The Curse of Mousebeard

by Alex Milway

  “Steady…,” whispered Emiline, wishing desperately it was herself making the catch.

  As Scratcher’s hand got within grasping range, the creature, most unexpectedly, started walking toward it. With much care and fragility, the Methuselah Mouse then stepped up his fingers and gradually crawled its way onto his palm, where it stopped and settled.

  “It likes me,” he said, dumbfounded. Mice usually never showed him such respect.

  “I imagine it’s been lonely,” said Emiline, looking closely at the strange old mouse. Scratcher stroked it gently and found its skin to be incredibly dry and leathery.

  “Not the prettiest of creatures,” he added, “but I like it all the same!”

  Scratcher attempted to place it in the comfort of his mousebox, but the mouse became agitated, working its way backward up Scratcher’s arm.

  “He doesn’t want to go in,” said Emiline.

  Scratcher’s smile turned to dismay.

  “But I can’t carry him!” he replied.

  “Why not? I manage with Portly.”

  “But it’s all old and wrinkly….”

  “Scratcher!” laughed Emiline. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Oh… nothing,” he said unhappily, knowing he was being unreasonable. He opened a pocket inside his raincoat and showed it to the mouse. It lifted its nose slightly, twitched it a few times, and slowly clawed its way in.

  “Perfect,” he said huffily.

  Mousebeard stretched his arm out fully and caught the exhausted Onloko Mouse, just as it looked set to career into the choppy sea. Its tired wings flopped over his fingers, and with a short sigh it closed its eyes and fell straight to sleep. A soaked message was secured around its body by a thin leather strap, and Mousebeard started to untie the bindings with his thick, calloused fingers.

  “Algernon?” called the pirate. “You know about this?”

  Algernon was busy tinkering with one of his inventions in Mousebeard’s cabin, and at the sound of the pirate’s voice lifted up his head.

  “What?” he replied, removing his magnifying goggles as he walked out on deck. His eyes lit up when he saw the mouse.

  “A Red-winged Onloko? A leather message harness…,” stuttered Algernon; “that’s our man Horatio Spires for sure.”

  “He’s come to no harm then,” said Mousebeard.

  The pirate unscrolled the letter, written in neat and controlled handwriting. The ink had started to run down the page, so he shielded it with his hand before reading it aloud.

  Dearest Jonathan,

  I apologize profusely for failing to make our rendezvous, but I had to secure one final piece of information before leaving Grandview. I deemed it far more important than the matter of my escaping, and you will understand that soon enough. I dare not write my findings here for fear of my mouse being intercepted—I know I am being searched for, and it is only a matter of time before they finally place me. I sought sanctuary in Hamlyn, but it was a mistake—there are soldiers everywhere, and the Old Town Guard has taken control of the port.

  I fear I may not live to tell you in person what I know, so I have placed my findings in a tin box in Algernon’s usual drop-off point. He’ll understand exactly where I mean.

  Do not hesitate in returning to Hamlyn using whatever force or means necessary, my friend. I have no care for my own safety, but you must receive this information before it is too late.

  Your faithful friend,

  Horatio

  Mousebeard stepped back and passed the note to Algernon.

  “Is it from his hand?”

  “It certainly looks like it,” replied Algernon, fretting. “We must make for Hamlyn as soon as we can. Oh I don’t know why he thought it was a good idea to go there….”

  As soon as Emiline returned to the Silver Shark, she knew something was up. Sailors were readying the vessel for voyage, and the working mice had been released. Algernon stood waiting for them, oblivious to the rain that had soaked him through.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Emiline.

  “Bad news from Spires…,” said Algernon.

  “Bad news?” said Scratcher, concerned.

  “He’s trapped in Hamlyn.”

  “Hamlyn?” exclaimed Drewshank. “What’s the old fool gone there for?”

  “I imagine it was his only choice,” said Emiline. “What are we going to do about it?”

  At the sight of the new arrivals, Mousebeard rushed on deck from his cabin. His face looked desperate for news.

  “What did you find?” he asked.

  “The woman was dead,” said Drewshank.

  Mousebeard’s excitement immediately dwindled.

  “But we did find this,” said Scratcher shakily, taking a few steps forward. He still hadn’t gotten used to the pirate, and his nerves were affecting his speech. He pushed his hand within his jacket and withdrew the Methuselah Mouse, shielding it from the rain with his fingers. Its subdued eyes peered around, and its ears perked up. Mousebeard was speechless. He held out his hands, allowing Scratcher to place the mouse within his massive palms.

  The Methuselah Mouse started to shiver, and its rough skin wrinkled up. Its nose twitched and sniffed at Mousebeard, who lifted it to get a closer look.

  “After all these years,” said Algernon, walking closer, “that was what you came here for, and now you have it.”

  “In my very hands,” Mousebeard said quietly, as though all his years as a pirate had fallen away from him.

  The Methuselah Mouse moved up the pirate’s arm and began clawing at the dense beard in front of it. Gradually, it pushed its way into the matted hair and disappeared from view.

  “Thank you, Scratcher,” said Mousebeard awkwardly. He seemed utterly confused by the mouse’s appearance and actions.

  “At least it’s safe in your beard,” said Scratcher. “Better there than in my jacket pocket!”

  “It is,” replied Mousebeard. “Algernon, have you discussed our plans?”

  Algernon shook his head.

  “We have to rescue Horatio,” said Mousebeard. “He’s found something important and we have no time to lose. We sail straightaway!”

  Drewshank suddenly spoke out.

  “This is ludicrous,” he said. “To Hamlyn? We’d never get away with it! I’m all up for clearing our names, but that’s too much of a risk!”

  “It’s a risk we have to take,” said Algernon.

  “No it’s not,” said Drewshank firmly.

  Algernon was slightly taken aback by Drewshank’s authority.

  “What else do you propose?” he said.

  “I know Hamlyn well. I have a better proposition. Take us in the submarine, and drop us at the docks right under their noses. Emiline and Scratcher will come with me, I’m sure.”

  He looked at the mousekeepers with a smile. Mousebeard watched their reactions.

  “A chance to visit Hamlyn again?” said Emiline. “I wouldn’t miss it!”

  “It will be dangerous,” said Algernon.

  “Surely less dangerous than taking a great big silver ship?” said Drewshank.

  “Subterfuge rather than force,” said Mousebeard, thinking aloud. “Maybe he’s right, Algernon?”

  “I’m in,” said Scratcher, his confidence rising.

  Algernon stood silently for a few seconds, then agreed wholeheartedly.

  “It’s a plan, then,” said Drewshank. “But where shall we meet afterward?”

  “After Stormcloud, I’d intended to sail to the Mural Isles. There’s someone I need to speak to there….”

  “That sounds as good a place as any to meet up,” said Algernon.

  “Perfect,” said Drewshank. “Fenwick, you stay here and help our friend Mousebeard. Make sure he gets there safely.”

  Fenwick attempted a smile. He would have much rather traveled with Drewshank.

  Mousebeard shook Drewshank’s hand vigorously.

  “Bring back Horatio in one piece,” he said, his grip threatening t
o crush Drewshank’s fingers.

  “We’ll do everything we can,” exclaimed Emiline.

  Mousebeard threw his arms in the air and shouted out to his sailors.

  “Ready yourselves, men, we have a new direction! Take us south! There’s no time to waste!”

  The Stripy Sand Mouse

  AN INQUISITIVE, SHORT-HAIRED BROWN MOUSE THAT, DESPITE LIVING IN THE desert, gets frustrated when sand gets caught in its fur. It’s nocturnal by nature, spending much of its time in burrows underground while the sun is at its hottest.

  This mouse is very easy to pick out from others because of the prominent lighter stripes of fur on its back. These stripes act as excellent camouflage amongst the dunes, but its beautiful fur has been greatly sought after amongst collectors throughout the ages. Numbers remaining in the wild are sadly very small because of this.

  MOUSING NOTES:

  Due to being on the brink of extinction, this mouse is not allowed in any collection!

  A Different Hamlyn

  EMILINE SLID OUT OF THE SUBMARINE, THE DIM GLOW emanating from Hamlyn providing some assistance. The tall island rose up before her, with the lights of its streets and buildings flickering like a constellation in the night sky.

  “It’s so quiet…,” she muttered, reaching out and placing her hand on the quayside. She looked around, noting the sentry points and watchtowers at the harbor entrance. There was no sign of anyone.

  “All’s clear!” she said, lowering her mouth to the submarine’s hatch.

  With a short hop, she launched herself onto the cobblestones and ran for cover against a low wall that divided the quayside from the street. She’d only been to Hamlyn once before, but even in that brief visit it was noticeable how rowdy the place had been. Everything seemed different now. There was barely any drunken cheering coming from the many inns, and even less singing ringing out to muffle the cawing of the seagulls.

  Scratcher’s head appeared from the submarine, and Emiline signaled for him to make a move. He jumped to the quayside and darted across to where his friend was waiting.

  “What’s happened to the place?” said Scratcher, surveying the street, where at this time of night you’d normally find pirates and drunkards falling over and waging war among themselves.

  “It’s far too quiet,” replied Emiline. “Where is everyone?”

  With a soft clunk, the hatch of the submarine closed tight, and Drewshank leapt across and caught up with the mousekeepers.

  “Oh this isn’t right!” he exclaimed, placing his hand on Scratcher’s shoulder. In the background, the sound of bubbles breaking the water’s surface let them know Algernon had returned to the seabed. “Spires mentioned the Old Town Guard had taken over, but I never imagined it would be like this!”

  Drewshank lifted his head over the wall to look up the street and immediately dropped it back again.

  “And here they come!” he whispered, waving his hand downward through the air to let Scratcher and Emiline know they should crouch lower.

  The noise of marching boots grew louder and louder, until it sounded as though the guards were right behind them. Emiline felt her heart rate quicken, and Scratcher pushed his back firmly against the wall.

  “Get out there and stay out there!” ordered one of the Old Town Guard, before he stamped down violently.

  “But General Mordiford, it’s my day off!” pleaded a young boy.

  Drewshank recognized the boy’s voice, and his expression turned to one of concern.

  “I’ll have none of this insolence!” barked the man. “Your position is to keep us informed of the weather, and you’ll do that until your last living breath! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the boy sheepishly.

  “And if I see you leave your post again, I’ll have you stripped of your status and posted back to Old Town, do you hear?”

  “Yes, sir…”

  With a shouted order, the Old Town Guard marched onward. Emiline looked to Drewshank as she heard the boy shuffle alongside the wall just a few meters away. Drewshank shook his head at her to calm her. The boy let out a slight grumble and clambered onto the wall before jumping down. Scratcher slid sideways instinctively and took hold of the knife at his side. The boy was wearing a strange helmet and in his right hand was a long stick with a fish attached to its end.

  Drewshank leaned forward.

  “Mildred!” he whispered. “Psssst! Mildred!”

  The boy glanced to his left and rubbed his eyes. He then stepped back so his legs were pressed to the wall, and looked left and right as he sidled closer without lifting his feet from the ground.

  “Mr. Drewshank!” he said excitedly, while staring straight ahead and trying not to look suspicious. “What in the name of Guidolfo Jones are you doing here?”

  “We’re looking for someone…,” the captain replied quietly.

  “Just like all those folk are out looking for you!” said Mildred from the corner of his mouth. “You’re in real trouble! In all the papers…”

  “Don’t I know it, but what’s happened to this place?”

  “The Guard have ruined it,” whispered Mildred, swinging his dried fish as though checking the air conditions. “The Mayor of Old Town has taken over. We don’t get half the ships we used to! I hate it.”

  “Well, you might be able to help us, Mildred,” said Drewshank hopefully.

  For the first time, Mildred’s will broke, and he darted a look at Drewshank.

  “I might?”

  “Have you seen anyone who looks like a butler land here lately?”

  “Butlers, Mr. Drewshank? We don’t see many of them around here.”

  “So you haven’t—”

  The boy interrupted. “But there was someone who had little glasses and shiny shoes…. I thought he looked a bit odd getting off a boat with shiny shoes on…. Butlers have shiny shoes, don’t they? The rest of him was covered by a big grey cloak though, so I couldn’t be sure.”

  “That’s him!” whispered Emiline. “It’s got to be!”

  “Any idea where we might find this man?” Drewshank asked.

  “I think so, Mr. Drewshank. My sister works at the Antelope Inn at the top of Pleasant Street, and she told me they’d gotten a new guest with shiny shoes. She hadn’t seen such shiny shoes, she said. I bet that’s your man. You know, there haven’t been many visitors to Hamlyn in the past few months, so when a new guest arrives we get quite excited. Times aren’t easy here, Mr. Drewshank!”

  “No, I can see that,” he said sadly.

  “So what’s our plan?” asked Scratcher.

  “To be on the safe side, we should first find the box Spires left for us,” said Drewshank.

  “But we can’t waste time like that,” pleaded Emiline. “What if something happens to him?”

  “We could split up, Captain,” suggested Scratcher. “I’ll get the box, you two go and find Mr. Spires…”

  Drewshank looked at the boy.

  “That’s what we’ll do. You remember what Algernon told you?”

  Scratcher nodded.

  “And I know how to find Pleasant Street,” said Drewshank, “so if you’re happy with that, Emiline?”

  “Of course…,” she said.

  “Then that’s settled,” said Drewshank.

  “It ain’t safe out there now,” whispered Mildred worriedly. “The Guard will be on the lookout for any movement after dark. There’s a curfew for another few hours yet….”

  “We can’t worry about that,” said Drewshank, “but thank you, Mildred. You don’t know how useful you’ve been!”

  “Anything to help you, Mr. Drewshank! I won’t tell a soul about you all, honest!” he added, puffing out his chest and straightening his helmet.

  “Is the street clear?” asked Emiline hurriedly.

  Mildred scanned the docks before nodding.

  “No soldiers in sight,” he said.

  “You ready?” she asked Scratcher and Drewshank.

&
nbsp; “Ready as ever…,” said Scratcher.

  They stood up as one, and Emiline gave her friend a light kiss on the cheek.

  “Don’t get yourself caught this time,” she said, before rolling over the wall.

  “I won’t,” he replied, blushing.

  “Thanks, Mildred,” they all said, as they parted company and ran off up the dark streets.

  Mildred looked at the dead fish on the end of his stick. Its tail was curling to the left.

  “Well I never,” he muttered quietly. “Looks like we’ll have rain in the morning.”

  The short journey to Pleasant Street proved easier than they could have hoped for. The narrow streets of Hamlyn provided ample cover, and not once did Drewshank or Emiline meet any trouble. Pleasant Street had once been the richest street on the island, with many buildings built of white stone—a rarity on Hamlyn. It was a place for those who sought enjoyment, with inns and shops aplenty, but in the current climate it was suffering. Shops were boarded up, or had signs on their fronts saying “Only open on Wednesday,” and the inns were doing a dismal trade.

  The Antelope Inn rested at the far end of the street, with its overhanging second floor jutting out farther than the rest of the buildings. Its sign, showing a proud antelope figurehead at the front of a ship, was swinging gently in the breeze, and Emiline was the first to see it.

  “How are we going to let Mr. Spires know we’re here?” she asked, as Drewshank stepped into a dark alley to catch his breath. She waited for his reply, forever casting her eyes up and down the road.

  “If he’s still here, that is…,” he replied. “That letter would have been sent well over a week ago. And unfortunately for us, the owners will be wary of anyone out and about at this time of night.”

  “So we wait here?” asked Emiline.

  “I guess so. The sky is already heading to dawn, so there should only be an hour or so before we start to see people out and about. We’ll move then—you might as well make yourself comfortable for a bit.”