As Alistair savored the rest of the stew, mopping up the remains as the others did with a piece of bread torn from the loaf, he watched the mice gathered around the fire. Griff, Mags, and the children were a family, but it appeared that Timmy the Winns wasn’t part of it. So why was he with them, and why did it seem as if he was somehow their leader?
His musings were interrupted by a hoarse coughing coming from within the tent. The younger mice froze, their eyes fixed on their plates, and as Mags rose from her place by the fire and hurried into the tent, Griff cast Timmy the Winns a guarded look. Alistair opened his mouth to ask who it was that had coughed, but when Timmy the Winns looked over at him, Alistair remembered what he’d said about asking questions and closed his mouth again.
“Poor old Uncle Silas,” Timmy murmured, raising his eyebrows at the younger mice, who tittered nervously and nudged each other, saying “Yes, poor Uncle Silas” and “Poor Uncle Silas is so poorly,” until Griff silenced them with a stern glance.
When Mags returned to the fireside, she said nothing about Uncle Silas, but asked, “And which of ye terrors wants a piece of my blackberry cobbler?”
Pip, Lilith, and Fergus whooped with pleasure, but Tibby and Alistair looked at each other. “No thanks,” they said in unison.
After the cobbler had been demolished they all sat quiet and content around the fire. Before long the three younger mice were asleep and, with a sigh, Griff rose, stretched, and went to fetch a basin of water from the river so he could do the dishes. Mags, after exchanging a glance and nod with Timmy the Winns, slipped into Uncle Silas’s tent.
Alistair looked at Tibby. By the light of the flickering flames he could see that her eyes were almost closed and her chin was sinking toward her chest. He was just about to suggest they return to their own “camp” under the willow tree when Timmy the Winns murmured, “Do you know why you’re traveling, little brother?”
Alistair, a bit surprised, said, “Yes.” He was going home to Smiggins, home to Alice and Alex and his aunt and uncle.
“Have you thought of those you leave behind?” Timmy asked in the same low murmur.
What an odd thing to say. Those he’d left behind were the ones he was traveling toward. Alistair merely nodded.
Timmy looked at Alistair intently, his dark eyes shining in the firelight. “Perhaps you should travel with us,” he suggested. “This is no place for two young mice to be wandering.”
It seemed to Alistair that the midnight blue mouse looked faintly worried, and he felt a prick of fear—he would have thought nothing could worry Timmy the Winns. Nevertheless, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “But thank you.” Although it would be safer to travel with Timmy and the others, Alistair knew that he and Tibby would move faster alone.
He glanced at Timmy to see his response, but Timmy was now gazing at Alistair’s scarf.
“That’s a handsome scarf, my friend,” he observed. “It’s been a long while since I’ve seen its like.”
Alistair tugged at the ends of the scarf self-consciously. “It was a gift from my mother,” he said.
“From your mother,” Timmy repeated. Alistair thought he looked almost sad.
Timmy gazed at the scarf for a few moments longer, his eyes roaming over the strange design, then he reached for his fiddle and said, “Just one song ere we part, I think. I’ll sing you a song of the Winns . . .”
“What’s the Winns?” Alistair asked.
“The Winns,” Timmy said dreamily. “The Winns is a river, and more than that. It is the spine that knits our head to our feet. Its veins run through our country and its water runs through our veins.” He played a mournful note on the fiddle. “Above the trees, below the ground, the Winns is with you, all around.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and then began to move the bow gently across the strings. After a few notes, he started to sing.
“From rock to ridge to tunnel to tree
The songs are there for you to see;
Read the land and follow the signs,
Read the river between the lines.”
Alistair felt his heart stir at the sound of the melancholy melody. It was achingly familiar, yet he could swear he had never heard the song before. He found himself humming as Timmy the Winns sang the refrain.
“Wherever the Winns takes me, that’s where I’ll be,
For me and the Winns will always flow free.”
As the final notes drifted into the night, Alistair sighed with a sadness he couldn’t name. It wasn’t just homesickness for Smiggins, for his brother and sister and uncle and aunt. It wasn’t even for his parents, and their honey-colored house in Stubbins. He felt as if he was homesick for a place he’d never been and maybe would never see.
His reverie was interrupted by Timmy the Winns. “I don’t know the whole song,” he said. “Not the really important verses.” He put the fiddle down. “Ah well, if you are determined to travel your own path it’s time you and the lass were away.”
Alistair had been worried about how they’d find their way back in the dark, and even more worried about crossing the bridge alone, but Timmy the Winns stood up. “I’ll come along for the walk,” he said.
Alistair nudged the slumbering Tibby and the two muddy-purple mice rose and thanked Mags, who had just come out of the tent, for the dinner. She smiled and pressed a cloth bag into Alistair’s hands. “For your journey,” she said. Then, bidding farewell to Mags and Griff—their children were still fast asleep by the glowing embers—Alistair and a sleepy Tibby Rose, accompanied by Timmy the Winns, retraced their steps along the tow path and crossed the bridge with only a drowsy murmur from the guard. Although Alistair had been vague about where they were sleeping, Timmy the Winns stopped as soon as the willow tree by the river’s edge was in sight.
“This is where our paths diverge,” he said to Alistair. “Safe travels, Huck, and you too, Jim. I warrant our paths will cross again, perhaps when the Winns flows free.” And on that cryptic note, he turned and loped away without a backward glance.
Alistair and Tibby Rose stumbled down the bank and parted the fronds of their hidden room. There was their raft, undisturbed. As the long leafy curtains settled into place, the two mice curled up at the base of the tree. Tibby Rose was asleep within minutes, but Alistair lay awake a little longer, thinking of the mysterious Timmy the Winns. Was it just his imagination, or had Timmy the Winns seemed to know him? Or perhaps that was just his nature, Alistair mused. Like his motto about treating every stranger like a friend.
He heard an owl hoot close by, sending a chill through his blood. He hoped the night hunter had not spotted Timmy the Winns.
But a few minutes later he heard the familiar voice drift across the river.
“Wherever the Winns takes me, that’s where I’ll be,
For me and the Winns will always flow free.”
And then he fell asleep.
11
Joining Forces
What took you so long?” said Sophia.
As the silvery mouse gazed down at Alice and her brother with an amused twinkle in her eye, Alice honestly couldn’t tell if the elegant mouse and her morose companion were friends or foes. She held her breath, waiting for what was to come.
But as Sophia rose from the sled and moved to stand over them, Alice saw that her expression was sympathetic.
“You poor dears,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“It wasn’t so bad,” said Alex, brushing ice crystals from his fur.
“Well, I must say,” said Sophia, her voice full of admiration, “it was certainly an ingenious way to get down the mountain. How clever you are.”
Alex ducked his head modestly. “The idea just kind of came to me . . .”
“The idea came to you?” Alice spluttered. “It was an accid—ooph!” The rest of her sentence was lost as her brother suddenly sat on her.
“Oops, sorry, sis,” Alex said. “I didn’t mean to sit on you. It was an accident.”
; “The thing that most troubles me,” Sophia continued, “is why you were hiding in that barrel in the first place. Surely it wasn’t—” She put a hand to her chest. “You weren’t running from us, were you?”
The two younger mice nodded sheepishly.
“Oh dear,” said Sophia. “Do you hear that, Horace? Alex and Alice thought we were chasing them.”
Horace, still sitting on the sled, nodded gloomily.
“Oh no, no, no,” said Sophia, shaking her head vigorously. “We have been trying to find you—we’ve come to help you look for your brother Alistair.” She cast a quick glance around the snowy landscape, then said in a low voice, “We’re from FIG.”
“You are?” Alice felt relief flood through her, warming her frozen body. “Oh that’s wonderful. Did Uncle Ebenezer send you to look for Alistair?”
“That’s right,” said Sophia. “We set off shortly after you did, and we’ve been trying to catch up with you ever since. I thought taking the shortcut over Mount Sharpnest would put us in front of you, but I didn’t imagine us meeting quite like this.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter now,” said Alice. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She hadn’t realized before how heavily the responsibility of finding Alistair by themselves had been weighing on her. And if Horace and Sophia had been looking for her and Alex, it meant that their uncle had seen their note—and surely he and Beezer would be less worried, knowing that their niece and nephew were with the two FIG members. “We’re just glad you’re here. Aren’t we, Alex?”
“Yes,” said Alex, and Alice could tell he was thinking of goat’s cheese omelets. “We sure are.”
Smiling warmly, Sophia said, “Before we get back on the road I think you really should have a bite of something to settle your stomachs after that terrifying ordeal.”
“That’s a great idea!” said Alex, then his face fell as he pulled their rucksack from the bottom of the barrel. “But all we’ve got is this old dry bread.” He fished in the rucksack and produced the remains of the loaf the farmer had given them two days earlier.
“Oh no,” said Sophia, regarding it with distaste. “We won’t be needing that. Horace?” As Horace stood up and began to wrestle with a large cloth-wrapped parcel sitting in the back of the sled, Sophia explained, “That charming old cheesemaking woodcutter—or was he a woodcutting cheesemaker?—was kind enough to give me a sample from his cellar.”
As Horace staggered over clutching the parcel with both arms, Sophia said, “Just flip that barrel over, will you, Alex? We can use it as a table. Thank you, dear.”
Alex leaped to the task enthusiastically, and with a grunt Horace hefted the parcel onto the makeshift table.
“Excellent work, Horace—how strong you are.” Sophia unwrapped the cloth to reveal half a wheel of cheese with a rough orange rind.
“Ohhh . . .,” breathed Alex reverently.
“Oh, indeed,” said Sophia with satisfaction. “Horace, would you fetch a knife from my bag, please?”
Horace handed her the knife, and Sophia proceeded to shave slices of the hard cheese from the wheel, and Alice, Alex, and Sophia ate with relish (Horace proclaimed himself too full of fondue to join in). By the time Sophia said, “I think it’s time we resumed the search for your dear brother, don’t you?” and Alex had volunteered to carry the woodcutting cheesemaker’s excellent cheese in the rucksack, and Sophia had said how thoughtful he was, but why didn’t he let Horace carry the rucksack (as well as Sophia’s own rather large bag), Alice was feeling quite recovered from their horrible descent down the mountain.
Leaving the sled where it stood—“Macduff knows where to find it,” Sophia assured them—they continued on foot. A couple of hours passed, in which they slogged first through snow, then through slush, then through an unpleasant muddy mush. By the time the mountain path had rejoined the main road to the coast, the ground was warm and dry underfoot and they were in a lush green valley with thick forests of chestnut trees covering the hills. The occasional village of golden stone could be glimpsed on the hilltops and a wide green river curved along the valley floor, sometimes running alongside the road before winding away through fields and meadows. They walked for several hours, but the time passed pleasantly for Alice and Alex (though not for Horace, who groaned pitifully beneath the weight of the cheese-laden rucksack). They told Sophia, who was very interested, all about their lives in Smiggins, and in Stubbins before that.
“Four years without your parents,” she murmured. “And now your brother missing too.” But unlike the farmer, who had thought them very careless to lose so many family members, Sophia was full of sympathy.
It was early evening when Sophia stopped before a sign for the Riverside Inn. “This should do nicely,” she declared. “Comfy beds and a good hot dinner for us tonight.”
Alex’s face brightened at the mention of dinner, but Alice said, “Um, I—I don’t think we have enough money for that.” She was too embarrassed to tell Sophia that they had set off with no money at all.
“Oh, don’t you worry.” Sophia waved a hand dismissively. “FIG will pay.”
They turned off the road and walked down a short avenue of poplars to a three-story stone building with a long, gently sloping roof. Hedges of rosemary and lavender perfumed the balmy air.
Sophia led them into the reception area and addressed the black and white mouse behind the counter.
“What a charming little hotel you have here,” she said sweetly, and the black and white mouse beamed. “These two will have a room on the top floor, please, on the river side of the building, and I’d like a room directly beneath them. Horace here will have a room on the ground floor near the door. (You know you’re scared of heights, dear.) And where is your restaurant?”
The black and white mouse, who was busily pulling keys from a board on the wall behind him, said, “Straight through there, madam.” He indicated a door leading to the back of the hotel. “On a lovely evening like this, I’d recommend you take your dinner on the terrace. We have a lovely view of the river.”
“That sounds perfectly delightful,” said Sophia in her bell-like voice. “If you give the keys to Horace he can take our bags up to our rooms. We three will go straight out to the terrace to consider the menu.”
The view from the terrace was as good as the innkeeper had promised, and Alice thought she had never seen a lovelier spot as she sat beneath the plane trees shading their table and gazed at the forested hills on the far bank.
Sophia and Alex, meanwhile, were engaged in a lively discussion of the menu.
By the time Horace joined them, they had decided on the local specialty, which was a disgusting-sounding dish of thin, wriggly baby eels with a blue cheese sauce. The black and white mouse came to take their order—his wife, he assured them, was renowned as one of the region’s finest chefs—and Alice and Horace, less adventurous than the other two, ordered macaroni and cheese.
As they ate their meal, Alice, who was feeling too tired to join in the conversation led by Sophia, sat quietly and observed their new traveling companions. Horace seemed determinedly glum, and didn’t engage much with Alice and Alex, but Sophia was quite a different character. Even though the younger mice had already told her all about themselves, she carried on asking question after question (“And where did your parents say they were going?” “Do your aunt and uncle travel much?” “Do they have many friends?”) and Alice noticed that although she was light and pleasant at all times, and seemed very casual about her questioning, she listened intently to their answers with a shrewd gleam in her eye—as if she wasn’t being quite so casual after all. . . .
“Alex,” said Alice, when they had returned to their room after dinner, leaving Horace and Sophia to finish their coffee on the terrace, “there’s something not quite right about Sophia. Why did she ask us so many questions?”
Alex, stretched out on his bed beneath the window, snorted. “Give it a rest, sis. Horace is a bit strange, I’l
l grant you, but there’s nothing wrong with Sophia. She finds us very interesting—and who can blame her? Anyway, isn’t eating in restaurants and sleeping in hotels better than eating dry bread in a cave?”
Alice glared at him. “Would you stop thinking with your stomach for one minute and listen to me? What about the fact that Sophia said they’d set off shortly after we did, but Mr. Grudge told us he’d seen a gray mouse and a black one in his garden with a ladder? If they only found out about us from Uncle Ebenezer after we’d left, what were they doing in the garden earlier that morning?”
“If you’re trying to prove they’re the kidnappers,” Alex argued, “answer this: Why are they helping us to look for Alistair? They should already have him. And who knows? Maybe Mr. Grudge saw different gray and black mice in his lettuce patch.”
“Oh, I see,” said Alice through gritted teeth. “You’re suggesting there are two pairs of gray and black mice roaming around Shetlock looking for Alistair?”
Alex shrugged. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”
Alice thumped her pillow in frustration. She was sure there was something suspicious about Sophia. Why couldn’t her brother see it? Well, he could do what he liked, but she would be keeping an eye on the silvery Sophia. . . .
“Could you close the shutters, Alex?” she complained. “I can’t sleep with the light in my eyes.”
“All right, all right, keep your fur on.” Kneeling up on his bed, Alex leaned out the window toward the shutters. He began to laugh. “Hey, sis, check this out—Horace has a bald patch.”
Alice forgot she was cross with him and hopped out of bed to join him at the window.
“Ha! He does too. I never noticed that before. Maybe he brushes his fur over to cover it?”
Almost as if he knew they were talking about him, Horace ran a hand over the fur on his head, then they heard him say: “First we’re sent to Smiggins, then we’re told, ‘Oh no, you have to go to Stubbins now.’” His voice sounded whiny. “We were told that all we had to do was follow his brother and sister and we’d find the ginger one. Now we’ve been walking for days and it turns out they have no idea where he is.”
The Secret of the Ginger Mice Page 10
