The Mousehunter

by Alex Milway

  “Excellent. Well then, I suggest you go and find my first mate Fenwick. He’ll show you how to get settled in the crow’s nest.”

  “Aye, sir,” she replied once more, and trudged slowly to the door, telescope in hand.

  “That’s a very fine mouse on your shoulder, by the way,” added Drewshank. “I once had a Grey myself. Scruples was its name — was always stealing cheese.”

  “Thank you, captain,” said Emiline, leaving the cabin. Portly squeaked thank you too, in his own little way.

  “Are you Mr. Fenwick?” asked Emiline. A sweat-soaked stocky man with a well-tanned face and shaved head stared back at her. He was wearing a dirty white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and his long cotton trousers sat bulging over a pair of enormous boots that had seen better days.

  “Aye. That’s me,” he said in a thick country accent while wiping the sweat from his never-ending brow. An equally beefy Brown Mouse looked questioningly at Emiline from his shoulder.

  “Captain Drewshank told me to find you.”

  “Ah! Now I understand why you look like a girl! You’re that Sharpclaw catcher!” he said excitedly.

  Fenwick seemed truly overjoyed at her arrival. She forced a smile and decided to return any pleasantries that might come her way.

  “Right,” said Fenwick, “I’ll be lookin’ after you while onboard. Any problems, turn to me. Scratcher will be a great help as well, I’ll bet. But don’t you be bothering the captain unless he asks for it!”

  Emiline agreed and waited patiently for Fenwick to tell her what to do next.

  “Right,” he said finally, scratching his chest, his mind seemingly taken by a hundred and one other tasks. “What d’you think of Trumper?”

  He picked up his Brown Mouse and held it in front of Emiline. The mouse smiled and twitched its whiskers while letting out a small fart. A pungent eggy smell filled the area, causing Fenwick to blush.

  “He does that quite a lot,” said Fenwick apologetically.

  “That’s nothing; I’ve known a lot worse from the Stinky Blowhorn Mice we had at home,” offered Emiline. She thought Trumper was rather overweight in truth, but it looked like a friendly enough animal — and besides, Portly himself could be said to have a little pot belly, but Emiline was quite oblivious to it. At the sight of the mouse, Portly scuttled down her arm and came to a rest in her hand, forcing Emiline to introduce him too.

  “And this is Portly . . . .”

  Fenwick looked impressed.

  “Look at him! He’s very fine indeed.”

  Emiline started to worry that Portly’s head would grow too large if he received any more praise this morning.

  “Greys and Browns get on well, so I’ve heard,” said Fenwick, allowing Trumper and Portly to sniff each other’s nose. Emiline tickled Trumper, then returned Portly to her shoulder.

  “I’m supposed to be on watch from the crow’s nest,” said Emiline, pushing things along.

  “Ah, right! Of course. This way, then!”

  Fenwick led Emiline to the base of the main mast and rigging. He leaned back, looking up to the crow’s nest, and his mouse did the same.

  “Just climb up and you’ll get there,” he explained. “And if you need any help, just shout. Your watch will last until midnight, but you’ll get some grub halfway through your shift. Scratcher will bring it up for you.”

  “That sounds fabulous,” said Emiline, and she started to climb slowly.

  “Keep an eye out for Chervil!” he shouted. “We haven’t seen him in days, but I’m sure he’s just been hidin’ while at port!”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” she said, not knowing who he was talking about. A twelve-hour shift would seem like forever, she thought, but at least she had Portly to keep her company.

  Fenwick waited for Emiline to reach the crow’s nest safely and then returned to his duties. As Drewshank’s first mate he did a lot more than he probably ought — it wasn’t that the captain was particularly lazy or useless, more that he needed the occasional extra bit of help. But Fenwick was more than happy with the way things were: it was Devlin Drewshank after all, and who wouldn’t have wanted to be his right-hand man?

  Emiline found it hard climbing the rigging, and was exhausted by the time she’d reached the crow’s nest. She pulled herself over the wooden side and dropped to its floor. Seated on a ledge just in front of her was an enormous golden-brown cat. He sat like a king: upright and commanding, and his eyes bored right into Emiline’s.

  “Meeooww,” he said languidly.

  Portly quickly shuffled into Emiline’s hair, and peeked out nervously.

  “Hello,” replied Emiline softly, and stretched out to stroke the cat’s long curly fur. The cat accepted the fuss and blinked slowly in appreciation.

  “Must be Chervil,” said Emiline to Portly, trying to calm him. “I couldn’t think of a better place to hide than up here.”

  The cat blinked slowly and turned to look out to sea. From where he was sitting, he could see over the side of the crow’s nest and had a terrific view of all the gulls swooping into the ship’s wake.

  “I see,” said Emiline, “not only a good hiding place but a wonderful vantage point too! But he doesn’t seem at all bothered with you, Portly, so I shouldn’t worry.”

  The mouse crept out from her hair and leaped onto the wooden side. The view was spectacular, and Emiline lifted her telescope and peered through. She was, after all, supposed to be on watch.

  Hours drifted by so slowly that Emiline struggled to keep her eyes open. Ever since Old Town had vanished from the horizon, all that she’d seen was sea; mile after mile of open water to the horizon. The wind had kept up strong, and they were making good progress, but it was so boring.

  Chervil had long since fallen asleep at Emiline’s side, and Portly had even found him quite agreeable to lie against, sleeping among his dense, warm fur. The two of them were breathing deeply in unison, and it made it even harder for Emiline to keep her eyes open.

  The bright morning had faded into an overcast afternoon, with gray clouds speckling the otherwise white sky. The weather seemed to be turning for the worse, and as dusk approached, Emiline heard her name called from below. It was Scratcher, and he was making his way precariously up the rigging with a steaming tin of food in one hand.

  “Time for some grub!” he shouted. He finally emerged over the top of the nest and dropped down next to Emiline. A wonderful smell of warm beef broth arrived with him.

  “It seems like I’ve been here for days,” said Emiline.

  Scratcher stared at Emiline for a while before replying. It was unusual to have someone close to his own age onboard, and a girl at that.

  “You’re halfway through now,” he said, regaining his voice. “It’s dull at first, but you get used to it. And you’ve found Chervil! That’ll please everyone.”

  Emiline took the food graciously and scooped the broth into her mouth with a large clump of bread that Scratcher brought out from his pocket. It was delicious, and tore Emiline’s thoughts from the monotony of being lookout.

  “So did you always want to be a mousekeeper?”

  “Of course,” she replied, lingering over another mouthful of food, “but I’ll soon be a mousehunter!”

  “You — a mousehunter?”

  “I’ll be the youngest the world’s ever seen,” she replied with the utmost sincerity. “I’ll pass the tests, catch the mice . . . become the most famous mousehunter there is.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” laughed Scratcher.

  “Don’t you want to be a mousehunter?” asked Emiline, somewhat bewildered by the boy’s attitude. Portly had stirred from his sleep, and was sniffing the air, wondering what smelled so nice.

  “I’m a good mousekeeper, but my skills leave me when it comes to catching the darn things. I know my limits.”

  “That’s the wimpiest thing I’ve ever heard! You can be whatever you want. Look at Portly here; he’s just a Grey, but he’s as clever as
any Bojimbo Conjuring Mouse!”

  “Well, maybe,” stuttered Scratcher. He took hold of the rigging and nervously kicked his ankles. “I think I should be getting back now,” he said. “I have the Messenger Mice cages to clean.”

  “Suit yourself,” muttered Emiline, and she returned to her food. Despite him being slightly underwhelming, she couldn’t help liking Scratcher, and his brief company had been a relief.

  Chervil had woken with the commotion, and had also started taking an interest in Emiline’s dinner. With the two animals now craving something to eat, Emiline distributed her leftovers between them. Food was the best thing to lift spirits after all, and they sat contentedly as the sky faded into darkness.

  The gloomy conditions turned even gloomier when Emiline felt a faint drizzle start to fall, and she tightened her coat to stop the chill from creeping in. Unlike normal cats, Chervil seemed to revel in the dim light and damp conditions, and sat upright again to keep watch.

  While peering through the telescope into near darkness, Emiline heard movements on deck, and leaned over the nest to see small lamps being lit. The sailors were readying the ship for the long dark night ahead; the day-shift mice were put to rest while the Night-light Mice were brought out to illuminate the deck. Emiline watched a young sailor place some Listener Mice at the bow.

  “Ingenious,” murmured Emiline, realizing they were there to warn of oncoming ships: there really was no mouse put to waste onboard ship.

  Emiline felt a soft prodding on her arm, and saw Chervil was trying to get her attention. On the horizon she saw a quick burst of lightning connect the sky and sea. It lit up huge brooding clouds rising up into the heavens. A low grumble of thunder traveled over the waves, and immediately a bell rang out from the deck.

  “Drop the sails, storm front ahead!” shouted Fenwick. Drewshank appeared on deck and started to pace up and down, his striking form lit up by the lamplight, even from such a distance.

  “Hold tight, men!” he shouted. “We’ll keep sure and let this one pass!” Hearty calls of “yessir” rang out all over the ship.

  Emiline watched the lightning draw nearer while the thunder grew louder. It was a strange sensation, being able to see the storm approach. The waves were growing with each minute, lifting the ship up and down like a slowed-down rollercoaster. The sky above darkened further with the massive spread of clouds chasing toward them. The air crackled.

  “It’s almost upon us,” called out Drewshank. “Only those sailors needed remain on deck. The storm will be quite a ride!”

  Fenwick came to his side and shoved a rope into his hand. Other sailors had already strung out lifelines across the deck, but the first mate always looked after his captain.

  “Hold tight yourself, sir!” he said, doing his best to make Drewshank safe. He then walked to the main mast and shouted up to the crow’s nest.

  “Get yourself down, Emiline! No place for you in a storm!”

  Emiline heard his cry and waved back in response. But as she tried to pick up Chervil, the boat tilted onto its side. She realized the waters ahead had switched direction, and the course of the ship was shifting. It was being drawn slowly onward against its will, and against the direction of the wind.

  Drewshank called out more orders. Emiline picked up Chervil and made for the edge of the crow’s nest to climb down. In the darkness, the descent looked much farther than it had previously. She lifted her legs over the side and caught a foothold. Chervil let out an angry meow and his movements stopped dead — his eyes staring out to the sea.

  Emiline looked cautiously over her shoulder, and gradually it became clear: the frothing, swirling water was vanishing into a deepening twisting circle. This was much more than a freak storm. She threw herself and Chervil back into the crow’s nest, stretched out to grab the bell, and rang with all her might.

  “Captain Drewshank!” she shouted as loud as she could. “Whirlpool dead ahead!”

  On deck, Drewshank heard her words and then saw it for himself. The whirlpool, emerging from the darkness, was at least double the length of the ship and growing, sucking them ever closer with its overwhelming power.

  “Get the sails set! We need the wind!” ordered Drewshank sharply. He threw his rope to the ground and ran to the rigging. Mr. Fenwick beat a course to the wheel and aided the helmsman. Now all the sailors had seen the whirlpool, and were calling orders down the line. The clatter of trapdoors signaled the arrival of the rest of the crew from below deck.

  “We need those sails, men!” Drewshank shouted once more.

  The rigging was soon awash with sailors and mice. They worked frantically, knowing their time was short.

  “Hard to starboard!” shouted Drewshank, his voice almost breaking. The ship lurched in the water as the helmsman turned the wheel forcefully with the help of Fenwick. Sailors grabbed hold of anything secured to the deck as it rose sideways. Emiline tumbled in the crow’s nest, her heart pounding hard in her throat; Chervil fell down on top of her; Portly scratched his way urgently into her jacket. There was no way she could safely climb down now. The rain battered her face as the wind blew it whichever way it pleased.

  Emiline hurriedly searched for a rope and eventually found a piece wrapped around the crow’s nest that was secured to the rigging. She was scared, but she calmly tied the rope to her waist and fitted it around Chervil’s belly. She could feel herself tilting over and clutched the crow’s nest as tightly as she could. The sailors on the rigging struggled to keep hold, grabbing the ropes for dear life as the mast neared horizontal with the sea. Waves crashed onto the deck. The Flying Fox fought against the whirlpool and eventually righted in the water, but the circular waves were stronger, pulling the ship closer.

  Drewshank gripped the side of the ship and looked hard into the whirlpool. The black heart of its pull looked closer to hell than anything he’d ever seen. His fingers dug in, and he twisted his leg three times around a guide rope. The noise was terrific, whooshing and gushing with such force that he struggled to think straight. He thought desperately about what to do.

  And then he saw a sharp streak of silver bolt through the darkness. He rubbed his eyes, unsure of what he’d seen. An immense roar tore through the air, and the swirling water blasted upward into columns of jet black before cascading down onto the Flying Fox. A huge silver-bodied serpent reared up like an angry cobra from the whirlpool. Its pointed, skeletal head roared ferociously before scything downward and cutting the sea in two. Two jets of pure white steam blasted from its nostrils as it twisted back into the air, its pulsating scaly body thrashing around violently. It was too dark to see the monster’s full extent as it rose high in the air above the ship, but there was no missing the glistening tentacles jutting out from its mouth and its burning, bright red eyes.

  Everyone onboard froze. The sea monster was the mythical Grak, and that meant one thing: certain death for them all.

  The Elephant Mouse

  THE ELEPHANT MOUSE IS THE LARGEST MOUSE DEEMED SUITABLE FOR keeping in a collection by the International Mousehunting Federation. This thick-limbed, big-eared, and long-nosed rodent can grow to a meter in height and is often house-trained like a dog. Elephant Mice are generally docile creatures and make suitable family pets — unlike some of the more fancy collectible mice — but they have difficulty climbing stairs, so this should be taken into account when getting one for your home.

  MOUSING NOTES

  Elephant Mice have few specialist requirements, and as long as they have a nice warm bed made of straw, they can make wonderful pets in any home.

  The Giant’s Reach

  “READY THOSE CANNONS!” SCREAMED DREWSHANK AS the Grak’s head lowered and eyed its prey. Drewshank thrived in times of danger, his blood raging through his body, and he waited impatiently for his sailors to take their positions.

  The whirlpool subsided as the Grak circled menacingly in the air, but the waves were growing by the second. “Hold firm!” shouted Drewshank, and the monster’s might
y, ugly head shot down and drove straight into the hull, knocking the ship sideways. Sailors went flying about the deck. The ship groaned as it keeled over, but it was a tough vessel. It rode the tumbling waves and righted jerkily. Drewshank took a breath, and watched as the Grak twisted below into the circling waves. He caught glimpses of its silver scaly body, but he waited. And waited. And then, the water broke.

  “Fire!” he bellowed, his veins almost exploding from his neck.

  The starboard cannons unleashed their fury. The Grak pulled up, its serpentine body twisting like a tornado in the air, and the shots vanished into darkness, consumed by the tempestuous sea.

  “Fire!” he shouted again. Once more the cannons fired, sending clouds of smoke into the air. This time some of the shots hit the target. The monster let out a deafening scream and careered back into the water, vanishing from sight. The sailors cheered loudly. If anything, though, the sea became even more ferocious. The waves rose up again like an impenetrable black wall around the ship.

  “Ready the cannons!” ordered Drewshank, wiping his drenched hair out of his eyes. He stood firm, but all he could hear was the raging water smashing at the ship’s hull. With a screeching wail, the Grak burst out of the sea once more.

  “Fire!”

  The monster cried out as the cannonballs struck with deadly accuracy, but it powered forward with such force it hit the side of the vessel and lifted it clear of the sea. Drewshank crashed to the floor.

  The Flying Fox was truly flying for the first time as it sped awkwardly through the air. The sailors hung on with all their might, but some lost their grip, tumbling into the deafening roar of the sea.

  The ship smashed back onto the water and twisted into a huge wave, its bow slicing keenly through into the pitch black of the sea. Ice-cold water flew over the deck and the Flying Fox was sucked into the deep. Towers of bubbles rose up around the hull and shot off in trails behind the ship. Every sailor’s lungs soon reached bursting point, but they held on, and the sea started to lift them. The ship was being forced up and up by the air trapped in the hull, the pressure becoming almost unbearable until finally it was catapulted clear into the air.