The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  The rat maiden squealed and sprang back inside the kitchen, only to be hauled out again by her mistress’s strong claws.

  “You watch!” Ma Skillet scolded. “Mother Lotus, she out chuck him.”

  Waddling between the tables, the proprietor of the Lotus Parlour blustered towards the vole who greeted her with a rousing chorus of his warbling song until she snatched the cup from him, and seizing the scruff of his neck, frogmarched the bewildered creature to the door where she pushed him out onto the slithering mud.

  Clapping her paws together, she returned over the sawdust-covered floor of the bar and said to Kiku, “You understand?”

  The other nodded. “Ahh, yes Mamma Lotus, he no good—ack! Kiku, she see now, oh yes.”

  Ma Skillet rolled her eyes and wondered why she bothered trying to train someone so stupid. There were plenty of others clamouring for the humble bed and board the lowly work offered. Too soft-hearted, that was her failing. Still, keeping such a guileless fool and putting up with her feeble grasp of the common speech amused her regulars and besides, it kept the illusion going for any newcomers and that was all that mattered.

  “Empty cups,” she shouted to her, as if by saying it loudly, Kiku would understand it better. “You fetch them—go.”

  The ratmaiden had been there long enough to know what that instruction meant, so pulling the curtain aside she pattered into the bar whilst Ma Skillet settled herself back into her seat and puffed on the pipe.

  Through the tables Kiku went, peering into every beaker—scowling at a customer if there was only a drop left in the bottom and nudging him to finish it.

  The rough clientele muttered and grumbled under their breaths, but they knew her mistress’s eyes were upon them so they made no complaint and yielded their vessels grudgingly.

  Kiku collected all she could and returned to the bar where the patrons had to come and pay for them to be refilled.

  The young rat maiden was a lovely addition to the Lotus Parlour and that was another reason Ma Skillet put up with her. When she sidled by the tables, those eyes which were not glazed with drink followed her about the dim room.

  So far her brief life had been filled with unhappiness and when she had arrived in Singapore, Kiku was alone and down on her luck. Many troubles and heartaches lay behind her and there was nowhere left to run. All she had ever wanted was to find peace and live amongst the friends she had never had, where a warm and gentle sun, that did not scorch or bake, shone over a tranquil corner of the world—that was her dream.

  Yet for the moment it seemed impossible and she was grateful for the scraps her mistress left her and, though she did not comprehend all that was said, she strove to learn and improve her comprehension.

  Humming to herself, Kiku looked to Mother Lotus to see if there was anything more she could do, but the bloated rat dismissed her with a flick of her paper fan.

  Kiku bowed and pattered back into the foul kitchen.

  Clenching the pipe between her teeth, Ma Skillet drummed her claws on the bar and those patrons with no cups came sidling over to reclaim them. Smiling, Ma Skillet held out her open palm and not until she had received payment would she refill the beakers with a stinking brown liquid and permit the customers to return to their tables.

  Stuffing the coins into a bulging purse attached to the belt of her dressing gown, she leaned back and dreamed of the festivities that she would join later.

  Again her musings were curtailed as the entrance swung open and into the light radiating from the suspended candle came two figures.

  The bar’s buzzing talk died immediately and every ugly head turned to eye the newcomers with suspicion.

  Ma Skillet leaned forward, inhaling a deep breath of tobacco smoke as she too scrutinised the two strangers.

  They were dressed in long, dark cloaks, their faces concealed by deep hoods and for several moments they stood by the door blinking in the harsh light until their hidden eyes grew accustomed to it.

  The proprietor of the Lotus Parlour arched one of her charcoal-drawn brows. The figures obviously did not want to be recognised, yet she was certain, merely by their stature and bearing, that she had never seen either of them before.

  Both were shorter than her usual patrons, so she guessed that they were not rats. The larger of the two seemed quite burly under that mantling cloak but his companion was no bigger than a shrew and curiosity began to burn inside her ample bosom.

  Thomas peered about the murky room, his eyes watering in the malodorous atmosphere and looked for an empty table. At his side Woodget gathered the abundant folds of his hood about his crinkling nose, whilst keeping a tight hold of the bag slung over his shoulder.

  Twelve days had passed since their flight from the forces of the Scale in India and looking back over that desperate time they could hardly believe they had managed to survive and evade capture.

  Whilst the High Priest and his followers were still searching the mountain, the two mice had hastened down the pitch-black tunnel until they finally came to the city’s catacombs. There, among the cold marble effigies of the embalmed dead, they eventually found a climbing road that led to the far side of the city—emerging close to the edge of the deserted harbour.

  Fearing they would be sighted at any moment, they daringly stole a small river boat and sailed under the stone archway and into the overgrown waterway.

  Behind them in the city, the cult members continued to rampage, burning the buildings, sticking the decapitated heads of the Haran folk onto spears and drinking the blood of those not slain by poison.

  Yet in the mountain, though the High Priest hunted and searched, destroying everything in his path, he could not discover the ninth fragment and only when it was too late did he realise the route it must have taken and in fury dragged his forces from their revels before they had time to gorge themselves or explore every chink and corner.

  On to the Kaliya they piled, but by that time Thomas and Woodget had put a great distance between them and, concealed by the lashing rain, escaped at last to the coast.

  Wary of everyone they met, the mice finally sold the small Haran craft at the nearest port, where they then boarded a ship. Now, two vessels later, they had arrived in Singapore and were both extremely weary, for the strain of their adventures bore heavily upon them.

  The unfriendly silence which greeted their entrance continued long after their vision adjusted to the change in light and they had made their way to the place recently vacated by the unmusical water vole.

  Uncomfortably aware of every hostile glance, Woodget sat down but did not let go of the bag’s leather straps.

  Since departing Hara, neither he nor Thomas had trusted anyone, every creature they met was a possible member of the serpent cult, so they kept their own company and talked seldom in voices above the level of a whisper for fear of being overheard.

  “A likelier band of cut-throats I never did see,” the fieldmouse murmured.

  Thomas agreed, “Aye, so remember to leave any talking to me.”

  “Does you really think we’ll find him here?” Woodget asked doubtfully. “This don’t look the sort of place he’d be at all.”

  “No, but someone’s bound to have seen him. There can’t be many like him I’ll warrant. No, if Simoon is in Singapore like the Holy One said, then this is as good a place to start asking as any. But if he’s as gifted in the ways of prophecy as everyone seems to think, then he ought to know we’re here already.”

  “And what if he ain’t?” Woodget muttered desperately. “What does we do then? We can’t keep this ’ere nasty bit of goods secret all our lives. Oaks an’ ivy Tom, them evil snake worshippers’ll find us one day! There bain’t no escapin’ em—they’s everywhere! One slip o’ the tongue is all it’d take and that’s it, we’ll end up stone dead.”

  Thomas’s eyes glittered in the shadow of his hood. “I know,” he answered solemnly, “but for the moment there’s nowt else we can do. If we’re unsuccessful here then we’ll just
have to go somewhere else.”

  “But where?”

  “There’s always Greenwich, I suppose,” Thomas said softly. “That’s where Mulligan had just come from, remember. He said he’d been to see the Starwife—if we can’t find Simoon then she really is our last hope.”

  Woodget sighed. “Least that’s back home,” he said, “an’ old Mulligan did say as how it were a good restful place.”

  “Well I’ll bear that in mind,” Thomas commented.

  “But it’s a long way back. A long way to keep this ’ere nasty a secret and who knows what Dimmy might have told the rest of his foul folk? Does they know our names? Are they hunting for us?”

  “Maafkan Saya!” rang a sudden, terse voice behind them.

  Startled, the mice looked up and there was Ma Skillet—standing with her claws folded on her breast, her white face staring at them truculently.

  “Good evening,” Thomas said politely.

  “Ahh,” the fat rat declared, “you are Britlanders. Many Englishers come here, buy liquor. But they no can stay if no buy liquor.”

  Thomas understood and reached inside his cloak for the last of their money. “Forgive me,” he said, “we have journeyed far and are very tired, we were not thinking. Could me and my friend have a drink, please?”

  The rat pursed her lips, the stranger’s manners amused her but she was not to be thwarted in her prying quest for knowledge. The cloaked newcomers interested her and she was determined to discover both their identities and their purpose before closing the bar that night.

  “Mother Lotus get good strong quenchers for you,” she said. “Mister..?”

  Thomas pulled the hood from his head and Woodget followed suit. The rosy light from a pink paper lantern fell upon their careworn faces and the rat gurgled with mirth.

  “Mouselets!” she cooed and at once the babble of voices recommenced and the uncouth-looking characters around them returned to their business. Mother Lotus had accepted the strangers and that was enough to assuage any suspicions.

  “Very splendid strappling fellows,” she continued. “With good Englisher names, yes?”

  The mice looked at one another and Thomas cleared his throat. “This is Master Cudweed,” he announced, much to the fieldmouse’s chagrin. “And I’m...”

  “He’s Mister Triton!” Woodget broke in quickly.

  Ma Skillet bowed to them both, but gave Thomas a lurid wink. “Triton,” she repeated, relishing the sound on her tongue. “Very pretty,” and with a chuckle, she trundled away.

  “She didn’t ask what sort of drinks we wanted,” Woodget hissed.

  “I should think they’ll only serve one sort anyway,” Thomas replied. “And what’d you have to go an’ tell her I was called Triton for? You know I think it’s a stupid name.”

  “Least you ain’t called after your sister,” the fieldmouse countered. “’Sides it suits you. I told ’ee I likes it better’n Stubbs.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Well let’s see if she’s heard of a travelling fortune teller hereabouts,” he murmured.

  Carrying two wooden cups which frothed over with a horrendous brown scum-covered concoction, Ma Skillet returned.

  “Mouselets travel big distance,” she said. “Liquor of Mother Lotus make you strong—send away tired feeling. You drink, you like.”

  Thomas took the proffered cup and lifted it to his lips, blowing a clear space through the foaming head before attempting to sample the noxious brew.

  Woodget did the same but the large rat’s eyes were only turned to Thomas so he merely pretended to drink and hastily put the cup down again.

  Ma Skillet watched with delight as Thomas spluttered and choked after his first mouthful and clapped him roughly on the back. “It’s good, yes?” she said proudly.

  “Delic... delicious,” he lied with a wheeze.

  “Clever mouselet,” she laughed. “You very beautiful fellow. Mother Lotus like you.”

  Thomas shifted on his seat and fumbled at his neckerchief. “Oh?” he mumbled nervously whilst kicking Woodget under the table.

  “What you do in Singapore?” she asked, stroking his fine hair in her claws. “Here, you have more drink.”

  She pressed the cup to Thomas’s lips and swigging a second detestable mouthful he shuddered and said, “My friend and me were looking for someone. Weren’t we Cudweed?”

  Woodget was too busy enjoying Thomas’s discomfort. Even after all the terrible perils they had been through and all the hideous sights he had witnessed, he was still able to laugh and had to be asked twice before answering.

  “What? Oh yes, that be right,” he said.

  “Who you seek?” the rat asked. “Mother Lotus, she know every peoples.”

  Thomas coughed. “Well,” he began, “while we were on the cargo ship, we were told there’s a fortune teller—a prophet, somewhere roundabouts.”

  “Who tell you this?” Ma Skillet asked.

  “Oh er... a big stoaty chap, weren’t it, Master Cudweed?”

  The rat took hold of Thomas’s paw and held it close to the lantern light. “You no need teller of fortunes,” she told him with a smile. “Mother Lotus, she know what lady fate has in store for you.”

  Thomas pulled his paw away and quickly took another drink.

  Twiddling with the chewed-looking ends of her pigtail, the rat saw that his cup was nearly empty and went to fetch some more.

  “I think we’d best go,” Thomas muttered. “Let’s try somewhere else.”

  “She’s took a real shine to you, ain’t she?” the fieldmouse chortled. “But you’re right. This were a daft idea cornin’ in here to begin with.”

  Rising, they were about to head for the door when Ma Skillet’s stern voice cried. “Where you go? Pretty Triton no have other drink yet. You not leave till you drink. No need pay. Mother Lotus—she buy.”

  “That’s very kind,” Thomas called, edging towards the entrance. “But we have to go I’m afraid.”

  The corpulent rat smacked the bar with her fist and at once the other customers leered threateningly at the two mice.

  “You’d best sit down an’ have that other sup of grog with her, Tom,” Woodget murmured. “We can’t get into no fights, we can’t afford to have no one stealin’ this bag, now can we?”

  Thomas struggled to manage a thin, half-hearted laugh and they returned to their seats.

  Ma Skillet grunted in satisfaction. The mouse pleased her and although she had no illusions about her own attractiveness, there were ways to get around that.

  Pouring a further cupful of brown liquor, she reached under the bar and took from a shelf a small glass bottle containing a fine grey powder which she secretly sprinkled into the drink.

  “Now mousey do anything Mother Lotus wish,” she cackled to herself. “He be liking she very much.”

  Whirling around, she sailed back to the table and pushed the brimming cup into Thomas’s paws.

  “You drink—then you go, my beautiful mouselet,” she told him.

  Thomas took the cup from her and raised it to his mouth.

  As soon as the first drop passed his lips, the rat began to whistle a peculiar, haunting tune between her teeth.

  It was a mysterious, jarring melody and as she whistled it, her claws weaved through the fug-filled air, tracing weird signs in the drifting smoke.

  Woodget watched her curiously. The fat old rat was completely cracked and he wished Thomas would hurry up and finish the horrible mixture so they could get out of there.

  The vile-tasting liquor burned in Thomas’s throat, but after the first swig the wretched flavour didn’t seem half so bad and by the third it was almost palatable. Yet all the while he drank, the eerie trilling tune treacled and seeped into his ears and a prickling sensation tingled over his body as though he were lying upon a bed of nettles.

  Draining the beaker to its last dregs, he placed it woozily upon the table then stared about him in a daze.

  The pink light that radiated from
the lantern appeared brighter than before and flooded a blushing glow into his swimming vision. From some great distance away, or so he thought, he heard Woodget’s high voice filled with mounting concern call out, but a wondrous feeling of contentment was seeping into his spirit and there was nothing he could do but yield to its marvellous warmth and welcoming joy.

  “Tom!” the fieldmouse cried in consternation when he saw his friend’s eyelids droop and a foolish expression spread across his face. “What be the matter? Wake up, Tom, this ain’t time fer a doze. Tom! Tom!”

  But to his dismay, Thomas sank deeper into the trance Ma Skillet was weaving about him and she chuckled softly to herself.

  “What you doin’ to him?” Woodget demanded angrily. “Ho, Missus, stop. Bring poor Tom out of it.”

  The rat glanced at him and the whistling ceased. “I not harm the pretty mouselet,” she assured him. “Mother Lotus like have play with he first. He hers now. My tune—it owns him. When I whistle he obey.”

  Turning back to the mesmerised Thomas, she brought her face close to his and blew lightly upon it.

  “Master Triton,” she called coaxingly. “Who you see before you? What fair face you keep in heart?”

  Thomas’s head nodded and swayed as he tried to focus on the flabby visage in front. But the rosy, romantic light crowded in on him, creating an aura of splendour about Ma Skillet’s unwieldy features, flickering and lapping over them until they melted and dwindled into a familiar and beloved countenance and he gasped in marvelling surprise.

  “Bess,” he murmured.

  Woodget stared at his poor friend in misery, how could the rat be so wicked as to torment him in this fashion?

  “This bain’t right!” he cried. “Stop it!”

  “The amusement end only when Mother Lotus she is bored,” came the harsh reply.

  Around the other tables, Ma Skillet’s regulars guffawed into their cups to see her toying with the newcomers. The proprietor of the Lotus Parlour might be formidable and they had reason to fear her, but there were infrequent occasions when she provided a riotous and entertaining cabaret.

  “Tom!” Woodget tried again. “Tom—listen to me. This ain’t Bess.”