by Robin Jarvis
Amazed at this wonderful spectacle and doubting if Thomas’s stories about sea-going vessels were not just a fanciful make-believe, Woodget ambled down the path and made for the harbour.
Presently the steep road became a gentle slope which gradually levelled out. The gravel was replaced by smooth flat stones and the fieldmouse found himself upon the quayside.
Timidly, he looked about him and swallowed nervously. To his left and rearing high above him was the shape of a fishing boat. To Woodget the craft was huge and he stared warily up at the mast and the rigging that radiated from it like the web of a gigantic spider.
“I doesn’t know if’n I likes this ’ere place,” his whimpering voice murmured. “Just look at that there girt contraption—and see, there’s more and bigger too!”
After some minutes of doubt and indecision, wondering if he ought to retrace his steps and go anywhere else but here, the fieldmouse finally concluded that to have a quick scout about would bring him to no harm.
Cautiously, he picked his way over the quay and soon forgot his fear of the ships, marvelling instead at their shapely beauty. It was as if the strong smell of the sea had affected him more potently than any batch of Old Vetch’s berrybrew, for he found himself trying to imagine what it might be like to sail upon one of these lovely vessels.
As his tiny feet pattered over coiling ropes which smelled of pitch and tar, he suddenly became aware that he was not alone.
Scampering around the screening crates and barrel towers, to his surprise Woodget discovered a number of stalls set out in the middle of the thoroughfare as if it were a kind of market.
The proprietors were mainly mice, but here and there he noticed other creatures fussing over the carefully laid-out trestles and vying for the attention of the passers-by.
As far as Woodget could see and from the information assailing his nostrils, they sold everything—from simple maps of the surrounding country to hot shrimps toasted over a candle flame. There were stands full of souvenirs for the outgoing traveller to remind him of home, and gifts for the returning wanderer to purchase as last-minute presents he may have forgotten to buy for the family whilst abroad. There were painted shells, dried starfish tied on strings, useful items like small bottles and leather flasks, all manner of hats and scarves to keep out the cold ocean breezes, packets of dried orange and lemon rind to keep away scurvy, and decoctions of herbs guaranteed to ward off the dreaded sea-sickness.
With his eyes growing rounder every moment he drew closer, Woodget drank in the lively scene.
Many of the stalls were covered with colourful canopies, and within each of these swung a lantern that shone through the fabric and illuminated the market with a cosy, cheery glow of countless warm and friendly hues.
Tentatively, the fieldmouse approached the first of the stalls and at once every vendor was aware of him.
“Hoy there!” cried a blousy shrew with a pronounced squint who beckoned him madly with her stunted arms. “If you’re setting off tonight, you can’t afford to miss these, my lovely. I’ll bet you’re doing some worrying right now—am I right, sir? My, but he’s a handsome fellow—such ears he has! Worrying about all that plaguey water out there and what happens—stars forbid!—if the boat is wrecked and in you tip.”
“Oh dear,” Woodget muttered, “I hadn’t thought ’bout that.”
“And neither you should, my brave little captain,” she tutted, smiling beneath her prodigious nose and fanning her paws over her wares for his inspection. “Can you swim? I thought not. Well, fear no more! Just one of these around your neck will keep your head above water—three and you can sail home all on your ownsome.”
Woodget looked at the objects laid out on her stall and considered them dubiously. They seemed to consist of a loop of string onto which had been threaded a lump of cork no bigger than his own tiny fist.
“What... what are they?” he asked, a little embarrassed to convey his ignorance.
The shrew clasped her paws to her breast and sucked the air through her teeth in mock horror. “And there was you all ready to board ship and not know that these here little miracles existed. Why, you’re not safe to be let out on your own, are you, my delicious duck egg? These charming and, if I might say so, fashionable items are invaluable to the mariner. Why, I don’t know no one who sets sail without one round his neck. Must’ve saved hundreds of lives in their time, these beauties, and here’s you without one. Why, you’re just not prepared properly, are you—the poor unfortunate.”
Woodget felt very foolish, especially when he caught her giving the vole in the next stall a knowing wink. He really must appear to be untutored in the ways of the sea and privately thanked the Green that he had been shown his error before it was too late.
“I’d better have one then,” he told the shrew. “How much are they?”
“A piece of silver for one—three pieces for two.”
The fieldmouse furrowed his brow and fumbled inside his bag. “Oh,” he mumbled, “I don’t believe I’ve got no silver. Fact I’m certain sure I bain’t never had any.”
“Hortichuke Sciatica!” the shrew scolded herself with a gleaming crossed eye fixed upon the tantalizing contents of her victim’s bag. “You always were a soft touch and that’s the honest to allblimey truth of the matter. See here, young master, I can’t let you go a-roaming on no ship without the protection of one of these.”
“But I don’t have no coin,” Woodget informed her.
The stallholder gave a gracious and understanding nod then reached out her stubby, grasping paw. “I know that, my dewy cowslip, but there might be another way. You just hand over that there bag of yourn and we’ll see if there ain’t something worth trading.”
Woodget wavered, but she really was so very kind and putting herself to so much trouble. “Here y’are,” he said, passing it over. “Is there owt worth a piece of silver in there?”
Hortichuke fell on the bag as though it were a worm and she a starving crow. With greedy fingers she tore at the opening and delved inside.
“A little knife,” she trilled to herself, flourishing the blade and hunting for more trinkets, “a brass buckle, a waistcoat, nothing in the pockets except a loose button—hmm, not bad quality, a small wooden figure, poorly carved...”
“That’s Bess,” the fieldmouse piped up. “I never did get round to finishing it.”
“A pewter bowl, a tin pot—you are a collector aren’t you? A few more worthless bits and pieces and what’s this—a brooch?”
“My mum’s, that is.”
The shrew held the ornament up to the candlelight and tried to hide the delight she felt on seeing the coloured glass wink and flash in her fingers.
“Well...” she began with a half-hearted drawl, “I don’t know if it’s worth my trouble after all. There isn’t much here, is there? I’d turn back and go home if I were you.”
Woodget shook his head. “I can’t do that,” he said. “I got to get me one of these here danglers. Is there nowt you’d take fer one?”
The shrew’s black eyes glittered almost as much as the brooch she still held in her paw. “I suppose I could trade you one for this,” she shrugged.
“Oh, I dunno,” he breathed, “I did so want summat to remind me of my dear old mum. I didn’t tell her I was takin’ it neither.”
“If it’s stolen then I won’t touch the wretched bauble!” Hortichuke snapped, still clutching the brooch tightly and showing no sign of letting go. “Mind you, if you were to throw in the buttons off that waistcoat as well, I might consider it this once.”
“Done!” Woodget cried before she could change her mind, and quickly defaced his Greenday best.
With a triumphant smirk upon her face, the shrew received her booty and handed him one of her worthless pendants.
“Oh, thank ee!” Woodget declared, feeling ever so pleased with himself and displaying the lump of cork with the utmost pride.
“Excuse me!” smarmed a treacly voice as the neig
hbouring stallholder, who was a fat vole, saw that Hortichuke had finished with the fieldmouse. “I couldn’t help but noticing that you don’t appear to be wearing any lucky shells in your hat; perhaps you would care to peruse my humble stock...”
By the time Woodget came through the far side of the market he had lost not only his mother’s brooch and waistcoat buttons but also his knife, the brass buckle, a handkerchief, the pewter bowl and tin pot as well as the waistcoat itself. In their place he had obtained the ridiculous cork pendant, a sprig of dried but immensely (so the vole told him) magical seaweed, two crudely painted shells which would keep storms at bay, a piece of sea-polished glass that everyone knew ensured a safe return home and a bag of orange and lemon rind.
The last item had been given to Woodget free of charge by a couple of kindly mice who took pity on him and managed to prevent him trading his bag for a fish bone which always pointed north, but only once it was out on the open sea.
With his purchases either around his neck, worn upon his hat or tucked safely into his bag, the fieldmouse sauntered further along the quayside to take a look at the other vessels moored there.
Away from the cheerfully lit stalls, this part of the harbour was lost in gloom, and presently Woodget began to grow nervous again as lakes of shadow spread out before him and he gave his sprig of seaweed a hasty pat.
Then his keen ears heard a peculiar tapping noise coming from directly in front of him and he hesitated as the sound grew steadily louder.
“What in the barley can that be?” he whispered.
“TAP, TAP, TAP.”
With unswerving purpose the steady rhythm came ringing from the darkness, chiming off the flagstones and getting closer with every second.
Woodget peered into the gloom, but whoever it was remained invisible in the murk and the fieldmouse took an apprehensive step backwards. Even in the secluded haven of the farm he had heard rumours of cruel and hideous creatures which existed in the wide world. What if this was one of those monstrous beasts? Perhaps it was a nightmare of horn and shell that had crawled out from the muddy deeps in search of prey; perhaps even now it was hunting him and its crab-like pincers were wide open, ready to snap shut about his little body. Woodget pressed his paws to his mouth as his panic increased and he hopped about wondering what to do.
Then the muttering began.
Amid the clamour of the staccato drumming a harsh, gruff voice was mumbling to itself, but not even Woodget’s sharp ears could make out all that was said. His trembling nostrils could not tell him anything either, for the breeze was against him and he suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable and alone upon the quayside. All the fieldmouse wanted to do was find somewhere to hide and let the unseen mutterer and maker of mysterious noises clatter past.
Hastily, he scurried to the side, where a mass of fishing nets was draped across two tall iron posts, and he dived smartly into the deepest depths, burying himself beneath the loosely woven mesh.
“Over half the journey done,” rasped the burbling voice which came floating on the salty airs, “over half an’ yet it ain’t right. To be sure, there’s a bad feelin’ out tonight, so there is...”
The stranger lapsed into a more subdued and unintelligible babble which the fieldmouse could not catch and still the tapping advanced.
Cautiously, Woodget raised his nose from the netting; the sound was very close now and he was anxious to see who would emerge from the gloom...
“Spies everywhere,” he heard the voice grumble. “It shouldn’t be like this, so it shouldn’t. None were to know, not a one—so keep it close and peel them gogglers.”
From his hiding place the fieldmouse held his breath and shrank back a little further as, from the concealing darkness, came the source of the unsettling sounds.
To his surprise, out of the shadows there hobbled a large and solid-looking mouse. His fur was a deep slate grey, the colour of an angry sea and brindled around the jowls like foam crested waves. Faded tattoos adorned his brawny features and in one of his strong, calloused paws he grasped a gnarled stout stick.
In fearful silence Woodget stared as the stranger laboured tetchily along, leaning heavily upon the stick and cursing continually under his breath. A large leather bag was fastened securely about his broad shoulders, and with his free paw he clutched at the straps, almost as if he expected to be waylaid at every turn. The mouse’s eyes roved from side to side, mistrusting the concealing shadows, and one corner of his mouth was drawn into a challenging snarl—fierce enough to scare away the most heinous of footpads.
“Just let ’em try,” he growled. “I know they’re here. I can smell out one o’ them weasly, venom-hearted snake scum at a hundred leagues, that I can.”
As the figure lumbered further along the quay, Woodget dared to raise his head a little more from the netting, greatly intrigued.
Then he noticed for the first time that in place of the mouse’s left leg there was a thick stump of wood, and it was this that thumped and tapped its way over the flagstones. A stifled chirp of understanding issued from Woodget’s mouth before he was able to stop himself, and at once the peg-legged mouse whirled around and glared harshly at the swathe of netting.
“Come out!” the imposing figure bawled, yet in his voice there was a deadly and overwhelming sense of dread. “Crawl out of there, you scaly heathen!”
Woodget froze, not knowing what to do.
“I’ll flush you out if I have to!” thundered the other, brandishing the stick like a cudgel and taking a menacing step closer. “Won’t grieve me none to dash out your sly cunning and feed your giblets to the fish. I’ve done it afore now and sure enough I’d do it a thousand-fold more without turning a whisker!”
The mouse’s face was twisted with fury, yet as he went pounding towards Woodget’s hiding place there was also a wild glimmer of terror dancing in his eyes and he thrashed the stick before him, bellowing for all he was worth.
“You’ll not strike me down with your foul venom, you fork-tailed slime! I’ll not be seeing Fiddler’s Green this night! By the Holy One, I swear I won’t!”
The sight of this enraged creature so horrified the petrified fieldmouse that he leapt up and gave a shrill squeal of fright, then hid his face and waited for the violence to reach him.
Rampaging into the nets, the attacker threw back his powerful arm to strike, but the blow never came, for just in time he beheld Woodget’s stricken and trembling form and he cast his aim wide.
“By the Green’s beard!” he barked, huffing from his exertions. “What have I here?” and he gave the terrified Woodget an inquisitive prod with the end of the stick.
“Ho, ho! A fieldmouse, so it is—and a minnow of a one at that! What brings him to this brigand-crowded shore? Think yourself lucky, me lad—you nearly ended up as a gull’s supper.”
Woodget peered up at the figure from between his fingers and gave a thankful but shuddering nod.
The mouse scowled at him. “To be sure I didn’t lay into you, but I’m still wanting to know what you was doing spying on me. Did someone put you up to it? For it’s plain you’re not one of them foul pagan crew—though ever artful in disguises and deceit they are. Stop dithering, for glory’s sake! Did a cat get your tongue?”
“P-p-please, sir!” Woodget finally managed to stammer. “I weren’t a-sp... spying on you—honestly, I truly weren’t. I don’t know nobody roundabouts. I got meself all afeared out here on me ownsome, and what with the peculiar noise an’ all I plum darted for cover, not meaning no harm nor offence.”
“Peculiar noise?” the stranger repeated, but his tone was warmer now for he found himself liking the fieldmouse and was greatly relieved that it was not who he had been expecting.
“Your leg, sir,” Woodget replied, “beggin your pardon like. I din’t know what it were a-stompin’ and a-tappin’.”
When he heard this, the mouse threw back his head and gave a hearty roar of laughter. “Here’s fretful!” he cried. “To flinch at the sou
nd of the timber toe—ain’t you never come across one afore, lad?”
“Not ever, sir.”
“Then you’ve had a sheltered life and that’s the truth, so it is. But stow all that ‘sir’ calling—Mulligan’s the name and that’s how all folk hail me, plain and simple like.”
“How do, Mister Mulligan,” the fieldmouse said, feeling a little braver and holding out his paw in greeting. “I be Woodget Pipple, from Betony Bank.”
“Glad to know you, matey,” Mulligan replied, shaking the paw and grinning widely. “Tell me of yourself. I been traipsing round this country too long with no company ’cept mine own, and mighty weary I’ve grown of the sound of my voice. Now let us away from this troublesome netting and jaw awhile till I reach my ship.”
“Where you headed?” Woodget asked, clambering out of his cover and making certain his lucky seaweed was still in place on his hat.
“To the Greek isles, lad. A lovelier necklace of gems you won’t never clap eyes on. Too long have I been in this chill clime—it’s water clear as diamonds I’m hankerin’ for and a sun that burns your ears to a crisp in the noon hour. Don’t sit well on this one to stay ashore for long—too much brine in my veins. No, the open waters for me it is; them were the days when I could roam where I wished, with no obligations nor yokes imposed.”
With a faint smile upon his grizzled face Mulligan gazed out across the harbour to where the dark sea stretched into the dim night and he gave vent to a sigh of longing. “Soon it’ll be over,” he breathed, “aye, soon it’ll be done and you can rest, Mulligan.”
Woodget looked up at the old seamouse and wondered if he dared to make the request which had hatched within him. Finally he could stand it no more and cried urgently, “Would it... could it... might I..? Please, Mister Mulligan, can I come with you? I got to get me away from this place and I doesn’t know what to do nor what boat to take. I won’t be no trouble, I swears.”
