by Alex Milway
“Stop right there!” ordered a soldier, running down the stairs.
Algernon jumped through the door and locked it shut. He stopped to catch his breath in the darkness, hearing gunshots cracking into the door behind. Placing his hand to his right, he yanked a metal lever and three lamps fizzled into life nearby. As their glow grew stronger, a wonderful sight greeted him. A narrow underground river surged through the cave on its way out to sea, with the sparkling water reflecting off the twisted stalactites. Resting on the water, calmly bobbing up and down, was his favorite invention. It was his splendid small copper submarine — a more rounded and perfectly designed craft you couldn’t find.
Algernon rushed over to his pride and joy, and grabbed hold of the metallic ladder that was attached to the sub’s side. He cranked the wheel that unlocked the entry hatch and waited a few moments before it popped and swung upward. A bright light beamed out.
With a huge bang the door to the cave exploded and smoke rose into the air. Algernon jumped frantically into the submarine.
“Fire at will, men! Don’t let him escape!” shouted the officer.
Algernon’s heart leaped as he settled down into the cockpit; it was so exciting to be heading out to sea. He secured the hatch above him and flicked the power switch. Lights lit up all over the dashboard, and the engine kicked in with a mild grumbling splutter.
The submarine started to sink, and despite the constant sound of bullets chiming on the body of the submarine, Algernon settled himself comfortably into the pilot’s seat. At his call, three of his highly trained Boffin Mice appeared from a pipe near his head, and made themselves comfortable on his shoulder.
Through the small glass window, Algernon watched the water rise up and over the vessel. He tightened his hat, lowered his goggles, and with a push of the gear stick, his submarine rocketed off into the deep.
On the Flying Fox, sailors sat huddled on the lower decks with their weapons in hand. The fog continued to surround the vessel, and it completely obscured any view from the portholes.
Emiline waited with Scratcher in their quarters, mouse cages filling every conceivable space, and candles dimly lighting the interior. She was trying to make Portly jump over a makeshift hurdle, but he was showing no interest in obliging. He’d been acting oddly since the fog had appeared, and Emiline was concerned.
“He doesn’t seem himself,” said Scratcher, clearing condensation from a steamed-up porthole.
“I think he might be a bit seasick,” replied Emiline, tempting her mouse with a slice of nutty cheese.
“I noticed some of the Messengers were under the weather too,” added Scratcher, “but I reckon it’s this fog that’s got them down.”
Emiline changed the subject. “I never asked you why you were called Scratcher. It seems a funny name.”
“Ah . . . ,” he replied reluctantly, “I knew you’d ask that at some point.”
“Well?”
“Well, on my first voyage with Drewshank we were transporting a cargo of Scruffy Mice . . . .”
“You caught lice!” interrupted Emiline, and Scratcher was immediately embarrassed.
“I was scratching for weeks . . . .”
Emiline laughed out loud, causing her friend to blush terribly.
“You learn from your mistakes,” he added quietly.
Portly suddenly looked to the porthole, then lay down and covered his ears.
“What was that?” asked Emiline, gently stroking the mouse. Scratcher placed his ear to the window.
“I can hear something,” he said.
Emiline looked confused.
“Listen!” he said.
The whistling wind was carrying another noise altogether. It was faint, but growing louder all the time.
“What is it?” asked Emiline, a worried expression falling over her face. She could now hear it too: it sounded like the haunted wailing of a hundred lost babies, and it was terrifying.
Portly rose with a start and scurried straight up Emiline’s arm to hide under her hair. The wailing grew louder and louder, forcing the mousekeepers to shield their ears with their hands. Above the din, they heard the ship’s bell ring out from top deck to summon everyone with their weapons.
Emiline rushed to look out of the porthole with Scratcher, but they still couldn’t see anything.
“We’d best go!” he shouted. “Do you have a weapon?”
Emiline pulled out her dagger, and Scratcher nodded in approval. Once he’d secured a thin sword to his belt they left the cabin, their hearts beating fast.
A messy procession of sailors wound its way up through the decks and out into the dense fog. Everyone had an idea about what was making the awful noise, and sailors were muttering curses under their breath. Captain Drewshank stood alert in the open, his sword drawn at the ready. Mr. Fenwick was nearby, and he gave the crew orders to position themselves at the edges of the ship to halt anyone trying to get onboard.
It was almost impossible to see through the misty darkness, but the Night-light Mice dotted around the deck provided some points of reference. The wailing continued, and Emiline took a place at the stern, her dagger clasped tightly. Every member of the crew was alert, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was out there.
Within minutes it sounded as though the ear-piercing noise was upon them. Nerves were taut, and everyone gasped as the gray murky night instantly became darker. Emiline’s insides went into freefall. Like the passing of a cloud in front of the moon, an immense black mass was drawing up alongside the Flying Fox. Despite the fog, everyone could make out its shape — it was a ship, of that there was no doubt. The Flying Fox started to rock on the water, and the sailors gripped their weapons firmly.
“Ready yourselves!” shouted Fenwick, his cry echoing out into the night.
“Stand firm,” ordered Drewshank, marching through his crew to the ship’s side. The lamps fizzled out; the wind picked up; everyone grew even more nervous as they looked around themselves blindly. Night-light Mice started to run around deck in a crazed fashion, the light from their eyes making little impact in the fog.
Emiline felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped.
“Are you all right?” asked Scratcher, his voice struggling to be heard above the din.
“Never been better . . . ,” she replied. “Are they going to come onboard?”
“If it’s a ghost ship, there won’t be anyone . . . .”
Emiline huffed. The fog was cold and she was now shivering.
“It’s not a ghost ship!” she barked, squeezing her grip on the dagger.
“Hold your positions, men!” shouted Drewshank.
Emiline still couldn’t see a thing, but she felt a change in the air. The wailing was gradually getting quieter.
“It’s moving on,” she whispered to herself.
They listened intently as the wailing moved farther away, drifting off into the night. As the noise subsided, Emiline heard the unsettled mutterings of the other sailors. The wind eased, and after a short while it all fell silent but for the soft lapping of water at the ship’s hull. Drewshank’s crew started to relax, and lamps were lit once again. To everyone’s surprise, the fog was clearing and they could see the moon and stars shining down on them.
“Captain!” shouted Fenwick.
Drewshank walked over to his first mate, who was pointing at a small object hanging from the main mast. “I think you should see this,” he added.
The captain looked up to see a thin rope hanging down. A noose had been tied at the end and a cloth mouse was dangling from it limply by its head.
“Mousebeard . . . and the Silver Shark,” said Drewshank grimly.
The Magnetical Mouse
THE MAGNETICAL MOUSE HAS A BULLETLIKE NOSE THAT ALWAYS POINTS DUE north. No matter what the mouse is doing, whether it’s eating or casually cleaning a paw, its nose will purposefully remain pointing in the same direction. The Magnetical Mouse’s nose is so precise that every shipping vessel in Midena is now required
to keep one by law.
You can also find them in the collections of mountain climbers and explorers. Originating from the volcanic regions of Crimsonia, it is believed that a particularly strong presence of metal in the topsoil of the land alters the Magnetical Mouse’s composition, rendering it magnetic from birth. Scientific attempts to breed the mouse outside this area have resulted in healthy mice, but all without the magnetic ability.
MOUSING NOTES
A rather grumpy mouse by nature, possibly because it’s thought to suffer regularly from headaches due to its magnetic nose. Mousing regulations state they must be housed in a wooden structure, as metallic cages have been known to irritate them.
The Silver Shark
WITH THE AID OF THE MOONLIT NIGHT, THE FLYING Fox followed the course of the fog so as not to lose the dreaded pirate. Under full sail it had kept close to its quarry, if not managing to steal any ground, but Drewshank was beginning to wonder which ship was the real prey now.
At first light, Drewshank appeared from his cabin, wrapped up in a leather waterproof jacket. He was holding a Magnetical Mouse in his hands, and its nose was firmly twisting to the left and looked rather awkward. Whenever you’re at sea you can’t get a more trustworthy implement for finding your bearings than a Magnetical Mouse. As Drewshank neared the bow, whichever way he turned, the mouse’s nose never strayed from due north, and it was getting very annoyed because of it.
“Judging by our coordinates and Pettifogger’s map, sir,” said Fenwick, joining the captain, “we’re approaching the point most sailors believe Winter Vale to be — though not many have ever entered or come out alive. Mousebeard’s hideout is thought to be beyond, on the other side.”
“Do we follow, Fenwick? We want to find Mousebeard, but this way he has us exactly where he wants us.” Drewshank scratched his chin thoughtfully.
Fenwick paused and looked at the horizon. The air had grown considerably colder.
“You want my honest opinion, sir?” he asked.
“Of course . . . ”
“Well then . . . ,” he breathed out heavily, “it feels like a trap. But it could take days to find both him and his hideout if we don’t carry on. The map shows the other side of the valley opening out into a massive landlocked sea — and to me that sounds like the perfect place for a pirate to hide.”
Drewshank nodded slowly and chewed the inside of his cheek.
“This is all very sinister, but we came here to capture him, didn’t we? Maybe not quite in this way, but it was our definite intention from the start.”
Drewshank placed the Magnetical Mouse into a mousebox clipped to his waist and locked the lid.
“Hell, we’ve got the firepower — let’s prepare the ship and be ready for him.”
Mr. Fenwick puffed out his chest.
“Aye, sir!” he said, and proceeded to order the crew to sail straight on.
The morning couldn’t have come sooner for the crew. They’d been spooked by the appearance of the Silver Shark, and couldn’t see how the pirate had managed to get onboard or how he’d conjured up such a mysterious fog. Everyone took some solace from the warmth of the sun, although it did nothing to clear the fog that they chased, which remained like a cocoon around Mousebeard’s distant ship.
While Emiline was cleaning the Messenger Mice cages with Scratcher, Mr. Fenwick called for them. Something had been spotted in the sky, and he needed their help. The mousekeepers rushed up to the deck and found the captain and Fenwick craning their necks upward.
“Ah, Emiline!” said Drewshank. “Keep it quiet, but how are you with mouse spotting?”
Emiline was a little confused, but she felt confident enough in her knowledge of mice.
“Not bad,” she replied, somewhat modestly.
Sheltered from other sailors’ view by the bulk of Fenwick, Drewshank held a telescope to her eye and directed her to a black speck on the horizon.
“What’s your expert opinion?” he asked.
Through the crystal-clear lens, Emiline focused in on a flying mouse. Its wings were huge and densely covered in pale white feathers. Its small body hung gracefully between them, with four feet hanging beneath, but when she looked at its head she instantly pulled away from the telescope. She glanced at Scratcher, who was itching to have a look. He could tell by the look on her face something was wrong.
Emiline raised the telescope again and took another look to be sure. The mouse’s soft gray body faded into white at the nose, and its short black whiskers burst outward. But she couldn’t make out any eyes.
The Mousehunter’s Almanac had only a brief entry on this mouse, but most people who’d read it remember it vividly. And Emiline, of course, knew full well what it was.
“It’s an Omen Mouse,” she whispered, knowing exactly what a sighting of the mouse would do to the crew.
Drewshank nodded his head wearily.
“This voyage just takes the biscuit. It’s a good thing I’m not superstitious, eh?” he said. “Still, keep it secret. Don’t tell a soul.”
The captain stomped off to his quarters, leaving Fenwick with Scratcher and Emiline.
“Yer both youngsters,” said Fenwick, feeling quite important, “but when you’re on ship and been on a few voyages, seeing a blind Omen Mouse flying alongside means only one thing — the ship’s headin’ for the bottom of the sea. I’m sure you understand what the sighting would do to the crew.”
Scratcher stood quietly, and nodded.
“Apart from the captain, we’re a superstitious lot on the Flying Fox,” added Fenwick, “so the longer we can keep it under wraps, the better. Drewshank will do what he can though, I’m sure.”
“You have our word,” said Emiline.
“Good,” replied Fenwick. “Now I’ve got to go and help Mr. Stringhopper tie up some barrels.”
The mousekeepers returned to their duties, but Scratcher was visibly shaken by the sight of the Omen Mouse.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Emiline, patting him on the back. “Drewshank’s good at getting out of trouble. I read that he fell from a crow’s nest once, and the only thing that saved him was his expensive Toulouse Mousace bell-bottoms. The extra-flared legs snagged on a mast hook and stopped him from hitting the deck.”
Scratcher let a smile slip out.
“And he’s never bought anything but designer sailor-wear since! I tell you, that man can get out of anything.”
The Flying Fox followed the fog for three days, continually sailing north. The temperature had fallen considerably over the past week as they crossed into the Cold Sea, and on the day they spotted granite snow-capped mountains lifting out of the sea, an icy wind rushed through the ship’s sails.
“Land ahoy!” shouted a sailor from the crow’s nest. The crew all appeared on deck to get a good view. In spite of its clear beauty, the way ahead looked daunting and inhospitable.
Fenwick stood at the ship’s side and pointed to a break in the mountains straight ahead.
“There she goes, captain,” he said as Drewshank walked up to him and pulled his jacket tighter around his chest.
“The fog’s disappeared into it?” he asked.
“Aye, sir. Watched it creep in myself. Mousebeard’s in there somewhere!”
Drewshank nodded firmly.
“Then we go after him, Fenwick . . . .”
“Aye, sir.”
They reached the opening of the valley and were dwarfed by the sloping cliffs on either side. The water grew calmer, but a fine flurry of snow had started to fall.
Standing out on top deck, taking a well-earned rest from sewing together mouse blankets, Emiline was trying to get used to the cold. She stood wrapped in many layers of clothes, and with a thick fluffy hat covering her ears, marveling at the beauty around her. The ship had sailed through the channel in the mountains to where it joined a wide river, and Emiline gazed in awe at the jagged rocky outcrops careering out of the water on both sides, each one covered with spiky green trees. Through
the light snow that drifted on the wind, she could hear the cries of the Howling Moon Mice that inhabited the land.
The temperature had dropped even further, and thin icicles were now forming from every overhang on deck. Emiline tried desperately not to shiver, but the biting winds permeated even the densest of vests. As for Portly, he’d had enough of the cold. Taking Chervil’s lead he’d made a nice bed for himself, along with Trumper and a number of other mice, in Drewshank’s cabin. The unlikely group huddled together happily, and despite the captain’s initial protestations about his quarters being overrun, they were left alone.
For two hours, the Flying Fox negotiated all the twists and turns of the Vale. The farther it sailed, the higher the land grew, until they were completely surrounded by breathtaking mountains on every side, with black clouds scudding across their peaks. Eventually the ship reached a sharp turn, with a noticeable drop in the river. The current suddenly slowed, and gradually changed directions. Uncertain of what was to come, Drewshank called the crew to assume battle positions.
The Flying Fox followed a more gradual bend, and the seemingly endless horizon appeared as the mountains grew smaller and the land sloped off into the water. In the far distance was a peculiarly tall island that rocketed into the sky out of the sea, with clifflike rocky sides forming an impenetrable defense. A strange mist rested at its top, shivering the sky above it like a heat haze.
“Well, well . . . ,” said Drewshank. He’d heard many rumors as to what Mousebeard’s hideout looked like, but now, he realized, he was actually witnessing it. But he didn’t have time to marvel for long.
“Captain!” shouted Fenwick, from the bow. “Look!” Drewshank’s eyes lowered to sea level. He swallowed a long, heavy gulp. Sailing at full pelt toward them was the Silver Shark. Never before had he seen such a sight. It was made of sparkling metal and glowed like a shooting star coursing across the waves. Taut puffed-out sails were driving it hard toward the Flying Fox, and painted prominently on its bow was a frightening shark’s head with gleaming silver teeth that shot forward and cut the water into slices. To make matters worse, four immense cannons were aimed directly at them from its bow. Drewshank had expected an ambush, but nothing could have prepared him for this. He quickly calculated how much time they had. Though traveling at terrific speed, the Silver Shark was still too far off to unleash its cannons.