It was lying in a puddle, although that wouldn't affect it. Nothing touched the Thing. It wouldn't even burn.
And then he heard the sound of slow footsteps on the gravel.
'There's no time,' he whispered. 'There really is no time.' 'We can't go without it,' said Grimma. 'Of course we can. It's just a, a thing. We won't need the wretched object where we're going.' He felt guilty as soon as he'd said it, amazed at his own lips for uttering such words. Grimma looked horrified. Granny Morkie drew herself up to her full, quivering height.
'May you be forgiven!' she barked. 'What a terrible thing to say! You tell him, Torrit.' She nudged Torrit in the ribs.
'If we ain't taking the Thing, I ain't going,' said Torrit sulkily. 'It's not-' 'That's your leader talkin' to you,' interrupted Granny Morkie. 'So you do what you're told. Leave it behind, indeed! It wouldn't be decent. It wouldn't be right. So you go and get it, this minute.' Masklin stared wordlessly down at the soaking mud and then, with a desperate motion, threw the line over the edge and slid down it.
It was raining harder now, with a touch of sleet. The wind whipped at him as he dropped past the great arc of the wheel and landed heavily in the puddle. He reached out and scooped up the Thing- And the lorry started to move.
First there was a roar, so loud that it went beyond sound and became a solid wall of noise. Then there was a blast of stinking air and a vibration that shook the ground.
He pulled sharply on the line and yelled at them to pull him up, and realized that even he couldn't hear his own voice. But Grimma or someone must have got the idea because, just as the big wheel began to turn, the rope tightened and he felt his feet lifted off the mud.
He bounced and spun back and forth as, with painful slowness, they pulled him past the wheel. It turned only a few inches away from him, a black, chilly blur, and all the time the hammering sound battered at his head.
I'm not scared, he told himself. This is much worse than anything I've ever faced, and it's not frightening. It's too terrible to be frightening.
He felt as though he was in a tiny, warm cocoon, away from all the noise and the wind. I'm going to die, he thought, just because of this Thing which has never helped us at all, something that's just a lump of stuff, and now I'm going to die and go to the Heavens. I wonder if old Torrit is right about what happens when you die? It seems a bit severe to have to die to find out. I've looked at the sky every night for years and I've never seen any nomes up there...
But it didn't really matter, it was all outside him, it wasn't real- Hands reached down and caught him under the arms and dragged him into the booming space under the tarpaulin and, with some difficulty, prised the Thing out of his grip.
Behind the speeding lorry fresh curtains of grey rain dragged across the empty fields.
And, across the whole country, there were no more nomes.
There had been plenty of them, in the days when it didn't seem to rain so much. Masklin could remember at least forty. But then the motorway had come; the stream was put in pipes underground, and the nearest hedges were grubbed up. Nomes had always lived in the corners of the world, and suddenly there weren't too many corners any more.
The numbers started going down. A lot of this was due to natural causes, and when you're four inches high natural causes can be anything with teeth and speed and hunger. Then Pyrrince, who was by way of being the most adventurous, led a desperate expedition across the carriageway one night, to investigate the woods on the other side. They never came back. Some said it was hawks, some said it was a lorry. Some even said they'd made it halfway and were marooned on the central reservation between endless swishing lines of cars.
Then the cafe had been built, a little further along the road. It had been a sort of improvement. It depended how you looked at it. If cold leftover chips and scraps of grey chicken were food, then there was suddenly enough for everyone.
And then it was spring, and Masklin looked around and found that there were just ten of them left, and eight of those were too old to get about much. Old Torrit was nearly ten.
It had been a dreadful summer. Grimma organized those who could still get about into midnight raids on the litter-bins, and Masklin tried to hunt.
Hunting by yourself was like dying a bit at a time. Most of the things you were hunting were also hunting you. And even if you were lucky and made a kill, how did you get it home? It had taken two days with the rat, including sitting out at night to fight off other creatures. Ten strong hunters could do anything - rob bees' nests, trap mice, catch moles, anything but one hunter by himself, with no one to watch his back in the long grass, was simply the next meal for everything with talons and claws.
To get enough to eat, you needed lots of healthy hunters. But to get lots of healthy hunters, you needed enough to eat.
'It'll be all right in the autumn,' said Grimma, bandaging his arm where a stoat had caught it. 'There'll be mushrooms and berries and nuts and everything.' Well, there hadn't been any mushrooms and it rained so much that most of the berries rotted before they ripened. There were plenty of nuts, though. The nearest hazel tree was half a day's journey away. Masklin could carry a dozen nuts if he smashed them out of their shells and dragged them back in a paper bag from the bin. It took a whole day to do it, risking hawks all the way, and it was just enough food for a day as well.
And then the back of the burrow fell in, because of all the rain. It was almost pleasant to get out, then. It was better than listening to the grumbling about him not doing essential repairs. Oh, and there was the fire. You needed a fire at the burrow mouth, both for cooking and for keeping away night prowlers. Granny Morkie went to sleep one day and let it go out. Even she had the decency to be embarrassed.
When Masklin came back that night he looked at the heap of dead ashes for a long time and then stuck his spear in the ground and burst out laughing, and went on laughing until he started to cry. He couldn't face the rest of them. He had to go and sit outside where, presently, Grimma brought him a shellful of nettle tea. Cold nettle tea.
'They're all very upset about it,' she volunteered.
Masklin gave a hollow laugh. 'Oh, yes, I can tell,' he said, 'I've heard them "You ought to bring back another fag-end, boy, I'm right out of tobacco," and "We never have fish these days, you might find the time to go down to the river," and "Self, self, self, that's all you young people think about, in my day-" Grimma sighed. 'They do their best,' she said. 'It's just that they don't realize. There were hundreds of us when they were young.' 'It's going to take days to get that fire lit,' said Masklin. They had a spectacle lens; it needed a very sunny day to work.
He poked aimlessly in the mud by his feet.
'I've had enough,' he said quietly, 'I'm going to leave.! 'But we need you!' 'I need me, too. I mean, what kind of life is this?' 'But they'll die if you go away!' 'They'll die anyway,' said Masklin.
'That's a wicked thing to say!' 'Well, it's true. Everyone dies anyway. We'll die anyway. Look at you. You spend your whole time washing and tidying up and cooking and chasing after them. You're nearly three! It's about time you had a life of your own.' 'Granny Morkie was very kind to me when I was small,' said Grimma defensively. 'You'll be old one day.' 'You think? And who will be working their fingers to the bone to look after me?' Masklin found himself getting angrier and angrier. He was certain he was in the right. But it felt as if he was in the wrong, which made it worse.
He'd thought about this for a long time, and it had always left him feeling angry and awkward. All the clever ones and the bold ones and the brave ones had gone long ago, one way or the other. Good old Masklin, they'd said, stout chap, you look after the old folk and we'll be back before you know it, just as soon as we've found a better place. Every time good old Masklin thought about this he got indignant with them for going and with himself for staying. He always gave in, that was his trouble. He knew it. Whatever he promised him self at the start, he always took the way of least resistance.