The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  So back she raced, only to behold the Calliope smashing upon the pinnacle of rock and to hear the screams of her passengers.

  Now, torn with anguish, she hurriedly reached the fieldmouse’s side and the light of her eyes dimmed when they beheld him.

  “Woodget,” she breathed, though no bubbles rose from her mouth.

  In mourning, she raised her webbed paw and caressed his furry cheek.

  Quickly she drew the paw away, then stared at him—the light burning more keenly in her eyes. Somewhere, deep within the fieldmouse, an indomitable spark of life still glowed, but even as she sensed it, the ember waned.

  Hastily, Zenna touched Woodget’s temples with her delicate fingers and put forth the power that was in her.

  From her lips a wondrous, plaintive music began and the haunting melody was full of enchantment and invocation.

  Round and around the divine notes entwined them, growing in might and splendour with every yearning chord until its strength bound them close and all through the vast oceans the sublime echoes of her heavenly voice were heard. Those who listened to the blissful airs were moved to both grief and jubilation.

  Louder and more forceful became her song, and although there were no discernible words, it was filled with the knowledge of all living things. Of the weeds that grew beneath the sea her music sang, to the verdant grasses which thickly covered the cloud brushed hills and the brightly coloured, burgeoning flowers that rose to greet the warming sun. From fallen seed to towering tree, her glorious harmony told. Of the egg to the bird, infant to adult, from weak to strong. The unquenchable force of pulsing, unfurling life beat forth from her being and in that chill, secluded darkness a dim green light began to glimmer, until it shone bold and bright throughout the limitless waters.

  Suddenly, the fieldmouse in her arms twitched and his chest heaved as he jerked his head from side to side.

  A triumphant grin split Zenna’s face and the music ceased.

  “From the brink have I brought thee, my little champion,” she murmured, her voice frail and her strength diminished by all that she had imparted to him, “and for a brief time only thou may breathe as do I, yet to the surface must Zenna now bear thee—and fleetly. Ah, but much do I crave for thee to remain and end my solitude, yet were I to sing the full song of changing to keep thee at mine side even a short while longer, then the memory of who thou art and whence thou came would burn from thy mind.”

  Drowsily, Woodget shook his head, but his eyes remained closed. Though she had fanned the dying spark within him into a steady flame, he was still very weak and the numbness that had crept over his limbs had not yet passed.

  Smiling wanly, she propelled him up through the darkness. Back to the churning pull of the upper tides they ascended—up to where a bulky shape rocked upon the waves above.

  Zenna gazed up at the fat silhouette over their heads, but before she lifted Woodget into the turbulent air, she wavered and brought her face close to his.

  Tenderly, her lips touched his pink nose—then the tempest was about him once more.

  Woodget choked and the water coughed from his lungs.

  Close by, her eyes watching over him, Zenna waited as the fieldmouse squeaked and lashed about with his arms, crying shrilly, and her gaze turned to the large floating cask and the figure that still clutched to it.

  Thinking himself tormented by guilt and the terror of the storm, Thomas raised his head and there, to his amazement and overwhelming elation—he saw Woodget.

  Quickly he squirmed over the barrel and held out his paws, shrieking at the top of his voice.

  “Woodj! Take hold—you’re safe! You’re safe!”

  Shivering and retching in the fierce salt water, the fieldmouse lunged forward and felt Thomas’s strong fists clench about his paws.

  “Up you come, Pipple!” Thomas shouted, dragging him from the sea and desperately hugging his spluttering frame. “Oh Woodj—I thought you was a goner. Praise to the Green that you’ve been spared. We’re going to make it out of this you an’ me, we will—I promise.”

  Beneath the rain-lashed sky, Thomas clutched fiercely to Woodget and upon their bulky craft that tilted and jerked at the mercy of the driving ocean, they were carried out under the eaves of the destroying storm and eventually into calmer, safer waters.

  Immersed in the waves, Zenna turned away. She had lingered too long and a staggering fatigue now consumed her. Down to the darkness she descended—down to the restful halls of her father.

  Thomas looked up at the mountains that reared in the distance and wondered at the column of smoke which polluted the clean air—even as Mulligan had done several hours before.

  Up to the debris-strewn shore, almost to the very spot where the lifebelt lay half covered with seaweed, the barrel had borne the two friends, bobbing gently in the shallows amongst the rest of the Calliope’s shattered flotsam.

  Still holding onto one another, the mice had fallen into an exhausted swoon and only when Thomas had begun to slide off the cask’s curved sides did he splutter awake and find himself up to his waist in water.

  Rousing Woodget, he had waded onto the sands and there they now stood, gazing about them curiously, lamenting the bodies of their drowned fellow passengers yet at the same time thanking the providence that had spared them from the ravages of the tempest.

  “I remember music,” Woodget began slowly. “All was dark but there was a voice a-singing—least I thought there was.”

  “You was dreaming,” Thomas told him. “Next you’ll be saying it were them rum-inspired sirens again.”

  The fieldmouse sighed. He was certain that he was not mistaken but he was too weary to continue and merely said, “Right you are, Master Triton.”

  “Don’t call me that,” his friend replied. “It’s a stupid name and I don’t like it.”

  Woodget looked up at the snowy slopes of the White Mountains. “Tom,” he murmured in a small voice, “where does you think we is?”

  Thomas shrugged and scratched his head. “Could be anywhere,” he answered. “There’s no way of telling how far that gale pushed the ship off course and what happened to us after that. I don’t know how long we was asleep for either, but I reckon the dawn won’t be long in coming. See over there, behind them rocks that run down to the sea, the night’s growing fainter, the moon’s dipping and the stars are failing.”

  Removing the neckerchief from around his throat he wrung it out and flapped it a few times to shake off the last drops before tying it back in place.

  “One thing I do know, however,” he said gruffly. “Looks like we’re the only ones who made it. Look how many others didn’t.”

  Woodget pulled his hat from his head in respect. “What do you think we should do, Tom?” he asked quietly. “How are we ever gonna get back home?”

  “There must be someone up by that fire we could ask,” his friend replied. “But first things first, there’s nowt we can do till we’ve laid these dead folk to rest. I ain’t leavin’ them exposed on this beach when the sun rises. The gulls’ll only find ’em and start their greedy pecking. Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

  The fieldmouse shuddered and shook his head, repelled at the very thought.

  “Tell you what,” Thomas began in a forced, cheerful tone. “Why don’t you start lookin’ about for something we could use as a shovel? There must be plenty of useful bits in all this wreckage.”

  “What’ll you be doin’?”

  Thomas scowled and stared along the shore. “I’ll find all I can and carry them over,” he said. “One great big grave’ll have to suffice. It’s better’n being gull bait.”

  And so Woodget began to search amongst the bric-a-brac of splintered clutter that was heaped along the sands, whilst Thomas set about the grisly task of heaving the drowned bodies up to where the shore met the twisted shrubs and laying them in a row upon the coarse grasses.

  When nearly half an hour had passed, Woodget had already commenced digging and the numbe
r of drowned corpses which Thomas had brought over had grown to seventeen.

  “There’s still at least twenty of them as far as I can see,” he said gloomily as he came toiling up the bank with the body of a rather plump mole hoisted over his broad shoulders. “Probably an awful lot more further along the coast too, but I’ll need a rest soon or I’ll be falling in that trench of yours myself.”

  Woodget leant upon the flat piece of wood that served as a spade and gazed at his blistered palms, but remained quiet and thoughtful.

  A pallid, grey light was edging up over the rim of the sea and when he had lain the mole upon the ground, Thomas stretched and peered at the horizon.

  “The sun’s rising,” he uttered impatiently. “That means the gulls’ll be squawkin’ and crying overhead any time soon. Better get a move on.”

  Quickly he hurried down the sands and as Woodget watched his burly figure go foraging amongst the wreckage, he was relieved that he did not have to perform such a grisly and unpleasant task. Then, before he returned to his own labours, the fieldmouse glanced at the glimmering horizon and rubbed his eyes.

  In the great dim distance—where the silvering sea joined the fading night, a band of grey vapour was rolling over the waters. At first Woodget thought nothing of it and dismissed it as he did the early morning mist which gathered in the dells of Betony Bank. But when he next looked up from his digging, the dense cloud had moved with uncanny speed across the waves and was now much closer.

  In the ashen light of the encroaching dawn, his sharp sight could plainly discern the swirling skeins and curling wisps that crept from that wide, swiftly-flowing fog bank. That great and bloated vaporous wall was driven by a single purpose, as though a determined urgency was sweeping it over the sea, steering the concealing mists straight towards the shore and, as a wave of fear gripped him, Woodget threw down his makeshift spade to run after Thomas.

  “Tom!” he cried, waving his arms in the air. “Tom! Tom!”

  Turning over a large, brine-saturated plank, Thomas cautiously peered beneath. He had volunteered for this gruesome duty in case, among the debris, there were the bodies of Mulligan and Dimlon. He did not want Woodget to stumble across the carcasses of their friends, but it was a chilling and macabre search and he wished it was over.

  Hearing the fieldmouse’s calls he raised his head and wondered what all the shouting was about.

  “Over yonder!” Woodget cried, jumping up and down as he raced towards him.

  Thomas stared at the shimmering sea and squinted at the dense cloud that sped over the waters.

  “Bless me,” he muttered as Woodget came puffing up beside him. “What is it? ’Tain’t no ordinary fog—look how fast it’s moving and there ain’t hardly a breeze.”

  “I don’t like it, Tom,” Woodget whimpered. “I fancy there’s summat inside that thick cloud, summat that don’t want to be seen—an’ it’s headed straight fer us.”

  “But what could it be?” Thomas breathed.

  “I doesn’t know an’ I doesn’t want to find...”

  Abruptly breaking off, the fieldmouse pattered down to the water’s edge where he tilted his head to one side and strained to listen.

  Over the sea the mist came swiftly on, moving like a great island of white smoke whose ethereal hills were constantly shifting in a turgid, heaving dance. Over its changing, gaseous bulk the rays of the approaching dawn glimmered and shone, tinting the undulating outline with delicate, flickering shades of rose, blended with vibrant streaks of peach and deep veins of shimmering gold.

  With his eyes fixed upon this mysterious yet curiously beautiful spectacle, Thomas came to stand beside the fieldmouse, whose large and sensitive ears had obviously heard something beyond the range of his own, and in a low whisper he asked, “What is it?”

  Woodget turned to stare at him with a mixture of confusion and fear written upon his face.

  “Tom,” his woeful voice cried in alarm. “There is summat in there—I done heard it! Muffled by the thick fog it is, but plain enough to my lug holes.”

  Thomas gripped his friend’s shoulders. “Tell me,” he said.

  The fieldmouse glanced back at the advancing vapour. “Lurkin’ in there, deep inside its very heart, there’s the sound of a girt ship a-ploughin’ through the waves. Oars are dippin’ in the drink and pushin’ it onto the beat of a thumping drum, and there’s voices too—I can hear folk callin’.”

  “A ship?” Thomas murmured. “That’s not possible. How could the mist cling to it like that?”

  “Like I said,” Woodget muttered. “I doesn’t want to find out. Some witch’s magic or other, I’ll be bound.”

  Thomas held his breath, then he too caught the vague noise of waves crashing against a hull and the monotonous throb of a pounded drum.

  “You’re right, Woodj,” he admitted. “But I don’t think we should stay here and wait for whoever’s inside that fog to get any closer. The rate it’s travellin’ it’ll be slap bang on top of us afore we know it. Whatever it turns out to be, it don’t seem clever to stay out here in the open for all an’ sundry to see. Let’s you an’ me get off this beach and dart up into them meadows, p’raps even to the trees.”

  Together the mice scurried over the shore and up the sloping bank as the mist flowed ever nearer, growing larger with every passing moment.

  Past the incomplete grave Thomas and Woodget ran, then through the shrubs and into the flower-filled field beyond.

  “Have to finish buryin’ them folks after,” Thomas panted. “It’s the living we’ve got to take thought for now.”

  Suddenly Woodget skidded to a halt and he grabbed his friend’s arm desperately.

  “Stop!” he yelled. “Tom! Wait!”

  Thomas stumbled and whirled about.

  “What is it now?” he demanded.

  Woodget pointed towards the trees and held up a paw for his friend to be silent.

  From the pine woods there suddenly came a frightful scream that was shrill with agony and torment, and the hearts of both mice stopped as they listened.

  “What were that?” Woodget murmured when he recovered from the initial shock. “Oh Tom, what is this horrid place we’ve a-come to? Full of weird nasties it is; first there’s rollin’ fog, now terrifyin’ wild beasts. I ain’t goin’ no further.”

  To their dismay another scream issued from the trees. It was a terrible, soul-rending screech and the fieldmouse covered his ears in a vain attempt to blot it out.

  “You don’t have to go no further,” Thomas muttered. “That’s coming this way too. It’s crashing through the woods, whatever it is. Sounds like all the devils in the pit are torturing the creature. But one thing’s fer certain, we can’t go forward nor back—we’re trapped, Woodj.”

  “Oh Tom,” the fieldmouse whined, turning around to stare at the shore. “The fog’s closing now, it’s almost here.”

  Thomas followed his gaze and sure enough, tendrils of the unearthly mist were already groping their way along the gently breaking waves and over the floating debris of the Calliope. Then, like an avalanche of swirling steam, the great island of fog came rumbling after.

  Curling fingers of searching mist had already crept ashore and were stealing up the sands when, within the dense cloud, the drum beats suddenly ceased and Woodget heard the unseen oars being lifted from the water and an anchor go splashing into the waves.

  From the pine woods the screams continued and with each hideous yell the horror of them intensified.

  “That thing’s at the edge of them trees now,” Thomas muttered. “Listen, it’s out in the meadow!”

  Screened by the spring flowers which were already opening in the brightening sunlight, the source of those infernal shrieks came charging. The two mice could hear it rampaging towards them and they drew close to the shrubs which bordered the sandbank.

  Trembling, Woodget looked over his shoulder to where the immense wall of mist obliterated the shore and he nudged Thomas urgently.

&nbs
p; “Tom,” he whispered. “There’s summat movin’ in that fume down there—see, there’s figures wadin’ out the water.”

  His friend grimaced. Within the depths of the churning fog, indistinct but large, grey shapes were lumbering through the shallows.

  Yet now the wailing screams were very close and the fieldmouse shivered. Every screech was a fresh torrent of misery and anguish—so fierce and dreadful that it wounded the spirit and drove deep into his mind like a biting, murderous spike.

  Now the meadow was engulfed by the ghastly cries. Over the clumps of white crocus and blue anemone they rang, and Thomas knew that at any moment the maker of those grotesque screeches would burst upon them. He hunted over the ground for something to protect them.

  Lying beneath the shrub where Woodget had flung it, he discovered the makeshift spade and Thomas flourished it in his fists as suddenly the bellowing creature came crashing through the yellow flax.

  Behind him, down upon the sands, where the outlying wisps of mist flowed between the scattered wreckage, seeping into every hollow and splintered crevice, three dozen stern-looking figures stepped from the sea.

  As the fiery disc of the morning sun reared above the horizon, their steel-shod feet trod upon the shore and the brilliant light was mirrored in their silver armour—casting dazzling, bouncing reflections before them like beacons blazing in the gloom.

  Tall and proud were those newcomers. At their sides they carried great spears with tapering, burnished blades—adorned with scarlet beads and crimson tassles in imitation of the blood they had skewered from their enemies.

  With grim expressions, they glared up at the mountains where the black smoke still reared in the now dim blue sky then turned their attention to the meadow and heard the terrible, suffering screams clamouring from it.