The Final Reckoning

by Robin Jarvis

  A dark, vast shape reared out of the mist before them. Arthur tugged at Thomas’s paw but the midshipmouse laughed grimly. ‘’Tis only a bush, don’t fret.’ The large, leathery leaves of the rhododendron swept over the mice’s heads as they passed it by. Thomas was more confident now. He nodded and spoke quietly to himself as new landmarks sailed out of the vapour. Black railings flew into view and when he saw these he patted them and sighed with relief, ‘Thank the Green for that,’ he said to Arthur, ‘now we can follow these and get to the top in no time – I just hope we’re not too late.’

  Keeping the railings on their right the mice travelled on more quickly than before. Arthur could now see the blurred shape of the midshipmouse’s hat bob in front of him and thought his eyes were growing accustomed to the dense fog. There, he could distinctly see Thomas’s ears – the fog was getting thinner. ‘Mr Triton,’ he uttered in surprise.

  Thomas spun round and Arthur could see his face clearly. It was very grave. ‘Yes,’ said the midshipmouse quietly, ‘I’ve noticed, the cloud’s not as thick now, and this is where things get real hairy for you an’ me.’

  ‘But we can see now,’ said Arthur in a brighter voice.

  ‘Maybe,’ returned the other soberly, ‘but by the same token, we can also be seen. The dangers are not yet over, they merely begin. We have crossed the barrier – the fog was just a shield to foil prying eyes, now we shall see the demon hiding inside and maybe we shall wish to be blind once more.’

  The path came to an end and they found themselves on top of the hill. Wisps of mist flowed by but it was not as dense as before. The grand structure of the observatory towered up behind the rails, disappearing into the shrouded night – Arthur could even see the stars when he looked up. He let go of Thomas’s paw and rubbed his own together. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and exposed, as though there were countless eyes all around trained fixedly on him, watching and waiting.

  Thomas pattered along the bottom of the railing and darted over to the cover of a statue. He beckoned to Arthur to do the same. When they were both crouching at the foot of the sculpture Arthur turned a curious face to the midshipmouse and asked ‘What is it? Have you seen something?’

  ‘No lad, not seen – listen.’

  Arthur cocked an ear towards the observatory and held his breath. Amid the clatter of the nearby frozen oak branches, an evil voice was speaking, no it was chanting. It was very faint but the quality of that sound was unmistakable: it was totally fiendish.

  ‘Jupiter!’ exclaimed Arthur hoarsely. ‘But where is he and who’s he talking to?’

  ‘He ain’t talkin’ to no-one, lad,’ replied Thomas in a sour tone. ‘I’ve heard him speak like this afore, when me an’ young Willum spied him and that henchrat of his on the heath yonder. Jupiter is castin’ a spell’

  The world was lit suddenly by a brilliant flash of lightning. Thunder rolled and the earth trembled. At last the Lord of the Winter was revealed and the two mice covered their faces in fear. The last traces of mist swept back like a curtain and there he was, the Tyrant of the Dark. He stood astride the observatory dome and cackled. The unquiet spirit of Jupiter was immense, his huge, flickering outline reached high into the night sky. It was still that of a cat, but one of nightmare proportions. Ice fell from his transparent fur and where his gleaming, cruel feet touched a bitter, arctic frost sparked and fizzled, freezing everything it touched. The dome creaked and a long crack shivered round it. The ice which flowed over it was as strong as steel. It gleamed bitterly with the deep blue of the eternal void and icicles larger than stalactites stretched down to the ground. A howling gale tore round Jupiter’s huge head. From his mouth his deadly breath hailed down, full of winter’s hatred for the living. His savage teeth were like swords of polished, pale metal, forged by cruel, satanic fingers for a demon’s armoury, his nostrils dripped with tongues of cold flame and his ears were pressed flat against his spectral skull. But the eyes of the Unbeest were the most terrifying of all – they shone out into the darkness, blazing fires of pure malice. They seared into anything their baleful glance fell upon, withering the trees and cracking the ground. This was where the lightning was born. As Jupiter recited his dread words his eyes dazzled and a stream of fatal energy burst forth, tearing the sky apart and searing into the blackness of space. His snarls were like thunder and his anger a blizzard.

  ‘Hear me servants of the dark void,’ his voice hissed upwards. ‘I am the Lord of the World. Whilst you cringe, trapped forever in your exile, know that I, Jupiter, have unlocked the gates of Death and trouble once more the unhappy land. I call you to witness now the tumult I bring.’ He raised his mighty arms over his head and laughed wildly. Between his cruel claws something small shimmered with a silver light.

  ‘The Starglass,’ breathed Thomas fearfully. He and Arthur were very afraid; they could not believe what their eyes were seeing. Jupiter was indeed a creature of nightmares. They felt like two insects brought before a god, but they could not run to save themselves. Everything now seemed hopeless, there was nothing they could do against such a foe – all was lost.

  In his huge, brutish claws the Starglass of the Starwife looked like a tiny toy, but it was the only way Jupiter could achieve his goal. If the old squirrel had been there she would have ordered Thomas to destroy it at once. But she was far away and the mice had no idea what was about to take place. They thought that nothing worse could happen – they were never more wrong.

  ‘Slave of the timeless stars,’ bellowed Jupiter, ‘obey your new master!’ and he called out a sentence of harsh, powerful words from the far reaches of the abyss. ‘Remael sen Hoarmath eis Hagolceald!’ he proclaimed defiantly and he threw back his head with a mad, insane gurgle in his ghostly throat.

  The world seemed to hold its breath. All noise ceased and even the wind dropped as Jupiter completed his spell. The hush became deafening as the seconds stretched into minutes. In his claws the Starglass began to pulse with light. It throbbed and vibrated violently until Jupiter himself shook. The dome split further and bricks tumbled to the frozen ground. But Jupiter laughed at the top of his voice and his screeching cackles were heard all over the trembling world.

  Down at the base of the statue Arthur fell to the floor and hid his face. The noise was too much and he thought he was going to faint at any moment. Thomas pressed his nails up into his hair, the woollen hat was pushed off his head and he ground his teeth together in agony as the Unbeest’s voice pierced his very soul. Arthur squealed and writhed around in his torment, then with one final groan of despair he fainted and for him the pain came to an end. The midshipmouse looked at his young companion but was unable to help. Shortly he too would pass out, but he summoned his reserves of strength and raised his head back to the black fiend on top of the observatory. The Starglass in Jupiter’s iron grasp spilled out its power. The magic of centuries, stored in the depths, poured forth and a high pitched scream issued from its heart.

  ‘No,’ gloated Jupiter coldly, ‘you must obey me, I know your secret name and have uttered the charm laid down long ago. The celestial pivots are loosened and I command you to hold the heavens once more.’ The silver light from the Starglass suddenly soared upwards. The Unbeest yelled in his triumph and danced on the dome like a maniac.

  Thomas felt Jupiter’s shrieks of joy boom round his head and he cried out in pain. It hurt so much that he started to hallucinate. It seemed as if the very stars swirled and boiled. Thomas shook his head and dragged the paws from his face and stared intently at the heavens. He was not imagining it – the stars were indeed exploding and seething. That was the final horror. The midshipmouse felt all his strength trickle away and he collapsed senseless next to Arthur.

  The night sky quivered, the fierce starlight shook and waned. A host of wailing voices filled the air as one by one the stars were extinguished. Their light streamed to the Earth, slivers of brilliant thread shooting out of the black chasm. The slender beams were sucked down to the observatory, down
to where Jupiter was waiting, flourishing the Starglass, down into its depths where the brilliance was impossible to look on. As fiery rain they descended and lamentations issued from all creation. The constellations were quenched, snuffed out by the tremendous powers of both Jupiter and the age-old Starglass and all who witnessed it fell to their knees and prayed. The endless, eternal void came flooding in and the world was plunged into darkness.

  Not one single star was left in the pitch black sky – all their precious, angry light was trapped in the glass and Jupiter was its master.

  8. Re-Enlisting

  Somewhere a gong was booming. Coloured spots and flashes dazzled him and his head throbbed, threatening to explode. Piccadilly stirred and groaned in agony. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. The darkness was damp and his face was pressed against a grit floor that cut into his bruised cheek. The dots and blurs that danced before him subsided and he tried to focus his eyes. He took in where he was. It seemed to be a shallow pit beneath one of the Tube rails. The city mouse lifted his head and discovered that the booming gong was actually his brain.

  ‘Oh,’ he grunted putting a fragile paw to his forehead. He winced and screwed up his face as he felt a lump the size of an egg. Piccadilly raised himself slowly and checked his condition. Thankfully no bones were broken. He decided to try and stand. ‘Gently does it,’ he told himself. His pounding head made him sway unsteadily and his legs felt like jelly. Resting against the side of the pit he tried to remember what had happened to him. He had been running, tripped, hit his head and fallen down. Piccadilly suddenly felt very hungry. He must have been out cold for hours, perhaps even a whole day. ‘He licked his dry lips and spat the horrible taste of stale blood and bitter oil from his mouth. It was then he remembered whom he had been running from.

  ‘The rats,’ he cried, and glanced fearfully down the dark tunnel, but it was empty and quiet as the grave. ‘They can’t have seen me trip,’ he concluded gratefully. ‘The twerps must have run right over me without realizing.’ The smile that had formed on his lips froze and he sucked the air in sharply.

  ‘Holeborn!’ he exclaimed, panic-stricken. ‘What has happened? Did the rats attack?’ He hoped Marty had got back in time to warn everyone.

  He hauled himself out of the pit and made for the station ahead. How still everything was, no foraging parties or lookout scouts anywhere. An uneasy feeling descended on his spirit and his steps quickened.

  He hastily made for the main entrance to Holeborn, his mind racing and his heart missing every other beat – if only this could be some horrible nightmare. He was close to tears as he thought of all the harmless mice trembling with fright in their homes or fighting to the death against the rat army. He gripped his knife. If the war had begun then he was ready; no rat would stand before him as long as he had the strength. He would make sure they never feasted on mouse suppers.

  A noise round a blind corner brought him to an abrupt halt. There came the sound of shambling footsteps – it was unmistakably a rat. Piccadilly leant against the grimy tunnel wall and wished he had been more cautious. What if there was a whole band of rats camped outside the main doors? He would have run straight into them! He held his breath and listened fearfully. How many could he handle at once, he wondered. A cold gleam flashed off his little knife as he drew it slowly from his belt and readied himself.

  ‘’Tain’t right, let’s us run while we can an’ leave ’em to it. We don’t want none o’ it do we? No, no more lumps on me ’ed.’

  Piccadilly relaxed and lowered his knife; it was only Barker and he was sure to be alone. The mouse waited for the barmy creature to turn the corner and before he knew what was happening Piccadilly had grabbed and pinned him against the wall.

  ‘Aiiee!’ screamed the rat in surprise. He made such a terrible noise that Piccadilly had to put his paw over his mouth.

  ‘Ssshh,’ he hissed, ‘if I hear you so much as breathe I’ll give you so many lumps you won’t be able to count them. That’s better. We don’t want your mates comin’ to see what all the fuss is do we? Now, what happened?’ he snapped through snarling teeth, ‘Where is everyone – did they get away or what?’

  Barker stared at him with a mad, terrified look in his eyes and wildly shook his head. ‘Tweren’t Barker,’ he denied quickly, ‘he ’ad nowt to do wiv it, ’tweren’t him, no!’

  Piccadilly felt sick. His eyes grew large and fearsome, so dreadful to look on that the rat cowered down and whimpered. ‘Tell me!’ he exploded. ‘What happened to all the mice in there – they got away didn’t they? The place was empty when your lot arrived, wasn’t it?’

  Barker snivelled and opened his mouth to cry. He twisted his old, bony head on his scrawny neck and shivered miserably, ‘Tweren’t Barker,’ he insisted, ‘he wouldn’t touch mousey meat.’

  Piccadilly stood back and choked. He stumbled and gaped, unable to believe his ears. The rat watched him warily and looked for an opportunity to escape. ‘You’re lying,’ Piccadilly said at last and his face hardened. He lunged forward and caught hold of Barker’s throat. ‘Tell me you’re lying!’

  Barker’s bottom lip quivered and he coughed and spluttered. The mouse was throttling him. The rat’s eyes nearly popped out of his head and he wheezed and gasped as Piccadilly’s fingers squeezed the breath out of him.

  Piccadilly suddenly realized what he was doing and he pulled away sharply. He stared at his paws as though they belonged to some other creature. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said slowly. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing. Please, tell me what happened.’

  Barker rubbed his neck and croaked like a frog. ‘The battle didn’t last long,’ he admitted warily. ‘Barker stayed to one side – he don’t like no fightin’ an’ rough stuff.’ He half closed his wrinkled eyes and an expression of pity crept over his weary face. ‘We thought you had reached the mouse halls mousey boy,’ he continued. ‘Old Stumpy urged us on and we charged into them. The lads were mad wiv the blood craving an’ when Barker looked into their faces he were right scared. There was a bad, crazed light in their eyes an’ it made Barker wanna run right back where he came from – but if he had they would’ve tore ’im to bits, sure as muck is muck. It were like being swept along by one o’ them movin’ stepways; no way could he slip off an’ hide till all was done.’ With his back against the side of the tunnel Barker sank down onto his haunches and took hold of his head. ‘Them mouses hadn’t a clue what were happenin’,’ he said. ‘The lads burst in on ’em and pounced on all they could; they was took totally by surprise. Your folk should’ve got ready an’ armed ’emselves lad. It were sickenin’ seein’ how easy they was cut down – like straws the fell.’

  At this point Barker covered his ears and a large tear fell from his snout. ‘I can still hear them,’ he wept to himself, ‘they were squeakin’ and cryin’ for help but all that came runnin’ were got like them. All them small, high voices still ring in me ears make ’em stop, it weren’t Barker, please mouses I’se so sorry.’ For some minutes the rat sobbed and was unable to say any more.

  Piccadilly felt cold. A dull wave of shock washed over him and his stomach lurched inside. He put out a paw and touched Barker’s tear-drenched claws. It did not occur to him how bizarre the situation was, that he should be comforting a rat who had been part of an army which had slaughtered all his friends. ‘Are they all dead?’ he asked thickly.

  The rat raised his head and gazed sorrowfully at the mouse. ‘The ground was scarlet! Old Stumpy made all of us check out all the halls and tiny rooms, and there were awful yells as families were dragged out and taken away to be peeled. Now Old Stumpy’s callin’ himself King of the City.’ The rat buried his face in his claws and cried his eyes raw.

  A terrible look came over Piccadilly, his jaw tightened and the colour of his eyes matched the steel of his knife’s blade. He would not rest until he managed to fulfil the oath he had sworn long ago: Morgan had to die.

  * * *

  Kelly chuckled to Smiff as he draped a
mouse skin over his shoulders and twirled round, ‘Ain’t I luvverly?’ he said, dribbling all down his front. “The belle o’ the ball – that’s me.’ And he swished down the hall dragging the forlorn skin behind him.

  Smiff hooted and threw another crispy mouse ear into his jaws. What a fight it had been! Never could he remember having such a marvellous time. And the feast! Mouse ears and juicy mouse meat succulent and tender, not too well done, roasted ever so slightly until the outside was brown but the inside was still rare. He had never tasted such things before, but they seemed to stir some ancient, dormant spirit in him that lusted for more. Even though he was stuffed he still had the craving.

  He thought longingly of the brawn gravy they had made and his mouth fell open as he drooled at the memory. Old Stumpy had told them the best ways to eat mice and how right he had been! What a marvellous general Old Stumpy was. Smiff picked up his bowl and drank a toast to his leader, mmm, warm fat – delicious.

  Nearly all the rats were in the main hall, the one in which the mice had held their meeting just a few nights before. They caroused and slapped each other on their backs as only conquerors can. No-one regretted joining up and this, their first campaign, had been an outstanding success. Only five of their number had died when a small group of elderly mice had leapt out of nowhere with sticks and swords in their paws, shouting war cries and charging defiantly into the rat horde. The stand had not lasted for very long and the mice were soon skinned. The grey fur Kelly was sporting had been one of them. The rats told crude stories and cracked wicked jokes at their victims’ expense. Three black-hearted vermin seized some skins and used them as grisly puppets, acting out parts of the battle, relishing the killing and torment. A crowd gathered about them and raucous laughter shook the hall. Nearly everyone took up a mouse fur and placed them on their heads like ghastly hats. They peered through the blank eyeholes and poked their tongues out of the mouth spaces. They were a debauched, disgusting sight.