The Secret of the Ginger Mice

by Song of the Winns

  “I told her he’d be trouble,” was all Great-Aunt Harriet would ever say, to which Grandpa Nelson would respond wistfully, “Ah, but she loved him, Harry.”

  Despite the harsh words spoken when Lucia had left, there were no cross words now. They kissed her and hugged her and ushered her inside out of the blustery wind, through the dark hall and into the warm kitchen. But when they saw her in the light, Grandpa Nelson and Great-Aunt Harriet each gave a little gasp. Lucia’s once-silky fur was now coarse and matted, and her once-bright eyes were dull. Then the bundle in her arms began to squirm and her eyes shone for a moment as she unwrapped a grubby cloth to reveal a baby mouse, no more than a few months old. She was smaller than average, even for a mouse so young, but that wasn’t the most unusual thing about her.

  “A gingernut,” Grandpa Nelson said when he had got over the initial shock. “A little gingernut.”

  “Strawberry blonde,” his sister, Great-Aunt Harriet, corrected sharply. Great-Aunt Harriet was very fond of correcting people.

  “She’s rose,” said the baby’s mother softly. “Like the first blush of dawn.” And she told her father and aunt that she had named her daughter Tibby, after the great explorer Charlotte Tibby, and Rose, like her pink-tinted ginger fur.

  Then Lucia revealed that her husband was dead, and she was home to stay. Of course, they had seen immediately that she was very ill, and though Grandpa Nelson, who was a doctor, took time off from his job at the hospital in order to look after her, within six weeks Lucia too was dead. Great-Aunt Harriet quit her job as the principal of Templeton Green Primary School to look after Tibby Rose, and after Grandpa Nelson had retired from the hospital a few years later, they had both looked after her together, just like they had looked after her mother.

  Since her dramatic arrival at the old white house on the hill that windy night, precisely nothing had happened in the life of Tibby Rose. She never went to school, since Great-Aunt Harriet had decided to teach her great-niece herself at home. If she was sick she didn’t go to see the doctor in town, for who better to look after her than her very own grandpa, who had been considered one of Templeton’s finest doctors? In fact, Tibby Rose never saw any mice other than her great-aunt and grandfather. High on the hill at the edge of the town, there weren’t even any neighbors for Tibby Rose to talk to. The only company she had other than her two elderly relatives was to be found in the books of Great-Aunt Harriet’s huge library.

  When she was younger, Tibby had loved stories, particularly stories full of adventure and excitement, or about families and friendship. But it had been a few years since she had read books like that. The adventure stories just reminded her how dull her own life was, and the books about families and friendship made her feel lonely. The kinds of books Tibby liked now were factual: biographies and geographies and books about how to make and build things—which meant projects to keep her busy and keep loneliness at bay. Her favorite books of all were the books written by Charlotte Tibby herself, documenting her many incredible journeys and the survival skills she’d learned along the way. Tibby Rose wished that one day she would travel the world like the original Tibby, meeting interesting new people and seeing strange and wonderful places. More and more she felt like she was going to suffocate in the old white house on the hill, with only Grandpa Nelson and Great-Aunt Harriet for company. She began to fear her life was just going to go on and on in this way, every day the same, never changing. Until one day—a day that started out just like any other—it did change.

  Tibby Rose woke up, dressed and made her bed, just like always. She ran down the stairs to breakfast, just like always. She heard Grandpa Nelson and Great-Aunt Harriet arguing about the color of the toast, just like always. She stepped out onto the veranda and walked down the steps to fetch the bottle of milk that had been left by the letterbox, just like always. Only that’s when things changed. One minute she was bending over to pick up the milk bottle, the next she was lying flat on her stomach with the breath knocked out of her and something heavy pinning her to the ground.

  With a frightened squeak, muffled by grass, she struggled to claw herself out from under the weight on her back. Finally it shifted and she managed to squirm her way clear of what she now saw, to her surprise, was another mouse. He clambered to his feet and Tibby Rose found herself staring at a mouse about her own age and height, with ginger fur and a colorful woolen scarf.

  “Who are you? And where did you come from?” asked Tibby Rose, astonished.

  “I’m Alistair—and I came from up there I think,” said the ginger mouse, pointing at the sky. He sounded equally astonished. “Where have I landed?”

  “On me! Tibby Rose. What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alistair. He frowned. “I remember I heard a tapping at the shutters so I opened them, and then I must have banged my head or something, because next thing I knew . . . well, here I am—which is where, by the way?”

  “Templeton,” said Tibby Rose.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” said Alistair. “How could I fall out the window and land somewhere I’ve never heard of?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tibby Rose. It did seem a peculiar thing. “Where was the window you fell out of?”

  “Smiggins,” said Alistair.

  “I’ve never heard of that,” said Tibby Rose. “You’d better come inside and talk to my Grandpa Nelson and Great-Aunt Harriet.” And she led him into the big wooden house.

  Grandpa Nelson was sitting at the kitchen table watching Great-Aunt Harriet, who was browning some toast under the griller. “Not too brown,” he was saying as Tibby Rose and Alistair entered.

  “It’ll be as brown as I make it,” said Great-Aunt Harriet.

  Grandpa Nelson looked friendly enough, Alistair decided, with his round ears and round tummy and snow-white fur.

  “It’s a gingernut,” said Grandpa Nelson, sounding shocked. “Another gingernut.”

  Great-Aunt Harriet, who’d had her back to them, spun around, and for once she agreed with her brother. “It certainly is,” she said, staring hard at the ginger mouse. “Who are you? Who is this, Tibby Rose?”

  “I’m . . . Alistair,” said the ginger mouse a little nervously, for Great-Aunt Harriet, who was tall and thin with steel-gray fur, bristling whiskers, and a sharp, pointy nose, did look rather fierce.

  “He fell out his bedroom window in Smiggins and hit his head and then landed on me,” explained Tibby Rose.

  “A bedroom window?” repeated Grandpa Nelson doubtfully. “In Smiggins? I’ve never heard of Smiggins. Is it on the other side of Grouch?”

  “Grouch?” Alistair repeated in disbelief. “But Grouch is in Souris.”

  “Of course it’s in Souris,” said Tibby Rose. “That’s where we live.”

  “Young man,” said Great-Aunt Harriet sternly, “exactly where is Smiggins when it’s at home?”

  “South of Shudders, of course—in Shetlock.”

  “Shetlock!” hooted Grandpa Nelson. “You must have had some whack on the head, my boy. Why it would take at least a week to get from here to Shetlock—if you were going by the direct route. It’s not something you can accomplish by falling out of a window.”

  “But . . . that can’t be,” said Alistair. “This . . . this must be a dream. Yes, it’s getting dark and misty. I’ll wake up in a minute.”

  “Bother!” came Great-Aunt Harriet’s voice through the haze. “The toast.”

  When the smoke cleared, after much flapping of Great-Aunt Harriet’s tea towel, Grandpa Nelson regarded the plate in front of him sadly. “Too brown,” he said.

  “It’s just right,” Great-Aunt Harriet told him, her attention back on Alistair. “What on earth is your mother about, letting you wander around alone like this when you’re clearly a very confused mouse?”

  Alistair returned her gaze with the unhappy look of a mouse who has realized that he isn’t dreaming. “My mother . . .,” he began, then stopped. “My mother and father are dead.
My brother and sister and I live with Aunt Beezer and Uncle Ebenezer . . . in Smiggins . . . in Shetlock.”

  Tibby Rose sat on a stool, which was pulled up to the table, and patted the stool beside her. “I think you’d better sit down and have some breakfast,” she said.

  Alistair nodded gratefully as Great-Aunt Harriet put a plate down in front of him and Grandpa Nelson slid a piece of very dark brown toast onto it. Tibby Rose spread the toast with three different kinds of jam.

  Looking at the stripes of raspberry, blueberry, and apricot, Alistair felt momentarily comforted, and when he looked up and saw Tibby Rose smiling kindly at him, he realized there was also something very comforting about meeting another ginger mouse—the only other one he had ever met—even if she was a slightly different shade to him. And lived in another country.

  For four slices of toast and two glasses of milk, no disturbing questions were asked and no alarming information was imparted—though Alistair noticed that Great-Aunt Harriet and Grandpa Nelson were exchanging troubled glances, and a couple of times he looked up to see Great-Aunt Harriet staring at him with something like suspicion in her eyes.

  Finally, she turned her sharp gaze to her great-niece and said, “Why don’t you take Alistair up to the library and show him your map of Souris, Tibby Rose. I’m sure he’ll find it edifying.”

  The two younger mice stood up, and Tibby Rose led Alistair back into the dim hallway. They were almost to the top of the stairs when Great-Aunt Harriet’s voice floated up to them.

  “The most sensible thing to do—or should I say, the most law-abiding thing to do—would be to call the Queen’s Guards to come and get him. Isn’t that what one is supposed to do in a situation like this?”

  Tibby Rose turned to Alistair and, putting a finger to her lips, beckoned him to follow her back down. “Mind the third step,” she breathed. “It creaks.”

  Alistair followed her, stepping where she stepped, until they were standing in the shadowy hall outside the kitchen door. Grandpa Nelson was rinsing the sudsy dishes and handing them to his sister, who was drying them.

  “Well now, Harry,” Grandpa Nelson was saying. “You know you don’t mean that. He must be here for a reason. Besides, contacting the Queen’s Guards would only draw unwelcome attention to us—and that’s the last thing we want.”

  “I’ll say it’s the last thing we want. Having one ginger mouse in our care is dangerous enough, but two? I don’t know what they’re playing at, but I wish they’d leave us out of it.” She banged some cutlery into a drawer. “I don’t know, Nelson.” She sighed. “I know he’s only a boy, and he looks harmless enough or I would have sent him packing immediately—but what on earth is he doing here? I certainly don’t believe that cockamamy story about falling out of a window in Shetlock and landing in Souris. Do you think he could have been sent by someone?”

  “By whom?” said Grandpa Nelson. “And why? He seems as bewildered by his presence here as we are. Maybe he’s exactly who he says he is, as strange as his story may seem. We should send a letter to his aunt and uncle telling them where he is, and they can arrange to come and fetch him.”

  “And if we do that,” Great-Aunt Harriet responded immediately, “how do we know the letter will arrive safely? Do they open mail sent between here and Shetlock? Maybe they’d put us under surveillance.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Grandpa. “That might be a little far-fetched.”

  “Well, you’d be a better judge of that than me. You go into town once a week to do the shopping, while I have barely left this house in the last dozen years, as you very well know. So tell me: Have you heard anything on your trips to town? Has there been any news of that place lately? Unrest around the border perhaps?”

  Grandpa Nelson pulled the plug from the sink and Alistair couldn’t hear the old mouse’s answer over the sound of water being sucked down the drain.

  When the sound stopped Great-Aunt Harriet was talking again: “—hardly be likely to print it in the newspapers, would they? It’s what they don’t put in . . .”

  “I suppose I could ask Granville,” Grandpa Nelson offered hesitantly. “But how much can I tell him?”

  “Nothing!”

  “But he was Lucia’s godfather. Surely—”

  “Tell him nothing,” Great-Aunt Harriet repeated. “Just sound him out, see how much he knows.”

  “And the boy?” asked Grandpa Nelson. “Come on, Harry—we have to help him.”

  Great-Aunt Harriet flung the sodden tea towel onto the table and stalked toward the kitchen door. “Not if it means putting Tibby Rose in danger,” she said fiercely. “Tibby Rose must be protected . . . at any cost. And if contacting the boy’s aunt and uncle means attracting attention to Tibby Rose, then we can’t do it. We’ll just have to keep him here.”

  3

  Kidnapped

  Kidnapped?” said Alex incredulously. “Why would anyone want to kidnap Alistair?”

  His aunt and uncle looked at each other. Beezer gave her husband an imperceptible nod.

  “I’ll explain over breakfast,” said Ebenezer. “This is a very serious situation, and one can’t deal with serious situations on an empty stomach.”

  Alex, who hated an empty stomach more than anything, nodded his agreement.

  “But—,” Alice began.

  “He’s right, Alice,” her aunt said quietly.

  Frustrated, Alice took a seat opposite Beezer at the worn pine table as Alex and Ebenezer moved back and forth to the kitchen, bringing in a plate piled with toast, a bowl of fresh fruit, a box of cereal, and a jug of milk.

  When the four of them were sitting around the dining table and had helped themselves to as much (in Alex’s case) or as little (in Alice’s) as they felt like eating, Alice burst out, “So why do you think Alistair has been kidnapped?”

  Uncle Ebenezer cleared his throat. “Well . . . er . . . it’s possible that Alistair might know something—or someone might think he knows something, rather—about . . . about your parents.”

  “What’s there to know?” said Alice. “Do you think Alistair has been kidnapped by someone who wants to know Mum’s knitting patterns?”

  Ebenezer’s normally merry eyes were somber. “No. No, I’m not suggesting that at all.” He sighed and ran a hand over the rumpled fur on his head. “We hadn’t intended to have this conversation for a couple of years yet—not till you were a bit older. But as it might have some bearing on your brother’s whereabouts, I feel we have no choice but to tell you now, and rely on you to keep what you are about to hear absolutely secret.”

  He picked up the steaming mug of tea Beezer had placed before him and, despite the heat of the sun streaming through the windows, held it between his hands as if for warmth.

  “What do you know about Gerander?” he asked.

  His nephew and niece looked at him in surprise.

  “Gerander?” said Alice. “It’s part of Souris, isn’t it?”

  Ebenezer smiled sadly. “It’s as I thought,” he said. “Not that I’m surprised. Of course if Gerander is mentioned at all in schools these days, it’s probably only as a province of our larger neighbor to the north.”

  Alex nodded. “We’ve learned a lot about Souris at school—Queen Eugenia and all that.”

  “You might also have learned that Souris is a very rich and powerful country,” he suggested, and the two younger mice nodded. “Well, many years ago, this rich and powerful country invaded—”

  Beezer made a sound as if she was about to say something, but Ebenezer put up his hand. “It’s true, Beezer,” he said, “and in the privacy of our own home I can speak the truth aloud . . . Yes, Souris invaded Gerander, a smaller, weaker neighbor, and now that once-proud country is independent no more. Her borders are closed and her citizens are virtually prisoners in their own land, close to starvation and forced to work for the prosperity of Souris. Why, the Gerandans are little better than slaves!”

  “Um, this is very interesting, Uncle,” sa
id Alice politely, “but what does it have to do with Alistair?”

  Ebenezer raised an eyebrow. “What indeed?” he said. “Well, as you know, your father and I were born right here in Shetlock—but our father (that’s your grandfather, Raskus) was born in Gerander, and he left just before the borders were closed. And when he died, he begged your father and me to continue trying to free our homeland.”

  “By yourselves?!” said Alice.

  Her uncle chuckled. “No, not by ourselves. You see, our father wasn’t the only Gerandan to flee to Shetlock, a neutral country. And many of those that did, and their descendants, like Rebus and me, and good-hearted Shetlockers like your aunt”—he smiled at his wife affectionately—“became part of an underground resistance movement started in Gerander. Its members are working toward a Free and Independent Gerander, or FIG for short. And your parents . . .” His voice cracked slightly, and he stopped speaking. After a few deep breaths, he went on. “Your parents were not going on a business trip. They were traveling secretly to Gerander on an important mission. But . . .” He shrugged his shoulders. “They never came back.”

  “So the accident they were in, that was in Gerander?” exclaimed Alex. “Are you saying they—they were killed?”

  “Yes,” said Ebenezer seriously. “I’m afraid so. We had a message from a local FIG contact. Rebus and Emmeline were intercepted shortly after crossing the border into Gerander and . . .” He raised his hands helplessly. “You lost your parents and I lost my brother.”

  The two younger mice fell silent, trying to absorb the enormity of what they had just learned.

  After a minute, Alice spoke up. “And Alistair?” she demanded. “What do you think has happened to him?”