The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “The Scale?” Woodget asked nervously, gripping a leather bag that Karim had given to him and in which he now kept the fragment.

  “Not they,” Chattan assured, “yet in every country do the servants of Gorscarrigern have a foothold. I was speaking of the lesser serpents, though they can still maim or kill with fang and constriction. Yes, my homeland is plagued with such base creatures; in all places do they thrive, all perhaps save one.”

  Breathing deeply, as if he was able to inhale the airs that flowed down from the as yet unseen mountains of his country, the mongoose half closed his eyes. “But in the haven of Hara,” he said, “the paradise that the Green fashioned in the beginning of all things has come to pass once more. No serpents stray too close to its outer walls, for the virtue of our city repels them and keeps their slithering evil at bay. That is well for they have ever been the instruments of the Scale, for that foul creed exert a horrible influence over them and can instruct them to do their bidding. If the power that sustains our fortress should ever perish then I tremble to think what would befall us.”

  “But what if the forces of the Scale themselves attacked?” Thomas asked doubtfully. “Could you keep them out?”

  “They have never tried,” came the pensive reply, “but our sentries would sight their approach before they came within many miles of Hara and our defences are strong.”

  Dahrem raised his eyebrows and, summoning a casual tone, to disguise his true scorn, muttered, “I does feel a tidy lot safer knowin’ that.”

  The Chandi made good progress and the great continent that spread over the waters slowly became a lush and verdant green and beyond the immense shores there began to form ghostly blue hints of forest-covered mountains.

  By the late afternoon the galley had almost reached the coast and Chattan told the mice that they would soon enter the mouth of the Periyar River.

  With the sun setting behind them, saturating the circling cloud with deep hues of crimson and rose, they could see its rays moving over the tall trees that covered the hills of the Western Ghats and Chattan declared that hidden deep within those steaming forests lay the stronghold of Hara.

  With his chin resting upon his knuckles as he leaned on the carvings behind the figurehead, Thomas watched entranced as tall, spindly palm trees reared around them and a sultry breeze fanned into his face.

  “Where’s Dimmy?” he asked, turning to Woodget. “He should see this. We’re finally here.”

  The fieldmouse looked back to the galley’s stern and saw that their pale grey friend was slouched over the edge, seeming to stare glumly into the water that rippled in the Chandi’s wake.

  “I reckon he’s feelin’ a mite homesick too,” he murmured. “Best leave him alone.”

  Leaning upon the silvered stern, Dahrem Ruhar gazed down into the darkening waters that flowed into the estuary of the Periyar River, but not a single thought concerning the mythical life he had invented for Dimlon occupied his mind. No, at that precise moment he was taking a great risk and if the others had discovered him then his true hideous nature would certainly have been revealed.

  A fierce golden light was burning in his eyes and his pupils had narrowed into needle-like slits once more, for down in the water, churning through the ship’s wake was a large and repulsive sea snake.

  With lithe and powerful movements of its glistening, flat-tailed body, the serpent easily kept pace with the Chandi, yet from the waves it had raised its head and was gazing up at Dahrem—transfixed by the baleful forces that beat out from the mouse’s gleaming eyes.

  “Hear me, little brother,” Dahrem hissed down to it, “seek out the disciples of Scarophion, tell them that the time to assail the walls of Hara has come at last. Tell them Dahrem Ruhar—the double-faced master of artifice—has sent you and that he will be waiting with a prize which will bring an end to the Green’s insipid and inglorious reign.”

  The ugly head of the sea snake swayed from side to side as the instructions drove into its brain. Dahrem’s strength of will was overwhelming and the authority that rang in his repellent voice was absolute. The serpent was utterly his to command—even if he ordered it to destroy itself, it would obey without the slightest flicker of rebellion. Such was the vile art of Scarophion’s adepts. Control of all others was their black ambition, and with a jerk of his head, Dahrem dismissed this newly-devoted messenger.

  Into the waves the snake dipped its head and, with a furious thrash of its body, sped quickly away.

  A horrific leer formed on Dahrem’s face before the golden glow diminished in his eyes and he became Dimlon again.

  When he returned to the others a bright half moon was shining in the heavens, turning the enshrouding mist to a milky silver and the air was filled with the strange calls of wild beasts and the alarming shrieks of native birds.

  The sound of the sea, which had become so much a part of their lives over the past weeks, was now forgotten and left far behind as the noises of the jungle rose about the forested banks of the Periyar.

  “I ain’t never seen trees like those,” Woodget was saying to Captain Chattan. “Them’s so dense and huge. Be black as pitch under that leafy roof. You’d not get me setting so much as a toe in there, and like as not I wouldn’t last more than a minute—what with tigers and spiders as big as me and more.”

  Hemmed in on all sides by the lofty, jungle-clad hills, the river wound slowly southwards, glimmering like a mirrored thread through the darkness until the captain shouted an order and the galley turned mid-stream.

  Towards a narrow tributary she veered, but it was a grim, dreary-looking place, overhung with drooping branches that formed a tunnel of leaf and bough and about which swarmed a choking cloud of mosquitoes.

  Both Woodget and Thomas’s spirits sank as they understood that the Chandi was going to venture into that forbidding entrance, for no chink of moonlight filtered through the matted evergreen ceiling and it looked as like a monster’s lair as they could imagine.

  “Here we press into the very deeps of the jungle,” Chattan told them, “and from here the secrecy of the concealing mist will hinder rather than aid us. Presently it shall thin and disperse and your view will be obscured no longer. Here our sails will be of no avail so our progress will be up to the strength of those who pull on the oars. But the way ahead is heavy with gloom and though we shall light the lamps, perhaps you would prefer to retire beneath the canopy, for the flames will draw many creatures to us and hungry insects may drop from the branches overhead.”

  This unwelcome thought mortified Woodget and set him itching immediately, but he did not want to appear afraid and, as Thomas did not wish to miss any stage of their journey, the fieldmouse remained at his side.

  Into the leafy cave mouth the galley sailed and for several, uncomfortable minutes the mosquitos flew thick and angrily about those on board, buzzing shrilly in Woodget’s ears, but he clamped his eyes and mouth shut and waited until they were clear of the awful swarm.

  When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the surrounding mist was already dissolving and being stripped away by the gnarled boughs of drooping rhododendron trees that they journeyed beneath. Like wizened and arthritic crippled claws, the twigs snatched at the shredding vapour, capturing it within the knots of their branches until all of the enchanted fog had been torn away, and behind the Chandi it clung in tattered skeins over the gurgling water, resembling the mournful spectres of ancient willows.

  Gazing around at the darkness which now pressed in around him, Woodget suddenly felt horribly visible to this hostile world. When Karim came striding up with a great silver lantern, the fieldmouse wanted to rush over and extinguish the light that was announcing their presence so brazenly and a tide of panic mounted within him.

  “I really doesn’t like this,” he uttered miserably.

  “Do not fear,” Chattan said kindly. “It is not far.”

  Thomas took hold of his friend’s trembling paw and gave it a gentle squeeze, but at that moment a tre
mendous, trumpeting roar shook the very air and a chorus of agitated cries reverberated throughout the jungle.

  “What be that?” Woodget whimpered in horror.

  Hanging the lantern from a hook on the main mast, Karim chuckled. “Only the bellow of a bull elephant,” he laughed. “Old Tusker likes to hear his fine booming voice now and again, that is all.”

  “An elephant,” Woodget echoed, his fears pushed aside. “I’d like to see one of them. Hey Dimmy, did you hear? There be elephants near here. Didn’t you want to take a statue of one back to your aunty? Now you can tell her you actually heard one!”

  Dahrem looked at him blankly, as though he did not have the first idea what Woodget was saying, then he gave a gushing giggle and nodded enthusiastically.

  For nearly an hour the galley journeyed through the tunnel of leaves and, with a growing sense of unease, the mice gradually became aware that they were being watched.

  In the corner of his eye, Thomas thought he saw small figures dart through the branches and once Woodget caught a glimpse of two tiny eyes gleaming down at them.

  Disturbed, they voiced their fears to Karim who grinned broadly and told them that what they had seen were only the scouting sentries of his city who observed everything that moved along this stretch of water.

  Then, abruptly, the overhanging boughs cleared, the forest became less dense and, as they followed the narrow river around a twisting bend, both Woodget and Thomas let out gasps of wonder.

  “There is Hara,” Chattan said proudly.

  Surrounded by a prodigious, high wall that was fortified by lofty towers and whose smooth, lime-washed stones gleamed pale and white under the moon, a bare mountain of rock swung into view and climbed into the night—its jagged summit appearing to touch the vaulted heavens.

  All about the slopes of that rearing peak clustered the dwellings of those who lived within the confines of the city walls, and though the buildings were still a great distance away, the passengers and crew of the Chandi could plainly see the cheering glow of the lighted windows and their cares were eased.

  But over all there was a faint, livid glow that Thomas could not understand and when he questioned the mongoose about this, Chattan merely told him that he would see soon enough.

  Ancient was the city of Hara, one of the true hallowed places upon the Earth—built in the deep shadows of the past to glorify the spirit of the Green and, as the river curved around further, Thomas and Woodget gazed up in dumbfounded amazement.

  Above the winding streets and the huddled rooftops, a flight of steps had been cut into the mountainside and high that zig-zagging stair soared. At last it ascended to an incredible sight that was carved into the solid rock and which made Thomas and Woodget shake their heads in disbelief and gawp like idiots.

  There, hewn into the mountain and towering over the city, was an image similar to the one which stared out from the prow of the Chandi—but a hundred times greater.

  Many ages had the masons and sculptors of Hara toiled over the gargantuan spectacle that gazed across the jungle roof. For, looming above the city, like a guarding sentinel to inspire hope in the hearts of its people and dread into its enemies, was a magnificent, almost worshipful portrait of the Green Mouse.

  To the East its graven eyes stared, forever locked within an expression of challenge, towards that place whence the threat of Gorscarrigern had first arisen.

  Inside its open mouth a fire burned constantly, tended and fed by the daily gift of a stick of fuel from each of Hara’s inhabitants. Over the city the light of this beacon leaped and danced, steeping everything in a delicious warmth, yet above the flames a second source of illumination glimmered and glowed and it was this that had sparked Thomas’s curiosity.

  Set in the middle of the immense, sculpted forehead of the momentous Green Mouse was a single green stone that Thomas reckoned must have been at least as tall as Chattan. The livid, bleak light which shone from its depths reached every corner of the city, and not even the furthest, cramped alley-way was free of its pervading light.

  A look of comprehension appeared on Dahrem’s face when he saw it and though he detested the very sight of the mountain he stared at it unflinchingly.

  But it was Woodget who put his thoughts into words.

  “That light,” the fieldmouse whispered, “’tis the same as the one what shines in Mulligan’s fragment.”

  Chattan nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Behind the jewel that sits upon our Green Lord’s brow there is a chamber gouged into the mountain and there the eighth piece has been kept these untold ages.”

  “Yet not only were chisels used to forge his holy likeness,” Karim continued. “It is written that the enchanters who did battle with the Coiled One upon the steps of the Black Temple, and who perished in the spilling of his black blood, came to this place ere they took that desperate road and by their arts blessed the mountain and aided the masons in their labour.”

  Chattan nodded. “So, of all the shrines which harboured such evil as lies inside the nine fragments,” he said, “our city has remained unharmed. Although outside its walls the jungle has become wild and filled with peril, we have been spared the fate that claimed the other sanctuaries.”

  Then the vision of the mountain was denied them, for the galley had rowed up to the city’s walls and barring their way was a huge gate of iron set into an enormous stone archway that spanned the entire width of the river.

  Flanking the sides of the arch were tall figures carved in stone depicting heroes and kings of old, and Woodget was intrigued to see that amongst the bold warriors and stern-looking mongooses were many images of mice.

  But he did not have time to study the figures further, for above them, at the apex of the archway, there came a rusting squeak and a metal shutter was thrown open.

  From a small window, a furry face was peering down at them—holding aloft a guttering candle.

  “Who comes to Hara in the dead of night?” called the stranger.

  Captain Chattan strode into the light of the silver lantern and in a loud, formal voice declared, “’Tis I, Chattan Giri—returned with the Chandi.”

  “Speak the passwords,” demanded the gate warden.

  “From Sagara, through Vana have we journeyed,” the captain sang out. “Tirtha we have passed and now we would seek Parvata.”

  A peevish grunt echoed down from above and at the top of the archway the shutter was slammed shut once more.

  “What be happening?” Woodget asked Karim.

  The portly mongoose grinned. “That was Fikal Khatmal,” he replied, “a tree shrew. Most seriously does he take his duties, and so he ought for this is the only way to enter the city unless the walls are clambered and breached. Yet the small fellow has no humour in him—vinegar is sweeter than he. For thirty-seven years he has attended the Eastern Gate and seldom leaves his post. Yet my dear wife’s mother has heard that in all this time, Fikal has never bathed and I am thinking that if she is correct in this, then when his time is over, who will be brave enough to take the gate warden’s place? Not I for one, for they say that even the flies refuse to enter his quarters.”

  But all further talk was hushed, for there came the sound of cogs and wheels being turned with a slow grating of rusted, scraping metal, followed by the rattling clink of heavy chains and, with a juddering motion, the iron bars of the gateway began to lift from the water.

  Up, into the stone arch, the barrier was hoisted and beneath it the crew of the Chandi pulled on the silver-tipped oars and the galley journeyed back to the place where she was first constructed.

  As the ship rowed into a tranquil, crescent-shaped harbour, the spectacle of the mountain reared once more before its passengers and crew and behind them the iron gateway came rattling back into the water with a resounding splash.

  Woodget jumped and glanced back at the barricaded way, but Thomas was already staring about the harbour with great interest. It was crowded with many vessels; from those of comparable design t
o Chattan’s ship—although none were as large or as ornately embellished—down to the humblest river boat with awnings of woven straw.

  “What a place,” was all he could find to say.

  Presently the galley drew up alongside the quay and the mice saw that a second, inner wall surrounded the city, but this was not a smooth fortress of impenetrable, unscalable stone like the first—this obstacle was crusted and laden with a myriad carvings, all jostling for attention.

  Whilst they tried to absorb the countless patterns and likenesses, Captain Chattan leapt ashore and, as was the custom of the Haran mariners, bowed in gratitude to his crew as they filed past him.

  Bringing up the rear came Karim and the three passengers, and when he had thanked everyone for bringing the ship safely back to port, the captain led them all up to a pair of great wooden doors set into the ornate, inner wall and situated at the top of a wide flight of white marble steps.

  Discs of beaten silver studded the imposing entrance but, even as they climbed the stairs to reach them, the doors swung open and the crew gave a great cheer—for the streets beyond were filled with their families and friends who rushed forward to meet them.

  Joyous cries rang through the steeply sloping streets as mothers met sons, and the warrior husbands threw their arms about wives and children. Reunited families of palm squirrels leapt high into the air and above them, from high, garlanded balconies that were strung with many tiny, tinkling bells, marigold petals were thrown and they cascaded down like a sumptuous blizzard of golden snow.

  Karim’s wide bulk was obliterated by a horde of eight youngsters who pounced upon him—squealing deliriously to see their father again.

  His great, rumbling laughter rang throughout the adjoining streets and with two infants clambering onto his shoulders, another trying on his plumed helmet, three more squabbling over who could hold the spear and the remaining two tugging at his paws, the chubby mongoose was a joyful sight.