Manxmouse

THE STORY OF MANXMOUSE AND THE CLUTTERBUMPH

It was shortly after the stroke of thirteen that Manxmouse realised that he was sitting up on a night table next to a bed, where a mouse really had no business to be.

The moonlight was pouring in through the window, making a pathway to the door which was open.

There was a man asleep in the bed and he was snoring. But he might wake up at any moment and Manxmouse thought he had better go. He slid down one leg of the table quite handily and slipped over to the side of the room for a bit of shadow to think things over for a moment. For although he was certain that he ought to be going, he did not know where to.

It was a most curious feeling not to have been aware of being anywhere a few instants before and then quite suddenly to be not only somewhere, but someone. Perhaps that was what it was like to be born.

From the general shape of things he seemed to be a mouse and indeed, he felt like a mouse and so he must be one. But for the rest, how he had got on to a night table and who, and what, and where he had been when he was not anything or anybody, or even any place for that matter, was too difficult to understand. He did not even know his name, or if he had one. Thinking about it was beginning to give him a headache. If he was going to be on his way, now was the time to do it, before somebody came and shut the door.

He then did a very unmouselike thing. Instead of keeping to the shadows at the side of the room, he marched straight along the lighted path laid down by the moon across the carpet, to the door, climbed the newel post at the top of the stairs and slid down the banisters. He got out of the front door and into the street through the letter-box.

Every single soul in Buntingdowndale must have been asleep. Except for a street lamp, not a light showed anywhere. No one was about and even the houses had their eyes shut with blinds or curtains drawn.

There was a slight breeze blowing, bearing the scent of distant flowers and dew on grass. He thought he would be more comfortable in the country than in the midst of this brick, stone and glass. However, no sooner had he started off when, without warning, he encountered a Clutterbumph on the prowl through the village. It was looking for someone to entertain with a bad dream or a little agreeable terror in the night.

This was somewhat unusual, since it takes two to make a proper Clutterbumph.

For a Clutterbumph is something that is not there until one imagines it. And as it is always someone different who will be doing the imagining, no two Clutterbumphs are ever exactly alike. Whatever it is that frightens one the most and which is just about the worst thing one can think of, that is what a Clutterbumph looks like.

The Clutterbumph usually announces itself with a noise somewhere in the house during the night; a creak in a floorboard or a piece of furniture as it cools after the heat of the day, a drip from a tap, the rattle of a loose shutter, a fly buzzing on a windowpane, something scurrying in the attic, or a cricket caught in the coal cellar.

One could conjure up something with a sheet over it and two eye-holes, sitting on the end of the bed, or an ugly witch with a tall hat and hooked nose on a broomstick. Or perhaps one could imagine something that has too many legs and stingers fore and aft, or a great bear with fiery eyes and long claws and teeth. Or make it a one-eyed, snaggle-toothed giant nineteen feet tall, a dragon, a devil with a pitchfork, or just two googly eyes that keep staring.

The point is that the Clutterbumph cannot exist to frighten anyone unless that somebody thinks of it first and decides what it is going to be like. And when one had finished enjoying being frightened and does not want to be any longer, one simply stops thinking of the Clutterbumph, or falls asleep and it is not there any more.

Since Manxmouse was not imagining anything at the time, this particular Clutterbumph was as yet without any shape or form. In fact it was invisible and in its approach to Manxmouse it had to limit itself to such noises as, ‘Whooooooo!’ and ‘Ha!’ and ‘Grrrr!’ and also, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ along with ‘Boo!’ or ‘Shoo!’ which last are rather old-fashioned and do not frighten anyone any more.

Although Manxmouse could see no one, he thought he heard somebody speak and so he said, ‘Good evening,’ politely.

The Clutterbumph let out a screech. ‘Whoooeee! Good evening, indeed! We’ll see about how good an evening it is.’ And at this it snarled, growled, howled and roared. It stopped suddenly and in a more natural voice inquired, ‘Look here, aren’t you afraid?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Manxmouse.

‘Oh, I say,’ said the Clutterbumph in slightly injured tones, ‘that’s not playing the game. You’re bound to be frightened of something: witches, ghosts, demons, dragons, monsters plain or fancy. I’m not particular, and I’ll be glad to oblige. Just think what it is that scares you the most and then I’ll be with you in a jiffy. Perhaps I haven’t introduced myself. I’m a Clutterbumph.’

Manxmouse genuinely wished to oblige the Clutterbumph, whatever it was, but found himself unable to do so. He said, ‘I’m sorry, I really can’t think of anything I’m frightened of.’

‘Come, come!’ said the voice. ‘That’s ridiculous. Not scared? What about dark corners when you never know what’s going to jump out at you? That’s something I do beautifully, by the way. I was first in my class jumping out from dark corners.’

‘Please excuse me,’ Manxmouse apologised, ‘but you see, I haven’t been here for very long and perhaps don’t know how.’ Which was quite true, since the ceramist had forgotten to put fear into him.

The Clutterbumph tried a different tack. He said, ‘Let’s be sensible. You’re a mouse, aren’t you?’

‘I think so,’ said Manxmouse.

‘Well then,’ cried the Clutterbumph triumphantly, ‘you ought to be afraid of Cat. Ha! Wait till you see the kind of cat I can be. Made the Honour Roll for it – glowing eyes, cruel claws, sharp teeth, lashing tail and frightful growl. How about that?’

‘But I’ve never seen a cat,’ Manxmouse said.

‘You’re not being at all co-operative,’ and a plaintive note crept into the voice of the Clutterbumph. ‘Here I am, out on a job, one of the best of us, if I may say so – graduated with honours, with a gold medal for my appearance as a bogey, and I can’t take shape and get on with my work unless you imagine me. Come on, now, there’s a good mouse. Think up something simply awful.’

Manxmouse obviously wished to help and tried very hard, but nothing would come since, as he had already told the Clutterbumph, he had not been there for very long. And the truth is that no one is ever born frightened or fearing anything.

At last, after a period of awkward silence, the Clutterbumph moaned, ‘All right, I give up. Forget about it. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. What will they say back at the office, when they find out? A Clutterbumph who couldn’t frighten a mouse! Oh dear, oh dear!’

‘Do forgive me,’ said Manxmouse.

The mouse was so plainly distressed, that the Clutterbumph said, ‘That’s all right. I shan’t hold it against you. But if you wouldn’t mind me giving you a little piece of advice …’

‘Oh, no, not at all,’ said Manxmouse. ‘It would be very kind of you.’

‘Well,’ said the Clutterbumph, ‘I see you’re a Manx Mouse.’

Since the Clutterbumph was invisible and, in fact, actually wasn’t there, it was difficult to understand how he could ‘see’ anything. Nevertheless, Manxmouse replied, ‘Am I?’

‘Oh, yes, undoubtedly. Anyone with half an eye, or even with no eyes like myself can see that. Well, my advice is Beware the Manx Cat.’ And with that he flew off into the night with his ‘Grrrrs’ and ‘Booos’ and ‘Arrghs’ growing fainter and finally dying out altogether.

Manxmouse wondered what it was the Clutterbumph had meant, but he was growing tired and so he went on in the direction of the country smells until he came to the edge of Buntingdowndale where the pavement ended.

He walked on for a little while longer, enjoying the feel of grass and leaves and earth and twigs beneath his feet. Just as the moon was beginning to set and the stars to pale, Manxmouse found a soft spot under a hedge, curled up and went to sleep.

When he awoke it was broad daylight. The sun had been shining long enough to dry the dew from the grass and the flowers. It was warm and comfortable. As Manxmouse emerged from under his hedge, he saw that he was at a road junction with an old signpost leaning slightly askew. One fingerboard pointing to the right was marked LITTLE GREAT MUNDEN, and the other pointing to the left was lettered, NASTY. A Billibird perched on top of the signpost, manicuring its fingernails.

A Billibird carries a tail light, can fly backwards as well as forwards and sideways, and knows a great deal about a lot of things, but not everything.

The Billibird stopped doing its nails and said, ‘Hello, a Manx Mouse! Or am I dreaming?’

It was strange, Manxmouse thought, how everyone he encountered seemed to know what he was, when he was not at all sure himself. He knew that he was a mouse, but not that kind of a one. For it must be remembered that as yet he had not seen himself.

‘I was just wondering which way to go,’ Manxmouse said.

‘Well,’ said the Billibird, ‘you have a choice of one or the other. And you needn’t worry, there’s no Manx Cat either way. Little Great Munden has five houses in the Little part and six in the Great part, and its own post office. Nasty has only four houses and the post office is in the kitchen of the last one.’

‘Is there really a place called Nasty?’ asked Manxmouse.

‘Well, it says so, doesn’t it?’ replied the Billibird, indicating the signboard. ‘So I suppose there must be. I know some villages with even funnier names. There’s one called Pity Me and another Come-to-Good. And then there’s the one you ought to know about. It’s called Mousehole, although they pronounce it Mouzle. The villagers try to pronounce Nasty as Naystie, but it’s Nasty all right, and there’s nothing they can do about it.’

‘It must be horrid, then,’ Manxmouse suggested.

‘Oh, no, on the contrary, it’s delightful – timbered houses with thatched roofs, early Elizabethan style, I take it; the most charming gardens and a pretty little pond. Nice people, too. I often go there myself.’

‘Then however did it get that name?’ inquired Manxmouse.

‘Now that is one of the things I don’t know,’ replied the Billibird, ‘and there aren’t many. Someone just called it that, and there it is.’

Manxmouse made up his mind. ‘Then that, I think, is where I shall go for I’m getting hungry.’

‘Mind,’ said the Billibird, ‘there’ll be cats. But they’re well fed and oughtn’t to bother you, except maybe old One-Eye or Street Cat. But of course it’s really Manx Cat you want to watch out for.’

The Billibird resumed its manicuring and as Manxmouse thanked it and went off down the road in the direction of Nasty, he heard it say, ‘I’m not dreaming. I know I’m not. It actually is a Manx Mouse. Poor thing!’

Manxmouse wondered why, ‘Poor thing’? For he was quite happy.

Chapter Three

THE STORY OF THE HAPPENINGS IN NASTY

Nasty was really exactly as the Billibird had described it: four charming cottages, the dark timbers showing bravely against the white plaster, and the eaves of the roofing thatches descending almost to the windows. The flowers in the gardens were just starting to bud.

The houses stood in a line on one side of the road and the pond the Billibird had mentioned was on the other, a blue patch of water with lily pads and rushes.

It was still early in the morning and no one was about. But the people of Nasty seemed to be the trusting kind, for two of the front doors were open and Manxmouse slipped into the first.

Following the good news told him by the odour in his nostrils, he had no difficulty in finding his way to the kitchen, or in climbing up the leg of the table where he found the remnants of a supper of bread and cheese, and a dish of rice pudding.

Manxmouse was sure nobody would mind, since he was so small that he would not be able to eat a great deal, just sufficient to satisfy his hunger. So he had some of each and it was all delicious.

He was sorry he had no pencil and paper to leave a thank-you note, but he ate very tidily and cleared up the crumbs before he left. Then he slipped down the table leg and was just about to go by the way he had come, when he felt a sudden rush of air and then something soft and furry landed upon him. Two little paws with needle claws gripped him and the next thing he knew, he was held in the tiny but sharp teeth of a kitten and was being carried, still quite unharmed, into the neighbouring ironing room, where House Cat Mother with three more kittens was lying in a basket.

The kitten set Manxmouse down on the floor, put a paw on him and cried with enormous pride, ‘Look, everyone! I’ve caught my first mouse, all alone, by myself! There I was in the kitchen, looking for my ping-pong ball that had rolled under the fridge, when this mouse stepped out from behind the stove and threatened me. But I wasn’t frightened or intimidated, even though there was nobody there to help me. Keeping my head, I gathered myself together, gave two waggles and avoiding the blow he aimed at me, made a tremendous spring, pounced and caught him. He put up a great fight, but I was too much for him. And now I’m going to eat him all by myself.’

Manxmouse was too surprised to protest the exaggeration.

By this time House Cat Mother was up and out of her basket saying, ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind! What on earth have you got there?’

The kitten pressed its paw down harder on Manxmouse’s back. ‘My mouse!’

House Cat Mother came over and said, ‘Why, it’s blue! Can’t you see it’s poisonous! Get away from it, you stupid child!’

‘But he’s mine! I caught him and I want to eat him!’

At this House Cat Mother grew very angry and cuffed the kitten with her paw, knocking it head-over-heels. It gave Manxmouse the opportunity to arise from his undignified position and catch his breath again, for he had been quite squashed.

‘Eat him, you shan’t!’ the mother scolded. ‘How many times have I told you never to touch anything that isn’t the right colour, taste or smell, or all three? Whoever heard of a blue mouse? Can’t you see that this one would make you sick? Honestly, everything I say or try to teach you seems to go in one ear and out the other.’

‘But I’m not poisonous!’ Manxmouse protested. ‘Really I’m not. Please, I promise you, you can eat me with the utmost safety. I didn’t know I was blue, but if I am, I can’t help my colour. It’s quite harmless.’

House Cat Mother drew back from him and said indignantly, ‘Well, I never heard of such a thing. A mouse actually asking to be eaten! That just proves he’s bad and is trying to trap us. Come away at once, children!’ And, herding them together, she rushed them out of the room, leaving Manxmouse rather forlorn.

Was there really something the matter with him? And was it true that he was blue? And if so, what was wrong with that?

He remembered the pond across the road and thought that the thing to do was to go there and have a look at his reflection in it. He had hardly left the door of the cottage and proceeded to the side of the road, when once more there was a rush of air and a pounce, and he was caught up in a pair of powerful jaws.

And this time it wasn’t a kitten but a ginger cat with but a single eye, the one Billibird had called Street Cat, or old One-Eye.

‘Ha! Gotcha!’ growled One-Eye. ‘Thought I’d be sleeping, didn’t you? They all fall for that one. Well, that’s your tough luck. Goodbye, mouse! Some cats start eating at the head of the mouse, but I don’t. I like to start with their tails as an appetizer and work on up, leaving the best part to the last.

And with this he put one great paw on Manxmouse’s head, when he suddenly leaped back with a cry of, ‘What’s this? Why, you haven’t got a tail!’

‘Haven’t I?’ said Manxmouse. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

Old One-Eye was upset. ‘You’re a Manx Mouse,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you say so? You should have told me immediately! Supposing I’d eaten you? You belong to Manx Cat, and Manx Cat would have been furious with me if I’d eaten his mouse.’

Manxmouse said, ‘But I don’t understand! It’s all so confusing! Who and what and where is Manx Cat? And where will I find him?’

Old One-Eye backed away still further, his fur standing up and his tail twitching. ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘That was a narrow escape for me.’ And then, ‘Never you mind. You’ll soon know the answer when you come across him. One thing I can tell you, you’ll never get away from him. Manx Mice are meant to be eaten by Manx Cats. Enjoy yourself while you can.’ And with that old One-Eye slouched off into the gardens behind the houses.

The pond across the street beckoned Manxmouse and he went over to see what he was really like.

It all seemed to be true. The breeze had died away and the surface of the pond was like a mirror as Manxmouse crept down to the edge between two tall rushes and looked in. He was blue and, indeed, had no tail. He turned this way and that to make sure of the latter – there was no mistake about the blue part – and even got himself afloat on a lily pad to be able to see better behind himself. He had just caught a glimpse of the little button where his tail should have been, when a deep voice rumbled, ‘There’s no use in your looking further, youngster, there isn’t one,’ and then it added, ‘Burrp!’

Manxmouse looked around and saw a huge grey-green frog with popping eyes squatting on the bank watching him.

‘That,’ said Manxmouse, now prepared to make the best of things, ‘is because I’m a Manx Mouse.’ For it was clear to him at last that that was what and who he must be, since everyone had been calling him by this name. It had not come as too much of a shock to him. For he thought that the world must be full of Manx Mice like himself and had no idea that he was the only one in existence.

‘Can you swim?’ asked the frog and burped again.

‘I’m not sure,’ replied Manxmouse.

‘Well then, you’d better get back off that lily pad. Manx Cat wouldn’t like it if you were to drown. Burrp! Burrp!’

Manxmouse did as he was told because he didn’t fancy drowning either, and then he said, ‘Just who is this Manx Cat everyone is talking about? And where would I meet him?’

‘Ho, ho!’ rumbled the frog. ‘That’s a good one! The Manx Cat is a cat without a tail, and the first time you see him you’d better start running. Plain cats eat plain mice; Manx Cats eat Manx Mice. There you are, that’s the rule.’

Manxmouse had now managed to creep back on to the shore and was sitting up wiping some droplets of water that had got on to his whiskers, and shaking his feet.

‘You’re certainly the queerest-looking specimen I ever saw,’ commented the frog and added three burps for good measure. ‘No tail, blue all over and as for those ears – oh, burrp!’

Good-natured as Manxmouse was, he was becoming just a little fed up with comments on his shape and colour and so he said, ‘I’m very sorry, but I can’t help how I look. And, for that matter, don’t you think you might appear a little odd yourself, with your eyes sticking out so that they’re practically on top of your head?’

The frog now produced the largest of all his burps and said, ‘Eyes on top of my head, eh? Well, I’ll tell you something, youngster. It might be better for you if yours were, too, because you never know where trouble is coming from next.’ And with that he dived, plop, into the pond and disappeared. It broke up the surface and sent ripples out in every direction. When they washed up on to the shore where Manxmouse was sitting, his image looked very funny and wavy indeed, like standing before one of those crazy mirrors at a fun fair. One moment he was fat and the next lean; his ears long and then short.

Then suddenly the reflection was darkened by a shadow, a great beating of wings, and a splash as something plummeted out of the sky and seized Manxmouse in talons of iron. The next moment he was flying dizzily through the air, with the earth spinning and tumbling about him. Feeling giddy he closed his eyes and did not open them again until there was a bump and he felt himself once more on ground.

He heard a voice say, ‘Now then, we’ll just have a look at what we’ve got here.’

Gazing up, Manxmouse saw the head of an enormous bird with bright yellow eyes and a cruel, curved beak.

Chapter Four

THE STORY OF MANXMOUSE AND PILOT CAPTAIN HAWK

Peering down, the bird of prey inspected a creature such as he had never seen before in all his days of hunting from the sky. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘what on earth are you? No tail, funny feet, ears like a rabbit and blue all over. Are you mole, vole, mouse or shrew?’

Manxmouse, who was being terribly squashed, gasped, ‘If you could just let me go a little, sir, I’d …’

‘Oh, sorry!’ said the hawk, for such it was. ‘Of course! I’d forgotten about my undercarriage. It’s a bit powerful,’ and he relinquished his grip.

Manxmouse sighed with relief and said, ‘I’m a Manx Mouse and everyone says I’m going to be eaten by a Manx Cat. But for a moment I thought I was going to be eaten by you.’

‘Well, I never! Why, it would be a shame to eat you. I’m probably the only hawk who’s ever caught something like you. Nobody would ever believe me. There I was at 3,000 feet, on a nice thermal – you know what a thermal is, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Manxmouse admitted. For this was something his creator, the ceramist, would not have known either.

‘Well, it’s an up-current of air caused by heat rising. Catch a good one and you can float on it for hours. I was looking for a meal when I saw that frog. Clever fellow, he was too quick for me. I’d already started my dive – it’s automatic, you know – and then I saw you.’

‘You mean to say,’ Manxmouse queried, amazed, ‘that you can see a tiny thing like me from that high up?’

‘Oh, my goodness, yes,’ exaggerated the bird, who, like most flyers was something of a show-off. ‘Even higher: 5,000 feet – 10,000. We’ve got telescopic eyes. Well, on the way down I thought there was something odd about your colour, you know. It just sort of flashed through my mind. But I was doing about 500 mph – that’s miles per hour – by that time and didn’t bother to use my air brakes. It was as nice a strike as I’ve ever made, even though I did get my tail feathers wet on the pull out. So then when we were climbing again and I saw that you actually were blue, I thought to myself that we’d better have another little look-see. And so here we are, the two of us. Captain Hawk’s the name, Senior Pilot.’

Manxmouse said politely, ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you, Captain.’

‘For that matter,’ Captain Hawk replied, ‘I’m very pleased to meet you as well, I shall be dining out on this for a long time – I don’t mean dining out on YOU,’ Hawk hastened to add, ‘it’s just a phrase and means having something to talk about when you’re invited out to dinner. I shall certainly tell about having caught a Manx Mouse. By the way, young fellow, have you ever flown before?’

‘No, never – except for … just now …’

Captain Hawk laughed, ‘Oh, that! I wouldn’t call that flying. How would you like a little flip? It’s the least I can offer to make amends for having been just a trifle rough with you.’

‘If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,’ said Manxmouse.

‘No, no, not at all! Delighted, old sport! Always pleased to be able to take someone up on his first hop and get him air-minded. Now, climb up and pass along to the front of the aircraft – I mean, get up on to my head, where you’ll find you’ll be able to hang on and it’s quite comfortable. Don’t worry if you feel a trifle dizzy at first, you’ll soon get used to it. And even if you were to fall off – not to worry. I’d catch you before you dropped very far.’