The Curse of Mousebeard

by Alex Milway

  Emiline stepped into the alley and slid down next to Drewshank, making herself as comfortable as possible on the gravel surface. There was straw, and dirt, and all manner of unmentionable substances littering the floor, but she tried not to think about it. Instead, she let Portly out from her mousebox and allowed him some exercise. His whiskers twitched as he raced up her shoulders and under her hair.

  Scratcher reached the graveyard in good time, and he immediately wished he hadn’t gone by himself. The ominous iron gates shrieked as he forced them open into the overgrown scrub beyond. A muddy path led away into the darkness, with a jumble of gravestones popping up like rotten teeth at its edges. Despite the sky becoming lighter, it just made him more scared and more aware of what he couldn’t quite see.

  He walked slowly on, listening to the crunch of the floor beneath his feet. His eyes were often taken by dark shapes zipping along the ground, but he realized—or hoped—that they were just mice and nothing more sinister.

  There were hundreds of gravestones, and the tired and rain-worn names of the dead took far too long to read for Scratcher’s liking. Following Algernon’s directions, he stepped off the path at the grave of Sara Gutheim and rushed along the scrubby grass. Eerie tombs covered with angels of the dead loomed high, and as soon as he found himself at the farthest reaches of the graveyard, he caught a glimpse of a broken wall, just as had been described.

  He carried on walking for a few minutes, feeling the damp seeping into his shoes, before he found what he was after. Part hidden by the descending branches of an overgrown tree, the grave of Onquin Dandiprat was different from most because of the mass of wild roses rambling over its mound.

  Scratcher wasted no time; he pulled the roses away, scaring a small Bearded Mouse in the process, and found the dull metal casket. It was joined to the gravestone by a metal chain, and he pulled it out to get a closer look. His eyes fell on the lock, broken and cracked and, upon raising the lid, he felt his stomach start to freefall. There was no letter inside, just the feeling that someone had gotten to it first. Someone knew of Spires’s whereabouts, and knew of what he wanted to tell Mousebeard. Scratcher threw the casket down in disgust and felt his blood boil. He had to run to his friends, and get there fast.

  As the sun lifted higher into the sky, the sound of day-to-day ritual once again filled the streets of Hamlyn. Emiline and Drewshank eventually stepped out onto Pleasant Street, taking every effort to look as natural amongst the townsfolk as possible. They walked toward the Antelope Inn and noticed the door was open wide for custom. The smell of fried food drifted out onto the street, and Emiline’s stomach started to rumble.

  “Here we are then,” said Drewshank.

  Emiline had already walked inside. It was grander than Algernon’s inn had been, with the main door leading into a highly decorated parlor and a grandfather clock set against the farthest wall. At its edge was a twisting wooden staircase, which rose in a gentle curve to the two floors above. The inn was notable for its almost deathly silence—the only noises coming from the kitchen, where an occasional clatter of pans rang out.

  “Upstairs?” quizzed Emiline, looking at some of the paintings that hung from the walls.

  “I guess so, and if they only have a few guests, as Mildred said, I’m sure it will be easy to find him if he’s here,” replied Drewshank.

  Suddenly a door slammed shut on the ground floor, and Emiline and Drewshank jumped into hiding under the staircase. The only window on the ground floor cast a wide shadow in their direction, so they were safely hidden. In just a few seconds, a young girl walked past carrying a tray of food and a jug of water. She rushed to the stairs and started climbing at quite a rate.

  “Mildred’s sister!” whispered Emiline. “Carrying food for a guest?”

  “Let’s follow her,” said Drewshank, leaving cover, “but let’s be quiet, eh?”

  They darted out and up onto the stairwell, taking unusually dainty steps so as not to make a sound. As they reached the first floor, a loud scream came from above, followed by the sound of a plate smashing. Emiline turned to Drewshank, and both immediately suspected the worst. Forgetting any attempts at being quiet, they charged up the stairs.

  As they reached the second floor, the girl came hurtling out of a room, tears flooding from her eyes. She barely saw Drewshank and Emiline as she flew by. Emiline reached the door from where she’d come and pushed it wide. For a split second she froze in fear.

  “Mr. Spires!” she cried, rushing into the room.

  The butler lay on the floor, propped up awkwardly against the bed. His hand clutched his chest, and a red stain was spreading across his shirt. His head was tilted back, his glasses cracked and sitting askew on his nose. Emiline placed her hand on his cheek and noticed his chest was barely rising as he struggled to breathe.

  When Drewshank walked in, he understood all too well what had happened.

  “Is he still alive, Emiline?” he asked firmly.

  “Barely. I think,” she said, her words faltering as she struggled to come to terms with the situation.

  “Why are… you… here?” said Spires, his words breathless and strained. “My letter… I warned you… not to come here…”

  “But you didn’t…,” said Emiline, confused.

  “I… I…”

  The butler’s words stopped as his breathing weakened.

  “We can’t hang around; we have to leave immediately,” ordered Drewshank.

  “Captain?” pleaded Emiline, as the butler gasped for air. She watched his hand rise and start to push against her.

  “What is it?” she asked softly, trying desperately not to notice the bloodstain growing on his once-crisp white shirt.

  The butler failed to speak. His eyes seemed distant and clouded, but he continued to push his hand at her.

  Drewshank walked farther into the room and realized that all the butler’s possessions were gone. There was nothing but his bed linen and the signs of a struggle. He tugged at Emiline’s shoulder.

  “We have to leave, Emiline,” he said forcefully. “Can you stand, Spires?”

  The butler swallowed painfully and shook his head.

  “Emiline, we have to go!” Drewshank said again. “There’s nothing we can do now. We have to leave him…”

  As he said this, he heard people on the stairs, and he jumped to the door.

  “Soldiers!” he snarled. “Emiline!”

  “I can’t leave him like this,” she said tearfully, placing her hand at the back of Spires’s head. Once again the butler pushed his hand against Emiline, but finally he managed to get her to realize what it was he wanted. In his fingers was a bloodstained handkerchief. He forced it into her hand and gave a weak smile. His chest shuddered, and his eyes closed.

  “Mr. Spires!” she cried, gripping his shoulder.

  Drewshank slammed the door shut and pulled across a table to block anyone’s entry. He smashed his fist against its panels.

  “Captain,” said Emiline, tears welling in her eyes. “I think he’s gone.”

  Spires’s hand dropped slowly away from his chest, and Emiline saw the horrible stab wound for the first time. She crumpled down onto the floor, letting tears flow freely down her cheeks. Drewshank walked over and knelt down with his arm around her. He looked at the butler and wondered what awaited them.

  “I’m sorry, Emiline,” he said warmly. “I know he was your friend. He was a good man.”

  The door started to splinter as the soldiers smashed into it with the butts of their rifles. The noise was deafening.

  “But he didn’t deserve this,” said Emiline, wiping the tears from her eyes, oblivious to the threat at the door. “They didn’t need to do this….”

  Drewshank sighed. He watched the door break open. The table lurched forward, wood shards flew across the room, and suddenly he was staring straight into the eyes of three soldiers, their guns trained on him.

  Scratcher ran as hard as he could. Hamlyn was busier now that the ni
ghtly curfew had ended, although it was still nowhere near as crowded as he remembered. He asked a fishmonger for directions to Pleasant Street, and after a brief discussion about how it wasn’t the same since the Guard had taken over, he made his way there without pausing for breath.

  His worst fears were realized when he found the street blocked off. Lines of soldiers stood guard at either end, and a small crowd of sellers and shop owners bustled angrily in between, remonstrating at the authorities for making life even harder for them.

  Scratcher walked calmly up to one of the soldiers.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he asked, clutching his hands behind his back. “Why is the street blocked?”

  “We’ve caught some of those fugitives from Old Town,” replied the soldier gruffly. “You’d do well to watch what happens to their kind and not get involved in stuff like that yourself!”

  “Oh,” said Scratcher, caring little for the lecture. “What were they doing here?”

  The soldier shuffled his feet to get comfortable.

  “Who knows?” he said. “They shouldn’t have come here, though…. I could have told them that for nothing. Biggest concentration of soldiers outside Old Town!”

  Scratcher looked past the troops but saw nothing of his friends on the street. He was alone, with no idea of what to do next.

  “What will happen to them?” he finally asked.

  “Well, they escaped the gallows once, but they won’t manage a second time,” replied the soldier proudly. “I can assure you of that!”

  Scratcher’s memory flashed back to when he stood upon the scaffold, rope around his neck. He knew all too well what that felt like. He said his thanks to the soldier and walked away slowly. All he could think about was what he would say to Algernon.

  “Put your hands in the air, and stand slowly!” shouted the soldier.

  Drewshank rose gradually, and Emiline followed. Despite the situation, Emiline didn’t feel scared. Tears were still clinging to her cheeks, and she only felt sad; not just for the butler, but for anyone who would do such a thing to him.

  Footsteps could be heard coming from the stairs, and the soldiers separated to let someone through.

  “Of course,” said Drewshank, watching a person he knew very well walk in. “Lady Pettifogger…”

  Beatrice Pettifogger entered the room, a wide smile on her face. Her eyes were sparkling, as always, and Drewshank snorted in disgust.

  “You did this?” he spat.

  Pettifogger paced around the room, touched Emiline’s damp cheek, and observed the butler’s body.

  “Not me personally, Devlin,” she said, laughing. “You know I’d have nothing to do with such a base act. But this man has been responsible for countless deaths—maybe as many as that infernal Mousebeard himself. He deserved no better….”

  “No better?” cried Emiline.

  “But I’m surprised you came here so readily,” said Pettifogger. “Or maybe you actually thought that the butler’s message was from his own hand? Have we fooled you once again, Captain?”

  Drewshank squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled angrily.

  “What have you become?” he asked. He always knew she was trouble, but even this, he thought, was beyond her.

  Pettifogger walked around to Drewshank and smiled up at him.

  “I’ve become what I always wanted,” she said, tilting her head down. “I am powerful!”

  Drewshank threw his hand down to his waist to draw his sword, but the soldiers leapt forth immediately and hit him on the head with their rifle butts.

  “That was stupid, Devlin,” she said, as she watched his hands being bound. “I could have made things better for you. But not now…”

  She gave him one final look before leaving the room.

  “Tie up the girl too,” she ordered from the landing. “Bring them to the Trading Center and lock them in the cells. I want to question them myself before we send them to Old Town.”

  The Jouster Mouse

  NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE MINIATURE UNICORN MOUSE, THE MALE Jouster mouse is endowed with an enormous horn protruding from the top of its head. It’s a particularly strong horn too, and it is used in fights to the death with other males when searching for a mate. Not to be outdone, the female has an equally impressive horn, but it will never use its horn aggressively, as it is much more civilized and grownup. Despite their less aggressive nature, the females do watch the males fight, and will often crowd around anxiously to get a good view.

  MOUSING NOTES:

  The Jouster Mouse makes a fine addition to any collection, as its specialist needs are relatively few—the main requirement being adequate space to contain its horn. Beware, though: never, under any circumstances, should you keep two males together. It has been known to end in a horrific mess!

  The Mouse Trading Center

  THROW THEM IN,” GRUMBLED THE SNEERING PRISON guard. Emiline tumbled down the few steps into the prison cell, with Drewshank pushed in shortly after, and the door slammed behind. There was no light, and the prisoners sat down, finding it easier than struggling blindly in the dark. The floor was cold to touch, and Emiline pulled her jacket under her so as not to freeze.

  “I’d really like to go a year without being thrown into prison,” muttered Drewshank grimly, waiting desperately for his eyes to get used to the conditions.

  “I can’t believe Mr. Spires is dead,” said Emiline, feeling his handkerchief in her pocket.

  “They won’t get away with it,” he replied. “I just can’t believe we were so easily fooled.”

  “Mousebeard won’t let them, I know it,” she said, holding back the tears once more.

  “Mousebeard?”

  “Of course Mousebeard,” said Emiline.

  “Who said that?” asked Drewshank, puzzled.

  “What?” replied Emiline.

  “Mousebeard…,” said Drewshank again, looking around fruitlessly, as he couldn’t see a thing. “I didn’t say that!”

  “You did,” said Emiline, confused.

  “I never… who’s there?” asked Drewshank.

  Emiline fell silent.

  “Who’s there?” he asked again.

  Emiline found herself staring vainly into the darkness. The voice spoke again. It was sure, if a touch weary, and tinged with a slight and unusual accent that Emiline hadn’t noticed before.

  “So you know Mousebeard?” it said.

  “What if we do?” said Emiline nervously. “Who are you?”

  The stranger paused before continuing.

  “A prisoner, like yourselves.”

  “Why not introduce yourself before scaring the blazes out of people,” snapped Drewshank angrily. “It’s not like we could see you in here. You okay, Emiline?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  They heard the prisoner move, his shoes scuffing on the floor. Emiline clenched her fists, and Drewshank slid onto his knees in readiness.

  “I’m not your enemy,” the voice said.

  “Prove it,” said Emiline. “Why are you here?”

  “Most likely the same reason you are….”

  “Stop playing games,” ordered Drewshank, whose patience was wearing thin.

  “My name’s Indigo,” he said assuredly. “And you are?”

  “Devlin Drewshank…”

  “Ahh, now it makes sense,” said Indigo; “you’re one of Old Town’s most wanted. I’ve read about your escape—quite a feat.”

  Drewshank started to warm to their fellow prisoner.

  “And the girl’s… sorry… your name?” asked Indigo.

  “Emiline,” she said. “I’m a mousekeeper. And once again, why are you in here?”

  “Hmm,” he replied teasingly. “I was paying a little too much attention to the darker side of this Mouse Trading Center. I couldn’t think of a more inappropriate name for the place.”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Emiline.

  “I came here not so long ago,” admitted Drewshank sagely. “I knew th
en that there was more here than a simple shop.”

  “Much more…,” said Indigo.

  With a short scraping noise, a spark burst into life, and Indigo’s form was lit up in the corner. Emiline and Drewshank blinked as their eyes adjusted. Indigo sat with his knees up, a small lamp in one hand, and he gazed straight at them. He had bright green eyes, and his long black hair fell down across his face to where it was tied loosely at the back. Emiline realized he was only a few years older than her, but he seemed a lot more when he talked.

  “This place will be the downfall of all the mousing world,” he said darkly.

  “What?” said Emiline.

  “They’re here, aren’t they?” asked Drewshank.

  “The Golden Mice?” said Indigo. “Of course they are…”

  “You know about them?” asked Emiline.

  Indigo laughed. “I do,” he said. “Do you know about the breeding program?”

  “Huh?” said Drewshank.

  “They’ve been crossbreeding the Golden Mice to try and gain a greater yield of gold.”

  “Crossbreeding?” questioned Emiline. “Surely not…”

  Indigo smiled.

  “You really don’t know half of what they’re up to, do you?” he said.

  “It would seem not,” replied Drewshank. “Do tell…”

  “There are factories being built right across the world, from Midena to the far-off lands past the Great Sea, and all with one purpose—to utilize the Golden Mouse’s unique fur. This Trading Center was just the beginning, where they practiced and perfected the breeding. From what I can tell, they’ve already successfully bred countless Golden Mice, and shipments have been sent out for harvesting. But this is where the crossbreeding comes in. Imagine a Golden Mouse the size of a Giant Tusk Mouse—what would that animal’s fur be worth?”

  “No!” said Emiline. “It would never work!”

  “Is that what you think?” laughed Indigo. “Trust me, I’ve seen some of the mistakes….”

  “Mistakes?” stuttered Drewshank.