“Who else could there be?” said Alistair, puzzled. “Shetlock doesn’t have kings and queens anymore; the last queen gave up her throne so that Shetlockers could decide who would govern them. Since then we vote for a president instead. And you said that Gerander is ruled by Queen Eugenia now.”
“You might recall me saying that some of the most heroic mice I have ever known were ginger?”
Alistair and Tibby Rose nodded. Alistair had been hoping the old Gerandan would return to the subject of ginger mice.
“Well, one of these ginger heroes is a mouse by the name of . . .,” and the old mouse’s voice seemed to fill with pride and awe as he uttered the name, “Zanzibar.”
“Who’s Zanzibar?” Alistair wanted to know.
“Zanzibar is the son of the daughter of King Martain. And he is the rightful heir to the kingdom of Gerander. Of course, this has made him the sworn enemy of Queen Eugenia and General Ashwover. Zanzibar has lived most of his life in hiding—and in prison. But he has never given up the fight to free our homeland. Indeed, it is he who started FIG.”
“FIG?”
“It stands for Free and Independent Gerander; we are a resistance movement.”
He had said “we,” Alistair noted. Alistair was surprised and moved to think of a mouse so old and frail fighting bravely for the freedom of his people.
“But in recent years we have suffered some serious setbacks,” the old mouse said heavily. “Sourian spies infiltrated the movement and many of us were captured and imprisoned—myself and Zanzibar included. That was ten years ago. Six years we passed in the dungeon of Atticus Island, before being moved to a prison camp in the Cranken Alps on the border of Gerander and Souris.” The old mouse closed his eyes and shuddered, as if the memory of the last ten years was too awful to contemplate.
“Five nights ago,” he whispered, “a dozen of us escaped from the Cranken prison. A dozen of us attempted to escape, I should say. Only half a dozen made it.” The old mouse’s voice was very low now. “I was one of the lucky ones. Zanzibar too. But my wife . . .” The old mouse trailed off.
“Maybe get him some more water, Alistair,” Tibby Rose suggested softly.
Alistair took the mug, which sat by the old Gerandan’s knee, and darted outside to refill it at the trough.
When he returned the old mouse was saying, “Our children, now grown, are scattered I know not where. They were brought up by their grandparents while my wife and I were away working for FIG. I can only hope they understand. . . . Sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”
“I’m sure they would understand,” Tibby Rose reassured him.
As Alistair placed the cup in the old mouse’s hand, he said, “But I still don’t understand what being ginger’s got to do with anything.”
The old mouse took a long draught of water and then replied, “Don’t you see? Only Gerandans are ginger. Not every Gerandan, mind you, but it’s not uncommon. The triplet who inherited Gerander from Queen Cornolia was ginger, and there have been ginger Gerandans in every generation since.”
“But we’re not Gerandan,” Alistair pointed out.
“So you say.” The old mouse shook his head. “But if you are ginger, then you are Gerandan. That’s all there is to it. Maybe your parents are Gerandan, or their parents were.”
Alistair thought of Uncle Ebenezer’s stories about his and Rebus’s boyhood adventures. They had all taken place in Shetlock. What about his mother’s childhood? He couldn’t remember his mother ever talking about it. Now he regretted that he had never asked.
“It explains why those kids by the river in Templeton were calling us Gerandan rebels, anyway,” Tibby said. “And why the mice in town thought we might be spies.”
The old mouse ran his hands over his face wearily. “They are good at hating, the Sourians,” he said.
“Why have you come to Souris?” Alistair asked. “It must be incredibly dangerous.”
“I have important news for FIG members here,” the Gerandan replied shortly. “That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”
“There are FIG members in Souris?” Tibby Rose asked, astonished.
“In Souris and in Shetlock,” the old mouse replied. “Every nation has its good and bad. There are those in Souris who detest their ruler’s oppression of a smaller country, and there are those in Shetlock who are ashamed by their government’s refusal to intervene. Indeed,” he continued, “Shetlock’s policy of turning a blind eye might be their undoing if they’re not careful. . . .”
At first Alistair didn’t understand what Uncle Silas meant, but then it struck him. “A Greater Gerander would mean no more Shetlock. Do you mean Souris might invade Shetlock too?”
“Clever lad,” said the old mouse with a shadow of a smile. “That’s a question all Shetlockers should be asking themselves, in my opinion. If they won’t help Gerander for the sake of justice, they might at least consider helping us in order to save their own skins.” He took a deep breath, then began to cough violently, both arms wrapped around his bony chest. It was several minutes before he was able to speak again.
“You should rest,” Tibby Rose said softly.
“I will never rest until Zanzibar is king,” the old mouse muttered, as if to himself. Then he sagged. “But you are right. I have an arduous journey ahead of me, and I will need my strength.”
He lay back and pulled the ragged blanket up to his chin. Alistair, too, lay back, deep in thought. Could he really be Gerandan? It would certainly explain his ginger fur. But then why had no one in the family ever mentioned it? Too dangerous, perhaps. And then, even though he had a hundred questions buzzing in his brain, and it was only the middle of the afternoon, he fell asleep.
When he woke a couple of hours later, the old Gerandan was gone. Tibby was standing in the doorway of the shed, looking out. The rain clouds had vanished, and a hot sun beat down.
“Hey, Tibby, where’s Uncle Silas?”
Tibby turned. “Welcome back, sleepyhead.” Then she shrugged. “I don’t know. I dropped off as well, and he’d already left when I woke up a few minutes ago.”
Alistair stood up and brushed the dirt from his fur. “What do you think? Should we try to walk a bit farther before the sun goes down?”
“Sure,” said Tibby, and after they’d both drunk from the trough of cool, clear water, they set off. They were skirting around the foothills at the edge of the Eugenian mountain range now, and the winding road was hilly with little shade. It was hard going, but after their experiences on the river Alistair was quite pleased to be on dry land again.
As they walked, he and Tibby talked over what the old mouse had told them.
“Imagine what it would be like to have your country invaded like Gerander was,” said Alistair. “It must be terrifying to have someone just take over your home like that. Your home is meant to be the place where you feel safe.” He shook his head. “It’s just not right,” he declared. “I don’t understand how it could be allowed to happen.”
“Me either,” Tibby said. “But it’s kind of like what’s happening to us now, when you think about it. I thought Souris was my home, but if the Queen’s Guards catch us they could lock us up for being Gerandan spies, though we didn’t even know we were Gerandan. And we’re completely powerless to stop them! But, Alistair,” she added, “do you realize that if you’re ginger and I’m ginger, it means we’re both descended from Queen Cornolia’s ginger child. So really, we’re kind of like cousins, way back and—what’s that?”
A shadow had fallen over them. Alistair looked up, expecting to see a cloud skittering across the sun. Instead, he was alarmed to see a giant owl looming above them. It was so close Alistair could see its eyes glittering like beads, its sharp beak quivering in anticipation. He knew he should run, should scream, but, as if trapped in a nightmare, Alistair stood frozen, his legs rooted to the spot, his cry of warning stuck in his throat.
“Ginger mouse!” the owl squawked.
; “Ginger mouse!”
Then it dived toward them.
15
The Three Sheets Tavern
Alice and Alex jogged through the dark for the next few hours, pausing often to listen for voices and footsteps behind them. But they heard nothing.
The sun was well and truly up by the time the exhausted pair reached the coast. The fishing boats had returned with their catch, and as they entered the outskirts of Shambles, they saw a dozen or so mice heading in the opposite direction, pushing carts stacked with crates of fish, bound for nearby towns and villages. Drawing closer to the port, they could hear the cries of the stallholders at the market that spread around the quay and into the streets of the old town.
“Shambles’ shellfish, get it ’ere! All yer oysters, cockles like the clappers, wee willie winkles, and the mostest mussels. Shellfish alive-o!”
“Freddo’s fresh fish! Come to Freddo’s for your fill of the freshest!”
The fishermen were perched on the sea wall, untangling nets or mending them and watching the action of the market, while all along the quay shopkeepers were sweeping down the pavement and arranging their wares, and restaurateurs were putting out chairs and tables under striped awnings.
Alice and Alex skirted around the edge of the crowd of early risers who were clustered around the stalls. Alice peered up at every awning and shingle they passed, looking for the Three Sheets Tavern.
It was Alex who spotted it. “There!” Down a dark alley off the port was a rather battered old shingle with the words THREE SHEETS TAVERN inscribed on it.
Alex pushed open the heavy door into the tavern and Alice followed. Dust motes drifted in the sun rays that streamed through the window. Alex dropped the rucksack from his back with a groan of relief.
A big old wooden bar stretched down the right-hand side, while to their left was a line of cozy booths underneath the windows, and a scattering of tables and chairs in between. What struck Alice first was how quiet it was. No one stood behind the bar, and apart from a couple of customers sitting at a table toward the back, the tavern was empty.
“Excuse me?” Alice called into the silence. “Hello?”
The two customers at the back looked over, and Alice let out a piercing scream.
It was Sophia and Horace!
She staggered backward into Alex, who was staring at the silver-gray and coal-black apparitions open-mouthed.
“Alex, run!” Alice cried.
They turned, only to find the doorway blocked by two smoky gray mice.
Trapped between the two pairs of mice, Alice cast around desperately for another exit, but she couldn’t see one.
“Julius!” she shouted. “Augustus! Help!”
“Help you?” said one of the smoky gray mice by the door.
“I don’t think so,” said the other.
Alice gaped at them. “You mean you’re . . .?”
“Julius,” said the tall, thin mouse with a nose that turned down.
“Augustus,” said the other, who was short and stout with a nose that turned up. “We don’t help spies.”
“Spies?” Alex bellowed. “We’re not the spies—they are!” He pointed an accusing finger at Sophia and Horace. “They pretended they were from FIG and they—”
“You see?” said Sophia, tilting her head to one side and looking at Julius and Augustus with wide, innocent eyes. “It’s just as I said. Next they’ll try to convince you that they’re Alex and Alice, the nephew and niece of our dear friends Beezer and Ebenezer.”
“But we are Alex and Alice!” Alice broke in.
“Isn’t it just too awful of those evil Sourians,” Sophia continued, as if Alice hadn’t spoken. “They’re even embroiling children in their fiendish plots! That’s why we must find dear little Alistair before they do. You will help us, won’t you?” Her face was a picture of concern. “Why, if they harm a single hair on his ginger head, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” She broke off and Horace handed her a small white handkerchief with which she proceeded to dab her eyes. Alice had to admit it was a masterful performance.
“You—you . . .!” Alex, incoherent with rage, stormed toward her, but before he had gone more than a couple of paces Julius had caught him by one arm and Augustus by the other.
“Don’t even think about it,” snarled Julius as Alex struggled to free himself.
“Wait!” said Alice. “We can prove who we are. We have a letter for you written by our Aunt Beezer.”
“Oh yeah?” said Augustus. “Let’s see it.”
Alice dropped to the floor and opened the front pocket of the rucksack. The note wasn’t there! Maybe she’d put it in the main part of the bag? Quickly she unbuckled the straps, lifted out the heavy half-wheel of cheese and rummaged through the bag’s contents. Nothing. Where could it . . .? She lifted her head to look at Sophia, who gazed back serenely. Of course. That was why Sophia had insisted that Horace carry their bag to their room at the Riverside Inn: so he could search it.
She looked up at Alex, who was still being held by Julius and Augustus.
“They’ve stolen the letter,” she said dully.
“Gentlemen, I’m so sorry to inconvenience you like this. Indeed, if dear Beezer hadn’t assured me I could rely on you I certainly never would have troubled you.”
“It’s no bother at all, Sophia,” Julius told her. “We’re happy we could help.”
“Any friend of Beezer’s is a friend of ours,” Augustus added.
“Now, if you just had somewhere we could lock them up for a few hours? I need to find a ship sailing to Souris tonight so I can deliver these two into the captain’s keeping. I know they’re wicked”—she shook her head sorrowfully—“but they’re only children. I think the best thing to do is return them home.”
Julius raised his eyebrows at Augustus, who nodded. “The cellar,” they said in unison.
Augustus began to drag Alex toward the bar, and Julius grabbed Alice by the arm and followed.
“What about our rucksack?” Alice protested.
“Leave it,” snapped Julius.
On the other side of the bar was a trapdoor, which Augustus opened to reveal a set of stairs leading into darkness. Julius gave her a push and Alice stumbled down the stairs behind her brother. The trapdoor slammed shut above them, and they were alone.
Alice stood in the pitch black, the smell of cold stone filling her nostrils. She felt completely helpless and hopeless. She couldn’t even see her brother. “Alex?”
“Here,” said a voice to her right. “Ouch!”
“What’s wrong?” asked Alice, worried.
“I’ve just banged into something.” Alice heard a tapping sound and then Alex said, “This wall’s just got empty wooden crates stacked in front of it.”
“What are you doing?” asked Alice.
“Looking for another door,” said Alex impatiently. “Come on, give me a hand.”
“Oh, good idea.” Alice stepped forward tentatively, arms outstretched. She took a second step, then another and another, then, “Ouch!” She had grazed her fingers on the rough stone of the cellar’s back wall. Cautiously she felt along it, moving to the left corner, then the right. “Nothing here,” she reported. “Just stone.”
Alex, who had worked his way along the opposite wall, under the wooden staircase, said, “A couple of empty barrels over here. No door though.” He sighed heavily.
Alice slumped to the dirt floor and put her head in her hands. “Oh, why did we ever leave Smiggins?” she sobbed. “Uncle Ebenezer was right: it was too dangerous. Now we’ll never see Alistair again, and we don’t even know what’s happened to him. And Uncle Ebenezer and Aunt Beezer will never know what’s happened to us, and . . .”
Then Alex was at her side. “Come on, sis. Don’t go to pieces on me now. We’re not dead yet, are we? And as long as we’re still alive we’ve got a chance.”
Alice straightened and wiped her eyes with her hands. “You’re right.” She sniffed. “Maybe they really will
take us on a ship? We could jump overboard—we’re both strong swimmers.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Alex.
They passed the time remembering some of Uncle Ebenezer’s most daring escapades and imagining themselves performing their uncle’s daring feats.
“We could climb a tree,” said Alex.
“And when they came after us, we could somersault off it,” said Alice. She was starting to feel better now. What was it Aunt Beezer had said? They were brave, resourceful, and capable, that was it. Well, if there was ever a time to be brave, resourceful, and capable, it was now. She felt for her brother’s hand in the dark and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, Alex,” she said.
Alex returned the squeeze briefly and then snatched his hand back. “Of course, it’s easy to somersault out of a tree,” he said. “Unless you’re holding another mouse by the tail.”
They were giggling as the trapdoor was suddenly flung open and light spilled down the stairs. There was a scuffle, and Alice heard Horace say, “Please don’t make me go down there, Sophia. I don’t like cellars,” and Sophia respond, “Oh, very well, Horace—it seems I must do everything myself.”
Blinking, Alice peered up the stairs at the figure silhouetted against the glare.
“So glad to see you’re having fun,” Sophia said. As her eyes adjusted, Alice saw that she wore an acid expression. “Enjoy yourselves while you still can, won’t you?”
Alice felt all her earlier bravado drain away, leaving her timid and scared, but still curiosity compelled her to ask: “How did you—?”
A brief cold smile flashed across Sophia’s face. “Get here so fast?” she said. “Boat. Really, dear, we’d get along much better if you just accepted the fact that I will always be a step ahead of you.” She shook her head. “Anyway, Tweedledum and Tweedledee upstairs seem to think we’re obliged to feed you.” Without ceremony, she dropped two bread rolls into the dirt at the foot of the stairs. “Your last meal,” she said. “I do hope you find it to your liking.”
Then the trapdoor was slammed shut, and Alice and her brother were plunged back into darkness once more. They slowly felt their way across the ground on their hands and knees, trying to find where the bread rolls had fallen.
The Secret of the Ginger Mice Page 13
