The Mousehunter

by Alex Milway

  “With the aid of my invention, this little mouse can swim at the equivalent mouse speed of eighty miles an hour. I’ve yet to find a good use for it, but the mouse seems incredibly pleased.”

  Leading out from the tank was a large glass tube that traveled around the room. Algernon lifted a lever, another door in the tank slid across, and the streamlined yet rotund mouse shot out into the tube. He happily powered around it, without a care in the world, making three passes of Emiline in the space of only a few seconds.

  Emiline stared in amazement. On top of her head, Portly was looking on, incredibly jealous.

  “He’ll be zooming around there for hours now,” Algernon said excitedly. As he spoke, a bell rang from near the trapdoor.

  “Oh no! That’s young Elbert downstairs, calling for assistance,” he said. “I’m sorry to cut short this delightful discussion, but we’d best head down now. Maybe we can do it again soon? There’s plenty more things for me to show you!”

  Scratcher and Emiline agreed and made their way back downstairs. Algernon sealed his workshop shut and charged off, waving goodbye as he passed them.

  Among the rabble in the inn sat Drewshank. He was relaxing quietly in a booth to himself, supping from a bottle of Blind Mice Beer. Chervil was curled up tightly on the table in front of him, and he greeted the young mousekeepers as they entered the room. He was quite subdued after his visit to the Mouse Trading Center.

  “So you’ve visited Algernon’s workshop,” he said, his voice tired.

  “It’s amazing!” proclaimed Scratcher, idly stroking Chervil’s head.

  “He’s certainly a character,” Drewshank replied, sipping some beer.

  “How was Lady Pettifogger?” asked Emiline, sensing that something had occurred.

  “Same as she ever was,” he said, in an unusually downbeat manner. “And that worries me. Something doesn’t sit right with all this business. I’ve been caught out by her before, and I’m starting to smell something terribly whiffy about this whole mission.”

  “That’ll be the Elephant Mice,” said Scratcher, as one of the huge mice passed by with beers on its back.

  “Maybe,” grumbled Drewshank. “There’s definitely some stinking mice involved in all this, of that we can be dead sure, but I wish I knew what they were. Still, I shouldn’t burden you with these things . . . just keep your eyes and ears open. Lovelock and Pettifogger are tricky customers with cronies everywhere. I just know something’s up, but I can’t tell what.”

  The sun broke the top of the horizon, casting a bright red glow across the tall rock of Hamlyn. From the Flying Fox, Drewshank watched the morning light hit the buildings rising up all over it like the spines on a porcupine.

  On the quayside, the sellers and fishermen were already sorting out their stands, and sailors were loosening their boat moorings as Drewshank oversaw the last of the supplies arriving on deck. He was anxious about the journey ahead, but he was determined, as ever, to see his commission through.

  Drewshank and Fenwick had come to the conclusion that they should take a course north, just as Lady Pettifogger had suggested, but they had nothing more than the map to go on.

  “Mildred!” he shouted, stepping down onto the quayside.

  A thin boy with strawlike hair approached, carrying a long stick with a dried fish attached to its end. His head was covered by an ill-fitting helmet that was the uniform of a Weather Teller. More commonly referred to as fish danglers, Weather Tellers were found at every port, standing quietly day after day ready to reveal the weather forecast with the help of a dried fish. Weather telling was regarded as a noble trade by sailors the world over, as the specially prepared fish were usually very reliable.

  “Yes, Mr. Drewshanks,” he replied keenly, ever getting his name wrong.

  “Any news on the weather?”

  “Of course, Mr. Drewshanks, but you won’t like it!”

  “I won’t?”

  “Fog, sir,” said the Weather Teller sternly, looking intently at the fish on the end of his rod. “It’s twisting slightly to the left, see.”

  Drewshank felt his heart sink.

  “And occasional squalls to the north,” he added.

  “Thanks, Mildred,” said Drewshank in exasperation, as he returned to the ship. “Those fish . . . they ever get it wrong?”

  “No, Mr. Drewshanks. Only if they run out of salt, but my fish was freshly salted only yesterday.”

  “Oh well,” replied Drewshank finally, “I suppose it could be worse.”

  “Yes, sir . . . ,” called the Weather Teller. “Take care, sir!”

  Ten minutes later, a loud whistle blew and the Flying Fox’s gangplank slid onto deck. Four small paddleboats, waiting for the word from the captain, let their oars hit the water and took the strain. Ropes lifted from the water and the Flying Fox gradually pulled away from its berth in tow.

  Aboard ship, it would have seemed that no one on the mainland was concerned about their voyage, but that could not have been further from the truth. Lord Battersby stood by his window and watched the Flying Fox, charting its course out to sea. He held detailed notes of the gun placements before him; his spies had done a good job at checking out the Flying Fox and its crew. He knew exactly what it was capable of.

  And at the other end of the harbor, Algernon had taken no rest that night and watched the Flying Fox’s departure through his telescope. He then promptly scribbled a note in his indecipherable hand, and readied a Messenger Mouse for flight.

  It was safe to say that, unknown to Captain Drewshank and his crew, their actions were being watched very closely indeed.

  The Moose Mouse

  A VERY FUNNY-LOOKING MOUSE, SO NAMED BECAUSE OF ITS PECULIAR brown furry ears that resemble antlers. The Moose Mouse lives in herds and is known to make an annual mass migration from the east coast of Sintruvia to the west, crossing great streams and puddles on the way. It is a mouse capable of withstanding great hardship and surviving in very difficult conditions.

  MOUSING NOTES

  Not a mouse for anyone with a small home. In larger collections, Moose Mice have been best cared for in huge rooms, with a great mixture of terrains.

  The Creeping Fog

  THEFLYING FOX’S DEPARTURE FROM HAMLYN FELT VERY different from leaving Old Town. It was a brave sailor who chose to sail against Mousebeard, and Drewshank had found it impossible to recruit fresh blood. His crew were already stretched to the limit: everyone was now working to breaking point, including Emiline, who found herself following out other sailors’ orders more often than she cared for.

  She swabbed the decks, mended rope, helped the cook wash the dishes, and kept regular lookout from the crow’s nest; she had become the general drudge, regularly attending to Fenwick, who also had to see to ten jobs at once.

  Scratcher found himself doing more than usual as well, but it felt right to play a more prominent role on ship. If anything he found it made people respect him more, and that was always welcome. He’d been given a rough ride by the crew ever since he folded under the might of the Sharpclaw, but he tried not to let it get to him.

  The Flying Fox sailed northward for what seemed like days and days to Emiline. The weather remained fine, and the sea unusually clear of vessels, due in no small part to the continuing threat of Grak attacks. So when, on the eighth day of sailing, a mysterious fog appeared on the horizon behind the ship, Captain Drewshank paid more attention than usual.

  Fogs were of particular danger at sea because they blinded the vessel. They could send a ship off course easily, and even lure it to the rocks. And this fog seemed to be gaining on the Flying Fox.

  “That’s no normal bit of weather,” said Fenwick. “With things as they are, we shouldn’t be having no fog.”

  He was standing in Drewshank’s cabin, peering out of the windows that looked out over the stern.

  “I think we should make every effort to avoid it,” replied the captain grimly, remembering the words of the Weather Teller. Lady Pett
ifogger’s map was spread out in front of him, with the Flying Fox’s current course plotted over it in bright pins. A cluster of black mice was drawn on the map right where they were heading.

  “It’s going to be tricky enough finding that pirate as it is without us getting lost in fog as well,” said Drewshank.

  “Aye, sir. We don’t need to take any more risks just yet!”

  “Quite right,” said Drewshank. “We’ll soon be in Mousebeard territory, so we need to be on full guard. Give the order to get a move on.”

  Mr. Fenwick snapped to attention and made his way onto deck, passing Emiline on the way. She was holding a Brown-nosed Gruffler Mouse in her hands, and it was wriggling all over the place. Grufflers were angry mice, with dark gray fur and a tendency to cause mischief.

  “Is that a Gruffler?” asked Fenwick before shouting out his orders at the top of his voice. The ship turned a little, and a great whooshing noise filled the air as every sail caught the wind fully, pushing the Flying Fox faster through the waves.

  “He’s been biting through ropes,” said Emiline with frustration. “I’m going to have to lock him up now, and we just don’t have the space for him.”

  “These pets can get a bit out of control,” said Fenwick, his eyes watching the actions of his crew. “Have you seen this fog?”

  Emiline looked to the horizon at where the first mate was pointing and saw a mass of gray, obscuring the break between the sea and sky.

  “That’s trouble brewing, that is,” he said, his mouse appearing at his shoulder. “I ain’t never seen a fog like it. Looks like it’s comin’ right at us.”

  The Gruffler Mouse decided that was the moment it was going to bite Emiline, and with a frustrated wriggle it clamped its sharp teeth around her finger.

  “Grrrrouch!” she yelped, and tore the mouse off her hand and held it aloft, its legs dangling helplessly.

  “I see you’ve got problems enough of your own,” he said, smiling.

  “It’s never-ending, sir,” she replied.

  “Aye, that can be the way of sailing sometimes. We’re making good progress now though.”

  Scratcher called out from the other end of the deck, and Emiline made her leave with the mouse in tow. He was carrying a small cage, and he opened its door so that Emiline could deposit the Gruffler. It was only just big enough for it, but until they could get a bigger one sorted, it would have to do.

  “Have you heard about this fog?” said Scratcher excitedly, bolting the cage door.

  “Fenwick says it’s trouble,” replied Emiline.

  “All the sailors down below are talking about it like it’s a ghost or demon or something. They all say it’s bad news . . . .”

  “It’s just a fog!” said Emiline. “We get them all the time in Old Town.”

  “But this one’s coming after us. They think it might be a ghost ship.”

  “Sailors are crazy . . . .”

  “But I’ve seen one before . . . ,” butted in Scratcher defensively.

  “When?”

  “A year ago, just off the coast of the Western Isles. It had three masts and tatty sails, but it shot through the water like a rocket!”

  Emiline looked to the fog.

  “Well, I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said, folding her arms.

  For two hours they sailed with the wind behind them, but it all proved to be fruitless: the fog continued to give chase, and was now catching up with them.

  “It’s no good,” said Drewshank to his crew who had massed on the top deck; “we can’t outrun it. Whatever it is that pursues us, the only course of action is to batten down the hatches and face it head-on. Tie up the sails, and weigh anchor. We shall sit here, swords drawn.”

  “But, cap’n,” asked a sailor with a huge bustle of hair, “what if there’s an ambush waiting in the middle of it? Or a ghost ship out to spook some unsuspecting vessel like ours?”

  The huddle of sailors all responded with nervous chatter and mutterings of “Mousebeard.” Superstition ran deep among the crew of the Flying Fox, and after the Grak attack, nerves were a little shaky.

  “We will get through this!” said Drewshank strongly. “Nothing will get the better of the Flying Fox, but I believe we’re best off fighting whatever it is head-on.”

  “So stand firm at your posts,” said Mr. Fenwick. “We’ll take more measures once the fog’s upon us.”

  “Aye, sir!” shouted the sailors.

  “See!” said Scratcher to Emiline. “I’m not the only one who believes in ghost ships!”

  “You’re all mad!” she returned, then headed off below deck.

  By dusk the fog was so close that the sea behind them was completely hidden. Emiline and Scratcher had fed all the mice onboard and were collecting the Watcher Mice from the bowsprit. Apart from a host of armed sailors standing on guard, most people were now below deck.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Scratcher, placing a mouse into a wooden box full of straw. “It’s as though it’s bewitched.”

  “I agree that there are odd things at sea,” replied Emiline, “but I certainly don’t believe in bewitched fogs. How can a fog be bewitched?”

  Emiline let loose three Night-light Mice from a mousebox, their eyes beaming like torches, and then she leaned over the edge of the ship. The fog was creeping closer, and she watched the wisps of gray claw their way across the water. It would only be minutes before the ship was completely enshrouded in darkness.

  Fenwick shouted out: “Everyone inside or below deck if you’re not on guard!”

  It had been decided that patrols would take it in turns to keep watch on deck, but for safety, everyone else had to remain below in their quarters.

  Scratcher made his way to the trapdoor, and stopped for Emiline.

  “Come on, what are you doing?” he said.

  Emiline was itching to see what the fog was like close up. She wanted to touch it and feel what it was made of.

  “You go on, I’ll follow,” she replied confidently. Scratcher didn’t bother to speak. He simply raised his hand in annoyance and left Emiline to her own devices.

  The fog inched closer and finally touched the side of the ship. Within minutes it had spread over the top deck. Emiline stood by the open trapdoor and let the fog swirl around her. It was cold and damp, but it had a strangely sweet smell, like that of fragrant burning wood. Fogs don’t normally smell sweet, she thought.

  “In you come,” ordered Fenwick, and Emiline felt a hand take hold of her ankle and tug it gently.

  “All right!” she replied, pulling the wooden trapdoor over her head.

  A loud banging on the door woke Algernon from his dreams of machines and mice.

  “Who is it?” he shouted sleepily. Swinging himself out of bed, Algernon opened the window onto the chilly night. He slipped his glasses over his nose and finally saw who was making the racket. A band of soldiers were huddled around his door, swords and rifles held at the ready.

  “Algernon Mountjack,” ordered a soldier, “on the orders of the Mayor of Hamlyn, open your door. You are under arrest for conspiring against the state. As of now, your premises are under the control of the Hamlyn Guard.”

  Algernon jumped back from the window and composed himself. He ticked all the mental notes off one at a time in his brain: he liked to prepare for instances such as these, but they would always surprise you no matter how ready you were. He slipped on his shoes and overcoat, picked up his goggles and leather hat, and bundled down the stairs at breakneck speed.

  Once more the soldiers rapped on the door.

  “Right, break it in!”

  Algernon sped through to the bar, avoiding the two sleeping Elephant Mice not far from the doorway. He patted his pockets with his palms, and found them empty.

  “Gah! Keys . . . ,” he muttered to himself. “Keys . . . where are you?”

  He kicked a load of crates out of the way and pushed aside some empty beer glasses. His keys were nowhere to be se
en.

  “Come on, I need you!” he growled.

  The front door banged as the soldiers made their first hit. It shuddered and cracked, but nothing gave. Inn doors, particularly in Hamlyn, were always sturdily built for fear of rowdy pirates breaking in.

  Algernon scampered around, scouring one surface after another, and then his thoughts turned a corner and he remembered exactly where he’d put them. He jumped up onto the bar and grabbed the key chain from a peg high up on the wall.

  “Aha!” he cried as the front door was rammed again; this time its top twisted inward and the hinges buckled and snapped. Algernon jumped to the floor and budged a rusty old beer pump on the bar with his elbow. Sweat was dripping from his forehead and stinging his eyes. As the front door finally smashed open with a third and final bang, a trapdoor dropped down right before Algernon’s feet, revealing a twisting staircase.

  “Get him!” ordered an officer in the doorway as five of his men ran past him into the Giant’s Reach. The Elephant Mice didn’t take kindly to noisy strangers and shook themselves frustratedly from their sleep. They made angry low-pitched squeaks and charged toward the oncoming soldiers, hitting two men squarely and painfully in the kneecaps.

  Algernon rushed down the steps and reached a round wooden door. He took out the key chain and selected a little bronze key, placed it in the lock, and twisted it. His arm jolted as it failed to open.

  “Damn things!” he cursed, removing it and checking that it was the right one. It was, he was certain of it, and he tried again. He heard a gunshot, a loud wail, and a thud on the floor above. His heart seized — the soldiers had killed one of his Elephant Mice. He hit the door with his hand in anger.

  “There he is!” shouted a soldier, appearing through the trapdoor. The man fired a reckless shot downward, and Algernon ducked as it flashed off the wall to his side. He twisted the key again.

  “Don’t kill him just yet!” shouted another soldier. “We want him for questioning!”

  The key clunked as it spun around. Algernon sighed with relief. He pulled open the door just as another bullet bounced off the wall above him.