The Borribles - Larrabeiti Michael - Страница 28

"That might make him run a mile," joked Orococco flashing his teeth.

"Well, in that case, clout him across the head and drag him in by his feet," said Napoleon and went back to sleep.

Those who were awake sprang up and ran through the bushes till they reached the perimeter of the copse. Across the windswept grass, picking his way slowly through the gorse bushes, they saw the Rumble. He was sniffing about cautiously and a great deal of the time he flicked his eyes around as if fearing attack or discovery. Orococco was already some distance away, skipping, affecting aimless pleasure.

"He's pretending to be a normal," said Knocker, and they all watched.

Orococco kept the gorse bushes between him and the Rumble for as long as he could but eventually the Rumble noticed him. The Rumble stopped and looked about with more nervous twists of the head. But he saw no one, only Orococco hopping happily along like a child playing truant from school. The Rumble sank behind a small gorse bush till only its snout protruded. Orococco pretended that he'd seen nothing and made as if to skip by, but then he stopped and the watchers saw him wave at the Rumble who came out from behind the bushes and stepped hesitantly towards the black Borrible.

Orococco clapped his hands and talked for a while; he pointed towards the copse where his companions were hidden, then he waved again at the Rumble and skipped on.

"Wonder if it'll work?" said Vulge.

"Depends what he told him," said Chalotte.

The Rumble stood where he was for several minutes waiting for Orococco to disappear over the horizon. As soon as he thought he was alone he turned and began to run towards the Borribles.

"Verdammt, it has worked," cried Adolf, rubbing his hands.

"Spread out," said Knocker. "Get behind a tree or something and when the little bleeder comes by, jump him."

From their hiding places the Borribles watched the approach of the solitary Rumble. The animal's snout pulsated with suspicion, the small red eyes darted from right to left, probing, trying to see beyond the trees. It raised its Rumble-stick, it could smell something wrong but its greed had been greatly aroused by Orococco's tale. The padded feet brought it nearer and nearer. At the edge of the trees it halted and turned to look over the wild downs. Nothing moved on the surface of the countryside. The Rumble shifted the bag that was thrown across his shoulder, took a deep breath through its snout and plunged into the copse. It did not plunge very far. As it passed between two trees Vulge and Torreycanyon rose from the matted undergrowth like two fast-growing man-eating plants, one before and one behind the surprised Rumble.

"Aaaaagh," it squealed, the sound beginning loudly but fading away to a weak and disjointed whimper.

"Aaaaagh," imitated Vulge. Then he grabbed the Rumble by the scruff of its fur and shook it as if trying to dislocate every bone in its body. "You mouldy old eiderdown, we've come a long way to have a chat with you. Gone through endless dangers to engage you in fruitful converse, and all you can do is go 'Aaaaagh'."

"Yeah," joined in Torreycanyon, slapping the animal gently across the snout, "you're a rat." He did not have the same inventive vocabulary that Vulge was blessed with.

The animal drew itself up. "I'm not a wat," it said, "I'm a Wumble."

"And I'm Towweycanyon, a howwible Bowwible," said Torreycanyon and he seized the Rumble-stick. "Look at this," he said to Vulge, "a very nasty tool."

"Yeah," agreed the Stepney Borrible, "and there's thousands of Rumbles out there and they've all got one. Come on, let's get back to the clearing."

They held the prisoner by his arms and dragged him back to the middle of the trees where the others soon gathered. They sat the Rumble down by the cart and tied him to one of the wheels.

"Oh, my goodness," said the Rumble, looking nervously around, "I weally can smell a horse. You can't wealise how dweadful they are."

"Isn't it marvellous how they can't talk properly?" said Vulge, giving the ropes a really good pull and a tug to make sure the prisoner couldn't escape.

The Borribles sat round the prisoner in a semicircle and even those who had been dozing woke up and came over towards the cart to examine the captive.

"Right," said Bingo cheerfully to the Rumble, "we're going to ask you some interesting questions, and you're going to give us some interesting answers. If you don't keep us amused, if we should get in the slightest bit bored, I shall give you to Sam to eat. He likes hay."

"Sam's the horse," said Chalotte in a kindly, menacing way.

"Aaaaagh," groaned the Rumble, weakly.

"Well that's bloody boring for a start," said Vulge. "If he's going to say nothing but 'Aaaaagh' all the time, we might as well give him to Sam straight away."

Sam the horse, hearing his name mentioned so often, ambled across to the group of Borribles and stood contentedly looking over their shoulders, munching. He looked at the furred creature with a certain amount of appetite, for it is a fact that horses enjoy eating the occasional Rumble, finding that they taste like well-matured hay, good and sweet and nourishing. The Rumble shrank back in his bonds. Though normally quite courageous, understandably enough neither he, nor any of his kind, could bear the sight or smell of a horse.

"Don't let him near me," he shrieked. "I'll talk, I'll tell you evewything, only don't let him touch me."

Vulge looked round the half-circle of his friends. "Well," he said, "at least that's better than 'Aaaaagh'."

"How many Rumbles in your Bunker?" asked Torreycanyon.

A thin yellow tongue appeared briefly along the slit in the Rumble's snout. "There's hundweds, certainly, maybe more, but we're only one Bunker, there are hundweds of those too, all interconnected."

"And the High Command, the eight top names, where are they?" asked Sydney, her voice cool.

"You know about the Eight?" asked the Rumble, looking at them with a growing terror. "Then you're not ordinawy childwen, you're . . ."

"That's wight, my old china," scoffed Vulge, "we're howwible Bowwibles. You want to listen when we talk to you."

The questioning went on all through the afternoon, with the Rumble gradually realising that this was the Great Rumble Hunt that had been promised.

The Borribles found out many things. The Rumble that Knocker and Lightfinger had captured all that time ago had returned alive to Rumbledom country. His story had struck fear and dismay into the hearts of all Rumbles, young and old, male and female. But that fear had hardened into anger, and the dismay had crystallised into resolution and the Rumbles had looked about them.

At first the High Command, following the general mood, had over-reacted, conscripting all their able-bodied animals into the Warrior Corps. Training had been intensive and Rumble scouts had been sent out regularly as far as Southfields and even to Wandsworth Common. Some had been settled in a continuous line along the railway line over which it was thought the Borrible force would be obliged to advance, for the Rumbles had expected a mass invasion. This impression had been conveyed to them by Timbucktoo, the Rumble that Knocker had treated so roughly in Battersea Park. He had led his compatriots to believe that a vast horde of Borribles was on the march and that all of Borrible London was in a state of war.

But the weeks had gone by and there had been no sign of the enemy. The Borrible threat receded in the mind of the ordinary Rumble. The scouts deserted their posts and returned to the life of comfort and ease to which, to tell the truth, they were well used. Patrols still went out to Southfields and such, but Rumbles dislike the streets as much as Borribles hate the countryside and so the patrols had become less frequent and more inefficient. Most Rumbles completely forgot the menace of the Great Rumble Hunt, others suggested that it had only been a vain threat made in anger, one that the Borribles could never sustain. "Anyway," thought the average Rumble, if he thought about it at all, "those Borribles are mean snivelling little dirty things, they could never make the long and perilous journey to Rumbledom, they don't possess the wherewithal, the knowledge, the brains. They couldn't mount such an expedition with their resources. They live in rotten little streets and barely scrape a living. They have enough to do to stay alive. No," they argued, "the vast domain of Rumbledom, on top of the great hill, on top of the world almost, is safe."

But the Rumble High Command did not see the problem in quite the same way. They had been threatened, and though the threat might only be an idea as yet, it was an idea of their overthrow and a great danger lurked in it. It was a concept that could lead only to disaster if nothing was done. Furthermore, they felt, they had a perfect right to go wherever they wished, beholden to no one, and that right must be defended.

So the High Command had made a plan, emanating from their chief and dictator, Vulgarian. They must strike before they were struck; destroy the Borribles of Battersea before their idea could take root and spread. A large Rumble force of crack regiments would be equipped for a night attack on Battersea High Street, to seek out and destroy any Borribles they found and obliterate the Borrible war-machine that Timbucktoo had assured them was being prepared.

Warriors had been put into special training and were ready to undertake the long journey. They had not the slightest intention of marching those many miles; they already had one motor-car and only awaited the delivery of others before setting out. They intended to strike with speed and in several places at once, causing as much panic and destruction amongst the Borrible population as possible.

In addition to such offensive measures, the Rumbles had seen to their own defences and reviewed the whole situation. There were only two entrances to the main bunker, and both were guarded day and night. Rumbles it was said never let go of anything, and they would hang on to Rumbledom for grim death. What had never occurred to them was that a tiny force of chosen Borribles would infiltrate their territory and attempt to assassinate the High Command and so leave the Rumbles leaderless and ineffective. Thus the Adventurers found that the element of surprise was with them; no one knew of their arrival. That was the good news; the bad news they had already known: they were hopelessly outnumbered and retreat, even if they succeeded in their task, would be impossible.