by Alex Milway
“I still don’t understand,” said Scratcher. “Why did you come to the island to find Mousebeard?”
“Ah yes,” replied Algernon, “Mousebeard . . . oh, hang on!”
Suddenly the submarine sped up, and the tunnel burst out into the sea. Algernon tapped a button and a small panel lit up; he looked quickly at a tatty chart pinned to the wall and made a few calculations. Once they were through Winter Vale it would be plain sailing to Old Town.
“Hold tight,” he said, before pulling back on a gear stick. The submarine shook violently and zoomed off even faster. He pressed a number of buttons and a blue light flicked on.
“Right then,” he announced, swiveling his chair so that he faced his passengers.
“Are you not going to drive?” asked Scratcher, worriedly.
“Oh I have autopilot, of course!” he replied, pointing to a dial that clicked and jerked every second. “My submarine has done this journey so many times I think it knows exactly where it’s going by now. But still, it’s time for some details . . . .”
Emiline and Scratcher sat upright excitedly.
“Mousebeard . . . ”
“I’ve been helping Mousebeard for a long time now . . . ,” said Algernon.
“You?” Emiline said, with shock. “Why would you work for a murdering pirate like him? Algernon?”
Scratcher frowned and crossed his arms. “People died on the Flying Fox because of him. We’re lucky to be alive . . . .”
Algernon raised his hand to calm them and looked grave. “I’m not saying I support everything Mousebeard does — there are things about him I will never know or understand,” he said regretfully. “But things aren’t as everyone in Old Town and Hamlyn would have you believe. Mousebeard and I go back a very long way — way before he was a pirate.”
“But you’re an innkeeper!” said Scratcher.
“An innkeeper and an inventor — might I remind you! How do you think Mousebeard came across such a wonderful ship? Or a fog machine, or even learned how to harness the power of Dung Mice?”
“The fog!” exclaimed Scratcher and Emiline.
“Yes, just a simple little machine.”
“But what was the wailing? Was that your doing too?” asked Emiline.
“Oh no. Mousebeard is terribly good at training mice. I think you’ll find that was the sound of his Wailing Spirit Mice that live on the masts of his ship. They do make quite a racket, though. Blooming nuisance much of the time!”
He took his hat off and breathed into his goggles before continuing.
“And who better to keep a pirate informed of the goings-on in the sailing and mousing world than an innkeeper, anyway?” he said. “Drunk people say an awful lot of things that should remain secret!”
“But how do you know him?” asked Emiline.
“From the Old Rodents’ Academy — it’s a very long time ago now, as you can imagine. We were mousers of the first order, winning awards and trophies the world over for mice we found.”
“The photo in your workshop!” said Emiline excitedly. “But that was Isiah Lovelock in that picture!”
“Ah! Yes, yes. Well remembered! That really was a special Triplehorn Mouse I caught . . . ,” he said dreamily.
“So the other one was Mousebeard?” said Scratcher.
“Precisely. Isiah Lovelock, Jonathan Harworth, and Algernon Mountjack: Team Mousing Trophy winners three times in a row. Of course, Isiah took all those trophies after our friendship ended, the cad. He always was a determined so-and-so . . . .”
“But what went wrong?” asked Emiline.
“I don’t know the precise details, but it happened on a mousehunting voyage years ago.”
“Were you there?” she asked.
Algernon had completely forgotten about his goggles. He breathed into them once more and wiped them clean.
“Oh yes . . . that trip to Stormcloud Island will stay with me forever.”
“Well, what happened?” pleaded Scratcher.
“Through our professor at the Academy, we’d heard that an old lady who lived on Stormcloud Island owned a Methuselah Mouse. As you probably know, these creatures are so rare that you have more chance of spitting a grape seed to the moon than finding one. And so Isiah, being the rich and determined young man he was, decided to visit the island in order to persuade the owner to let him buy the mouse. It took four weeks to sail there, and when we reached the island it certainly lived up to its name. We didn’t see the sun once, for the whole island was shrouded in thunderclouds.
“We sailed round it many times looking for signs of habitation, and found there was only one building. It was built of huge white stone blocks and perched gloomily, and a little precariously, atop a rocky hill. I reluctantly remained in the boat while they went off — the storms were so strong that we feared it might break its moorings. I wish I’d gone with them, for all I know is that while they were there some horrible deed took place that turned them against one another. I watched Jonathan walk back alone down the rocky outcrops and winding paths, and I could see he was in agonizing pain. He clutched his chest and clambered weakly onto the boat.
“‘For as long as we live, Isiah is no friend of ours,’ he growled, his eyes pale and distant. He picked up an oar and pushed us out into the sea. I tried to stop him, but he was so much stronger than me that I couldn’t fight against it. When I turned back to the island I saw the silhouette of Isiah on the hilltop. He just stood there silently, like a rock alone in the wilderness.
“The moment our boat had left the shore, Jonathan’s pain subsided, and he breathed normally again. Despite my protestations, he wouldn’t return for Isiah, and he defiantly refused to explain anything. When we returned to Old Rodents’, Jonathan fell ill again. Unbearable chest pains struck him down, and he weakened hour by hour. I endeavored to take him across the sea to one of the best hospitals I knew of and, unbelievably, while we were on the boat his pain eased. We realized there and then that solid ground had become poisonous to him. Anytime he tried to set foot on land he was stricken with that same intense pain. . . . ”
“A curse?” whispered Scratcher, shuffling his legs in the excitement.
“Of the worst kind,” replied Algernon. “From that day on he turned away from all we knew and sailed the Seventeen Seas. I soon lost track of him completely, and it was only ten years ago that I received word of the course his life had taken. It came as quite a surprise to learn he was the pirate Mousebeard. He told me of Isiah’s dealings, his horrendous Mouse Trading Centers and horrifying breeding programs. The man was singlehandedly turning mice into a commodity; sucking them dry for everything they’re worth. Isiah had become everything we used to rally against at the Academy.”
“But what about The Mousehunter’s Almanac?” asked Emiline. “That’s done more for the welfare of mice than anything.”
“True,” replied Algernon, “but it also feeds the desire for collecting mice. Isiah’s a canny old soul — he knows what he’s doing all right. Think of the Wide-eyed Sand Mouse that’s amazing at catching sand fleas — up until a few years ago they were as rare as blue moons, but now you can find them in every Trading Center. And how many are left in the wild? None. All captured and living in people’s collections to keep mites and other creepycrawlies at bay. Mousebeard believes, as do I, in fiercely protecting the Mousetrading Regulations.”
“There are so many to remember, though,” said Emiline.
“But of course there are! The history books tell us exactly what it was like without them: mousehunters would remove whole populations from lands with little thought; unscrupulous collectors would breed fancy mice without any knowledge of what they were doing; and the conditions that mice were kept in were often appalling. It was a shocking state of affairs.”
“Old Town has a lot to answer for,” said Emiline sadly.
“It’s true, much of its wealth did originally stem from the exploitation of mice, although it did create the first laws governing mouse pro
tection, don’t forget. Sometimes good things can happen if the people ask for it. However, it would seem that our friend Isiah Lovelock is attempting to benefit from our furry friends once more. And that’s exactly why Mousebeard and I must continue to fight back.”
“So Mousebeard became a pirate because of Lovelock?” asked Scratcher.
“It was a good part of it. When you can’t set foot on land, the life of a pirate is all there is, especially if you seek to trouble Lovelock. Jonathan was never a bad man, though he could always scare you with a glance. But years at sea, in exile, have done strange things to him. He’s the fiercest protector of mice I’ve ever come across. Men like Lovelock drive him wild. Through all these years, despite what you may have read, Mousebeard’s only ever sought revenge against him. Every ship he sank, every mouse he captured, all had something to do with Isiah’s underhanded dealings, and he’s mostly tried not to kill. There’s a lot more to that old rogue Lovelock than most people know — and he’s done a good job of spreading lies about Jonathan . . . . Although Jonathan himself hasn’t helped his image in any way.”
Emiline was transfixed. She would never have guessed that Isiah had once been a friend of Mousebeard. No wonder he kept it secret, she thought.
“So where are we going now?” asked Scratcher.
“To Old Town,” said Algernon.
“We’re going home?” exclaimed Emiline.
“That’s where they’ll be taking Drewshank and Mousebeard. I still have one acquaintance there that might be able to help us. I just hope that we can get to him in time.”
Almost a week after leaving Giant Island, the submarine surfaced just a few hundred meters from Old Town harbor, with only a few frothing bubbles announcing its arrival. They’d waited for nightfall so as not to alert any keen-eyed soldiers, but they were desperate to get on with the task in hand.
With the moonlight rippling across the swelling waves, the hatch flipped open and Emiline sneaked a look out toward the wall of warships blocking the docks.
“Is it as we expected?” asked Algernon quietly.
“Ships everywhere,” she replied. “We’ll have to carry on to the river estuary. They’ll have ships there no doubt, but we’ll just have to go under them, then sneak up the river into the city.”
With a firm tug the hatch closed once more and the sub sank quietly to the seabed. It moved off gently and traveled in amongst the reeds and shoals of fish that filled the bottom of the sea.
Using the dim front lights of the sub, Algernon traced the edge of the docks and eventually came to the river. Once again, navy hulls littered the underwater path inland, obliging Algernon to navigate with extreme care around them. He calmly motored on, keeping steady as the river narrowed and grew shallower. The water was by now a horrible murky brown, full of dirt and the sort of rubbish you’d normally find in a junk shop.
At the point where he could proceed no farther due to the flood defenses snaking up from the riverbed, he drew alongside the bank and eased the submarine to the surface. Once again, Emiline opened the hatch and peered out carefully.
The first thing that struck her was the darkness. Short jetties poked out into the river, boats, and lobster traps tied to their sides. Rickety, toppling buildings rose up only a short distance from where they were, blocking out all the night-time sky. It felt like an age since she’d run away from Lovelock’s mansion, and all the grim reality of the city returned to her like a stray dog.
Her eyes wandered down the narrow path that followed the river until she saw a streetlight flickering at the water’s edge. It was the lamp at Pirate’s Wharf, and she could see men constructing a large wooden platform out into the river. The scaffold was built on a platform that fully crossed the river, giving full view to the towns-people that lived on both sides.
Suddenly Emiline felt a pull on her trouser leg.
“Where are we?” whispered Scratcher.
“We’re safe for the moment,” she whispered, “just a few minutes upstream of Pirate’s Wharf.”
Algernon heard Emiline’s words and rose from his seat. He called for them both to sit down, and as they appeared he unlocked a cabinet.
“Now, I doubt,” he said seriously, “that either of you ever had any intention of partaking in this sort of trouble, but things often turn out how you least expect them. I just need to ask you if you’re willing to risk everything to rescue not only your captain, but Mousebeard too.”
“Do you believe him?” asked Scratcher to Emiline, nervously.
“Of course,” said Emiline. “I’ve never really taken to Lovelock anyway.”
Scratcher didn’t feel quite so sure, but his friend was usually right.
“All right then,” he said shakily.
“You, Emiline?” asked Algernon.
“I’m still not sure how I feel about Mousebeard . . . but for your sake, I’ll help.”
Algernon looked at them for a second and then withdrew a wooden box from the cabinet and passed it to Scratcher.
“This is the only weapon I have!” he said. “I’m afraid it’s the best I have here, as I had to leave Hamlyn in something of a rush.”
Scratcher opened the box and found a beautiful ornate knife, which Emiline immediately recognized.
“But that’s just like the knife Mr. Spires gave me!” she said.
“Horatio gave you his Mothma Mousebone knife?” said a puzzled Algernon.
“Horatio?” exclaimed Emiline. “Are we both talking about Mr. Spires here? Lovelock’s butler?”
“But of course! Why else do you think I brought you along? Only someone with insider knowledge could get into Lovelock’s mansion!” replied Algernon.
“But Mr. Spires is so stuffy and boring!” said Emiline, struggling to come to terms with things. “Is Mr. Spires really your friend that we’ve come to see?”
“He most certainly is . . . .”
“But he told me to use it if I ever came face to face with Mousebeard. I just didn’t get the chance before the pirates took it off me.”
“Ah!” said Algernon. “Now that makes sense. Mr. Spires was trying to look after you.”
“He did try to stop me from going on the voyage,” added Emiline.
“He’s a clever sort is Horatio, and a very good judge of character. If Mousebeard had seen you with that knife he would have wanted to know exactly where you got it from. There are only four like it in the world. You would have been safe.”
“So is Mr. Spires Mousebeard’s spy?” asked Emiline.
“Most definitely, and a very good one. Why else would I know to persuade Devlin Drewshank to bring his injured mousekeeper to my inn? I had to find out as much as I could about the course of his mission. As soon as I heard Lord Battersby was involved though, I knew something worse was afoot, but by that time it was too late to notify Mousebeard.”
Algernon started to scratch the stubble forming on his chin. He would never have made a decent pirate as his beard was patchy at best, but a few weeks of living in a submarine brings out all sorts of hidden growths.
“We have to get to Horatio as soon as possible,” he said. “He’ll know exactly what’s going on.”
“There are all sorts of ways into Lovelock’s mansion,” replied Emiline. “Getting to Mr. Spires will be easy.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” said Scratcher, desperate to add something to the conversation.
“Right then,” said Algernon. “You two head for the mansion, and I’ll wait on the river bed. When you return, get my attention by throwing three stones into the water so that they hit the sub. When I hear them, I’ll rise to the surface.”
“You’re on,” replied Scratcher.
“We’ll try not to be longer than a few hours,” said Emiline.
“Excellent!” he replied. “Just enough time for a short think and a long nap.”
The Comet Mouse
THE FASTEST LAND-BASED MOUSE IN EXISTENCE: BLINK AND YOU’LL MISS IT. With slick, short white fur,
Comet Mice are regarded as a particularly stylish breed, and are a favorite with fancy-mouse breeders. These mice are something of a prize among collectors, mainly due to their incredible speed and agility, which make them very hard to catch. In fact, these mice are relative newcomers to the scene: the first known Comet Mouse was brought to Old Town by Guidolfo Jones, an extremely talented mousehunter, nearly sixty years ago. Up until that point they were thought to be flights of fancy and had a near mythical status among collectors.
MOUSING NOTES
A large cage is essential. The Comet Mouse also requires a good water supply to quench its thirst, and comfortable bedding to soothe its weary legs and restore its energy.
The Old Town Spy
EMILINE DRAGGED SCRATCHER BY THE HAND PAST Pirate’s Wharf. Soldiers were everywhere; some were hammering and banging nails into the wooden execution platform, others were starting work on tall structures at every edge of the wharf. When Old Town was set to hold an execution, the townspeople were hungry for the best view, and grandstands were built up for paying guests.
Unusually for Old Town, the night was free of mist or fog. Stones were visible in walls, faces could be seen on passers-by, and the unearthly glow that regularly surrounded the streetlamps had vanished. The mousekeepers turned left at the wharf, past Mr. Droob’s hut, and made their way up a road of twisting townhouses.
Scratcher caught sight of a fresh poster nailed to a billboard and halted in his tracks.
“Emiline,” he said, “look!”
“Co-conspirator Devlin Drewshank?” whispered Emiline, dumbfounded.
“Thursday at dawn?” added Scratcher. “That’s tomorrow!”
“We’ve got to run!”
Emiline grabbed Scratcher’s arm once more and charged off up the street. When they reached Grandview, Emiline slowed down. She could see Lovelock’s mansion in the distance, but something was going on in front. There were soldiers everywhere.
“Why are there soldiers?” she said. “We’re never going to get through them!”
They stepped into a shadow beside one of the immense buidings lining the road, and Emiline tried hard to think of what to do. While they stood there a carriage came traveling up the road with two small lamps at its front. Led by two black stallions, it was decked out in the colors of Old Town. It stopped outside Lovelock’s mansion, and Mr. Gumpino, the city’s potbellied mayor, leisurely stepped down, his numerous golden chains catching the lamplight. Emiline saw the butler come out of the building and take in the mayor, who was followed by three assistants.