Blinking back tears, Amber raised her paws, preparing to turn Ben into a human.
“Don’t!” Ben shouted, his heart pounding in terror.
“Why?” Amber asked.
“Because,” Ben said, “because . . . I want to help. I mean, I’m afraid to go with you, but just because I’m afraid to do something, it doesn’t mean that others should die or be kept as slaves, does it?”
Amber sat up on her back paws and peered at him, tears of gratitude now forming in her eyes. She leaned forward and hugged Ben again.
He would not have admitted it to his best friend, but it felt good to be hugged by her, even if she was just a mouse.
“Okay,” Ben said, “let’s go.” He hopped down into the grass, gripping his spear in his front paws. To his delight, Thorn and Bushmaster leapt down beside him, and then Amber jumped last of all. Together, they began hopping downhill.
“Wait!” Lady Blackpool cried. “Come back. The danger is too great . . .”
Ben turned to her. “Why don’t you come with us, too?”
Lady Blackpool shook her head sadly. “I cannot. Where you are going, it’s very cold. I must eat twice my own weight in food every day, and there, food would be very hard to find. I might go mad with hunger. I wouldn’t want to hurt any of you.”
Ben understood what she was hinting at. Shrews ate everything—slugs, bugs, and snails mostly. But they would eat a mouse, too, if they got hungry enough.
Lady Blackpool hopped down, raced up to Amber and the others, then stood there with her whiskers quivering, her eyes wide.
“One last word of warning,” she said. “The worm that you face—he casts his spells in songs and rhymes. Some animals can only cast spells that way. They use words to focus their powers and have a hard time casting spells in their minds alone. It may be that you’ll have to find some way to shut him up, keep him from uttering a spell.”
“Like put a cork in his mouth?” Ben suggested.
“Or slap a paw over it,” Lady Blackpool suggested.
“Thank you,” Amber said. She turned away and led the others. The mice had made up their minds. Amber could get her training later. Now was the time to fight!
Chapter 9
WHITE ON WHITE
I pity the poor creature whose blood never quickens, who never tastes fear, who mopes about in his burrow all day.
To live without thrills is no life at all.
—BUSHMASTER THE VOLE`
Deathmonger’s pulse quickened at the thought of a dangerous kill.
White fur against the white snow, a weasel named Deathmonger went bounding toward his prey, racing out from beneath a green pine tree, hopping over some rocks, moving effortlessly over the sparkling white crust of a snowdrift.
The young mouse didn’t see the danger. He was moving east, the way that so many others had been this winter, his eyes glazed, his ears registering nothing but the haunting melodies of wormsong.
He never heard the weasel. Instead, the predator pounced, the weasel’s eight ounces of weight crushing the small mouse into the snow while sharp teeth punctured his throat.
The mouse died without a squeak or a struggle. His hind legs kicked uselessly as Deathmonger held him down, but soon the only movement was the flow of blood from his neck.
Deathmonger licked the salty blood with his small pink tongue, anticipating a feast. Soon there was a bright red stain on his chin, like a little beard. Other than the red of blood and the black of his eyes, Deathmonger blended perfectly with the snow. He was growing fat for a weasel. Life this winter had been easy, the easiest he had ever seen.
“I thank the Master of the Hunt for this kill,” he whispered, then pulled on the mouse’s fur, tearing it open so that he could get to the meat hidden beneath.
But at that moment, he heard a distant call, and in his mind he saw a great worm, an enormous dark worm in a deep cave.
“I am the one whom you should be thanking,” the worm whispered. “Not the Creator.”
“Perhaps I should be thanking you both,” the weasel said, unwilling to rob the Creator of at least some credit for the bounty of this winter.
“You are a sorcerer,” the worm said. “You taught at SADIST.”
“And you fought in the Great War, beside the Dark Lady,” Deathmonger said, not willing to be beaten. “You were her favorite, Sebaceous Ooze, the great worm that gnaws the world’s heart. What word have you from her?”
“Her spirit wanders the earth, craving blood still. The time of her return is close at hand.”
“Hasten the day,” Deathmonger whispered.
“You were a general in the Great War,” Sebaceous said. “Your talents were never properly rewarded.”
“That was long ago,” Deathmonger admitted. “I am a simple weasel now, with small ambitions.”
“The killing of mice?” Sebaceous said. “And without magic?”
“Magic power used is magic power wasted,” Deathmonger said.
“So you have been hoarding your power?” Sebaceous said approvingly. “For this past hundred years? Your supplies must be vast, almost limitless!”
“I save what I can,” Deathmonger admitted. “Besides, I have little need for magic anymore. I win what I need with my wits, my teeth, and my claws.”
“Yet your heart pounds for the thrill of the hunt,” the worm whispered. “Your blood races at the thought of a kill. I think that you would welcome the chance for worthy prey.”
How well the worm knew him. Deathmonger’s pulse quickened at the thought of a dangerous kill. He had been taking mice all winter—dazed mice, crazed mice.
But there had been times in the past when hunger forced him to seek out more dangerous prey—cottontail rabbits that were ten times his weight, with sharp teeth that could rend his flesh, and with feet that could deliver a deadly kick.
“What kind of prey?” Deathmonger asked, and his imagination went wild. He envisioned great horned owls and foxes, images that made him shiver with both fear and anticipation.
“A mouse,” the worm said.
Deathmonger spat bright red droplets of blood into the snow. “I’ve grown weary of mouse flesh. I already have a kill today.”
“Ah,” the worm said, “but not like this.”
And Deathmonger saw in his mind’s eye a mouse, pale gold in color—a magical mouse, wearing a nutshell upon her head, guarded by others that bore what looked like pine needles made of frozen ice.
How interesting, Deathmonger thought, imagining the sweetness of her blood.
“This is a kill that you will be able to boast about,” the worm whispered. “Your fame will last for generations. This is the Golden One of legend, who it is said will free all of mousekind. Of the billions and billions of mice that have been born into this world, none has had her powers. Kill her, and fame will be yours. Her name is Amber.”
Deathmonger smiled cruelly, displaying the blood that covered his sharp canine teeth. “It will be my pleasure.”
* * *
“What’s the fastest way to get to the worm’s lair?” Amber asked Ben when they were almost to his house.
“Well,” Ben said, “you could fly us there in a magic bubble, but last time we tried that, you drained all of the magic out of me.”
“That wouldn’t be advisable,” Thorn said, sounding like some college professor. Gone was the bumbling, smelly mouse of the past. “Getting there is only half the battle. You’ll need your energy in case there is a fight.”
“We could go by bird,” Amber said. “I had an owl fly me to Nightwing’s lair. It was slower than using my magical powers, but it was easier.”
“We’d need a large bird,” Thorn said. “A heron should do nicely.”
“Falcons are faster,” Ben objected. “They’re the fastest bird—” A thought occurred to him. “I suppose that if we knew where we were going, we might take an airplane.”
“What’s an airplane?” Thorn asked.
“It’s a machine for f
lying through the air,” Ben said. “You can see one right up there!” He pointed up into the sky, to a Boeing 747 that was flying north. It had just taken off from the Salem airport, and was not more than a thousand or so feet in the air.
“Inconceivable!” Thorn shouted. “A machine that flies. And its wings aren’t even flapping! You know, I’ve seen those things before, but I just thought they were giant mosquitoes or something!”
“Oh, they’re much bigger than mosquitoes,” Ben said. “There are hundreds of humans flying inside.”
“Hmmmm . . .” Thorn said. “Perhaps we could make a machine that propels itself with only a small amount of magical energy! That shouldn’t be too hard!”
Ten minutes later, Amber had used her powers to put something together. A garbage can lid formed the body of the mice’s airship. Beneath it was the engine and propeller from Mrs. Pumpernickel’s lawnmower. On top, the mice had a little pillow to cushion them from vibrations, while an overturned turtle bowl offered protection from the wind.
All in all, it looked just like a small flying saucer.
“Voila!” Thorn shouted when he was done. “An airship. I’m sure that it will fly. But of course I may need just a bit of magical help to steer it!”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Amber said.
All four mice climbed into the cockpit, and Amber used a small amount of magical energy to make a spark and start the engine. The ship shot up into the sky, three hundred feet in three seconds, whirling this way and that, then flipped over and zoomed back toward ground.
“Help!” Ben shouted. “We’re going to crash!”
With just a tiny spell, Amber righted the ship and sent it hurtling off.
Ben peered down at the houses and streets, and from above, he spotted his car. His mom was driving slowly through the neighborhood, and even through the glass, Ben imagined that he could hear her calling his name.
In no time at all they were whizzing east toward the freeway, over the green hills of Oregon, toward the high, fir-covered Cascade Mountains, which were still white with snow.
* * *
Latonia Pumpernickel had done everything that she could to warn the world about her “mouse problem.” In the past two days she’d called the CIA, the FBI, the president of the United States, the head of the United Nations, and even the folks that ran Orkin Pest Control.
None of them would help.
But they’ll have to listen when they see that I have proof! she told herself.
Latonia Pumpernickel hid in her attic with a brand new digital camera. It had a zoom lens and could even take pictures in the dark!
She’d just caught it all on tape—the mice using her lawnmower and her brand new garbage can lid to build some sort of spaceship.
A flying saucer, she realized, as she filmed the contraption racing off, a streak of silver that blurred in the sky.
These aren’t mice at all! She told herself. They’re aliens that just look like mice! They probably crashed, and now they’re trying to fly home.
Just like E.T., she told herself.
Suddenly, Latonia realized that she’d been dealing with the wrong agencies all along. It wasn’t the FBI she should have been calling: it was the Men in Black!
“I’ll show those alien mice,” she cackled. “I’ll show the whole world!”
Chapter 10
FALLEN ANGELS
You cannot truly understand the joy of flying until you have felt the pain of a fall.
—GRAY OWL
“This is just like flying on a giant frisbee!”
Amber peered down below at the houses and trees and fields. She could see them a little, but the sun glared down so brightly, reflecting off the aluminum garbage can lid, that it hurt her eyes.
“This is just like flying on a giant frisbee!” Ben shouted in delight.
Amber was pleased with herself. The engine of her flying machine roared, making the whole craft tremble. It was a terribly noisy way to fly, and also terribly exciting. She felt like a silver angel speeding carefree above the world.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t see down below, so she just harnessed all of the energy from the ship and sent it east, skimming the treetops. Little did she know what kind of a stir this was causing!
* * *
Dawna Shockley was driving to work and was one of the first to see the flying saucer—a blindingly silver craft with a glass bubble on top.
She swerved off the freeway, down into the ditch, roared through a fence, and hit a two-thousand-pound rodeo bull.
At sixty-five miles per hour, her car took the bull out at the knees. Most of the bull went through the passenger’s side window, but its head got caught in the roof and pulled the roof completely off.
When Dawna finally came to a stop, she had a perfect view of the flying saucer whizzing over her head.
As for the bull, it just got up on its feet, mooed angrily at the car, and went back to grazing.
Fumbling for her cell phone, Dawna immediately dialed 911, and frantically began shouting, “Help! Help! There’s a flying saucer full of aliens. They just tried to abduct me!”
But her call was only the first to deluge the Dallas, Oregon, police department. Hundreds of calls began pouring in within seconds of each other.
“The aliens are landing!” one nervous caller shouted. “The spaceship looks like it is flying five miles in the air,” another added, “and must be a mile across. It’s hurtling east at ten thousand miles per hour!” A third caller cried, “I just saw it shoot out a laser beam that lifted a herd of sheep in the air!”
Cars down on the busy interstate saw it and sped up, trying to get a closer look, but the flying saucer was moving far too fast.
Police cars gave chase in vain, sirens wailing and lights flashing, but the flying saucer whipped over rivers and crossed the woods.
In no time at all, half a dozen Air Force jets were scrambling over the valley at nearly two thousand miles per hour.
Amber and the other mice were peering ahead, doing their best to travel toward the sound of the wormsong.
Ben was the only one who happened to look behind. He’d been gazing at his house, wondering if he’d ever see it again, as it finally disappeared in the distance.
Suddenly, he spotted three F-18 fighter jets veering straight at them.
“I’ve got a funny feeling about this,” Ben said, his stomach suddenly growing queasy.
The jets roared toward them.
“Amber,” he said, his voice rising in fear. “We have company!”
“Who?” Amber asked. “Are those fleas back?”
“No,” Ben said, pointing toward the planes. “Those are fighter jets!”
Amber turned and peered stupidly at the approaching planes. Ben suddenly realized that she wouldn’t know a fighter jet from a nosehair trimmer. “Those are airplanes,” Ben said, “like ours. Only they have guns in them.”
“Oh,” Amber said. “What are guns?”
Suddenly, from one of the jets, a pair of missiles detached, their rockets flaring, leaving a smoky white trail as they blasted toward Amber’s little ship.
“I recommend that we take evasive action!” Thorn shouted.
“Duck!” Ben screamed.
Amber whirled. “A duck? Where?”
She peered forward, afraid that they’d crash into a duck.
Their little aircraft suddenly dove and dodged to the left, as Amber tried bravely to avoid a duck that she couldn’t see.
The tactic saved their lives. Just then, a missile exploded nearby, sending pieces of shrapnel through the garbage can lid. The lawnmower engine blew clear while the propeller turned into a twisted piece of scrap metal, looking sort of like warm taffy that a couple of kids had been fighting over.
The top of the contraption, the thick turtle bowl, cracked into pieces, and the mice were thrown clear. They went hurtling toward their deaths.
Ben saw trees below and rocks and a fishing pond, and he screamed as
he fell.
When they were only a dozen feet from land, all of the mice quit tumbling. Instead, they floated down softly, like feathers in the air.
The F-18 fighter jets roared past, circled, and came back again.
Ben found himself trembling in terror, his legs so weak that he could hardly stand. It had only been twenty minutes, and already he regretted his decision to follow Amber on her journey.
“Who are those guys?” Amber demanded. Her jaw had dropped open, partly in fear, partly in awe at the power of the explosion. She watched the circling jets.
“Those are from the Air Force,” Ben said. “They’re like the Army, a human army that patrols the skies.”
“And they just shoot down innocent mice?” Thorn asked. “Inconceivable!”
“Well,” Amber said, “they’re not going to get away with it!” She raised a finger on her front paw, taking aim as if it were a gun.
“Stop!” Ben shouted. “You can’t just kill people!”
“Why not?” Amber asked evenly. “They tried to kill me.”
“But,” Ben said. “That was an accident. They thought you were an enemy ship.”
“Oh, yeah?” Amber asked. “What about that time a human tried to feed me to a lizard? Huh? What about that!”
Ben stood there, convicted by his own actions. Amber was right. Humans were mean. They poisoned mice that tried to live in their homes. They bought them to use as snake food.
Amber watched the jet arc over the treetops, apparently deciding not to blast it into oblivion.
“I’m adding humans to the list,” Amber said. “They’re the enemies of mice. And when I take over the world, they’re going to have to change their ways!”
“I’m not your enemy,” Ben apologized, wishing that he could speak for all of mankind.
* * *
Amber marched through the undergrowth with the other mice behind, shaken. The blast from the missile had made her brains rattle in her skull, and she wasn’t really certain what she was doing anymore.
Ravenspell Book 2: The Wizard of Ooze Page 6