The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  A little distance from the ship, rising from the radiant and gentle waves, the top of a head appeared.

  Golden was the colour of the hair which hung in long, trailing tresses and the failing sunlight revelled there, burning in sparkling fires, and the droplets which fell from the flaming locks glimmered back into the waters like jewels of twinkling amber. Delicate shells of many lustrous colours were threaded into the glistening curls and upon the creature’s brow sat a circlet of small pearls.

  As yet the face of the creature had been hidden behind that dripping curtain of shining gold, but now the head was tossed back and the hair swept behind two strangely shaped ears.

  Then Thomas and Woodget beheld the face and as one they sharply drew their breaths.

  Never had they seen anyone more beautiful and never afterwards could their fumbling words attempt to describe that supreme loveliness.

  Like a mouse maiden she appeared, yet unlike any their eyes had ever looked upon. Exquisite were the finely shaped features and the fur which covered them grey as the sea, yet at times it flashed like the bright silver of a fish’s scale. A blue, flawless as a sapphire and deep as summer twilight, blazed in the large eyes, glittering with a radiance all their own—a luminous flame to scythe through the darkness of the raven deeps where not even a faint glimmer of the sun’s rays could reach.

  Like two shapely fins were her ears and their spine-webbed elegance served only to enhance her grace and beauty in Thomas’s eyes.

  But the maiden was as yet unaware that she was being observed and, inclining her head to one side as she threaded yet another shell onto a golden strand of hair, the heavenly song rose from her curving lips—climbing steadily into the mounting dusk.

  “What’s she doing out there?” Woodget asked in a murmur. “Where’d she come from?”

  Captivated by the vision in the distance, Thomas let out a yearning sigh, but the sound was far louder than he ever intended and was carried far across the water.

  At once the lovely creature looked up and stared angrily over to the Calliope—the fierce blue of her eyes gleaming directly at the two mice sitting upon the ledge.

  A look of astonishment and horror registered upon her face but an instant later she was gone—vanished beneath the sea.

  “No!” Thomas yelled. “Don’t go! Please come back!”

  A stillness settled over the waters and the rippling circles which formed when the maiden disappeared, spread ever wider until they were lost in the ship’s wake.

  “She’m gone, Tom,” Woodget muttered sorrowfully. “But what manner of folk were she? ’Tweren’t natural.”

  Thomas was still gazing out to sea, his eyes following the last of the faint ripples.

  “I don’t know,” he answered in a subdued voice. “P’raps she was one of Mulligan’s sirens he spoke of—or else we both dreamed her.”

  Suddenly a voice laughed at them nearby and Woodget was so startled that he almost fell off the ledge.

  “What strangeness is this?” cried the faintly teasing voice. “A fine pair of tritons, I deem. Yet the larger of the two has hardly wetted his toes and the other is more like unto a sorry looking spratling.”

  Thomas and Woodget stared, not daring to move a muscle. For there rising once more from the waters was the beautiful maiden, and a mocking smile was upon her face.

  “Halia did not know that there was an audience for her song,” she laughed, “and one so brazen that he would dare call after me. It is well that my father is far from this place, for he is ever wrathful with the discourteous and ill-bred.”

  “I’m sorry,” Thomas said hastily, “I never meant no harm nor to be rude. I just wanted to hear your music a while longer and maybe learn something of you.”

  “You wish to learn of Halia?” she asked with amusement trickling from her lips. “And what would one of the earthborn know of we who dwell in the realm of my father? For though you may draw close to the sea, you fear it still. A triton you may appear, yet you are not of that race. A soil-treader you are, a trampler of the sod and grubber in the dirt. What business bears you from the dust and clay of your home and over my country?”

  “Your country?” Thomas mumbled. “What do you mean? This is only the sea.”

  A spluttering shriek of laughter issued from Halia’s mouth and she shook her head despairing of the tears which streamed down her cheeks.

  “Only the sea!” she wept. “If you did but comprehend the folly of your words. Great in jest are your poor untutored wits, yet you are too high a prize for me to enjoy alone. Stay a moment longer, Master Triton, others should share your worldly view.”

  With that, she dipped down below the water and Thomas turned to Woodget who had been too shy to say anything to the beautiful creature.

  “What do you make of her?” he asked. “Can it be the rum still affecting me?”

  “If so then it’s trickin’ us both,” the fieldmouse replied, “but whatever’s the truth of it, that damsel’s having some sport or other.”

  Before Thomas could make any response, the golden-haired maiden emerged from the sea once more, clapped her paws together three times and called out six names.

  “Dias, Enalus, Metaneira, Myrtea, Carmanor, Zenna. Come, look on what I have found.”

  To Thomas and Woodget’s astonishment, five other faces rose from the water. All of them were beautiful and adorned with shells like Halia but none had golden hair like she.

  The tresses of one shone like silver, another was like burnished copper, two others were livid green and the fifth was white as the foaming waves.

  “Dias,” Halia gurgled, beckoning one of the others to draw closer. “See these scratchers of the mould, a triton I have named he with the red cloth about his neck, but he bears no shell to bring the storm and poorly would he fare in our waters.”

  The silver-haired maiden swam close to her side and she peered at the mice curiously.

  “Oenopion I name him,” she laughed, “for the bloom of the wine is still on his face, but what of the other? That minnow who burns redder than the hair of Enalus our sister? What say you of him?”

  Halia giggled as she regarded Woodget, her lithe form bobbing up and down with the gentle rising of the waves. “No larger than a fat worm upon a hook is he,” she cried, “and see how he squirms.”

  “Won’t you come join us, Wineface?” Dias asked. “If it is your wish we shall show to you our father’s kingdom and all the marvels hidden therein. Let your eyes be astounded by the gardens of the deep, flowers brighter than any which grow on mortal lands bloom in our royal courts.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Many thanks,” he replied, “but I think I’ll content myself with perching here awhile.”

  “But we shall guide you,” Halia cried. “Metaneira, Myrtea—help me ease this unwilling creature into the sea. I would make a true triton of him yet. It is long since we welcomed an earthborn into our halls. We shall sing the song of oblivion over him and he shall forget his precious world and its weary clay. With us always shall he remain—an esquire of the waters to amuse us and do as we bid. Drag him down.”

  Mischievously, the maidens swam forward, their green hair flowing wildly about them as their webbed paws reached up to clutch hold of Thomas’s legs.

  The mouse merely chuckled and swung his legs out of their grasp.

  “Alas no,” he said delightedly. “Fair as you seem, dear ladies all. I’m not yet that far soused. Grog-concocted phantasms you are, and once I tipped into the sea that’d be the end of Thomas.”

  “Thomas!” the maidens cried, taking up the name and singing it with their silvery voices. “A fine sturdy title. Thomas Triton, we now call you. A friend of the sea-daughters. Oh what a consort he would make—a prince amongst the proud storm warriors of our court.”

  Thomas chortled, and Halia turned back to Woodget.

  “And your name, Master Worm?” she laughed.

  “Woodget,” he answered.

  The maidens gurgled
in their mirth and leaped amid the swelling waves as they called out, “Woodget Worm, Woodget Worm.”

  “Oi!” the fieldmouse demanded crossly. “You stop that.”

  “But Master Worm,” Dias cried, shaking her silver hair. “You are no triton like your gallant comrade, for do we not perceive that you bear the sea no great love?”

  Woodget frowned and folded his arms tersely; it was no use arguing with these silly creatures.

  “See how he pouts,” Halia laughed. “The worm is as awkward as Zenna of the sullen face.”

  She whirled around, sending a spout of water splashing over Woodget’s knees as she did so and he muttered under his breath.

  “Zenna!” she called. “Where are you? Did she not arise with the rest? Where is she? Zenna! Do not hide with the wide-mouthed fishes below, their looks may marry with thine but you are not of their kin. Come let the sun shine upon that plain face of yours—if he can withstand such a drearsome sight.”

  At that the other maidens burst into laughter.

  Thomas grinned to hear them, but Woodget thought it was an unpleasant and cruel sound.

  Then, from the rippling surface of the sea, further from the Calliope than the rest of her sisters, rose Zenna.

  Dark was her hair, black as a crow’s wing and no shell adorned it. Sleek and wet it clung to her broad skull, hanging lank and heavy about her narrow shoulders. Although she was not ugly, nor plain as Halia had suggested, her features lacked the grace of her sisters and in their bright, ornamental company she appeared drab and sombre.

  The light that shone in her eyes was dim and the leaden hue of slate, possessing none of the vital gleam that glinted in the keen glances of those before her. Also, her ears were larger than the others, and scalloped in shape, and beneath her chin three spines curved down towards her throat.

  As swift as an otter, Halia swam over to her and towed her forward.

  “Join us,” she sniggered. “I would show you one whose tongue is as pert and dolorous as thine own.”

  At first Zenna resisted, pulling away from her golden-haired sister, but then her dark eyes fell upon Woodget and she struggled no more but looked quickly away and could not bear to meet his gaze.

  Halia trawled her to the side of the Calliope and looked up at the fieldmouse. “Here, Master Worm,” she cried. “I present Zenna, she who is enamoured of the cold murk which lies in the northern waters and who prefers skulking in stagnant grottoes to singing in the sun and weaving shells in her hair. Although no shell would brighten that griping countenance and maybe only barnacles could endure it. Let us find a hermit’s casing and lodge her slouching frame within, a happy housing for that indecorous visage.”

  Again there was taunting laughter and Zenna stared wretchedly down, her mouth pulled into an unhappy scowl as she endured the spiteful jibes and jeers.

  Woodget’s good nature hated this scornful teasing and his sympathy for the unfortunate maiden surged within him.

  “You leave her be,” he snapped abruptly. “Pretty you may be on the outside but you’re spoiled and hateful underneath. You’re nowt but vain and mean-hearted.”

  The laughter died at once and the maidens stared at the fieldmouse as though he had slapped every one of them. Silently, Zenna lifted her face and her dark grey eyes gleamed at him gratefully. Then, with the faintest of smiles glimmering upon her face, she pulled away from Halia and vanished back into the sea.

  “It would seem our sister has found a champion at last,” Halia eventually said with a frost in her voice. “She will not thank you for it, Master Worm. Zenna deserves our treatment of her, for she is secretive and wanders far from our father’s halls and is insolent to him when pressed about her wild roamings. She adds no grace to the court and all her speech is of woe and gloom.”

  “Six against one just ain’t fair,” Woodget said simply and Halia pursed her lips at his stubborn defence of her unlovely sister.

  Turning to Thomas she ignored Woodget completely and asked, “Master Triton, I put it to you once more and this shall be the final invitation, for never again shall you chance to glimpse any of our folk. Will you not descend with me, down to the many pillared chambers of the royal hall, where greater music than our mere voices can sing plays ever and without an ending?

  “Light and beauty will your eyes behold and riches beyond the measure of your thought is housed there. Gold in abundance lies glittering and heaped in corners, and monstrous gems which burn with a fire at their heart lamp the colonnades. Will you not consent to come down? Can we not sing the spell of changing over you so that you may breathe our fathoming airs? No regrets shall burden your heart for as one newly-awakened shall you be. Come Triton, or is the memory of your clay too precious to surrender?”

  Whilst the maiden spoke, Woodget looked at Thomas and prayed that he would not yield to her tempting words.

  “No Tom!” he urged. “It’s drowned you’ll be!”

  But Thomas was still convinced that Halia and her sisters were only figments of his drunken mind and he declined the invitation. “Nay,” he said. “I’ll not wet more than my toes this day and it’s time we was returning to our bunks. A thousand thanks to you, fair ladies, for even though you’re only tricks born of the drink, fairer tricks I ain’t never seen and probably never shall.”

  Clambering to his feet, he waved to them and one by one the lovely faces disappeared beneath the sea, their fish-like tails flicking momentarily above the waters until only Halia remained and her sublime smile was fixed upon him.

  “Farewell on your voyages, Thomas Triton,” she laughed. “May my country bear you to good fortune and keep you safe. Perhaps it is well that you refused my call, for I guess that much lies ahead of you. Valiant deeds will you accomplish and you shall win great renown. Now I must depart, for too long have I lingered here.”

  As the crimson fireball of the sun dipped low upon the rim of the sea Halia sank into the waves, until only a vague shimmering mass of waving gold could be seen beneath the surface of the water.

  Thomas leaned recklessly over the ledge and caught a brief flash of two bright points like blazing sapphires—and then she was gone.

  “Well,” he muttered, stretching and reaching for the rope, “right now I could do with a good kip.”

  Woodget smiled, his friend still believed that the sirens were not real. “Hurry up and climb then, Master Triton,” he cried. “The sooner I’m away from this place and have the deck under my feet again the happier I’ll be.”

  Thomas chortled and began to ascend the rope, closely followed by the little fieldmouse.

  Night was falling and already the first stars shone faintly in the darkening sky. As the Calliope voyaged beneath the deepening heavens, gilded by the last flickering rays of the setting sun, a shadow reared from the swirling waters of the ship’s wake.

  With her leaden eyes gleaming, Zenna turned her solemn face towards the Calliope, intently watching the two tiny figures labour up the trailing rope.

  Brighter shone the bleak unloved light of her gaze as she saw her champion gain the deck rail and clamber to safety.

  “Woodget,” she breathed, chanting the name as though it were something new and wondrous to her. “Woodget.”

  A look of bliss lifted her serious features and a rare grin divided her ashen face. Repeating the fieldmouse’s name over and over to herself she twirled joyfully in the water then, purposefully, she began to swim after the great, darkening shape of the Calliope and was soon lost in the gathering shadows.

  7 - Into the Raging Squall

  The following morning, Thomas awoke late and his head was pounding. Gingerly he looked about him, but Woodget had already left their quarters some hours before so, stepping carefully from the barrels, Thomas went in search of him.

  Eventually he discovered the fieldmouse talking to Dimlon at one corner of the central road and Thomas was surprised to see that they were both holding mops in their paws.

  “There’s one for you too, Tom,�
� Woodget said giving the deck a swipe with the damp mop. “Mulligan suggested we ask the captain if we could earn our breakfast, seeing as how all our grub’s run out, so us three are the new swabs.”

  “Couldn’t we rest first and work later?” Thomas groaned. “I don’t want any breakfast. I think my seasickness is back—my head feels awful and my tongue’s as shrivelled as a raisin.”

  Woodget threw the spare mop at him. “I ain’t got no sympathy for you, Tom,” he laughed. “Or should I call ’ee Triton? You just set to it, there’s a week of work to do so you’d best start now.”

  Scrunching up his eyes to shield them from the dim lanterns which to him were blazing like suns and stabbing into his aching brain, Thomas dabbed at the floor and his first job at sea commenced.

  For the rest of that day, they were kept extremely busy cleaning up the hold and were rewarded by three square meals which they ate with the rest of the crew.

  Several times. Mulligan came to watch them sweep up or wipe the timbers and during these periods he would regale them with more stories or burst unexpectedly into an old sea shanty, the choruses of which shocked most of the other folk who happened to be passing or stopped to listen.

  Thomas looked forward to the one-legged mouse’s visits but Woodget still felt uncomfortable in his presence and preferred to concentrate on his chores instead.

  By the end of the day, the new members of the crew were absolutely exhausted. Dimlon plodded back to the wool sacks with his heavy lids drooping over his large eyes and spoke hardly a word to anyone whilst Thomas and Woodget eagerly sought their own bunks and were asleep almost before they had cast themselves down.

  That night a ponderous silence filled the hold; not even the grunting of rats as they snorted and belched in their slime-haunted slumbers disturbed the tremendous quiet which charged the still, expectant atmosphere.

  Through every stupefied, insensible mind, the fleeting ghosts of beloved memories or the rambling scenes of never remembered dreams coursed freely. To some, fanciful images of their final destination, built and coloured from the exaggerations of family and friends, towered large in the deep caverns of their snug rest. Bright pictures of fields and streams flowed through the homesick sleep of others, whilst stomachs bored with the same old rations inspired nocturnal visions of steaming puddings drowning in cream and the heavenly scent of freshly baked but imagined bread set many whiskers trembling and craving lips drooling.