“A hideout,” said Tibby, a bit shakily. “Just what a couple of dangerous rebels need.” She rose and stumbled unsteadily from the raft onto the bank.
They lay on their backs on the soft grass, light filtering gently through the green strands.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Alistair said, when he had caught his breath. “We’re just too visible—we can barely move without being set upon, and we can’t live on blackberries forever.”
“You’re telling me,” said Tibby, holding up her hands, still blackberry-stained from breakfast. “If we don’t change our diet soon, I’m probably going to turn permanently purple.”
Alistair imagined a purple Tibby Rose and began to laugh—then he sat up suddenly. “Of course! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”
Tibby sat up too. “Um . . . you’re seriously worried about me turning permanently purple?” she said.
“Worried? No! Turning purple is exactly what we should do. We can dye ourselves!”
“Uh, Alistair,” said Tibby, “you know how much we stand out being ginger . . . Don’t you think purple mice are going to be a little obvious?”
Alistair waved away her concerns. “Of course we’ll be obvious—but unless Sourians also consider purple mice to be their enemies, which would be pretty unlucky, we’ll just look like a couple of nutcases who’ve dyed themselves a crazy color. No one will know that we’re ginger underneath the dye. And the color will wash out eventually, so we won’t be purple forever.”
Tibby Rose nodded slowly. “In that case,” she said, “it’s a fantastic idea! Let’s do it.” She paused. “Do we know how to make dye from blackberries?” she asked hesitantly.
“You bet we do,” said Alistair. “See this?” He unwound his scarf from around his neck and held it out so Tibby could admire the vivid colors. “Mum made all her own dyes—and I helped.”
“Well, it’s nice to know something’s going our way,” said Tibby.
With his optimism restored, so was Alistair’s energy, and he jumped up and went back to the raft. Carefully gathering the remainder of their blackberries—now a little warm and overripe from their exposure to the midday sun—he piled them into the two cup-like paddles and scooped a handful of water into each.
“Okay,” he said, “now we need to squash them and mix them with the water until they’re a thick paste.”
Tibby copied his actions as he squeezed the blackberries into mush and vigorously mixed the mush with the water. “I’d kind of hoped I wouldn’t have to use my arms again for about ten years,” she sighed.
After several minutes of squashing and squeezing and stirring, Alistair decided that their mixtures had the right consistency, and they began to slather the purple paste all over their fur.
“Make sure you get it everywhere,” Alistair instructed. “Behind your ears, between your toes—cover every bit of ginger. Here, I’ll do your back, then you can do mine.”
When they were completely covered in purple goo, Alistair stuck his head through the curtain of green.
“No one about,” he said, beckoning to Tibby Rose. “Come on, we need to let the dye dry in the sun.”
When the blackberries had baked to a hard crust, Alistair said, “That should do it. Now let’s wash this muck off.” He waded into the river, shivering at first as the water swirled around his legs in cold eddies. Drawing a deep breath, he steeled himself and dived in. The fresh cool water was a shock, but a reviving one. He forgot his tiredness, his hunger and aching muscles, and remembered instead sunny days in the green glade below the waterfall just south of Smiggins; water fights with his brother and sister, Aunt Beezer’s fast neat freestyle and Uncle Ebenezer’s ponderous backstroke, his big belly riding high above the water line.
Alistair surfaced, water streaming from his purple-crusted fur, and said, “Wow! How good does that feel?”
To his surprise, Tibby was still standing by the river’s edge.
“C’mon, Tib,” he said. “It’s cold at first but it’s beautiful once you’re in.”
Tibby took a cautious step forward then stopped. “I—I can’t swim,” she said, looking embarrassed.
Alistair opened his mouth and then closed it again. Of course . . . When would she have had a chance to learn, stuck her whole life in that house on the hill? He felt ashamed of his own insensitivity and it occurred to him how brave Tibby had been, to be facing so many new things all the time without hesitation. Trusting him.
He swam back to the shore. “When we get to Smiggins, I’ll teach you to swim,” he promised. “But I suppose we’d better start scrubbing.”
The two mice stood in the shallows and, with the help of plenty of water and some stones from the river, scraped the blackberry crust from their fur. At last they stood before each other, transformed.
“We look kind of . . . muddy colored,” said Tibby Rose dubiously.
“With a definite purple tinge,” observed Alistair, inspecting his brownish-purple arms. “But,” he added, “we’re not ginger—that’s the main thing. So, shall we try our luck in town, see if some kind shopkeeper will take pity on a couple of poor purple mice and give us a loaf of bread?”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful?” said Tibby dreamily, rubbing her stomach. “I’ve never been so hungry in my life.”
Alistair wrapped his scarf around his neck, then they scrambled up the high bank to a dusty road and started walking upriver, back to the town they’d fled barely a couple of hours before with the Queen’s Guards in pursuit.
They hadn’t seen much of the landscape during their flight downriver, but now Alistair saw that the town they were approaching was surrounded by cornfields, the corn almost at head height. Most fields sported enormous scarecrows—mice made of straw and dressed in old hats and boots. Alistair knew that these were necessary; a crow was as likely to eat the farmer as the corn.
“Alistair,” said Tibby, “is that mouse over there green?”
Alistair turned to gaze across the river to where Tibby was pointing. He saw a blue-striped tent, and a mouse tending a cooking pot over a fire. “She does look green,” Alistair agreed. “It must be a shadow from the river or the tent or something.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we started seeing odd-colored mice everywhere, now that we’re purple? Then we wouldn’t stand out at all!”
They came to a gate in the town’s southern wall—glad to have found a gate other than the one by the bridge where they had been spotted by the guard—and joined a stream of mice hurrying along the cobbled street. To Alistair’s surprise, those coming in the other direction were all wearing broad smiles and some, when they saw Alistair and Tibby Rose, even broke into peals of laughter. At first Alistair thought it must be their purple-tinged fur that had caused the mice to smile, but then they turned a corner and saw the reason for the mirth.
They found themselves in the middle of a compact square surrounded by shops and open-air cafés. In the square’s center was a fountain—Alistair recognized the imperious countenance of the statue that stood atop the fountain as that of Queen Eugenia. Sourians must certainly love their queen, Alistair thought. That, or the Queen loved to see images of herself. But it was not the statue of the Queen that had drawn the eye of the crowd in the square, though Alistair couldn’t see what it was. “Let’s take a look,” he said, and he and Tibby Rose squeezed their way to the front of the crowd.
What they saw was a group of five mice quite unlike any mice Alistair had ever seen before. The smallest of the group was very young, no more than five or six—and bright orange. There was a pair who looked to be a couple of years younger than himself; one was scarlet and the other lime green, and they were juggling a random assortment of objects—an apple, an egg, and a lemon for one, a tennis ball, a radish, and a potato for the other.
Watching over the younger three were a portly canary yellow mouse with a piano accordion slung around his neck, and . . . Alistair found himself looking into the amused eyes of a very str
iking mouse indeed. Tall and slim, his fur was a deep midnight blue—all except his left arm and right leg, which were colors Alistair had seen on mice before, but never in such a jumble. There was brown and white and black and gray and . . . yes, even a flash of ginger. A gold earring glinted in each ear. His companions might have been as vivid as the jungle parrots Alistair had seen in books, but it was this dark compelling mouse who really drew the eye.
Yet despite his unusual appearance, something about the ironic gleam in the mouse’s dark eyes told Alistair that he was perfectly well aware of the odd picture he made, but that it suited his purpose—whatever that might be.
Then the canary yellow mouse said, “Oy, Tim, how about a song?” and the midnight blue mouse turned away. He whispered something in the yellow mouse’s ear, then picked up a fiddle and, turning back to face the crowd, began to play.
Alistair looked at Tibby Rose to see what she was making of the strange scene, and saw her face had lit up at the sound of the music. Glancing around, he saw similar expressions on the faces of all the mice in the crowd, and many had begun to sway. Then he noticed that his own foot was tapping and, as one, the whole crowd began to dance. Dipping and twirling, spinning and jigging, the music of the fiddle flew around and between the dancers, faster and faster, lifting feet and tails and arms into spontaneous movements. Alistair found himself swept into the stream of dancers, feeling a joy he hadn’t felt since—he couldn’t remember when. Perhaps since he was a small mouse living in a large stone house in Stubbins with his mother and father and brother and sister and not a care in the world.
He danced and danced and, just when he felt his feet could no longer carry him, the fiddle slowed and gradually stopped. The feet of the dancers slowed and stopped too and, as if waking from a dream, the dancers blinked and looked around them. Then, with dazed but happy smiles, they started to drift from the square, back to whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. The small orange mouse was darting through the crowd holding a battered top hat, and Alistair could hear the clink of coins being dropped into it.
“Sorry,” Alistair said as the orange mouse approached him and Tibby Rose, hat extended. “We don’t have any money.”
The orange mouse didn’t say anything, but gave Alistair a bright smile as if to let him know that it was okay.
Soon the crowd around the fountain had dispersed, leaving only Alistair and Tibby Rose, and the five colored mice.
The midnight blue mouse, who seemed to be the leader of the group, was gazing into the top hat, raking his fingers through the coins. “Not bad, Pip, not bad,” he murmured to the orange mouse. Then he lifted his piercing gaze to Alistair and Tibby Rose.
“So, little brother, little sister,” he said. “Did you fall into a blackberry bush by any chance?”
Alistair started. Was their disguise that transparent?
“Don’t worry,” said the midnight blue mouse. “No one would know but those who know.” He winked. “Well, if you are going to join us for a bite of supper”—he paused and raised an interrogative eyebrow—“introductions are probably in order. I’m Timmy the Winns. This here is Griff . . .” He clapped the yellow mouse on the shoulder. “Lilith and Fergus . . .” Pointing to the scarlet mouse then the green. “And this young lad is Pip.” He laid a hand on the head of the small orange mouse. “And you would be?”
With a quick glance at Tibby Rose, Alistair said, “I’m Huck, and this is my friend . . . ah . . . Jim.”
“Huck, eh?” said Timmy the Winns, gazing at Alistair speculatively. “Short for Huckleberry, I presume . . . Well, the ‘berry’ part suits, I suppose. And Jim . . .” He turned to Tibby, who did her best to meet his stare, though she was darting inquisitive little looks at Alistair from the corner of her eye.
Then suddenly Timmy threw back his head and laughed. “I bet you’re pretty handy with a raft, too, aren’t you, Huck?”
Alistair and Tibby Rose stared at him open-mouthed. He must be referring to the story of Huckleberry Finn—surely he hadn’t seen . . . didn’t recognize. . .?
But if he did, he said no more about it. He put one arm around Alistair’s shoulders and another around Tibby Rose, and said, “Well, Huck, Jim, it’s a motto of mine that a stranger’s just a friend you haven’t met. So come and join us around our campfire. I’m betting Maggie has a fine stew bubbling away, and you two look like a feed wouldn’t go amiss.”
There was something calm and good-humored about Timmy the Winns that put Alistair at ease. Besides, when Timmy had mentioned the stew it had almost made Alistair faint with hunger.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “We are rather hungry, aren’t we, Tib—Jim?”
“Yes,” said Tibby Rose firmly. “Very hungry. Is that your camp across the river and downstream?”
“That’s us all right,” said Griff comfortably, falling into step beside them as the three younger mice scampered ahead, with Fergus bearing a sack into which they’d packed the items they’d been juggling, and Lilith carrying Timmy the Winns’ fiddle. Griff himself held his accordion in one hand and the hat full of coins in the other.
“Where are you from?” asked Alistair curiously.
Timmy the Winns shrugged. “Where are we, Griff?”
The canary yellow mouse looked around. They had crossed the square and turned into a street of shops. He pointed to a dark green awning with the words PAMPLEMOUSE BAKERY stenciled in white cursive. “We’re either in Pamplemouse, or the baker is named Pamplemouse. Never mind which, let’s get some bread.”
“You’re the man with the hat,” said Timmy the Winns, and Griff, holding the top hat filled with coins, pushed open the door of the shop, accompanied by the tinkling of a bell.
“So,” said Timmy the Winns as he and Alistair and Tibby Rose stood waiting on the street outside, “today we’re from Pamplemouse.” Then he added, not unkindly, “Never ask a question you’re not prepared to answer yourself. Got it, little brother?”
Alistair nodded. It was like something his mother used to say when Alistair asked too many questions: Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.
The mice of Pamplemouse—though it did seem more like the name of a baker than a town, Alistair thought—slowed to stare at the tall midnight blue mouse standing with two who were muddy purple. But if any of them met Alistair’s eyes, they merely smiled and nodded good evening, or occasionally giggled, which was preferable to them hurling abuse and stones.
Griff emerged from the bakery with three long, thin loaves of bread tucked under his arm, and they set off again.
As they neared the camp Tibby Rose and Alistair had seen earlier, they were drawn on by a rich aroma of herbs.
“Smells like Mags has been exercising her culinary flair,” said Timmy the Winns with an appreciative sniff.
“Aye, I’d know her eggplant stew anywhere,” said Griff as they strolled toward the bridge across the river.
Suddenly, Alistair saw a familiar flash of red pacing the bridge, just as Tibby Rose hissed in his ear, “That’s the guard who—”
Timmy the Winns turned to see why they had slowed. “Huck? Jim?”
Alistair’s throat was dry. “There’s . . . there’s a guard,” he said hesitantly.
But Timmy the Winns just chuckled. “Don’t bother him and he won’t bother you,” he said. And as he led them across the bridge, he began to tell a story about a talking piece of cheese he had met on his travels. “Now the funny thing about this cheese—”
“Was that it could talk!” interrupted Tibby Rose.
“No,” said Timmy the Winns. “The funny thing about this talking cheese was that it was riding a bicycle.”
“Cheese riding a bicycle?” Tibby Rose dissolved in giggles.
“I tell you it was so,” said Timmy the Winns. “Evening, Purkiss,” he said, raising a hand to the red-coated guard.
The guard nodded. “Wotcher, Timmy,” he replied. “Is that your supper I can smell on the breeze?”
�
�With any luck, Purkiss, with any luck,” said Timmy the Winns as they continued on their way.
And just like that they were on the other side of the river and walking along a tow path toward the blue-striped tent.
They arrived at the camp to see the three younger mice sitting around a merrily crackling fire, bowls of steaming stew in their laps. Watching them fondly was a round mouse with a fringed shawl thrown around her shoulders. Even in the fading light, Alistair could tell that her fur was a deep forest green.
She turned at the sound of their approach. “If you’d been any longer there’d have been naught but dregs for ye,” she said laughingly, “the way these wee mites are wolfin’ down that stew.”
“Ah, Mags,” said Griff, “I know you wouldn’t let me to starve. And here’s some bread to fill those ravenous bellies—plus we’ve picked up a couple more ravenous bellies in need of stew.” He beckoned Alistair and Tibby Rose forward. “Huck, Jim, this is my wife, Mags. You’ve already met our bairns.” He dipped his head at the mice by the fire.
Alistair and Tibby Rose ducked their heads shyly at Mags, who asked them no questions, but handed them each a bowl into which she had ladled a hearty helping of stew. “And very welcome you are,” was all she said.
Lilith gestured to them to sit beside her, and the two guests slid onto a log which served as a bench and began to eat while Mags served Griff, Timmy the Winns, and herself.
At first, all Alistair’s attention was focused on the stew. He never paid that much attention to food particularly—not the way his brother Alex or Uncle Ebenezer did; they were obsessed—but he had to admit he had never tasted a stew so rich and flavorsome.
“This stew,” he gasped, after the first mouthful. “It’s delicious! What’s in it?”
“Get away, it’s nothing special,” Mags said, waving away the compliment, but she looked pleased. “It’s just my eggplant stew. With some tomatoes and a few wild herbs I gathered here and there.”
The Secret of the Ginger Mice Page 9
