by Robin Jarvis
Disturbed from his thoughts. Mulligan looked at his new friend, and although he had been forbidden to take anyone with him on the journey in case they proved false, he was sore at heart and needed companionship. The burden he had been entrusted with was too great to bear alone and the buoyant enthusiasm of the little fieldmouse touched him deeply.
“I’d be honoured, matey,” he said at length. “Let’s you an’ me go find our ship an’ clamber aboard; she’ll be setting sail before long. Ho, ho! Did you see them cutpurse stallholders yonder? What limp kippers do they take folk for? Why, last time I was ’ere one of them scoundrels had the gall to try and sell me some magic seaweed! Whoever heard of such witless tripe?”
The fieldmouse said nothing but pattered happily beside him. His eyes were glittering with excitement and it was impossible to guess what new adventures lay ahead. His old life was over now, and although his feelings for Bess pained him still, he tried to think only of the future.
As they made their way along the quayside, skulking in the dismal shadows behind them a pair of watchful eyes narrowed and a low hiss escaped into the darkness.
Wrapped in a long cloak of deep green with a great cowl obscuring its face, a single figure stole along the path as silently as a melting shred of grey mist. About the concealing garment’s heavy folds the chill night seemed to gather and collect, clinging to the dank fabric like a thick cloud of flies swarming about something dead and decaying. So complete and concealing was the shrouding raiment that no clue as to the nature of the creature beneath could even be guessed at, but deep in the hood’s blank void the eyes blazed with hatred and a vile curse issued from invisible lips.
“Greater allies than that shall you need, seafarer,” the dry, evil voice needled, “for now your wandering is complete, you are far from help and guidance. The charm that has saved you till now has ended, for the plots and contriving schemes of the Green Council are laid bare unto me.”
Turning, the cloaked figure raised an arm and in the gloom two bitter points glinted coldly. Fixed upon the creatures claws were a pair of curved talons wrought in burnished gold and they flashed through the night like razors through a dark curtain.
The instant this signal was given there came a cackling and a slobbering as a pack of five young rats bounded up. Their eyes shone a burning crimson, for the sinister figure had introduced the bloodlust into their craven hearts and inspired them to murder.
Pigsniff, Clunker, Mouldtoes and Licemagnet were all brown rats, but their sprightly and eager leader, Spots—who got his nickname from his piebald colouring—had been nurtured in malice for longer by the cloaked creature and into him more than the others had been instilled the love of slaughter.
“Is it time, master?” the rat begged. “We been awful good like what you said, keepin’ a safe distance and not making too much din—all ’cept Clunker; I had to crack him one.”
“You filthy tell-all!” snapped Clunker.
His piebald leader ignored him and stared fawningly up at the deep cowl. “Is you sure now?” he implored. “Is it the one yer after?”
“I am certain,” came the hissing voice and the rats shivered at the sound of it.
“What’s the plan then? Does we creep up an’ slit his mizribble throat?”
“I bags first guzzle!” piped up one of the others.
“You snick yer own gash, Mouldtoes!” Spots rapped back. “Tell us, master—what is your wish?”
The hooded one glanced back at the two mice ambling along, chatting lightly to one another.
“Your prey has found a companion,” hissed the voice. “Hear now my decree and obey me to the full.”
The rats sniggered and their tongues lolled from their dribbling jaws.
“You may do what you will to the fieldmouse,” came the hideous instruction, “he is of no matter, yet before you slay the other, bring him to me and all that he bears.”
“Cwoorrr!” gurgled Clunker, smacking his lips. “That littl’un looks a tasty tidbit—be the work of an instant to peel that squirt!”
“Make haste,” their master commanded, “lest they draw too near those stalls and aid. Be swift and deadly, let no hint of your attack warn them. Twice has that Irish fool evaded me, but no more. Now—begone!”
With a slap of their tails, the rats leaped away, their murderous eyes fixed upon the unsuspecting mice a little distance ahead, and their throats burned to taste their succulent life blood.
“That be our goodly ship,” Mulligan told Woodget, pointing his stick at a large cargo vessel.
The fieldmouse stared up at the beautiful curving lines of the craft. A light shone out from one of the portholes and he wondered where on board they would be staying.
“It’s the hold for the likes of you an’ me, matey,” Mulligan said, “providing the bosun lets us aboard. You can’t be too careful these days—a lot of weird and roguish characters about. I’ve heard some right rum tales of late, so I have. A ship is no place to find yourself if there’s a villain on the loose—out on the open ocean there ain’t nowhere you can hide nor escape to, save the hungry deeps.”
“How does we get aboard?” Woodget asked, thrilled at the prospect of this new life and all it had to offer.
“See that mooring rope there? Well, it’s up that we’ll be climbing, and even with old Peggy here I’ll warrant I’ll do it in double-quick time afore you.”
But even as they headed for the edge of the harbour wall, from out of nowhere, or so it appeared to the two astounded mice, there came a crow of delight and the gang of rats was upon them.
Clunker’s claws came sweeping around Woodget’s neck and the fieldmouse let out a horrified scream until the powerful talons squeezed about his throat and his voice was choked into a gasping silence.
“This way, my little mouthful,” Clunker spat. “There’s a peeling blade I’d like you to see,” and he hauled the struggling Woodget back into the shadows.
Mulligan, however, was not so easily overcome. Like a wild beast, cornered and beset by scavenging jackals, he bellowed at the top of his lungs and struck out with his stick.
CRACK!
The weapon smashed into Pigsniff’s snout and a shattered fang went clattering over the flags, leaving the rat howling and clasping his bleeding jaws. But Mouldtoes took his place and, with his fist, dealt the seafarer a dreadful blow across the head, sending him reeling backwards—straight into the clutches of the piebald, who wrenched him completely off balance and threw him to the ground.
At once the others leapt on top of Mulligan and scrabbled at his throat, each trying to lunge down and snap at the exposed fur.
“Oi!” Spots screeched at them. “No killin’—not yet. You heard what the master said. Take his bag, then drag him back there to account.”
“Accursed filth!” Mulligan raged as they tore the pack from his shoulders, biting the straps with their teeth. “Scum of the Scales! You cannot have that! No! Never!”
The mouse lashed out as the bag was wrenched from him and his protests were answered by a savage kick in the ribs.
“Give it back!” he cried, gritting his teeth against the pain. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“On yer feet,” Spots ordered. “Shift yerself, there’s a personage back there wants a word with you.”
But Mulligan was not cowed yet, he was made of doughtier stuff than they had realised. In a final, desperate act, he jerked back onto his feet then charged head-down at the rat stealing his belongings. A startled yowl blasted across the harbour as the mouse rammed Licemagnet right in the stomach. Doubling over in shock and battling for breath, the villain let go of the broken straps and Mulligan snatched at them frantically.
Incensed at the mouse’s stubbornness. Spots hurtled forward and sank his teeth into Mulligan’s shoulder.
The weight of the piebald rat, combined with the searing agony of his bitten flesh, proved too much for the seafarer. At last his strength and courage failed. With a whine, he felt his
legs buckle and he collapsed, helpless, on top of his bag.
“Get him to the hooded one!” Spots snapped, sucking his filthy whiskers clean of the mouse’s blood. “Mouldtoes, you take his arms, Pigsniff the legs.”
“Pigger’s run off,” Mouldtoes answered. “Lost a fang he did, and Licey ain’t in no fit state—I’m not luggin’ this fat beggar on me own.”
“Where’s Clunker got to?”
“He carted that midge off, leavin’ us all the hard work.”
The piebald rat bared his teeth. “Did he now?” he rumbled. “Well, I’ll not be standin’ fer that.”
Behind a row of packing crates, the squirming Woodget had been pulled and dragged. Clunker had no intention of sharing this dainty; the flesh was tender on the bone and already his belly was growling fiercely. Cackling softly to himself, he listened to the others struggle with Mulligan, making sure they were thoroughly occupied before focusing his full and deadly attention upon the morsel in his grasp.
“It’s a rare treat this is,” the rat grinned unpleasantly. “I usually have to make do with their left-overs but not this time, oh no; you’re gonna be mine and taste the sweeter fer it.”
Woodget stared up at the hideous rat’s face and screwed up his own as the grip tightened about his throat and the dribbling lips of his captor curled back to reveal sharp and yellow fangs.
Rejoicing in his excellent fortune. Clunker gave the fieldmouse a customary sniff to savour the shivering portion’s terror, then bore down for the kill.
Yet the lethal snap of his jaws never came. Suddenly Clunker was yanked backwards and the harsh voice of Spots rang in Woodget’s trembling ears.
“You thieving lump of dirt!” he snarled. “Keep him fer yerself, would yer? The lads won’t like that; them’ll be right displeasured, in fact.”
Clunker glared at him for a smouldering instant until he thought better of it and hastily tried to explain.
“Spots!” he exclaimed with injured innocence. “I would never do that. This little gobbit slipped by me. I’d only just caught him and was about to bring his stinkin’ hide back to you—honest I was.”
“Get you gone and help Mouldtoes,” the piebald muttered, his beady eyes twinkling in a most horrible manner in Woodget’s direction. “I’ll deal with this one.”
Clunker’s face fell; he knew what Spots was going to do. The little delicacy was going to be all his—Clunker and the others would be lucky to get a finger to chew. Spots always got his own way, especially recently. He had become peculiar of late, ever since they took up with that cloaked devil. Clunker didn’t like that one—oh no, he did what he was told but it weren’t natural and downright frightened him and the others. They had no idea what this business was about, and if truth be known they didn’t want to. Let Spots bow and scrape to him, they’d just about had enough.
“Probl’y stringy anyway,” he said sourly but, just as he was about to pass Woodget over, a malicious notion flared in his mutinous mind and he let the fieldmouse slip from his claws.
Squealing loudly, Woodget bounded away, nipping under the piebald’s swiping grasp and fleeing back to the quayside.
“HELP! HELP!” he shrieked, but for all his fear he did not run to the safety of the little market. Upon the ground he saw Mulligan’s stricken form and Mouldtoes poring over him, dabbing a sampling claw into the scarlet wound and lifting the dripping talon to his impatient lips.
Wretchedly, Woodget knew that he was too small to be of much use to the fallen mouse but he had to do something.
“Get away from him!” he yelled at the rat, taking a flying leap at Mouldtoes and beating him with his tiny fists.
The fieldmouse’s efforts merely made Mouldtoes laugh and he threw him off with a casual flick of his claw.
“Mulligan!” Woodget cried. “Get up—get help.”
Groggily, Mulligan tried to stand but it was too late, for Spots was already tearing onto the path with Clunker close behind.
“Licey,” the rat yelled, “don’t just sit there—stop the grey one! You two—help me catch the runt.”
The entire operation was going horribly wrong and the piebald was aware that some of the stallholders were already staring in their direction, alerted by the fieldmouse’s cries. His master would not be pleased with him at all.
In a moment Woodget was caught and Spots drew out a glittering knife.
“That’s enough trouble from you,” he said, pressing the blade against the fieldmouse’s chest.
“Mouldtoes, Clunker, Licey, take that one to his lordship. I’ll gut thissun here an’ now.”
“Stop!” Mulligan called, as the others lifted him to his feet. “Let him go—he’s nothing to do with this. He knows nothing.”
“I don’t care if he does or not,” Spots snapped. “He’s less bother dead.”
Suddenly there came a ferocious roar and before the rats knew what was happening, a vicious and brutish maniac came barging into them.
All they saw was a blur of soft brown fur, a flash of red about the nightmare’s neck and a long wooden staff clasped in its paws. Shouting terrible challenges, the horrendous fiend immediately set about the gang like a vengeful whirlwind.
The first blow fell upon Spots’ claw and the knife went spinning through the air. The piebald howled but clung onto Woodget, who cheered the attacker gleefully—chirruping with delight to see him.
Held firmly between Mouldtoes and Clunker, Mulligan realised with amazement that their saviour was in fact another mouse, and he tensed his aching muscles preparing himself for the struggle ahead.
Then the strange mouse’s second blow was dealt. This time it smashed across Mouldtoes’ back and the rat staggered sideways, teetering perilously close to the edge of the harbour wall. With a determined shove. Mulligan sent him flying down into the dark water where the rat landed with a loud splash and a high-pitched wail.
While the unknown but courageous mouse dealt with Licemagnet, Mulligan threw off Clunker’s faltering grasp and punched him on the chin. That was enough for Clunker; squawking in fear he raced off—leaving Spots and Licey to cope on their own.
Wrathfully the piebald spun around. Woodget remained trapped in his claws and the rat’s talons dug into his skin until the fieldmouse whimpered piteously.
“Leave it!” Licey snapped. “We’ve been worsted!” and he hurried after Clunker, disappearing into the surrounding gloom.
Deserted by his comrades and alone with the three mice. Spots snarled and gnashed his teeth. He wouldn’t go down without a fight; besides, he still held Woodget.
“One move and the puny radish gets squeezed till his eyes pop out,” he threatened. “Drop the pole, me boy, and I’ll set him loose.”
Before him, the mouse with the staff looked at Woodget’s scared face and knew he dared not risk it. Reluctantly, he threw the weapon out of reach and waited.
But Mulligan had no faith in the words of a rat; he knew that Spots would murder his little friend just out of spite and he took a sidling step to the left, stooping in one quick movement to snatch something from the floor.
“You maggot-brained fool!” Spots chuckled at the newcomer and he gripped Woodget’s head in his claws ready to tear it from his body.
“No you don’t!” Mulligan roared, bringing the piebald’s own dagger slicing down.
A tremendous scream echoed out over the sea as the rat’s tail was hacked in two. Casting Woodget away from him. Spots stared down at the truncated and bleeding stump and the agony of his wound consumed him utterly. Leaving a trail of blood behind him, he fled along the quayside, screeching vilely.
Breathless from fear, the fieldmouse stared across at the one who had saved them and rushed forward to embrace him.
“Thomas!” he cried. “You came after me—we’d have been dead if it weren’t for you!”
“Course I came after you,” Thomas Stubbs replied, still shaking from the fierce encounter, “but what’s going on here? Rats is usually stupid and scared
—what got into them?”
Woodget shrugged but could not reply, for he was so happy to see a familiar face after all the horror that he burst into tears.
“The poor lad’s had a sore time of it, so he has,” Mulligan declared, holding out his paw for Thomas to shake. “There’s bad folk in these parts—get some nasty pieces a-coming in from outside. A good job you saw us when you did—my thanks.”
Thomas looked around for the staff he had used as a weapon. “I ought to take that back,” he said. “It was holding up the canopy of one of those stalls. You all right now, Woodj?”
The fieldmouse wagged his head and wiped his eyes.
“I’m glad you came, Tom,” he sniffed, “but I won’t go back to Betony Bank.”
“You got it all wrong,” Thomas told him, “it was all my fault. Listen Woodj, it isn’t me she loves—it’s you.” The fieldmouse looked at him in disbelief. “Honest,” Thomas assured him, “you’re the one. Turned me down flat she did.”
All the recent traumas were forgotten and a smile of the purest joy widened in the fieldmouse’s face.
“Is it true?” he gasped. “Oh, is it really? Oh Tom, you don’t know how unhappy I was. Mister Mulligan, did you hear? She loves me, Bess loves me.”
The fieldmouse turned to his newest friend and blinked, then he stared back at Thomas, but neither of them could guess what the seafarer was up to.
Kneeling upon the flags, the one-legged mouse was examining the severed length of the piebald’s tail.
Gingerly he prodded the gruesome object and muttered under his breath. Obviously whatever he was looking for was not there and a look of concern crossed his face.
“Then he was just local riff-raff after all,” he breathed. “So the adept is still out there, watching me right now, no doubt. Well, you managed this time Mulligan, old lad, but only by a whisker—who knows about the next?”
Abruptly he became aware that the others were staring at him and Mulligan rose stiffly.
“A grisly trophy of tonight’s trouble,” he said, grimacing at the bloody tail and trying to sound cheerful.