by Robin Jarvis
A deep rumbling purr began, menacingly soft at first, then slowly growing deeper and more fearsome. Kempe’s legs trembled and he could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. There was a monster hiding in that mist – some mind-numbing terror from the deep cold regions had come to claim him. Scarcely conscious of his own actions, only of the overwhelming horror, Kempe waved his arms about in despair as he felt the monster’s freezing breath fall on him. In his paw the little bell tinkled; an incongruously delicate and beautiful sound.
There came a savage roar and Kempe cried out as the bell was torn from his clenched fist by an invisible power and he wept with fright to see it float up into the fog where an immense, dark shadow was gathering.
‘No!’ screamed the traveller stumbling backwards. ‘Leave me, please . . . I have done no harm . . . I . . .’
From the evil shape that was mounting before him there came a sneering, mocking laugh. It ended in a cruel snarl and Kempe gasped when he saw what form the shape began to take.
Then high in the smothering fog a bitter blue light flashed and a great spear of ice hurtled downwards. That was the last thing Kempe ever saw, for he felt a sharp pain in his chest before he fell to his knees and collapsed lifeless on the ground. The terrible ice spear had pierced his body and the blood which trickled out froze quickly. The shadow in the fog purred to itself and somewhere in that blanketing greyness the sound of a small, sweet bell tinkled softly.
1. Yule
The old empty house in Deptford looked blankly out at the wet, wintry world. The neglected building was the home of many mice, but only at special times of the year would they all come together to celebrate the various mouse festivals. There was the Great Spring Ceremony where mousebrasses were given out to those young mice who had come of age, there was Midsummer’s Eve – a particularly magical time – and finally there was the Festival of Yule.
Yule occurs in the midst of winter when cold storms batter and rage outside. It is a time of hardship for most creatures and all the more frightening because food is scarce. This is the time when the midwinter death kills the old and the very young. For many long years mice have gathered together during Yule and lit fires to keep the ravening spirits of cold and ice away.
They feel themselves to be particularly vulnerable during this season because the Green Mouse, their protector and symbol of life, is dead. Every autumn, when the harvest has been taken in and the last fruit falls from the trees, the great Green Mouse dwindles and dies. Throughout the long, dark winter months his spirit is neither felt nor seen as Death binds him close, and only when the first sign of spring appears is he reborn once more. It is through these bleak, dangerous months that mice have to survive, and those who dwell out of doors dread it.
In the Skirtings, however, Yule was much looked forward to. The mice had a plentiful supply of food from the larder of the blind old lady who lived next door and so the threat of winter was never felt as harshly by them. They would light fires to roast their store of chestnuts and mull their berrybrews. For them all the seriousness and the danger of the season had been forgotten and Yule had become a time of feasting and the telling of ghost stories.
This year the Hall had been decked out with sprigs of evergreen and bright streamers which some of the children had made. They took a long time preparing the food, and many an impatient husband received a sharp smack from an anxious wife as he tasted the mixtures when he thought she wasn’t looking. Those children not involved in making streamers mooned about sniffing the different smells which wafted through the house. There was Mrs Coltfoot’s tangerine jelly and Mrs Chitter’s spiced fruit buns, Miss Poot’s almond tart and Mr Cockle’s own berrybrew. All these wonderful smells to savour! The children smacked their lips and longed for the days to pass quickly.
A large roof slate specially kept for the occasion had been hauled out of the cupboard where the Chambers of Spring and Summer had also been stored. This they put down in the centre of the Hall and built a fire over it. That night all the mice from both the Skirtings and the Landings were gathered round the crackling flames, warming their paws and listening to tales. Some were cleaning their whiskers wondering if they ought to make another attack on the feast nearby, while others were dozing contentedly, musing on things past and long ago. Most of them, however, wanted to hear ghost stories and the younger ones turned to the stout, retired midshipmouse Thomas Triton to entertain them.
‘Take the hat, Mr Triton please!’ they begged. ‘Tell us a scary moment from your days at sea. Give him the hat someone.’
The hat in question was an old, battered thing of burgundy velvet stitched round with gold thread and beads of red glass. It had somehow become the traditional hat of the storyteller in the house and only he who wore it could command everyone’s attention. Thomas Triton stepped reluctantly into the circle of yellow firelight and placed the hat on his head. He knelt down and began his tale. All eyes turned to him and they were reminded of the fact that outside all was dark by the story he told them.
‘’Twere a night such as this,’ he said in a deep resonant whisper, ‘not long before I went off to sea. I was staying in an old farm house. There weren’t no moon and it was bitter cold. I was much younger then – and rash – an’ all evenin’ I’d been listenin’ to stories like you are now. I was fair put out that I had no tale of me own to tell so I persuaded the best friend I ever had to come with me an’ visit the haunted barn.’
An appreciative murmur ran through his hushed audience.
‘Well, the loft of that there barn had a sinister reputation among us mice – nobody ever went there if they could help it. ’Twas said that the frightful ghost of a murdered mouse haunted the place and we were all mighty sceered of it.’ Thomas paused, and gazed solemnly round at the young, faces gaping up at him, their whiskers gleaming in the firelight.
‘So,’ he resumed, ‘me an’ my friend we leaves the safety of the farmhouse an’ makes our way to the barn. Our hearts were beatin’, fast an’ we held tight to each other’s paws. We was both shiverin’ with fright but on we went. Now, as I said before, ’twere a dark night but the shape of that barn reared up in front of us blacker than the night itself. ’Twas an ominous place and one of the bravest things we did was walk across that lonely yard to that big black shape. Anyway, when we gets there I goes in first. That barn hadn’t been used in years an’ it smelled all damp and musty. I wondered if rats lived there but my friend had a sniff round and said there weren’t none. Ah, he could smell an east wind comin’ he could – what a good nose he had! Well we look up to the hay loft where we mean to go. All is quiet an’ the only thing we can hear is ourselves breathing. I makes my way to the loft ladder and begins to climb.
‘“Don’t go, Tom!” hisses my friend suddenly, “Let’s go back!”
“‘No way,” I answered, “come on Woodget lad! Don’t stand there frettin’! Ain’t no such thing as ghosties.”
‘I climbed up to the loft and looked about me. The wind was gettin’ in somewhere an’ rustlin’ the old rotten heaps of hay. It was black as tar up there an’ I was glad when Woodget put his paw in mine. “Come on,” I said, “let’s scout round a bit.” Through the smelly old straw we went, a-fearin’ what was round the next corner or what might pop out at us. But apart from the rustlin’ all you could hear were two mice breathin’ – him an’ me. We walked all round that loft an’ not one ghost did we see. I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed so we returned to the loft entrance an’ I let go of Woodget’s paw to climb down the ladder.
‘“What a waste of time,” I said exasperated. “I told you there were no such thing as ghosties, Woodget!’
Here Thomas stopped his tale and his eyes bulged as he raised his eyebrows. ‘Then,’ he continued in a wavering voice, ‘to my horror I hear my little friend a callin’ up to me from the barn floor shoutin’, ‘You comin’ down now Tom? I’m gettin’ scared down here on my own.’ My fur stood on end and for a moment I was frozen to the spot
. I dare not look to right or left and the silence – you could have cut it with a knife. I don’t know how long I was frozen there, maybe only a second, but it felt like a lifetime. Then Woodget twitched his tail and rustled the straw below, breaking the ghostly spell.’
The audience gasped and cooed, ‘But whose paw were you holding, Mr Triton?’ piped up one of the youngsters.
‘That I don’t know lad,’ Thomas replied, ‘an’ I didn’t stay to find out. Woodget an’ me were out of that barn faster than anything.’
A shiver of excitement rippled through the assembled mice. They liked Thomas’s stories – he had been to so many places and they loved to hear of his adventures.
‘Tell us another,’ they pleaded.
The midshipmouse laughed but shook his head. ‘No,’ he refused gently, ‘I’ve worn the hat too long and you know your rules. One yarn per wear – let someone else have a turn.’ He removed the faded velvet hat from his head and passed it on to Master Oldnose who had been waiting close by for some time. He used to be the main storyteller and he spent many evenings making up new stories especially for the Yule Festival. He did not like Thomas’s popularity and he took the hat from him stiffly. Several young mice groaned rudely and wandered away from the fire as Master Oldnose began ‘The story of Bohart and the friendly moon spirits’.
Thomas stretched himself and left the circle winking at his admirers. A young albino mouse came running up to him excitedly.
‘Oh Mr Triton,’ he said, twisting the ends of a green scarf together in his paws with enthusiasm, ‘that was smashing! How on earth did you manage to sleep after that?’
‘None too well, young Oswald,’ the midshipmouse replied with an amused twinkle.
The albino blinked his bright pink eyes and nodded. ‘It was the best ghost story we’ve had here for years and it was true as well – it actually happened to you – gosh!’
‘That’s right lad, but don’t you start goin’ off again on dangerous journeys like the last one. You know how terrible they can be and what they can lead to.’
Oswald nodded. Earlier in the year he had ventured down into the sewers. He returned suffering from such a dreadful cold that nobody thought he would survive. Now he hugged himself and sucked his teeth. ‘What happened to your friend Woodget, Mr Triton?’ he asked. ‘Did he go to sea with you or did he stay at the farmhouse?’
The change in Thomas’s mood was startling. His expression altered dramatically and pain registered in his face. ‘By Neptune I wish he had stayed there,’ he said thickly before excusing himself and walking briskly away.
‘Oh dear,’ stammered Oswald, staring after the midshipmouse. ‘I do hope I didn’t say anything wrong.’
A plump mouse stole silently up behind the albino with a huge grin on his face, ‘BOO!’ he yelled suddenly.
Poor Oswald jumped in the air and wailed. When he saw who it was he said crossly, ‘Oh Arthur, you frightened the life out of me – especially after all those ghost stories.’ Arthur began nibbling a chestnut which he had been carrying and beamed wickedly, ‘Yeth,’ he mumbled with his mouth full, ‘old Triton’s tales are good aren’t they? He comes to visit us quite often and we nearly always get a story from him.’
‘You are lucky,’ sighed Oswald enviously, ‘you get to go to cousin Twit’s home and have adventures there. And to top it all Mr Triton comes and visits you.’
Arthur licked his lips thoughtfully. He did not like to say that in his opinion the midshipmouse’s visits were not just for him and his sister. He had come to the conclusion that it was really their mother whom Thomas came to see.
Arthur and his sister Audrey had been back in the Skirtings for two months now after their adventures in the country. On their return home Arthur and Audrey found that Thomas had been looking after their mother while they had been away and had taken to calling her ‘Gwen’ – an unsettling thing for them to hear. She had been obviously embarrassed when he said it in front of the children. Gwen Brown still addressed the midshipmouse as ‘Mr Triton’ but she said it with a growing warmth that Arthur and Audrey had not heard since their father had died.
‘Where is Audrey?’ Oswald was staring at everyone gathered around the fire and looking beyond at the groups of husbands sipping the mulled berrybrew. Their jolly wives were fussing and gossiping in a corner and his own mother, Mrs Chitter, was there leading the tittle-tattle, but there was no sign of Audrey.
Arthur shrugged. ‘In her room, I suppose. She said she’d come but you know what she’s like. Since we’ve been back she’s got worse – won’t join in anything and hardly eats. Mother worries about her.’
‘Do you think she misses Twit?’ ventured Oswald.
Arthur shook his head. ‘No, I told you it wasn’t like that. Twit only married Audrey to save her from getting hanged – there was nothing else in it.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Oswald. ‘You know, I still haven’t got used to calling her Mrs Scuttle – it doesn’t fit somehow.’
Arthur agreed and turned to watch the group round the fire. Master Oldnose had finished his tale – much to the relief of everybody except the Raddle sisters who clapped very loudly and praised him no end. The hat was held up for the next mouse ready to tell a story and up stepped Algy Coltfoot.
‘This should be good,’ said Arthur, ‘Algy’s stories are always funny.’ The two friends wandered over and sat down in the dancing firelight.
* * *
Alone in her room Audrey fiddled with the ribbon in her paws. She had not yet tied it in her hair and was staring down at it dumbly. After the terrors of Fennywolde she had found life in the Skirtings very dull and the nosiness of several mice had irritated her no end. They all wanted to know just why Twit married her. Mrs Chitter had even inquired if she ought to start knitting little bonnets and booties. Audrey had made it very clear then that nothing of that kind would be necessary – indeed she had put quite a few noses out of joint and at the moment she was not the most popular person in the house.
The sound of a whisker fiddle filtered into the room and gradually brought Audrey round. She decided it was time to join the festivities, so tied the ribbon in her hair, slipped her last remaining bell onto her tail then jumped off the bed.
In the Hall the fire was still crackling merrily and Audrey emerged to find a crowd of mice still laughing over Algy’s story. The hat had been passed on to Arthur and Algy had wandered into a corner to practise on his fiddle with Mr Cockle accompanying him on the bark drum. On the far side of the Hall she saw her mother talking to Thomas Triton. Audrey made her way over, passing chattering wives whose gossip suddenly ceased as she drew close enough to hear them. Some of them nudged their friends and whispered to each other once she had gone by, then the chatter began again.
‘There you are Audrey,’ smiled Gwen Brown. ‘Have you had anything to eat yet?’ The girl shook her head and moved close to her mother’s side. Gwen put her arms around her daughter. ‘Audrey love, you haven’t eaten properly since you came back from Fennywolde – do have something. There’s a big bowl of lovely soup over there.’
Audrey took a biscuit and nibbled it as she watched everyone enjoying themselves. Her mind went back to earlier in the year when Oswald was healed by the magic of the Starwife. There had been celebrations then too. At that time the young grey mouse from the city – Piccadilly – had been staying with the Browns; Audrey missed him.
Algy and Mr Cockle struck up a dancing jig and as nobody had taken the hat after Arthur there were many eager to join in. The mice formed a great ring and began to dance round the fire. Thomas dragged Gwen and Audrey into the dance and soon everyone was out of breath. Nearby, the Raddle sisters watched and tittered behind fluttering paws – it was too cold for them to sit in their usual place on the stairs. Arthur did not like dancing and it looked too boisterous for Oswald, so both of them stood to one side, forming some plan.
‘But Arthur,’ protested Oswald, ‘Mother’s sure to hear if I get up in the middle of the night.�
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‘Not if you’re careful,’ Arthur said, ‘but if you’re too scared . . .’
‘Oh it’s not that,’ Oswald put in hastily. ‘It’s just that I don’t see why we have to go there! Why don’t’ we just take some of the food here?’
‘Because that would be too easy. Look Oswald, do you want a secret feast tonight or don’t you?’ The albino fidgeted with his scarf then nodded. ‘So long as you don’t jump out at me again.’
‘Promise, just meet me in the great kitchen when everyone’s asleep.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Oswald meekly.
Audrey abandoned the dancing. It was surprising how nimble Thomas Triton was. His white, wispy hair glowed like fine gold before the fire and those same flames picked out the vibrant chestnut glint in the hair of her mother. Audrey was astonished to find herself admiring them as a couple. She wondered if her mother would marry the midshipmouse: Both were lonely and Audrey felt that her late father would approve.
The night continued, the fire burned lower and some young rascals decided to put whole chestnuts into the heart of the flames. After some minutes there was a series of loud cracks and explosions as the chestnuts flew apart. Mice ran squeaking in all directions amid the confusion, but when they discovered what had happened the culprits were packed off to bed with smarting bottoms.
The music gradually slowed and the fire became a mound of glowing embers. Mr Cockle swayed unsteadily on his feet and his wife looked sternly at the empty bowl of berrybrew at his side.
‘Get you home, you silly old mouse,’ she hissed at him. ‘Every time you do it, don’t you? Oh the shame of it.’
‘Ah, but you’re beautiful darlin’,’ he slurred whilst puckering his lips. Biddy Cockle shooed her husband out of the Hall and the other mice decided to go to bed as well.
