Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Serie: The Deptford Mice
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
A newly illustrated edition of the classic children's fantasy adventure set in a magical world of mice and rats in the sewers of Deptford __________ 'A humdinger of a tale [with] a poignant denouement that will satisfy the trilogy's fans' Booklist 'A superlative conclusion to a top-notch series' Kirkus 'The perfect stories for dark, cosy evenings. A once read, never forgotten series' Phil Hickes, author of The Haunting of Aveline Jones __________ As London shivers in the grip of an icy blizzard, the Deptford Mice huddle indoors, telling ghost stories to keep the bitter cold at bay. Little do they know that this is no ordinary winter. Their most fearsome enemy has returned from beyond the grave. He plans to use his evil sorcery to plunge the world into an eternal, freezing night, and at his command the bloodthirsty rats of the sewers are stirring once more. Alone and seemingly powerless in the face of this most terrible of foes, the mice are close to giving up hope. Can they draw on their last reserves of strength to defeat Jupiter one final time, or is it already too late?
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 437
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
1Praise for The Deptford Mice series
‘The perfect stories for dark, cosy evenings. A once-read-never-forgotten series’
Phil Hickes, author of The Haunting of Aveline Jones
‘A grand-scale epic… Filled with high drama, suspense, and some genuine terror’
Lloyd Alexander, author of The Chronicles of Prydain
‘Spooky and enthralling animal fantasy just right for Redwall fans… [Jarvis] provides counterpoint to the heart-racing adventure with scenes of haunting beauty’
Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
‘Robin Jarvis joins the ranks of Kenneth Grahame, Richard Adams and Walter Wangerin in the creation of wonderfully anthropomorphic animals’
Madeleine de L’Engle, author of A Wrinkle in Time
‘In The Dark Portal Robin Jarvis delights the reader with not just one, but three unforgettable animal societies… He offers a strikingly original, totally absorbing fantasy world’
Philip Glassman, founder of the Books of Wonder bookstore2
3
4
5
Thanks to Sue Hook for having faith in the Deptford Mice and to David Riley for his unflagging enthusiasm throughout
6
Contents
The Mice
arthur brown
Dependable, brave and loyal, but is irritated by his sister’s stubbornness.
gwen brown
The widowed mother of Arthur and Audrey. She has grown fond of Thomas Triton.
arabel chitter
A nosey fusspot who gets on the nerves of everyone in the Skirtings and is very overprotective of Oswald, her son. 10
oswald chitter
Arabel’s son is an albino runt. Recently cured of a terrible illness by the powerof the Starwife, he is made to wrap up warmly at all times.
kempe
A travelling pedlar who enjoys lewd songs. He helped Audrey and Arthur when they journeyed to Fennywolde.
marty
Ayoungforagingcadetofthecity.HewantstobeasbraveashisheroPiccadilly.
piccadilly
A cheeky city mouse who returned to Holeborn after being rejected by Audrey.11
audrey scuttle
Now the wife of Twit the fieldmouse. She still thinks of Piccadilly and regrets her harsh treatment of him.
thomas triton
A retired midshipmouse who lives on the Cutty Sark. He is always ready to confront his enemies, sword in paw.
The Other Characters
barker
A doddery old rat whom Piccadilly befriends, but there is more to Barker than meets the eye.
the bat elders
These are four wise old bats: Ashmere, wisest of councillors; Ingeld, Consort of the Lady; Heardred, Keeper of the Hidden Ways; and Ohthere, Lord of Twilight.
13the green mouse
The mystical spirit of springand new life whose powerwanes in the autumn and dieswhen winter sets in.
jupiter
The evil spirit of the hideous sewer cat has returned. Hehas cheated death and nowwants revenge.
kelly
A large rat with sharp fangs, heonly opens his mouth when thereis something to put in it.
old stumpy
Anewcomertotheundergroundregionsofthecity.Nooneknowswherehehascomefrom,butheisstirringtheharmlessratstowar.
14orfeo & eldritch
Bat brothers who can see into thefuture. They dwell in the attic and give confusing advice to thecurious.
smiff
Asnotty-nosedfollowerofOldStumpyandanastybully.OnlyheandhismateKellyknowwhereOldStumpyhascomefrom.
the starwife
An ancient squirrel who lives under the Greenwich Observatory. She possesses the magical Starglass.
15
TheStorySoFar
TheFinalReckoningis the third book in the story of the Deptford Mice. The first book, TheDarkPortal, tells how Audrey and Arthur Brown venture into the sewers looking for Audrey’s mousebrass, a magical charm given to her by the mystical Green Mouse. In the dark tunnels they meet Madame Akkikuyu, a fortune-telling rat, and are later pursued by a terrifying rat army commanded by Morgan, the lieutenant of the mighty, yet unseen Jupiter. With the aid of their friends Oswald, Twit, Piccadilly and Thomas Triton, Audrey and Arthur are able to foil Jupiter’s evil plans to swamp London with the Black Death. The rat god emerges from his lair and to everyone’s horror is revealed as a monstrous cat. Audrey flings her mousebrass into his face and it explodes, sending him plunging to his death in the deep sewer.
In TheCrystalPrison, the Starwife, an ancient and wise squirrel, forces Audrey to take the now pitiful and confused Madame Akkikuyu to the country. With her brother and Twit, they journey to Fennywolde – the fieldmouse’s home. But soon several young fieldmice 18are found murdered, and Madame Akkikuyu is tormented by a voice which only she can hear. The country folk at first blame Audrey, and she is about to be hanged as a witch when Twit saves the girl mouse by marrying her. Horrified, Madame Akkikuyu learns that the voice belongs to the unquiet spirit of Jupiter, and she is made to perform a ceremony which will free him from the other side. In a bid to prevent his return, she throws herself onto a fire which engulfs the whole of Fennywolde, but the mice escape to safety. Audrey and Arthur return to Deptford, unaware that the vengeful spirit of Jupiter is free and more powerful than ever.
The Pedlar
The hedgerows were spotted with berries red as blood, and black, ragged-winged crows flapped over the empty fields, croaking in ugly voices.
Autumn’s full glory was nearly spent: the bright copper of the beeches was now a dull brown and the number of muddy pools grew daily.
A breeze stirred some of the dry leaves. For a moment they danced on the air like living things. A 20hedgehog poked his snout out from under one of the russet mounds and sniffed the air cautiously. His small, bead-like eyes peered at the world and blinked wearily. The wet nose snuffled around inquisitively: something was approaching. The air was different, and now the breeze brought a strange jangling sound. The hedgehog shuffled backwards uncertainly but kept his eyes fixed on the bank path. The noise grew nearer and with it came a voice raised in song.
‘Whenleavesdofallandthesungoesshy,
Ireachformybowlandthehoursrollby.
For the juice of the berry do make me so merry!
With my legs in the air, my head ’neath a chair,
I’ll burp till the spring comes round again.’
The hedgehog stayed to hear the chorus, which was made up of various tuneful belches, before turning away in feigned disgust. These traders really were a disgrace! He waddled off to find some slugs to eat.
Kempe sauntered happily along. He was in high spirits. It had been a good week for business and his packs bulged as never before. He was looking forward to the Traders’ Fair in a fortnight’s time. All the travelling mice would be there to exchange news, sell their wares, look for bargains and meet old friends and rivals. It was the only time in the year when everyone could meet up and see how the others were doing. Kempe loved it and there was a jaunty bounce in his step and an excited twitch in his tail to prove it.21
He ran through in his mind all the things he would have to do. Of course, he would have to stock up on certain goods; it was nearly his busiest period – Yule was fast approaching. Kempe chuckled to himself and made a mental note to purchase larger packs to hold his wares.
He thought of the feasting that took place during the midwinter festival and wondered where he ought to spend it himself. He had received numerous invitations and always nodded to those kind mice who had offered, but privately he knew all along where he would be at Yule: at Milly Poopwick’s place. She was a hearty, round mouse. Widowed three times, she was now on the lookout for husband number four, and there was always a grand welcome for Kempe in her snug little home. He grinned to himself as he thought of her. Life with Milly would not be so bad; things were never dull while she was around. The traveller pulled himself up sharply and tutted. The idea of settling down had never occurred to him before, and a startled expression crossed his face. He was a traveller through and through and hated staying in one place for too long.
‘Reckon you’re gettin’ old, Kempe me boy,’ he told himself. ‘Try a day or two at me darlin’ Milly’s and see how it goes; after that there’s other deals to be struck. Once Yule’s over, folk’s thoughts’ll turn to spring and the makin’ of mousebrasses.’
He sighed contentedly. It looked as though he would be kept very busy indeed and the lovely Mrs Poopwick would just have to wait if she wanted to catch him. 22Kempe kicked away the leaves that had drifted over the path and chortled to himself.
The pale sun hung low in the colourless autumn sky and sparkled over the surface of the rippling river. Kempe looked at the lengthening shadows of the trees and decided it was time to bed down for the night. He knew the perfect place was not far off.
It was an old stone wall, close to the riverbank. It was very thick and parts of it were hollow, forming wonderful shelters inside. Kempe swaggered up to the wall and found the opening he usually used. It was near the ground and partially hidden by moss. The traveller cleared the moss away from the entrance and tried to enter.
A look of surprise registered on his furry face as his pack became thoroughly wedged in the gap; he had forgotten it was fuller than normal. With a groan and a curse, he tried to heave it in.
‘Drat and blast! Bother and beggar, and a pedlar’s curse on overstuffed baggages!’ he ranted and puffed as he strained at the straps.
All his pots, buckles, pans, spoons and beads clattered and rattled. The opening was just too narrow for the fat, bulging pack. And, as he was strapped to it, he could not turn around or do anything useful to relieve the situation. He squirmed and struggled and swore even louder.
‘Plague and pox and pussy pimples!’ he blustered. The pack was wedged firmly and refused to budge. The traveller went crimson to the ears and looked 23ready to burst. ‘’Tis a cruel joke to play on an honest trader!’ With one final effort, he pulled and heaved, dust fell from the stones all around and the inevitable happened. There was an ominous rip and the pack split open.
‘Batter me baubles!’ wailed Kempe as he fell headlong into the hollow wall. His wares flew everywhere, jangling raucously as he crashed to the ground. The contents of his pack spilt out, half burying the alarmed mouse.
Kempe groaned and raised his head. A pink ribbon hung over one eye and he blew it away in annoyance. 24When he saw the mess, he gave a weary sigh. There was more clanking as he fumbled with the straps and buckles that bound him to the forlorn-looking pack, which hung empty from his shoulders.
‘To be sure, Kempe, laddy,’ he muttered to himself sadly. ‘There’s a tidy bit of work for you to do here before you sleep tonight.’ He began to gather up all the ribbons, silks, beads, trinkets and tassels that lay scattered in the dust.
Inside the wall it was dry and safe from the wind, but it was also dark. Kempe delved into a smaller bag and fished out a candle stub. He lit it and gazed about for any treasure he might have missed. There, in the corner, something glinted and threw back the flickering light.
‘Hello,’ Kempe said thoughtfully. ‘And what may you be then?’ He stooped and picked up the object with nimble fingers. It was a small, delicate silver bell, which tinkled sweetly as it rolled around his palm. He held the candle closer and examined the trinket with interest, talking to it as though it were a lost child.
‘Not one of my little darlings,’ he addressed the tiny thing. Kempe narrowed his shrewd, gleaming eyes. ‘But I get the feeling as how we’ve met before, little one.’ He shook the bell and listened to it in satisfaction. There was no doubt, it had once 25belonged to the young mouse maid from Deptford, whom he had met back in the summer. It was one of two bells she had worn on her tail. Kempe wondered about that mouse and her friends. They had been going to a strict, puritanical place called Fennywolde. She at least must have returned to Deptford and mislaid the bell on the homeward journey, because she hadn’t lost it when he brought them here, on the way to that austere land.
‘I shall be passing by Deptford soon,’ Kempe told the bell. ‘That Master Oldnose will want stocking up on stuff, I expect. I’ll drop you off with your mistress. Stick with Kempe – he’ll see you safe home.’
The traveller shivered. It had grown very cold all of a sudden. A deadly silence descended on the world outside. He could no longer hear the crows cawing, nor the wind high in the trees.
‘Storm must be comin’,’ he said and stepped through the opening once more to take a look at the weather. Everything seemed normal enough. There were no heavy clouds in the sky, yet there was a strange, charged feeling in the air, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. It was very unusual, unsettling even. He thought he’d better take a little wander, down to the river’s edge, to see if there was anything there that might explain it. As he strolled, Kempe hummed a tune to himself.
‘Don’t pick your nose, laddy, or wipe it on your paw. I’m not being faddy, ’twill make your nostrils raw.’
26It was terribly cold out here, and an icy blast blew down the river. Kempe shrugged at the unpredictability of the weather and made to return to the relative comfort of the wall, where he could warm his paws over the candle and tuck into a slice of pie, gifted to him by his last satisfied customer. She was a jolly widow too. He grinned and performed a jaunty jig. There were lots of widows and single ladies up and down the country, always delighted to see him when he passed through. No, he wasn’t ready to retire and abandon his life on the road. Far from it!
His happy dance caused the silver bell to jingle in his fist.
As if that were a signal, the storm broke.
A vicious, icy wind bore down on him and an unearthly thick fog rose up out of the river. Before Kempe had reached the wall, the mist had flowed up the bank and surged around him. The traveller was uneasy – this was no ordinary fog. The fur on the back of his neck tingled as an awful sense of horror and fear overwhelmed him.
The engulfing fog was impenetrable. It bit into his flesh with cold, clammy, pinching fingers. He stamped his feet anxiously as he groped for the safety of the wall opening, but it was no use.
A resonant, rumbling purr began; menacingly soft at first, slowly growing deeper and more fearsome. Kempe’s legs trembled and he could feel his heart beating wildly. There was a monster hiding in that mist – some mind-numbing terror from the deep cold regions 27had come to claim him. Kempe waved his arms about in despair. The unseen nightmare’s freezing breath blasted him. In his paw, the little bell tinkled – an incongruously delicate and beautiful sound.
There came a savage roar and Kempe shrieked as the bell was torn from his fist by an invisible power. Spluttering in fright, he saw it float up, into the fog, where an immense, dark shadow was gathering.
‘No!’ screamed the traveller, stumbling backwards. ‘Leave me, please… I have done no harm… I…’
From the huge shape came a sneering, mocking laugh. It ended in a cruel snarl and Kempe gasped when he realized the form it was taking.
Then, high in the smothering fog, a bitter blue light glinted and a great spear of ice hurtled downwards. That was the last thing Kempe ever saw. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, then fell to his knees and collapsed, lifeless. The terrible ice spear had pierced his heart, and the blood which trickled out froze quickly on the ground. The shadow in the fog purred to itself and somewhere, in that blanketing greyness, the sound of a small, sweet bell tinkled softly.28
1
Yule
The old empty house in Deptford looked blankly out at the wet, wintry world. The neglected building was the home of many mice, but only at special times of the year would they all come together to celebrate the various mouse festivals. There was the great Spring Ceremony where mousebrasses were given out to those youngsters who had come of age, there was Midsummer’s Eve – a particularly magical time – and finally there was the Festival of Yule.
Yule occurs in the midst of winter, when cold storms batter and rage outside. It is a time of hardship for 30most creatures and all the more frightening because food is scarce. This is the time when the midwinter death kills the old and the very young. For many long years mice have gathered together during Yule and lit fires to keep the ravening spirits of cold and ice away.
They feel themselves to be particularly vulnerable during this season because the Green Mouse, their protector and symbol of life, is dead. Every autumn, when the harvest has been taken in and the last fruit falls from the trees, the great Green Mouse dwindles and dies. Throughout the long, dark winter months his spirit is neither felt nor seen as Death binds him close, and only when the first sign of spring appears is he reborn once more. It is through this bleak, dangerous time that mice have to survive, and those who dwell out of doors dread it.
In the Skirtings, however, Yule was much looked forward to. The mice had a plentiful supply of food from the larder of the blind old lady who lived next door, and so the threat of winter was never felt as harshly by them. They would light fires to roast their store of chestnuts and mull their berrybrews. For them all the seriousness and the danger of the season had been forgotten and Yule had become a time of feasting and the telling of ghost stories.
This year the hall had been decked out with sprigs of evergreen and bright streamers which some of the children had made. They took a long time preparing the food, and many an impatient husband received a 31sharp smack from an annoyed wife as he tasted the mixtures when he thought she wasn’t looking. Those children not involved in making streamers lingered close by, sniffing the different smells which wafted through the house. There was Mrs Coltfoot’s tangerine jelly and Mrs Chitter’s spiced fruit buns, Miss Poot’s almond tart and Mr Cockle’s own berrybrew. All these wonderful fragrances to savour! The children smacked their lips and longed for the days before the celebrations to pass quickly.
A large roof slate, specially kept for the occasion, had been hauled out of the cupboard where the Chambers of Spring and Summer had also been stored. This they placed in the centre of the hall and, on the first night of Yule, built a fire on it. All the mice from both the Skirtings and the Landings were gathered around the crackling flames, warming their paws and listening to tales. Some were cleaning their whiskers wondering if they ought to make another attack on the scrumptious feast, while others were dozing contentedly, musing on things past and long ago. Most of them, however, wanted to hear ghost stories, which were customary at that time of year, and the younger ones turned to the stout, retired midshipmouse Thomas Triton to entertain them.
‘Take the hat, Mr Triton please!’ they begged. ‘Tell us a scary moment from your days at sea. Give him the hat, someone.’
The hat in question was an old, battered thing of burgundy velvet, stitched around with gold thread 32and beads of red glass. It had somehow become the traditional hat of the storyteller in the house and only the wearer could command everyone’s attention. Thomas Triton stepped reluctantly into the circle of golden firelight and placed the hat on his head. Kneeling, and clearing his throat, he began his tale. All eyes turned to him, and they were reminded of the fact that outside all was dark by the story he told them.
‘’Twere a bilge-freezing night such as this,’ he said in a deep resonant whisper, ‘not long before I went off to sea. I was dry docked in an old farmhouse. There weren’t no moon, and it was cold as an iceberg’s breath. I was much younger then – and rash – an’ all evenin’ I’d been listenin’ to yarns like you are now. I was fair put out that I had no tail-tingling tale of me own to tell, so I persuaded the best friend I ever had to come with me an’ visit the haunted barn.’
An appreciative murmur ran through his hushed audience.
‘Well, the loft of that there barn had a sinister reputation among us mice – nobody never went there if they could help it. ’Twas said that the frightful ghost of a murdered mouse haunted the place, and we were all mighty sceered of it.’ Thomas paused and gazed solemnly round at the young faces gaping up at him, their whiskers gleaming in the firelight.
‘So,’ he resumed, ‘me an’ my friend, we leaves the safety of the farmhouse an’ makes our way to the barn. Our hearts were hammerin’ hard an’ we held fast to 33each other’s paws. We was both shiverin’ with the fear of it but on we went. Now, as I said before, ’twere a dark night, but that barn reared up in front of us inkier than the night itself. One of the bravest things we did was walk across that lonely yard to that big, ominous shape. Anyway, when we gets there, I goes in first. That barn hadn’t been used in years an’ it smelt all damp and musty. I wondered if rats lived there but my friend had a sniff round and said there weren’t none. Ah, he could scent an east wind squalling over the horizon, he could – a genius nose he had! Well, we look up to the hay loft, where we mean to go. All is quiet an’ the only thing we can hear is ourselves breathing and the wind whistlin’ through the eaves. I makes my way to the rickety ladder and begins to climb.
‘“Don’t go, Tom!” hisses my friend suddenly. “Let’s go back!”
‘“Scupper that craven notion,” I answered. “Come on, Woodget lad! Don’t stand there frettin’! Ain’t no such thing as ghosties.”
‘I climbed up to the loft and looked about me. The bitter wind that found its way in ’neath the slates was rustlin’ the old rotten heaps of hay up there. It was pitchy dark an’ I was glad when Woodget put his paw in mine. “Come on,” I said, “let’s scout round a bit.”
‘Through those piles of smelly old straw we went, a-fearin’ what was lurkin’ round the next corner or what might rush out at us. But, apart from the rustlin’, all you could hear were two mice breathin’ – him an’ me. We walked all round that loft an’ not one ghost 34did we see. I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed, so we returned to the loft entrance an’ I let go of Woodget’s paw to climb back down the ladder.
‘“What a waste of time,” I said, exasperated. “I told you there were no such thing as ghosties, Woodget!”’
Here Thomas stopped his tale and his eyes bulged as he raised his eyebrows. ‘Then,’ he continued in a wavering voice, ‘before I could clamber down the topmost rung, to my horror I hear my little friend a-callin’ up to me from the barn floor, “You comin’ down now, Tom?” he shouted. “I’m gettin’ scared down here on my own.” My fur stood on end and for a moment I was frozen to the spot. I dare not look to right nor left and the silence – you could have cut it with a knife. I don’t know how long I was transfixed with fright, maybe only a second, but it felt like a lifetime. Then Woodget called up to me again to get a move on, breaking the ghostly spell.’
The audience gasped and cooed. ‘But whose paw were you holding, Mr Triton?’ piped up one of the youngsters.
‘That I don’t know, lad,’ Thomas replied, ‘an’ I didn’t stay to find out. Woodget an’ me were out of that barn faster than anything.’
A shiver of excitement rippled through the assembled mice. They liked Thomas’s stories – he had been to so many places and they loved to hear of his adventures.
‘Tell us another,’ they pleaded.
The midshipmouse laughed but shook his head. ‘No,’ he refused gently, ‘I’ve worn the hat too long, and you 35know your rules. One yarn per wear – let someone else have a turn.’ He removed the faded velvet hat from his head and passed it on to Master Oldnose, who had been waiting close by for some time. He used to be the main storyteller and he spent many evenings making up new tales especially for the Yule Festival. He did not like Thomas’s popularity, and he took the hat from him stiffly. Several young mice groaned rudely and wandered away from the fire as Master Oldnose began ‘The Story of Bohart and the Friendly Moon Spirits’.
Thomas stretched himself and left the circle, winking at his admirers. A young albino mouse came running up to him excitedly.
‘Oh, Mr Triton,’ he said, twisting the ends of a green scarf together in his paws with enthusiasm, ‘that was smashing! How on earth did you manage to sleep after that?’
‘None too well, young Oswald,’ the midshipmouse replied with an amused twinkle.
The albino blinked his bright pink eyes and nodded. ‘It was the best ghost story we’ve had here for years, and it was true as well – it actually happened to you – gosh!’
‘That’s right, lad, but don’t you start goin’ off again on dangerous journeys like the last one. You know how terrible they can be and what they can lead to.’
Oswald nodded. Earlier in the year he had ventured down into the sewers. He returned suffering from such a dreadful cold that nobody thought he would survive. Now he hugged himself and sucked his teeth. 36‘What happened to your friend Woodget, Mr Triton?’ he asked. ‘Did he go to sea with you, or did he stay at the farmhouse?’
The change in Thomas’s mood was startling. He flinched from the memory and shuddered. ‘By Neptune, I wish he had stayed there,’ he said thickly before excusing himself and walking briskly away.
‘Oh dear,’ stammered Oswald, staring after the midshipmouse. ‘I do hope I didn’t say anything wrong.’
A plump mouse stole silently up behind the albino with a huge grin on his face. ‘BOO!’ he yelled suddenly.
Poor Oswald jumped in the air and wailed. When he saw who it was, he said crossly, ‘Oh, Arthur, you frightened the life out of me – especially after all those ghost stories.’
Arthur began nibbling a chestnut which he had been carrying and beamed wickedly. ‘Yeth,’ he mumbled with his mouth full, ‘old Triton’s tales are good, aren’t they? He comes to visit us quite often and we nearly always get a story from him.’
‘You are lucky,’ sighed Oswald enviously. ‘You get to go to cousin Twit’s home and have adventures there. And to top it all, Mr Triton comes and visits you.’
Arthur licked his lips thoughtfully. He did not like to say that in his opinion the midshipmouse’s visits were not just for him and his sister. He had come to the conclusion that it was really their mother whom Thomas came to see.
Arthur and his sister Audrey had been back in the Skirtings for two months now, after their adventures in 37the country. On their return home Arthur and Audrey found that Thomas had been looking after their mother while they had been away and had taken to calling her ‘Gwen’ – an unsettling thing for them to hear. She had been obviously embarrassed when he said it in front of the children. Gwen Brown still addressed the midshipmouse as ‘Mr Triton’, but she said it with a growing warmth that Arthur and Audrey had not heard since their father had died.
‘Where is Audrey?’ Oswald was staring at everyone gathered around the fire and looking beyond at the groups of husbands sipping the mulled berrybrew. Their jolly wives were fussing and gossiping in a corner and his own mother, Mrs Chitter, was there leading the tittle-tattle, but there was no sign of Audrey.
Arthur shrugged. ‘In her room, I suppose. She said she’d come but you know what she’s like. Since we’ve been back, she’s got worse – won’t join in anything and hardly eats. Mother worries about her.’
‘Do you think she misses Twit?’ ventured Oswald.
Arthur shook his head. ‘No, I told you it wasn’t like that. Twit only married Audrey to save her from getting hanged – there was nothing else in it.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Oswald. ‘You know, I still haven’t got used to calling her Mrs Scuttle – it doesn’t fit somehow.’
Arthur agreed and turned to watch the group round the fire. Master Oldnose had finished his tale – much to the relief of everybody except the Raddle sisters, who clapped very loudly and praised him no end. The hat 38was held up for the next mouse ready to tell a story and up stepped Algy Coltfoot.
‘This should be good,’ said Arthur, ‘Algy’s stories are always funny.’ The two friends wandered over and sat down in the dancing firelight.
Alone in her room Audrey fiddled with the ribbon in her paws. She had not yet tied it in her hair and was staring down at it in silence. After the terrors of Fennywolde she had found life in the Skirtings very dull, and the nosiness of several mice had irritated her no end. They all wanted to know just why Twit married her. Mrs Chitter had even inquired if she ought to start knitting little bonnets and booties. Audrey had made it very clear then that nothing of that kind would be necessary – indeed she had put quite a few noses out of joint and at the moment she was not the most popular person in the house.
The sound of a whisker fiddle filtered into the room and gradually brought Audrey round. She decided it was time to join the festivities, so tied the ribbon in her hair, slipped her last remaining bell onto her tail then jumped off the bed.
In the hall the fire was still crackling merrily, and Audrey emerged to find a crowd of mice still laughing over Algy’s story. The hat had been passed on to Arthur and Algy had wandered into a corner to practise on his 39fiddle with Mr Cockle accompanying him on the bark drum. On the far side of the hall, she saw her mother talking to Thomas Triton. Audrey made her way over, passing chattering mice whose gossip suddenly ceased as she drew close enough to hear them. Some of them nudged their friends and whispered to each other once she had gone by, then the chatter began again.
‘There you are, Audrey,’ smiled Gwen Brown. ‘Have you had anything to eat yet?’ The girl shook her head and moved close to her mother’s side. Gwen put her arms around her daughter. ‘Audrey love, you haven’t eaten properly since you came back from Fennywolde – do have something. There’s a big bowl of lovely soup over there.’
Audrey took a biscuit and nibbled it as she watched everyone enjoying themselves. Her mind went back to earlier in the year when Oswald was healed by the magic of the Starwife. There had been celebrations then too. At that time the young grey mouse from the city – Piccadilly – had been staying with the Browns; Audrey missed him.
Algy and Mr Cockle struck up a dancing jig, and, as nobody had claimed the hat after Arthur, there were many eager to join in. The mice formed a great ring and began to dance around the fire. Thomas dragged Gwen and Audrey into the dance and soon everyone was out of breath. Nearby, the Raddle sisters watched and tittered behind fluttering paws – it was too cold for them to sit in their usual place on the stairs. Arthur did not like dancing, and it looked too boisterous for 40Oswald, so both of them stood to one side, forming some plan.
‘But, Arthur,’ protested Oswald, ‘Mother’s sure to hear if I get up in the middle of the night.’
‘Not if you’re careful,’ Arthur said. ‘But if you’re too scared…’
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ Oswald put in hastily. ‘It’s just that I don’t see why we have to go there! Why don’t we just take some of the food here?’
‘Because that would be too easy. Look, Oswald, do you want a secret feast tonight or don’t you?’
The albino fidgeted with his scarf then nodded. ‘So long as you don’t jump out at me again or make scary noises.’
‘Promise, just meet me in the great kitchen when everyone’s asleep.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Oswald meekly.
Audrey abandoned the dancing. It was surprising how nimble Thomas Triton was. His white, wispy hair glowed like fine gold before the fire and those same flames picked out the vibrant chestnut glint in the hair of her mother. Audrey was astonished to find herself admiring them as a couple. She wondered if her mother would marry the midshipmouse: both were lonely, and Audrey felt that her late father would approve.
The night continued, the fire burned lower, and some young rascals decided to put whole chestnuts into the heart of the flames. After some minutes there was a series of loud cracks and explosions as the chestnuts 41flew apart. Mice ran squeaking in all directions amid the confusion, but when they discovered what had happened the culprits were packed off to bed with smarting bottoms.
The music gradually slowed, and the fire became a mound of glowing embers. Mr Cockle swayed unsteadily on his feet and his wife looked sternly at the empty bowl of berrybrew at his side.
‘Get you home, you silly old mouse,’ she hissed at him. ‘Every time you do it, don’t you? Oh, the shame of it.’
‘Ah, but you’re beautiful, darlin’,’ he slurred while puckering his lips. Biddy Cockle shooed her husband out of the hall and the other mice decided to go to bed as well.
‘I’ll be off to my ship,’ said Thomas as he took leave of Gwen. He pulled on his blue, woollen hat and went down into the cellar, where he passed through the Grille and took the short cut to Greenwich via the sewers. Gwen smiled and went into the Skirtings. She popped her head into Audrey’s room, but her daughter was already sleeping soundly. Arthur was busy making up his bed in their small kitchen. He used to share the room with Audrey but now she was married it did not seem right somehow.
‘Goodnight, Arthur,’ Gwen said affectionately.
‘Goodnight, Mum,’ he replied, pulling the blankets up under his chin.
She snuffed out the kitchen candle and went to her own room.42
Arthur stayed awake for an hour until he was certain his mother had fallen asleep, then he got out of bed and tiptoed out of the Skirtings. The hall was lit with the ruddy light of the fire’s dying embers, and eerie shadows flitted over the walls. Arthur swallowed nervously. Ghost stories were all very well if you went straight to bed afterwards. There you could pull the bedclothes over your head if the dark frightened you, but to embark on a midnight quest for food was – well, alarming, especially as his imagination was beginning to make sinister shapes in those shadows. Grim demons seemed to be hiding in the darkness ready to pounce on him with sharp fangs. Arthur took a deep breath and ventured down the gloomy hall.
In the kitchen it was very dark. Arthur jumped down the single step and felt the smooth lino beneath his feet. A chill draught ruffled his fur. It came from the passage which led to the outside – it had been unblocked that morning to bring in the evergreen sprigs that decorated the hall. Obviously, someone had forgotten to seal it up again. The draught made him shiver and he began to wonder if a secret feast was really worth all this.
‘Psst! Arthur!’ A tall shadowy form beckoned to him from the deep darkness ahead. Oswald had been there for ten minutes, and he did not like it one bit. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘All right, I’m here now, aren’t I?’ Arthur replied. ‘You ready then?’
Oswald nodded quickly. ‘Let’s hurry, I’m freezing.’
Arthur felt his way to the far wall, jumped onto an 43old wooden box and scrambled up a pipe. ‘You should have put on those things your mum made for you,’ he called down to the albino.
‘I have,’ said Oswald awkwardly. Recently Mrs Chitter had knitted her son a woollen hat and a pair of mittens to match his scarf but up till now he had been too embarrassed to wear them. ‘I don’t want to catch another cold,’ he wheezed as he laboured clumsily onto the box and heaved himself up the pipe.
Arthur put a finger to his lips. ‘Ssshh – whispers only from now on,’ he warned. ‘Come on.’
Through crumbling plaster and dry, flaking timber they picked their way, then hopped along the wall cavity.
‘Here it is,’ Arthur said, coming to a break in the brickwork. The two mice squeezed through and emerged in a large, echoing space.
‘This is the larder,’ Arthur whispered, greatly pleased with himself. He rubbed his tummy expectantly. ‘This is the vegetable shelf; we don’t want to bother with anything here. There’s another one above with all sorts of gorgeous things on. We can climb onto it just over here.’ Arthur moved over to the wall where a vertical row of half-hammered-in nails acted as a ladder.
Oswald looked puzzled and put a mittened paw to his mouth. ‘But, Arthur,’ he began slowly, ‘there are no vegetables on this shelf, there’s nothing here at all.’
A loud disappointed groan came down from above. ‘Oh, Oswald,’ moaned Arthur glumly, ‘this shelf’s empty too, not a crumb or a blob of cream, not anything.’ 44
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Oswald, ‘no secret feast for us then.’
‘But it’s far more serious than that,’ said Arthur fearfully. ‘Don’t you see? The larder has never ever been empty! There was always something here for us. Blast and burned biscuits! What are we all going to do? We rely on this place for our food! We must go back and tell the others. We shall have to save what’s left of the Yule feast and live off that till we find more.’45
Oswald began to sniffle. He sobbed all the way back through the wall cavity, and, when they were in the kitchen once more, he could contain himself no longer and burst into tears. ‘We’ll all starve,’ he wept.
‘Quiet!’ hushed Arthur. ‘Listen, there’s a commotion in the hall. What’s going on?’
He and Oswald ran to the kitchen door, where they stopped and took in the scene before them.
All the mice from the Skirtings were in the hall and making for the stairs. Some were still half asleep and blinking drowsily, covering long, cavernous yawns with their paws. Others were fussing around looking worried but eager to get to the Landings. The Raddle sisters appeared with their hair done up in curling papers and Master Oldnose was chivvying everyone along and trying to keep some sort of order. Many of the mice were saying things like, ‘Oooh, isn’t it marvellous, I’ve never heard of this happening before, have you?’ while others grumbled sourly, ‘’Tis the first sign of doom – mark my words.’
At last Arthur caught sight of his sister and pushed through the crowd to talk to her. Audrey turned when he called her name, and a look of relief came over her face. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she questioned him. ‘Mother thought you might have been responsible for this.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Arthur, puzzled. ‘What’s been going on here?’
‘It was about half an hour ago,’ she explained. ‘There was a terrible noise coming from the attics and over the rooftops – I even heard it in my room, it woke me up. 46All the folk on the Landings rushed about to see what the matter was and then one of them came down and called us upstairs to see what was happening. We’re just going up now.’
‘But what is happening?’ Arthur demanded impatiently.
‘Come and see for yourself. We’re on our way to one of the upstairs windows to get a good look up at the sky.’
‘But that’ll take ages, look how slowly the Raddle sisters are going. We might as well climb up to the attics ourselves and get a better view.’
Oswald’s voice called out to them suddenly. ‘Over here,’ he shouted from the kitchen. ‘We can nip through the passage that leads to the outside.’
‘Brilliant,’ answered Arthur, ‘that’ll be much quicker.’ So he and Audrey ran into the kitchen and with Oswald they went through the short tunnel that led to the small garden.
It was a sharp, frosty night and there was a halo around the bright, waning moon. The air was so cold that it bit into the nostrils of the three mice and Oswald hurriedly buried his face in his scarf.
‘There!’ said Audrey, pointing to the sky.
They looked up into the wintry heavens. From the rooftops of every house, all around, hundreds of bats were emerging. Out of the Victorian terraces, out of the tall estate buildings, the old church at Deptford Green, even from the tower blocks, the winged creatures of the night were flying. They swarmed about the chimney pots and swooped down over fences. They skimmed 47the tips of trees in Deptford Park, then rose high into the air, where they joined a seething dark mass already gathered there.
‘There must be thousands!’ exclaimed a bewildered Arthur.
‘I’ve never heard of them doing this before,’ marvelled Oswald. ‘I didn’t realize there were so many around here.’
The sky was thick with the movement of bats and their high voices filled the night as they called to one another in their secret language, which they taught to no one. For a while they remained above Deptford, waiting until all their brethren had joined them, then suddenly they departed. They left in a fast, wailing rush. Down on the ground, Audrey felt the breeze from their wings brush faintly upon her face.
Then they were gone, and the sky was empty once more save for the moon and the frosty blue stars. Silence fell over Deptford.
Audrey, Arthur and Oswald craned their necks back to try and look for any stragglers but there were none. Oswald, who had the keenest eyes in the Skirtings, just managed to spot the vast dark bulk of the bat hoard as it flew towards the city, and then that too merged into the surrounding night and was lost.
Arthur was the first to speak.
‘What do you make of that then?’ he gasped.
Neither Audrey nor Oswald could answer him. This had never occurred in their lifetime before, and they both glanced warily back up to the sky.48
‘I suppose the bats from our attic, Orfeo and Eldritch, were with that lot,’ mused Arthur.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Oswald worriedly. ‘Bats know things – they see into the future. If they’ve all left it doesn’t look too good, does it?’
‘I agree,’ admitted Audrey. ‘I wish I knew what was going on. I hope it doesn’t mean something awful is going to happen.’
It was only then that Arthur remembered what he had discovered. With a concerned frown, he turned to his sister and said, ‘Sis, I forgot to tell you. Oswald and I went to the larder just before – and it’s totally empty. Not a crumb left.’
Oswald put his mittens over his cold, tingling ears. ‘This is the end,’ he said. ‘We have no food to survive the midwinter death and the bats have abandoned us to face something even worse. We’re all going to die!’
2
Mad and Bad
Piccadilly swept the hair out of his eyes and looked across to his friend. ‘Anything yet, Marty?’ he called.
Marty held up a half-eaten piece of nougat with bits of fluff stuck to it. ‘Yuk!’ Piccadilly grimaced. ‘Leave that for the slime suckers – we don’t have to eat that muck.’
The grey mouse had settled down again in the city. He was a useful forager and knew the best places to find ‘good grub’.
The city mice were highly organized. They lived in a rambling system of tunnels which was collectively 50known as ‘Holeborn’. It was an ancient civilization with strict customs and rules to obey.
Those who dwelt in Holeborn were governed by the Great Thane. He was a venerable mouse whose family had ruled for centuries. Beneath him in importance were the Ministers – these were mice who excelled at organization, and all had their own different guilds to run. The Minister of Dwellings supervised the digging of new tunnels when the need arose and allotted empty homes to the needy who would join the Holeborners from time to time. There was the Minister of Craft who taught the children in a large spacious chamber. There they learnt everything they needed to survive life in the harsh city. The Minister for Supplies was concerned with the gathering of food and other useful items, all of which were distributed so that everyone had their fair share – there were no ‘privileged’ in Holeborn. The quick-witted, nimble mice were allocated to him to go into the foraging parties.
It was one of the most perfect mouse societies to have existed in the whole country. Everyone enjoyed their work, and nobody thought themselves superior to anyone else – even the Great Thane was known to all as ‘’Enry’ despite his noble lineage. The Holeborners knew that the smooth running of the community depended on each and every one of them. Hundreds of generations of mice had happily lived this life and they were, above all, content.
Piccadilly walked down the Underground platform swinging his sack in one paw. All that week he had 51been assigned a group of cadets. These were young, brassless mice, new to the work, and he was enjoying their company. One of them, Marty, was a sensitive youngster – he had large brown eyes and a fine long nose with constantly twitching whiskers, and down his back there was an unusual dark mark in his fur like a flash of lightning. Although Marty was grey like all the other city mice, he strongly reminded Piccadilly of Oswald, and more than once this week he had absent-mindedly called him ‘Whitey’. Now Marty was getting the hang of foraging, and his sack was almost as full as Piccadilly’s when the shift ended.
Piccadilly sent the others back. When they had all gone, he stood alone on the Underground platform. It was late at night and all the trains had stopped running long ago. Only the service lights were on, and they made it a forbidding place. The tunnels were much larger than the sewers in which he had been lost, but the curved walls always reminded Piccadilly of them. He would often let the others go on ahead and stay behind to think of those times in Deptford and the good friends he had left there.
He sighed sadly. If only Audrey had liked him! Oh well, that part of his life was over now, and he just had to forget it. He hoped that one day he would be able to remember without it hurting any more.
As he stood there, Piccadilly gradually became aware of two small points of light shining down in the darkness where the Tube tracks lay, and it was only when the lights blinked that he realized they were eyes. It 52gave him quite a shock but when he recovered, he shouted sternly, ‘’Ere, who’s that down there? Show your mush.’ The eyes vanished as whoever it was turned tail and darted away.
‘Get back here!’ yelled Piccadilly, leaping off the platform. He landed between the tracks and set off in pursuit.
Whoever he was chasing was quick on their feet and scampered swiftly into the extreme darkness of the Tube tunnel. Piccadilly raced as fast as he could, trying to see the figure in front. All he could make out was a hunched, furry shape, dodging to and fro, with a thin, knobbly tail that slithered and smacked over the never-ending silvery rails.
Piccadilly lengthened his strides, leaping over the sleepers and ignoring the pain of the sharp gravel under his feet. Slowly he began to gain on his quarry. With outstretched paws, he caught hold of the clammy tail which lashed before him.
‘Aiee!’ squealed a croaky voice as Piccadilly gave the tail a sharp yank. There was a loud clangas the unknown creature lost its balance and fell heavily against one of the rails. ‘Oh me ’ed!’ whined the voice morosely. ‘Oh it ’urts, ooch, ah – ee!’
Piccadilly strained his eyes in the darkness to see what he had caught. An old brown rat lay on the ground before him. His thin, chiselled face was crossed by many wrinkles and the fur around his temples was grey. The rat was nursing his head and uttering indignant cries through gummy lips – there was only one tooth in his head.53
‘What the blummin’ blazes d’you do that fer?’ he squawked woefully. ‘I didn’t do nowt.’
