The Wombles Go round the World (9 page)

‘Haaaaah,' he said.

‘Heeeeeh, um haaaaaah,' said Wellington in a rather high voice which changed key halfway through. He bowed solemnly and kicked Tomsk to do the same.

‘Ooooooh,' said Tomsk.

‘You are Womble?' asked the enormous snow-white creature.

‘We are Womble. Sorry. Yes, we are Wombles, you know. I say!'

‘No, I say. Welcome. We are honoured. We too are Wombles. Haaaaah.'

‘Haaaaah,' agreed Wellington, bowing and nodding.

‘Haaaaah. Coo-er,' agreed Tomsk.

‘Fine burrow,' said the enormous Womble. ‘Not as fine as ours. But fine.'

‘Ta,' said Tomsk, who felt that something was called for at this point.

‘You stay here with us in mountains?'

‘No fear. I mean, sorry, um, we have to travel on, you know. Only we're a bit stuck.'

‘Stuck?'

‘Er,' Wellington glanced desperately at Tomsk, who was staring up at his enormous cousins with his mouth open, ‘er, our balloon . . . balloon?'

Wellington pointed desperately to the limp balloon, which was lying on the very edge of the mountain, and drew a round shape in the air. The enormous Womble watched him gravely, and then, most surprisingly and very like Onkel Bonn, went ‘Ho, ho,
HO
' in a great rumbling voice which made some of the snow slide down the mountain.

‘Should be round, yes?' he roared. ‘So you go up into the sky. Um?'

‘
UM
. Yes,' agreed Wellington and, because he suddenly felt happy and not frightened and worried any more, he went ‘Ho, ho, ho.'

‘Ho, ho, ho,' echoed Tomsk.

‘Yes. Good. We will make it round,' said the enormous Womble. ‘But not until the sun comes up again. Until then, you come back to our burrow and have food and hot drink and talk to us. Yes?'

‘Yes. Rather,' said Wellington and Tomsk, and Wellington added, ‘I say, sorry, but I haven't introduced us. I'm Wellington, you know, and this is Tomsk and we're from the Womble burrow under Wimbledon Common in England. We're on our way to Australia, only we seem to have got a bit lost. In fact, we don't know where we are. Sorry. But what is this country?'

The four enormous snow-white Wombles looked at each other and then rumbled with laughter, and then the one who had done all the talking stepped forward and bowed and said, ‘Welcome to our country, Wimbledon Wombles of England. We are your very long-lost cousins. We are the Great White Wombles – of Tibet.'

‘Well, I never,' said Wellington. ‘I say, just
wait
until Great Uncle Bulgaria hears about this!'

.

* German nettle.

.

Chapter Eight

. . . And Found

As it soon became obvious that even Tomsk had not got a hope of keeping up with their enormous white cousins, there was a brief discussion which ended with the two Wimbledon Wombles being given piggybacks. They hung on tightly to the extremely thick and rather long white fur, and soon discovered that this was the ideal way to travel in the mountains. For one thing they were protected from the bitter winds and, for another, the Tibetan Wombles moved in a curious gliding manner. They took enormous running leaps, their great paws hardly seeming to touch the snow at all when they did land. Even the Great White Womble carrying the trolley didn't seem to be bothered by its size and weight, but just handled it as if it was a largish tidy-bag.

Tomsk was blissfully happy, for this was just the kind of adventure he liked; and he began to hum tunelessly in the back of his throat as they seemed to fly over the glittering snow. But Wellington, who is by nature very curious about everything, was puzzled about the behaviour of the fourth White Womble. He was in charge of the balloon but, instead of carrying it in his arms, he was leaping along and dragging it behind him. Wellington would very much have liked to ask why, but he didn't quite like to. At least not yet. So instead he tried to work out just how big these gigantic running strides were.

‘Crumbs, about forty feet,' Wellington whispered to himself. ‘It must be a world record. That'll be something to put in
Vol. Ten!
'

They glided into a deep, blue shadow and then, out of nowhere or so it seemed, they saw before them a dark, indigo shape which turned out to be an enormous front door. Although it appeared to be made of solid white rock and was extremely big, it opened like a drawbridge in the traditional Womble way.

‘Welcome to our humble burrow,' rumbled the Womble who was carrying Tomsk.

‘Thanks very much,' said Wellington politely.

He had never seen such a grand and enormous burrow before. Carved out of the side of the mountain, it had a great arched roof; and the entrance hall alone would have housed the entire Wimbledon burrow with room to spare. It was lit by enormous globes and hanging all round the walls were thick, silky-looking rugs, woven with glowing colours. There didn't seem to be much furniture and what there was, was made of simple, highly polished wood.

Standing to one side was a brass gong which was at least six feet across, and when one of the Wombles hit it, it went ‘
BOOOOOOOM
-
nnnnnnng
.'

‘Dear me,' said Wellington, who was running out of words.

‘That is to let Dalai Gartok know that we have arrived. He was expecting you and is looking forward to the meeting.'

‘Expecting
us
?' said Wellington. ‘But how did he know we were coming?'

‘Dalai Gartok knows everything . . .'

‘And the answer to it, just like Great Uncle Bulgaria,' said Tomsk, who already felt thoroughly at home. ‘Smashing burrow you've got here.'

‘Ta,' said the big White Womble, trying out this useful word for the first time. ‘This way.'

Dalai Gartok was sitting in a room which was about four times the size of Great Uncle Bulgaria's study but, nevertheless, it somehow looked very similar. There were dozens of bookshelves, a map of the world, a great desk made of stone and covered with more books and papers, and what appeared to be a speaking tube carved out of wood and a thick, silky carpet on the floor. Added to which, Dalai Gartok was sitting in a massive rocking chair.

It was difficult to make out how old he was as, naturally, like all the other Tibetan Wombles, his fur was snow-white. Nor did he wear spectacles, but on his head was a yellow skullcap, while a beautiful yellow shawl was draped round his shoulders.

He put down the quill pen he had been using, and beckoned to Wellington and Tomsk to come closer. They did so a little nervously, until they saw that his eyes were very kind, extremely wise and held a distinct twinkle.

‘So,' he said, ‘you will be Wellington and you Tomsk. Please sit down. I have been very much looking forward to making your acquaintance.'

‘Thank you. Us too. Sorry, I mean we're very pleased as well.'

‘Mm,' agreed Tomsk.

‘Good. You will join me in some yellow-flower tea and lichen cakes?' Dalai Gartok picked up the speaking tube and spoke into it softly.

‘Rather,' said Wellington and Tomsk together, as they suddenly realised that they were absolutely starving hungry.

Must be the mountain air, Wellington thought to himself and at the same moment he knew for certain that Dalai Gartok had seen what was in his mind. It made his fur go a bit prickly and Dalai Gartok said softly, ‘I apologise and will endeavour not to do that again. Let me answer your next question before you think of it. How did I know you were coming? It is very simple. I have been aware that you were approaching for some time. I have always lived in the mountains, and when you get to my age you have the fortunate gift of listening to what they and the wind have to say. In the times in which we now live it is a most useful gift, since we can anticipate when the next group of Human Beings will arrive. There are so many of them too!'

‘Human Beings,
here!
' said Wellington.

‘Yes, indeed. Ah, the tea and cakes, thank you, Cousin One.'

The large White Womble, who had piggy-backed Tomsk, came in with an enormous tray and put it down on the desk. Then he bowed deeply, winked at the young Wombles and walked out backwards.

Dalai Gartok poured out the tea, which was hot, very thick and had a somewhat strange taste, and then passed round the lichen cakes which also had a distinctive tang and looked like little pies. Tomsk had six and Wellington five.

‘The Human Beings come to climb the mountains,' went on Dalai Gartok. ‘They come from all over the world to do so, and in their clumsy way they do it quite well. But they bring so much equipment with them and they leave a great deal of it behind. It never ceases to astonish me how wasteful they are. Tents, oxygen masks, stoves, sleeping bags. And so on and so on.
Tsk, tsk, tsk
.'

‘
Tsk, tsk, tsk
,' Wellington and Tomsk agreed politely, if rather thickly, through the lichen pies.

‘When I was young,' said Dalai Gartok, rolling the tiny cup of yellow-flower tea between his large white paws, ‘there were hardly any Human Beings here at all. It was very peaceful. However, I depart from the point. I am so pleased that Cousins One, Two, Three and Four found you quite quickly. I was anxious about your safety, but it was a needless anxiety. I should have known that Young Bulgaria would have trained you well.'

‘Do you know Great Uncle Bulgaria?' asked Tomsk. ‘He never told us about you.'

‘I don't know him. I know
of
him. There was a certain Yellowstone Womble who passed through India quite recently, some eighty or ninety years ago. He met and talked with Quetta Womble and word came back to me. It always does. I trust you will give Young Bulgaria my regards and sincere best wishes.'

‘'Course,' said Tomsk.

‘Good. However,' and Dalai Gartok put down his cup and shut his eyes, ‘I would prefer it if there is only the smallest reference to us in
Vol.
– er – yes,
Ten
of
The Womble History of the World
which you Wimbledon Wombles are compiling. You see, we prefer to remain rather quiet.'

‘Yes, of course. We'll tell – um – Great Uncle Bulgaria as he is now. But, sorry, could I ask why?' said Wellington.

‘I should be very surprised if you didn't,' said Dalai Gartok, opening his eyes and helping himself to another cup of tea. ‘The reason is, Wellington, that recently (by which I mean during the last century or so) there has been far too much interest about us in the Human world. We are quiet, orderly and peaceful by nature, as are all Wombles; but, because we have chosen to live up in the mountains minding our own business, certain stories about us have been told. If we leave so much as one pawmark in the snow all kinds of Human Beings suddenly appear. They take photographs and they write a great deal of nonsense about us. They even try to track us down and take us prisoner. It's ridiculous, upsetting and undignified.'

‘It's the same on Wimbledon Common,' said Tomsk. ‘Never leave you alone, Human Beings. I say, could I have just one more pie? Ta.'

‘I'm sure Great Uncle Bulgaria would understand,' said Wellington, passing his cup across for some yellow-flower tea. It was really very tasty once you got used to it.

‘Good, good,' Dalai Gartok crossed his great white paws and bowed. His eyes twinkled more than ever as he went on, ‘Now you have had your – er – elevenses – and before you have a proper lunch, I am sure you would like to see round the rest of our humble burrow.'

‘That was only “elevenses”?' said Tomsk. ‘Cor, wouldn't Orinoco like it here!'

‘Orinoco,' said Dalai Gartok softly, ‘now let me see. He would be travelling with small Bungo, I think. Would you care to know what is happening to them?'

Wellington and Tomsk looked at each other and then at the Great White Womble, who once again shut his eyes, folded his arms and became very still.

‘It's better than the Womblex, eh?' said Tomsk in a whisper.

‘Shut up,' replied Wellington.

‘
Tsk, tsk, tsk
,' said Dalai Gartok, suddenly waking up. ‘The sun shines very brightly on them. Too brightly. Even Orinoco, who appears to be rather fat, has lost his appetite and is asking for iced clover-root juice. Small Bungo is eating a moss-cream sundae.'

‘Is anybody saying anything?' asked Wellington.

‘Yes, Yellowstone is speaking all the time.'

‘Sounds like him,' said Tomsk. ‘What about Wimbledon, please?'

The old Womble went quiet again and then actually chuckled.

‘Bulgaria is at his desk writing, Tobermory is in his Workshop and looking very worried and Madame Cholet, who I believe is supposed to be the best Womble cook in the whole world, is very busy in her kitchen. The burrow is full of activity and there are a great many very small Wombles hurrying in all directions. They are holding little packets. I am sorry, the picture fades . . .'

‘The Womblegarten,' said Wellington, ‘going off on tidying-up work, I expect. Well, that's all right then. Poor old Orinoco – not like him to lose his appetite.'

‘Can we see the rest of the burrow now, please?' asked Tomsk, licking his paws. He was a bit scared that if he didn't have some exercise he might not have much of an appetite for lunch.

‘Certainly.' Dalai Gartok hit a small gong and a second later Cousin One appeared in the doorway and led the Wimbledon Wombles off on a conducted tour. Tomsk enjoyed every minute of it because it was his ideal burrow: there were climbing rooms, a gymnasium and a training department where a group of young Great White Wombles were being taught to leap. Tomsk enrolled at once in the training scheme, while Wellington was captivated by the Workshop, in which all kinds of mountaineering equipment was being taken to pieces, examined and then put to various uses. Behind the Workshop was an even more fascinating section of the burrow, full of enormous wheels.

‘These wheels,' said Cousin One, ‘are so delicately made that, with one small paw-push at the start of their lives, they can keep going round almost for ever. It is from these wheels that we get the power for our light globes, heating, water and cooking.'

‘Oh, I do wish Tobermory could be here,' said Wellington, writing for all he was worth. ‘He'd be ever so interested. It's all quite different from Wimbledon, you know. Sorry, you were saying?'

So what with one thing and another it was hardly surprising that the time seemed to flash past, and it was with great regret that Tomsk and Wellington left the burrow of their Tibetan cousins the following day. They were warm, well-fed and they had slept for ten hours; and they were quite different from the two, scared, shivery Wombles of twenty-four hours ago.