by Robin Jarvis
‘Is that you, Alison Sedge?’ he ventured, doubting his vision.
‘Might be,’ she answered, staying just within the fringes of the meadow grass. ‘Then again I might be the goddess come down from the moon to torment you with my beauty.’
Jenkin snorted. ‘Pah! You don’t half talk addled sometimes, Alison Sedge. Just you mind my dad don’t hear you goin’ on like that. He’ll tell your folks, he will.’
‘Pooh.’ She stepped out on to the hard ground.
Jenkin eyed her again. She had certainly changed in the past year – why before she had been given that mousebrass they had been firm friends. He had even thought that perhaps . . . He saw her eyebrows arch in that infuriating way of hers. She had guessed what he was thinking about and tossed her head.
‘Like my flower?’ she asked huskily.
‘Look better in the ground,’ Jenkin replied shyly, turning away from those eyes which held those dangerous lights. ‘Why don’t you go show Hodge?’
‘I may,’ Alison answered mildly. It amused her to flirt with the boys and see how she set them at odds with one another. How easily they could be confounded by a sideways glance or a sweet smile. It was Jenkin though, whom she enjoyed teasing most. He was so serious and po-faced and when he was with his father she revelled in disconcerting him. In fact, if her pride and vanity had not swelled so much she would quite happily have married Jenkin. He was by far the most handsome mouse in Fennywolde. Now though she enjoyed dangling him on a string with all the others, tempting and rejecting with soft, mocking laughter.
An impatient voice rang out over the field. ‘Jenkin! Where are thee lad?’
He jumped up and hastily retrieved the bundle of sticks. ‘That be my dad callin’ for me.’ Jenkin began to run to the ditch, past the bare stony stretch and up to the cool shade of the elms.
Isaac Nettle stood stiff and stem outside one of the entrances to the winter quarters. He scowled as his son came panting up to him. He was a lean mouse whose face was always grim and forbidding no-one had heard him laugh since his wife had died. His eyes were steely and humourless, set deep beneath wiry brows in a sour face.
‘Where did thee get to?’ he snapped. ‘Idling again, I’ll warrant. Come here boy.’
Jenkin set the wood down before his father, watching him warily.
‘What’s this?’ bellowed Isaac. ‘The wood is green. How am I to burn that! We should choke on smoke!’ He grabbed his son by the neck and raised his hard paws to him. ‘I’ll beat sense into thee yet boy and with the Green’s help I’ll cure thee of thine idleness.’
Jenkin knew, better than to protest. He gritted his teeth and screwed up his face. His father’s paw came viciously down on him. Jenkin gasped as he opened his eyes; the blow had been a severe one. The blood pounded in his head and the side of his face throbbed with pain.
Isaac raised his paw again and smacked his son across the head once more. He spared no effort, so that Jenkin sobbed this time. ‘Thou must learn,’ exulted his father. He hit him one more time to emphasise his words.
Jenkin staggered on his feet when Isaac had finished. His head was reeling and already he felt a swelling around his eye. In his mouth he tasted the tang of iron and knew that his lip was bleeding. Soon the shock would wear off and he would be left with a dull ache and painful stinging.
‘Now what have thee to say?’ rumbled Isaac.
‘I . . . I thank thee Father,’ stammered Jenkin holding his sore lip.
‘We shall pray together,’ intoned Isaac to his son. ‘Midsummer scarce a week away and still we live in winter holes. ‘Tis a judgment on us all. The Green is angry. There are those in our midst who have offended thee, Lord. Heathen loutishness creeps in. Give your servants strength to drive out the vain pride which you despise. Let us walk free at night once more.’ He dragged Jenkin inside.
From a safe distance Alison had watched it all. She had flinched as she saw Jenkin suffer those three terrible blows. Everyone in Fennywolde feared Mr Nettle. His temper was dreadful but he commanded the authority and respect due to the mousebrass maker. Several times Jenkin had carried the bruises given to him by his father and no-one dared do anything about it – indeed Mr Nettle was not the only staunch Green Mouser in Fennywolde.
Alison walked up to the ditch. She knew that Isaac classed her as one of the offenders in the field. He sermonised at her whenever he saw her. She thought of the miserable night which lay before Jenkin: he would have to kneel on a painfully hard floor next to his father for hours praying to the Green Mouse for deliverance and forgiveness. Alison sighed and told herself that she must make sure to be kind to Jenkin the next time she met him – why she might even let him kiss her. She chuckled at the notion and looked about her.
The evening was growing old, and clouds of gnats were spinning over the barren stretch of ditch. It was time for her to go home.
She turned on her heel and made for one of the other entrances to the winter quarters.
‘Alison Sedge,’ came a distraught voice. She looked up quickly and noticed a group of six worried mice. A plump harassed mouse bustled over.
‘Hello Mrs Gorse,’ greeted Alison politely. The mouse brushed a long wisp of hair out of her red-rimmed eyes’ and asked, ‘Have you seen our Samuel?’
Alison shook her head. ‘Why no, Mrs Gorse. I think he went off with Young Whortle this morning’
‘Oh dear,’ murmured Mrs Gorse. ‘I was hoping you might know where they were. Mr and Mrs Nep are asking everyone in the shelters. If they don’t come back soon . . .’
Alison turned towards the meadow and stared at the grasses intently. It was getting dark and no mouse was safe above ground then.
Samuel Gorse was close to tears. He held on tightly to his friend and tried to pull himself further under the oak root.
It had been a magnificent day. The morning had been so fine that he and Young Whortle Nep had decided against joining Todkin and Hodge in the field and planned an adventure.
‘Warty’ – as Samuel was fond of calling his friend – was always full of terrific ideas. Last year he had built a raft and together they had sailed it along the ditch, fending off imaginary pirates and monsters from the deep. This year though, the ditch had dried up and they had been forbidden to sail the raft on the still pool as it was too deep.
Young Whortle was older than Samuel though not as tall. ‘Right Sammy,’ he had said that morning. ‘If Jenkin’s too busy an’ Todders an’ Hodge are set on climbin’ today then it be up to us to take what thrills the day has to offer.’
So they sat down and thought seriously about what they could do. They had already explored the field this year and the ditch promised little in the way of adventure in its parched state. They had been to the pool once or twice but Alison Sedge was always there teasing them. Alison Sedge had been declared dangerous territory by them both, so the pool was out of the question, with or without the raft.
Whilst the two friends contemplated the day’s destination Young Whortle had raised his head and seen the oaks in the hazy distance.
‘Aha!’ he cried, jumping to his feet and assuming a triumphant pose. ‘The oaks, Sammy. We shall quest the oaks and see what secrets they keep.’ So off they went, passing a dejected Jenkin and waving cheerily to him as they entered the meadow.
Now Samuel shivered. Fear chilled him and his teeth began to chatter.
‘Sshh!’ whispered Young Whortle close by. ‘It’ll hear you.’
What a situation they had landed themselves in. All had been going wonderfully. They had charged through the piles of last year’s leaves which still filled the hollows near the oaks and had played hide and seek behind the roots; then Young Whortle had suggested that they attempt a climb.
‘Don’t go frettin’ Sammy,’ he had said. ‘We won’t pick a difficult tree and we won’t go too high promise.’
‘But Warty,’ Samuel had protested, ‘shouldn’t we be getting along now?’
‘Bags of time yet! Sun ain’t lo
w enough to think on going back. Come on, give us a leg up.’
So up an oak tree they had climbed. It was gnarled, knobbly and ideal to climb. Footholds were plentiful and there were lots of low branches to run along and swing from.
Then Samuel had noticed the hole.
‘What’s that up there?’ he had asked, pointing higher up the tree trunk. ‘Looks like some sort of big gap in the bark.’
Higher they had clambered. Samuel had been determined not to look down and had kept his eyes strictly on his paws. Eventually, Young Whortle had drawn near to the hole.
‘Seems like the tree’s hollow here,’ he had called down.
‘Wait for me!’ Samuel had pulled himself up to his friend’s side. Together they had peeped over the brink of the hole.
Inside all had been dark . . . but their sharp eyes had picked out something in the gloom. Something terrible . . .
Samuel shrieked and nearly fell off the tree. Young Whortle’s eyes opened very wide and he gave a funny sort of yelp. Here, in the oak, was the frightful thing which had kept the fieldmice below ground this year – a large and very fearsome barn owl.
It was fast asleep amongst some old straw but it stirred when the mice gasped in fright. Lazily it opened one eye and puffed out its soft feathery chest.
Quickly Young Whortle and Samuel ran down the tree. They slid and slithered, scraped their knees and broke the skin on their paws scurrying down it.
As Young Whortle jumped from the lowest branch a great shadow fell on him.
Quickly he yanked Samuel to the ground and ducked under one of the roots.
Seconds later sharp talons scored the ground where they had been. Now here they were, two small frightened fieldmice cowering in terror from a dreadful enemy.
‘Be it still up there?’ asked Samuel in a tiny voice.
‘Aye Sammy, prob’ly sat on one o’ them low branches just a-waitin’ for us to make a move.’
‘Oh Warty, I’m whacked,’ whimpered Samuel. ‘It’s gettin’ so dark now an’ I haven’t eaten for ages: just listen to my belly!’
‘I hear it an’ so can the owl most like. Put your paws over it or summat.’
‘I can’t! I be starved.’
‘So be yon owl Sammy, an’ I don’t want to be no bird’s breakfast.’
Samuel tried to control the growls and rumbles coming from his stomach. He was a thin mouse, too thin some said. The likes of Alison even called him ‘skinny Samuel’. His mother was most perturbed by his weight, but no matter how much he ate he never got any fatter. ‘’Tis his age,’ Old Todmore said of him. ‘Too much energy – he’ll plump out afore he’s wed.’ Now the thought that he would make a poor breakfast brought Samuel no comfort at all.
‘We can’t stay here,’ he said softly.
Young Whortle patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Right,’ he said decisively. ‘I got me an idea.’
‘Smashin’!’ Samuel brightened instantly. ‘I knowed you’d think o’ summat. What be the plan?’
‘Well,’ Young Whortle kept his voice low in case the owl was listening, ‘if I throws a stone yonder,’ he pointed behind them to a patch of ferns and bracken, ‘it just might fool Hooty up there an’ distract him long enough for us to make a dash for them hollows full o’ leaves.’
‘You’re barmy!’ exclaimed Samuel. ‘No way will that work. He’s crafty, he is. He’ll spot that trick for sure an’ we’ll be runnin’ straight down his gizzards.’
Young Whortle said nothing. Instead he picked up a good paw-sized pebble and threw it for all he was worth. The ferns rustled and swayed as it crashed through them.
‘Now!’ he hissed grabbing Samuel by the arm.
The fieldmice darted from under the root. Samuel ran as fast as he could, too terrified to look up in case he saw the owl rushing down to meet them – talons outstretched.
And then they were at the edge of the hollows and with one leap they dived into the heaps of dry leaves. ‘It worked!’ Samuel cried. His heart was racing and his ears flushed with excitement.
‘I told ’ee we’d have adventures today,’ said Young Whortle. ‘Now we’ll have to be careful. He won’t have liked that trick and it might make him anxious to get us.’
‘So what now?’
‘We tunnel through these here leaves till we’re at the point closest to the meadow. Then you just run like crazy.’
Samuel gulped nervously, but their first success at owl-foxing heartened him. ‘Lead on then,’ he said.
In the leaves it was easy to believe that it was autumn again. The smell of the dry decay was the very essence of that season. The leaves crackled over and beneath them as they pushed their way through. The sound filled their ears, like the noise of a greedy consuming fire. The mice moved quickly. Like moles they scooped the leaves out of the way with their paws and kicked them backwards with their feet.
Through the leafy ceiling the owl could be heard hooting irritably. It froze their hearts and made them move faster than ever.
Suddenly there was an explosion of leaves and twilight shone down on them.
‘He’s dive-bombing us,’ wailed Samuel He looked up and could see the owl soaring above, gaining height for the next dive.
‘We’ll have to zig-zag and hope he misses us,’ shouted Young Whortle, burying himself in the leaves once more.
Samuel jumped in after him, and they madly dashed from side to side.
The owl tore into the leaves close by and gave an angry hoot at finding his talons empty. ‘Hooo mooouses, I’ll get yoooou!’ he bellowed furiously. The owl beat his great wings fiercely and rose high above the treetops. He stared with his great round eyes at the leafy hollow and glided on the night airs, silent as a ghost. There – a movement.
He dropped like a stone. With murderous intent he descended. He’d show them! How dare they wake him, then hide and play silly tricks.
The owl skimmed the surface of the hollow with his talons, churning up leaves and twigs in the chaos of his wake.
Samuel and Young Whortle had managed to dodge that onslaught – but only just. Samuel lost the tip of his tail and the pain was terrible. Blood poured out of it and made him feel sick.
Young Whortle was near to panic himself. Both mice were tired now but the owl had been asleep all day. Young Whortle wished they had stayed under that oak root after all. Even in the dim light he saw how pale Samuel had become, and in horror he noticed his friend’s wounded tail. He knew then that they would not survive the next attack; they were exposed and too tired to move fast enough.
An insane idea gripped him suddenly and in a wild frenzy Young Whortle scrabbled amongst the muck of the floor until he found a stout twig.
Samuel was too groggy and near to fainting to question his friend. He watched Young Whortle bite the twig and strip away the bark with his teeth, gnawing like a demented demon. Then high above he saw the dark sinister shape of the owl plummeting towards them.
The owl had licked the blood from his talons and was cackling to himself, eager for the kill. The blood was warm and it tasted wonderful. The first mouse of the night was always the best and he had been unable to find any for months. But now, oho! Two lovely mice for him to swallow.
The cool night air streamed over his flat face as he hurtled down, legs stiff and talons glinting under the light of the first stars.
He had them in his sights – wise of them to stop running. ‘Ooooh mooouses,’ he chuckled licking his beak in anticipation.
‘FENNY!’ bawled a voice. The owl blinked and as he bore down on the mice one of them jumped up and drove something sharp into his left leg.
‘Ooooww!’ screeched the owl, floundering in the air with the shock. He rose up, shaking his head in disbelief. How dare they! The audacity of it! The owl was really furious now. Screaming with rage he plucked the twig from his leg with one deft movement, spat it out and glared down. This was serious: insult and injury – that had never happened to him before and he was deadly in his wrath.
Young Whortle had wasted no time. As soon as he had wounded the owl he had dragged the wilting Samuel out of the hollow and pulled him towards the meadow.
How they managed he never knew. Samuel had lost a lot of blood and kept swooning. But fear kept them going and suddenly they were in.
Tall grasses surrounded them. Young Whortle knew however that it would take more protection than the meadow afforded to save them from a determined owl.
Samuel panted heavily. He felt very weak and his legs were like water. He tried to focus his eyes but everything was blurred. Young Whortle’s voice came to him urgently, calling his name.
‘Sammy! Come on, we’ve made it to the meadow but Hooty’s still after us.’
As if in agreement a frightful screech came down out of the night sky.
Samuel felt himself tugged at roughly. ‘Leave me, Warty,’ he mumbled. ‘Too tired, you go.’
‘Shut up!’ Young Whortle gripped his friend none too gently and shoved him further into the meadow.
They stumbled and staggered along, flinging themselves to the ground when they felt a shadow pass overhead.
‘What’s he doing?’ Young Whortle asked himself. ‘Why doesn’t he strike? He must know where we are. Why doesn’t he get it over with?’
A wicked cackle told him the reason. The owl was tormenting them, letting them know the full meaning of fear before the kill.
‘Mooouses,’ he called, ‘Mahooot sees yooou.’ A dark wing swept over the tops of the grass.
Young Whortle bowed his head in defeat. He could run no more and even if he could the owl would snatch him before he made it to the ditch. The dark wing soared over again, this time battering down the grass.
Next time, thought Young Whortle desperately. ‘This is it Sammy,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry this adventure has ended so badly.’