The Secret of Zanzibar (10 page)

She glanced at Alex. He was shifting uneasily from foot to foot as if ready to run.

‘Zanzibar,' she said in a low voice.

The old mouse regarded her in silence for several seconds, one hand stroking his beard. ‘And you're here to help with the protest?'

Alice felt her blood freeze. ‘How could you possibly know that?' she whispered.

The three mice were still, regarding each other watchfully. The only movement came from the dust motes drifting in the weak light penetrating a high window.

Finally the old mouse shrugged. ‘I'll take that as a yes,' he said, and stepped away from the door. ‘So, we're on the same side.'

‘Then you are Daniels?' Alice confirmed.

‘I am.'

‘Why didn't you just say so?' Alex demanded. He sounded frustrated.

‘Why? You burst in here, telling me that Matron sent you. Why would she do that? Is Matron sympathetic to our cause?' He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. ‘She's
never said as much, so you must admit it's strange that two mice would turn up here, claiming she sent them and acting scared of the Queen's Guards, right when we're planning a revolution designed to rid Gerander of the Sourians forever. What would you think?'

Alice considered this. ‘I'd think it was a trap,' she said.

Daniels nodded. ‘Precisely. But now that we've established it's not, let's get down to business.' He beckoned. ‘We can sit over here.' He led the way across a floor laid with slabs of the same pink, green and white marble that had been used on the outside of the church. The walls, Alice noticed, were bare stone instead. The only decoration was also functional: enormous silver candelabras that stood twice as tall as she did, and between them huge silver urns. It seemed strange that the building should be so elaborate outside but so plain inside.

When they were halfway up the wide central aisle that divided the pews, the old mouse stopped. ‘This'll do.'

Alice sat on the wooden bench and slid across to make room for the others. Alex slipped in next to her and then Daniels.

‘I expected it to be really fancy in here, like the outside,' Alex remarked, echoing Alice's own observation. ‘But it's just big and empty.'

Daniels looked around as if noticing the plainness of the interior for the first time. ‘I can see why you'd think that,' he said. ‘This isn't how it's meant to look, though.
Oh, it's true there's not a lot of flashy decoration, but when those urns are filled with fresh flowers and all the candles are lit, the stone glows like honey. And when the doors are thrown open to let in the light and air, I'd swear on some days you can smell the Winns itself blowing in on the breeze.' He closed his eyes and lifted his nose slightly, as if to sniff an imaginary breeze.

Then he opened them abruptly. ‘So, who sent you and what exactly do you want from me?'

‘We were telling the truth,' Alex said. ‘The matron sent us. We were smuggled into the orphanage in a load of cabbages.'

‘
Rotten
cabbages,' Alice reminded him.

Alex ignored her. ‘When we explained our mission to the matron she said we should talk to you.'

Alice chimed in, ‘She said you'd once told her that you'd refuse to ring the cathedral bells for the Sourians, but that she'd pretended not to hear because she didn't want to get involved. But she's changed her mind now. She said she'll come to the protest.'

‘And that Queen Eugenia would enter Cornoliana over her dead body!' Alex added.

‘Let's hope it doesn't come to that,' Daniels said gravely. ‘And that brings us to my next question: what do you want from me?'

That was a very good question. What
did
they want from Daniels? Alice had no idea. They were here because Matron had suggested they talk to Daniels. Well, they'd
talked to him – but now what? The problem was, they had a mission but no plan. Alice could have groaned with frustration. Why had Solomon left them like that? He'd been the one with the plan … or so she'd thought. Now she and Alex were adrift in a city they barely knew, with no friends and nowhere to stay. Alice had never felt so far out of her depth.

Alex, however, seemed to share none of her misgivings. ‘We have a contact,' he was telling Daniels, ‘but we can't meet her till tonight. Could we hide here for a few hours, just until nightfall?'

Contact? What contact? Alice stared at the back of her brother's head as if he might have the information written there, but of course he didn't. As always, the workings of his mind remained a mystery to her.

Daniels was nodding his agreement. ‘Until nightfall,' he said. ‘But then I'm afraid you'll have to leave.' He stood up. ‘Let's go to the bell tower. You can leave your rucksacks down here.'

They walked through a low archway to the right of the altar and began to climb a spiral staircase. Up and up and up it wound, until at last they stepped out into a small square room dominated by a giant cast-iron bell with a smaller bell beside it. Each side of the room had two tall arched windows open to the air. Peering out Alice saw a jumble of roofs stretching like a choppy red-tiled sea all the way to the city walls, and beyond that a tranquil expanse of green fields.

Alex was standing at the opposite window. ‘Hey, sis, check out the view,' he said. ‘I can see right over the whole palace from here.'

‘There's not another view like it in the whole of Cornoliana,' Daniels said proudly. ‘And I know it like the back of my hand now, believe me. I've been here so long I remember the bell ringing out when Rosalie was born. She was Zanzibar's mother.'

Alice nudged her brother. ‘Rosalie would have been our grandmother.'

Daniels gave her a sharp look. ‘What's that?'

‘Our mother is Zanzibar's sister,' Alice explained.

The old mouse's eyes widened. ‘You mean you're Emmeline's children?'

Alice and Alex nodded.

‘Well I never.' The old face creased in a smile. ‘The last time I rang these bells was to celebrate the birth of your mother's little brother. And now you're here.' He shook his head in wonder. ‘Well I never,' he repeated.

‘Why did you stop ringing the bells?' Alice wanted to know. ‘Matron told us the cathedral was closed, but she didn't say why.'

‘The Sourians decided it was too dangerous to leave it open, as it would only encourage large numbers of Gerandans to congregate, and they can't risk that happening. But if you ask me, it's only right that the cathedral is closed now.'

He chuckled at Alice's puzzled look. ‘I know, you think it's strange that I'd agree with the Sourians, don't you? But to me the cathedral is the spiritual heart of Cornoliana – indeed, of all Gerander. It's where we have always come to celebrate the most important moments in our shared lives. Did you know that every king and queen of Gerander, and of Greater Gerander before that, was crowned in this cathedral? The next time these bells should ring is when Zanzibar is crowned king of Gerander. And I'm keeping them polished in anticipation of that day.'

Alex, Alice noticed, was staring at the bells with a dreamy expression. She suspected that he was imagining those bells ringing out for his own coronation. But Alice herself had a very different picture forming in her mind, one that made her grasp the edge of the tower for fear of toppling into a black chasm. Every king and queen of Gerander and of Greater Gerander before that had been crowned here, the old mouse had said. What if the next time the bells rang out it wasn't because the rightful king of Gerander had assumed his throne, but because Queen Eugenia had taken it from him and was proclaiming herself the Queen of Greater Gerander?

As she gazed once more at the cast-iron shapes, huge and motionless, Alice knew that one way or another, these bells would mark the end of the long battle for Gerander's freedom.

The day passed slowly. It was a luxury, really, to have a whole day in which to laze around a house, with soft pillows and hot showers and plenty of food. Wherever his parents or Alice and Alex were, they'd have no comforts like this, Alistair knew. As for Zanzibar, and Uncle Ebenezer and Aunt Beezer … No, the fact was, he couldn't relax and enjoy himself; there was too much to worry about, too much at stake.

They ate dinner early, then, at Grandpa Nelson's suggestion, Alistair and Tibby Rose went to bed to grab a couple of hours' sleep before the long night ahead.

Alistair was dreaming that he was in a gingerbread house with Queen Eugenia, who was trying to strangle him with his scarf, when he was woken by Great-Aunt Harriet.

‘It's half past eleven, Alistair,' she said.

Alistair sprang out of his bed, loosening his scarf,
which had wound itself tight around his neck as he thrashed in his sleep.

Tibby was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, yawning, her fur looking somewhat rumpled.

‘I'm coming too,' Grandpa Nelson declared, taking his hat from its hook by the door.

Great-Aunt Harriet planted herself in his way. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Nelson. You think Tibby Rose and Alistair should just dawdle along with you and your walking stick? No. I'll go.'

‘You can't go, Harry,' her brother protested. ‘What about your purple spots? We can't let anyone know that was a lie – not now.'

‘We'll be fine by ourselves,' Tibby said calmly. ‘There'll be no one awake to see us now, and we'll return before dawn. We'll be back before you're awake.'

Great-Aunt Harriet snorted. ‘As if we'll sleep!'

But Tibby had her way, and she and Alistair were alone when they made their way down the winding lane to the street that led to the centre of town.

‘D'you remember the last time we followed this road into town?' Alistair asked.

‘How could I forget?' Tibby asked. ‘Everyone pointing at us and whispering – we didn't even know then that it was because of our ginger fur.' She shivered at the memory. ‘Do you really think we'll be able to make Sourians change their minds about Gerandans just through words?'

‘I know what your Great-Aunt Harriet would say,' Alistair said, remembering their conversation in the library the night before. ‘She'd say that we can use our words to make Sourians understand what it's like to be Gerandan, and that understanding is the way to peace.'

‘Well if Great-Aunt Harriet says it, it must be true,' said Tibby Rose, and giggled.

They were walking past a row of houses now, shadowy in the dark. In one a light was on and Alistair could see a grey and white mouse reading on a couch. Abruptly he remembered that someone had watched Grandpa Nelson and Great-Aunt Harriet through their lit window. Who? And why? Their footsteps sounded loud in the still night and Alistair felt the fur on his spine stand up. Was someone watching them now? It seemed not, for they reached the shops and buildings of the town undetected, and easily found their way to the quiet street where they had once hidden from the Queen's Guards under the counter of the newsstand. Opposite the newsstand were the offices of the
Templeton Times
.

Alistair took a quick look around, and listened hard, but all was quiet. There was no tramping of boots to herald the arrival of the Queen's Guards; not so much as a footstep to break the silence.

‘Looks like it's all clear, Tib,' he said, and together they ran across the street to rap at the door of the newspaper offices.

For a few seconds nothing happened and Alistair wondered if Granville had forgotten his promise – or maybe he'd decided not to take the risk? Then the door creaked open an inch and the sandy head of the editor appeared in the gap.

‘Right on time,' he said in a low voice. ‘Excellent. A good journalist always meets a deadline.'

Tibby slipped through the door and Alistair followed.

‘What's that noise?' he asked as Granville led them through a reception area. He could just hear a faint regular clanking.

‘That's the printing press in the basement,' the editor explained, ‘printing tomorrow's edition.'

They entered a long, large room. Cubicles lined two of the walls, their desks in varying states of order. One had a coffee mug balanced precariously atop a pile of papers, another was neatly arranged with all the pens in a row and the papers precisely aligned. These must be the desks of the newspaper's journalists, Alistair supposed. To the left of the door was a huge bank of shelves, crammed with books. In the centre of the room was a table that was easily big enough to seat twenty or so mice around it.

‘Let's sit here,' Granville said. He took a chair at the head of the table and waved Alistair to one at his left and Tibby to one on his right. ‘I've been doing some thinking,' he began. ‘What do you think of this plan? Tonight we will write a pamphlet explaining the truth about the Sourian occupation of Gerander and urging
Sourians to support Gerandan independence. Over the next couple of days, I will telegraph a copy of our text to all the other newspaper editors in Souris, telling them that I propose to insert copies of this pamphlet in the Saturday edition of the
Templeton Times
, and I'll ask that they do the same in their own papers.'

Tibby Rose clapped her hands. ‘That's a wonderful idea!'

‘Do you think the other editors will agree?' Alistair asked. ‘What if …' He swallowed. ‘What if they denounce you? You could be in big trouble.'

Granville nodded, his expression sombre. ‘You're right, Alistair. But it's time we editors made a stand for freedom of the press. For too long we have printed only what Queen Eugenia wanted us to say.' He shook his head in disgust. ‘At least Gerandans
know
they are not free. Most Sourians don't even realise that up here –' he tapped a finger to his temple ‘– they are prisoners too. Told what to think. Why, even the history they learn at school is skewed.'

The editor sighed and rubbed at the sandy fur on his head. ‘The problem is, it's not only my own safety I will be risking. Everyone who works here at the paper will be under suspicion too. That's why I plan to hold a staff meeting the day before we publish. I will read our pamphlet to the staff and tell them what I plan to do with it. Those who wish to help typeset and print the pamphlet will be welcome to do so; those who would rather not get involved may take a few days off work on full pay.'

Tibby was beaming at her mother's godfather and
Alistair, too, felt a rush of gratitude to think that Granville was prepared to risk so much to help free Gerander. But he also felt uncomfortable: on Saturday, when the pamphlet was distributed, he and Tibby Rose would be safely in hiding in Grandpa Nelson and Great-Aunt Harriet's house, while Granville and his staff, and any of the other newspaper editors who joined the cause, would have to face the consequences of their actions. It didn't seem fair, Alistair thought.

Meanwhile, Granville was already getting down to business. ‘Now, let's talk about the structure of our pamphlet. My feeling is we want to keep it short: one sheet, printed front and back. We need to convey a lot of information in an interesting and readable way.'

‘Maybe we could write a couple of different articles,' Alistair suggested, ‘so that readers can take in the information in small bites instead of having to read one long story.'

‘Good,' said Granville. He tipped his chair back and reached over to grab a notepad and pen from a nearby desk. ‘Let's say we have an article about how Souris came to occupy Gerander after the earthquake that devastated much of the country – and we should emphasise that the Sourians did much to help Gerander initially. We want to appeal to our readers' better natures, to remind them of their compassion.'

‘Maybe we could write something about what life is like for Gerandans now,' suggested Alistair, thinking of
the meagre rations Gerandans lived on while the Sourians took their crops, of how they were forbidden to travel freely through their own country.

‘And we could write about Zanzibar,' Tibby added, ‘and how he's the rightful king of Gerander.'

Granville was scribbling notes as they spoke. ‘Zanzibar … good …' He looked up. ‘The most important thing is the headline,' he told them. ‘It must be succinct – that is, short and to the point. Something to grab readers' attention.' He tapped his pen on the table, thinking. ‘Something that sounds good when you say it aloud.'

Alistair leaned back in his chair and stared at the wall. How would he sum up what their fight was about if someone asked? It was about freedom, he mused. Independence. Justice … He sat up. ‘How about “Justice for Gerander”?'

‘Justice for Gerander,' Granville repeated under his breath. ‘Justice for Gerander. Yes,' he said. ‘Very good. The words go well together; the alliteration is very effective. In fact, it has the ring of a slogan. Well done, Alistair. I suspect you have the makings of a writer.'

Alistair smiled and ducked his head to conceal his pleasure.

‘Let's get down to work,' Granville declared.

‘Um, I'm not really much of a writer,' Tibby said apologetically.

‘No problem,' said Granville. ‘Alistair and I will take care of the writing. You can do the research and
fact-checking, Tibby Rose. If we don't have our facts straight our articles won't be worth the paper they're written on. Alistair, why don't you begin with the piece on life in Gerander – you know more about it than I do – and I'll tackle the article outlining the history of the occupation. Tibby, our reference library is there.' He pointed to the shelves. ‘See what you can find about the earthquake in Gerander.'

Granville fetched another notepad and pen for Alistair, and Alistair gazed at the blank page. As he did, Great-Aunt Harriet's words came to mind, the words she'd quoted from her favourite book:
You never really understand a mouse until you consider things from his point of view – until you climb into his skin and walk around in it
. That's what he needed to do in his article: he needed to make Sourian readers understand what it felt like to be a Gerandan, to be a second-class citizen in your own country. He thought of the old mouse from Gerander whom he and Tibby had met when they'd first fled Souris. The old mouse had told them that many Gerandans were close to starvation because the Sourians allowed them only meagre rations. He remembered Alice's description of her first sight of Cornoliana, of the Gerandans shrinking into the shadows as the Queen's Guards passed, ghosts in their own city. And he began to write …

Hours later, he put down his pen, stretched and yawned. After many drafts, he was finally happy with the
article he had written. He tore the pages from his notepad and pushed them across the table to Granville. ‘I think I'm almost there,' he said.

The editor put down his pen and picked up Alistair's article.

‘I need some fresh air,' Alistair said. ‘I can barely keep my eyes open. I'm going to walk down to the fountain and splash my face.'

‘I don't know, Alistair,' Tibby said doubtfully. ‘What if someone sees you?'

‘It's the middle of the night, Tib,' Alistair reminded her. ‘There's no one around.'

‘Maybe I should come with you.' Tibby glanced at her mother's godfather uncertainly, but he was focused on the article in his hand, nodding slowly as he read.

‘I'll be fine on my own,' Alistair assured his friend, pushing his chair back and standing up. ‘I'll be really careful.'

He walked back through the reception area, gently eased the door open and scanned the dark street. Carefully he watched for several minutes, but nothing stirred in the shadows. Then he slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind him, and made his way down the narrow streets that led to the square he and Tibby had found on their first visit to Templeton.

The splash of water into the fountain sounded loud in the deserted square. He took off his scarf and dunked his whole head into the cool water. As he picked up the scarf
to wind it around his neck, he thought he heard someone say his name.

‘Alistair.'

‘Who's there?' Alistair spun around, but he couldn't see anyone. As the silence grew he felt a prickling between his shoulder blades. ‘Who's there?' he repeated, his throat suddenly dry.

‘Oh Alistair, surely you haven't forgotten me?' said the voice.

And Alistair realised that he knew that silky voice, though the last time he had heard it he'd been a long, long way from Templeton, on treacherous Atticus Island off the coast of Gerander. His attempt to rescue his parents from the notorious prison had ended in failure when, instead, he had walked into a trap …

‘K-Keaters?' Alistair's pulse started to accelerate as he glanced around, trying to gauge where the voice had come from, which way he should run.

‘There's no point trying to escape,' Keaters told him. ‘I have Queen's Guards blocking every exit to the square. In fact, you walked right past one.' The small black mouse walked slowly out of the shadows. ‘All alone, Alistair? No Slippers Pink to protect you?'

‘She's … she's coming,' Alistair said. Then he added more definitely, ‘She'll be here any minute.'

Keaters laughed softly. ‘No she won't. You know as well as I do that she and Feast Thompson were called away. Let me see … Zanzibar is in trouble, so they rushed back to
Shetlock – isn't that right? It was in a note, delivered by a small mouse just as you reached Templeton.'

How could Keaters possibly know that? ‘It was you!' Alistair shouted. ‘You wrote that note.'

Keaters chuckled. ‘Clever, aren't I? I needed to get Slippers out of the way. That Slippers …' The small black mouse sounded irritated now. ‘She should be called Slippery Pink.' He took a few steps forward until he was just on the other side of the fountain. ‘I wanted to get you by yourself, young Alistair. Or maybe you're not by yourself? Maybe you have … a friend? Another ginger mouse just like you, hmm? So where is he?'