by Robin Jarvis
‘First there was thunder,’ he observed slowly, ‘when the sky’s as dear as day, an’ now there’s a fog lingerin’ yonder. Summat’s afoot I’ll wager . . .’ and he chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully.
The air grew cold and a bitter blast blew from up river. The icy wind hurt Thomas’s lungs as he breathed. It was unnatural. He shivered and decided to return below decks where he could consider the problem in comfort.
‘A tot o’ rum’s what you need matey,’ he told himself as he descended the hold steps. He made his way to his figurehead, a white-painted girl wearing a turban of gold.
‘Hello Princess,’ he said, patting the wooden folds of her dress, ‘did you miss me?’ Thomas passed through the hole into his quarters.
The small candle was still burning merrily. Thomas poured some rum from a flask into a bowl and sat on his bunk. He took a sip and swilled it round his tongue. The liquid warmed him all the way down to the tip of his tail and he wiggled his toes with pleasure. The sight of the power station wrapped in mist puzzled him; he could not remember seeing anything quite like it in all the years he had been at sea. Still, he had forgotten his nightmare, and before he could take another drink the midshipmouse yawned loudly. He took off his hat and kerchief, extinguished the candle then clambered into bed. The delicious tendrils of sleep crept up and closed his eyes. Thomas nodded and began to snore.
TAP!
The midshipmouse rolled over and ignored the sharp sound.
TAP!
He pulled the pillow over his ears.
TAP!
Thomas sat up crossly. There it was again, an annoying knocking on the hull of the ship.
‘What in thunderation is going on?’ he fumed. ‘Can’t a mouse get any kip?’ He threw off the bedclothes, pulled on his woollen hat and stormed out of the figurehead.
‘I’ll teach whoever it is not to go welkin’ a fellow up in the middle of the night like this. For mercy’s sake will they never cease that racket?’ He strode onto the deck once more, only this time his face was angry and his bushy brows bristled sternly.
TAP!
Thomas flew in the direction of the sound. He stared over the side of the ship and peered at the concrete floor below. What he saw made him stutter with a mixture of confusion, anger and wonder. For there, cowering in the shadows, was a timid squirrel meekly throwing stones against the ship. ‘What in Davey Jones are you doin’ lad?’ barked Thomas.
The squirrel squealed in surprise and with a flash of his tail disappeared behind a railing and into some bushes. The midshipmouse sighed and drummed his fingers impatiently – squirrels were always jittery. He wondered why one should have come from the park to get him out of bed.
A frightened face appeared through the leaves. ‘Mr Triton,’ it ventured in a low whimper, ‘is that you?’
Thomas muttered under his breath, ‘Course it’s me you stupid Nelly!’ but he called out, ‘Aye, it’s Triton. Come out of them bushes – you’re in no danger here.’
The squirrel stole into the light and crept over the concrete. He looked up at the towering black shape of the Cutty Sark and fluttered his paws. Shaking fearfully all over he said, ‘You must come . . . I . . . She wants . . . We, oh dear this has never . . . It’s so dreadful – oh, oh . . .’ he began to cry dismally.
Thomas ground his teeth. The last thing he wanted was to deal with a snivelling squirrel. ‘Just tell me what the matter is,’ he called down.
The squirrel wrung his paws together. ‘The matter? Oh dear me, it’s all so ghastly and hideous. With them dead and me here – oh why me?’ he wailed self-pityingly.
Thomas slapped the deck loudly and shouted, ‘For the last time lad tell me squarely what has happened or I’m off to bed again!’
The squirrel blinked – really, this mouse was stupid, hadn’t he made it perfectly clear? Wasn’t he listening? He cleared his throat and cried, ‘Murder! There has been murder in the park.’
Thomas leaned further forward. ‘Murder?’ he repeated softly. ‘Here’s a pretty business.’
‘I’ve been sent to fetch you Mr Triton,’ explained the squirrel. ‘She wants to talk with you.’
‘Stay right there, I’ll be down in a trice,’ said Thomas. He ran down to the hold where he slipped behind the tall, forbidding figure of Neptune. As he went through the pitch-smelling, narrow passage beyond he was thinking hard. Murder – he wondered who had been killed and by whom. He did not need to ask who she was; Thomas knew that only the Starwife could have forced one of her subjects out when he was in such a state. Grimly he brooded over the possible reasons she could have for wanting to see him, but he could think of none.
He emerged into the outside world and climbed down the ship’s rudder. Once on the ground Thomas began climbing the steps out of the large trough which enclosed the ship and ran over to the squirrel.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘what’s all this about murder and why does the Starwife want to see me?’
The squirrel scurried under the bush but did not come from behind the railings. ‘No time, no time,’ he chirruped excitedly, ‘follow me,’ and he scampered away along a hedge.
Thomas did not like this – he wanted answers. He saw the squirrel dart and dodge in and out of cover all along the road that led to the park. With a resigned shake of the head he set off after him.
The squirrel nipped under parked cars, threaded its way through rails, slipped beneath buzzing sodium street lamps and bounded under the locked park gates. Thomas puffed up behind. He ducked under the iron gateway and the squirrel’s voice called out from the lofty safety of a tree, ‘Hurry up, hurry up!’ The midshipmouse saw a small, long-tailed shape flit from branch to branch overhead.
He looked over to the observatory hill and breathed in sharply. There was chaos up there and he could hear faint voices crying. The hill was a wreck; trees had been smashed down and great fissures made in the earth. Anxiously he wondered how it could have happened.
Squirrels were running everywhere, oblivious to the astonished midshipmouse climbing the steep hill path. Uprooted rhododendron bushes were scattered over the grassy slopes and clods of earth littered the pathway, but over all was a glittering layer of frost.
The night was filled with frantic cries and voices raised in misery. Thomas passed a group of squirrels huddled together weeping. At their feet lay the body of one of their comrades – he had been impaled by a slender spear made of ice. The body was frozen solid and white with frost. The unseeing eyes stood out like globes of black glass and the stricken face was a twisted picture of terror.
As Thomas removed his hat, he noticed other groups racked with sorrow. In all, twenty-three young squirrels had been killed with ice spears wedged between their ribs. The sad little bodies littered the frosted grass. Thomas moved slowly through the crowds of bitter grief, his face pale and bewildered.
‘Triton,’ came a cracked voice.
He looked up from the devastation and there was the Starwife leaning on her stick and trembling with the cold. The age-old mistress of the squirrel colony appeared more tired and careworn than Thomas had ever known her. She bleakly surveyed the wreck of her realm and whatever vitality she had was quenched.
‘Ma’am?’ he said in a distressed tone. ‘What has happened here?’
The Starwife turned her half-blind, milky eyes from the ruin around her and said hollowly, ‘We have been attacked.’ She was dejected and frail and Thomas’s heart went out to her. This once proud and imperious squirrel who had terrified many, including himself, was now shrunk to a shambling, pathetic creature whose grief and care was too much to bear.
She prodded the frozen ground with her stick and shuddered with the cold. ‘Triton?’ she asked softly, ‘Would you take me away from this? Help me to my chambers please.’ He took her arm and led her through the destruction.
A hollow oak lay splintered and broken on the frost-covered grass and under the tangled mass of its upturned roots a great hole was revealed. This had been the
entrance to the squirrels’ underground dwellings, where they stored all their winter food and their volumes of history, lore and astrological formulae. Thomas and a few other squirrels eased the Starwife down the entrance. She could weep no tears, for all hers had been spent, she merely stared bitterly about her. Along the tunnels they went and the Starwife began telling Thomas of the night’s terrible events.
‘I was not easy,’ she began. ‘The evening was drawing on and a disquiet had settled heavily on my heart. There was something very wrong and I was in a foul temper because I did not know what it was.’ She put her gnarled paw to her head and made a gesture signifying stupidity. ‘I examined the charts to try and foresee what might happen but they were useless, as if something outside nature was influencing events. I threw the scrolls away and got down from my throne. I felt helpless – me, the Starwife, she who is supposed to know all things. I was mad with myself.’ Here she managed an ironic smile as she remarked, ‘I am such an old boot these days.’ Thomas nodded, remembering that he had once called her by that name.
The Starwife continued, ‘I thought I was overlooking something. Well, when I get forgetful and downright senile I usually take a stroll and check on the stores – I find it helps, you know. I hobbled there on my own, telling my attendant, Piers, to get out of my way. Do you remember him, Triton?’
Thomas replied that he did, ‘Where is he anyway?’ he asked.
The Starwife looked at the ground and limped along purposefully, ‘Piers is in my chamber – you will see him soon enough.’ She remained silent for a time and then resumed her account. ‘I was in one of the store rooms confirming the tally list when all of a sudden the temperature dropped and a freezing cold flooded through the tunnels. I did not know where it came from – it was not a natural thing. I made my way to a lookout hatch and peered into the night. Even my feeble eyes could not mistake what I saw. There was a great dark cloud in the sky shot through with purple lightnings flying directly overhead. Suddenly a fog appeared; a thick fog which began to seep in. I heard some of my sentries cry out and then there came a deafening rending and crashing. I don’t mind telling you Triton, I was very afraid – still am. My stomach turned over with fright as I realized . . . well, here we are.’
They had come to a tapestry banner hung across the tunnel. It was the entrance to her chamber. The Starwife motioned to Thomas to pass through. With some trepidation the midshipmouse did as he was bid. The Starwife waited for a moment before she followed him.
The room of the Starwife was smashed to pieces; the carved oaken throne was split in two and the roof had been torn off. Everything was covered in deep frost and ice – more so than anywhere else. Thomas’s feet sank deep into the biting whiteness and he uttered little gasps as he felt them painfully tingle and turn almost blue.
He gazed fearfully about the destroyed chamber. Rubble from the roof had fallen in and filled the corners, and the shiny objects which had once dangled like the constellations were strewn about in heaps. He could hardly believe it was the same place. The violent destruction had been wanton – wrecking just for the sake of it. Thomas groaned in disbelief. But his attention was caught by a snow-covered mound at the foot of the throne. He ran over to it and knelt down. There was an ice spear stuck through its heart.
‘Poor Piers,’ mumbled the Starwife gently, ‘you were loyal to the end. Forgive me.’ Her words caught in her throat and she stared fixedly ahead with dry, empty eyes.
Thomas turned to her, ‘I’m mighty sorry Ma’am,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I don’t know what I can do for you, but if I can help in any way then . . .’
‘Sorry!’ she exclaimed with some of her old fire. ‘Sorry! Triton, you were not brought here to feel sorry for me and my folk. Look about you, you stupid seafarer – can’t you see?’
Thomas was taken aback. He glanced round yes, there did seem to be something missing from the chamber but he could not put his finger on what it could be. The Starwife slammed her stick down in agitation. ‘My Starglass you fool!’ she cried. ‘My Starglass has been stolen.’
Sure enough, the ancient power of the Starwives was not to be found anywhere. Thomas knew that this was a great calamity, for the Starglass possessed tremendous magical forces.
The Starwife’s shoulders drooped and she became tired once more. ‘I did not finish my tale,’ she said quietly, ‘let me do so now.’ With her stick she scraped the frost from the cracked seat of her throne and lowered herself down. Sitting there, gazing at Piers’ body, she took up her story.
‘I realized that whatever was hiding in the mist had broken into my chamber. I heard Piers scream and then there came a deep rumbling, like a, contented purr booming through the fog. The mist began to rise and as it did so I saw something that stopped my heart beating.’ She raised her stick and pounded the floor in despair.
‘What was it?’ breathed Thomas.
With a quivering lip the Starwife shook her head and said, ‘There, in the dense midst of the fog, I saw the outline of a huge cat. It was as tall as a tree and through its vast shape I could see the stars.’
‘I don’t understand,’ stammered the midshipmouse, ‘you mean it was transparent?’
‘Yes, it was not a thing of flesh and blood.’ She gripped her stick tightly till her crippled, swollen knuckles turned white. ‘I believe,’ she said in a quaking voice, ‘that it was the spirit of Jupiter.’
‘Green save us!’
‘Let us hope that he can Triton, for if Jupiter has indeed escaped the bonds of Death and entered the living world once more, his power is beyond measure.’
‘And now he has your Starglass.’
She hung her head. ‘Just so,’ she admitted sadly. ‘What he will do with it cannot be certain. He is now an Unbeest – an unquiet spirit not governed by the rules of the living. His presence in our world has thrown into confusion all the old prophecies. He has so changed the natural order of things that I do not know and cannot foresee what he may do. He is a fiend and doubtless intends to use the Starglass for evil.’
The wintry place fell into silence as Thomas digested what she had told him. It was so cold that steam curled from his nostrils and he puffed out clouds of vapour from his lips. If Jupiter had indeed returned, then he would no doubt seek out those who were responsible for his downfall. The midshipmouse thought of the Brown family and everyone else in the Skirtings with a worried expression on his face.
He clapped his hands together in a vain attempt to warm them and said, ‘Ma’am, I must go and warn my friends. They should be told. If indeed that foul devil has risen from the dead he will want revenge.’
The Starwife did not appear to have heard him. Her wrinkled chin was resting on the smooth, worn handle of her walking stick. Thomas touched her gingerly on the shoulder.
‘I heard you Triton,’ she said gruffly. ‘I agree, the girl Audrey needs to be told – but not yet, stay a while. I have duties to perform and I do not relish the thought of them.’ She hauled herself to her feet and all her old bones cracked in protest. ‘Curse this cold,’ she muttered, ‘and curse this old body of mine – it should have perished long ago. Take me back outside, Triton, if you would.’ Thomas took hold of her arm and led her slowly out of the freezing chamber and back through the tunnels.
The night was still grim and chill. The bright heavens shone down on the observatory hill and the pale moon bathed everything in a stark, silver light. Since Thomas and the Starwife had left, the dead squirrels had been laid in a large ring on the icy ground. The ice spears were still stuck firmly in the bodies, as attempts to remove them had proved impossible, and the paws which touched these deadly, frozen weapons ached long after.
Many squirrels were busily carrying sacks of stores out of the tunnels and placing them some distance away in a large pile. The Starwife leant heavily on her stick and let go of Thomas’s arm as they came out into the still night air. She moved haltingly into the centre of the circle of bodies and gazed at all the dead, anguished faces. Fro
m there she began to bark her instructions.
‘You!’ she cried, pointing to a squirrel hurrying by with an armful of parchment scrolls. ‘What are you doing? Leave all the histories and rubbish like that where they are. Yes, even the charts, take them all back to where you found them. None of that will be needed anymore – not by me anyway.’ The squirrel scurried away but she called him back crossly, ‘Don’t go yet lad, I have not finished. Now, when you have done that, I want you to fetch poor Piers and place him in the middle here. The Green knows he deserves that honour, worth the lot of you he was, though that isn’t saying much. What are you waiting for? Get on with you.’
The Starwife then turned to a group of mourners wailing hopelessly. She tottered over to them and waved her stick impatiently. ‘Make yourselves useful you dozy lot,’ she snapped, ‘go find the fuel and help with the packing. There’ll be time enough for tears later.’
Thomas watched her with a wry smile on his lips. He had to admire the old thing – she never spared herself. The way she doggedly went on whatever happened was an inspiration. Not long ago he had thought she had come to the end of her strength yet here she was bossing and ordering once more, doing what was best for her subjects whether they liked it or not.
The little he knew about squirrel ways was enough to know that they always burnt their dead on funeral pyres. That now was the reason for their labours: one great bonfire to cremate all their murdered folk. No outsider had ever witnessed the ceremony before and Thomas felt honoured to have been allowed to see this much.
Dry twigs and branches were brought and reverently placed between the bodies by young squirrel maidens who wore bands of silver round their brows. Then old leaves and pieces of oil-soaked cloth were put into the wood and all the squirrels began to gather round.
From the tunnel entrance a solemn group came bearing the frozen body of Piers. They lifted him into the centre of the pyre and a hush descended.
Thomas wondered whether he ought to leave but the Starwife caught his eye and signalled for him to remain. She hobbled round the great circle with her head lifted to the sky and the ceremony began.