by Alex Milway
Drewshank focused on the route ahead and saw Mousebeard struggling along the cobblestones, his arms clenched by soldiers. His immediate reaction was to walk on faster, to try and help the man who had shown him mercy, but as he neared, three soldiers stuck out their pikes and halted him. Something was wrong with the pirate, and he wished he’d understood more of what Mousebeard had been speaking of while chained in the prison.
Battersby led the pirates through the Old Town Gate and out onto the marshes. The crowds thinned slightly, but people still stood cheering along the route. The crowds followed to the point where the snaking line of prisoners veered from the road onto a less-used, muddy, pot-holed track. Not even for a glimpse of the pirate would any sane human venture onto that path. Its narrow course wound slightly upward toward the western reaches of the city, and prisoners trudged for nearly half an hour before they saw their destination. Everyone but Mousebeard tilted their heads up, and a sense of dread filled their hearts. Like a fallen tombstone in a graveyard, a stone-walled fortress lifted above the surrounding woodland and scrub. It was Dire Street Prison: the darkest, dingiest, and best-guarded prison in the land. If you were ever to leave, it would only be to Pirate’s Wharf, where the gallows awaited you.
Upon reaching the perimeter wall, they halted before a set of rusty iron gates, and Battersby called out to the guards on the other side. The gates opened with a squeal and soldiers marched out. Mousebeard and Drewshank were taken inside first. Drewshank felt wretched but he was more worried about Mousebeard. Looking back, the captain could see that the pirate had been weakening minute by minute. He had always seen Mousebeard as a terrible figure, to be hated and not pitied, but he couldn’t help but feel saddened by seeing such a strong man brought so low.
The prison governor, a ginger-haired stocky woman, dressed in a tight military-style dress, greeted Lord Battersby just inside the gates.
“Well done, sir,” she said, shaking his hand and smiling proudly. “Anything you need me to do?”
“Get the mice from his beard,” said Battersby, “and have them delivered to me.”
“Certainly, sir. What about his treatment? Shall we rough him up a bit?”
“No, definitely not. Make sure he’s treated well — we need him on top form to face the gallows.”
Lord Battersby bade her farewell and walked from the prison with a frown. He too was puzzled by the pirate’s condition, and he too was concerned — it was imperative that Mousebeard live long enough to face the executioner.
Lord Battersby dusted down his broad chest and tweaked his coat. He wanted to make an entrance worthy of the occasion, and he scratched his chin to check that stubble hadn’t grown in any great measure. He smiled to himself, ran his hand across his hair, and finally rapped on the door at the Old Town Gentlemen’s Club.
Situated on the edge of Grandview, where the mansions became crowded by townhouses, it was a rarefied venue, with rich and influential figures as members. The Club was a tall gray brick building, regrettably built on weak foundations, which meant it required an immense, meter-wide iron chain to be joined between its top floor and the ground to stop it from falling over. Three chimneys rose high into the sky from its roof, and each was adorned by aging chimney pots. Out of keeping with the rest of the Club’s appearance, one of these was home to a large stork’s nest, which the manager — a meticulous man — had never managed to banish.
The door opened immediately and Battersby walked in, his appearance creating a great stir among the smartly dressed doormen and waitresses standing in the hallway.
“Isiah Lovelock?” asked Battersby.
A waitress nodded.
“This way, sir,” she said. “Can I take the mousebox and your jacket for you, sir?”
“Oh, no, no! That won’t be necessary,” he said briskly as he followed her.
They walked up a wide staircase, past paintings of former members and their favorite mice, until they reached a door with a green glass handle. Spires stood nearby and gave a formal nod of greeting.
“Mr. Lovelock and his guests are in here, sir,” said the waitress, before taking her leave.
“Good to see you back safely, sir,” said Spires plainly.
“It’s good to be back,” replied Battersby. He knocked firmly on the door then strode in, a feeling of great accomplishment welling within.
“Alexander!” cheered Lady Pettifogger, jumping up to greet him, a beaming smile across her face. Lovelock lifted himself from his chair, his eyes wide.
The room was modestly sized but exquisitely furnished, with big antique pots and vases at its edges. Landscape paintings adorned the walls below the red velvet drapes, and everything was lit by the dreary glow of oil lamps. A half-full bottle of wine sat on the table, and Beatrice Pettifogger filled an empty glass for Battersby.
“Good afternoon,” said Battersby, sitting himself down in a leather armchair. “I think it’s safe to say that all is well in Old Town this fine day!”
Lovelock received the mousebox and placed it on the table. His thin pale hands were shaking with excitement.
“These are the Golden Mice?”
“Indeed, Isiah . . . .”
A glint of light in his eyes, Lovelock unlatched the lid and raised it effortlessly. The radiant glow of the Golden Mice gushed out, bathing his cold face with luxurious yellow light.
“You have given me the greatest gift, Alexander — and a wonderful prize for the people of Old Town. I don’t believe there is any way I can repay you.”
“Honestly, Isiah, it proved easier than even I could have hoped,” said Battersby, flushed from the wine.
“And Mousebeard?” asked Lovelock wryly. “How is he coping?”
“He’s safely locked up in Dire Street Prison, under the watchful eye of the Old Town Guard. He seems most unwell though, ever since we reached Old Town.”
“I expected as much,” said Lovelock, his eyes returning to the Golden Mice.
“You did?” asked Lady Pettifogger.
Lovelock paused slightly. “He’s just trying to make people feel sorry for his plight. He’ll make the scaffold for dawn tomorrow, though?”
“I’ve given the governor the duty of making sure of it . . . ,” replied Battersby. “And the mice in his beard will be delivered to us in due course, too.”
“Excellent,” replied Lovelock. “But it really would be a travesty if he died before he had the chance to swing.”
“I couldn’t agree more. We even have that idiot Drewshank in irons too. It seems the pirate took kindly to him,” said Battersby.
“What will happen to Devlin?” asked Lady Pettifogger with a slight catch in her throat. She looked genuinely concerned and clutched her hands together. Battersby shook his head.
“Your affection for him is very sweet,” said Battersby slowly.
“You can’t start worrying about that privateer,” said Lovelock. “I’m surprised he made it this far! His fate’s sealed. Besides, by now he knows too much about our plans. I’m certain Mousebeard would have informed him of the Golden Mice.”
Battersby agreed.
“He’ll take the drop with Mousebeard,” he said. “I’m afraid he’s only getting what he deserves.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Lady Pettifogger quietly, continuing to grip her hands tightly together.
“We even have another vile character called Scragneck to hang too,” said Battersby, changing the subject, “along with at least twenty other pirates.”
“It’ll be quite a show tomorrow morning then!” added Lovelock, his face warming slightly at the thought. “It will be a major celebration. We need to see to it that posters and newspapers are distributed around town announcing Mousebeard’s imminent execution. Can you deal with that, Beatrice?”
“Of course,” she said, “but we should announce the rescue of the Golden Mice at the same time. We are sure to face some pressure from the Mousehunting Federation, and most likely the Illyrians, in time, will demand their return. But i
f we declare that we have them safe, we should buy ourselves enough weeks to start breeding them.”
“My feelings exactly,” said Lovelock.
He sat quietly for a moment, and then called out for his butler, who promptly arrived at the door. Lovelock was looking almost longingly at the Golden Mice before him, and ran a finger along one of the shimmering coats, before reluctantly closing the mousebox.
“We shall be inviting the Old Town Guard to station a post within my mansion. In the meantime, can you take these mice to the Mousery and tell that young mousekeeper it will be more than his life’s worth if he damages them in any way. Don’t let any strangers in either. We have to be absolutely secure — even more so than usual.”
Lovelock lifted up the mousebox, clutching it for a few more seconds before dropping it into the butler’s hands.
“Yes, sir,” said the butler. “Very good.”
As he was leaving the room, Lovelock called him back.
“Can you also do something else for me . . . ,” he said. “I’m worried about Mousebeard’s health. Can you head to Dire Street Prison at some point this evening and report back to me on his condition. I’m sure you’d appreciate the air.”
“V-very good, sir,” stuttered the butler. Just hearing the name of the prison was enough to chill the soul.
The Methuselah Mouse
A MOUSE SO RARE THAT IT IS OFTEN CONSIDERED TO BE A MYTHICAL creature, the Methuselah Mouse is thought to be the longest living of all mice. The only evidence of its existence is the priceless specimen kept in the museum of Old Town’s Mousetrading Hall, although its color has faded and its ears are slightly worn with age. Unfortunately this creature passed away seventy-two years ago and is now stuffed and residing in a glass cabinet. Because of this Methuselah Mouse, we can say for sure that it is a relatively hairless creature, with wizened whiskers and a very slight build, but an understanding of its habits and characteristics is lost to us now.
On that note, however, there is one person alive who saw this mouse while it was still in the land of the living, but unfortunately he has declined to speak to the Almanac for fear of being inundated by aspiring young mousehunters.
MOUSING NOTES
We can only guess at how the Methuselah Mouse would live its life, but scientists and breeders alike believe it would prefer peace and quiet to a hectic mousery.
A Secret Past
EMILINE WAS SITTING AT THE BARRED WINDOW OF THE Dung Mouse pen, attempting to identify the different calls of the nocturnal mice that were ringing out over Giant Island. The hours had passed slowly since the pirates had left, and life with the Dung Mice had become worse than tiresome. The smell was unbearable, as was the thirst and hunger of living without supplies.
“What was that one?” asked Scratcher, responding to a weird ecky-ecky sound.
“Could be a Bilge Mouse?” she said, peering into the darkness.
“A Silurian or a Congurese?” quipped Scratcher.
Emiline shrugged. “I don’t know! How can you tell?”
“They like different types of bilge to lie in,” said Scratcher. “All depends on what part of the world they come from.”
“Oh, of course . . . ”
Emiline had never cared much for Bilge Mice, and for once in her life she hadn’t felt it necessary to learn all there was to know about them.
As another mouse call rang out, something caught her attention in the dark jungle. Two faint flickering blue lights were hovering a few hundred meters from the mouse pen. They seemed to be nearing, and with them came a sound not unlike the creaking of metal joints.
Scratcher soon realized Emiline had seen something and joined her.
“Look at the lights,” she said.
“They don’t look human,” he added, tapping Fenwick to get his attention. Before long every prisoner was staring at the lights as they approached.
“Are they some sort of flying Night-light Mice?” asked Scratcher.
The noise grew louder, and the lights intensified.
“They’re coming toward us,” whispered Emiline as the two lights jumped a little and stopped dead a few meters in front of them. They shone right into the mouse pen.
“And looking at us,” said Scratcher.
“Hello!” shouted Fenwick. “Who’s that?”
The lights dimmed a little and then a flare sparked up to their side, illuminating the strange creature. It was holding the flare in a pincerlike hand, and the glow shimmered over its bulging metallic body.
“Who is it?” asked Emiline. “What are you?” she shouted.
Suddenly the creature jerked backward and dropped the flare. Its beaming eyes looked downward, and then twisted sideways before tilting upward into the air and vanishing. The flare then moved again, lighting the creature once more. It was a face that everyone recognized.
“Algernon!” cheered Emiline and Scratcher excitedly. Behind him followed Chervil and a procession of the ship’s mice that had been hiding since the arrival on Giant Island.
“Emiline? What are you doing in there?” he exclaimed. Algernon stomped forward and peered into the mouse pen. His suit was a metal full-body diving apparatus, with buttons and dials twinkling all over. The helmet now removed, his small face was bathed in the blue light issuing from a line of bulbs around his neck.
“We’ve been locked in,” she said. “Can you get us out?”
Algernon lifted the right arm of his suit to reveal a small drill on its end. It started to spin noisily, and in a few seconds he’d drilled right through the lock. With a heavy push the door swung open, and all the sailors cheered a cry of relief.
“How come you’re here, Algernon?” asked Scratcher, rushing to freedom.
Algernon’s face screwed up into a tiny ball.
“Ooh, you all stink!” he said, trying not to breathe. “I came to find Mousebeard, but everywhere’s deserted! What’s going on?”
“You came to find Mousebeard?”
“Yes, yes, it’s a long story. I’ll explain later, but where has he gone to?”
“The pirates have left and they’ve taken Drewshank and the Golden Mice.”
Algernon looked puzzled. All the prisoners had now escaped the pen and were standing before him, relishing the fresh but still stinky air.
“You know about the mice?” He stopped and thought for a moment. “Ah, I suppose it’s a good thing . . . . But why have they taken Drewshank? What would Mousebeard want with him?”
“No, that’s not all!” exclaimed Emiline. “As they were taking Drewshank I heard one of the pirates say that they were handing Mousebeard over to the navy!”
Algernon didn’t understand. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“They’re handing Mousebeard over to the navy along with Drewshank and the mice in return for a ransom and their safety.”
“But that can’t be so. No, that can’t be.” Algernon was clearly shocked.
“We have to get them back!”
“But how?” asked Fenwick. “We’ve no way off the island.”
“Well, I have a way,” said Algernon, “but most of you will have to stay here. I only have room for a couple of short people.”
“Short people?” exclaimed Emiline and Scratcher together.
“Yes! I have a small submarine, and we have no time to lose. Are you two coming?”
Algernon was looking at the two mousekeepers.
“A submarine?” said Fenwick.
“Yes! How else do you think I got here? But I have to leave right away — well, as soon as you two have had a bit of a wash . . . .”
Algernon walked off as fast as his suit would let him.
“Are you coming?” he shouted once more to a bewildered Emiline and Scratcher.
“But, Algernon!” shouted Fenwick, who chased after him. “You’ll need more than these mousekeepers to get our captain back.”
Algernon turned to Fenwick, his dials flashing urgently.
“Sir, I appreciate your concern,
but there’s just no space for you, Mousebeard, and Drewshank, should we be successful. You’ll be safest here. There’s food in the fortress, which will keep you alive. Please understand . . . .”
“You’re right,” said Fenwick reluctantly, and he clasped Emiline and Scratcher in each of his arms. Portly jumped from his shoulder to Emiline’s, and swiftly disappeared under her hair.
“So then, the captain’s fate rests in your hands. I ain’t happy, but that can’t be helped. You’re no use to any of us, nor the captain, if you’re dead, so make sure you stay alive. I don’t fancy living off Dung Mouse meat for the rest of my days . . . .”
Emiline jumped up and hugged the man. She smiled as broadly as she could and then ran off after Algernon.
“We’ll get Captain Drewshank back, Mr. Fenwick. I promise!” she shouted, “and then we’ll come back for you!”
Fenwick watched them disappear into the darkness before heading off with the rest of the crew. Each man picked up his mouse on the way and gave Chervil a rough stroke.
“There’s bound to be some food ’ere somewhere, men,” he said, grateful to be away from the Dung Mice. “I’m starving.”
The submarine powered swiftly through the underwater tunnels out of Giant Island like a copper bullet. The small window afforded little view to Emiline, but the tiny particles that zoomed by reminded her of sailing through a snowstorm. She moved away from the cockpit and sat down on the floor with Scratcher. The submarine was so small that that there was just the pilot’s chair to sit on, and the curved hull gave only a minimal amount of leg room when one was resting on the floor.
Portly emerged from under Emiline’s hair and ran over to the dashboard. Three of Algernon’s Boffin Mice were sitting staring out of the window, and Portly promptly introduced himself.
“What a thing to happen,” muttered Algernon. “If only I’d found out about this earlier.”
His hand gripped the control stick tightly, and he steered the sub through the twisting, water-filled tunnels under the volcano with great skill.
“I should probably have been more honest with you both when we first met . . . ,” he added.