invitation.
‘Usguys gathering, huh? Usguys telling stories huh, huh?’
Rats are basically sensuous creatures; they love to eat and sleep and bring up their young as safely as possible. But Tess had learnt that they also love stories and often told them as a way of transmitting information about their surroundings and the world beyond. Tess had spent hour after hour telling her Switching stories to the rats at home in Dublin, and had become known as something of a star performer. But on this occasion she was eager to listen, not to tell.
The rats finished what they were doing before making their way along the network of subtle little pathways which criss-crossed the woods. They came in dribs and drabs and in no particular hurry, so the meeting had a casual air about it. Tess waited patiently, greeting the rats as they arrived, exchanging scents and names. There was an extremely awkward moment when the group of kitchen adolescents arrived, but their mother was far too busy instructing them on the rules of introduction to bother about an old argument with Tess. By the time she had disciplined them into orderly and respectful behaviour, the numbers had swelled surprisingly. Beyond the gathering a few stragglers were still arriving, but Tess decided there was no need to wait any longer. As soon as the introductions were over, she began the story-telling procedure herself by giving the gathered rats the image of the old one-toothed rat, hanging dead by his tail from Uncle Maurice’s hand. A wave of sorrow passed through the assembly and there was a brief, respectful silence. Then the other rats began to tell their stories.
Tess had to work hard to hide her amusement. With minor variations, the accounts of the last two days were the same. The rats had been happy at the farm but they had believed the Big Foot who knew their language and they had followed him with fear and trembling to the woods. Everything was exaggerated, from the surprise at being woken to the promises of an idyllic haven. Tess was particularly amused by their image of Kevin, which was about as unflattering as it was possible to be. She glanced across to where he sat, in beast-learnt silence among the trees. He winked back, clearly glad that the rats didn’t know he was there. They were very angry with him. No sooner had they arrived in the promised land than they had been invaded by dogs and a great many Big Feet tramping everywhere.
A human being is huge to a rat; earth-shakingly heavy and genuinely frightening. But in their telling of the day’s events, the rats were outrageously magnifying the size and numbers of the searchers. Uncle Maurice and the businessmen crashed back and forth, their feet colossal and clumsy, crushing rocks and making craters in the ground. Even her own trainers appeared as killing machines, and the care she always took when walking in the countryside was distorted by the rats into purposeful malevolence. The dogs were monstrous bloodhounds with noses that vacuumed up whole litters of baby rats and blew away the carefully constructed nests of the beleaguered settlers. The images piled upon each other, exaggeration upon exaggeration, giving the impression that there was barely a square foot of the woods that had not been occupied all day by massive, tramping feet. Tess listened patiently, showing her appreciation by joining the occasional chorus of ‘yup, yup,’ and waiting for the excitement to run its course. When everyone had calmed down a bit, it was possible that she might get some more accurate information.
But suddenly an absurd image entered the babble. The pictures of huge, stomping boots were being repeated again and again, almost like a drumbeat or a chant. But thrown in among the big feet, like the tinkling of a little bell, was a tiny pair of red ones.
Tess focused as hard as she could, waiting for the stray image to return and hoping to identify the rat that had produced it. Sure enough it came again, bright
‘Usguys gathering, huh? Usguys telling stories huh, huh?’
Rats are basically sensuous creatures; they love to eat and sleep and bring up their young as safely as possible. But Tess had learnt that they also love stories and often told them as a way of transmitting information about their surroundings and the world beyond. Tess had spent hour after hour telling her Switching stories to the rats at home in Dublin, and had become known as something of a star performer. But on this occasion she was eager to listen, not to tell.
The rats finished what they were doing before making their way along the network of subtle little pathways which criss-crossed the woods. They came in dribs and drabs and in no particular hurry, so the meeting had a casual air about it. Tess waited patiently, greeting the rats as they arrived, exchanging scents and names. There was an extremely awkward moment when the group of kitchen adolescents arrived, but their mother was far too busy instructing them on the rules of introduction to bother about an old argument with Tess. By the time she had disciplined them into orderly and respectful behaviour, the numbers had swelled surprisingly. Beyond the gathering a few stragglers were still arriving, but Tess decided there was no need to wait any longer. As soon as the introductions were over, she began the story-telling procedure herself by giving the gathered rats the image of the old one-toothed rat, hanging dead by his tail from Uncle Maurice’s hand. A wave of sorrow passed through the assembly and there was a brief, respectful silence. Then the other rats began to tell their stories.
Tess had to work hard to hide her amusement. With minor variations, the accounts of the last two days were the same. The rats had been happy at the farm but they had believed the Big Foot who knew their language and they had followed him with fear and trembling to the woods. Everything was exaggerated, from the surprise at being woken to the promises of an idyllic haven. Tess was particularly amused by their image of Kevin, which was about as unflattering as it was possible to be. She glanced across to where he sat, in beast-learnt silence among the trees. He winked back, clearly glad that the rats didn’t know he was there. They were very angry with him. No sooner had they arrived in the promised land than they had been invaded by dogs and a great many Big Feet tramping everywhere.
A human being is huge to a rat; earth-shakingly heavy and genuinely frightening. But in their telling of the day’s events, the rats were outrageously magnifying the size and numbers of the searchers. Uncle Maurice and the businessmen crashed back and forth, their feet colossal and clumsy, crushing rocks and making craters in the ground. Even her own trainers appeared as killing machines, and the care she always took when walking in the countryside was distorted by the rats into purposeful malevolence. The dogs were monstrous bloodhounds with noses that vacuumed up whole litters of baby rats and blew away the carefully constructed nests of the beleaguered settlers. The images piled upon each other, exaggeration upon exaggeration, giving the impression that there was barely a square foot of the woods that had not been occupied all day by massive, tramping feet. Tess listened patiently, showing her appreciation by joining the occasional chorus of ‘yup, yup,’ and waiting for the excitement to run its course. When everyone had calmed down a bit, it was possible that she might get some more accurate information.
But suddenly an absurd image entered the babble. The pictures of huge, stomping boots were being repeated again and again, almost like a drumbeat or a chant. But thrown in among the big feet, like the tinkling of a little bell, was a tiny pair of red ones.
Tess focused as hard as she could, waiting for the stray image to return and hoping to identify the rat that had produced it. Sure enough it came again, bright
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