The Final Reckoning

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘If I’m going down there I want to know,’ said Oswald crossly but as he frowned at the bat his new sight began to show him strange things. A hunched, wizened winged creature was revealed to him. It was huddled over a great book in a dark room and a cruel sneer was on its face. Oswald felt afraid: he did not know what was unfolding before his eyes but a dreadful shudder ran through him. The evil-looking bat turned the pages of the book and threw back his head in wild, mad laughter.

  Eldritch stiffened, sensing what the mouse was seeing. He whirled round and shook Oswald roughly. ‘Come back White One,’ he cried and the albino put his paw to his reeling head.

  ‘What did I see?’ he stammered, clutching the wall to support his wobbling legs.

  ‘That was Hrethel,’ replied the bat with a quivering voice. ‘Long ago he was the Warden of the Great Book. It was the most powerful position in our order. Our forefathers were strong then and wielded the power of the book to maintain their position.’ Eldritch’s eyes grew moist and he averted his gaze almost from shame. ‘But Hrethel was not worthy – he was a tyrant and the book became his private tool. He neglected his lesser duties and no longer attended the councils, withdrawing to his underground chamber, weaving spells about the threshold, denying access to any other. It took all the knowledge my ancestors had to destroy him. Many were slain and their skill passed from this world. Hrethel perished but the charms on the threshold survived and no-one could retrieve the Great Book. We took a different road then and left the old ways behind, believing that if they had spawned Hrethel then they may spawn another like him. It is better to live humbly than to rule with fear, that is the lesson my grand sires learnt, and we have never regretted it. Hrethel was a crazed monster and we do not speak of him. Now you know all our secrets White One,’ he sighed, ‘is there nought you will not worm from us? Go, the entrance is found. Pass through and bring us the Great Book.’

  He had come across a small hole where the surrounding plaster was thin and brittle. Quickly he made the gap large enough for Oswald to crawl through, then he gave the mouse one last embrace. ‘I cannot help you once you have found the chamber, for my eyes cannot enter there. You will be on your own and have to face your fears.’

  ‘Wish me luck,’ whimpered the albino timidly. Eldritch nodded. Oswald knelt down, squeezed through the hole and vanished from sight.

  He dragged himself along the narrow way, the stone ceiling pressing down on him. Oswald wondered how far the chamber was; he did not like the thought of toiling through this cramped space for too long. Presently he came to a ledge and peered down. There was a steep drop, down into the foundations which looked like the only possible route to take.

  ‘Oh dear,’ groaned Oswald wriggling round and dangling his feet over the edge, ‘this is where I break my neck.’

  He lowered himself as much as he could and hunted for a foothold, stubbing his toes many times before he found one. Gingerly he began climbing down, not even thinking how he could manage the return journey carrying a book. Suddenly he lost his footing, his toenails scraped down the smooth stone and Oswald fell back wailing.

  He plummeted down and landed heavily on his back, squeaking in surprise and pain. For some time he lay there, not wanting to move in case he discovered that he could not. He had fallen on hard soil. To one side the foundations of the huge building rose up above him and on the other was a wall of earth. Oswald had fallen down a gap that had widened between the two. He groaned and slowly sat up. His back ached and he rubbed it.

  Carefully the mouse struggled to his feet and looked around. The wall of earth had old bricks embedded in it, blackened and cracked from some great heat long ago with here and there the remains of charred timbers. But there was no time to wonder what had happened, he had to find the Book of Hrethel. Oswald searched for a clue as to where the chamber lay and came across another passage.

  It was broader than before and he did not have to crawl, though he was unable to stand up in it properly. He had to walk bent almost double and crouching like that did his sprained back no good at all. Once, when he could stand it no longer, he lay down and stretched himself until his spine cracked gratefully and he sighed with relief.

  In that curious way, Oswald descended deeper into the earth. The very soil began to turn black and the tunnel walls were soft and velvety with ancient soot. His paws were covered with ash and his feet trod on sharp cinders. Oswald began to cough, the smell was acrid and the disturbed soot tickled the back of his throat. The amount of ash began to grow – it lay against the walls in deep soft heaps and the albino was forced to wade through it. In some places the ash was so thick it came up to his chest. He did not like it at all. It was like being stroked lightly with feathery fingers and it sent shivers through him.

  The passage opened out and there was a low doorway set in the black wall. It was choked by old, dusty cobwebs and mysterious symbols were scratched on the stone lintel. Oswald shook himself, unleashing clouds of billowing soot that made him gag and splutter.

  When the soot had settled Oswald ran his fingers over the doorway. He touched the thick webs and they clung to him horribly. The mouse steeled himself and pushed through the smothering curtain.

  The chamber of Hrethel was covered in dust. After Oswald had wiped the clinging cobwebs from his face he held his breath and opened his eyes wide.

  It was a large room with stone walls supporting many shelves. Upon these were all sorts of strange objects: jars containing thick, brown liquid in which unpleasant black things floated; curious instruments and bags of powders; small baskets holding dried leaves; countless terracotta pots and bowls; a bottle of blue glass; magical-looking designs on mouldering charts and a pewter model of the crescent moon.

  In the middle of the chamber was a long table of grey stone. More webs covered this and the wooden dish upon it. The floor was strewn with straw and fragments of broken pots. In one corner there was a great, upturned iron cauldron and the rusted chain that had once suspended it from the large hook in the ceiling now snaked over the ground. But Oswald had yet to discover the horror of Hrethel’s chamber. When he did he squawked and leapt back in fright. There, in a niche, beside one of the charts was the dried up figure of a mummified bat.

  Nervously, Oswald edged forward towards the figure. The creature had been old when it had died. The fur was brindled with age and the wispy, goat-like beard was white. It was a disgusting object: the head was propped up on the folded wings and the neck was just bone and wasted flesh. The bat’s eyes were like two brown raisins on stalks, which bulged out of the sockets and seemed to stare back at the albino. The skin round the lips had shrunk and withered, pulling back over the yellow teeth, forming an alarming sneer. It was this that Oswald recognized – he knew from his vision that this was Hrethel himself. He closed his eyes but with Orfeo’s gift he could still see the grotesque thing.

  Oswald stepped back warily and looked away from the dead bat. He still had to find the book. Anxious to leave the eerie chamber Oswald began to search. He looked under the cauldron, cleared the webs off the table and peered round the shelves but it was nowhere to be found. He sat down on a pot and thought hard. Where would Hrethel have hidden the Great Book? An idea came to him and Oswald grubbed about on the floor, testing the flagstones for secret entrances. After an hour he gave that up and started knocking on the walls to see if they sounded hollow. When his knuckles were red raw he put his paw under his chin and tapped his tail with irritation – he was totally confused. Maybe the book had been burnt like everything outside.

  The shrivelled figure of Hrethel seemed to be laughing at him. Oswald glared at him with a mixture of anger and frustration. ‘Stop it!’ he shouted. It may have been foolish but the tension that had been mounting in him was released. He smiled at his idiotic notion – the bat was long dead and could not do him any harm. He had been avoiding that part of the chamber in his hunt for the book – then it dawned on him. Eldritch had said that he would have to face his fears. Where else w
ould the book be but with its master?

  Flushed with excitement Oswald went over to the preserved bat once more. Hrethel stared malevolently at him but he was not afraid. He put out a tentative paw and touched one of the folded wings. It was drier than a dead leaf and twice as delicate. It crumbled to dust instantly. Hrethel’s sneering head had nothing to support it and crashed to the ground in millions of parched pieces. Only the lower half of his body was left, sitting incongruously in the niche, surrounded by flaking particles of itself, and beyond . . . was the Great Book.

  Bravely Oswald cleared the dusty remains of the bat away and reached into the recess. His guess had been correct: even in death Hrethel had wanted to guard his treasure. The book was half as large as the mouse, bound in leather with silver hinges. The corners of the binding were gold and a thick strap sealed the book tightly shut.

  The mouse heaved it onto the table and breathlessly untied the strap. He hoped the pages were not as dry as Hrethel had been or it would never survive the journey upwards. He threw the strap down and gazed at the cover. The leather was weathered and greatly stained but it was still possible to see the tooled design. It was a crescent moon with a pointed star behind it and in the grooves there were traces of gold leaf; it must have been a beautiful thing once. Oswald could easily imagine how powerful it must have been and the terrible spells it contained.

  A tingling sensation thrilled his fingertips when he touched the binding – it was like holding an angry bee in a jar, with it banging and buzzing furiously against the glass. The Great Book seemed to have a life of its own, anything was possible knowing what was written in it.

  With a fluttering heart Oswald opened it. The first page was blank but seemed firm enough. At any rate it did not crumble to dust when he turned it over. The next page was blank also, and the next. Suspiciously Oswald flicked through the entire volume and slammed it shut. It was empty! By some black art, before he died, Hrethel had made all that was written disappear – making sure no-one could ever read the spells after he had gone. In his mind Oswald heard a mocking laugh come down the centuries to him. The Great Book, though a magical thing in its own right, was useless.

  7. The Demon Thief

  The grim evening closed round the old house and sealed it in darkness. The shades of winter gathered as the eternal cold ravaged down with unrelenting force. Deptford was tightly locked in the bleakest night it had ever known. The rooftops glistened with frosty ground glass whilst icicles spiked and skewered down from the gutters, looking like the eyebrows of some stern, ancient creature. The pavements were smooth, treacherous traps for the unwary and the roads rivers of black ice. Not a soul stirred outside, doors were bolted and curtained windows tried to shut out the wailing wind. Up above, the white, brilliant stars blazed with a fierce intensity not seen for many years as the hollow night swallowed the world whole.

  In the Skirtings Arthur dragged the blankets off his bed and made his way to the Hall. A great fire crackled there, dancing and leaping wildly, casting huge menacing shadows over the walls. It had been decided that everyone should sleep in the Hall as the previous night had been so dreadful. Everybody had shivered in their beds and pulled the clothes high over their heads, but in the morning noses were frozen and ears numb. Nobody could remember the weather ever being so severe. Now families were putting their bedding round the fire and settling the younger ones down, hoping they could get some much-needed sleep.

  Many were still hungry. The food situation had become worse and meals were now prepared and eaten together in the Hall to make sure everyone had the same amount. Cupboards were emptied and resources pooled. Mrs Coltfoot came up trumps with a dozen jars of homemade preserves and Mr Cockle passed round some warming berrybrew punch, but for supper all they had had was thin soup with no bread to dip in it. Master Oldnose had organized a foraging party that afternoon but after some hours they returned with empty sacks and heavy hearts, chilled to the bone. There was no food to be found anywhere. Thomas Triton had made several journeys to and from Greenwich, bringing what meagre stores he had. They helped, but they did not go far and the mice’s spirits sank very low.

  Audrey held her paws near the flames and put her head on her mother’s shoulder. The firelight flickered over her face and tears sparkled in her moist eyes. She was thinking of another fire – last summer. Sadly she hung her head. Gwen stroked her daughter’s glowing hair and untied the pink ribbon, then she looked across at Thomas Triton and smiled. He was telling the youngsters rambling tales of his voyaging youth and they listened intently, defying the yawns that crept up on them unexpectedly.

  At the edge of the circle of orange firelight sat the Starwife. Two days had now passed since Oswald flew off with the bats. The old squirrel had stayed in the Skirtings confident that sooner or later they would realize their mistake and come back for her, but the skies remained empty and no-one came. When she finally realized that her advice was not wanted the Starwife seemed to wither and grow weary, her inner fires and indomitable strength quenched at last. Now she sat with her patchy tail curled round her knees. She had not eaten since her arrival and there were dark circles round her eyes suggesting that sleep too had abandoned her. She was as still and as silent as Death. Occasionally her lips would move in time to some ancient prophecy or secret writing. The Starwife was deep in thought, lost in lonely memories, dredging up all the forgotten rhymes and words of lore she had ever learnt. It was slow, painful work, exhuming the dusty, dead knowledge from the faded, dry corners and finding no clues there. Somewhere there had to be an answer – if the bats refused her help then she had to do it alone.

  To the mice the Starwife was something of a one-day wonder. They had all become accustomed to seeing her rock gently to and fro, muttering strange-sounding words. She had not moved since they had all come down from the attic and to them she was now almost a figure of fun, a loopy creature to be pitied. The majority of them did not associate the terrible cold with Jupiter and thought she had been talking gibberish. Without her imperious ways she was like any other sad old lady and the mice were making the mistake of underestimating her.

  ‘Poor old dear,’ tutted Mrs Chitter indulgently.

  Only Thomas and Audrey gave much thought to her crouched figure. In the midst of his enthralling tales the midshipmouse would chance to look up and catch his breath in concern at her shrunken, shrivelled shape, but an infant’s tug at his arm would bring him back and the green seas would roll and the wind would blow once again.

  Audrey was thinking more and more of the squirrel. She recalled her visit to Greenwich when the Starwife had sat enthroned, ruling her subjects absolutely with her iron will. She had been perilous and powerful then and the mouse pitied her present condition – how frail and spent she appeared. In the dim, half-light of the crowding shadows, almost as if she had heard Audrey’s thoughts, the Starwife stirred out of her meditations. Her shoulders sagged and her bony back bent further forward. She dragged her crippled paws over her eyes and stared desolately at the floor.

  Gwen looked curiously after her daughter as the girl rose and made her way over to the Starwife. When she heard her coming the squirrel turned her milky eyes to the mouse and arched her brows questioningly. ‘Come to see if I’m still alive have you girl?’

  Audrey chewed her lip uncertainly. Actually she wasn’t sure why she had come over. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’ she ventured at last, ‘there’s, not much but you’d be most welcome to it.’

  The squirrel shook her head. ‘Thank you all the same, child,’ she said kindly, ‘but no, I could not manage anything at the moment.’

  ‘But you haven’t eaten anything since you came,’ insisted Audrey.

  ‘Then I shall starve!’ exclaimed the Starwife forcefully. For a moment she glared at the mouse then scolded herself, ‘No, no this will never do. Forgive me, child. I’m a stupid old creature who doesn’t know any better. I’ve had it too easy all my life you see. I’m too used to giving orders.’

 
Audrey sat down next to her, hugging her knees.

  ‘Do you miss your people?’ she asked.

  The squirrel smiled. ‘My people,’ she muttered, ‘yes I miss them – but not those cowardly ditherers I had to control in Greenwich, they were never my people.’ It was plain from Audrey’s face that she did not understand, so with a great sigh the Starwife explained.

  ‘My fur is grey now, what’s left of it, but I am not from the race of the greys; age has merely played that trick on me.’

  Audrey thought she understood. ‘Oh,’ she broke in, ‘then you were a red squirrel. I’ve never seen one of those, I thought they went away years ago.’

  The Starwife lowered her eyes sadly. ‘Yes, they went away,’ she echoed, ‘never to return. The red folk were a hearty lot, braver than those miserable wretches I’ve had to put up with all these years, but even there you are wrong child.’ She raised her head proudly and in a grand, sorrowful tone said, ‘I am a black squirrel: the noblest race ever to have breathed the sweet acorn-scented air.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of those,’ admitted Audrey.

  ‘No, and you never will again I should imagine. I have not been able to trace any of my kin. We were scattered by war and envy many years ago – long before I took up the silver and became the Handmaiden of Orion.’ Her words were wistful and full of regret. ‘And now there is no-one to take my place. I have searched and searched but all traces of the black squirrels are gone. I think I am the last – our line shall end with me, and the dynasty of the Starwives also. I fear the silver acorn will not be worn by any when I have passed on.’ She fell into brooding silence and lost herself in the tangled threads of her thoughts again.