The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Shuffling down the alleyway, with his sloping shoulders bowed and his slightly flat-shaped head slowly shaking from side to side as he stared with solemn intensity at something held in his paws, came the figure of a young mouse.

  His fur was a pale grey colour, but as he shambled past the lanterns their radiance scintillated around his slight form, bestowing upon him a halo of gold.

  Woodget watched the newcomer cautiously before making a move, for as yet the mouse was unaware of him. A satchel with a letter ‘D’ painted large and red upon the front flap was slung over one of the drooping shoulders and his heavy-lidded but wide brown eyes were still fixed upon the mysterious object dangling in his paws.

  “Thistles and nettles!” the grey mouse continued woefully. “Round and round we’re goin’, round and round without a stop. I don’t think I feel so good, spinnin’ like a sycamore key. It’s giddy I’ll be.”

  The stranger was quite close to Woodget now and at last the fieldmouse was able to see the baffling object twirling from the other’s fingers.

  It was a fishbone attached to a piece of string and Woodget let out a gurgle of laughter when he recognised the ludicrous compass he had almost bought from the quayside market. Then he saw that around the newcomer’s neck there was not one cork talisman but three.

  At once the stranger looked up and his large eyes blinked in surprise. “Who’s that?” he gasped, his large head bobbing upon his thin neck. “What’s so far-fangled funny?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon,” Woodget declared, “I was just so relieved you weren’t another o’ them awful rats. There was one here a moment ago, down that snicket there.”

  The grey mouse regarded him for a moment then grinned stupidly. “I done seed nothin’ and I aren’t no rattybigfootsnottynosescabtail!” he affirmed, running the words together so that he had to take a great gulp of air before continuing. “Them’s no family of mine, least my Aunty Lily never said so, but one of my cussins was a mucky scamp, she always said.”

  Woodget smiled and introduced himself, but the mouse shook his head sadly, causing his ears to flap as he did so.

  “Isn’t no use a-telling you my name’s Dimlon, nor that Aunty always calls me Dimmy, for what’s the good in that if we’re all a’ squirlin’ around and around? Come a cropper we will and what’s the use of gettin’ hintroducted and parlourmanneredbestcrocksout then?”

  Taking another deep breath, he held up the suspended fishbone and pointed to it glumly while his eyes rolled in their sockets as they followed its slowly spinning progress.

  “There now,” he breathed emphatically, “see how we’re all fixed and lumbered. Always to the north this here hamulot points, but you just mark how it turns and twists, never stopping still. Can only mean one thing. In a circle, that’s where this big daft boat’s goin’. I reckon I ought to have words with someone, an’ I will too if I knew who to tell.”

  Woodget chortled and found himself wondering if he would have been taken in by the absurd compass if he had gone ahead and purchased one.

  “I’m sure we ain’t going round in circles,” he told Dimlon tactfully. “P’raps you haven’t got the hang of that gadget yet. Maybe you ain’t holdin’ it proper.”

  Dimmy’s face clouded as his dull wits struggled with this new thought, then he brightened and he tucked the fishbone into a pocket of his satchel.

  “Pickle me!” he groaned, tutting at his previous fears. “Aunty said I weren’t no good at anythin’, ‘Dimmylackwitdunderhead’—she was right there. ’Course, she didn’t think I’d ever find the harbour, let alone get on a boaty. Just wait till I sees her face when I come back with summink rare an’ forrin to put on her table, poshdustcollectin’whatnot. A statyoo of an effylump I’m hopin’ for—she’d fair flip for that, she would. Always told me tales of far shores, she has, tales she’d heard from when she was little. Scary some of them were, some nights I never slept a wink, but I’d dearly like to see a munkie and hear a lie-on. Not the other way round o’ course—’case it saw me too and ett me for a snack then be pickin’ bits of me out of his teeth all week.”

  Woodget laughed at his idiotic talk. “Well, I’m pleased to have met you anyways,” he said. “I was just off to find my friend Mister Mulligan. I’d be glad of the company and I’m sure he’d be glad to meet you if you’re willin’ to join me.”

  Dimlon consented and trudged happily alongside the fieldmouse, telling him of his former life with his aunt. This embittered old spinster had taken him in as an infant when his parents had died, and from that day to this had crushed and ridiculed him at every opportunity until he was the butt of every joke where they lived and she treated him like an unpaid servant.

  The more Woodget learned about this formidable-sounding old battleaxe the more he felt sorry for his companion, yet Dimlon would not hear a word against her.

  “A real grand lady she is,” he said in her defence. “Not nobody with nicer knick-knacks than what she has. So patient too, always watches me when I does the dustin’, givin’ me careful advice on how to do it proper and reminds me when I do it wrong or miss a bit. That’s why I told her, “Aunty,” I said, “you got all these lovely trinkets an’ you’re so kind to let me clean them every day after I done my chores, “tain’t fair that I done gave you none of them.” Oh, how she laughed at that—always laughing at my funny ways, she was; did my heart good to hear her ’cos I knew how much she cared for me, see.”

  By now they had reached the main thoroughfare but the grey mouse continued to chatter as they strolled along. The evening meal had taken its toll on the rest of the passengers for the wider way was almost deserted. In their berths the families were either dozing or trying to keep the youngsters from raiding the rest of the precious provisions. Two of the more rebellious infants were chasing one another in and out of the narrow alleyways and their fraught parents had given up any hope of keeping them under control.

  Woodget eyed them with a measure of concern, remembering that the rat who called himself Jophet might be lurking down one of those dimly-lit channels. But the screams of the youngsters were cries of giggling mischief, and under the bewildering spell of Dimlon’s inane blather he gave the croaking creature no further thought.

  “The look on Aunty’s face,” Dimlon babbled, childishly avoiding the cracks between the timbers as he ambled along, the three cork pendants swinging like clumsy pendulums. “Didn’t reckon I’d akshually do it, she never. Just wait till I bring her a gloryorse treasure. Make the others sit up, that will.”

  Suddenly the two mouse children came running back onto the main thoroughfare, their faces drawn and their merry voices changed to whimpers of dread.

  Woodget stared at them in dismay as they tore back to their parents and he shifted his gaze to a dark opening between the huge packing crates.

  “Mother! Mother!” the youngsters cried. “It’s following us, look—look!”

  A furious scowl appeared on Woodget’s face. How dare that rat pick on children and frighten them?

  But then the object of the youngsters’ fear stepped into the lantern light. It was not Jophet, but a creature far more outlandish and the fieldmouse gaped in astonishment.

  “A wizard! A wizard!” the children sang, pointing at the bizarre stranger with a mixture of awe and excitement.

  Woodget had never seen anything so peculiar before. The ‘wizard’ was almost as short as himself, but what manner of creature he was he could not tell. The enigma was swathed in a cloak of blood-red velvet, richly embroidered with golden images of suns and moons and weird, plainly magical symbols. A large hood edged with a silken fringe concealed the unknown’s face but from the deep shade sprouted many pale whiskers and for a brief moment two dim points glittered out in Woodget and Dimlon’s direction.

  In one of the stranger’s small, gloved paws was a slender staff painted with a spiral of silver and black, topped by a carving of three rayed stars. With his free paw he traced a curious snaking pattern in the air.


  A thrilled, expectant murmur rippled through the gathered families.

  “A travelling magician!” they whispered. “Will he perform for us, do you think? That’ll keep the young ones entertained. They think of everything on these trips, don’t they?”

  All eyes were trained on the hooded figure and their whiskers trembled with glee as he raised the staff and waited for quiet to descend.

  Suddenly from the fringed hood a sonorous, clear voice called out and all marvelled that such a booming sound could have its origins in such a diminutive creature.

  “Hearken to me, voyagers all!” the mysterious stranger cried. “Know now that Simoon—wanderer of the ancient pathways, obeah pilgrim, far seer, chanter of spellcraft, mage and prophet, diviner of fortunes, treader of the forgotten track and guardian of the old rituals—is amongst you.”

  A murmur of approval swept through the onlookers; so far this was just what they anticipated and some even cheered, only to be hushed by their neighbours who were eager to hear what else the magician had to say.

  “Many days shall we journey together,” Simoon called, “and in that time thy hearts will grow weary. When you tire of this airless place and the dull company of those colourless folk about you, come seek me out and you shall learn all that you are able to bear.”

  A sense of disappointment welled up in everyone, as well as a twinge of resentment for being pronounced ‘dull’.

  “He’s only touting for business,” grumbled a disillusioned mousewife. “Well, that prophet won’t profit from me. Agnes, Pip, come away—there’ll be no free show from that one.”

  Feeling cheated, the mice slowly went back to their bunks until only Woodget and Dimlon were left looking at the hooded creature.

  Within the cloak the one called Simoon shrugged his shoulders then, with a parting glance at the two who were still watching him, fished inside a pocket of the red velvet and cast a pinch of grey powder to the ground.

  At once there was a bang and a flash of yellow flame which instantly turned into a cloud of thick blue smoke shot through with fizzing orange sparks.

  When the swirling, glittering mist cleared the magician was nowhere to be seen and Dimlon let out a whoop of delight.

  “Plop me in a jam pot!” he declared. “That’s a gogglin’ good trick and no mistake! Real mighty witcherypocus that is—wouldn’t like him to aim his spells and curses on me. Purplebelliedpinkspottednatterjacker, that’s what he’d turn me into.”

  Woodget did not like to tell him that Simoon had simply ducked back into the dark opening under cover of the smoke screen. “Come on,” he said, “Mulligan ain’t far off now.”

  Leaving the central road, they ventured through the crate canyons to where the cotton bales reared high and bulging into the towering darkness, and made for the stairway.

  Past the pompous faces and snooty upturned noses of those who dwelt there they went until they heard a loud, raucous voice raised in lusty laughter.

  “Then we trussed him up and locked him in a creel for the rest of the night,” Mulligan’s unashamed tones seared through the refined berths, “so drunk he couldn’t remember his name that stoat was, and sang such a lewd ballad that the beadle came bowling over and washed out his mouth with carbolic.”

  Dimlon’s eyes shone as he listened and he quickened his pace in his urgency to meet the owner of this brash voice.

  When they reached him. Mulligan was sitting with his wooden leg resting upon his pack. The wounded shoulder was bandaged and his whiskered cheeks buckled with mirth as he waved the leather flask beneath his nose.

  But the seafarer was not alone, for sitting beside him, dangling his toes over the bale’s edge was Able Ruddaway, the bosun, and it was obvious that he too had been drinking. The crew member’s head was lolling to one side, his eyes were strangely glazed and his usually neat beard glistened with spilt rum.

  “Ahoy there!” Mulligan boomed when he noticed the two mice approaching. “And how’s young Pipple? Making friends by the looks of things.”

  Woodget grinned and introduced him to Dimlon.

  “Sure, I’m pleased to meet you,” Mulligan declared with a nod.

  “You got a leg missing!” Dimlon exclaimed.

  Mulligan peered down at his peg-leg and affected a look of horror. “Keelhaul me if that ain’t so!” he bawled. “To be sure the real one was there a minute ago! Oh Master Dimlon, help me find it! The wilful wretch is always hopping off on its own, so it is.”

  Dimlon stared at him incredulously, until the mariner winked back impishly. “Why, you were a-pullin’ my leg,” he guffawed. “Legs don’t go off on their own. But you must call me Dimmy, Mister Mulligan—my Aunty Lily does an’ everyone else too.”

  “It’s not a bit surprised I am to hear it,” Mulligan chuckled. “Well, Dimmy, let me present an old mate of mine to you. This sorry swab is the bosun of this fine ship.” He jabbed Mr Ruddaway in the ribs with his elbow and the mouse jerked his head up, startled.

  “All’s safe below decks, Captain, sir!” he yelped drunkenly. “No scum allowed, throw ’em in the brig or overboard, we runs a smart ship on the Calliope.”

  “Now then,” Mulligan began, turning back to Woodget, “tell me, how’s that chum of yours? Has the sickness passed?”

  The fieldmouse shook his head.

  “That it hasn’t,” he replied. “Poor Tom is still bad. I was hopin’ you could ask the physician for somethin’ to help him. I’d have come sooner but I met a rat on the way. He weren’t no cringer, more like them what attacked us.”

  Mulligan’s face changed immediately. Every trace of humour melted and his twinkling eyes dimmed to two flinty points that were both anxious and severe.

  “You sure of that now?” he snapped, recorking the flask and laying it by his side.

  “As I’m standing here,” the fieldmouse asserted. “Said you were a-pretendin’ to be something you aren’t—I didn’t like him at all.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I... I couldn’t tell,” Woodget stuttered, taken aback by the unnerving transformation. “He kept in the shadows... but he said his name was Jophet.”

  Mulligan repeated the name under his breath but it was clear that it meant nothing to him. Turning from Woodget, he lifted his stick and pointed it accusingly at Dimlon.

  “Did you see this rogue?” he barked. “What of his tail? Did you notice any disfigurement?”

  The pale grey mouse shook his head, shaken by the severity of the question. “I didn’t see him, no!” he said hastily. “Nor his flyflickermuddraggerscabwiggler. All I saw was the magicwitchyspellthrowertoadymaker, but he made a crash and a bang and was gone.”

  “He means the magician,” Woodget explained, seeing Mulligan’s confusion.

  “A magician?” the Irish mouse breathed gravely. “Tell me of him.”

  “Well, we didn’t see much of him either,” Woodget explained. “All swaddled up in a cloak he was, with a big hood an’ all.”

  “Then it could well be,” Mulligan whispered to himself. “Either of those two sound right, unless they’re working together of course.”

  Shifting around, he shook the bosun by the shoulders and the bearded mouse spluttered indignantly.

  “Able!” Mulligan demanded. “Do you remember what happened after I came aboard with my two young mates—did ought else follow us? How many other passengers joined before the ship left harbour?”

  Mr Ruddaway rubbed his eyes and peered hard at his old friend as he struggled to remember.

  “Yes...” he said eventually, “there were some later than you, can’t remember how many... but let me see... was it one or two? Might have been five—busy night that was. No, hang on... no, I can’t recall who they were. That medicine of yours is a real brain-wiper.”

  Mulligan grasped him tighter than ever. “Your book!” he demanded. “You’ll have entered all their names in there. Where is it?”

  The bosun groped at his belt where he normally stowed the
well-thumbed notebook, then gave a silly titter. “I left it in my quarters up on deck,” he laughed.

  “I have to know!” the Irish mouse insisted forcefully. “Get on your feet, you stupid oaf! We’ll both go see!”

  Woodget was alarmed and almost afraid by Mulligan’s behaviour and he recalled the panic he had first heard in his voice upon the quayside. Perhaps there was some truth in what the unseen Jophet had told him after all, and this unwelcome thought sent a shiver down the fieldmouse’s tail.

  Around them the other passengers stared at the scene with distaste on their haughty faces. In spite of the fact that they considered Mulligan coarse and vulgar and that he ought not to be permitted to remain with them, they were all listening with interest to what was said.

  “No, no,” the bosun blurted, “you stay here and see to your company. I’ll go fetch my register and bring it down. Though by rights you oughtn’t to clap eyes on it, old mate, crew use only—but just this once, eh? Can’t do no harm. If you don’t tell the skipper then I won’t.”

  Staggering to his unsteady feet, the bosun saluted them with his sword, then tottered down the steps and out of sight.

  An awkward silence followed his departure, broken only by the disapproving tuts of the disdainful onlookers.

  Woodget felt uncomfortable and Dimlon looked scared. Mulligan’s face was terrible to see; a tempest of emotions was ravaging his features and his paws reached for his pack which he dragged from under his stump and clutched tightly to his chest as though he expected it to be torn from him.

  “I... I better go see how Tom’s gettin’ on then,” Woodget mumbled as he watched him. “Happen that physician wouldn’t be no use nohow. See you later, Mister Mulligan.”

  No reply came and Woodget beckoned Dimlon to follow him as he picked his way between the sniffing, snooty spectators.

  Alone with his bag. Mulligan stared into space, ignoring the pert mutterings that rustled about him. From the beginning he had known that his was a dangerous road, beset by perils. But unexpected hazards had waylaid his quest far too early. The trust the council had put in him was proving to be unfounded and his spirits ebbed to their lowest point thus far.