The Secret of the Ginger Mice

by Song of the Winns

  “Hi, Mrs. Zetland,” said Alice. “We’re going . . .” She paused, suddenly realizing that she couldn’t tell their neighbor the truth.

  “To Stubbins,” Alex broke in. “To visit some of our old friends there. Alistair went on ahead.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Zetland raised her eyebrows. “What a shame I didn’t see him leave. I would have given him some biscuits for his journey. And how about you two—do you have enough food for the journey? I hope Ebenezer has given you a good lunch; it doesn’t do to travel on an empty stomach. But I’m sure he thought of that—that rucksack looks awfully heavy. Though you want to be careful about lifting heavy rucksacks. Why, an old school friend of mine once lifted a heavy rucksack and fell right through the floor. Which was a pity because she lived on the fourth floor and she landed on the breakfast table of the family below. But that wasn’t uncommon back when I was a child. We worked much harder at school than you young mice nowadays. So many books we had to carry . . . And when she got to school she had a buttered crumpet stuck to her bottom. How we laughed!”

  “Pardon?” said Alex, who often had trouble following Mrs. Zetland’s conversations.

  “Some of the food is for Alistair,” Alice improvised. “He was in such a hurry to be on his way that he forgot to have breakfast, so we’re taking him a picnic breakfast—we’re sure to catch up with him along the road.”

  “Well now, what a thoughtful brother and sister he’s got.” Mrs. Zetland beamed. “Goodness knows a skinny young thing like him can’t afford to be skipping meals. I’ll tell you what, I baked a batch of chocolate-chip biscuits just last night. Wait here a minute and I’ll give you some for your picnic.”

  “We’re in a bit of a hurry, Mrs.—,” Alice began.

  “Some biscuits would be lovely,” Alex interrupted.

  A few minutes later, the two mice were heading down the stairs again, munching on biscuits from the brown paper bag Mrs. Zetland had given them.

  As they pushed open the door of the apartment house and started down the path they were assailed by an angry “Oy!” from the direction of the vegetable patch.

  “Huh?” said Alex, spraying biscuit crumbs all over Alice, who had been walking in front.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Alice, brushing the crumbs from her shoulders.

  “It’s Mr. Grudge,” said Alex.

  Alice sighed. “What have we done now?”

  The two mice turned to see grizzled old Mr. Grudge, wearing his gardening hat and gloves, shaking his trowel at them. “You two! What’s been going on here? You tell those friends of yours not to walk all over my vegetable patch. The parsley is all ruined.”

  “Er, what are you talking about, Mr. Grudge?” Alice asked patiently.

  “Your friends. Mucking about in my vegetable patch. I won’t have it.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Grudge, but we haven’t had any friends over in the last few days.”

  “Oh really? Then who was that fumbling about with the ladder early this morning trying to get up to your room, eh?”

  “A ladder? Up to our room?” Alice poked Alex excitedly. “Um, what did they look like?”

  “Well, I can’t see in the dark, can I?” grumbled Mr. Grudge. “It was just before dawn. I was up there”—he pointed to his window on the first floor—“and they were down there.” He pointed to the squashed parsley at his feet. “I only saw the tops of their heads, didn’t I? But I reckon . . .” He squinted in recollection. “I reckon one was black and one was gray. Anyway, they scattered quick enough when I tapped the window.” He pressed his lips together in satisfaction. “If you see them, you tell them they owe me some parsley.”

  “We will,” Alice promised. “As soon as we catch up with them.” She poked Alex again and hurried down the path, her brother close behind.

  “What was all that about?” Alex wondered as they reached the street. This was the road which would take them out of Smiggins and north toward Stubbins. “And why did you keep poking me?”

  “Don’t you see?” Alice said. “Those two mice he saw must be the kidnappers! Why else would they be trying to get up to our room with a ladder?”

  Alex’s eyes widened. “Yeah. And if they were here just before dawn, they must only be a couple of hours ahead of us. Yes!” He punched the air. “Come on, sis. Let’s move!”

  It was almost noon, and the sun was blazing down on the tops of their heads, when they reached Stubbins. They had been walking for four hours, and Alice was feeling hot and uncomfortable, but she cried out with joy on seeing the familiar silhouette of their old hometown. It had been a long time since they’d last been there. In the early days, when they’d all thought Rebus and Emmeline had simply been delayed and would be returning soon, their aunt and uncle had regularly brought them back to visit their old school friends. But when they’d found out their parents were dead, the triplets had started school in Smiggins, and soon had a whole new gang of friends. They returned to Stubbins less and less frequently, and had more or less forgotten about their old lives.

  “Look, there’s the park where we used to play after school!” said Alex.

  “And the town hall. Remember that Christmas concert where Alistair sang all twenty-seven verses of ‘The Shetlock Shepherd’ without forgetting a single word?”

  “Is that the same concert where you forgot your lines in the play and started to cry?”

  “It was a very difficult role,” snapped Alice.

  “Um, let me see if I can recall your lines,” said Alex. “Oh, that’s right: Hee-haw, hee-haw, I am the Christmas donkey—isn’t that how it went?”

  “Shut up,” said Alice crossly, but Alex was standing stock-still, transfixed, for the cobbled street had opened out into a huge square, bustling with activity.

  “The market,” he breathed, surveying the rows of colorful stalls. “Quick, sis—this way!” He darted through a crowd of shoppers bearing bags and baskets.

  “Ooph,” said a mouse carrying a bunch of sunflowers so large he could barely see over them, and “Watch it!” said another carrying an armful of deep purple eggplants.

  Alice followed him to a stall where, under a blue and white striped umbrella, a mouse in a brightly patterned apron was arranging plates of cheese.

  “Cheese!” Alex crowed.

  “Er, yes,” said the mouse in the apron, who was clearly not used to customers going into such ecstasies. “It’s cheese.”

  “Look at the mold in that blue,” said Alex, pointing excitedly as Alice caught up. “And check out the crumbliness of that cheddar . . . How long did you age it?” he demanded of the stallholder.

  “Three years,” said the mouse in the apron promptly. He seemed to have decided that while Alex was clearly a bit deranged, he might turn out to be a good customer. “And for a connoisseur like young sir, I could offer a special price . . .”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any money,” said Alice. “We’re going this way,” she said to her brother, grasping him firmly by the arm and dragging him down a quiet side street and away from the market. Thank goodness he hadn’t spotted the cake stall.

  “But, sis,” Alex complained, “I’m starving.”

  “Whose fault is that?” Alice shot back. “You ate all our supplies half an hour after we left Smiggins.”

  After they had walked for several minutes, with Alice propelling Alex quickly past any particularly appetizing shop window, the shops became houses, and then the houses grew further apart, and they turned right, then left, then right again, their feet knowing exactly where they were going even though neither of them had said a word. Soon they were standing outside a familiar stone cottage with a deep front garden and a small orchard just visible out the back.

  “I wonder who lives here now,” said Alex.

  “I think Uncle Ebenezer said a family with two kids had rented it,” Alice said, observing a small bike and a tricycle and a faded pair of toy racing cars on the front porch. “I suppose he was right about it being better for the h
ouse to be lived in and loved than standing cold and empty.”

  “I suppose,” Alex echoed.

  “Do you think about Mum and Dad much?” Alice asked, her eyes running over the slate-tiled roof and the honey-colored stone before moving to the old rope swing hanging from the chestnut tree in the yard. She, Alex, and Alistair had once played on that rope swing.

  “Not anymore,” Alex admitted. “I used to think about them all the time, but it’s getting harder to remember them. I know that sounds awful, but—well, Aunt Beezer and Uncle Ebenezer are so nice, and I like Smiggins, and our old life in Stubbins seems so far away. I guess Alistair still thinks about them a lot, though—he never takes off that scarf Mum gave him.”

  “And now Alistair is gone too. . . .”

  On this gloomy note, they set off once more on the road to Shambles.

  They walked in near silence for several hours. Flat fields of barley and rye stretched to the horizon on either side of the road like a sea of pale gold, rippling with the slightest puff of breeze. The sun beat down relentlessly until the feathery golden grains began to shimmer before their eyes, and they stopped to swig from their water bottles. It seemed that the long straight road would go on forever.

  At last the road started to climb steadily, winding through uncultivated stretches of tussocky wild grasses punctuated with tangled shrubs and thickets of twisted trees. The mood of dreariness brought on by the endless ocean of crops now turned almost to dread in this lonely untamed landscape, and the dangers they might face on their long journey north, far from home and loved ones, suddenly seemed very real to Alice. The thought of having to spend the night out here made her heart beat faster, even as weariness slowed her steps. She was relieved when they crested a hill and found themselves in a lush green valley of almond and cherry trees, with olive trees in terraces creeping up the rock faces of the craggy mountain range which encased the valley.

  They were walking along the valley floor, their shadows long in the golden light of late afternoon, when Alex’s nose started twitching.

  “What’s that?” he said, almost to himself.

  He sniffed again.

  “Bread!” he said. “Freshly baked bread!”

  As the aroma filled her nostrils, Alice was suddenly aware of how hungry she was.

  “It’s coming from that farmhouse over there.” Alex pointed to a trim weatherboard house at the end of a short lane lined with cherry trees. “Aha! I knew we’d find food when we needed it. Follow me! Farmers’ wives love orphans.”

  He fairly scampered along the lane, Alice following close behind.

  The smell of bread warm from the oven grew stronger as they neared the house, and they had just entered the grassy yard when they encountered the farmer’s wife. Wearing big black boots and a straw hat, she was repairing a broken section of the fence that ran down to the road.

  As the two young mice approached she raised her eyes from her work and said, “What do you two want?”

  “Good afternoon, oh kind farmer’s wife,” said Alex. “We smelled your delicious homemade bread from the road and were wondering if you had any to spare for two young mice with a long journey ahead of them.” He turned and gave his sister a broad wink.

  The farmer’s wife regarded them narrowly from under the brim of her hat. “Are you twins then?”

  “No, we’re triplets. We got separated from our brother back in Stubbins. Have you seen him? He looks exactly like us except ginger, and he’s wearing a scarf.”

  “Ha! I think if I’d seen a ginger mouse wearing a scarf I’d probably remember it. Do your parents know where you are?” she asked, eyeing their rucksack suspiciously.

  Alex nudged Alice and they both opened their eyes very wide. “No, ma’am. You see . . . we’re orphans.”

  If the farmer’s wife felt sorry for them, she disguised it well. “So you’ve lost your mother and your father?”

  Alex and Alice nodded sadly.

  “And now you’ve lost your brother?”

  They hung their heads so that their whiskers drooped.

  “Hmph, it seems to me you are two bad, careless mice to be losing your relations like that. If you want some of my freshly baked bread you’re going to have to work for it.”

  “But . . . but, good farmer’s wife . . .”

  “I’m not the farmer’s wife, you cheeky brat—I’m the farmer. Now do we have a deal?”

  Alex sniffed the air longingly, glanced back at Alice, then turned to face the farmer.

  “And you can tell your friends there’s no point hanging around,” she added before he could open his mouth. “I’m not running some kind of free bakery for indigent mice here, you know.”

  “What friends?”

  “Down the lane—a gray mouse and a black one.” She waved her hammer toward the junction of lane and road.

  But when Alex and Alice turned to look there was no sign of mice of any color.

  “They were there before,” said the farmer grumpily.

  “Was there a ginger mouse with them?”

  “Don’t you think if I’d seen a ginger mouse I’d have said I’d seen a ginger mouse?” demanded the farmer, her hands on her hips.

  “I guess so,” Alice murmured.

  “Well, you guess right,” said the farmer. She put down her hammer, walked over to the side of the house and picked up two yellow buckets. “You see the cherries on the trees over there?” She ducked her chin at a row of cherry trees laden with fruit. “Pick them.”

  “But—there must be twenty trees there,” protested Alex.

  “You’ll find a ladder over beside the house. If you each fill five buckets, I’ll give you a good supper and let you sleep in the barn.”

  Alex frowned impatiently and Alice knew what he was thinking. They didn’t have time to waste picking cherries if they wanted to catch up with Alistair’s kidnappers! But the sun was close to setting and they were tired and hungry. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to stop here. She poked Alex in the back and said to the farmer, “Thank you. We’d appreciate it.”

  “Empty your buckets into that crate over there—and no eating the cherries.” The farmer gave Alex a particularly meaningful stare. “I’ll know if you do.” And she picked up her hammer and set to work on the fence once more.

  Alex and Alice took the buckets and walked over to the first tree. “Since this was your stupid idea,” said Alex, “you take the ladder and go for the high branches—I’ll take the ones closer to the ground.”

  “My stupid idea?” said Alice. “You’re the one who brought us here. And you’re the one who ate all our sandwiches back near Smiggins. You can go up the ladder.”

  “Oh, all right,” Alex grumbled, “we’ll take it in turns.” He fetched the ladder and began to climb.

  They set to work, stretching and picking, stretching and picking, Alex’s hollow moans following each rumble of his hollow belly. But as tempting as the sun-warmed fruit was, neither of them dared steal a single cherry. At first, Alex passed the time imagining what the farmer’s “good supper” might consist of. “Freshly baked bread . . . a salad of figs and blue cheese . . . a crisp apple and a sharp cheddar . . . strawberries and cream . . . or maybe”—he lifted his half-full bucket to his nose and inhaled the rich cherry aroma—“cherry pie. Mmmmm.” After a while, though, he grew too hungry and dispirited even to dream of food and complained about the work instead. “Why are cherries so small?” he asked plaintively. “It takes so many of them to fill a bucket.”

  Alice, who had barely been listening to her brother as they filled bucket after bucket with fruit, suddenly called up, “It was strange, wasn’t it, how the farmer saw a black mouse and a gray mouse, just like Mr. Grudge did?”

  “Huh?” Alex stopped mid-complaint and, resting his bucket on a rung of the ladder, rubbed the sweat-soaked fur of his brow. “If she actually saw them,” he said. “They weren’t there when we looked.”

  “Well, she doesn’t look like the imaginative type to
me,” said Alice. “But if they were the kidnappers, why didn’t they have Alistair with them? And why were they behind us, not ahead of us? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “I say it’s a coincidence,” said Alex. “Your turn up the ladder.”

  They swapped places and continued picking, arms aching from the strain of constant reaching combined with holding the heavy buckets. The sun sank slowly behind the hills, bringing some relief from the relentless glare, and had just dipped over the horizon by the time Alice said, “And that’s five.” She lowered her last bucket of cherries to her brother, waiting impatiently below. He had tipped his fifth bucket into the crate some time before, and was eagerly anticipating the good supper. “Come on, hurry,” he said. “I think I smell onions frying.”

  “Watch,” said Alice, feeling suddenly energetic now that the work was done. She stepped lightly from the ladder to the branch it was leaning on. She sat on the limb, then threw herself backward to hang from her knees and began to swing. Back and forth she went until, at the height of a forward arc, she unhooked her knees and executed a perfect somersault, landing lightly on her feet. “Ta-da!”

  “Uncle Ebenezer would be proud, sis,” Alex said, picking up the bucket.

  Together they walked over to the crate, where the farmer was waiting, a disapproving look on her face. “This is a farm, young lady, not a circus.”

  “Sorry,” said Alice meekly. “Um . . . we’ve finished.”

  “Took you long enough,” was all the farmer said. “Your supper’s over by the barn. I expect you to be gone by morning.” She stomped onto the porch and sat on the front step to tug her boots off.

  Her two workers walked quickly toward the barn, Alex in the lead.

  As he reached the barn, he stopped dead. “A loaf of bread,” he said dully. “And a jug of water. That’s all.” He sank to his knees on the grass. “Not even anything to put on the bread!” He turned toward the steps just in time to see the farmer disappearing inside. “Call that a good supper?” he shouted as the tantalizing aroma of onions drifted across the yard.