by Robin Jarvis
Even the first officer who sat up on deck, supposedly on watch, had nodded and was in the arms of some fair mouse maid; Fleur of Calais, Rinda in Bombay, Nessea in Crete, little Cho Teh who dwelt by the docks in Singapore. To each of them he had confessed his undying love, and promised to return and wed them one day, but knew that he never would and they danced on their pretty, dainty feet before him, dipping in and out of the ever winding waltz of his dream.
Only one soul was still awake upon the Calliope. Within his tent, the hood of his cloak cast back over his head, Simoon sat before the incense burner, a pouch of soft leather clasped in his paw.
Glittering like the wintry heavens, his great black eyes fixed upon the cloud of blue smoke which gathered around him and he began to chant a string of mysterious words. From his quick tongue the rapid rhymes of a half-forgotten land poured as into the pouch he delved, bringing out a fistful of herbs and powders which he cast at the burner.
At once the tent blazed with a vivid green light. A brilliant emerald flame crackled within and the air was filled with angry, spitting sparks until the smoke became a dark, thickly-swirling, olive fog.
Into this billowing mist Simoon stared, muttering continually and gradually the obscuring veils parted, but through the dissipating shreds he did not see the embroidered fabrics upon the far wall. Glimmering within that vaporous, ever shifting frame, as if it were a window looking upon a remote scene in the far distance, the jerboa beheld the shores of a tranquil, moonlit country rising gracefully from the shimmering sea.
All was silent save for the prophet’s faint, steady breaths. No sound of the lapping deep flowed from that ethereal view, no call of gull or sigh of wind, only the dun colours of that far away island filtered through and Simoon’s eyes burned stronger than ever before.
Over the sundering waters, his unswerving gaze travelled, sweeping through the breaking waves and flying high above the silvery sands. Into the deep shade of cypress trees, his keen eyes penetrated, piercing the violet darkness and crossing the hills to where a row of white, weathered columns and tumbled stumps jutted from the ground like pale and broken fingers. Grass grew over the marble floors within that ancient temple, yet many figures clad in robes of white still gathered there. Clasping one another’s paws, they formed a great circle and began to slowly pace around a large central stone.
Suddenly the wheeling ring was broken and it seemed to the jerboa’s eyes that a strong gusting wind had fallen upon them. From the east it came, tearing at their gleaming robes and driving them out onto the hillside. Lifting their faces to the gale, the scattered creatures were suddenly afraid and terror was graven upon them as they stared into the battering night.
Solemnly, Simoon bent his glance eastward where the far shores of that isle were tormented with storm and the waves came riding far inland. With terrible violence the tempest raged, and in its midst sailing swiftly over the sea was a dense, thunderous cloud—wreathed by countless forked and savage lightnings.
The jerboa’s face darkened and his bristling eyebrows quivered as he strained to venture closer to that wild tumult. Larger its image grew in the churning smoke before him until the inside of the tent flashed and shone with every fierce bolt that snaked from the black menacing cloud. Clenching his teeth, Simoon’s paws clenched into fists and the knuckles blanched as the tremendous effort to spur his will on took its toll. Through the obscuring storm he tore, rending aside the violent lashing screens to see what lay hidden within.
The prophet’s jaws ground together, as he battled with the horrendous might of the unseen power and, suddenly, he broke through.
Blanketing thunder clouds gaped about him and in he swooped, though the lightning raged all around like flickering white fences.
Then he saw it, the hideous vessel concealed deep within the tempest’s heart. A high golden prow rode the leaping waves and Simoon shivered at its monstrous shape. In the likeness of a ghastly, ravening serpent had the figurehead been fashioned; two huge rubies burned in its eyes and over the surface of every polished, faceted scale was the fury of the tormented weather mirrored and hurled back into the night.
Simoon quailed when he looked on the hellish, slave-worked ship, for it was crammed with countless yellow-eyed, foul-looking creatures with curved swords in their claws and long knives gripped in their teeth. Yet the most dreadful of all those infernal, misbegotten fiends stood haughty and arrogant behind the malformed figurehead.
Tall and imposing was he, a grotesque portrait of bitterness and reviling hatred. Long and raven, his hair streamed in the gale and his narrow eyes blazed black with the awful loathing of his unquenchable malice. Pride and disdain leered upon that cruel face as he held his gaunt head high and stared malevolently past the golden serpent and at the storm beyond.
Sitting upon his cushions, Simoon gazed at the venomous creature for several moments, then raised his paw to dispel the remote visions. But even as he did so, the fiend upon the prow turned its malignant head and glared through the vast distance as if it were aware of him.
A ferocious snarl crept over the lean face and the burning eyes flashed dark, slicing through the olive drab smoke and with a frightened shriek, the jerboa fell back before the terrible force of that evil glance.
Out flew an accusing, threatening claw and the golden ship veered around until the horrific gilded serpent bore unerringly forward and the crimson glare that beat from its ruby eyes flooded the prophet’s tent.
With his back against the tapestry-adorned wall, Simoon shuddered and, holding his paws before his face as if warding off some dreadful blow, he stared fearfully up at the foggy portal his own powers had created.
On came the glittering ship, its barbaric crew yammering for death and murder, and its vicious captain threw back his head to crow with devilish mirth. Larger the nightmarish figurehead loomed until it seemed as if it would crash through the surrounding mist and plough straight over the jerboa’s prostrate form, crushing him beneath its horrible weight.
“Enough!” Simoon wailed. “Arvit Netchua Kara-vinda!”
Leaping to his feet, he raised his puny arms in a gesture of defiance and challenge but the fiery glare intensified and he appeared lost in a lake of steaming gore.
“Berakka Netchua!” he yelled. “Begone! Begone!”
Within the swirling mists a great wave swept before the ship, surging and rolling forward until, impossibly, it burst through the magical foggy window and the seething salt water crashed into the buckling tent, sluicing about the hem of the prophet’s cloak, its stinging spray battering into his stricken face. Then, just as the first glint of gleaming gold pushed from the smoke, Simoon snatched up his staff and from its rayed tip a green fire spluttered into life and an arc of dazzling energy shot into the whirling mists.
For an instant he heard the screeching of the heathen army and the vile curses of the hellish captain bellow above the din of the storm—and then all was quiet.
Only the faintest eddying threads of pale blue smoke remained in the tent but the cushion-strewn floor was awash with sea water.
Wearily, Simoon leaned upon the staff and passed a paw over his eyes as he panted and struggled to regain his breath.
“So,” he uttered in a hoarse gasp, “the time long feared is indeed upon us. The Scales are moving once more—rampaging over the face of the unhappy world to recover the remaining pieces. Upon the wings of storm their evil is riding and who is there in this age of the world who can withstand the High Priest of the Dark Despoiler? Perhaps we have underestimated the strength of our enemies—if so then the hope of the Council is built upon sand. Only when the nine stars herald His rebirth shall we know for certain whether our toil has been in vain. Long have we waited for this chance, much has been gambled and still more will be lost ’ere the end finds us.”
Sighing, the jerboa shook his head and lay the staff down as he cast his eyes about the waterlogged tent.
“Yet for the here and now I must also take time to consid
er,” he mused. “Far away the forces of the Scale are thundering over the sea, yet into the very skirts of their twisting wrath are we sailing. Verily, a calamity approaches and the morrow will be a day of doom, but Simoon the prophet must be ready when it strikes.”
Mumbling to himself, he paddled over to the wall and began pulling down the tapestries—there was much to be done.
The next day dawned bleak and grey but through the choppy, buffeting waters the Calliope steadily smacked and scythed her way. Within the hold, those folk who had at first suffered from seasickness were once again afflicted and even some who had thought themselves immune lay moaning in their bunks, wailing with every roll of the ship.
Much to Thomas’s amazement the vessel’s stomach-curdling motion had no effect upon him whatsoever and, feeling extremely pleased with himself, he set off with Woodget and Dimlon to discover what duties would be assigned to them.
That morning Captain Gabriel Hewer’s orders made no mention of swabbing the decks. “A real Devil’s squall this is,” he said, “and like as not the brew’ll spoil a whole lot more afore it improves. Make certain all’s secure and keep me informed of the mood below. If those scab-faced, whining rats try to scramble to the upper decks, knock their heads together and give them something real to whinge about for a change.”
In the hold the mouse families held onto each other in grave silence as the weather outside steadily worsened. Ever more powerful became the waves that smote the Calliope and as she ploughed further into the storm the pale daylight failed altogether, for heavy clouds blotted out the sky and, with an ominous rumble of distant thunder, the rain commenced—torrential and driving.
Whilst the ship pitched and crashed upon the swollen, wind-whipped waves, Thomas, Woodget and Dimlon ran to and fro between the crates trying to keep everyone calm. At first they attempted to take their minds off the storm by gathering those that were willing together and in desperation called upon Mulligan to sing a few songs. Initially the rousing ditties of the Irish mouse appeared to hearten them, but when a tremendous clap of thunder resounded directly above the ship all the children began to scream.
Now the din of the storm could be heard above the throb of the straining engines and any further plans to appease the passengers were abandoned.
Then into the central thoroughfare came Simoon. The small, crimson-robed figure of the jerboa emerged from one of the narrow alleyways and behind him he dragged a great bundle of possessions which he had lashed together.
Without a word to anyone, and not even appearing to notice their fearful faces or indeed anything that was going on, Simoon began to tie his goods to the side of a large crate.
The assembled mouse families watched him in disbelief as the ship’s movements became ever more erratic and unpredictable.
“What’s the wizard doing?” the children blubbed through their sobbing tears. But their parents did not know the answer. The jerboa was evidently preparing himself for something, but for what?
When he was certain that his bundle was sturdily fastened, Simoon climbed to its bulky summit and slipped his long, kangaroo-like feet under the straps. Then he pulled the hood over his head and waited.
Clutching at a rope for support as the deck began to tilt more wildly. Mulligan spoke to his friends through gritted teeth.
“Unnatural this is, I don’t blame these folk for being afeared. In all my years at sea I reckon this’ll turn out to be the blackest day of them all! May fortune guide us to safe harbour.”
Woodget stared unhappily about them. Nearly everyone was weeping and trembling with fear and, as yet another almighty wave blasted against the Calliope, sending it reeling and lurching through the ravaging tempest, his own spirits withered inside him.
“We will make it, won’t we?” his small voice asked.
Mulligan shrugged and tapped his bag thoughtfully. “We have to,” he muttered. “But there’s more at work here than the elements only. A fiendish power and a dark, striving mind is behind that lashing rain.”
Woodget did not know what he meant by that but there was no time to question him further, there was still much to be done. Everything that was not tied down had to be made secure and with the help of many others they set to it.
Painfully, the morning crawled by and still the storm raged, with no sign of abating. Upon the forlorn, tormented ship the evil weather vented its fury, tossing it like a scrap of driftwood over the towering, hammering waves.
The fears of the passengers mounted and recriminations reverberated throughout the hold as spouses squabbled about who was to blame for bringing them to this dreadful end. In the rat district, the scrawny inhabitants yowled with every crashing wave and many had been sick from sheer terror. Once, five of the hapless creatures tried to scramble to the passage which led to the upper deck but Mulligan had checked the stampede by standing resolutely in the way and knocking the first of the squealing brutes to the ground with his stick.
“There’ll be none of you scarpering for the time being,” he shouted. “We’re not sunk yet!”
But the tempest gripped the Calliope more fiercely than ever. All around, the pounding waters reared into the shivering dark like mountains of despair—only to come smashing down on top of her.
In the hold an uneasy quiet had fallen, all were now too petrified to shriek or bewail their fate.
Anxiously they waited, enduring each shuddering blow that smote the hull as if it would be the last—the one that would finally bring an end to their misery.
Only the creaking of the ropes which held the cargo in place could be heard amid the roaring tumult and Thomas hoped that the crates were sufficiently fastened down.
“Green spare us!” Woodget whispered.
“Oh Aunty Lily!” Dimlon jabbered.
Suddenly, a wave more violent than any they had yet experienced rammed into the ship and as the hold tipped almost vertically, chaos and confusion erupted.
In that instant Thomas’s voyage on board the Calliope ended, but in the years that followed he never forgot the sheer horror of those final terrible moments.
Screeching and howling, the passengers were thrown forward, tumbling uncontrollably along the main thoroughfare—falling on top of the panic-stricken, squawking rats.
Woodget went spinning head over heels down the suddenly steep deck, his little figure bumping into Dimlon, who in turn fell against Thomas. Only Mulligan managed to save himself, snatching at a corner of tarpaulin as his fellow travellers were flung by, shrieking in terror, unable to stop themselves.
Like an insane see-saw, the Calliope jerked and plunged as the wild, merciless waters possessed it utterly and the passengers were shaken from port to starboard then fore to aft like jangling beads in an enormous rattle.
“If you value your necks, hold on!” Mulligan bawled. “Or you’ll be dashed to pieces. It’s somersaults she’ll be doing next!”
Toppling and slithering, the creatures in the hold grabbed at ropes, crates, chests—even the hull’s rivets were scrabbled at in the frenzied struggles to find something to cling on to.
Somehow Woodget battled his way from the seething, wailing throng and made a frantic grab at one of the ropes.
But not all were quick enough to find a pawhold and back they fell when next the ship lurched, only to be thrust forward again as it wildly bucked and dipped.
Like a shrieking tide with flailing arms, thrashing legs and whisking tails the mice, rats, shrews, hedgehogs, stoats, voles and moles were washed to and fro. Lethal and hopeless was their plight, for no one could spare a paw to help them and those who valiantly struggled to save some poor, tumbling wretch were torn from their anchor and fell headlong into the screaming, steerless crowd.
But soon the violent, brutal shaking began to reap a horrible harvest.
Mothers screamed as children were ripped from their aching arms and went flying down the tilting deck to be lost amid the surging flow of tortured bodies. Breath was punched from lungs as feet and elbo
ws drove heedlessly into stomachs. Many of Mulligan’s snooty neighbours were already dead but their limp frames continued to be hurled across the hold. Heads cracked against the metal bulkheads and backs snapped when they struck the corners of great quivering crates. Skulls split open as they slammed into the hull and bones splintered, their fragmented spikes piercing mangled, flapping limbs.
Never in all his young life had Woodget been so frightened. It was as if they had suddenly plunged into a dark, tormented nightmare and he wrapped his arms and legs about the rope more tightly than ever. But every pitch and yaw brought new horrors as the rattling flotsam of the dead and dying flushed past him and in that snarl of bruised and fractured bodies he recognised many faces, young and old.
Despair filled the Calliope and the fieldmouse stared about him, sobbing with terror, searching for Thomas and the others.
“Tom!” he cried, ducking just in time as a rat’s gangly, battered corpse cannoned by, almost knocking him from his perch. “Tom! Where are you?”
Woodget’s heart sank and he prayed that his friend was not amongst that jumbled multitude of the dead.
Outside, the maelstrom raged with increased savagery and from the engines there came a horrible sound of rending metal as the prop-shaft twisted and buckled.
“Over here!” Mulligan’s voice called. “We’re over here.”
Separated by the central road, Woodget saw that Thomas, Dimlon, the Irish mouse and a host of others were clutching desperately at the tarpaulin.
But the sight brought little comfort, for at that moment the ship was lifted from the sea by a gargantuan wall of foaming, lightning-crowned water and hurled through the crackling air. Over and over the Calliope turned, flipped by the monstrous wave as if she were no more than a coin and then with a ruinous, almighty, deafening crash that jarred every one of Woodget’s bones and had him squeezing shut his tear-filled eyes as tight as he possibly could, the ship returned to the sea.
