by Robin Jarvis
“Your life is with the sea,” he said at length, “but no joy shall you find in it. Yet not unnumbered will your sailing days be. A time will come when you shall return and settle upon the land, although always will your heart and mind be burdened—a great weight shall ever drag you down.”
Thomas gazed at the cards uneasily, then tried to shrug off the prophet’s forbidding words. “Had me going for a little while you did!” he said.
The large, black eyes of the jerboa gleamed at him, then the lids closed over them and the mittened paws collected up the cards. Simoon breathed deeply and the thread of smoke which rose from the incense burner was drawn towards him.
“And what of you fieldmouse?” he asked. “Do you desire to lift the veil and spy upon your destiny?”
Woodget shuddered. He hadn’t liked any part of what the mysterious character had told Thomas and he shook his head firmly.
“That I don’t!” he cried. “I’d stick my head in a rabbit hole and not come up again if’n what you said was half as gloomy as what’s ahead of poor old Tom.”
The jerboa smiled faintly. “You are wise, Master Pipple,” he said, “for only fools attempt to see what lies beyond their noses.”
Thomas scowled at this and decided that it was time they left, but Simoon was not finished with them.
“No more foretelling shall there be,” he said. “That grey country of what is to come should perhaps be left in the realm of the vast unknown. But this much only I would counsel you to know—in every life there is a ruling influence. Choose now one card only and see the nature of that which governs you.”
Woodget bit his lip as his trembling paw stretched out to take one of the cards fanned out before him.
“No Woodj,” Thomas said impulsively. “Let it be—please.”
The fieldmouse wavered but the eyes of Simoon were bent upon him and it was as if he could do nothing to stop himself. Without thinking, his paw flashed out and he tapped the back of a single card.
Deftly, Simoon flipped the pack around and took out the one that the fieldmouse had chosen.
Impassively he gazed at the card in his fingers then, with a curiously theatrical movement, flourished it for the mice to see.
“Here is a picture of a pretty damsel,” he announced. “Love is her name and under her sovereignty does your life lie, Master Pipple. Hers is a delightful dominion, for your heart’s longing shall come to you and together you shall dwell till the end of your days.”
“That’s Bess!” Woodget grinned.
Thomas’s scowl had not lifted—in fact it had deepened. Simoon had put him in a bad mood and he lumbered to his feet.
“Come on Woodj,” he said. “Time we went.”
The fieldmouse rose and as he did so he thought he caught upon the jerboa’s face an expression of extreme sorrow and overwhelming compassion.
But the impression was fleeting and Woodget decided he must have been mistaken.
“Thank ’ee for the sit down and the story,” he said. “Maybe we’ll come back before long.”
At this Thomas mumbled something inaudible but before they passed through the entrance. Simoon held up his paw.
“One thing more ere you depart,” his clear ringing voice called forcefully. “No charge for this visit have I laid upon you, yet this I do so now. To you, Thomas Stubbs, whose life is charted and mapped upon the seas, for a while at least, your toll is to tell he with the limb of wood that I desire to speak with him.”
“Mulligan?” Thomas asked a little sullenly. “He won’t come here. He never leaves the cotton bales.”
“And he never shall if you do not ask him,” came the grave reply.
“What do you want me to do?” Woodget piped up.
“Of you, Master Pipple, I beg only this, trust not too soundly those you hold dear.”
Then the jerboa closed his eyes and the smoke began to wreathe about him once more.
Thomas pulled the fieldmouse away and muttered under his breath.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” he said emphatically. “It’s all mummery and pretence. Well, I’m not taken in.”
Trotting through the tunnel of dancing light patterns, Woodget glanced back, but within the tent he could see only a vague screen of mist.
Behind the obscuring fumes, Simoon placed the cards down upon the cloth and gazed at the picture of Love he had shown to Woodget. Then he took from the bottom of the pile the one he had hidden and shuddered. Here was the true card chosen by the fieldmouse, but skilfully the jerboa had palmed it and selected one more to his liking.
Now he regarded it warily and sadly shook his head.
“I would not burden his merry young heart,” he said. “Not yet.”
Hastily, as though the image frightened him, Simoon threw the card down and shrank further into the mist.
Upon the cloth lay the picture of a serpent. Flames dripped from its jaws and along its twisting back were painted nine bright stars.
6 - Siren Songs
A little distance from the lonely alleyway where Simoon’s tent was entwined with faint blue wisps of smoke, Thomas and Woodget discovered Dimlon curled up in a corner and sniffing forlornly.
“It’s creepydark down there,” he whined, pointing further along the narrow passage. “Dimmy was too afeared to go far on his ownsome. I thought the witchyspellcaster had done summat awful to you both. You were such a time, least it seemed you were in this horrid spot. What did he do, what did he say?”
Thomas helped the pale grey mouse to his feet and brushed the dust from his fur. “He was just some travelling conjurer,” he told him. “Nothing for you to be afraid of. It’s all show with that sort; card tricks and juggling; that’s all he’s capable of. I’ll warrant. Don’t you get too excited, Dimmy, there’s no such thing as magic, there really isn’t.”
Instead of looking relieved, Dimlon appeared crestfallen—as if the world had become suddenly dull and uninteresting without the threat of the mysterious supernatural to add spice to his humdrum life.
“Was Simoon really a hoodwinkingswindleybamboozler?” he asked Woodget in disappointment.
The fieldmouse cocked his head to one side. “’Tain’t for the likes of me to say,” he replied. “That’d be like askin’ a leaf what it thought of the forest. He’s beyond my reckonin’, even if my noggin could find the proper words. I can tell you this though—he do rattle out a good tale. You have to admit that, Tom.”
“Probably made it all up,” Thomas muttered grumpily. “Same as that phoney future of mine.”
“I wonder what he has to say to Mulligan?” Woodget mused. “S’pose we’ll have to go tell him he’s wanted.”
Thomas closed his eyes and stretched out his paws, wiggling his fingers as though he were casting a spell, then in a ridiculous imitation of Simoon’s doom-laden tones groaned, “Ohhhh Mulligan, you are in great danger. Beware... beware... beware the woodworm.”
Dimlon laughed and Woodget gave Thomas a gentle shove to silence the hollow wails that were still issuing from his gaping lips.
“Let’s get a move on then,” Thomas chuckled. “To the bales we go.”
“If we can ever find our way out of here,” Dimlon added glumly.
When the maze of passageways was finally left behind them and at last they reached the cotton bales, to their astonishment the three mice discovered that Mulligan was not sitting in his usual place and none of his snobbish neighbours knew nor cared where he had gone.
Just as they were making their way back along the central road, debating what they should do next, a hearty voice hailed them.
“Ahoy there, my young mates! And right glad I am to see you up and well, Master Thomas!”
There, hobbling towards them, with his stick in his strong paw and his pack slung over one shoulder—was Mulligan. A great grin divided his whiskery face and he indeed seemed genuinely pleased to see the three mice. Throwing his tattooed arms open wide he limped his way forward, the wooden leg drumming upon the
deck’s timbers.
” Where’ve you been stowing yourself?” he cried, clapping Woodget on the back, nearly sending him flying. “All yesterday I was waiting for you, so this very morn I decided to haul myself over to your quarters but you weren’t there. A fine chase you’ve led me but I’ll not grudge it, so glad am I to clap my gogglers on you again.”
Woodget was not sure what to make of Mulligan’s renewed friendliness. He recalled the hunted, angry look that was on his face the last time he had seen him—the night the bosun disappeared. Why was he acting so differently now? The Irish mouse almost seemed anxious that they forget his previous ill humour and was desperate for their companionship.
“We just been to find you,” Woodget said, watching him suspiciously, “and... well, yesterday me and Dimmy were helping with the search.”
Mulligan gazed at the ground. “Aye,” he muttered, “poor Able. But it’s on account of him that I went in quest of you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Thomas.
“Has Mister Bosun been found?” Dimlon cried jubilantly. “Is he safe? What news! What news!”
Mulligan stared at the foolish mouse then cleared his throat. “No,” he said, “he’s still lost, but his going won’t be unmarked. So, I invite you three—my friends—aboard the Calliope to sup with me in his honour. A final drink to an old friend, up on deck with the sea around us and the breeze in our whiskers. What say you?”
The three friends looked at one another. Woodget didn’t think it was particularly appropriate considering the drunken circumstances of Mr Ruddaway’s demise and shyly said as much. It was obvious to him that Mulligan knew more about that mystery than he was letting on, but he could not understand what reasons he might have for keeping the knowledge to himself—unless of course he was somehow involved in the bosun’s disappearance. There were just too many secrets and riddles surrounding him for Woodget’s liking and he recalled bitterly that it was chiefly on account of Mulligan that he was here now, and not at home with Bess.
At his side, Dimlon’s whiskers drooped sadly and he glumly stuck out his bottom lip. “I doesn’t want to go on deck,” he whispered miserably, “I might fall in and be dunkdrowndeddeep.”
“That’ll not happen with me to guard you,” Mulligan assured him. “What say you, Master Thomas?”
“Yes,” Thomas answered, much to the others’ surprise. “I will come with you. For three days I’ve been stuck down here and I’m beginning to feel stifled and in need of fresh air. It would do us all good, I think, to be rid of this musty and heavy atmosphere for a while. I didn’t know the bosun, but I’ll certainly share a drink with you in his memory.”
“There’s handsome,” Mulligan beamed. “And don’t you worry, Master Pipple, old Able would think this a fitting tribute—of that I’m positive sure, so I am.
“But first we’ve a message for you,” Thomas said. “We went to see Simoon, the one who fancies himself as a prophet.”
“Oh aye?” Mulligan murmured, looking at them curiously. “And what did he have to say for himself?”
“That he wanted to see you.”
The Irish mouse sucked his teeth and tapped his stick thoughtfully. “If pedlars with inflated opinions of their own worth and importance wish to parade their gimcrack baubles and shoddy tricks,” he said dismissively, “then they must seek out their own audience, not turn the custom on its head. It’s impudence so it is! Let the knave come to me if that is his wish—for I’ll not go to him.”
Still put out by Simoon’s predictions, Thomas agreed with this sentiment but Woodget stared unhappily at Dimlon.
“Now let’s to the upper deck and give old Able a fitting send off!” Mulligan declared. “I’ve managed to refill the flask so there’ll be no want of grog.”
With Thomas by his side, and Woodget and Dimlon trailing after, they headed for the rat district, then out of the hold.
Alone in the cloudless sky, the late afternoon sun shone warm and gold. Its brilliance sparkled over the calm surface of the sea, turning the placid waters into an unbounded rippling surface of shimmering flame. Through this burning splendour the Calliope voyaged, its shapely bows slicing through a flaring mesh of leaping light and leaving a fractured trail of scattered diamonds blazing in its wake.
On to the deck, the four mice came and all filled their lungs with the keen salt air.
Officially no passengers were allowed out of the hold during the main part of the day but Mulligan had had a word with the mouse on watch and told him of their purpose. Gravely the first officer let them pass but told them that if the captain caught them then he knew nothing about it.
“We’ll go astern,” Mulligan instructed the others. “Yonder we can sit and go unnoticed by any unfriendly eyes.”
Dimlon followed him around a corner but Thomas and Woodget stood as still as stones and their faces were filled with awe.
This was the first time since the Calliope had left the harbour that they had ventured out of the hold and the sight of the open sea in the daylight was a miraculous, almost worshipful vision to behold.
In their most fanciful dreams they had never imagined it to be so beautiful or so gigantic. No glimpse or shadow of land could they see in any direction, though they turned in a wide, staggering circle.
For them it was like waking from some drab, ashen-shaded sleep and discovering for the first time that the world was filled with colour and light. Intense sparks of dazzling hues flashed and bounced around the ship and Woodget thought that by some cunning art Simoon had imprisoned him inside his lantern of coloured glass.
A million briny prisms broke the pure radiance of the sun, hurling its vivid, vibrant spectrum into the air, shaming the deep blue of the sky for its lack of variety.
“Lor!” Woodget mouthed when at last he found his voice. “If only Bess were here. She thinks summer flowers is pretty, but compared to all this, them’s just muddy brown splots with no life in ’em.”
“It’s incredible,” agreed Thomas. “Like a wide flat country of dancing light.”
“That can’t be the same old sun as shines on Betony Bank,” doubted Woodget. “This one’s fiercer and it’s much warmer, ain’t it?”
“What’s keeping you pair?” Mulligan called suddenly and the sound of his harsh voice broke the enchantment which had kept the two mice spellbound.
Woodget looked up at Thomas and his friend smiled sadly.
“This is what I wanted to see,” Thomas murmured. “Different places and things unexpected. But I never guessed it would be so lovely. Now I know why I longed to roam—the sea is in my blood, Woodj. There are shores out there with folk on them stranger than jerboas, and I ache to see them. I desire to know all there is to know and view all there is to view. This is just the beginning—I should have done this long ago.”
Woodget took hold of his paw and sighed.
“I’m pleased you’re happy, Tom,” he said, “but this ain’t for me. Oh real grand and showy it is here, but too rich for my eyes. I’ll be content to go home to the paler tints of my field, I don’t need this gaudy sun—not with Bess beside me. She’m all the light I needs.”
Thomas gave the paw a squeeze. “Then we both know what we want,” he breathed. “This life is the one I claim and you, well your rightful place is at Bess’s side. I wish I’d had the sense to see that before opening my big mouth, then you wouldn’t be stuck out here with me.”
“I ain’t stuck nowhere,” the fieldmouse answered. “I’ll be back at the farm before too much longer and how her eyes’ll shine when I tell what happened.”
“You do forgive me then?”
Woodget gazed at his anxious brown face and nodded.
“We best hurry up afore all that rum gets drunk,” he chirruped, but he failed to add that he didn’t like the thought of leaving Dimlon all alone with Mulligan. Woodget’s mistrust of the Irish mouse was growing. If he was involved in whatever horrible fate had befallen the bosun then there was no knowing what else h
e was capable of.
Sitting by the deck rail. Mulligan and Dimlon were already taking their third swig when Thomas and Woodget joined them.
A grin more idiotic than was usual had slid onto Dimlon’s face and he was giggling gleefully.
“My but that’s lickytonsilgarglingfruityjuice!” he exclaimed. “My Aunty Lily always kept a bottle of speshul tonnik which she took to make her ‘feel better’, so she said, but it always gave her a nastybadheadhammerbangingbonce the next day.”
Mulligan fixed a despairing eye upon the pale grey mouse then raised the flask to the surrounding sea.
“Here’s to you, Able,” he called, “May the deeps of Fiddler’s Green keep you—I’ll not forget, nay—I’ll not forget.”
For nearly an hour they sat there, at times talking gravely but mostly the speech was merry, yet always there was rum.
Under its heady influence Mulligan mellowed from the intense, suspicious creature whom Woodget had grown to dislike and back to the jovial old salt he had at first admired and looked up to. But of this new incarnation Woodget was still wary, sensing that just below the now calm and friendly surface, tamed or merely shackled for the moment and held at bay, there constantly simmered a watchful anger fanned by an embittered mistrust of everything.
Yet the unpleasant side to Mulligan’s nature remained fettered and not a trace of it strayed onto the Irish mouse’s features. Many a yarn he spun them and soon the three youngsters were listening enthralled. Even the fieldmouse laid aside his doubts for a while under the relentless barrage of hair-raising stories.
Of adventures in remote climes, the peg-leg regaled their attentive ears, from the coasts of Spain to the Western Indies—proudly displaying the faded scars which lay beneath his brindled fur as testimonial of the skirmishes that had found him.
Then he told them the histories of his tattoos and what the faint, blurring pictures meant.
“See this knife with a notched blade,” he said showing them his forearm. “That says I was one of the sixty-five who fought on the Tantalus back in thirty-seven when we repelled a bloodthirsty crew of river-pirating rats. Ah, that were a good contest. Who knows how many of our lads are left now? I don’t and I’ll wager only the Greenmouse does.”