by Alex Milway
Drewshank led the way and was soon comfortable in his outfit. He felt strangely powerful in the ancient clothes, and he knew for a fact that anyone seeing him for the first time would be scared out of their wits—at least that was how he felt when he looked at Scratcher and Emiline. By the time they reached the steps rising up to the gate, there were too many Methuselah Mice around them to count; the mice appeared to be descending from the trees, crawling out of the ground, and even falling from the sky. And all of them had taken on the glow of the others. The unearthly light that they gave out was as beautiful as it was frightening to Emiline, especially as she knew its real power.
The three Warriors started the uneven climb to the gate and made their way through.
Piece after piece of the metal hull warped and buckled under the strain of the Old Town Guard’s grappling hooks, and Mousebeard looked across at a sailor with the intention of making him unlock the sides. He was wondering how long they could last before attacking, when the mouse in his beard scratched his chin. He pried the thick hair apart and tried to stroke it, but the mouse was unsettled, and its paws kicked out again nervously. He closed up his beard and thought no more of it when a faint blue glow spread in front of his eyes.
“Your beard…,” said Fenwick. He was staring at the pirate’s face as though he’d seen a ghost.
Mousebeard stepped backward and the glow followed him. His thoughts flew back to the old lady on Stormcloud Island and that moment when he collapsed. He remembered her face and the Methuselah Mouse beside her.
Suddenly, the pull of the hooks slackened, and the awful noise of twisting metal ceased. Mousebeard glanced at Fenwick. Across the sky, the dull evening light was turning to night, but surrounding the path winding up to Norgammon was a bright blue light, the same as that which radiated from his beard.
“Unlock the gangplanks,” ordered Mousebeard.
The sailor holding the locks looked uncertain. He didn’t move his hand.
“Do it,” barked Mousebeard.
The Silver Shark’s armored side clattered down onto the sharp rocks, and they saw for themselves the sight that had stopped Battersby’s troops dead in their tracks. The three Mouse Warriors, their bodies humming with the glow of the Methuselah Mice, were standing a short way up the causeway. Thousands of mice surrounded them, their trail of blue light leading all the way back to the gate.
“Who are you?” said Battersby. He marched up the path, pistol in hand. Locarno stayed with the other troops and held his rifle targeted at the pirate. The Mouse Warriors didn’t reply.
“I order you to reveal yourselves!”
When they failed to reply for a second time, Battersby took offense. He lifted his gun and pointed it at the closest of the three, which was also the tallest.
“If you fail to answer me, I will shoot you,” he said. “I am not afraid….”
Drewshank finally spoke out.
“But you should be afraid,” he said.
“I know that voice,” said Battersby. “Devlin Drews…”
Before he finished his words, he pulled the trigger of his gun. Drewshank flew backward with the force of the blast and landed in a heap. The armor around his chest had protected him, but he felt as if a heavyweight fighter had hit him square in the ribs. He coughed and pushed his clawed hand against the stone path.
“You didn’t want to do that…,” he said, choking slightly.
The Methuselah Mice crept forward, their eyes glowing a bright blue and the air around them fizzing with electricity. Their glow grew stronger and stronger, the light forming an arc of blue in the sky that could be seen for miles. As Battersby reloaded his weapon, the mice attacked.
“No!” cried Mousebeard. His beard erupted into a mass of bright blue sparks that connected with all the other mice on the causeway. He felt his chest tighten and his thoughts weaken. His breathing became strained, and he fell against Fenwick as his legs gave way. Fenwick grabbed him and was just about able to control his fall as the light consumed everyone.
Battersby watched the blue light descend on him like lightning leaping between sky and ground. He tried to brush it off as though it was a swarm of flies, but he could do nothing to stop its deadly intention. He felt his legs grow tense, and his hands rolled into fists—his fingernails cutting into his palms. He saw his shoulders and chest ripple with electricity as they contorted, bending unnaturally. His legs were now twisting inward, cracking noises piercing the air as their bones splintered. It was as though something was attacking him from the inside: his insides were boiling, growing hotter and hotter, and his skin started to tighten around his flesh, constricting his movements. His every limb began to shake as the noise in his ears tore into his mind. He saw his soldiers fearfully falling to the ground, their faces petrified. Eventually, as the pain surging through his body grew unbearable, he let out a bloodcurdling scream and collapsed on the floor.
“Mousebeard!” said Drewshank, kneeling on the deck of the Silver Shark. He tapped the pirate’s cheeks lightly and was cheered by the rosy glow forming on Mousebeard’s chin. Emiline was sitting next to him, with Portly in her hands. The mouse was squeaking loudly.
Mousebeard stirred—his eyes blinking slowly before opening wide.
“How do you feel?” asked Drewshank.
“My ears are ringing,” he replied. “And my chest aches….”
“He’s all right!” shouted Drewshank, putting an end to everyone’s fears.
Mousebeard coughed.
“But you have a mousehead?” he said.
“Ah, yes…”
Drewshank removed the mask and sat it next to the pair of clawed gloves. Emiline did the same.
“The Methuselah Mouse!” exclaimed Mousebeard, trying to sit up. “It was the mouse!”
He felt his beard, but it was empty.
“It ran away,” said Fenwick.
“And I doubt you’d find it amongst that bunch out there,” added Emiline.
“All along, it was the blasted mouse!”
Mousebeard could see the light glowing from the outcrop. Locarno hadn’t dared run to Battersby’s rescue. He’d told his soldiers to lower their guns and surrender, and they were sitting surrounded by an uncountable number of Methuselah Mice. The soldiers didn’t move, as Scratcher was in charge, still dressed in the clothes of a Warrior, and wherever he moved, the mice followed.
“But the curse…,” said Mousebeard. “If that mouse cursed me…”
The pirate gripped Drewshank’s shoulder and tried to stand. He had a feeling of emptiness inside him—a feeling of freedom. Something had changed. He pulled himself to his feet.
“And Battersby?” he muttered, staggering forward. “Where is he?”
“Battersby’s dead,” said Drewshank. “He got what was coming to him. I hadn’t expected him to die so horrifically, but he deserved it. There’s not much left of him to see….”
“Good, the last thing I’d want to do is see him again.”
“We have prisoners, though. It would appear that the Stonebreaker is ours for the taking!”
“That could be helpful…. Have you seen the Silver Shark lately?” grumbled Mousebeard. “She’ll be lucky to leave this place!”
Mousebeard inhaled the fresh sea air so that it filled his lungs, and he came to a halt at the edge of his ship. He looked at the rocks and cobblestones that formed the surface of the causeway and then, lifting his right boot warily, leapt across. Despite making the distance, he crashed to the ground, landing on his palms and knees after his weakened legs failed him. But he didn’t scream out in pain. His body wasn’t tightening and dying inside.
Emiline jumped across and slid to the ground beside him. She pulled back his mass of hair and found that he was smiling.
“Mousebeard?” she said. Portly crawled from her hand and sniffed the pirate’s nose.
He stretched out and stroked the mouse.
“I can breathe,” he said. “I can touch the ground….”
Emiline leaned closer and shoved her arm under Mousebeard’s shoulder. With a great push she helped him clamber to his feet, and Portly, being the mouse that always had to be involved in everything, scurried up his leg and over his jacket and came to rest on his shoulder.
“Your curse?” she said.
Mousebeard’s face was a picture of serenity. It looked as though he’d shed ten years over the course of the past few minutes.
“It’s gone,” he said, staring at the ground under his feet. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to fall back down to the ground and kiss it.
“It’s gone….”
Emiline heard Algernon’s voice from the deck.
“Jonathan?” he said excitedly, as he appeared at the side of the ship. His face lit up at the sight of his old friend standing on solid ground.
“You’re…”
“I am!” replied Mousebeard.
Algernon jumped to the ground and stared at him from head to toe.
“Well I never…”
“It was the Methuselah Mouse,” said Mousebeard. “They seem to harbor some magical power that not even we could have known about.”
“And you had it in your beard all this time?”
“All this time…”
“And Indigo?” said Mousebeard, his tone darkening.
“Indigo?” said Emiline.
“He’ll survive. But for how long depends on you.”
“What? Where is he?” asked Emiline, struggling to have her voice heard.
Drewshank had been listening to their conversation, and he stepped over to join them.
“What’s happened?” he asked seriously.
“Indigo is no friend of ours,” said Mousebeard. “He’s an assassin.”
Emiline felt as though the world had broken apart beneath her, and she was falling down with no means of stopping.
The Flycatcher Mouse
THE FLYCATCHER MOUSE IS ONE OF THE SMALLEST SPECIES OF MOUSE AND lives off insects and berries. Its method for catching prey is very unusual in the mouse kingdom because it utilizes its exceptionally long, sticky tongue. This can be extended to almost a meter in length and reaches speeds of 150 meters per hour prior to hitting and stunning its target.
Emanating from the jungles of Western Promethia, the Flycatcher Mouse is very popular with collectors.
MOUSING NOTES
This is a tropical mouse and so needs a cage with water features and high humidity.
Indigo
FEELING SORE?” SAID ALGERNON, PULLING THE BANDAGES tighter over Indigo’s chest and securing them with a pin.
They were sitting in Mousebeard’s cabin, while most of the sailors were busy tending to the ship’s battle wounds. Indigo opened his eyes and saw Mousebeard and Drewshank at his side. Algernon poured a cup of water and held it close to his lips.
“How do you feel?” asked Mousebeard.
Indigo breathed deeply; pain shot through his body as his chest rose.
“Alive,” he said, his mouth dry. He drew in a little water from the cup and swallowed it down.
“So when did you plan to tell us?” said Mousebeard.
“What?” he said defensively.
“Your secret’s out,” said Drewshank.
“My secret?”
Mousebeard grabbed his shoulder, and Indigo yelled out.
“So you don’t understand words, but you understand pain?” said the pirate, loosening his grip.
Indigo’s eyes darkened.
“You’re lucky,” said Drewshank. “Algernon thought enough of you to give you the chance to explain yourself. He cleaned your wound and certainly saved your life.”
“So it would seem,” he said, his words slow and painful. “Thank you….”
Emiline ran into the cabin and shouted at Drewshank.
“What are you doing?” she screamed. “Leave him alone!”
“Emiline!” said Algernon firmly. “For once this doesn’t concern you.”
“Of course it concerns me,” she said. “You’re all as bad as Lord Battersby!”
“Get out!” shouted Mousebeard. His words hit Emiline hard. She thought she was used to him by now, but his voice shook her to the core.
Emiline shrank to the back of the cabin. She felt tiny and insignificant, but she was determined not to leave.
“I didn’t mean to fool you,” said Indigo. He stretched his arm out and took the cup from Algernon’s hand to drink some more.
“I don’t believe you,” said Mousebeard. “You had every intention of deceiving us.”
Indigo took another gulp of water. The pain in his chest consumed him.
“The only way we can ever trust you is for you to be truthful now,” said Drewshank.
“I never lied to you,” Indigo said, his eyes staring hard into Drewshank’s.
Mousebeard was in a fearsome mood. He clenched his fist and slammed it into the hard chair that Indigo was resting in.
“You have always been a liar,” he shouted. “Just who are you really?”
“That’s enough,” said Algernon. “He’s in no state for this.”
“I don’t care what state he’s in. He once had every intention of killing us all—he’s an Illyrian!”
“Stop…,” said Indigo. He pulled the blood-soaked hair from his face. “I’m an Illyrian…. Yes, I thought you were a danger….”
“And you still do?” snarled Mousebeard.
“You stole the Golden Mice. That makes you an enemy to my country.”
“But you saw what was going on in Hamlyn,” said Drewshank sternly, “and you think we’re the enemy?”
“It is our way!” said Indigo.
“Your way?” said Emiline. She couldn’t hold back any longer. “What are you? Who are you?”
“He’s an Illyrian spy,” said Mousebeard.
“Illyrian royalty…,” added Algernon.
“Royalty?” said Emiline.
“You know that too?” said Indigo regretfully.
“I know what your tattoos mean,” said Mousebeard. “What did you take me for? A fool?”
“Never!” he said, pulling himself upright. “And I know now that your actions were always in the best interests of Illyria. I know that our forces and my father will soon be leaving for Old Town to retrieve the stolen Golden Mice. They don’t know the truth yet, but they will.”
“And how will they?” said Drewshank. “We’re at least three months’ sailing from Old Town.”
“I’ll get word to them….”
“How?” said Algernon. “By mouse? Because I can tell you now that all messages flying in and out of the port are being intercepted.”
“Just get me to Old Town, and I’ll do the rest.”
Emiline was deathly silent. Even she had been fooled.
“I’m sorry,” said Indigo. “But I had to find out the truth my own way. I can clear your names. Believe me….”
“You know there’s no way we’ll be able to land at Old Town,” said Drewshank.
“And my submarine’s finished,” added Algernon. “The Silver Shark will in no way last out the journey either.”
Mousebeard looked out of the window and saw Battersby’s warship. It had dropped anchor at Locarno’s request and was waiting for his instructions.
“We could use the Stonebreaker…,” he said, his temper easing. “There are, after all, a number of scores to settle….”
Drewshank found it hard not to laugh.
“You’re not suggesting we return to Old Town in Battersby’s ship?” he said. When he said the words aloud, a twinkle came to his eye. Maybe it didn’t sound like such a bad idea after all.
“There’s no way they could have sent a message home from this distance—nobody would know anything about what’s happened here,” said Algernon excitedly.
“It almost sounds possible!” said Drewshank.
“And I swear I shall do all I can to clear your names,” said Indigo. “Just give me a chance….”
Mousebeard walked to the door and turned to look at the boy.
“You have a lot to prove,” he said, “but in this case we have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
“Remember, there are still troops in Norgammon,” said Drewshank. “There’s even Miserley out there somewhere!”
“They’ll come with a little persuasion,” said Mousebeard. “The Methuselah Mice will help…. And we need all the prisoners and bargaining power we can get.”
“And Isiah?” said Algernon.
Mousebeard’s thundering laugh rattled the woodwork.
“Our old friend Isiah Lovelock won’t know what’s hit him….”
The Floating Puffer Mouse
NOT AN AQUATIC MOUSE BY NATURE, THE FLOATING PUFFER IS THOUGHT TO take to water simply because it prefers it to its more natural habitat of sand dunes. Gaining its name from its inflatable belly, the Floating Puffer uses a gaseous exchange (from eating an indigestible type of black seaweed) to bloat itself. The mouse can float on its back for days, only having to return to land to eat more seaweed.
It’s been said that in the old days, sailors were thought to hear the whispers of doomed maidens when a storm was about to strike—but in fact it’s very likely they were hearing the sounds of the Floating Puffer dealing with its problem of self-inflicted wind.
MOUSING NOTES
This mouse can be kept quite happily in a water tank environment, although you must provide plenty of vegetation. Because of its diet, the Floating Puffer can create quite a stink, so beware!
Epilogue
ANY NEWS?” ASKED BEATRICE PETTIFOGGER. SHE WAS sitting in Isiah Lovelock’s office, her fingers playing restlessly on the stem of a wineglass. Lovelock was looking out of the window into the dark night. His breath was steaming the windowpane, and he appeared paler than usual.
“I imagine they are out of messenger range, Beatrice. We shall hear from them in time, no doubt.”
