by Robin Jarvis
“What were you doing?” Thomas asked.
“Doing? Why, nothing—just taking a gander at it, as I said. Make a rare proof of this yarn when it’s told.” Thomas eyed him doubtfully. It was plain that the mouse was not telling the complete truth but he was in no mood to enquire further.
“Well,” he said, clapping Woodget on the shoulder, “I promised her I’d get you home so we’d best set off.”
The fieldmouse nodded and pattered over to Mulligan to make his farewells.
“Don’t look like I’ll be voyaging with ’ee after all,” he said. “I reckons that I’ll miss out on more excitin’ times but it’s by Bess’s side where I belong. Goodbye, Mister Mulligan—it were nice to know you even if it were just a short while.”
Mulligan looked at Woodget keenly then glanced over to where Thomas was standing and an anxious idea born of doubt and necessity formed in his mind.
“Oh aye!” he agreed quickly. “To be sure it’s missing your company I’ll be doing, but before you trot along homeward could you and your friend there not see your way to helping me one last time? I wouldn’t ask but that scurvy knave done took a bite out of my shoulder and I doesn’t think I can clamber aboard my ship without assistance.”
Woodget took a look at the wound. It certainly looked vicious and he marvelled that Mulligan had not fainted from the pain and distress it must be causing him.
“We don’t mind, do we, Tom?” he answered. “Come on, you lay your arm on me and Tom’ll take the other.”
“Wait,” Mulligan insisted. “I must have my bag.”
“I’ll fetch it after we’ve put you on board,” Thomas told him.
But Mulligan would not hear of it. “No,” he demanded, “I’ll take it with me now... I wouldn’t leave anything for them scoundrels to find if they come back.”
Woodget thought this very sensible and paused to go hunting for his own bag which he had lost in the initial struggle with Clunker. Then, with himself and Thomas supporting the wounded seafarer, they made their way to the ship and began to help him up the rope.
A little distance away the cloaked figure uttered a repugnant hiss and gazed down at the piebald rat who had fallen in a swoon before him.
“Mistaken was I to put my trust in one so unworthy,” his cruel voice spiked in the dark. “The fool was yours and yet you allowed a mouse to rout you.”
Upon the creature’s claws the two golden blades winked and flashed as it crouched down and drew them menacingly across Spots’ throat.
The red-rimmed eyes rolled in Spots’ sockets as he slipped out of the dark sleep that had engulfed him. Yet the first sight he saw when his vision cleared was the sinister shadow-filled hood, and with a quiver he felt the chill gold touch his skin.
“Master?” he whined. “I tried, but it were them others—they skedaddled and left me. Oh my tail—it hurts so bad. Don’t kill me. My Lord, I begs you. I know what them blades can do.”
Spots shivered uncontrollably and hot tears streamed down his hatchet face.
Stooping over him a repellent chuckle floated from the dark cowl.
“Thrice now have you failed me,” came the accusing hiss. “All I have to do is break your rancid flesh and you shall be condemned to a hundred agonies before death takes you.”
“Noooo,” implored the rat.
The glittering blades pressed a fraction closer to the piebald’s neck then, with a dismissive snarl, the cloaked figure rose.
“Begone!” it hissed. “Death shall find you in his own way. Yet slink away under the restraint of these ruinous words and may they torment you until the end. For failing me, you shall never find rest; always and forever will your mottled skin be in the service of another, and grant that he is less merciful than I. Go now to that pitiless destiny, loathsome stump-tail! It will pursue you down the years until you despair of your very existence; then alone shall you wish I had dispatched you now.”
Spots wiped the sweat and tears from his face, and although blood was still pouring from his severed tail and his soul was screaming inside him, he somehow managed to scrabble to his feet and, without glancing back at his former master, sped from the harbour.
“You’re well out of that,” he moaned. “If you can heal this nasty mess then you’ve really gotta get out of this stinking hold. Go to some big and crowded city where the scum and slime are ripe for the picking. Who knows, there might even be some mousies to peel, if I’m lucky.”
So it was that Spots, or Morgan as was his real name, vanished from that place and the curse laid upon him was roused—its unswerving malevolence bearing down and hounding him for the rest of his miserable days.
Yet upon the gloom-laden quayside, the hooded figure staring at the Greek ship in the distance came to a solemn conclusion. It was useless entrusting such urgent and vital matters to witless and profane underlings. No, to ensure he accomplished his mission he would have to execute it personally.
Carefully, the two golden blades were slipped from the creature’s claws and stowed securely within a small travelling bag, then the hood was thrown back and the dark green cloak cast aside. Once this too was safely put away, the figure stole towards the ship and quietly climbed aboard.
3 - Aboard the Calliope
“Not much further mates,” Mulligan told the two mice who were helping him clamber up the mooring rope, “then you can leave me. Real grateful I am for this kindness, aiding a poor old wretch to his bunk. Princes, the pair of you.”
When they finally stepped aboard the Calliope, the trio were met by a burly mouse with dark brown fur, whose chin was covered by a neatly clipped and pointed beard. This was the bosun—one of the few mouse crew. His main duty for this watch was to ensure that no undesirables boarded the vessel and, to aid him in this, a short but lethal-looking sword was fastened at his waist.
All ships, whether their official crews know it or not, are utilised by other creatures. Since the first galleon was launched into the uncharted waters there has been a secondary crew. Their task it was to oversee all who journeyed below decks, ensuring that they were kept in order and that the true cargo remained untouched.
Throughout long nautical history the ranks of this secret, ancillary navy were in the main, and by vigorous tradition, made up of stout-hearted mice. Of all creatures they had proven the most loyal and trustworthy, for although rats voyaged often, their craven, ever-greedy spirits were unsuited for such duties.
The size of each vessel dictated the number of the crew; small fishing boats were generally left unmoused for there was nowhere for any unauthorised passengers to hide and the craft never travelled to another port anyway. A ship the size of the Calliope, however, required a captain and three officers to make sure that the goods stored in the hold were not tampered with, and one of these redoubtable characters was the bosun who now stood before Thomas and his friends.
The armed mouse’s name was Able Ruddaway and it had been a long, tiresome night. He had grunted and growled audibly when he had first seen the three figures labouring up the rope and flexed his fingers near the hilt of his sword in readiness. Through long years of experience the bosun had learned not to trust anyone and lately his mettle had been tested by the increasingly rough folk who wished to traverse the seas.
“Name yourselves!” he had called out as the struggling trio wobbled and toiled towards him and he uncovered a lantern to get a sharper glimpse of these indistinct arrivals.
A look of recognition gleamed in the bosun’s eyes when he saw Mulligan and he muttered under his breath before consulting a much-thumbed notebook and adding the Irish mouse’s name to a long list.
“Cutting it fine, Mulligan,” he sniffed once all three were safely on board and he eyed Thomas and Woodget suspiciously.
“These two are friends of mine,” the one-legged mouse answered. “Master Woodget Pipple and Thomas... I didn’t catch your last name, lad.”
“Stubbs,” Thomas replied.
“Aye, Stubbs. As I said, mate
s of mine they are so don’t you go askin’ them none of your infernal questions, Mr Ruddaway. Is it a full hold you’ll be having on this voyage?”
Still scrutinizing Mulligan’s companions, the bosun nodded. “Aye,” he said, “the Calliope’s not carried so many for a fair while—seems everyone’s a-travelling. It’s the time of year, I suppose; always busy in the spring but we can’t be too cautious, lot of scum swilling about.”
“You don’t have to tell us that,” Thomas broke in. “We’ve already met some real nasty villains.”
Mr Ruddaway glanced at him but did not respond, instead he pointed at Mulligan’s shoulder and jerked his head to one side.
“You’d best get that seen to,” he said. “There’s a physician down below—go seek him out. He’ll be by the cotton bales with the better sort.”
“It’s obliged I am to you,” Mulligan replied. “When you can spare a moment or five, come find me and we’ll share a sup of my own special medicine.”
The bosun chuckled and returned his attention to the notebook, adding Thomas and Woodget’s names to his list.
“Here we go, lads,” Mulligan told them, “just get me to the hold and I’ll manage from there.”
As they ventured down into the ship descending a steep and narrow passage, Woodget turned back and peered behind them.
“Why for was he puttin’ our names down?” he asked.
Mulligan coughed and raised his eyebrows as though he hadn’t noticed. “Did he?” he muttered with feigned innocence. “Well, always been one for order and setting things down proper has that Ruddaway. Likes to know exactly who’s who and where they are—a real stickler for them bits of paper he is and that’s the truth sure enough.”
“Not as if we’ll be on this ’ere ship for long though,” Woodget added thoughtfully, “I mean, I got Bess a-waitin’ on me back home.”
At that moment Mulligan winced and uttered a cry of pain as if his wound had grown abruptly worse.
The fieldmouse forgot his doubts immediately. “Don’t you worry now,” he told his ailing friend, “we’ll see you to where you want to go and make sure you can manage afore we leave—won’t we, Tom?”
A grim smile twitched over Mulligan’s face, but in the dim gloom of the passage neither of his companions noticed it. Besides, Woodget’s whiskers were already trembling, for a slight draught was issuing up the cramped way and with it the slightly stuffy air brought other, more fascinating insights as to what lay ahead.
A myriad of opposing scents laced the fusty atmosphere. Beneath the pungency of the by now familiar pitch, Woodget could smell a score of suppers being cooked over small and carefully tended fires. There were vegetable stews, delicious mouth-watering soups, roasted parsnips and, from some remote corner, his delicate senses caught the sweet aroma of fried elderflowers.
Presently the narrow way came to an end and, with the feel of rough timber boards under their feet, the three mice found themselves in the hold of the Calliope.
Thomas and Woodget came to a halt and they stared around them in wonder.
The hold was enormous; to their right, the curved hull of the ship reared into the high darkness above, whilst the far, port side could not be seen at all. Filling the great space, enormous crates towered over them like square and wooden mountains and in the murky distance they could just make out the vague outline of other cargo peaks. Yet at the foot of these lofty ranges, in the valleys and within the cramped channels and canyons, was a multitude of varied creatures all preparing bunks for themselves and trying to make their allotted berths as comfortable as possible.
Many of those closest to the new arrivals were rats. These idle, dirty specimens had made no attempt to find a cosy corner to curl up in and were simply sprawled across one another. Evidently they had just enjoyed a late meal of raw and, to Woodget’s shrinking nose, rather putrid fish.
Most of them were belching and licking their dirty snouts free of grease and salty, dribbling ooze. In lazy contentment they perched upon every available space, stupidly sucking their teeth and swinging their great, bunion-covered and scaly feet in a childish fashion as they ruminated and rocked slowly back and forward.
Upon the crowded deck the remains of the supper that they had enjoyed was being picked at in a disinterested and bored way by several of the older rats. Humming ridiculous and mindless ditties to themselves, they played with the left-overs, flicking a fish scale at one of their lolling neighbours or fanning themselves with a half-chewed fin.
Mingled amongst them were other slovenly vagrants. A group of four weasels and two sour-faced shrews were playing dice in a rare clearing, a drunken hedgehog who had celebrated the coming of spring with too much enthusiasm was hiccuping uncontrollably and, sitting all alone in the middle of an alley-way formed by the gap between the crates, a glum-looking mole shook his head as he heaved a regretful sigh—remembering the folk he had left behind.
But Woodget’s attention was fixed solely upon the rats; the sight of them and the stink of their grimy, unwashed fur brought an immediate fear to his heart and he drew back instinctively.
“Don’t you fret none,” Mulligan reassured him. “These motley cringers ain’t gonna harm you. Look at their ugly faces; they’ve more to dread from us than we of them.”
As if to prove the point, he took a hobbling step forward and glared at a group of dishevelled and woeful-looking rats who were picking their brown and yellow teeth with old fishbones. When they saw Mulligan raise his stick and shake it at them they threw their claws before their snouts and their bottom lips quivered as they flinched, expecting him to strike their bony heads.
“That’s the normal way of things,” Mulligan grunted with satisfaction as he lowered the stick and chuckled at the whinging rats. “A more skittish and yellow-spined breed I ain’t never chanced upon.”
“Then what made those outside so wicked?” the fieldmouse asked, recalling the hatred that had burned in Spots’ red-rimmed eyes.
But the seafarer did not seem to hear him and touched his wounded shoulder gingerly.
“Let’s away from this place,” Mulligan muttered hastily; “the dregs are always to be found on the outskirts. A little further in and we’ll meet fairer company than this mixed jumble and sorry-looking crew.”
And so Thomas and Woodget helped him to limp his way deeper into the hold. As they progressed, the rats who lounged in their path crawled swiftly aside, with many a grovelling apology for causing any inconvenience. But the fieldmouse remained wary and his flesh crawled if he accidentally brushed against them.
Passing into a wide space that separated the two halves of the packed cargo, they found themselves in what was obviously the main thoroughfare of this strange community; the numbers of snivelling rat folk grew fewer and this part of the hold possessed a more wholesome air.
Genial mouse faces were to be seen sitting in snug berths with small lanterns glimmering above their bunks and, in the narrow alleys that radiated from this central road, other habitations could be glimpsed, for the glowing and sporadic trail of candlelight stretched in all directions.
“This is more like it,” Mulligan announced with a wave of his stick. “Here’s where the decent ones are quartered. ’Tis a strange life aboard ship, lads; like a village in miniature it is and when we’re afloat there ain’t nothing you can do to change the neighbours. Like it or lump it.”
Woodget was mildly astonished to find that there were numerous families aboard the Calliope. Here and there groups of mouse children who were too excited to sleep could be heard giggling as they listened to their father’s amusing stories. Other youngsters were dozing peacefully but at least one was determined not to go to bed and almost ran straight into Thomas on his scampering flight from an irate and scolding mother.
“You’ll have plenty of folk to speak to, Mulligan,” Woodget said. “I never did see such a gathering. I reckons you could talk to someone new every day of this voyage and still not know all of them by the time it’s d
one.”
A peculiar glint shone in Mulligan’s eyes but he said nothing and hobbled on in pensive silence.
Thomas gazed around them and nodded smilingly at the sleepy faces who glanced in his direction. But a heaviness was stealing over his heart and he was beginning to worry about the time. “Where do you think the physician will be?” he asked.
“Oh, he’ll not be far,” the seafarer replied, stirring from his thoughts. “Look yonder; those bales will make a fine soft bunk for me if there’s any room left and that’s where the bosun said I should find him. Let us head over there and I can get settled.”
The cotton bales were great square bags of bulging sacking, stuffed to near-bursting with countless soft and fluffy wads. Although most of them had been stacked so high as to make any attempt at sleeping upon them a momentous and dangerous climb, four spare bales were ranged in a line at the base of this unwieldy peak and it was these that a host of mice had claimed and made their own.
A number of smaller wooden boxes and sawn-off blocks had been hauled to one end of the row and organised into an irregular stairway leading to the top of the four bales, and when Mulligan and the others arrived they found that all the space was fully occupied.
Countless disdainful faces stared imperiously down at them. Apparently this was where those who considered themselves to be above the rest of the common sort had congregated in a select gathering, and Woodget nearly surrendered to the powerful urge to blow a raspberry at them.
Thomas also disliked the arrogant scorn that flowed down from above, but his mind was too preoccupied to care. All he wanted to do was return to the quayside and he wished Mulligan would settle somewhere soon.
Whether Mulligan himself was aware of the hostile contempt their presence was causing to the finer sensibilities of the uppish and supercilious residents, neither Thomas or Woodget could guess. Apparently deaf to the huffs of marked intolerance and blind to the pursed lips of displeasure, he began to clamber up the steps.
“Make way there,” he said gruffly when he reached the top. “Must be a space where I can plant my weary hindquarters.”