by Robin Jarvis
With his back against one of the barrels, he propped himself up and rubbed life into his stiff, aching legs. He felt as though he had been asleep for a fortnight, but it had been a disturbed slumber and one that brought no rest. During his unpleasant ordeal, Thomas had eaten very little. Woodget had tried to make certain that his friend ate something, but whatever Master Stubbs managed to swallow it did not stay down for very long.
Now his limbs were weak and he patted his shrunken, growling stomach ruefully.
“’Tis a woeful time, Tom,” Woodget said, emerging from the gap between the barrels behind him. “You won’t know the place now, it’s changed so much. Folk are all on edge—I doesn’t like it.”
“Even here I can sense the tension,” Thomas murmured. “Why, it might be an entirely different ship we’re on. What did happen to the bosun? Do you think it was an accident?”
Woodget shook his head. “If the captain says it was then it must’ve been,” was all he could utter, “but it’s a bad end whichever way. I wouldn’t fancy gettin’ drowned—an ’orrible finish that is.”
Thomas breathed deeply, but the air was stuffy and stale. “Wish we could go up on deck,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of this dank place already.”
“We’re only allowed up at dawn and dusk,” Woodget told him, “and then only in small groups for a few measly minutes. Well, we done missed the first go. Let’s find Dimmy while we wait for the next and see what we can do in the meantimes. I haven’t been up myself yet, what with one thing and another, mind you—poor Dimmy’s afraid to try, in case the wind whisks him over the side or a wave washes across and does the same. You’ll like him, Tom—he’s dafter than me. Kept me company the whole time you was sick he has and popped in to see you once, but you was fast in a doze and we didn’t like to wake you.”
The glimmer of a smile appeared on Thomas’s face. “You like this new friend of yours don’t you?”
“He makes me laugh,” Woodget nodded, “and that’s not been easy of late.”
“So how’s Mulligan? What’s he been up to?”
Woodget shrugged but said nothing.
“What’s the matter?” Thomas asked.
The fieldmouse twisted his mouth to the side and Thomas recognised that expression as the sign which meant his friend was troubled and thinking deeply.
Patiently he waited until Woodget was ready to answer.
“I haven’t seen much of Mister Mulligan,” he said. “Not since that night when the bosun upped and vanished. Fact, I been avoidin’ him. There’s summat not right there, Tom. I dunno what it is but I ain’t easy no more in his company. He’s so edgy and glaring, I doesn’t know which way his mood’ll swing from one moment to another.
“Not once, to my reckoning at any rate, has he left them cotton bales the whole time he’s been aboard. And always he keeps his bag with him; must be precious whatever’s in there but I wonders how he came by it. He’s not actin’ like an honest mouse should. P’raps it’s treasure an’ jewels. That’s what I’m thinking, though Dimmy thought it might be a stash of ‘choklittybiskitts’. Whatever it is I don’t want to know, nor have nowt to do with it.”
Thomas grimaced. “I’ll wager it’s three more flasks of rum,” he said, “but if you like we’ll steer clear of the cotton bales today. Come on—you can take me to meet this Dimmy.”
With his friend at his side once more, Woodget felt happier than he had done since leaving the harbour and chattered freely of the characters he and Dimlon had met in the past few days.
Thomas listened in mild amusement and was glad that Woodget had found such a good friend so quickly, although at times he did suffer the slightest twinges of jealousy whilst hearing of their rambling explorations of the ship and wished that he had been there.
“There’s still a mighty pile of stuff we haven’t seen yet,” the fieldmouse added hastily, perceiving his friend’s feelings. “There’s a travelling magician on board—a sort of wizard who can look into the future from what I heard him say. We’ll have to go find him, he might do a trick or two fer us if we’re lucky. Looked a real tail-tingler he did—bet he could make your whiskers pop out if’n he really tried.”
“I wonder if anyone’s tried asking him if he knows what happened to that bosun,” Thomas said gravely. “Surely if he’s as good as you think he is he must have some idea.”
Through the alleys they went, passing beneath the nest of the dormice, but that morning no inquisitive, timid heads appeared—yet still the nest trembled.
Out to the main thoroughfare their steps took them and again Thomas was astonished to view the change that had stricken the other passengers.
The families were huddled in groups, and the eyes that turned to him were no longer friendly but seemed to fix upon him with suspicion. When he and Woodget drew near, the infants who were mournfully playing in the sawdust were briskly pulled away and scolded for venturing in the paths of strangers.
“No telling who they are,” they overheard the terse tones of one mother’s reprimand.
Turning to stare at her, Thomas was dismayed to see that the poor mousewife was shaking and she wrapped her protective arms tight about her children—kissing them anxiously.
“They’re all terrified,” he said to Woodget.
“Take a long while for these folk to settle again,” the fieldmouse replied. “They got doubts a-nagging at them. There’s not much cheer roundabouts.”
In silence they pressed on, and Woodget quickened his pace when they came near to the cotton bales, slowing only when they were left far behind.
“This is where Dimmy lives,” he chirped when they finally reached a dingy, neglected corner at the rear of the hold where heaps of wool sacks rose to form a ragged and shadowy mass. Situated this close to the ship’s engines, a rhythmic pulse throbbed through the air like the beating of an enormous heart.
Woodget never liked this place, for the vibrations thrummed through the floor and jarred his bones.
“I always think it’s as if I’ve been gobbled down by a great big horror made of iron and driven by clawed wheels and spinning cogs,” he said, “and here we are in its ginormous metal belly. I doesn’t know how Dimmy can bear it here but he says it’s comfortin’—I told ’ee he were daft.”
Thomas looked long at the undulating landscape of mounds which rose to the right of them. The wool sacks were not stowed as neatly or as securely as the cotton bales, nor any other of the cargo, and he guessed that they were probably not as valuable. Like great rounded hills they reared and rolled, stuffed between a towering precipice of wood on one side and the bulkhead on the other.
“If it wasn’t for that racket it’d be very cosy here,” he observed. “Maybe you could get used to the noise. Least it’s nice and private, hardly anyone bunked on there at all.”
Scattered in the gentle valleys and hollow dales, he saw that only a few mice and shrews had managed to endure the ceaseless chugging of the engines, but they were rough-looking characters whose mangy and travel-weary aspect suggested that they had slept in far worse places than this.
“It pongs here too,” Woodget added, wrinkling his nose.
Thomas sniffed but could smell nothing, then he moved a little closer and quickly backed away.
A bitter reek had assaulted his nose, a stink that flowed out from the unwashed and oily wool and as he stared more keenly at the scant, dishevelled residents he saw that they were constantly twitching and scratching themselves as though a million ants were marching through their fur.
“There’s fleas in the wool,” Thomas muttered, his skin already beginning to creep and itch. “How can your friend camp over there? What possessed him? That’s not just being daft, it’s downright barmy!”
At the sound of this incredulous voice, a lage-eared head popped up from a shadow-filled vale and there came a delighted shout.
“Ho there!” cried the voice of Dimlon. “Hello Woody! What we a-doin’ today then?”
Clumsily
, the pale grey mouse sped down the spongy sacking slopes with his arms out wide, his satchel slung over one shoulder and a stupid grin fixed firmly in place.
“And your friend Tommy is all better!” he trilled, gazing at Thomas with excitement. “I saw you when you was asleep, friend Tom—real happy I am to see you on your legs this merry morning.”
Thomas returned the greeting, but kept a close watch on him to see how often he scratched, but not once did Dimlon so much as fidget. Perhaps his blood isn’t to the fleas’ liking, Thomas thought to himself.
Before setting off to visit Simoon the prophet, Woodget shared the last of the rations he had brought with him from the Spring Celebrations of Betony Bank and Thomas scoffed them hungrily. Presently all three mice were talking as if they had known each other all their lives. Ignoring the bleak and despondent atmosphere that hung heavily over the hold, or perhaps obstinately challenging it, they laughed at the slightest joke and once they were away from that dismal wool sack hillscape, Thomas found Dimlon’s absurd notions were enough to make him forget even the lingering queasiness of his seasickness.
Chewing on a dry crust fished from his satchel, and with crumbs falling from his lips, Dimlon gabbled on about his beloved Aunty Lily and the other inhabitants of his small village.
“Down by where the stream goes a babblinwetansplashy,” he spluttered with a spray of bread, “there’s the stuck-up Old Widow Froot with her two strapping daughters Maudy and Floss. Them’s got the biggest feet and the meanest heads of anyone I knows. It was them who chased me down the blackberry lane and threw me in the goosegog bushes. I were scared half to death when they ran after me a-whoopin’ and a-callin’. Right nasty them girls can be. Bashed me good an’ proper they have loads of times, fatlipthickearkickedshinsmackedbehindsmartin’awfulredcheeks I’ve had from them. Still, my Aunty Lily always makes me feel better. When I’m a-snivelling she won’t have none of it. “Stop that snotty-nosed moping, you shiftless juggins!” she shouts to snap me out of it before giving me a little job to keep my mind off of them ’orrid pair and keep me happy.”
“Those girls sound like Woodget’s sister,” laughed Thomas. “Cudweed was frightening too.”
Woodget had to agree, but the thought of his family distressed him. His departure must have been a terrible shock to them and he heaved a regretful sigh.
Thomas could have kicked himself for mentioning it, and he desperately tried to change the subject.
“I think it’s time we called on this magician of yours,” he said briskly.
“Simoon!” Dimlon exclaimed. “Oh yes, we was waiting till you were well again, Tom. Woody thinks we should govisitseekhimout but I ain’t sure. Real eyepoppin’starrycrackler he looked.”
Looking at the fieldmouse, Thomas tried to draw him from his forlorn thoughts. “I’ve missed everything else you two have done,” he said. “I’ll not flinch from this. Let’s see if that wizard can shed any light on the mystery of the missing crew member. Who knows what he might have to say?”
“I’ve a feelin’ that there’ll be only darkness if any shedding’s to be done,” Dimlon murmured softly. “I doesn’t think there’ll ever be no light at all.”
With that they ventured from the central road and passed into the twilight, twisting realm of shadow that ran between the cargo—and were soon hopelessly lost.
Down a labyrinth of narrow alleyways and ravines, beyond the populated areas of the ship—away from the snug berths and comfortable bunks, where the crates butted against the hull—Simoon the prophet had fashioned suitable quarters for himself.
Across the cramped space, two poles were wedged into the towering wooden sides at varying angles and over them was draped a length of red cloth, faded in parts by bleaching desert suns to a soft peach. Outside this primitive, variegated tent, six tiny brass lanterns were suspended from wires that spanned the alley. The shapes of moons, stars and suns had been cut into their sides, so that their glowing images were thrown upon the walls and formed a tunnel of glimmering, golden light, whose mystical patterns flickered and danced at the slightest pitch or yaw of the ship.
A highly perfumed, cloying scent hung in the air and from the tent’s gloomy entrance, a faint thread of blue smoke was curling. Yet it did not rise up to the invisible ceiling of the hold, like the heats that climbed from the small fires of the other passengers. Instead, this misty strand wound slowly from the canopy with an almost purposeful stealth and crept down the alley-way, its foggy fingers catching the lantern rays as it snaked to and fro—reaching ever further along the passage.
Carefully it steered itself this way and that, never wavering nor taking an incorrect route. Out it journeyed, to find the senses of those it sought and to lead them back—to where Simoon was waiting, like a spider in a fog-woven web.
With their hearts in their mouths, and clutching hold of one another, Thomas, Woodget and Dimlon crept forward. They had spent nearly an hour roaming the empty, meandering pathways of the hold and had begun to doubt if they would ever find their way out again. But finally they had chanced upon the peculiar incense and excitedly followed its trail.
Around a blind corner they stumbled—and immediately the three friends froze as they beheld the glorious sight which shimmered eerily before them.
The tunnel appeared to be made of fiery starlight and the magical symbols were mirrored in Woodget’s wide, marvelling eyes as he groped for something to say.
“Oh my!” was all he could manage to utter.
At his side, Thomas grinned, captivated by the beauty that stretched ahead, and was glad that the others had not ventured here before without him. This was a delight to be shared together and he peered through the golden haze of shifting symbols at the shelter beyond.
Behind his new friends, for it was too narrow for three to walk abreast, Dimlon peered over the top of the fieldmouse’s head, his long neck swaying from side to side as he gawped idiotically at the wondrous lamps.
“Fairygrottopiskydelving,” he murmured in a half-frightened whisper.
“Come on,” Thomas urged. “Let’s go a bit further.”
Woodget nodded breathlessly but Dimlon was not certain.
“Don’t disturb him in there,” he whined, squinting doubtfully at the faded canopy and dithering so much that his ears shivered and shook. “He mightn’t like us a-trampin’ up to his door. There ain’t no knowing what he might do. I don’t want to have to eat bluebottles all day and sit by gnat-buzzin’, damp ponds for the rest of my unnatural.”
Thomas smiled at him. “All right,” he said kindly, seeing how afraid Dimlon was. “We won’t disturb him what lives in that there tent. But I’d like to get a little bit closer, just to peek at what’s inside it. I’d like to know what he’s burning to give off that flowery smell at any rate.”
Dimlon stuffed his fingers into his mouth in fright as Thomas moved away, nearer to the glimmering tunnel.
“You are scared,” Woodget whispered. “Poor Dimmy! Why don’t you go back—we’ll catch you up in a little while.”
“What?” Dimlon asked. “Me go down them darksome alleys on my own! I can’t do that—I’d be real lost and wobblefrittedjellyjumpy then.”
By now, Thomas had moved close to where the first lantern swung gently overhead. A field of burning, softly focused stars trembled upon the floor by his feet and fanned out, up over the narrow way’s walls.
Thomas wondered what it would be like to be covered in the light of those lanterns, to have the symbols of heaven play over his fur and shine into his eyes. Gingerly, he raised a paw and reached into the glimmering beams.
“Will you dawdle out there all day?” called a sudden, deep voice.
Thomas leapt back and Dimlon let out a woeful shriek. The voice had come from inside the tent and he clutched at Woodget’s paw in terror.
“He knows we’re here!” he yammered. “Let’s go—let’s go!”
With that, the pale grey mouse turned tail and scampered back around the corner, hi
s present fear of the alarming voice driving out his horror of venturing down those dim, twisting alleyways alone.
“Dimmy!” Woodget shouted. “Wait!”
But it was too late; Dimlon would not return and the fieldmouse knew he should go after him.
“Woodget Pipple!” commanded the strange voice. “Let the fool go. I desire no speech with him.”
Woodget stared across at Thomas. “He... he knows my name,” he muttered.
“Both of you are known unto me,” the resonant voice interrupted. “Long have I awaited this moment. Come, join me.”
The two mice hesitated for a moment then Thomas stepped into the glimmering tunnel and, not wanting to be left on his own, Woodget followed.
Over the fieldmouse’s russet fur, the golden lights sparkled and flashed but as he looked nervously about him, his gaze was eventually drawn to the tent as ever-nearer it loomed, with every cautious step.
When the shining stars were behind them, their radiance and splendour now playing only over the backs of their ears and the tips of their tails, the expectant mice eyed the dusky canopy uncertainly.
A small gap at the front of the shelter where two seams could be laced together was hanging open and from its dark depths the thread of incense still streamed. But however much they strained their eyes to see what lay beyond that flimsy threshold neither Thomas or Woodget could tell, for all was dark and hidden.
“Do not loiter like beggars at the door,” they were commanded. “I bid you enter.”
Thomas moved forward but Woodget caught his arm and shook his head fearfully.
A faint, almost pitying laugh floated out, mingling with the curling smoke.
“Does the dark so inspire you with dread, Master Pipple?” the gloom asked. “The time of such illusionary fancies is past. There are terrors real enough to fear in this world. But I forget, you are ignorant of them—not all folk enjoy the company and solitude which the darkness may house. Allow me to illuminate my home if it will put you at your ease.”