The Deptford Mice 2: The Crystal Prison (28 page)
‘Hello Aud!’ Twit was sitting by her side.
She smiled at him, ‘How did I get here?’ she asked. ‘There was fire everywhere. I thought I was done for – what happened to Mr Nettle?’
‘He’s sleepin’. We found him an’ you when the rain put the fire out. We all thought you were dead but you were only in a swoon. You was lucky this time Aud.’
‘Yes.’ She pulled her fingers through her singed hair and remembered. ‘Mr Woodruffe, did you find him?’
Twit looked at the floor sadly. ‘He didn’t make it Aud. And we found summat else.’ The little fieldmouse fidgeted with his toes.
‘What else?’
The fieldmouse raised a pale face. ‘Akkikuyu’s dead – she burned in her own bonfire.’ Audrey shook her head. ‘Poor Akkikuyu – are you sure?’
He nodded hurriedly. ‘Ain’t no doubt there.’
Audrey burst into tears. She had started out hating the rat but had grown fond of her funny ways. The memory of last night’s wedding ceremony and Akkikuyu’s blessing flooded back.
‘Oh Akkikuyu I’m sorry,’ she wept.
Twit patted her hand. ‘Least ways you’re free of that bargain now Aud. You can go home. Oswald is safe.’
‘Yes,’ she sniffed, ‘the bargain is over.’ She stared at Twit and said, ‘But you’re my husband now Twit. I can’t leave you.’
Twit reassured her. ‘Now don’t be daft Aud,’ he said, ‘we both know I only married yer to stop yer gettin’ hanged. I told ’ee you don’t have to stay. Go back to Deptford – it’s where you belong.’
‘And you?’
Twit shrugged. ‘A fieldmouse belongs in a field,’ he told her. ‘I’ll stick around, providing my banishment’s been lifted, and help with the clearing up. A nasty mess – very nasty.’
‘You know,’ whispered Audrey, ‘you’re not as cheeseless as folk make out, William Scuttle. You’re a very wise mouse indeed. I’ll miss you.’ She kissed him.
‘Aw,’ he puffed, turning bright red and twisting his tail in his paws. ‘I reckons I’ll come back one day to see me wife an’ have a chinwag with old Thomas over a bowl of rum.’
Gladwin Scuttle bustled in. Her hair was tied up in a scarf and she wore a white apron. ‘Oh you’re awake Audrey,’ she said, ‘well that is a relief. I’m just on my way to help with the clean-up. Half the tunnels are flooded by the rains and it’s still pouring. No, don’t you get up, young lady. You stay there for at least a week. You hear me?’
Audrey laughed.
It took nearly a week for the clean-up to end. The tunnels had been flooded with sooty water and this left everything grimy and unpleasant. One of the first things the fieldmice did was start redecorating. They stained the walls with berry juice and decked flowers everywhere. The drab years had passed and in his sickroom Isaac Nettle, recovering from his madness, accepted the way of things. He even strung nutshells together and painted them bright colours. He was a changed mouse. Many of the children were ill with smoke sickness and Samuel Gorse left his room to visit them and cheer their spirits by acting out, with Todkin and Figgy’s help, the story of Mahooot the owl. Figgy played the art of Young Whortle who was sorely missed by them all. Arthur arranged the burials of Mr Woodruffe, Young Whortle and Madame Akkikuyu’s remains.
It was the first time Audrey was allowed out of doors and she was stunned at what was left of the field.
All was charred and ugly. The corn had disappeared leaving unlovely, spiky stubble poking out of the ground. Rain puddles were coated with ash and everything was drab and dismal. It seemed that the whole world had turned dark and grey.
The King of the Field was buried on a drizzling morning near the rose trees. The fieldmice raised a mound over him and Isaac carved a beautiful crown of hawthorn leaves from a single piece of wood. Into it he inscribed the words, ‘We have lost our King whose light shone on our darkness’.
He laid the monument on the top of the mound and fresh flowers were placed there every day.
Young Whortle was laid to rest next to Hodge. Mr and Mrs Nep mourned the loss of their son for the rest of their lives. The Fennywolders could not decide where to put Madame Akkikuyu some thought that she ought not to be buried at all, but be thrown to the birds. Most fieldmice though remembered her eagerness to please and the bravery she showed with Mahooot. So it was decided to lay her to rest under the hawthorn around the still pool. There it was hoped she would find peace at last. Audrey, swallowing back her tears, insisted that the remains of the fortune-teller be placed in a patch of ground that the sunlight touched. So the branches were cut back, and as the earth was piled over her grave the sun appeared in the wet sky and a pale, slender ray shone down upon the last resting place of the fortune-teller.
‘It’s all she ever wanted,’ wept Audrey.
The still pool became known as ‘the Witch’s Water’ and in years to come youngsters would go there to cast offerings into it and beg for wishes. And sometimes, on certain summer evenings, when the last flickering beams of the setting sun touched a particular spot – wishes did indeed come true.
In Fennywolde the clear-up finished and Audrey began to think of going home.
Arthur was upset at the thought of leaving. He had gained everyone’s respect and now they knew that Audrey was innocent the mice had warmed to her too. A veil seemed to have been lifted and they became the good-natured creatures they had always been.
Finally the day dawned when it was time to leave.
Audrey kissed Elijah and Gladwin goodbye.
‘Tell my sister to stop poking her nose in where it’s not wanted – she did that when she was a child you know.’
‘Fare ’ee well lass,’ said Elijah.
It was time to say goodbye to Twit. ‘I’ll miss you William,’ she said thickly, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I’ll never forget you’
‘See you Aud,’ he replied brightly, but the twinkle had left his eye for ever. ‘Say hello to Oswald for me, an’ thank Thomas for his rum. Take care now.’
‘I will. Goodbye.’ She kissed her husband for the last time.’
Arthur said his farewells briskly. ‘Cheerio,’ he said, waving to everyone who had come out to see them off. Dimsel Bottom slunk away and stared after him sorrowfully.
Brother and sister set off. Twit raised his paw but his voice croaked hoarsely, ‘Bye!’ He tried to wipe the tears from his eyes but they would not stop. ‘I did love ’ee Aud,’ he whispered.
Arthur Brown and Audrey Scuttle became two specks on the horizon, making for the river. When the farewell cries of the country mice had finally dwindled into nothingness, the two town mice looked back for their friends, but they had already travelled too far. All they could see as they gazed back towards the corn field were the elms rising high above the ditch, and the yew tree spreading darkly behind them. This picture stayed in their minds long after. But although they both vowed to return one day, neither ever saw the land of Fenny again.
It was the last day of summer. The breeze was fresh and cool, the sun was a pale disc in the sky. The leaves of the elms were past their best and had that tired, old look which suggests the coming of autumn. Some of them were already curling up and turning gold.
Alison Sedge sat on the edge of the ditch lost in thought. She no longer took great care of her appearance. Her hair needed brushing and she let it fall in tangled, untidy knots over her face. Her dress was shabby – but why should she care? In her mind she was with Jenkin. They laughed together and smiled at one another in a dreamworld she greatly cherished. Alison lived for such dreams now. She no longer tossed her head or flashed her eyes, and she never listened to compliments from boys. In fact such compliments had ceased. Alison did not bother about that, for in her mind’s eye she was the way Jenkin liked her.
She turned the black thing over in her paws. She had found it buried in a pile of ashes and cinders. Her find was scorched, blackened and pitted but not broken. She raised the crystal of Madame Akkikuyu up to the sun but it was too black and opaque to allow her to see within.
It was some months now since the town mice had left Fennywolde and returned to Deptford. Alison had kept out of their way. How fickle everyone was to begin liking that horrid girl after everything she had done. But no, it was the rat woman who had caused all the evil wasn’t it? Alison was confused. Her thoughts were really too full of Jenkin to dwell on other subjects for long. But there was something about this globe – it had something to do with . . . oh she could not remember any more.
‘Curse you Audrey,’ she spat and discarded the black sooty ball. It began to roll down the steep bank . . .
Alison struggled to her feet and walked away. She was oblivious of the light noise behind her, and did not hear the glass crack and then smash on the sharp stones at the bottom of the ditch.
Unwittingly Alison had completed the spell that had caused so much suffering. Whilst she dreamed of a time long before when she and Jolly Jenkin had been happy together, a hideous great shadow rose up from the ditch behind her.
Jupiter soared into the sky – free at last from the crystal prison.
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The Final Reckoning
The ghostly spirit of Jupiter has returned, more terrifying than before. Bent on revenge, he smothers the world in an eternal winter of snow and ice. The Deptford Mice are worried: the mystical bats have fled from the attic, and a new rat army is gathering strength. With food short and no sign of spring, the mice know there’s a desperate struggle ahead. Who knows how many will survive and at what cost?
The Pedlar
The hedgerows were spotted with berries red as blood, and black, ragged-winged crows flapped over the empty fields shrieking 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 suddenly stirred some of the dry leaves and for a moment they danced on the air like living things. A hedgehog poked his snout out from under one of the russet mounds and sniffed the air cautiously. His small, bead-like eye peered out 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 began to shuffle backwards uncertainly but kept his eye fixed on the bank path. The noise grew nearer and with it came a voice raised in song.
‘When leaves do fall and the sun goes shy
I reach for my bowl and the hours roll by
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 all and there was a jaunty bounce in his step and an excited twitch in his tail to prove it.
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 find larger packs to hold his wares.
Kempe thought of the feasting that took place during the midwinter festival and wondered where he ought to spend it himself. There had been numerous invitations made and he had 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 there. He grinned to himself as he thought of her. Life with Milly would not be so bad after all; 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 look 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. Kempe 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. Not far off he knew the perfect place.
It was an old stone wall close to the river bank. It was very thick and parts of it were hollow, making 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 that it was fuller than normal. With a groan and a curse he tried to heave it in.
‘Drat and blast! Bother and blow!’ he ranted and puffed as he strained at the bag straps.
All his pots, buckles, pans, spoons and beads clattered and rattled. The opening was just too narrow for the fat, bulging bag. And as he was strapped to it he could not turn round or do anything useful to relieve the situation. He squirmed and struggled and cursed out loud.
‘Plague take it!’ he snarled. The pack was wedged firmly and refused to budge. The traveller went red to the ears and looked ready to burst. ‘Tis a cruel joke to play on an honest trader!’ he fumed to himself. Then with one final effort he pulled and heaved, dust fell from the stones all around and the inevitable happened. There was an ominous tearing sound and the pack split open.
‘Bless me!’ wailed Kempe as he fell headlong into the hollow wall. His wares flew everywhere, jangling raucously as he crashed to the floor. The contents of his pack spilled out and buried the alarmed mouse.
Kempe groaned and raised his head. A pink ribbon hung over one eye and he blew it away impatiently. When he saw the mess all around he gave a weary sigh. There was more clanging 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 stopped and picked up the object with nimble fingers. Before him was a small, delicate silver bell which tinkled sweetly as it rolled into his palm. He held the candle closer and examined the bell with interest, talking to it as though it were a lost child.
‘Not one of my little darlings are you?’ 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 belonged to the young mouse from Deptford he had met not so long ago. 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 place called Fennywolde when he had known them – they must have returned to Deptford and mislaid the bell on the journey.
‘I shall be passing by Deptford soon,’ Kempe told the bell. ‘That 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 sounds of birds or 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. Kempe hummed a tune to himself as he walked down to the river’s edge.
‘Don’t pick your nose laddy or wipe it on your paw I’m not being faddy ’twill make your nostrils raw.’
It was terribly cold outside, and an icy blast seemed to be blowing 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.
His movement caused the silver bell to jingle in his fist, and as if that were a signal, the storm broke.
A vicious, icy wind bore down on him and a strange, thick fog rose up out of the river. Before Kempe had reached the wall the fog had rolled up the bank and surged round him. The traveller was uneasy – this was no ordinary mist. The fur on the back of his neck tingled as an awful sense of horror and fear swept over him.
The fog was impenetrable and it now completely surrounded him. It bit into his flesh with cold clammy fingers. He stamped his feet desperately as he groped for the safety of the wall opening but it was no use.
A deep rumbling purr began, menacingly soft at first, then slowly growing deeper and more fearsome. Kempe’s legs trembled and he could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. There was a monster hiding in that mist – some mind-numbing terror from the deep cold regions had come to claim him. Scarcely conscious of his own actions, only of the overwhelming horror, Kempe waved his arms about in despair as he felt the monster’s freezing breath fall on him. In his paw the little bell tinkled; an incongruously delicate and beautiful sound.
There came a savage roar and Kempe cried out as the bell was torn from his clenched fist by an invisible power and he wept with fright to see 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 evil shape that was mounting before him there came a sneering, mocking laugh. It ended in a cruel snarl and Kempe gasped when he saw what form the shape began to take.
Then high in the smothering fog a bitter blue light flashed and a great spear of ice hurtled downwards. That was the last thing Kempe ever saw, for he felt a sharp pain in his chest before he fell to his knees and collapsed lifeless on the ground. The terrible ice spear had pierced his body and the blood which trickled out froze quickly. The shadow in the fog purred to itself and somewhere in that blanketing greyness the sound of a small, sweet bell tinkled softly.