissive wing at them both.
"Ach, stop," he said. "I am not to hurt you. I hear your words to . . . em . . . myesh . . . ach . . . em . . . mouse, and I want . . . help you, da?"
It took Dodger a moment to understand what the duck had said. He was ugly, even for a duck, with a very hard accent.
"You say you want to help us? Help us how?" He was suspicious. I am not to hurt you - was that orders? Or bad command of the language? He supposed it could be, as the duck talked so strangely. But how could he tell?
Nyeowr stepped cautiously forward. "Who are you, and why will you help us?"
The duck preened its greenish-black plumage. The cat and hedgehog waited as it did so. The ugly red face and oddly shaped beak darted in and out of the feathers, and its mane-like crest flopped about. Suddenly it stopped and blinked at them.
"Prastite? You ask question?" It turned its head so one eye settled on the cat.
Nyeowr gritted her teeth. "I said, 'Who are you, and why do you want to help us?'"
The duck nodded. "Ach, I hear this now." It stretched out one wing and folded the other over its breast. "My name too long for you understand. Please, name me . . . eh . . . Krakat. I am Muscovy duck. That is, duck of Muscovy."
"Stupid name," Dodger muttered. "He's ugly, too."
Nyeowr shushed him. "I asked two questions," she said in a cold voice.
"Yes, yes, yes, questions, da." Krakat sat down then quickly stood again. "Ach, ground colder than voda! Questions, yes . . . eh . . . I give help to get help."
"What does that mean?" Dodger spluttered. Irritation was overcoming his fatigue now, and this fool, ugly duck was delaying his chance to get some much-needed sleep.
The duck strode around in a circle, quacking to itself. "Pashausta, is difficult to get all words." After several false starts and abandoned attempts to explain himself, he grew angry and coursed off into a lightning quick flurry of speech in his own language before composing himself, drawing breath, and trying again.
"Okays," he began. "I lost: I try to go to place my kind from. Muscovy. It is long way, over akean . . . eh . . . ocean - sea! - and I get tired. Stopping for rest. Here. I sleep and eat some river weeds, and fish."
He paused and looked a trifle embarrassed. "I then discover I do not remember way. I think perhaps I never remember way. So I stay. Here."
Dodger and Nyeowr exchanged a quick glance. Krakat looked so forlorn and so agitated by his difficulty in explaining himself, that Dodger couldn't help by smile at him.
"I understand. Everybody needs friends, eh?"
The duck flapped a wing in agreement. "Exactly correct. Da! Da! Droog - friend!" It quacked happily.
Nyeowr winced. "I'm sorry Krakat, but I need to get home and rest. I thank you for your offer of help, and will almost certainly take it, but I am hurt. Perhaps we could talk when I'm fit again . . .?"
"Da, of course. Drushka. Horosho - good." It turned and waddled back to the undergrowth.
Dodger and Nyeowr continued on their way before a loud honk made them spin. Krakat was jogging up to them.
"Ach, I forget, I forget. One moment of time, only, please. I forget to say."
Nyeowr sighed and sat, while Dodger threw a concerned sidelong glance at his friend.
"I am seer duck."
"You're what?"
"Seer duck. I see . . . things," Krakat said in a mysterious voice. He puffed himself up importantly. Clearly, he seemed to think he was going to get a lot of respect for saying this. He was, sadly, wrong.
"So do I," said Dodger. "I see a funny looking quacker saying the blinking obvious. Of course you see things! You're looking at us, aren't you?"
He shook his head in disgust.
"Come on Nyeowr, let's go."
"Nyet! Wait! Pashausta, I fooly sometimes. To explain: I see future. I am of . . . eh . . . Tsegan . . . I - I see future."
"Seagun? What are you going on about? What's a seagun? You mean seagull?"
"Nyet, nyet, nyet! Ach, this language! I am . . . of traveller blood."
"Gypsies?" Asked Nyeowr. She has taken a ride on a traditional horse-drawn gypsy caravan earlier in the year, and remembered their fireside songs fondly. The caravan had been brightly painted and varnished, with a montage of flowers and shapes and trees covering the whole surface. They had spoken of travelling amongst themselves, ignorant of the cat listening and learning.
"Da! Horosho - is good you know! What you say? 'Gypsies', is it? Ach, da. Yes: gypsies." Krakat waggled his head in a lunatic manner, which made both cat and hedgehog laugh.
The duck laughed too.
"So, we friends, da?"
Dodger nodded.
"Is good. So, I am of gypsies' blood, and have gift of second sight. As said before: I see future."
Dodger laughed again. "Ridiculous!"
"Ridiculous, is it?" Krakat demanded, bringing his beak close to the hedgepig's scratched nose. "I have seen future - her future!" He jabbed a wing at Nyeowr.
The cat said, "I already know my future: I am going home to rest, then I will awake in the morning with aching bones and an awful headache. Now can we please discuss this after I've rested?"
"Not possible." Krakat shook his head.
"Why?" Demanded Dodger. He began too feel suspicious of the duck again, which was a shame, because he quite liked the strange, ugly creature.
Krakat stepped back and shrugged. It was a bizarre gesture for a duck to make. "Cannot. Can say, however -"
"Can't or won't?" Asked Nyeowr.
"Is both these things. Pashausta, trust Krakat. Cannot say, but can say that I am to be . . . eh . . . ach . . . pomoshnik . . . eh . . . helper to friend cat. If I am not helper, bad cat will kill her. This I know. Take my help."
Nyeowr nodded. She somehow felt she had to believe the duck, and that, at the very least, he believed what he was saying. But she was tired. Her flank hurt, her ear hurt, and she felt like death warmed up.
Sometimes she wished that she had never left the house when the old lady who owned her died. The People of the old lady would have taken her in and looked after her; perhaps she had been foolish in taking the life of a vagabond, moving from place to place, scavenging in bins for morsels of food.
Now, though, despite the pain she felt, quite apart from the fact that she had somehow been drawn into this struggle for supremacy, she felt that Brook Bend was a perfect place to call home. A fine place to live and raise her kittens, surrounded by friends and comrades. By spring, when - hopefully - this was all over and her children playing in the warming sun, she would have decided for sure if this what she wanted. For now, though, it was.
And she could feel a kinship with this odd-looking duck, and with the hedgehog. Even the crows, the owl and the mice. All together, with a common purpose. She had been accepted into this community without question - apart from that idiot mouse Lord - and so owed it to offer the paw of friendship to another.
"I will gladly accept your help, Krakat," she said. "But it is the crows who will decide whether you are suitable for agreement to the Charter. We will talk later."
"Ach, your wounds, painful, yes?" The duck walked briskly into the undergrowth.
"Wait please," he said. "I be back in seconds to help."
Dodger and Nyeowr heard muttering and then a soft splash. A pause, then again the noise of a duck clambering out of the brook.
He reappeared carrying a tin can, his beak clutching the peeled-open lid. Water sloshed about inside as he waddled toward Nyeowr. He frowned at her and softly moved his head to indicate she should lie on her side with her belly wound uppermost.
She did so. Krakat reared up to his full height, opening his wings wide for balance, and jerked his head. Bitterly cold water poured onto the gash, snapping Nyeowr back to full alertness.
She twisted her neck and began to lick the cut, cleaning it in the manner of cats. The water helped to wash away the blood. Twice more Krakat slopped water onto her before the can emptied. By then the cut was clean and Nyeowr felt slightly better.
The duck went for more water. This time he just poured it over Nyeowr's ear and cut nose. The third time he did the same for Dodger, who, despite himself, trembled nervously when Nyeowr washed his face, her rough tongue scraping over the soft black fur.
She's a friend, he told himself. Friends don't scoff one another.
But still he trembled.
Once done, Krakat quacked approvingly at them both. "Friends, he said. "I . . . gawodny . . . eh . . . hungry. I leave now."
"Thank you, Krakat, for your help," said Nyeowr gratefully.
Dodger grinned. "If you're staying here, you'll need to stop saying Muscovian things all the time. Can't understand half of what you're wittering about, most of the blinking time."
Krakat honked. "I learn, I promise. I see you soon, my friends. Dosvedanye . . . ach, 'goodbye', I mean."
With that he turned and retreated into the gloom of the brushwood.
"Funny chap," Dodger commented.
As the duo reached the hole in the gate, a squawk from above made them look up.
The whole Murder lined the wall. One-eye hopped from foot to foot.
"Where have you been?" He demanded. "We expected you here ages ago."
"We are injured from the battle," Nyeowr said. "We cannot just fly back here like you."
"Don't be insolent," said the Leader in a snappy voice.
Dodger looked down at his feet.
The crow nodded his head as he said, "The battle went very well. Very well indeed, in fact. As General, I promote you both to the rank of Sergeant in the Charter militia. Well done, and good work."
"General?" Dodger queried. "General? But you - you didn't fight -"
"The mark of a good general is to restrain himself and allow his soldiers do the fighting. A good general positions his army in order to oversee victory, not get sucked into skirmishes." His tone had taken on a cast something like a lecture.
"We watched, and encouraged where necessary."
"And stayed well clear of danger," Dodger mumbled. He caught a quiet agreement from Nyeowr.
"Major," said the General, "debrief these soldiers." He waved a wing in salute, and flapped away.
One-Eye caarked at his retreating figure. "You fought well," he said to Nyeowr and Dodger.
"The cat Tom has lost two of his allies: one driven away by the mice, the other forced into the brook by the Lord Mouse and his retinue. It splashed ashore on the Manor side and was last seen running down the Manor lane.
"That leaves three enemy cats to deal with. For the moment they are back at the Manor House, licking their wounds. They will be back, make no mistake."
"Where's your leader gone?" Asked Nyeowr.
"He is . . . recruiting an ally. I will say no more. The trees have ears, as they say. Rest now. The murder will reconvene back at BattleCrow Bridge at noon tomorrow."
"BattleCrow Bridge?" Spluttered Dodger. "We fought that blinking battle! Not you crows!"
"The bridge has been renamed by order of the Murder," One-Eye rasped. "You will do well to remember you are not of the Murder, hedgehog."
All four crows took flight at the same time.
"Noon tomorrow," One-Eye said.
Nyeowr turned to Dodger. "Well, I am going to sleep," she said.
They finally entered the garden and moved round the back of the shed. Within minutes, both were fast asleep.
- 7 -
Castle Dodger
Nyeowr twitched and whimpered in her sleep, Dodger noticed. In the small hours, he had been awoken by a piteous whining noise, and, even as he rose to warn his friend, he realised that she was the source of the odd sounds.
He creeped over to her slumbering form, a shapeless patch in the darkness, and lay near to her as a comforter. He dared not wake her, nor get too close - his prickles would be a very unpleasant shock - but he was confident that she would know, somehow, that he was there. It seemed to have worked a little, too: she calmed somewhat, and whimpered less.
Dodger's body ached. The battle earlier that day had been a terrible ordeal for the nervous little hedgehog. At least cats were used to fighting. Hedgehogs weren't. The rush of emotion he had felt in the immediate aftermath of the battle was gone, replaced by a nagging fear of retribution. Sure, they had won that battle, but the war was not yet over. Far from it, he was sure! And when the casualties were reckoned come the end, would there be a posthumous mention in dispatches for a nervous young hedgehog? Or would the crows deny him even that. He truly did not expect to survive.
A kind of self-pity almost overcame him then, a near certain belief that he would be dead before too much longer. As likely from heart failure than from any direct action by another animal.
Would anyone remember him? Would his friend, sleeping fitfully a few inches away? And even if they did, what would they say of him? He did his duty. He was a warrior among hedgepigs. He was the bravest hedgehog ever seen in Brook Bend. Or would they laugh, and amuse their young with tales of the Mad Little Hedgie, who thought he was a cat?
He should be asleep, he thought morosely. He should be snuggled up somewhere under a woodpile; fast asleep and dreaming of spring, not curled up next to a cat, in a People shed, thinking back on the day's fighting. It was winter, and that meant Wintersleep, for heaven's sake! That was the whole point of it being called 'Wintersleep!'
Nyeowr lay next to him, as far from wakefulness as it was possible to be. Cats don't have a Wintersleep - they spend all blinkin' day sleeping, if they can - but she was dreaming whilst dodger was wide-awake, thinking useless thoughts, hearing the light wind rustle the trees. Still, he reflected, peering at the dark form, she deserved it. She had come to the Bend, had taken up the idea of the Charter, had met those ridiculous crows, and had become a champion to the cause of ridding Brook Bend of its most evil resident. No complaints, no arguments. She got on with it, even in her heavily pregnant state.
She was a real example of heroism, and all Dodger could do was moan in his head about how she was sleeping.
Angry with himself at his selfishness, he roused and began to shuffle about in the shed. He wanted to look out of the window but knew it was impossible for him to clamber up the bench. He could wander about outside and look for a few slugs to eat in the gloom, but it was cold - getting colder by the night - and the shed was certainly much more comfortable. The wall and the deckchairs conspired to take much of the chill out of the drafts easing in through the hole. He could wait until tomorrow to eat.
He settled back down by Nyeowr to sleep. Mercifully, his eyes were getting heavy, and the tiredness was beginning to seep in.
He didn't know how much later the noise woke him, but it was still night. There was no moon to be seen, hidden by the thick blanket of clouds which obscured the sky, so he was unable to make a guess as to the time, but it was still a while to dawn.
The noise had entered his dreams, entered his awareness, and had sounded alarm bells in his brain.
Danger!
His head rose as he cautiously sniffed the air. The threat of snow came in with the draft, cold and harsh. But it was not that.
Danger!
Dodger stood and shuffled in a tight circle, scanning as best he could the interior of the shed. The darkness and his own naturally poor vision made it difficult to be sure, but his keen sense of smell did not lie: there was only him and Nyeowr on the dusty wooden floor, and she still slept. In the murk, he could see her flanks rising and falling quickly, her breathing short. Ragged breath quickly followed ragged breath, such a constant, quick rhythm it sounded more like panting.
The noise had not come from her.
Danger!
Glancing back up at the window and seeing only very little illumination as the moon tried gallantly to breach the cloud cover, Dodger considered his options.
Should he wake Nyeowr? He knew that her breathing was not right, but she didn't seem uncomfortable; the fact that she was still asleep testified to that. And he considered how best to do it - she was a cat, after all. Wake her when she didn't want to be woken, she might just bite his nose off.
Should he write it off as his imagination and just get back to sleep himself? Now that was a good idea: he had only been berating himself for missing out on his Wintersleep a short while ago. That was a good option. And if he was wrong, if there was some niggling -
Danger!
A soft thump made him jump. It was a quiet sound, but a real one - enough to make up his mind for him. He turned to wake Nyeowr and once more shot a quick look up at the window. Even with his myopia, he could see the shape.
The broad but sleek shape silhouetted against the glass, thick tail twitching back and forth, ears erect. And standing out in the circle of the head, seeming to be self-illuminated, a pair of eyes.
Cat's eyes.
Danger!
DANGER!
"Nyeowr!" he squeaked. "Wake up!"
Nyeowr stirred, but did not wake.
A scrape coming from near the hole distracted him. The deckchairs - something - someone! - had eased them aside slightly. Even pregnant, Nyeowr had been able to squeeze between the wooden frames without too much difficulty, but Tom was larger. He would have to work his way through.
Tom!
DANGER!
They were coming! The remaining cats, coming to destroy the main opposition whilst there were no other allies about, while they were still suffering from tiredness.
Dodger bellowed out a warning in as loud a voice as he could muster, before rushing over to the hole. "Nyeowr"! Tom is here!"
Reaching the suddenly enormous entry, Dodger chanced a rapid peep outside.
Two dark shapes were slowly manoeuvring their way towards him.
"Nyeowr!" His voice was shrill, laden with desperation, but it seemed to carry.
His friend was awake instantly. She took in the cat at the window even as she rose unsteadily to her paws. Her fur stood on end and a low growl rumbled from her throat. Realising that there was a plate of glass protecting them from attack on that front, she sped across to the terrified hedgehog.
"Get out of the way," she hissed.
Dodger stepped back; just as four lethal claws parted the air where his eye had been. He gasped as the wind tickled the fine hairs on his snout.
"Rrrrrrrrr!" Nyeowr hissed.
The claws appeared again, a slicing arc of fury falling just a moment to late, missing their target as Nyeowr jerked her head back.
A head appeared. Scabtail's head.
Nyeowr batted out a paw, claws extracted, and missed her quarry.
This cycle repeated itself a few times, neither cat able to strike the mark. Tow was not prepared to get too close to the wood protected enemy; Nyeowr not keen to leave the relative safety to fight.
Both howled anger and defiance at each other, an ugly shriek rising in pitch as their caterwauling intensified in accordance with their hatred.
Then it happened.
Scabtail leaned forward, too far by the slightest fraction of an inch, and Nyeowr was able to catch him. Her claws bit into his flesh, needles of angry agony making the tomcat hiss in pain. She flexed her muscles and the claws dug deeper.
With no other option, Scabtail moved nearer. Even in his pain, he would not try to rip himself away: his only option was to close the gap and try to claw Nyeowr, force her to release him.
Quick as a flash she did exactly that. The agony in his arm as the claws were retracted was replaced a moment later when hot pain erupted down his face. She had scratched him across one eye and down his face to his nose. He was blinded, partly by the agony, and partly by the tears welling up in his good eye. Scabtail thrashed about in pain, wailing in misery. He barged into the deckchairs and sprinted away, only instinct and memory guiding him, though a moment later, out of sight of everyone else, he ran headfirst into the wall and nearly knocked himself out.
Nyeowr hissed at the retreating shape. "Got him," she said. "He's run -"
Abruptly the joy of victory was replaced by a terrible sense of fear. Her belly heaved violently, the forms inside shifted. "No," she howled.
"What is it?" Dodger was beside himself in his terror.
"Now?" The hedgehog was lost. He could not quite get his head around the situation. A moment ago he was nearly cut in two by an angry cat. Seconds later, that angry cat was defeated in combat by another angry cat - this one his friend, no less! - and now that angry cat was having babies.
Oh, how he longed for Wintersleep.
Nyeowr staggered back from the hole. "I can't," she whispered. "Kittens coming . . ." She wobbled into the darkest corner of the shed, gasping in pain.
Blinking in surprise, Dodger was immobile. Now? Right now? Her kittens wanted to be born right this minute, slap bang in the middle of their fight for blinkin' survival. How . . . insane!
Suddenly Tom appeared outside, rushing at the hole.
Dodger moved without thinking. He rolled himself into a ball, as tight as he could, and heaved himself at the gap in the wood.
Hot pain seared his side as Tom's claws raked him. He felt himself bitten as Tom tried one attempt to dislodge him by using his teeth. Prickles jabbing at the cat made him falter for an instant, before those evil claws returned to slash and cut.
How long it lasted for, Dodger didn't know. All he knew was the agony of slice after slice parting his flesh, and beyond even that, the sheer desperation to live, to make it through the night and bring the full weight of the Charter to bear on the sick, twisted creatures from the Manor.
He wept in his pain, but still would not yield.
And amid his weeping, he could hear Nyeowr, panting, wailing, and apologising to him in a breathless, tortured whisper.
Dodger squeezed his eyes shut and grimly bore the fury being vented on him.
After an eternity, the pain suddenly stopped. At least, there were no new flashes of pain from new torn skin. Without daring to unfurl, he strained to hear what he could.
There was a quacking coming from outside, the sound of large beating wings, a drumroll-quick thumping, a cat screaming defiance. Then mostly silence.
No sound came from the corner, except for - very, very quiet - tiny noises: a mewling sound, a sigh.
The rich coppery scent of blood made Dodger feel ill. Though his prickles had saved him from most of the damage inflicted by the tomcat's claws, there must have been plenty of blood spilled - the air hung thick with the smell of it.
Dodger relaxed slightly and winced - the pain! He forced himself to unroll and squat normally. His nose twitched. The blood smelled . . . funny; strange. Blood and yet not blood.
A brief scan of the window showed him that the other cat had gone. He tottered across to Nyeowr.
Just as he reached her, light appeared outside: yellow, artificial light. People light.
He heard an exasperated "Ach, nyet!" and a large shadow flap by. So it was Krakat who had come to the rescue! Dodger made a mental note to thank the duck next time he saw him - if the hedgehog lived until morning, that was.
The light changed. It moved about, creating strange shadows in the shed. Dodger glimpsed shapes writhing over Nyeowr. The strange blood smell was strong just here.
A voice outside said, "Duck? Could've sworn I heard a moggy wailing." A People shadow moved about outside. Dodger held his breath A few seconds passed. Then, muttering, the People turned and marched back to the house, clicking the light off as he reached it.
"Dodger?" A small voice asked.
"I'm here, Nyeowr," the hedgehog whispered.
Nyeowr twisted slightly, bringing querulous protests from the two tiny balls of fluff writhing around at her belly. "I'm sorry I was no help; they would not wait."
"It doesn't matter," Dodger replied in a thick voice. He was overcome with emotion. Admittedly, he was unsure as to whether that was down to relief at being alive, or happiness at the arrival of his friend's babies.
"It does," whispered Nyeowr. "You were very brave. You saved us all. Thank you. From me and my kittens, thank you."
Dodger wept silently in the dark, waiting anxiously for dawn, the only noises being the hungry murmurs of two new-born kittens, and the gentle breathing of an exhausted sleeping cat.
- 8 -
Myeep and Porriir
Dawn came, dirty white, and chilly. A cold wind rose and blew across the frost-encrusted grass. A few scant flakes of snow drifted down, melting on contact with the houses, or the trees, or the grass.
Dodger watched the sickly grey light slowly banish the dark. He felt awful: every joint ached, his skin felt raw along his sided, his head ached both with tiredness, and with worry.
The battle for the shed had been all about supremacy. Tom had wanted to kill Dodger and Nyeowr; the minor defeat of yesterday would only feed the fire of his wrath. And now Nyeowr had the kittens to concern herself with.
Dodger badly needed rest.
The kittens struggled against each other, blindly trying to find their way to Nyeowr's milk. They squeaked at each other as trembling paws battled for leverage as hungry mouths sought out nipples.
Nyeowr slept lightly.
The hedgehog painfully pulled himself to his feet as soon as it was fully light, and edged to the crack. He tested the air to assure himself Tom was nowhere near. Satisfied, he dragged himself out into the cold, and set about hunting for food under the shed.
By the time he returned, Nyeowr was awake, washing the kittens with a rough tongue. Their protests at such treatment went unheard.
Dodger tried to sound cheerful. "Morning," he said.
"Morning," came the quiet, doubtful reply. Nyeowr seemed to be nervous about something. She eyed her friend as he painfully hauled himself over to his accustomed sleeping area.
Finally, she spoke. "Dodger . . . I . . . I meant what I said last night. You are a hero. I'm sorry you were so badly hurt - no, don't deny it. I can smell the blood on you. I should have been more help yesterday. I'm sorry I wasn't."
"It wasn't your fault," Dodger said. Stupidly, he felt on the verge of tears again. "When they want to come, they come. You can't help that. Besides, it wasn't so bad. These cuts will heal."
Nyeowr frowned. "Eventually. I can smell you - all that blood. It will be some time before they heal fully, though. I promise you that, when I'm fit again, I will make Tom pay for what he did to you. I swear it."
Dodger gave a tiny smile. "Good. I'll accept that promise, and the apologies. But please, you rest. They need you as fit as possible."
The kittens had settled down to sleep. The larger of the two, a tabby, slept on his back, paws curled up; the other, a little black thing with a tiny splash of white on her breast lay sprawled across the other.
Nyeowr nudged the black with her nose. "Her name is Myeep," she said. "It means 'Hope'. The other is called Porriir: Thunder."
"Fine names," Dodger said, but Nyeowr had already dozed off again.
The sound of People voices awoke them. A man and a girl were talking in the garden, near the house.
"It was a duck of some sort, sweetie," the man said. "I don't know what sort."
"Will it ever come back?" The girl asked.
"I don't know, hon. Maybe. It was probably just passing through, though. Maybe it will be back, but don't expect it."
Then there was silence. They had entered their house.
It was Nyeowr who decided things. Three days had passed since the kittens were born; three days of Dodger babysitting when Nyeowr left the shed to hunt, three days of ever increasing exhaustion as the desire for sleep became almost overwhelming.
The weather had turned colder still. Snow had threatened and even fell on occasion, though there was never enough for it to settle. The wind remained, bitter and blustery, making the hole whistle and howl, in turn making sleep even more difficult to come by.
It was a miserable time for the occupants of the shed, though there were no further visits from their enemies. Nor was there a word from Krakat or even Sir Eldrick. Still less, there was no visit from the Murder. Dodger, Nyeowr, Myeep and Porriir were left to fend for themselves.
Food was scarce, always a frugal affair. The slugs were smaller than usual, and insects seemed to all be in hiding. Another reason for Wintersleep, Dodger thought often. Nyeowr had more luck: a few small creatures from down by the brook - all non-parties to the Charter, of course - kept her vitality going, though she was eating for three.
"I'm giving them to the People," Nyeowr said.
"What? Are you mad? They'll be pets!" Even the word was obscene.
"I know, but it will be better that than freezing to death in here. Once they are gone, I can confront Tom, and you can go back to your Wintersleep."
"'Back to it'?" Chuckled Dodger. "I've not even started it yet."
Nyeowr smiled. "They are also a target. With them here, I can't leave them undefended. That will weaken our side. Besides, Tom can use them to beat me, and I can't have that. He has to be stopped, and you can't do it without me. If my kittens are holding me back from that now, then Tom will be able to recover from his defeats. We cannot allow that."
Dodger frowned. "But they'll be pets," he said stubbornly.
"I know. It isn't so bad. I was a pet once, and my People was a very nice lady. I only left when she died. These are good People, too; I feel it. They won't harm the kittens."
The hedgehog didn't look convinced.
"If they grow up in this house, then I can still see them regularly. The People will raise them. It will be well."
"Well, if you're sure . . ." Dodger began.
"I am. I have made up my mind anyway," said Nyeowr. "Today, I will leave them at the door. There is a catflap in the door - at least, there was: it's been stopped now - so they must have had cats before. I have to take the chance."
And so it was that Nyeowr picked the kittens up in her mouth and carried them one at a time to the doorstep. Porriir was first. Dodger sat with him while Nyeowr collected Myeep. The tiny little bundle of fur shivered with the cold.
When both kittens were in place, Nyeowr motioned for the hedgehog to go and hide. Dodger ambled away and took shelter under one of the bushes that dotted the flowerbed. Dusk was falling. He would be difficult to see.
Nyeowr pushed hard at the catflap. It made a slight noise. She ran back to hide in the bushes with Dodger. Nothing.
She tried again. Pushing harder this time, and making more of a noise.
Still nothing.
Finally, she ran over to the door and jumped up to hang from the handle. She scrabbled at the wood with her hind paws, scratching the paintwork.
A light clicked on in the house. A shadow appeared through the frosted glass.
Nyeowr dropped down and ran for cover.
After a pause at the door, the People opened it. Golden light flooded the garden. Dodger and Nyeowr shrunk further back into the bushes. It was the People woman who stood there. She looked about, peering into the murkiness of the garden before stepping back and pushing the door closed again.
"Oh, no," began Nyeowr.
Suddenly the door was flung open again. The woman bent over to crouch over the kittens. She scooped them up and hugged them to he chest.
"Richard!" She called. "Richard, you have to see this!" She pushed the door shut with her shoulder, leaving Dodger and Nyeowr in the darkening garden.
Dodger sighed. "Well, that's that," he said. When he received no reply, he glanced at his friend, surprised to see she was weeping silently. He nodded his head at her in sympathy.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go home."
The cat followed him back into the shed in silence.
- 9 -
Christmas Day
The final battle for Brook Bend took place on the Brookbank bridleway, near the newly named 'BattleCrow Bridge'. Like the first two skirmishes, it was a truly bitter encounter, with rage and fury and desperation bringing out the most savage in the two opposing forces. Even years after the event, the local animals would only talk of it in whispered voices, and in tones of disquiet at the events of that day.
The events of three days before were still fresh in the minds of the animals. News had spread quickly about the battle for the shed, and the many creatures of the area regarded Dodger as a hero, and his praise was sung all the way from the Beechy Lane to the Haven Post, from Hadleigh's Mill to the People's houses. A lone hedgehog taking on three cats and holding his own until the decisive intervention of a duck! Songs would be sung!
It was a shame, Dodger thought as news of his fame began to filter through to him, that all the young, female hedgies were in Wintersleep. He had probably become the area's most eligible bachelor hedgehog; yet, by the spring, his moment of glory would be old news, and the only one willing to talk about it would be him. Then, of course, he couldn't impress the females with his tale - who would want a braggart? He sighed for the umpteenth time.
Nyeowr ignored him. They were wandering down the bridle path toward the little bridge. Dodger had suggested it as an escape from the torment of the house, because Nyeowr had driven herself nearly insane in her need to see her kittens, to be sure the People were being kind to them, to comfort herself in knowing they were being fed and kept warm. She had twice sniffed through the catflap, and had only caught the faintest aroma of them on the air, before turning and fleeing from sudden footsteps in the kitchen beyond.
Dodger sighed again.
"A fine pair, we are," he said.
Nyeowr nodded silently.
"Listen," Dodger said, "I know that it was a difficult thing for you to -"
He was interrupted by an almighty clamour erupting from further up the path, around a curve. An outraged quacking, beating of strong wings, hissing and meowing noise to wake the dead.
"Krakat!" Nyeowr growled. She surged forward with lightning pace, disappearing round the curve in a moment, leaving poor Dodger ambling along as quick as his little legs could carry him.
A head popped out from the undergrowth. It was the dormouse.
"I say!" He said. "What's that racket?"
Dodger barely turned his head to acknowledge the other animal. "What do you think it is, you fool? It's Tom! Now are you going to hide? Or climb off the fence and do something worthwhile?"
"The dormouse frowned. "I'm not a fool," he said. "And I'm not on a fence. I'm in the bushes. And you call me a fool." He tutted.
Dodged shuffled on. "Fight now and win, or stay and perhaps lose. I don't care."
"Well, now," the dormouse muttered. "How rude."
The hedgehog had gone, leaving the dormouse thinking nervously. If he fought, he could get hurt; if he didn't, then he wouldn't. No choice, really, then.
The noise intensified. Cats screamed at each other, a duck honked, water splashed.
And then a strange thing happened: the dormouse found itself scurrying along the path toward the noise. Stop! It thought to itself. Just stop! But it didn't; those legs kept pumping, drawing the petrified animal closed to the tumult.
When it came into sight of the battle, however, all strength drained away from it, and the dormouse halted abruptly, gazing in horror at the sight which greeted its eyes.
A grey cat had its jaws clamped on the wing of the ugliest duck the dormouse had ever seen: a bulbous red beak opened and closed in furious quacking. The cat's claws scrabbled, ripping out feathers, patching the white breast with crimson blood.
A group of mice, reinforced by that rude hedgehog had surrounded another cat, and were taking it in turns to dart in and nibble at the end of its tail. They would beetle away as it turned, or be flung across the path or into the river with a flick of its tail. The hedgehog kept rushing forward and rolling into a ball at the last moment, his spikes jabbing the ever more worried cat backwards, nearer and nearer to the bridge.
But it was the contest between two cats that really horrified the dormouse.
Nyeowr and Tom fought to a pattern. For a few seconds they would circle each other, arching their back, standing their fur on end, and hiss and growl at each other. Then they would fling themselves forward and bite and scratch, before jumping back again. The cycle would repeat itself, neither prepared to back down and flee.
Each cat was covered in wounds. The cat that was with the hedgehog the other day had the top of one ear missing. Blood flew every time she jumped forward. The other had an ugly rip, which split its lip and also had a deep looking graze across the throat.
Finally, the dormouse moved. Not in the direction it expected - or wanted - though. It jogged forward and added itself to the hedgehog and little band of mice. The duck was too frantic, and he couldn't do much there anyway, and the two cats . . . well, there was just no way it was going near those two!
Krakat barked out a frustrated quack at the cat hanging from him. It had bitten on right at the point where body met wing, too high up for the flapping to be that strong, and those teeth were embedded deep in the flesh. The claws were raking patches of feathers away now, the bloody mess of the duck's breast becoming more painful by the second.
The cat bit harder, hatred in those pale green eyes.
In the struggle, Krakat found himself struggling to keep his balance at the top of the riverbank.
"Ach, get off . . . glyupy kot!" He honked. Stupid cat!
But the cat still fought him, clinging on for dear life.
Suddenly, Krakat overbalanced and tumbled backwards, falling down the ferny bank and into the river with a loud splash.
He thought the cat had been frantic before, but this . . . this was madness! Rags went utterly berserk, all four claws flailing as he resorted to a lunatic mixture of trying to fight, and trying to flee. Krakat received several more cuts as the cat did so, and backed off a little.
The flow had carried them out to the middle of the brook. Rags splashed about trying to haul himself over to the bank which was clear of combatants. Cats are usually afraid of water, and are poor swimmers. Against a duck, Rags had no chance. Krakat paddled along behind, delivering several well-placed bites with his bill. The cat was urged on to a faster pace, but it couldn't hope to outswim the duck.
The Muscovian duck felt quite good about things as he jabbed forward again. Despite the hurts he had suffered, he had at least seen off one of the enemy, and was still in good enough condition to help out the others.
As soon as he reached the bank, Rags pulled himself up and streaked away into the bushes, never to be seen in Brook Bend again.
Krakat turned and paddled back to the main event.
"Ariba!"
Pablo ran forward and bit the painful lump on Scabtail's tail. The cat howled and turned quickly, but it was too late: Pablo had fled, and another mouse was nipping the cat in the same place. Although small, the mice had quite painful bites, and when they did this en masse, it really began to hurt.
The hedgehog bowled in. This time those spikes barely missed his eye.
Scabtail had had a bad feeling about things ever since the hedgehog had denied the three cats a few days before. For him, it was an omen: proof positive that they would not prevail, that something had happened to give the little creatures a bit of spine, a stronger will than they had shown before. He suspected it was the cat, which Tom was fighting right at that moment. No matter what happened her, and with Rags, the fight between the other cat and Tom would decide things either way. Scabtail fought only because he was too scared of Tom not to.
Of course, Tom had not seen defeat at the shed as an omen. Nothing of it. It was just the interference of the duck that had halted things. The duck! Seeking revenge for this, the three cats had hunted it down and launched a surprise assault on the slumbering bird.
It would have been a good plan, except the duck woke and began fighting too quickly. Scabtail and Tom had been knocked off their feet by those powerful wings, and even as they rose to join in once more, the mice appeared, followed a second later by that cat. That pet!
Then the hedgehog joined in, a ball of jabbing pain rolling in to Scabtail's hind legs..
He spun and beat out a paw, ripping open a mouse that had been to slow in its attack.
And now a dormouse! The thought even came in a sarcastic tone. Somehow, those ridiculous crows had galvanised an army of different animals and turned herbivores and timid creatures into this - this - this painful enemy. Scabtail was half expecting People to rush in and help the opposition.
The dormouse had scored a hit, teeth pulling away a small patch of fur, a small smile of triumph lighting up its face as it hurried away to safety.
Scabtail twisted around to find that he was now being forced against the riverbank. The duck and Rags were in the water, and it didn't look good for the cat. Scabtail decided that enough was enough.
He launched himself away from the press of the mice, nodding his head and snatching up an unfortunate mouse as he did so. The little pest would suffer later, oh yes!
"Sir Eldrick!" one of the other mice called. "It got Sir Eldrick!"
Scabtail ran on.
Nyeowr was tired.
The strain of the last few days was all too much. Tom was bigger and stronger, and more full of hate than anyone she had ever met in her life. Her tired, abused body screamed out for her to just turn and run, call it quits and let them all sort this mess out for themselves. She had had enough.
But she couldn't, she knew.
She like this place, felt at home here.
She liked the other animals, especially Dodger. But also those silly mice, and the crows, too. They were a part of her now, she knew, and she was a part of them. After all, she had agreed to follow the Charter.
Her shed was dry and protected her from the wind. There was food aplenty here, and comforts she had not known since before her old owner had died.
But there was another reason, too.
Myeep and Porriir were in the house, being looked after - she hoped - by the People. She had given up her children as free animals and let them become pets. Pets! She had enjoyed it, though it was an insult to be bandied about by the creatures of this place. They couldn't understand. No more than she could understand their point of view.
True, now she was free, she felt more alive, more of a cat; but she had never gone hungry as a pet, never been obscenely cold or dirty.
So that was it: she was here, now, fighting to be able to stay, to be able to tell her kittens, when they were older, why she had put them unto the hands of the People. To tell them that it was for the best.
To apologise.
Tom bit her on the cheek, making her dance back in pain.
From the corner of her eye she saw Krakat fall into the brook, struggling with another cat.
She fought back with a sudden surge of energy. This was a battle for survival, a fight to the death. If she ran, then the bigger cat might as well have killed her. When she was a pet she was called Velvet, but that was wholly inaccurate: she was steel.
A swift raking claw showed Tom she still had fight in her.
Scabtail stopped and turned, dropping the mouse.
Sir Eldrick made a pained run for cover, but a meaty paw smacking down on his tail stopped him. He squeaked in terror.
"Not so brave now, are you?" the cat demanded.
The mouse thrashed about in desperation.
Scabtail lifted his paw . . .
. . . and dropped it again, once more trapping the mouse.
Sir Eldrick froze, nose twitching.
Scabtail's other forepaw swung round and knocked the mouse over.
"You silly little fool," hissed the cat. "Where has your charter got you now, eh? A death you could have avoided if you had stayed away from us."
Sir Eldrick gasped. "I would rather die free, than under the yoke of a cat."
"Really?" Scabtail hit him again. "I can do that."
The mouse screamed as a slow claw cut it down the side.
"You see? You really, really should have stayed out of things." Scabtail bent his head close to the mouse.
Sir Eldrick stared in horror at the opening tooth-lined maw coming down at him. He struggled against the paw holding his tail. A moist pink tongue slid over those teeth.
With a burst of strength, the mouse wriggled itself free and leapt up at the cat's mouth, clamping his little teeth on the tip of that tongue.
Scabtail rolled over, aahhing in pain, paws in frenzied motion as he tried to dislodge the mouse.
"Thet och! Thet och hee!"
He threw his head from side to side. Sir Eldrick responded by biting harder. Blood began to flow from the bite. Scabtail leaped around, and still the mouse would not lessen its grip.
"Ihhh hussshhh! Thet och oo shubich oush!"
Then the agony eased a little. As Scabtail tried to roll over onto him, Sir Eldrick let go and shot away into the undergrowth.
Scabtail rose wincing, and started to give chase, but almost immediately found himself back amongst the whole group of mice.
"I like the taste of cats blood," Sir Eldrick announced loudly as he stood before the troupe of mice, a malevolent look in his eye, and blood staining his chin.
The mice gave a collective gasp as they saw Scabtail's lacerated tongue.
"In fact," Sir Eldrick squeaked, "I feel like a cat steak!"
Scabtail fled.
Dodger and Krakat stood side by side at the end of the bridge as the fight between the two remaining cats intensified. They were struggling in the middle of the bridge by now.
Neither duck nor hedgehog could jump in to help, the combat was that furious.
But then there came a voice.
A People voice.
"It came from over this way!"
Tom and Nyeowr heard it too. Tom looked up. It was a momentary error, but a costly one. Nyeowr took two swipes at him: across one eye, making him shriek in white-hot agony, the other across his nose.
Tom fell back, almost tipping over the edge of the bridge.
Nyeowr collapsed into a heap. Exhaustion had taken its toll: although she could see Tom struggling to keep his balance, she couldn't spur herself into that final action. Dismay enveloped her as the other cat stabilised himself, then came at her again.
As his teeth ripped into Nyeowr's shoulder, Dodger and Krakat rushed forward. The duck got there first. With a powerful swing of his head, his bill caught the tomcat in the nose. Tom reeled back across the wooden bridge. Dodger swerved back to avoid being knocked over by the stumbling cat.
The duck was nearly berserk. He turned and charged the dazed Tom, large padded feet kicking out, one hit blinding the cat's other eye. Tom teetered on the brink. Then Krakat played his trump card. He stretched out his wings and flapped, making the cat cringe back.
The tomcat flailed his paws wildly for a second, instinct telling him exactly where he was, making up for the loss of sight. For a second, therefore, he stood there . . . before falling backward into the water and being dragged under.
Nyeowr pulled herself up and dragged herself over to Krakat. Dodger joined them as the trio watched Tom struggle for his life.
Dizziness overcame Nyeowr. She collapsed again, falling heavily onto the wooden bridge, her sides heaving with some effort.
"Over here!" A People appeared. Krakat took to the air and Dodger hurried into the cover of the bracken. Dozens of pairs of eyes, large and small, yellow, green, brown, watched the two People - an man and a boy - dressed in brightly coloured clothes jog over to the cat. As the man bent to gently lift the injured animal, the number of pairs of eyes dwindled as creatures slunk away to their homes and shelters, happy in knowing the cat would be dealt with in whatever way the People deemed suitable, and not left to die on the cold bridge.
The war for Brook Bend was over.
Epilogue
Sir Eldrick winced in pain as the mice carried him back to the manor pantry. He was a hero.
"Signor," Pablo whispered. "I admit: I did not believe you to be . . ."
"Brave?" Sir Eldrick finished for him. "I am a CheeseEater, sir mouse, and we CheeseEaters are famous for our courage."
"Si, and for your insanity," Pablo muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing, signor."
"Good, good," said Sir Eldrick. "I expect another verse for me in the song."
Pablo sighed. He just had to get away from here. "Si."
Krakat and Dodger hovered as close to the house as they dared.
"She is . . . zdorov . . . ach . . . well; alive."
"I wish I could believe you, Krakat," replied the hedgehog. "It's been ages since that People took her away in his monster."
"I know, moy droog," the duck said. "But I am seer duck, you remember? And you have some Tsegan in you, too. Look to . . . eh . . . heart. You will know. Ona zdorov, Dodger. She is well."
"Have you seen her future?"
The duck nodded, silently.
Dodger waited. "Well?" he demanded finally.
"A little."
"What does that mean?"
"Ach, what I say."
"Does anything else happen to her? To us?"
Krakat paused for a long time before answering. "For us all," he said, "our . . . ach . . . this language . . . prikyuchenyiy . . . ach . . . adventures . . . begin."
Dodger frowned. "Oh, bloody hell."
The Leader of the crows flapped down beside Krakat.
"We won," he caarked. "Tom is dead."
"We won?" Dodger said. "We? I didn't see you there. Even a dormouse joined in; but there were no crows."
The bird cocked its head and regarded the hedgehog silently. "You forget your place, hedgehog. I am Leader of the Parliament."
"So it's a 'Parliament' again, now, is it?" Dodger growled in disgust. "I used to be in awe of you; now I know I was foolish. Things need to change."
"Fooly," Krakat agreed. "Will change," he nodded at Dodger.
The crow took to the air, beating his wings to stay close to the other two animals. "The Parliament is the Charter. I will consider your . . . suggestion. But I will not accept demands."
Dodger blinked. Consideration? He hadn't expected that.
"Another thing," the crow cawed. "BattleCrow Bridge is to be renamed Nyeowr's Stand, and you two - and the cat - are to be made Marshals of the Brook. One-Eye will give you the details soon."
The crow fixed one yellow eye on Dodger. "Perhaps you are right, perhaps things need to change. I wasn't at the battle because I was bringing in a new recruit: an otter from upriver, who is now looking for a home on our lands. We arrived after the People had taken Nyeowr away. However, the other members of the Murder should have been there to aid you."
Dodger shook his head as the crow flapped away.
"Oh, bloody hell," he said.
As Marcus sat playing with his gun-car toy thingy, which Uncle John and Aunt Sarah had bought him, and Kim fussed over the kittens lying in their wool-lined shoebox, Mrs Annersley fidgeted about nervously, twitching the curtains and walking about the room.
At eight o'clock, after a particularly long spell peering out into the gloom through the lounge window, she jumped back and sprinted to the door.
"Daddy's home," she gushed.
Kim and Marcus forgot everything - even the kittens - and rushed to their mother's side to form an expectant little party in the hallway.
Outside, a car crunched onto the driveway.
Marcus started cringing and pulling on his mother's arm. "I need to pee," he groaned desperately.
"Well go then," replied Mrs Annersley.
James huffed in anguish, his need to go to the toilet warring with his almost insane desperation to see if daddy had brought the injured cat home. "No-oo," he all but wailed.
"Shhhh!" Kim was in no mood to listen to her brother going on like a silly little boy.
"You shush!"
The engine died.
A car door opened . . . and slammed.
Marcus was bursting; he twisted his torso around to try and deny the need to go to the lavatory. "Won't pee," he muttered.
A key in the lock.
Kim realised she was trembling. She hadn't been this nervous since mummy and daddy were discussing what to do with the kittens. And that was days ago! Was the cat alright? Did daddy have it? Would they keep it? Was it dead? Suddenly, Kim felt the need for the toilet as well.
The door opened.
Mrs Annersley put her hand down on Kim's shoulder and rubbed it furiously.
Daddy walked through the door and closed it behind him with a low click. He turned to regard his family with a sad look on his face. He gazed at the trio staring back at him for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a collar.
"Richard?" Mrs Annersley frowned. "Is it . . . was it put to . . . ?"
Mr Annersley shook his head slowly.
Marcus was almost beside himself. Kim was, too, but tried to hide it.
"I got this," Daddy said, "to put on her next week, once she's recovered."
Mrs Annersley almost wept with relief. Her eyes were shining in her pale face.
"We're keeping her!" Kim shouted. It was a statement, not a question. It was a statement of fact. A week ago she had wanted just a cat; now they had three - or at least, would have soon - all of their own. Strangely, she started to cry.
Mummy crouched down and hugged her.
Marcus danced around in circles in his delight. "We got a nudda cat!" he yelled.
Daddy laughed. "Soon."
Suddenly, Marcus stopped his capering. A dark patch spread out from the front of his trousers. "Waaaghh!" He wailed, and ran for the toilet, his father rushing along behind him.
Kim disengaged herself from her mother and ran back to the lounge to the kittens; her kittens; her pet kittens, and inside her head, a voice laughed.
