尼姆的老鼠们 英文版｜第14章

The Marketplace

Mrs Frisby’s head was buried in her arms. ‘I never knew,’ she said. ‘All I knew was that he didn’t come back. But I never knew what happened. I didn’t even know he knew you. Why didn’t he ever tell me?’

Justin touched her shoulder gently. ‘It’s hard for you to learn it this way, so suddenly,’ he said. ‘We thought about telling you when it happened, but we decided we shouldn’t. It wouldn’t have done any good.’

‘You ask why Jonathan never told you about us,’ Nicodemus added. ‘He had a reason, a good one. Still he worried about it a lot, and he might have told you in the end. But then it was too late.’

‘What was the reason?’ Mrs Frisby raised her face. There were tears on her cheeks, but she had stopped crying.

‘To answer that I would have to tell you quite a long story — the whole story about us, and Nimh, and Jonathan, and how we came here. He came with us, you see. I don’t mind doing that but I don’t know if there is time now.’

‘I think there is,’ said Justin, ‘if Mr Ages and I go to get the powder while you’re telling it.’

‘With this leg,’ said Mr Ages glumly, ‘that will take long enough to tell it twice.’

‘I had forgotten,’ said Justin contritely. ‘Would it be better if I went alone?’

‘No,’ said Mr Ages. ‘There are so many different powders in my storeroom. You wouldn’t know which to bring back. I’ll go with you. But we’ll go slowly.’

‘And I,’ said Arthur, ‘will see about the equipment for tonight. We’ll need shovels, crowbars, block and tackle, rollers …’ He left, still listing tools.

Nicodemus said to Mrs Frisby, ‘I think that we, too, should leave the library. There will be others coming in, like Isabella, to practise reading, and some to do research.’

‘Research?’

‘We’ve got some new books on agriculture — farming, gardening, fertilizing, things like that — and we’re studying them. It’s part of the Plan.’

‘I don’t know what the Plan is.’

‘No,’ agreed Nicodemus, ‘but when I’ve told you our story, you’ll understand that, too.’

He opened the door and led Mrs Frisby down the corridor past several more doors, all closed. He stopped before one, which he opened.

‘My office,’ he said. ‘Please come in.’

The room she entered was smaller than the library, but much more comfortably — almost elegantly — furnished. There was a rug on the floor (the same pattern, she noticed, as the carpet in the hallway above), a light recessed in the ceiling and another in the wall next to a table. There were bookshelves; on one shelf an electric clock hummed quietly to itself. A book lay open on the table, with a chair in front of it; against the opposite wall stood a small sofa, neatly upholstered in cloth. But what attracted Mrs Frisby’s attention most was a box in one corner of the room, a box with dials and a small light shining on the front; from this box came the soft sound of music. She listened entranced.

‘You like music?’ said Nicodemus. ‘So do I.’

‘That must be a radio.’ Again, something vaguely remembered from what Jonathan had once told her. Music. She had heard it only two or three times in her life, when the Fitzgibbons had left a window open and someone was playing inside. And never up close. It was a lovely sound.

‘Yes,’ said Nicodemus. ‘We didn’t get it for music, of course, but to hear the news. Still, as long as it’s here — why not use it?’

He sat down, and so did Mrs Frisby.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I will tell you about Nimh. You’ll be interested, I think, because your husband was part of it. And when I’m finished, I think you will see why he felt he could not tell you himself.’

The story begins (Nicodemus continued) not at Nimh, but at a marketplace on the edge of a big city. It was called the Farmers’ Market, a great square of a place with a roof over part of it and no walls to speak of. There early every morning the farmers arrived from all over the surrounding countryside, with trucks full of tomatoes, corn, cabbages, potatoes, eggs, chickens, hams, food for the city. One part of it was reserved for the fishermen who brought crabs and oysters and bass and flounders. It was a fine place, noisy and full of smells.

We lived near this market — my father, my mother, my nine sisters and brothers and I — underground in a big pipe that had once been part of a storm sewer, but was no longer used. There were hundreds of other rats in the neighbourhood. It was a rough life, but not so hard as you might think, because of the market.

Every evening at five o’clock the farmers and the fishermen would close up their stalls, pack their trucks, and go home. At night, hours later, the cleaning men would arrive with brooms and hoses. But in between, the market was ours. The food the farmers left behind! Peas and beans that fell from the trucks, tomatoes and potatoes, pieces of meat and fish trimmed as waste — they lay on the pavements and in the gutters; they filled great bins that were supposed to be covered but seldom were. There was always ten times more than we could eat, and so there was never any need for fighting over it.

Fighting? Quite the contrary, the marketplace was a perfect place for playing, and so we did, the young rats at least, as soon as we had finished eating. There were empty boxes for hide-and-seek, there were walls to climb, tin cans to roll, and pieces of twine to tie and swing on. There was even, in the middle of the square, a fountain to swim in when the weather was hot. Then, at the first clang of the cleaning men in the distance, one of the older rats would sound a warning, and everyone would pick up as much food as he could carry home. All of us kept a reserve supply, because some days — Sundays and holidays — the market would be closed, and we were never quite sure when this would happen.

When I went to the market, it was usually with two companions, my elder brother Gerald and a friend of ours named Jenner. These were my two closest friends; we liked the same games, the same jokes, the same topics of conversation — even the same kinds of food. I particularly admired Jenner, who was extremely quick and intelligent.

One evening in early autumn Jenner and I set out for the marketplace. It must have been September, for the leaves were just turning yellow and some children were throwing a football in a vacant lot. Gerald had to stay at home that night; he had caught a cold, and since the air was chilly, my mother thought he should not go out. So Jenner and I went without him. I remember we promised to bring him back some of his favourite food, beef liver, if we could find any.

We took our usual route to the market, not along the streets but through the narrow alleys between the buildings, mostly commercial warehouses and garages, that bordered the square. As we walked, we were joined by more rats; at that time of day they converged on the marketplace from all directions. When we reached the square, I noticed that there was a white truck of an odd, square shape parked on the street bordering it, perhaps a hundred yards away. I say I noticed it — I did not pay any particular attention to it, for trucks were common enough in that part of town; but if I had, I would have noticed that printed on each side of it were four small letters: NIMH. I would not have known what they were, of course, for at that time neither I nor any of the other rats knew how to read.

It was growing dark when we reached the market, but through the dusk we could see that there was an unusually large supply of food — a great mound of it — near the centre of the square, away from the roofed-over portion. I suppose that should have served as a warning, but it didn’t. I remember Jenner’s saying, ‘They must have had a really busy day,’ and we ran joyfully towards the pile along with several dozen other rats.

Just as we reached the food it happened. All around us suddenly there was shouting. Bright, blinding searchlights flashed on, aimed at us and at the mound of food, so that when we tried to run away from it, we could not see where we were going. Between and behind the lights there were shadows moving swiftly, and as they came towards us I could see that they were men — men in white uniforms carrying nets, round nets with long handles.

‘Look out!’ cried Jenner. ‘They’re trying to catch us.’ He darted in one direction, I in another, and I lost sight of him.

We all ran — straight towards the men with the nets. There was no other way to run; they had us encircled. The nets flailed down, scooped, flailed again. I suppose some rats got through, slipping between the men and past the lights. I felt a swish — a net just missed me. I turned and ran back towards the mound, thinking I might hide myself in it. But then came another swish, and that time I felt the enveloping fibres fall over me. They entangled my legs, then my neck, I was lifted from the ground along with three other rats, and the net closed around us.