by Alex Milway
“I thought this ship was supposed to be fast?” muttered Drewshank, rushing to the bow. He stepped up a short ladder and peered through the rain at the gunship, now fully on the move toward them.
“They’re after us!” he shouted. Drewshank looked to the harbor and saw crowds of people bustling around. A battalion of soldiers, lined up along the seawall, lifted their rifles to fire, and Drewshank hurled himself at the deck.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” he shouted, banging his hand on the floor.
Scratcher rushed to his side to see if he was all right.
“What did you say?” he shouted.
“Lose that ship!”
“Oh!” said Scratcher.
“And shut those mice up…”
Scratcher whistled loudly, and the ear-piercing wail squeaked to a halt.
“Thank you!”
“Any time.”
“They’re catching us!” shouted a young mousekeeper from up on the second mast.
Above the Silver Shark’s armored side, Emiline watched the sails of the gunship in the distance. Drewshank stood up and rushed to her side.
“Not far now,” she said through gritted teeth. She had to navigate into a route only eighty meters wide at the most: the open sea was nearing and her hands gripped the wheel tighter. The ship fired at them once more, and cannonballs splashed down into the water just ahead of them.
“Keep her steady!” said Drewshank. More shots whizzed overhead.
“How are we going to escape them?” asked Emiline, catching sight of the gunship over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” said Drewshank, pulling his collar tight to stop the rain from getting in. “Our man Algernon has that sorted… I hope.”
Emiline managed a smile. The Silver Shark was getting harder to control, but that meant only one thing: it was picking up speed, and in seconds the huge, algae-covered seawalls were on either side of them.
“Come on, Algernon,” said Drewshank. He started tapping his hands against his legs, sensing the gunship was nearing. Its cannons fired again, and they hit the rear of the Silver Shark full-on. The hull pitched forward slightly with the impact, but Emiline maintained her footing and the ship’s course.
Scratcher ran along the deck to the rear of the ship. He swung open the door into Mousebeard’s cabin and rushed to look out of the small rounded window at the back. The gunship was closing in. It was easily the equal of the Silver Shark and had four front-mounted cannons trained—it seemed—on him. They fired again. Scratcher dropped to the floor and heard a colossal explosion as the Silver Shark took the hit.
“But cannonballs don’t explode?” he said.
Scratcher jumped to his feet and looked out the window. The gunship was on fire, with a blossoming column of smoke rising from its deck. The two walls on either side of it that heralded the calm of Old Town’s harbor were in tatters, and huge rocks lay strewn everywhere.
“Algernon, you did it!” he laughed.
Scratcher ran back onto the deck and found Drewshank and Emiline with smiles on their faces.
“We did it!” said Drewshank proudly.
“Proper fugitives now…,” added Emiline. “We’ll be as wanted as Mousebeard!”
“With our own posters!” cheered Scratcher. He looked up and called to all the mousekeepers to come down onto the deck. They were drenched, but overjoyed at having taken part in such an exciting event.
As the rain grew heavier, the Silver Shark powered through the waves like a silver bullet. With Emiline at the helm and its very small crew rushing back and forth, its course was set: the Isle of Glum awaited them.
Spires ran toward the quayside, but he was too late. Soldiers were everywhere, and the sound of gunfire filled the air as the Silver Shark drifted away. He pulled his hood down further to shield his eyes, and waited silently.
“What would Mousebeard do?” he thought to himself, as cannonballs smashed into the buildings behind him. It had been years since he’d seen a battle, and he felt his confidence growing. Ever since he had taken part in rescuing Mousebeard, his hunger for adventure had slowly replaced his fear.
The butler looked around at the harbor: there were fishing vessels aplenty, as well as the countless naval ships that now littered the port. Even with all the drama surrounding him, there had to be some way of securing passage out of Old Town. He felt the thick wad of schillings inside his pocket and remembered something his friend Algernon used to say: “A sailor charmed is only half as willing as a sailor paid.”
He smiled to himself and started searching for a captain who looked down on his luck.
The Wailer Mouse
THIS PECULIARLY UGLY MOUSE IS KNOWN FOR ITS EAR-PIERCING SHRIEK, THE sound of which can travel for miles across water and, at worst, can deafen a human. In order to create such a din, the mouse inflates a large air sac in its throat and then forces the air out through its teeth like a whistle.
The Wailer Mouse was first discovered only forty-two years ago on a small island called Erta on the edge of the Great Sea. A group of the mice were found clustered on a craggy clifftop above what could only be described as a ship graveyard. It is now thought that the ships’ sailors fell victim to the collected noise of the mice and lost their minds and bearings.
MOUSING NOTES
Due to its aggressive shrieking, and the problems this could cause within a town environment, the Wailer Mouse is a banned species.
The Pirate Mousehunting Club
THE ISLE OF GLUM SAT ALONE IN A VAST BROODING SEA, with nothing but choppy waves and the occasional lost Stubby-nosed Seal Mouse for company. It wasn’t quite bare—a lone wilting pine tree stood upon its grey stone back—but there was nothing of any worth for a tourist to visit. If you had a keen interest in mice and were a pirate, however, this was one of the most talked-about places in the world.
Accessible only from the water, and then visible only if you navigated past a field of razor-sharp rocks standing proudly out of the sea, a wide cave cut deep into Glum. Its course twisted far into the island’s stomach like a saltwater sewer, bringing all manner of dirty, stinking, mouse-fixated pirates deep underground.
For way below Glum’s surface, the long, twisting cave eventually opened out into a glistening cavern the size of six cathedrals at the least. A serene lake filled its bottom, and around its edges were all manner of seafaring vessels resting peacefully. Buildings were hewn into the rock face or clung to the ceiling like Cave Mouse dung, with solid wooden tendrils descending into the lake to hold them up. A series of walkways crisscrossed the space like a giant cobweb, and torches flickered restlessly every few meters along their sides.
Pirates could be seen everywhere, huddled in discussion or caught up in heated debate about rodents. And if ever there was a place where pirates could be seen as being civilized, it was Glum.
The Pirate Mousehunting Club that ran the facilities on the island demanded only one thing: that the island should remain a secret, even on pain of death. Pirates rarely play by the rules, but as testament to how important the island was, only one known man had ever foolishly let slip the location. His name was Big Bones Alkin, and both he and his unfortunate confidants came to a swift and untimely death when they were forcibly chained to an iron post on Luckgone Island—hunting ground of the deadly Slime-toothed Fang Mouse. It would have been a very messy end for any creature.
This rule meant that Glum provided the most perfect hiding place for people wanting to stay out of the authorities’ way. And for Mousebeard, this was exactly what was required.
The pirate rested in a wooden cabin at the uppermost point of the cave. It was bolted to the cavern rock face with immense iron screws, and the floorboards creaked ominously with every movement. Mousebeard sat quietly at a table lit by candlelight, with a huge map spread out wide before him. He teased his beard between his fingers, occasionally scratching the backs of the few mice that he’d borrowed from fellow pirates and placed within. They didn’t make up fo
r his own mice that had been stolen and now resided in Isiah Lovelock’s collection, but they would do.
His dark eyes stared at an island—a long way from Glum—that was drawn with clouds all around its edges. Small words were scribbled over it: “Stormcloud Island—land at your peril.”
Mousebeard rapped his fingers on the table.
“What’s your problem?” said Fenwick, resting against the wall. His rough sailor’s hands rubbed over his shaved head. “They’ll get your blasted ship back!”
The pirate turned and glowered at the man, the candles picking up the shiny eyes of the mice in his beard.
“I’m worried,” he said. “It’s been over a week.”
“They don’t need your cares,” replied Fenwick angrily. “You’re only interested in your ship and your curse, no matter what you say.”
“Fenwick…,” the pirate growled, but stopped his words short. Someone had knocked at the thin door. “Come in!”
“It’s Ingrid,” announced a scratchy but friendly voice. The door swung open.
“Your ship’s arrived,” said Ingrid Hoodwink, an aging pirate with puffed-up trousers and wild straw-colored hair. Behind her stood Chervil, the onetime ship’s cat of the Flying Fox. Ever since being brought to Glum it had never left her side; wisely, since most mousecollectors hated cats more than anything. No one dared touch it, though, as Ingrid had been a resident at Glum for nearly thirty years and was the closest anyone got to being in charge of the place.
“They made it?” cheered Fenwick, rushing headfirst through the door, his mouse clinging to his shirt collar for dear life.
“It’s causing quite a stir among the newest residents,” she said.
“Ah… your hospitality has proved limitless, Ingrid,” said Mousebeard, folding up his map and rising to his feet. He picked his mouse-bitten tricorn hat from the table and pulled it tightly onto his head.
“If there’s ever a way to repay your kindness, you only have to ask.”
Ingrid blushed slightly. In the world of pirates, Mousebeard was a celebrity held in great respect, but among the mousekeeping ranks he was as close to a living god as you could get—especially after his recent escape from the gallows.
“Thank you, sir,” she said joyously, and skipped out of the cabin with wind in her sails. Before she had gotten too far away, however, she stopped and delved into her trouser pocket.
“Oh, sir,” she added seriously, pulling out a small clipping from the Mousing Times. “I saw this…. Please be careful!”
She passed it to the pirate, and he stared at the headline, nothing more. “Illyrian Death Squads seek vengeance for Golden Mice,” it read.
“Thank you again, Ingrid,” he said. “I promise I won’t let any near me.”
Mousebeard stepped onto the ropewalk that ran from his door to a rickety staircase along the cave wall. He gripped the firm handrail and peered over to see the lake way down below. There was his ship, the Silver Shark, shimmering in the flickering light as though cut from the purest diamond. A group of pirates had huddled at its side, and despite a few battle scars and war wounds here and there, it looked in fine fettle.
He walked the long route down to the lake with many eyes upon him. Mousebeard had hardly left his cabin since his arrival on Glum for fear of arousing too much interest, and with the bounty on his head doubled since his escape from Old Town he was still wary of any loose talk. He checked the swords at his side and pulled the buckles at his waist to ensure they were secure.
“Drewshank!” he shouted, dropping the final few steps onto one of the floating pontoons that rested across the lake as makeshift docks.
A gangplank clunked down from the side of the Silver Shark, and Devlin Drewshank marched forth. He shook Fenwick’s hand, resisting a manly hug from his stocky first mate, but he was happy to see his friend nonetheless. Then he saw the shape of Mousebeard in the distance.
“I told you we’d make it,” Drewshank said aloud, navigating the crowd like a true celebrity in order to reach the pirate. “Look, not a scratch on her!”
Mousebeard’s beard bulged out sideways, as what could only be described as a smile formed on his usually stern face.
“You didn’t let me down,” he said. “That’s twice I owe you now…. And everyone else?”
The young mousekeepers ran down the gangplank and were immediately swamped by the crowd—consisting mainly of their pirate parents. Emiline and Scratcher followed and were quickly grasped between the arms of Fenwick, who was overjoyed to see them.
“And Algernon? Horatio?” asked Mousebeard.
“I’m here!” called Algernon, skipping down the gangplank. His submarine sat on the top deck, lashed down by iron chains and ropes. He’d spent most of the journey on board resting in one of the ship’s hammocks.
“Spires wasn’t there to meet us,” said Drewshank, his tone serious.
“He wasn’t? But we’ve received no word from him…,” said Mousebeard.
“No, nor us,” added Algernon. “But Horatio is a man of many talents and resources. Let’s give him a few weeks, and if we’ve still heard nothing, then we should act.”
Mousebeard nodded, patted his wide hand on Algernon’s shoulder, and started to walk toward his ship.
“Oh, and we’ve managed to find ourselves a prisoner…,” said Drewshank sheepishly. “She’s held in the brig….”
“A prisoner? That doesn’t sound like the actions of Captain Drewshank,” said Mousebeard, laughing.
“She seems very nice… and peculiarly, she seemed overjoyed by the whole experience.”
Mousebeard put his arm around Drewshank and whispered quietly in his ear.
“You’d better not let anyone here know about her. They don’t take kindly to outsiders,” he said, smiling.
“Oh I wouldn’t dream of it,” replied Drewshank. “But she has mentioned how much she’d like to meet you….”
Mousebeard’s eyes grew dark and menacing.
“What have you told her about me?”
Drewshank could feel fear welling in his belly.
“She was the tour guide on the Shark,” he replied nervously. “I think she knows more about you and your ship than even yourself.”
Mousebeard’s face broke and he laughed louder than he had in years.
“I’d better make her feel welcome then,” he said, “before casting her adrift on the stormiest sea I can find!”
Drewshank had no idea whether the pirate was joking or not, and he made a valiant attempt at a smile.
“Get us food and drink!” shouted Mousebeard, lifting his arms in the air. He walked past the menacing shark’s teeth painted on the hull of his ship and realized he was soon to be free again.
“Tomorrow brings us a new adventure, but tonight we shall feast!”
“They’ve left it clean and tidy at least,” grumbled Mousebeard, as he tore into a thick joint of meat. Three tables were lined up along the gun deck, all covered in food fit for a queen. Overflowing jars of Honey Mouse Ale rested by everyone’s plates, as well as an array of assorted sweetmeats provided by Ingrid Hoodwink herself.
“But the mist generator’s gone,” said Algernon, “as are the front cannons. I imagine they’re making use of them—it’s not like the Old Town Guard to miss an opportunity like that.”
“Hmph. Typical of Isiah to take what’s not his…”
Drewshank was listening to their conversation, and he felt like speaking.
“Isiah Lovelock again…,” he said, quaffing some ale. “Are we always going to be bothered by him?”
Mousebeard stuck a dirty fingernail between two of his teeth and dug out a piece of gristle. He chewed it once more, then swallowed it down.
“Our paths will always cross,” said the pirate. “But until I’ve put an end to this blasted curse that stops me setting foot on land, I can never finish him. And I intend to—take my word for it—with my own bare hands.”
“So you’re determined to find a means o
f breaking the curse?” said Algernon.
“We leave tomorrow for Stormcloud Island…”
Algernon shook his head.
“You know full well what occurred last time you visited that place—and you still don’t care to tell me what truly happened,” he said.
Mousebeard growled, and realized that the time had come to explain all.
“The curse…,” he said gruffly.
Suddenly, all fell silent, as though the very word drew their attention away from what they were doing. Emiline and Scratcher turned to the pirate, as did Fenwick and the other sailors who surrounded the table.
“I suppose you all should hear…,” he said reluctantly, seeing everyone’s eyes stare at his. “The curse took control of Isiah and me on a small outcrop in the Great Sea called Stormcloud Island. It was our intention to find a woman there who owned a Methuselah Mouse—one of the rarest mice on the planet, with the supposed power to live for thousands of years. Isiah often said he would pay the woman well for this mouse, but we both thought it would be an honor just to see such a creature. At least that was what I thought.
“True to the island’s name, when we landed, it was covered by the largest, most brooding black clouds you could imagine. The wind lashed waves into terrifying peaks and troughs around its rocky shores, and we left Algernon to keep hold of our sailboat at the broken wooden jetty—a wise choice, as I later found out. The rain fell so hard, but we rushed across the boulders, soon finding a path that led higher and higher until we were marching through the frothing clouds.
“Eventually we reached a stone building, smoke bursting its way out of the chimneys, and we knew we’d found what we were looking for. We banged on the door—it took ages for its occupant to answer, but she did. I believe the woman hadn’t seen a human for years, so surprised was she to see us standing like bedraggled fancy mice on her doorstep. She was fairly old, and short, and her hair was sagging scruffily around her head. I remember her expression upon seeing us as if it were yesterday. She was wary, maybe even scared, but her eyes showed such interest in us. She finally invited us in—Isiah was always a charmer and could persuade almost anyone to do as he asked—and we were shown into a room. It was so lushly decorated inside: intricate tapestries hung from the walls provided warmth and color, and oil lamps glowed with that rare orange light only they can give.