The Curse of Mousebeard

by Alex Milway

  “When Isiah first mentioned the mouse, she threatened to send us away; such was her feeling about it. But he managed to persuade her once more. In truth, I think she was pleased with the company, although as we soon found out, she was much more than she let on.

  “When she revealed the Methuselah Mouse, I found it near impossible to restrain my excitement. I cannot explain how amazing it was—so old, so wrinkled and shriveled, and its eyes looked so dead—but when it’s before you, it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. And that feeling was what turned Isiah. I’d seen the greed and lust in him before, but we were friends, and it had always been a joke among us that he would never be happy until he owned the world. But the Methuselah Mouse stirred something evil in him.

  “He told the woman he wanted it and was willing to pay a small fortune for the honor of owning it. But she had no use for money and swiftly told us to leave. Of course, Isiah was unwilling to accept this. He argued with her and bullied her, trying everything to get her to part with it. All my efforts to calm him failed. I tried to hold him back, but he lunged at the woman in an attempt to snatch the mouse, his eyes crazed like a madman. And that was it. The last I remember was the crackling blue light and the deafening shriek that filled the room. My heart felt like it was being crushed with such an unimaginable pain; it was unbearable, like having your life—your very soul—squeezed out of you.

  “When I awoke, I was outside. I couldn’t breathe. Isiah stood staring at me, the rain streaming in rivers down his face. He looked gaunt and much older. I rose to my feet but found my chest twisting and shrinking—every breath shorter and shorter. I looked at Isiah through my blurring eyes. He wasn’t in pain; he just watched me struggle. I tumbled and tripped, desperately trying to find my footing and the energy to reach Algernon. I still don’t know how I managed to make my way to the boat, but I did. And at that point, as I fell into the hull, I suddenly felt the pain subside. It took a long time before I realized, with the help of Algernon, that I couldn’t set foot on land. It is the most horrifying feeling of all, to have your life changed so fully, in such a swift, short moment, with no means of doing anything about it. The pain was so great, I deemed never to speak about what happened. But I feel things are different now. Matters are coming to a head, and I must face my demons once and for all.

  “That she was a witch is beyond doubt, but there must be a way to counter the curse. There must be a way…. Which is why tomorrow we set sail for Stormcloud Island, with the intention of settling this issue.”

  “But who’s going to want to land?” asked Algernon, finally understanding what had haunted Mousebeard for so long.

  Drewshank started to shake his head as he saw everyone’s eyes home in on him.

  “Oh no…,” he said, looking around the table. “Oh no, no, no…”

  “You know how important this matter is, Drewshank,” said Mousebeard. “This is the last time I will ask anything from you. I’m sure Emiline and Scratcher would relish the opportunity to go on a sort of mousehunt—you could lead the expedition.”

  “It sounds more like a witch hunt to me,” snapped Drewshank, “and I have very little in the way of magic skills to protect me. No, hang on… oh yes, that’s right, I have no abilities in the way of magic….”

  “I don’t believe in magic,” said Algernon. “I think there’s more here than witchcraft.”

  “Well, that sounds even better!” Drewshank replied sarcastically, appearing quite upset.

  “But, Captain Drewshank,” said Emiline, “who better to charm an old witch than yourself? I know you’d win her over in no time.”

  Everyone around the table made noises in agreement.

  “You think?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Definitely!” said Scratcher.

  “There’s none better than you, Drewshank,” said Mousebeard. “Your charm might even rival that of Lovelock.”

  Drewshank needed no more praise; his mind was turned.

  “Well, if you put it that way,” he said, “what are we waiting for? Stormcloud Island, here we come…”

  The Slime-toothed Fang Mouse

  FOUND ONLY ON LUCKGONE ISLAND—A DISUSED PIRATE OUTPOST IN THE Great Sea—the Slime-toothed Fang Mouse is a vile creature. It is well known for its vicious tendencies and very sharp fangs, and it earns its name because it secretes a type of poisonous slime from its gums. This slime stops wounds from healing and blood from clotting, and so, for any victim, it ensures a fate worse than death.

  MOUSING NOTES

  One bite from this creature means a slow, lingering death, and so it would make no sense to keep this in any collection.

  Stormcloud Island

  IT TOOK THREE WEEKS FOR THE SILVER SHARK TO REACH Stormcloud Island. A landing party was agreed upon, and while the ship dropped anchor farther out at sea to avoid damage, a small rowing boat struggled over the breaking waves with the wind and rain lashing around it. Scratcher was thoroughly dismayed at his own decision to travel with them. Water dribbled down through his hood, dripping time after time on the end of his nose. He clutched the rim of the boat, digging in his fingertips as Fenwick pulled the oars for one last time, bringing them into line with the shabby, broken jetty.

  The island was immersed in weather. Rain fell in torrents, wind blew haphazardly across its rocky surface, and clouds frothed over its highest peak.

  “That’ll be it then,” said Fenwick, tossing a rope around a wooden plank and pulling it tight into him. “I’ll be waiting here with the boat. You all take care of yourselves….”

  “Thanks…,” muttered Drewshank, trying to stand as the boat wobbled under his feet. “Mousebeard’s onto a good thing here, I’m sure of it. Why did I agree to this? Him sending us all over the place while he gets to put his feet up…”

  Emiline stood up and smiled, relishing the prospect of an adventure.

  “You know he’d swap his position any day,” she said, leaping to the few remaining wooden planks of the jetty that were joined to the rocks. Scratcher steadied himself and leapt after Emiline.

  “Come on, Captain,” he said, landing awkwardly with his hands on the floor. Emiline pulled him out of the way as Drewshank jumped across. He landed safely and flicked his jacket to shake off some rain.

  “It’s wet and disgusting,” said Drewshank firmly. “Who in their right mind would come here?”

  Emiline took no notice and made the first steps onto the large, slippery boulders that led to the island. The rain was swirling around, distorting and confusing the route ahead, and she had to be careful to dodge the Limpet Mice who lay all around. These oily, short-haired mice had evolved suckers on their paws that let them attach to rocks without a care for the elements or personal safety.

  “Mousebeard said to walk inland until we found a path,” she said, marching over the rugged terrain.

  Scratcher pulled his hood down further and followed her footsteps precisely. She was rushing on at quite a pace, and even Drewshank was struggling to keep up.

  “Here it is!” she shouted.

  A narrow path was cut into the bedrock, winding upward, and a shimmering stream of water ran down it like a gutter heading out to sea. As soon as Emiline stepped into it, her boots became swamped with water.

  “This way!” she shouted, trying to pay no attention to the slushing noise emanating from her feet.

  The group continued upward, and the rain grew stronger to the point that it almost hurt their heads as they walked in it. Scratcher ran to reach Emiline, and he tapped her on the shoulder.

  “We should be nearly there, Emiline,” he said, wiping water from his forehead. “Mousebeard was certain we’d see it before too long.”

  Emiline nodded and waited for Drewshank to join them.

  “I wasn’t made for this sort of thing,” said Drewshank grumpily. He looked at the mousekeepers, but his stare suddenly lifted to the horizon. Being that much taller than Emiline and Scratcher, he could see over the brow of the hil
l they were climbing.

  “Well, I never. There it is!” he said.

  Emiline and Scratcher sprinted up the last few meters of the path and eventually saw what he was talking about. Standing out from the doom-laden sky was a rectangular, rugged stone building with three wide chimneys breaking free of its roof. Its blackened, shadowy exterior made it look like the least friendly house in existence.

  “Just as he described it!” said Scratcher. “The one place you’d not want to go for dinner…”

  “Come on then,” said Drewshank; “the sooner we find out what’s going on in there, the sooner we can leave.”

  They hurried on and gradually the building revealed itself. Its aging stone facade showed no signs of life, with no light escaping from spaces in the shuttered windows. No smoke broke free of the chimneys either—although the clouds seemed so close that it made it difficult to be sure. The most telling sign of disuse was the dense network of thick, prickly vines that covered the walls.

  “No one’s lived here for years,” said Emiline, pulling at her mousebelt. She reached the dark wooden door, unsheathed her knife, and started to cut away the creepers.

  “I don’t want to even think about what it’s like inside,” exclaimed Drewshank, surveying the building.

  “It looks like it’s been closed up for ages,” added Scratcher. He tried to pull open the shutters to a window, but they were securely locked. “We’ll have to break through the door.”

  Emiline pulled at the vines, which came away easily, and found that the door was sodden.

  “It’s almost rotten,” she said excitedly, sliding her knife into the wood with ease. “Give me a hand!”

  With a firm push from all three, the door twisted on its hinges and plunged in with a thump. A thick plume of dust lifted into the air, and a smell of damp foulness blew into their faces.

  “What a choice,” said Drewshank, “out here in the rain, or in there with the smell of a thousand rotten eggs!”

  “At least it’s dry,” said Emiline, stepping into the dim hallway. Musty velvet drapes hung from the ceiling, and cobwebs swung down from every feature. Glass lamps were fixed to the walls, and after a brief inspection, Emiline realized they were still full of oil. She lit them without a second thought, and immediately the house felt more welcoming, bathed in a warm glow.

  Emiline headed on up a narrow corridor to an open wooden door, which was creaking slightly with the wind now bustling through the house. Emiline crept forward and peered around it. She felt a shiver ripple down her back. The room smelled awful and was almost shrouded in darkness, the only light being thin shafts of grey that scythed their way through the shutters.

  “Hello,” she whispered, somewhat instinctively, before squeezing her nose shut with her fingertips. There was no reply.

  Emiline’s eyes traced around the spot-lit areas: there was a bookshelf; a painting of pyramids; a candlestick holder with cobwebs running out from its metal lip to the wall; and there was the back of a squat armchair, a ruffled pillow sitting on its top. She stepped into the room and heard the floorboards squeal.

  “What have you found?” shouted Scratcher from the hallway, realizing Emiline had gone in.

  “Not much!” she replied nasally, bumping into a wooden table hidden by the dark. “Fancy helping me open these shutters?”

  Scratcher appeared at her side.

  “Oh, it stinks!” he exclaimed, before gazing around the small room. The two paced carefully to the windows, where they found thick iron bolts securing the shutters. With a sharp tug, the rusting metal bars loosened their grip and slid across. Scratcher teased his fingers into the cracks of the wood and pulled the shutters open.

  A burst of grey light flooded the room. Dust flitted here and there, muddying the air like dirt clouds in a pond. Emiline turned and saw the full extent of the room. It was dark red in color, though the years of neglect had taken their toll, and paint was peeling from the walls. A simple lamp hung from the ceiling—a half-burnt candle still visible through its glass panels—and bookshelves littered the walls, filled with hardy leather-backed books.

  Scratcher drew breath sharply, and Emiline’s eyes darted to him.

  “What,” she said, watching him step backward awkwardly.

  “The chair…,” he stuttered, “the chair…”

  He pointed fearfully to the armchair, and Emiline stepped around the table to get a better look. Her skin started to crawl. All she saw was a blackened, decomposed hand resting on the chair’s arm, but that was enough. She slammed her hand over her mouth and turned away, her stomach heaving.

  “Captain!” shouted Scratcher, shielding his eyes. “I think we’ve found what we came here for!”

  The captain wandered into the room nonchalantly and realized something was up with the mousekeepers.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Both Emiline and Scratcher pointed to the armchair while staring resolutely in the opposite direction. Drewshank shuffled around the table and finally saw the rotten body in all its glory. He made a loud gulp, and his eyes started to water. It was safe to say that he wished he’d been more prepared.

  The body was sitting upright in the way old people do when they accidentally doze off to sleep, but it barely resembled a human anymore. The skin was sunken, shriveled, and leathery, and bones protruded around the ribs—poking through the thin moth-eaten clothes that still remained on the corpse.

  “She’s dead then,” said Drewshank, screwing up his face.

  “I’d say so,” replied Emiline, desperately trying to restrain the morbid fascination that made her want to sneak another look.

  “What’s Mousebeard going to think about that?” said Scratcher.

  “Hmm, well, I think we should make pains to look around more carefully,” added Drewshank, walking away from the chair as fast as he could. “I’ll check upstairs…”

  Emiline started to follow him but instead turned to a bookshelf.

  “She was a mouser,” said Emiline with some surprise. “Look, there’s the Guide to Mousebones, the Mouse Fossil Record, and even the Mouse Trapper’s Handbook. I reckon there’s a lot about this old lady that we don’t know.”

  “So she liked mice!” said Scratcher. “Big deal; most people do.”

  “I know, but somehow she cursed Lovelock and Mousebeard. There must be clues about it here somewhere….”

  “She just looks like a dead old lady to me,” said Scratcher, fed up with the smell. “Even if she was a witch, so what? She’s dead. Can we go now?”

  Emiline pulled out another book, this one about rare mouse breeds, and something caught her attention. It was a sound that she’d heard many times before: the sound of mouseclaws on wood.

  “There’s a mouse in here!” she said excitedly.

  “Where?” asked Scratcher.

  “Listen…”

  The two mousekeepers’ eyes darted around the room, avoiding the dead body that lay so close. The noise was only faint, and slow moving, but it was definitely there. Emiline started pulling books off all the shelves, hoping to find any sign of life.

  “It’s got to be here…”

  “Emiline!” whispered Scratcher, now kneeling on the floor. “It’s staring at me!”

  Emiline stopped in her tracks and stepped over to her friend. He was half under the table, and at the other side of the room, near the skirting board, a small mouse was shivering by a mousehole. It was no ordinary mouse: its body was aged and wrinkled, with barely any fur. Occasional wiry hairs towered out of its back and ears, and its twisted ancient nose twittered in the air as though tasting the smell of the new arrivals.

  “Its eyes…,” marveled Scratcher; “they’re almost pure white!”

  Emiline lowered herself to get a look at the creature. She tapped Scratcher’s back in feverish excitement.

  “It’s the Methuselah Mouse!” she whispered. “This must be the one they came here for all those years ago… they can live forever!”

&nb
sp; The mouse continued to sniff the air. Its ears, which were initially alert, started to drop—a sure sign it was becoming less wary.

  “You have any Ground Worm Bait?” asked Scratcher hopefully. “That might work….”

  Emiline unhooked a small pouch on her mousebelt and handed it to him.

  “Do you still not know anything?” she said, rolling her eyes. “You use that for feral mice—this mouse hasn’t been in the wild for years. Much better to use Dried Gumbo Berries—the ones soaked in barley juice, of course.”

  Scratcher sighed, and he reluctantly took the mousebait. Emiline had a terrible habit of knowing almost everything about mice.

  As he placed a small amount on the floor, not more than a meter from his hand, the Methuselah Mouse started to move. It made cautious steps—its rickety and weak legs clearly not as capable as they once were—but it was soon under the table and just a short distance from Scratcher.

  “Now don’t make a move yet,” whispered Emiline. “Let it eat a little first….”

  Scratcher twisted his head around sharply to stare angrily at Emiline.

  “I know!” he snapped quietly.

  The mouse started chewing at the berries. One of them filled its tiny paws, and its movements were so slow that it took ages for it to lift the berry to its mouth, but it was clearly hungry, and growing ever more confident.

  Scratcher cautiously removed a mousebox from his belt and laid it on the ground, taking great pains not to make any quick movements. He then held out his hand, slowly moving it closer to the mouse.