The Dark Portal

by Robin Jarvis

  Audrey dared not imagine. She meekly followed the fortune-teller around the corner.

  A long trail of ash stretched before them.

  Akkikuyu shuffled through it regardless. ‘Oh bad boy, Jakey,’ she tutted, sending up clouds of grey dust.

  Audrey held her nose and covered her mouth, trying to avoid inhaling any of it. They followed the ash trail until it ended abruptly. On top of the last, sad little mound was an eye-patch.

  It was a gruesome reminder. Madame Akkikuyu stepped over it, then paused. She turned and picked it up. ‘Never know,’ she told herself, ‘may come handy!’ She popped it into her bag. ‘Keep up mouselet,’ she said to Audrey. ‘Not far to go.’

  12. Hot Milk and Honey

  Gwen Brown sat down heavily and hung her head. Silent tears splashed on her lap. Arthur tried to comfort his mother.

  ‘You shouldn’t have left her,’ she said sadly.

  ‘I know Mother, but really, I can’t look after Audrey all the time.’

  Gwen lifted her head and looked through the doorway to Arthur and Audrey’s bedroom. The sight of the empty bed made her lip quiver. ‘What is to become of our family?’ she said, clasping his paw tightly. ‘Are you sure she went through the Grille?’

  ‘There’s nowhere else she could have gone.’

  Mrs Brown sniffed and rubbed her red eyes. ‘This is terrible. And you say that Oswald and Piccadilly are gone too?’

  ‘Oh, and Twit,’ Arthur added, his fat round face sagging glumly.

  ‘What are we to do? How can I tell Arabel Chitter?’ Mrs Brown wondered desperately. ‘She will be so distraught over this. Oswald’s a delicate child: the damp is sure to get to him.’

  ‘I don’t care what she thinks,’ snorted Arthur. ‘She’d make a drama about anything – I just hope Oswald will be able to look after himself in a tight spot.’

  ‘Yes – oh this is too terrible! Poor Oswald! I can’t think of him in those nasty dark sewers: whatever possessed him? But at least Piccadilly is with him? Our Audrey is alone! She stifled another sob.

  Arthur knelt down in front of his mother and gazed steadily into her eyes.

  ‘What should we do? I could go down after them if you like.’

  Mrs Brown would not hear of it. She held on to her so tightly and forbad him to go. ‘No love,’ she said. ‘You would be lost too. No, if Audrey can come back then I’m sure she will. You following blindly won’t help anybody. We must just trust in the Green Mouse.’

  Arthur tried to sound brighter than he felt. ‘If the rats have got her then they’d better watch out,’ he joked. Mrs Brown ruffled his head with her paw. ‘Come Arthur,’ she said gently, ‘you must be very tired. You should go to bed. You’re very brave. Fancy you going to see the bats. Now go and get some sleep: you need it.’

  ‘What about you, Mother?’

  She smiled at him weakly. ‘Oh I’ll go soon. I shan’t be able to keep my eyes open for much longer.’

  Arthur kissed her on the forehead and reluctantly plodded off to his room. He knew that his mother would not sleep that night. This was yet another blow to her heart . . . Arthur was sure that she would not be able to take much more.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, unwilling to get under the covers. If only he could do something to help. Why had all his friends disappeared and not returned? He began to think that the Grille had come to life and snatched them away. Arthur was now frightened by that metal grating. He had always scoffed when the elders had told fantastic, scary tales of it and the mysterious underworld that lay beyond. His own experience in the cellar with Twit was enough to show him that there was some foundation in those tales.

  Arthur began to wonder if the Grille was alive in some mysterious way. Had Jupiter imbued it with life and thought? Arthur was not sure. A few days ago he would have laughed at such a suggestion, but not now.

  He blinked his eyes and shook his head sleepily. A yawn struggled free, and very soon he was lying on the bed and snoring softly.

  Gwen Brown busied herself with tidying the supper things: she washed and dried them, then she tidied up the already tidy room. With nothing left to do she sat down and tried to stay awake.

  A knock outside the Skirtings brought her up with a jerk. She had nodded off after all. She crossed to the mouse hole but hesitated before drawing back the curtain. Terrible news might be waiting for her: they said bad tidings rode on the wings of night. Taking a deep breath, Mrs Brown pulled the curtain back.

  There stood Twit, and next to him Thomas Triton, sword in hand. They had returned from Blackheath via the Cutty Sark where the midshipmouse had paused to collect his old weapon.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mrs Brown,’ excused Twit hurriedly, ‘but we got to see Arthur.’

  ‘Hello Twit,’ was all Gwen could think of to say. She looked inquiringly at the stranger in the woollen hat with the kerchief tied around his neck.

  ‘Oh, ’scuse me,’ Twit stammered. ‘Forgot me manners. This be Thomas Triton, midshipmouse,’ he added grandly.

  Thomas bowed and snatched off his hat. His white hair waved about like a frothy sea. ‘Ma’am,’ he said deeply, ‘me and the lad here desire to have a word or two with your son – if it pleases you, of course.’

  ‘It does not please me,’ replied Mrs Brown, collecting herself. ‘Twit, where did you vanish to? And no, I’m sorry, but Arthur has gone to bed and I won’t disturb him now.’

  ‘It grieves me to hear you say that ma’ am,’ Thomas bowed again. ‘If I seemed discourteous you must forgive me, but I’ve seen some rum things tonight and it goes ill with me to stand like a beggar at the door.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Brown was embarrassed at not inviting them in.

  ‘Please,’ she said hastily, ‘I am sorry – it’s just that so many worries have made me forget myself.’

  She waved them to seats and began to heat some milk and honey for them. ‘I really am anxious for news,’ she said, passing them each a steaming bowl.

  Thomas sniffed the milk, thinking that it would not warm him as much as a good, tot of rum would.

  ‘Now,’ said Mrs Brown as she sat down, ‘I have no intention of waking Arthur until you tell me what you want from him. And you, Twit, I’ll ask again, where have you been, and have you seen Audrey?’

  ‘Permit me, ma’am,’ Thomas broke in politely. ‘The young lad and me have seen some right peculiar stuff this evil night and none of it seems to make any sense. We thought your Arthur could throw some light on a few things.’

  ‘But why Arthur, Mr Triton?’

  ‘Well, the bats spoke to him, and what they told him must have meant something, dear lady. Miladdo here couldn’t quite hear what they said to him, so I thought if we asked him to tell us word for word what the bats told him, we might be able to work it out.’ He looked at her pleasantly, his eyes twinkling beneath his frosty brow.

  ‘No, you must forgive me, Mr Triton, but my son is worn out. He must rest, and I’m afraid I have more important things to worry about than bat riddles. My daughter, you see, is missing.’ She wrung her paws together in worry.

  ‘Pardon, but . . . dear lady, have you not thought that our two problems are linked? They have a common root, a dark, poisonous canker that must be cut out before it does any more harm. Both our worries are urgent.’ He frowned, and Mrs Brown was startled at how stern he looked. ‘Don’t dismiss my urgency, ma’ am,’ he continued. ‘My instincts are never wrong. I have ignored them before and regretted it most bitterly.’ His voice was dark and grim. ‘Unless action is taken tonight a calamity will occur and all of us shall be sorry.’ Thomas stared at her intently, willing her to help.

  What a disturbing mouse this was, she thought. She felt that she could trust him, but what could possibly be so important?

  ‘Twit dear,’ she said, turning to the fieldmouse. ‘Go and give Arthur a shake, would you?’

  Twit hurried from the table and scampered into Arthur’s room.

  Arthur lay on his side, his nose re
sting on his arm. His tail dangled off the bed and twitched as he slept. Twit nudged him gently. ‘Arthur!’ he whispered. ‘Wake up!’ He shook the sleeping mouse a little more roughly.

  Slowly Arthur squirmed, then yawned and mumbled. ‘Go way!’

  ‘Please, Arthur, it’s Twit.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Arthur carefully opened one eye and waited for it to focus. ‘Hello Twit,’ he muttered. ‘Where’ve you got to? I was lookin’ for you.’

  ‘I’m here,’ said the fieldmouse, not convinced that Arthur was really awake.

  ‘That’s right!’ Arthur yawned again and rolled over on his other side, away from the Twit in his dream.

  Twit folded his arms crossly. ‘Oh Arthur, do get up.’

  The fat mouse on the bed snored.

  With a wry smile, Twit pinched his friend hard on the bottom.

  Arthur yelped and sat bolt upright.

  ‘Who is it? What’s happened? Where?’ He waved his fists around before calming down.

  ‘Get up, Arthur,’ Twit laughed. ‘Someone wants to talk to ’ee.’

  Arthur’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Twit!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where did you spring from? Where did you get to? I looked high and low for you when I came back from the attics.’

  ‘I don’t think you looked high enough,’ Twit grinned.

  ‘Is Audrey with you?’

  ‘No she ain’t – nor Oswald, nor Master Piccadilly.’

  ‘Well, where the heck did you get to?’

  ‘Ah,’ Twit replied mysteriously, his eyes shining. ‘I went a visitin’.’

  Arthur rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. ‘Just what have you been up to, eh?’

  Twit chuckled and grasped Arthur’s paw, tugging him off the bed. ‘Come see who I done brought back with me.’

  Arthur got to his feet and stretched. Twit ran out of the room and, greatly puzzled, Arthur followed him.

  Thomas Triton drained his bowl of hot milk and stroked his wiry whiskers dry. Arthur stared dumbly at the midshipmouse.

  ‘Arthur dear,’ began Mrs Brown, ‘this is a friend of Twit: Thomas Triton.’

  ‘Midshipmouse,’ Twit added.

  ‘How do you do lad?’ roared Thomas, his eyes sparkling beneath his bushy white brows.

  ‘Very well, thank you sir,’ Arthur replied, eyeing the stocky mouse doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ Thomas grinned, glancing at Arthur’s stomach. ‘Well, sit down boy – I won’t eat you.’

  Arthur looked questioningly at his mother. Mrs Brown nodded encouragement. He shuffled to the table and sat down.

  ‘Well now!’ Thomas bent his head forward and stared at Arthur for a while.

  ‘Now matey, I believe you went to see the bats.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, I’d dearly like to know what they said to you. There’s many an evil thing I’ve seen this night and it’s time I had some answers. There are questions reeling in my old head and makin’ it spin.’

  Arthur tried to remember all that the bats had told him. ‘I didn’t really understand what they meant,’ he said. ‘It was all in silly riddles and stuff.’

  ‘Just try your best dear.’ Mrs Brown gave his paw a quick squeeze.

  Thomas rocked back on his stool as far as he could. ‘In your own time lad,’ he said gently, ‘but in the bats’ words.’

  Arthur closed his eyes and concentrated. He thought of the bats high on the broken rafter and the puzzling words they had uttered.

  ‘It was all about Audrey,’ he stammered. ‘They kept mentioning her – not by name but by description: “she is the mouse who has lost her brass” – that sort of stuff.’

  ‘That would be your sister?’

  Arthur nodded. ‘They said she made dolls and that she was going to be wearing silver – how can she do that?’

  ‘Them bells I gave her were silver,’ piped up Twit.

  ‘But she never made a doll in her life,’ protested Arthur. ‘You see, it doesn’t make any sense at all.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Thomas. ‘None of this is relevant. Did they mention Jupiter at all?

  Mrs Brown gasped at the open mention of the name. Arthur thought hard.

  ‘They talked of a fiend that lives below. That must mean him, surely?’

  ‘And what did they say of him matey?’

  ‘That I was to be wary of him, but that Audrey should be especially careful; she was the one in real danger: “threefold the life threats” they said.’ Arthur searched his memory. ‘“How shall he be vanquished? By water deep, fire blazing and the unknown path.” What can that mean?’

  Thomas frowned. He did not like it. ‘Fire and water, that’s a pretty way to die – are we to roast Jupiter and throw his carcass into the sea?’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Why do I get this feeling the time for action is now?’ He stood up and paced around impatiently, slapping his strong paws together as he thought.

  Arthur looked across to his mother. Mrs Brown shrugged. Twit seemed about to speak, when in a whirl of clucking and wailing, Mrs Chitter barged in.

  ‘Oh Gwen! My Oswald hasn’t come back yet. Have you seen him? Arthur, you must know where he is.’ Then she saw Twit and howled at the fieldmouse: ‘Where is he? Why are you here? You should be in bed too. Where’s my Oswald? What have you done to him – your own cousin?’

  ‘Madam!’ A strange, stern voice stopped Mrs Chitter in mid-moan. She had not noticed Thomas Triton when she crashed in. Now she considered the stranger; her eyes slid swiftly to Mrs Brown and her brows rose sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, if I’m interrupting anything.’

  Mrs Brown sighed. ‘Sit down Arabel,’ she said softly.

  Mrs Chitter sat down. She pursed her lips and eyed the stranger.

  ‘This is Thomas Triton. He is a friend of Twit.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me!’

  ‘Madam.’ Thomas bowed stiffly but Mrs Chitter turned away and rounded on Twit once more.

  ‘Where is Oswald? You know and won’t tell me. After all the kindness I’ve shown you, welcoming you into my own home after the shame your mother caused me. This is how you repay me.’

  Twit stared at her open-mouthed. She was too frantic to reason with, and ranted on and on.

  ‘MADAM!’ Thomas roared, slamming his fist on the table and making all the bowls jump in the air. Mrs Chitter jumped with them.

  She turned to the midshipmouse, ready to give him a piece of her mind.

  Thomas held up his paw to stop her. ‘Enough. I will not have you cackling like a stupid hen when more serious matters are at hand.’

  Mrs Chitter was outraged, but Arthur hid a quick smile.

  ‘Your pardon, madam, if I appear a little brusque,’ said Thomas, ‘but time is running out. Your son is, I believe, down in the sewers.’

  Mrs Chitter gasped.

  ‘He is very brave and, let us hope, safe – for the moment. The daughter of this worthy lady is also in the sewers. Maybe the two have met there. The question is, what are we going to do about it?’

  For once, Mrs Chitter had nothing to say. She had never suspected that Oswald would be in the sewers, and faced with it suddenly, she was dumbfounded. She thought of her poor child in the darkness, in the nightmare world beyond the Grille, and her eyes began to water. ‘Oh my,’ she cried at last, and began to wail again.

  Gwen put her arm around the sobbing mouse and patted her silvery head.

  ‘There now,’ she soothed. ‘Calm yourself Arabel.’

  Thomas cleared his throat. He had been astonished by Mrs Chitter’s behaviour and remembered one of the reasons why he had gone to sea in the first place. He had always found hysterical ladies difficult to cope with. Now he stepped forward and said briskly, ‘Arthur, how many mice are there here who would follow me into the sewers?’

  Arthur thought for a moment, but the question was answered by Mrs Chitter.

  ‘None, you fool. No one here is as mad are y
ou obviously are. Why, there’s not one mouse prepared to go through the Grille.’

  Thomas eyed her coldly. ‘And yet through that same grating has your son gone, madam. I wonder where he gets his madness from?’

  Mrs Chitter spluttered but could not think of anything to say.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s right,’ said Mrs Brown sadly. ‘We’re all too frightened to go near the Grille. When we are children we are told how dangerous it is to even go into the cellar. There are powers, you see, enchantments that dazzle the senses. You lose your head, and before you know where you are, you’re lost in the sewers.’

  ‘And the peeler gets you,’ added Mrs Chitter knowingly.

  Thomas twitched his snowy whiskers. ‘There must be someone who’ll come with me,’ he sighed, tapping his sword on the floor.

  ‘I will,’ chirped Twit cheerfully. ‘The Grille do frit me but I’m willin’ to go sewerin’ again.’ The fieldmouse had grown to respect and trust Thomas so much that he would have followed him anywhere.

  ‘I knew I could count on you matey,’ laughed Thomas, clapping the fieldmouse heartily on the back.

  Arthur glanced quickly at his mother. Mrs Brown looked at him fearfully but before he could say anything a grey storm crashed in on them.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ it cried.

  Piccadilly had run hard. He had dodged Leering Macky and Vinegar Pete and dashed up to the Grille. Hastily he scrambled through the rusted gap and darted across the cellar floor. Up the steps he jumped and then bolted into the Skirtings.

  The other mice were startled but waited for him to catch his breath. Mrs Brown heated up some more milk and honey and he drank it thankfully.

  ‘It’s Oswald,’ he gasped eventually.

  Mrs Chitter gripped the table for support, stood up then sat down again.

  Gwen ushered the city mouse to a seat. ‘What about Oswald dear?’

  ‘He’s been caught – oh it’ll never work, he’s sure to be found out and then—’