He Bangs the Drum

A dark building. Inside. We fly through dark, oppressive, corridors lined with doorless rooms. We peek into a room. A sleeping mole can be seen, curled on the floor. Hanging on the wall is a brown cloth, a quick inspection and we can see that it is a monk's habit.

It think we know where we are now.

A sound reverberates through the corridors:

Ba-Dum.

Like a heartbeat.

Ba-Dum.

We fly towards the noise, spinning silently and fluidly through the corridors of the monastery. We reach the abbot, walking slowly through the corridors, under his left arm a celtic drum, in his right forepaw a small bone that he is using as a drumstick.

Ba-Dum.

Let's follow the abbot for a while, we spin round him, examining the figure. He's a mole and he must have walked this path a thousand times before - his eyes are shut tight. Well, it's not daylight yet, and there is no sign of artificial lighting in here - so there is probably not much difference between eyes open and eyes shut.

Ba-Dum.

Watching his foot-paws on the floor we see no hesitation in his blind walk, no thought that he may find something unexpected on the floor. Knowing the narrator's sense of humour, our eyes search around for any sign of a banana skin. Surprisingly the floor is clear.

Ba-Dum.

The abbot, still steadily beating his drum leaves the monastery and makes his way in the pre-dawn light to the top of a small rise. He turns to face the west and sits down in a single motion. Eyes still shut he continues to beat his metronomic rhythm.

Ba-Dum.

From out of the monastery a figure appears, a monk, stepping forwards to the beat of the drum.

Ba-Dum.

The monk reaches the rise and stands before the abbot. He bows, then strikes a pose that Bruce Lee would have been proud of.

Ba-Dum.

The monk's fists strike the air. He holds the new pose.

Ba-Dum.

The monk leans back and one foot strikes out.

Ba-Dum.

The monk's feet return to the floor and a fist punches out behind him. We slip in close and we can see that his eyes, too, are shut.

Hmm. A long way away, in the distance behind the monk we can just bearly spy a dot, moving, on the horizon.

Ba-Dum.

From out of the monastery comes another monk. He steps up beside the dancing form of his theological brother and bows to the abbot.

Ba-Dum.

Our first monk's fists punch a lazy path through the air.

The new monk's fists punch the same path.

Ba-Dum.

The two monks move as one, their martial forms describing a dance of fatality.

Hmm. Behind them we can see that dot on the horizon getting larger. Possibly scrying a shape to the dot that might hold head and arms and legs, but it's still quite indistinct so we can't be sure as yet.

Ba-Dum.

For a few beats the two monks prance alone. Then another monk joins them, again bowing to the abbot, then following the graceful movements of the other two.

Just quickly checking - yes, they all have their eyes closed.

Another monk joins them, and another. Each monk joining the dance of the forms, blindly following the ones before. I think this says something about their vows.

Behind us and the abbot the sun is now above the horizon and he seems to glow in the morning light.

Behind the monks, in the distance, the dot has got nearer. Strange - it looks like it has two heads and five appendages. Well, we'll keep an eye on it. Let's face it, the monk's aren't.

Ba-Dum.

Now we have a whole hoard of monks, Posing in a regimented formation, each graceful kick as co-ordinated as a swimming team. Each quick punch as regular as prunes.

Ba-Dum.

They work as a team for fifteen, twenty minutes, then the first monk abruptly halts his moves. He stands still for a drumbeat, then steps down, opens his eyes, nods to the abbot and then strides off towards the monastery.

Ba-Dum.

One by one, the monks halt their form-dance and return to the monastery for their early morning chores.

The last monk stops, he steps down towards the abbot.

"Thank you father." He says, bowing.

Ba-Dum!

The abbot thumps one last beat and stops. His eyes opening. He steps forward. The strange-shaped dot from the horizon has got near enough for us to discern the details - two rabbits are making their way towards us. One rabbit, of a brown coat, has a make-shift crutch under his left arm and his right arm is slung over the shoulders of the other rabbit, a white.

The abbot can just spy the conies. He stands there, drum in hand, awaiting the pair.

They hobble towards us with a practised gait, not as fast as walking; we can clearly see that the brown coney's left foot was not helping the journey and seemed to be encased in some form of a splint.

Finally, they stand in front of the abbot.

"Welcome, my children." He says, offering a paw to shake. Phump reaches over and shakes it.

"Hello, thanks." He says.

"We need to see Cadam." Madison speaks, bluntly.

"Cadam? The elder?" The abbot replies, "He's not here."

"Cola?" Phump asks, the abbot shakes his head. "Malcolm?" The young coney says in desperation.

"No, my son." He replies. "We do have some of you kind here."

Phump's eye light up, "Maisie?"

The abbot nods and with a small smile, "And her brothers." He shakes his head. "As soon as you can get that over-enthusiastic costermonger away from my impressionable young charges the better."

"Where is Cadam?" Phump asks to Madison. The white rabbit shakes his head, unknowing.

---*---

"Where's Cadam?" Mike the Mouse asked his colleague.

"He's just popped into the bushes for a personal moment." The second mouse replied, thumbing over his shoulder towards a thicket.

"Thanks, Willy." Mike replied. "You go on with the others and I'll wait here for the old buck."

Willy nodded then pattered onwards, towards a small group of mice surrounding a rabbit, walking a few yards ahead.

Mike scratched his nose and shook his head. They weren't making good time at all. They were already a day behind schedule and they were only two days on the road.

Cadam appeared from out of the bushes. "Oh, thanks for waiting for me, youngster." He said to the patient mouse.

Mike looked up at him. "You're not well." A few, simple, quiet words.

"Never felt better!" Cadam insisted.

Mike shook his head, "You weren't having a quick pee. I heard coughing."

"A buck can cough when he's taking a pee."

"You've got blood on of the corner of your mouth."

Cadam wiped a paw across his mouth and grimaced at the ruddy stain.

"We're not making good time, we've only seen one of the villages and we should have been through two by now and on the way to the third."

"We'll get there." Cadam said, slightly condescendingly.

"But a lot slower than we should be." Mike shook his head. "We may not be the only ones looking for Cola."

Cadam harumphed. "If Gilchrist wanted her, he'd have her already."

Mike shook his head, staring at his back paws, then looked up at the aging coney. "I'd like to split us up. I don't need to have all the mice here, I can send some of them scouting out." He saw agreement in Cadam's eyes. "We'll keep to the plan, visiting the villages, looking for Cola, my boys will scout round the outskirts, keeping an eye or two out for his," they both knew whose, "patrols."

Cadam thought for a moment then agreed, "Okay, just keep enough here to look after Malcolm. He's been a bit erratic of late."

Mike nodded and trotted towards the others, who were just slowly padding forwards, trying not to leave them behind. Cadam plodded slowly behind them, not looking very well at all.

Mike reached the others and spoke to his men, all bar two of the mice sprinted off, in pairs, in different directions.

Shuffling forwards, Cadam kicked at a twig, surprised, he looked down at the stick and hummed to himself. With care, he bent down and picked the wood up. He held the stick tightly in his hand, then smiled to himself. He walked towards where Mike and Malcolm were waiting for him, using his new walking stick as a third leg. He felt a little like he'd admitted to getting old, having a walking stick and all, but then decided that it made him more like a Gentleman rather than an Old Git.

He caught up with the others and they started off together again.

They progressed in a Vee-shape. Mike trailing, Cadam and Malcolm just in front of him and his two troops a number of feet in front and to the sides. Although you couldn't actually say that Malcolm was part of a formation - he went his own merry way, but Mike and Cadam kept their places roughly relative to him and so they could at least pretend that they were all marching in formation.

Suddenly a call came from Willy out front - "Cat!" and the two point mice - Willy and Ron - dived for cover in the undergrowth. Mike followed suit, only to come out again when he realised that Cadam and Malcolm were still tootling along in the middle of the path. The noise of an animal running a fair gallop came closer and closer. Mike waved an arm at the two conies.

"Into the bush!" He whispered as loud as he could, "There's a cat coming". Cadam looked quizzically at the mouse, not hearing correctly. Malcolm was singing to the trees and not paying any attention.

From in front the galloping noise grew louder and louder and, sure enough, as predicted, a cat appeared.

A great tabby came lolloping along the path, with something atop its back. Cadam stared at Mike, hiding in the bushes, "What?" He said, "There's no bats around here! It's daylight." Malcolm was frantically jabbing Cadam on the shoulder to try to get his attention. "Leave me alone Malcolm," Cadam said without turning, "I'm trying to find out what these mice have got against bats."

With a great "Meee-orwl" The cat skidded to a halt in front of the conies. Malcolm jumped out of the way with a great yelp. Cadam turned at this, and, seeing a cat barely inches from his face, grabbed his new walking stick and rapped the cat over the nose.

"Naughty kitty!" He said, "Sneaking up on a buck like that!"

"I say!" Came a voice from atop the moggy, "Be careful with the mount, old chap." An armoured figure leapt from his perch astride the feline and landed next to the aged coney.

Let's hit pause and examine the figure for a second or two. It is short, much smaller than the coney it has landed beside. It is armoured as a knight of old, in full plate mail, including one of those helmets that looks like a Womble's head. An armoured tail winds of the rear-end of the 'mail and the helmet has globular appendages suitable for prominent ears. The armour is lacquered black with red trimmings, a little bit more goth than gothic. The figure wears a shield on one arm, with a device that looks like a violet Egyptian-styled eye. That will do for now, we'll hit play again.

The armoured figure looked up at Cadam then reached a mailed paw to his helmet. With a clink and a clunk he removed it to reveal the face of a middle-aged mouse, with a prominent drooping moustache then reached a paw out to Cadam.

Malcolm tapped the mouse on the shoulder, "You're a long way from home." he said then fell into a fit of giggles. Mike and his mice stepped from the undergrowth at the revelation that a mouse was riding the cat.

Cadam took the proffered hand and warmly shook it. "Cadam, elder of the warrens, retired."

"Pleased to meet you." The mouse returned a warm smile, "I am the Questing Mouse." He spoke it as if it was a title that they should all know. By this time Mike had turned up, he offered his paw.

"I've heard of you." He said as the other rodent shook it. "But I'd never expected to meet you." He bent towards the mouse, "My mother has always told me stories about your quest."

"Its good to know that the youth of today are getting a good grounding in the foundations of their culture." Cadam grunted an agreement. "Well," The mouse continued, "Aren't you going to offer me lunch?"

The settled down to an impromptu luncheon with their new friend. The mouse waxed lyrical about his life.

"I've been a Questing Knight since before I was born. Its a family quest you see, my father and his father before him quested long and hard."

"But what are you questing for?" Cadam asked, "You haven't said?"

"Oh," the knight said, "I though everyone knew." He leaned forward, "I'm searching for a Pum."

He sat back, as if that explained everything.

"If you don't mind me asking," Cadam ventured after a suitable pause, "But what actually is a Pum?"

The knight shrugged, "I don't know. I've never caught up with one." He smiled and leaned his head to the side, "But I'll know it when I find it."

"I always thought it sounded quite a nice animal," Mike added to the conversation, "sort of small and furry-sounding."

The knight straightened his back., "I'm sure that a family quest, handed down for generation after generation wouldn't be for something small and furry."

Mike apologised, "Of course not. I'm sure its a fearsome beast with fangs and all."

The knight harumphed and, with some effort, stood up. "Well," he said, "Lunch has been nice, but I really should be going. Places to go, Pums to quest for, you know how it is."

Cadam stood up with even more trouble, "I understand thoroughly, old chap." He smiled and they shook paws. The knight gave a shrill whistle and his cat padded over. He gave a quick salute and clambered onto his mount. He straightened up and dug his heels in - the cat gave a meow-like whinny and trotted off.

Mike and his mice tidied up the impromptu camp site and the troop were soon off again.

They weren't long on the road when hell broke lose. Willy and Ron were running point in the bush-line, suddenly two conies burst out of the undergrowth and swiped the mice so hard they flew into the air and into the bushes.

The conies rushed the trio - Cadam grasped his walking stick as they came towards him, Mike struck a defensive pose and Malcolm did what Malcolm did best - he started singing Elevation as he watched Willy and Ron.

"High, higher than the sun, You shoot me from a gun..."

The two attacking conies leaped over Mike and landed next to Cadam. They held the ubiquitous pointed sticks and they took to hitting and stabbing at the old buck. Mike turned on them and tried to distract them from behind. Malcolm's eyes grew wide at their violent attack on Cadam - he seemed unable to move - his mouth moved silently, unable to stop singing, just unable to say anything.

Mike grabbed the leg of one of the conies to try to stop him kicking at Cadam. The coney was much larger than Mike and just used him as extra weight behind his kicks. Cadam fell to the floor, unable to fight back, his walking stick dropped uselessly from his hand.

Kick. Kick. Kick. Thump. Thump. Thump. The two conies' merciless onslaught on Cadam continued. Malcolm started running round in tight circles, unable to act. Mike realised that if he let go of the leg he had hold of then he'd be thrown clear and so decided to hang on tighter. He sunk his teeth into the leg, but the coney kept on.

From back along the path a horn blew and the sound of a large running animal grew louder and louder. The attacking conies ignored this. Their first stupid move. From around the last bend in the road came the Questing Knight on his cat. The knight appraised the scene quickly and aimed his cat at one of the assailants. The cat leapt over Cadam's prone form straight at one attacker, as he did this the Questing Knight drew his sword and jumped at the other.

With a swipe the knight disabled his coney, knocking Mike from that rabbit's leg. With a stab to the chest the coney's eyes drew wide then he collapsed back, twitched once, then stopped moving. Forever.

The cat had bowled his coney a few feet away and, with a ferocious snarling noise was ripping the rabbit to pieces.

The knight swung his head towards the cat and nodded a grim nod. He yanked his helmet off and knelt next to Cadam. Mike sat up, a little stunned and then crawled over to the prone elder. Malcolm stopped his circling and tottered towards Cadam, eyes wet.

The three knelt next to Cadam's battered body. Malcolm stroked his arm. The knight bowed his head in prayer. Mike stared. "He's not," he begun.

Cadam coughed. Malcolm jolted up. The knight raised his head.

"Hurt." Cadam managed to say, then passed out.

The snarling of the cat quietened. The moggy calmed down now his coney was a mass of fur and bones and stepped away from everyone else and laid down, panting quietly to himself.

Mike looked at the knight. "He's not in any state to walk anywhere now." The knight shook his head. Mike's mind started to work. "Would you travel with us for a day or so?" The knight looked quizzically at the younger mouse, who continued, "Could we rig up a travois?"

Noises came from the forest, Willy staggered out towards them, bruised from his flight but not looking too worse for wear, he looked at the scene of carnage and, carefully keeping his distance from the cat, walked up to the group around Cadam.

Malcolm leaned over Cadam, crying. The others started work.

Willy and Mike found Ron lying unconscious not too far away and brought him round using the common or garden throw-water-on-the-face method.

The mice got to work and, after a short period of rushed work had a simple travois large enough to hold Cadam.

The mice searched the conies for anything that might confirm why they did this. They pulled a golden ring off each dead rabbit.

They carefully rolled Cadam onto the makeshift wheel-less chariot. He groaned during the movement, but didn't regain consciousness.

Malcolm was useless during all of this - he didn't seem able to keep singing the same thing for more than a bar or two, let alone keep sane enough for any useful length of time. Mike managed to make him realise that they were about to head off.

The battered party started off, slowly, the knight leading the cat rather than riding him, Willy and Ron again on point, but this time keeping clear of the bushes and, seemingly more alert than before.

At the cat moved off, Cadam began to groan and whimper as the travois scraped along the ground.

"Stop." Mike said, holding the knight's arm. "This is hurting him."

"We can't do anything for him here." The knight said, "You said that we could make the next coney settlement before the end of the day. They might have a healer there."

Malcolm stepped behind the cat and walked to the end of the travois and picked it up by the ends. He looked at the mice, "The road is long."

Mike nodded at the knight, who started to lead the cat on again.

---*---

"Orla!" came a cry from outside, "Come quickly!"

Orla looked up from her crocheting and turned to Cola, who was nursing her babes. "You should come with me."

---*---