The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning

by Robin Jarvis

  The squirrel smiled. ‘My people,’ she muttered, ‘yes I miss them – but not those cowardly ditherers I had to control in Greenwich, they were never my people.’ It was plain from Audrey’s face that she did not understand, so with a great sigh the Starwife explained.

  ‘My fur is grey now, what’s left of it, but I am not from the race of the greys; age has merely played that trick on me.’

  Audrey thought she understood. ‘Oh,’ she broke in, ‘then you were a red squirrel. I’ve never seen one of those, I thought they went away years ago.’

  The Starwife lowered her eyes sadly. ‘Yes, they went away,’ she echoed, ‘never to return. The red folk were a hearty lot, braver than those miserable wretches I’ve had to put up with all these years, but even there you are wrong child.’ She raised her head proudly and in a grand, sorrowful tone said, ‘I am a black squirrel: the noblest race ever to have breathed the sweet acorn-scented air.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of those,’ admitted Audrey.

  ‘No, and you never will again I should imagine. I have not been able to trace any of my kin. We were scattered by war and envy many years ago – long before I took up the silver and became the Handmaiden of Orion.’ Her words were wistful and full of regret. ‘And now there is no-one to take my place. I have searched and searched but all traces of the black squirrels are gone. I think I am the last – our line shall end with me, and the dynasty of the Starwives also. I fear the silver acorn will not be worn by any when I have passed on.’ She fell into brooding silence and lost herself in the tangled threads of her thoughts again.

  A child cried and shattered the crackling, chattering calm and the Hall sank into a shuddering cold that not even the fire could thaw. The night seemed to creep and claw closer, suffocating any talk and oppressing everyone. The dismayed mice raised their worried faces in the pale flame glow – something unnatural was happening.

  A bitter wind wailed outside and blasted through the keyhole. The fire spluttered smokily and all eyes smarted. The other children whimpered and held onto each other in fear, and Thomas pulled the battered storyteller’s hat from his head and listened, breathlessly. The grim, grave dark pushed down and the flames gave one last cough and went out. Someone screamed. The only light in the Hall was the ruddy glare of the spitting embers which daubed those near to it a hellish red as though they were drenched in blood.

  ‘What’s happening?’ whimpered Mrs Cockle in panic. ‘Light the fire again, please!’

  But the fire refused to be lit. It was as if the cold had seeped into the wood and frozen it beyond the reach of flames. Thomas struck frantically at his tinder box but nothing would catch.

  ‘It is no good, Triton,’ came a croaky voice from the darkness. The midshipmouse paused and glanced round: there, staggering into the light, was the Starwife. She hobbled forward, leaning heavily on her stick and gritting her teeth against the grinding pain of her set bones. ‘This is not a natural cold,’ she said trembling, ‘and well you know it! Put your box away – we might need it later but it will not help now.’ The squirrel faced all the frightened mice and raised her stick. ‘Listen to me mice of Deptford,’ she called urgently, ‘Jupiter is abroad. It is he who spreads the evil winter, his is the dark will behind all of this.’

  The mice mumbled and whispered. Mrs Chitter pulled the blankets over her shoulders and scurried forward angrily. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she cried, distraught, ‘none of this happened till you came, you’re the evil one,’ and she started to sob hysterically. The Starwife pounded her stick and gave Mrs Chitter a sound slap across the face. The mouse gasped and fainted in surprise.

  ‘Take her away,’ said the old squirrel gazing round to see if anyone else protested, ‘I’ve no time for idiots! If you don’t listen to me then you are all doomed – simple as that.’ The mice kept silent and the Starwife nodded in satisfaction. ‘Is there a way we can get out of this place without climbing to the roof or going through the sewers?’ she asked impatiently, ‘I must know Jupiter’s strength.’

  ‘There’s the yard,’ piped up Arthur from the gloom.

  ‘Good,’ snapped the squirrel, ‘let us go there.’

  Some of the mice decided to stay where they were. But others wrapped their blankets round themselves and trailed obediently into the kitchen where, under orders, Master Oldnose began pulling out the scrunched up papers which had been stuffed into the hole that afternoon when the unsuccessful foragers had returned.

  The Starwife tapped her stick impatiently, ‘Hurry you silly slug,’ she ranted scornfully.

  ‘That’s the lot,’ puffed Master Oldnose discarding the final piece, but she had already limped into the passage and the other mice crowded after.

  Outside it was unbelievably cold. The concrete ground glistened and the branches of the hawthorns were bleached a deathly white. Fine fingers of mist skulked in the darkness, squeezing and throttling all they snatched at. The night poured into the yard like black tar in a bottomless pit. It was a midnight world, blacker than ink and full of icy snares. The old tin bucket near the fence clicked and cracked as the frozen rain water it held strained and split the frosted rivets on its side.

  The mice stepped out and clouds of breath gusted from teeth-chattering mouths. The old squirrel glanced round like a dog hunting for a scent. She held her stick out before her and tapped the tinkling grass. She grunted and ran her aching fingers over the rasping, frosted wall. ‘’It is as I feared,’ she told Thomas darkly, ‘this is as it was in my chamber. The enemy swells in strength and puts forth his infernal powers. There cannot be any doubt – tonight he will use my Starglass.’ The Starwife hissed through her teeth, shook her fist at the darkness and struck the fence with the walking stick in her frustration. ‘I must know what is happening,’ she snapped furiously, then an idea seized her and she whipped round. ‘Can anyone climb this fence?’ she demanded.

  ‘I can do it,’ volunteered Arthur suddenly. He pushed forward, rushing and slipping over the ice. He had learnt the skill of nimbly scampering up stalks in Fennywolde and a fence post wasn’t that different.

  ‘Excellent child,’ said the squirrel eagerly patting his back, ‘up you go and tell us what you see.’

  Arthur stood below one of the posts and blew on his chilled paws before gripping it. The sharp, needling frost clung and tore at the warm skin and he stifled a squeal as he ripped his tender paw away. ‘It’s too cold!’ he exclaimed shaking and blowing.

  ‘Yes, it is cold,’ admitted the Starwife, ‘but it will get colder and colder until the very blood in your veins freezes, so climb boy!’

  Arthur grumbled under his breath but tried once more. He clutched the post and pulled himself up, the touch of the icy wood scraping against his body made him want to drop to the ground and dash into the Hall where he could throw himself onto the fire’s embers. However, he managed to hold on and began to climb. Up he toiled, higher and higher. The frost stabbed and seared his shrinking palms and he had to close his eyes tightly, blocking the pain from his mind, ignoring the agony, focusing all his energies on his goal – he had to reach the top.

  Below, the mice huddled together to keep warm as they watched his slow ascent. Gwen Brown put her paw to her mouth and her heartbeat quickened as she prayed for her son’s safety. ‘Be careful Arthur,’ she called up to him frantically.

  The tubby mouse’s nails ripped and split as he clawed his way to the top, feeling nothing but the ice cutting into him and the freezing air slicing up his steaming nose. And then, he was there – he was gasping for breath but he had made it. The harsh, bullying wind plucked and flattened his ears as he struggled to balance on the topmost rail of the rickety old fence.

  ‘What do you see?’ the Starwife’s voice floated up to him.

  Arthur surveyed the land before him, over the next door’s garden and beyond the empty street. The flats opposite reared into the starlit sky but were partially hidden by the patches of pale mist which flowed slowly across the blind windows and gr
oped hungrily at the latches. Arthur shivered and in the corner of his eye something glimmered. He twisted round sharply. Past the church there was the black shape of the power station, squat and solid. It rose out of a sea of thick, billowing fog and in its tiny windows something blue flashed and sparked. He recalled what he had seen whilst sitting on the roof waiting for the bats and with a shock realized that that was where Jupiter had made his base. Arthur could have kicked himself. Why had he forgotten all about it? If he had been more alert he would have known and they could have organized a group of the bravest mice to go and spy on the wretched place.

  ‘Well?’ the Starwife’s frail voice asked.

  He looked down and saw the pinched, chilled faces of his family and friends that were all turned to him. ‘He’s in the power station,’ he called down, ‘that’s where . . .’ but he did not finish what he had started to say for at that moment a terrific rumble shook the ground and the fence swayed alarmingly. Arthur held on grimly but did not move, for even as he raised his eyes back to the old disused building, a great plume of smoke belched out of the power station’s chimney. It rose steadily into the clear night sky and hung there purposefully, gradually swelling into a vast, dense cloud through which bolts of fierce lightning spat jaggedly. Deafening thunder cracked the heavens as the last of the foggy column issued from the chimney and joined the waiting mountain of ghostly vapour. And in the midst of the great cloud Arthur could plainly see the faint, shimmering outline of an enormous, demonic cat. Slowly the terrifying bulk of the menacing, supernatural fog began to move. It drifted over the chimney and away from the mist enshrouded building, out towards Greenwich. The thunder boomed through the echoing night but amid its roar Arthur clearly heard a high triumphant, screeching laugh.

  Arthur half slid, half fell down the fence post. Frozen splinters cut into his paws and feet like cruel little daggers but he paid them no attention. The image of the awful black spirit transporting himself to Greenwich in the fog was graven in his mind and he could think of nothing else.

  He landed on the ground with a bump and a thud, his bottom sizzled with the cold as he sat on the icy concrete gazing stupidly up at the astonished crowd of mice who gathered round him.

  ‘Arthur dear,’ cried his mother, ‘whatever’s the matter?’ and she rushed forward but the Starwife’s stick flashed out and prevented her from reaching him.

  ‘He has seen the Unbeest,’ said the squirrel in a quaking voice, ‘tell me boy, what happened. Where is he now? Does he come this way?’

  Arthur snapped out of his bewilderment quickly and scrabbled to his feet. ‘No,’ he stammered, ‘he hasn’t come for us yet, but I don’t know what we’ll do when he does. I never realized how immense his powers were – we haven’t a chance against him.’

  ‘Where is he?’ repeated the Starwife hurriedly.

  Arthur pointed south with his bleeding paws. ‘He went in the direction of Greenwich,’ he told her shaking his head. ‘You should have seen him, it was dreadful. He rose out of the old power station like steam from a kettle. I saw his shape form in the mist, and you could see through him to the stars it was horrible.’

  The Starwife took several steps back. A look of consternation crept over her wizened face and her milky eyes were filled with dread. ‘Greenwich?’ she muttered worriedly to herself. ‘Why there? There is nothing of any use to him left in the chambers – the charts and histories hold no significance – unless . . .’ A terrible gasp shrieked from her and she waved her arms in panic. ‘Quickly,’ she cried, turning to Thomas Triton, ‘hurry to the observatory – I must know what Jupiter intends there! My heart quails, something profoundly evil is afoot!’ The stick clattered to the frosty ground as her legs gave way and she sank in despair to her knees, sobbing hopelessly.

  Desperately frightened, the mice imagined all sorts of horrors taking place. ‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Algy Coltfoot with a wail. ‘Are we all going to die?’

  ‘See to her,’ Thomas said gruffly to Gwen.

  Mrs Brown was already bending down and trying to calm the stricken Starwife. ‘Come now,’ she soothed, ‘let’s get you up. It won’t do your old bones any good soaking up all that cold will it?’

  The squirrel reached out to the midshipmouse and implored him to go to Greenwich for her. ‘You must, I can feel his presence. I believe I know what he is trying to do – on no account must he succeed.’

  Thomas took hold of her trembling paw and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘I’ll go,’ he said, ‘though I don’t know what I will be able to do.’

  ‘Just report back to me,’ she told him, taking her stick from Audrey, ‘only hurry.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘I’ll go straight away,’ he said pushing through the crowd and heading for the hole in the wall.

  ‘Good luck,’ Gwen called after him, ‘keep out of danger.’

  Audrey hugged her mother tightly, ‘I’m sure Mr Triton will be all right,’ she said. ‘He knows how to look after himself.’

  ‘I hope so dear,’ Gwen replied, ‘he is a silly old mouse sometimes but I wouldn’t like any harm to come to him.’

  Her daughter smiled knowingly up at her. ‘Let’s go back inside, there’s nothing else we can do out here is there Arthur?’ There was no reply. Both Audrey and her mother turned round but Arthur was not there. ‘Now where’s he got to?’ Audrey tutted.

  The Starwife looked up at the twinkling sky and rubbed her arms. ‘The end has come,’ she whispered softly, ‘and I am not ready.’

  In the ruddy light of the Hall Thomas Triton pulled on his woollen hat and tightened the red kerchief round his neck. ‘What happened out there?’ asked Jacob Chitter.

  ‘They’ll tell you when they come in,’ Thomas replied striding over bundles of bedclothes to get to the cellar door.

  A panting figure came rushing towards him. Lit by the blood red glare of the dying embers it resembled a demon and Thomas had to blink before he recognized who it was. ‘Arthur?’ he said. ‘That you matey? What do you want? I haven’t got time to chat you know.’ He ruffled the mouse’s hair and squeezed through the narrow doorway.

  ‘Wait, Mr Triton!’ Arthur called after him. There was no reply so he forced himself through the gap.

  In the cellar it was nearly pitch black and the cold flowed and pulsed from the hard stone walls and bare flagged floor. Arthur squinted and strained his eyes. The midshipmouse had already jumped down the steps and was making for the Grille.

  ‘Mr Triton!’ Arthur called again. ‘I’m coming with you!’

  Thomas was amused and scratched his head. ‘If you think I’m going to let your mother bawl me out for takin’ you with me you need your head examining.’

  But Arthur was not to be fobbed off – he folded his arms resolutely. ‘If you send me back I’ll only follow you, and think of all the time we’re wasting now.’

  Thomas scowled and then his face brightened. ‘I’m not going to argue here, and I could do with the company. Come on matey.’ He turned back to the Grille and with a swish of his tail was gone. Arthur grinned and followed through the once fearful entrance.

  The sewers were dank and dripping and the arched, red brick passages had a fine layer of glittering, frosty, diamond dust. Below, the deep water carried along small, drifting islands of filthy, black ice. A bitter draught whistled through the tunnels, cutting straight through the two mice.

  Thomas and Arthur hurried along as fast as they could without saying a word to each other. It needed all their concentration to watch out for hidden slippery patches that lurked on the shadowy levels. Arthur trotted behind the midshipmouse glad to be away from the Skirtings – at least his mind was not dwelling on food any more. Silently they made their way along the narrow ledges and winding ways, avoiding the dangers as best as they could. Arthur did not venture down into the sewers very often, the last time had been on the way back from Fennywolde, and so his sense of direction in the tunnels was easily confounded. To him it seemed as if they were going entirely the
wrong way, but for Thomas this was a journey he made every day and what’s more, his instinct for the points of the compass was so strong he could have navigated his way blindfold out of the darkest, most difficult maze ever invented.

  ‘Here we are miladdo,’ the midshipmouse said eventually as they turned a corner and entered a passage that was filled with pale blue light, ‘this is where we get out.’

  They squirmed through a grating and Arthur looked round to discover the great locked gates of Greenwich Park nearby, rising high and stark against the midnight sky. The naked trees beyond were flecked with frost and their branches reared up menacingly, waving their sharp, savage twigs, shredding the eerie mist which dared to drift too close to their barbs.

  The two mice ducked under the iron gates and pattered stealthily up the path to where they could get a clear view of the observatory. There they caught their breaths and stared. The hill was shrouded in thick fog, through which occasional flashes of cold light burst and crackled heavenwards. ‘He’s in there and no mistake,’ Thomas said sternly, ‘but what the devil is he up to?’

  Arthur shivered. It was a weird sight: the fog seemed to be almost a solid thing with a life of its own. It clung tenaciously to the hillside, wrapping round and round, obliterating the hill and the observatory built there. Only when the strange internal lightning jabbed out could the dim outline of the onion-shaped dome be seen for the briefest of moments before the fog snatched the sight away once more.

  ‘We go up there,’ Thomas said, pointing into the heart of the unnatural cloud.

  Arthur gulped and agreed. Somewhere in there lurked Jupiter. Up the slope they tramped until they reached the edge of the swirling mist. As they approached, fine tendrils of vapour snaked out and writhed smokily around their ankles, trying to pull them in.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Thomas, disgusted at the clammy touch of those whispering caresses. The vapour rose above his knees then covered his waist. ‘I never saw owt like this in all my years at sea,’ he muttered as the fog swelled up to his chest. He noticed with a shudder that the parts of his body that were covered began to tingle and prick uncomfortably as though the mist were attacking them. ‘Give me your paw lad,’ he called out quickly. ‘If we’re separated in this we’ll be lost forever.’