The Curse of Mousebeard

by Alex Milway

An easy mouse to cater to, but branches or hanging bars are a must within its accommodation. If you wish to keep this mouse alive, a very soft bedding or flooring is also desirable.

  Across the Barren Sea

  EMILINE SAT IN MOUSEBEARD’S CABIN STUDYING The Great Ages of Mice by Samuel Moleridge. She was consumed by its stories of mice and humans and was only now realizing that the creatures had been cherished for hundreds of years. The rain had eased ever since the Silver Shark had passed through tropical waters on its way south, and it had seen its fair share of sunny days and windless nights as it crossed the Great Sea, heading farther than even Mousebeard had ever gone before.

  Despite its capabilities, though, it could still never travel quite fast enough for Emiline. She’d spent a lot of her time in the company of the pirate, who’d agreed to teach her the finer art of mousehunting, although his patience regularly waned after half an hour’s tuition. Among his many lessons, Mousebeard’s advice on how to trap a flying mouse with just your bare hands proved the most exciting—and also the most costly. Two Messenger Mice failed to return after a series of botched attempts, but it was all seen as useful experience.

  As usual, Portly was always nearby. He lay asleep either under her hair or beside her hand most of the time—and his tail proved to be a useful bookmark if Emiline ever needed one. She’d worked steadily from left to right along the pirate’s bookshelves, reading book after book just to pass the time. The Great Ages of Mice had given her the best insight into the lost world of Norgammon, and it contained many weird and wonderful descriptions written about the land throughout the ages. But, just as Professor Lugwidge had said, all the accounts said something different, and there was little solid information amongst its pages.

  Emiline read page after page, looking at the peculiar artistic representations of Norgammon. She laughed out loud when she saw that one of them showed mice walking upright on two legs, and when Scratcher appeared at the door she was still wiping tears from her eyes.

  “You still in here?” he said.

  “I am indeed,” said Emiline.

  “Want to help with the Watcher Mice? I think there’s a problem with some of them, could be a bit of a cold, or something.”

  Emiline shook her head.

  “I’m happy here, at the moment,” she said. “Maybe later?”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Scratcher stood for a moment staring at her.

  “Can I help you look at the books?” he said finally.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” said Emiline, smiling. “Portly here’s already enough help, even when his tail gets in the way.”

  “I might go and ask Algernon for some ideas then,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you when you’re done.”

  Emiline turned the page of the book and looked back to where Scratcher had just been. She realized that he was probably quite lonely, but there was plenty for him to occupy himself with if he put his mind to it.

  The sun shone through the small windows of the cabin, and Emiline listened to the wind crack the sails into shape. Their speed was picking up—if only it could go even faster, she thought. Two months at sea was already far too long….

  “Algernon,” said Scratcher, swinging down into the gun deck.

  Algernon had taken up residence on the lower deck and was fiddling with a wrench and some bolts.

  “The Watcher Mice aren’t well, and I can’t think what it is.”

  “How very interesting!” said Algernon, raising his eyebrow at the same time as lifting the wrench into the air. He tapped it a few times on his head.

  “I’d say quarantine them for a short while, see what happens…”

  “I’ve already done that,” replied Scratcher. “They’re safe and far away from the other working mice. But they just seem down and lacking energy.”

  “Don’t we all!” proclaimed Algernon. “But I suppose they have been at sea for a while now, haven’t they?”

  “Yeah, I guess…”

  “Maybe they’re pining for home—they do like to have a run around on the grass occasionally, don’t they?”

  “They do,” said Scratcher.

  Algernon stood up and walked to him. He looked him up and down and patted him on the arm in a friendly manner.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you with Emiline of late.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, lying. “She’s always busy reading, or learning how to hunt mice with that Indigo.”

  “Ah!” said Algernon wisely. “So that’s it…”

  “Eh? That’s what, exactly?”

  “Oh nothing,” he replied. “Say, do you want to help me down here for a bit? I could teach you all about Sonic Orientation.”

  “Sonic what?” he asked.

  “It’s something I’m working on for my submarine. I’ve been thinking about how the squeak of the Giant Whale Mouse can travel so far underwater, and I thought there might be a way of harnessing it, either for long-distance communication or even detection. If you didn’t know, sound bounces around under the sea like nobody’s business—just like it does above ground. I thought it might be a way of detecting those blasted new submarines of the Old Town Guard. Next time I see one, I’ll give it what for, I can tell you!”

  Scratcher laughed.

  “I’d love to help you,” he said. “Just let me take another look at these mice, and I’ll be right back!”

  Drewshank marched over the deck and found Fenwick remonstrating with a sailor. Fenwick’s mouse, Trumper, was happily perched on his shoulder, rubbing its head against its owner’s neck.

  “What’s this all about?” said Drewshank sternly, placing his hands at his hips.

  “We’ve spotted Tacking Mice far out over the starboard side,” replied Fenwick. “And I’m trying to persuade old Scubbins here that we need to get more Watcher Mice out on deck! We can’t keep sight of them alone.”

  “That would seem logical,” said Drewshank. “Tacking Mice can, after all, knock the ship into all sorts of shapes!”

  “Aye, sir,” said the sailor, “but young Scratcher’s said we’re short of them. They’ve come down with a bout of sickness.”

  “Well, Scubbins,” said Drewshank, “let’s ask Indigo to help—he’ll have keen eyes, I’m sure. Have you seen him lately?”

  “With Emiline, Captain,” said Fenwick. “They’re playing with them blasted Sharpclaw Mice or something. I still ain’t happy about having them creatures on board.”

  “They helped us escape, man! Go easy on the poor mice.”

  Fenwick laughed.

  “Poor mice! Captain, you’ve gone batty. Their claws are sharper than razor blades!”

  “Ha! That may be so, but they’re great in a fight. I’ll get Indigo to help you; I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Fenwick, and he placed his hand at his neck and stroked his mouse. Its belly wobbled a little, and a foul smell escaped into the air.

  “Ooh,” said Scubbins, his face turning green, “get your mouse in order, Fenwick!”

  “Take hold of that,” said Indigo.

  Emiline secured the thin rope between her fingers, her eyes never straying from the round piece of wood attached to its end.

  “This was a trick I learned long ago,” he added. “It takes a special kind of wood for this to work—a root of the Bilbab tree—but you’ll soon see how helpful it is.”

  He looked around to check that the deck was momentarily free of sailors and, opening his mousebox carefully, he released a Sharpclaw. The mouse dropped down and stood still but for its massive claws tapping at the floor.

  “Sharpclaws like to be teased,” he said. “Pull the rope—gently at first.”

  Emiline tugged at the cord, and the wooden disc skated across the deck. The Sharpclaw’s eye was taken. It struck down with a claw, aiming for the piece of wood, but missing.

  “Now pull again…”

  Emiline stepped backward and pulled the cord once more. The Sharpclaw leapt at th
e wooden disc and sliced downward with its paw. As its claws hit the target, Emiline realized the qualities of the wood. The mouse’s claws stuck firm. It growled, but no matter what it did, it couldn’t free itself.

  “Now just raise the rope up a little….”

  Emiline lifted it, and the Sharpclaw’s paw rose into the air helplessly—its claws remained trapped.

  “That’s miraculous,” said Emiline, amazed. The mouse was caught, good and proper, as the wood clung to its claws like marmalade to a wasp.

  Indigo picked up his Sharpclaw and apologized to it. He took some water, dripped it onto the wooden disc, and, as it became saturated and expanded, the mouse’s claws came loose.

  “Just keep the wood dry,” said Indigo, “and there’s no Sharpclaw it can’t catch.”

  “The Bilbab tree?” said Emiline.

  “That’s the one…”

  “Did I hear Bilbab mentioned?” asked Mousebeard, appearing behind Emiline like a storm cloud over the horizon. Drewshank followed close behind and stood watching them all.

  Indigo got up and placed his mouse back in its box.

  “Just a trick I learned, sir,” he said.

  “I don’t mean to stop you,” said Mousebeard, his arms clamped behind his back. “I’m impressed by your knowledge.”

  The pirate continued walking along the deck, his eyes watching the boy.

  “You’d do well to listen to him, Emiline,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied; “this Bilbab wood’s amazing….”

  “Where did you get it?” asked Drewshank, stepping forward.

  “It grows natively on an island far from here—I forget its name now—but I picked this piece up in a market on Hamlyn.”

  “Very interesting,” said Drewshank, losing interest quickly. “I wondered if you wouldn’t mind helping Fenwick for a while?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I bet Emiline’s got plenty to do of her own, anyway.”

  She shrugged in reply.

  “He just needs someone to watch out for Tacking Mice. Apparently our Watcher Mice are sick.”

  “I can do that,” said Indigo.

  “You’ll find him at the bow,” said Drewshank.

  Indigo wasted no time and set off to the other end of the ship.

  “So what’s he like?” asked Drewshank. “He seems quite knowledgeable for his age.”

  Emiline blushed slightly.

  “He is,” she said. “He knows a lot about mice—much more than me….”

  Drewshank smiled at her.

  “He’s a useful guy to have around, that’s for sure.”

  “I think so…,” she said.

  Emiline pulled at her mousebox.

  “Do we have far to go?” she asked, as a group of sailors ran past and started climbing the ropes with Rigger Mice clinging to their backs.

  “Funnily enough,” said Drewshank, “we should be there within a few weeks—if it exists, of course. If it doesn’t, then our supplies are running short and we might find ourselves in a tricky spot!”

  “We’ll find it,” she said. “Mr. Spires knew what he was doing. He knew how important these coordinates are.”

  “I hope you’re right, Emiline, I really do.”

  “So the red wire goes here?” asked Scratcher, his hand speckled with burns from a misdirected soldering iron.

  “That’s right, then hold it down firmly…”

  Algernon helped him finish the joint and made him sit back while he lifted up the machine’s cover. He slid the fascia down over the mass of wires, and eventually it clicked into place with three switches bared at the bottom. In its entirety, the machine was a metal cube, about half a meter wide. It had a knob on the left-hand side, a covered wooden dome at its base, and a blank glass screen on its front.

  “Now then, Scratcher,” said Algernon, brimming with excitement. “I’ll let you switch it on!”

  Scratcher wasn’t sure if being asked to turn on the machine was an honor or a death sentence. He hesitantly directed his index finger toward the metal box.

  “If you insist…,” he said.

  As he pressed the left button, a strange glow shivered behind the small glass screen on the fascia.

  “Perfect! Perfect!” said Algernon, jumping up and down. “And the next!”

  Scratcher tried to smile, knowing things were likely to get worse, and pushed in the next button. The machine started to buzz.

  “Is that meant to happen?” he said, as the noise grew louder and louder.

  “Yes, yes!” replied Algernon. He twisted the knob on the side of the machine, and the noise lowered to a mere hum.

  “Much better,” muttered Algernon. “Now the last!”

  Scratcher jabbed the third button, and suddenly the entire gun deck started to hum and throb. Screws and bolts began creaking and popping up out of the floorboards, and the vibrations grew unbearable. Scratcher’s ears started to hurt, and he quickly jabbed the button to switch it off again.

  Algernon stood looking perplexed.

  “That wasn’t meant to happen, then?” asked Scratcher sarcastically.

  “Umm, no. I hadn’t planned for that,” he said. “The screen should have definitely picked something up after that!”

  “You mean that you expected that noise?”

  “Oh yes, well, something similar to that, yes!”

  Scratcher blew out a sorry sigh.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it,” said Algernon, switching all the buttons off. “Must just be a faulty connection—yes, that’s all it can be.”

  “So will you help me?” asked Scratcher, trying to change the subject.

  “The mice? No, I’m not sure what’s going on there….”

  “No, I meant the other things—that I asked you about a while ago. You said you’d help me with my own inventions too!”

  “Ah, I remember, of course I did. Yes, pass me those small cans, and we shall be on our way!”

  Indigo was standing on a short ladder at the bow, his eyes glued to the crests of waves rippling off the starboard side of the Silver Shark. Tacking Mice were breaking the water, zigzagging across the sea in tight formation, and they drew ever nearer. To the untrained eye, Tacking Mice are a beautiful distraction—their silvery-grey fur sparkles in the water as they dart left to right and back again through the waves—but any sailor worth his salt knows they have the ability to hammer a hull to smithereens. Their rigid, streamlined bodies can act like battering rams when they’re powering at full speed, so it’s always best to keep clear of them—if you can.

  “Captain Mousebeard!” shouted Indigo. “They’re almost on us! Starboard side!”

  “How many?” shouted Mousebeard.

  “About eight, and increasing by the second!”

  “Hard to port!” ordered the pirate.

  The ship swung around awkwardly, and all of their legs were pulled away from them.

  “Decoys!” shouted Fenwick, rushing to Mousebeard’s side. “We need a decoy!”

  “Good thinking,” replied the pirate, his big boots firmly planted on the ground.

  “We could use the launch,” said Drewshank, hurrying out of Mousebeard’s cabin. “Set it adrift?”

  He stepped up to look over the ship’s side and caught sight of the Tacking Mice breaching the water, intent on reaching the Silver Shark.

  “They’re gaining on us!” he shouted.

  “Hard to starboard!” called Mousebeard.

  The pirate knew that playing the mice at their own game was the only way to buy time. The ship lurched back into their path, and they darted away, soon to return.

  “The launch it is!” said the pirate. “Load it with cannonballs, then lower it over the side—and make it fast!”

  Sailors soon appeared, weighed down with cannonballs, and they loaded up the small boat that sat on deck. It was a sad but worthy fate for the launch, and as Drewshank unbolted the armored sides of the ship, Fenwick dragged it across to send it to its doom.


  “I’ve got it steady, sir,” said Fenwick, lowering the boat to the sea with some stout ropes. “When you’re ready!”

  Indigo watched the mice surge closer; they were within meters when he gave the call.

  “Let it go, Captain!” he shouted.

  “Drop it!” bellowed Mousebeard.

  The boat hit the waves at a fair speed, weighed down by the weight in its hull. It skipped over the water before slowing gently.

  “Here they come!” said Indigo.

  Suddenly the Tacking Mice veered out of the water and smashed into the small boat’s side. They hit it so hard that the wood splintered and cracked. Again and again they disappeared beneath the water, only to return with more venom and speed.

  “Keep us on course!” shouted Mousebeard, watching the distance between the mice and them grow by the second. “They’ve taken the bait!”

  Drewshank walked to Fenwick and surveyed the wreck of the launch from the opened side. The mice’s attention was fully taken by the little vessel, and as it finally sank to the bottom of the sea, they seemed satisfied and swam away in the opposite direction.

  “As if they didn’t know we were here!” said Fenwick happily.

  “Good work!” said Mousebeard, approaching Indigo. “You sailed much before?”

  “A little,” he replied, stepping down from the ladder.

  “You’ve got a good knowledge of these things,” said the pirate inquisitively. “Where’d you learn them?”

  “I didn’t go to school,” he said. “I was lucky—I had a tutor.”

  “Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “Maybe…”

  Indigo waited a short while before answering.

  “You heard of Arlo Jones?” he said finally.

  “Who hasn’t?” said Mousebeard. “I read the Mousing Times whenever I can find a copy. He’s always in it—one of the best hunters in the land. He can sniff out a mouse at a hundred paces.”

  “Yeah, I was lucky—like I said.”

  “And we’re lucky to have you with us, Indigo,” said Mousebeard. “Someone of your caliber… good to have you on our side.”