by Robin Jarvis
Table of Contents
ROBIN JARVIS
THE MICE
THE RATS
THE GRILLE
1. The Altar of Jupiter
2. Audrey
3. The Fortune-Teller
4. Three in the Dark
5. The Return
6. Visitors in the Attic
7. The Midshipmouse
8. White and Grey
9. Trusting to Luck
10. Magic on the Heath
11. Dangerous Company
12. Hot Milk and Honey
13. Dark Rewards
14. The Dark Portal
Read an Extract of The Crystal Prison
THE DEPTFORD MICE
THE DARK PORTAL
ROBIN JARVIS
Acorn Independent Press
Also by the Author
Dancing Jax
Dancing Jax 2: Freax and Rejex
The Thorn Ogres of Hagwood
THE DEPTFORD MICE
The Crystal Prison
The Final Reckoning
THE DEPTFORD MOUSELETS
Fleabee’s Fortune
Whortle’s Hope
THE DEPTFORD HISTORIES
The Alchymist’s Cat
The Oaken Throne
Thomas
TALES FROM THE WYRD MUSEUM
The Woven Path
The Raven’s Path
The Fatal Strand
THE WHITBY WITCHES
The Whitby Witches
A Warlock in Whitby
The Whitby Child
Visit the author’s website:
www.robinjarvis.com
Acorn Independent Press Ltd
125 Clock House Road
Beckenham
Kent
BR3 4JY
First Published in Great Britain in 1989 by Macdonald & Company (Publishers) Ltd
This edition published in Great Britain in 2012 by Acorn Independent Press Ltd
The Author hereby asserts his moral rights to be identified as the Author of the Work.
Copyright © Robin Jarvis 1989
ISBN: 978-1-908318-75-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent, this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.robinjarvis.com
www.acornindependentpress.com
Robin Jarvis writes: ‘Whenever I am asked where I get my ideas for books and characters, I always wish I could come up with some weird and wonderful answer: “I dream them,” for example, or, “I get inspired whenever there’s a full moon.” But, unfortunately, neither of these is true. Like many writers, I sometimes base my characters on real people (or parts of real people) and sometimes they are the complete product of my imagination. But they generally all start as a sketch or drawing and then take shape as a character is developed around them.
‘I started making sketches of mice because they were the smallest things I could think of to draw. When I sent them to a publisher, I was asked if there was a story to go with the drawings. At the same time there wasn’t, but I sat down and thought of a project visually and drew a story board as though I were making a film. I had envisaged it as a picture book, but it became a 70,000 word manuscript, and the basis for The Dark Portal.
‘My editor thought this manuscript would make a trilogy because it was so long. So I went away and cut it, and then came up with new ideas for books two and three of The Deptford Mice Trilogy – The Crystal Prison and The Final Reckoning. And I’ve been writing ever since.
‘I can’t think of a better way to earn a living!’
For my parents
THE MICE
ALBERT BROWN
Loving father and devoted husband. Albert is a commonsensical mouse, not usually given to rash actions.
ARTHUR BROWN
Fat and jolly, Arthur likes a scrap but always comes off worse.
AUDREY BROWN
Tends to dream. She likes to look her best and wears lace and ribbons. Audrey cannot hold her tongue in an argument, and often says more than she should.
GWEN BROWN
Gentle wife of Albert and caring mother of Arthur and Audrey. Her love of her family binds it together and keeps it strong.
ARABEL CHITTER
Silly old gossip who gets on the nerves of everyone in the Skirtings.
OSWALD CHITTER
Arabel’s son is an albino runt. Oswald is very weak and is not allowed to join in some of the rougher games.
PICCADILLY
A cheeky young mouse from the city, Piccadilly has no parents and is very independent.
THOMAS TRITON
A retired midshipmouse. Thomas is a heroic old salt – he does not suffer fools gladly.
WILLIAM SCUTTLE OR ‘TWIT’
Twit is a fieldmouse visiting Arabel Chitter, his mother’s sister. Twit is an innocent, and does not have a bad word to say about anyone.
ELDRITCH AND ORFEO
Are brothers, and as bats see far into the future. Bat advice is a very dangerous thing to seek, for they tell you only fragments of what they know.
THE GREEN MOUSE
A mysterious figure in mouse mythology. He is he spirit of spring, and of new life.
THE RATS
MADAME AKKIKUYU
A black rat from Morocco. She is a fortune-teller who wanders around selling potions and charms to gullible customers.
FINN
A sly old worker – one of his ears is missing, but he doesn’t miss much.
FLETCH
A dirty old rat with bad breath and spots on his nose.
ONE-EYED JAKE
A popular rat who is threatening to oust Morgan from office.
JUPITER
The great dark God of the Sewers. He lives in the dark portal and possesses awesome powers. All fear him.
LEERING MACKY
A rat with a terrible squint. He and Vinegar Pete are old cronies.
MORGAN
The Cornish piebald rat who is Jupiter’s lieutenant. Morgan trusts no one, and does all Jupiter’s dirty work.
SKINNER
A rat with a mouse-peeler strapped on to his stump of an arm.
SMILER
A strong giant of a rat who works in the mine.
VINEGAR PETE
This rat never smiles. His face is always sullen and he and Leering Macky mutter to themselves.
THE GRILLE
When a mouse is born he has to fight to survive. There are many enemies – owls, foxes and of course, cats; but mice suffer far more at our hands. I have heard of a whole family of kind, gentle mice, wiped out by eating poison – four generations gone and only the baby left because it was too small to eat solids.
Mice are all descended from rural families and they remember their traditions wherever they live. They honour the green spirits of the land as Man once did and every spring they hold a celebration for the awakening year, calling to the Green Mouse to ripen the wheat and see them safe.
In a borough of London called Deptford there lived a community of mice. An old empty house was their home and in it they fashioned a comfortable life for themselves. People never disturbed them with traps, and because all the windows were boarded up they never even saw a cat.
So they dwelt there quite happily. In the winter they would visit the building next to theirs where a blind
old lady lived and eat from her pantry. She never minded; her nephews always brought cakes and chocolates so there was too much for her alone. The mice never took more than they needed anyway. There were also berries on the trees that hugged the house and some of the younger mice would venture outside to pick them. The only blight on their carefree existence was the sewers – or rather the rats that lived in them. Cut-throats and pirates the lot, of them. Thin and ugly, a rat would smack his lips at the thought of Mouse for dinner. He would kill, peel and, if he was a fussy eater, roast it. Not that the rats ever came out of the sewers – they had enough muck and slime down there to keep them happy. No, what worried the mice was the Grille.
This fine example of Victorian ironwork was in the cellar of the empty house. Beyond it lay a passage that led straight to the sewers. It nagged on the mind of every mouse. The Grille, with its leaf pattern of iron was all that divided them from the bitter cruelty of the ratfolk and their dark gods. All the mice in the Skirtings knew of the Grille. It was the gateway to the underworld, the barrier between life and death. Only whispering voices could discuss the sewers in case strange forces were awoken by their mention out loud. The mice knew that deep below ground, beyond the Grille, was a power, which even the rats feared. No one dared to name it in the Skirtings – it was enough to still any conversation and bring a sudden, sober halt to merrymaking.
And yet the Grille seemed to draw mice to it. In one corner there was even a tiny hole edged with jagged rusty iron which a mouse could just squeeze through, if he was foolish enough to want to do so.
One such mouse was Albert Brown. He could never afterwards understand what had compelled him to do such a crazy thing but through the Grille he had gone.
Albert had a wife called Gwen and two children, Arthur and Audrey, so you see he had everything to live for. He was happy and his family was content. There was just no reason and he kicked himself for it. With a shudder he remembered the warnings that he had given his own children: ‘Beware of the Grille!’ He had never been brave or overtly curious, so why did the Grille call to him that spring morning, and what was the urge to explore that gripped him so?
1. The Altar of Jupiter
The sewers were dark, oppressive and worst of all smelly: Albert had gone quite a way before he shook himself and suddenly became aware of where he was. Quickly he stifled the yell that gurgled up from his stomach and raced out of his mouth. Then he sat down and took in the situation.
He was on a narrow ledge, in a wide, high tunnel. Below him ran the dark sewer water. Albert cursed the madness that had gripped him and sent him running into danger.
‘Yet here I am,’ he thought ruefully and wondered how far he had come. But he was unable even to recall how long since he had left the Skirtings. Alone, in the darkness, Albert sat on the brick ledge trying to quell the panic that was bubbling up inside him. He pressed his paws into his stomach and breathed as deeply as he could.
‘Got to get out! Got to get back!’ he said, but his voice came out all choked and squeaky and echoed eerily around the tunnel. This frightened him more than anything: the rats lived down here. Around the next corner a band of them could be waiting for him, listening to his funny cries of alarm and laughing at his panic. They might have knives arid sticks. What if they were already appointing one of them to be the mouse-peeler? What if . . .?
Albert breathed deeply again and wiped his forehead. The only thing to do was to remain calm: if he succumbed to fright then he would stay rooted to the spot and the rats would surely find him. He stood up and set his jaw in determination. ‘If I stay calm and use my wits then all I have to do is retrace my footsteps and return to the Grille,’ he told himself.
It was many hours later when Albert sat down on yet another ledge and wept. All this time he had tried to find his way out, but up till now he had been unable to recognise anything that could tell him he was on the right track. What hope had he of returning to his family? He sighed and wondered what time of day it was. Perhaps it was another day altogether? Then he remembered and hoped that it was not. The Great Spring Celebration was today, and he would miss it. He would miss the games, the dancing and the presentations. Albert groaned. His own children, Arthur and Audrey, were to be presented this year; they had come of age and would receive their mousebrasses. Today was the most special day in their lives and he would miss it. Albert wept again.
Then in his sorrow he put his paw up to his own mousebrass hanging from a thread around his neck.
It was a small circle of brass that fitted in the palm of his paw. Inside the golden, shining hoop three mouse tails met in the middle. It was a sign of life and an emblem of his family. Albert took new hope from tracing the pattern with his fingers – it reminded him that there were brighter places than this dark sewer and he resolved to continue searching until he found home or death.
Along the ledge he walked, his pink feet scarcely making a sound. Carefully he went – aware of the dangers, keeping close to the wall and the wet brick. Suddenly he heard a faint pit-a-pat from around the corner. Something was approaching.
Albert turned quickly and looked for a place to hide, but there was only the bare wall and no escape. His heart beating hard, he pressed himself against the bricks and tried to merge into the shadows. Albert held his breath and waited apprehensively.
From around the corner came a shadow – it sprawled over the ledge then flew into the darkness of the tunnel. Albert gasped in spite of himself when the shadow’s owner finally emerged. It was a mouse.
All his fears and worries melted and he was left with such relief that he hugged the stranger. ‘Gerroff!’ said the mouse, struggling. Albert stood’ back but continued to shake the other’s paw.
‘Oh you’ve no idea how glad I am to see another mouse,’ Albert said.
The stranger breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Me too, though you gave me an ’orrid fright pouncing on me like that. I’m Piccadilly. Wotcha.’ He took his paw from Albert’s and pushed back his fringe. ‘Who’re you?’
‘Albert,’ was the reply. ‘How did you get here?’
Piccadilly then told him his story while Albert looked him over. He was it young mouse, a little older than Albert’s children because he already had his mousebrass. He was also grey, which was unusual in the Skirtings, and he had a cheeky way of speaking. Albert put that down to Piccadilly’s lack of parents: they had been killed by an Underground train.
Piccadilly had been involved in one of the food hunting parties in the city when he had lost his comrades and, like Albert, strayed into the sewers.
‘And here I am,’ he concluded. ‘Mind you, where that is I’m not sure.’
Albert sighed. ‘Neither am I, unfortunately. We could be under Greenwich or Lewisham, or anywhere really . . .’ His voice trailed off and he looked thoughtful.
‘Anythin’ wrong Alby?’
‘Yes, and less of that sauce!’ Albert scratched an ear and looked seriously at the young mouse. ‘Apart from the fact that I shall miss my children’s mousebrass presentations, as yet I’ve seen neither hide nor tooth of any rats down here, so it’s only a matter of time before we run smack bang into them.’
Piccadilly laughed. ‘Rats! Slime-stuffers! Are you afraid of them?’ He paused to hold his sides. ‘Why, I’ll handle them for you, grandpa. A few bits of well-chosen chat from me will get ’em runnin’.’
Albert shook his head. ‘Around here the rats are different. They’re not the feckless bacon rind-chewers that you have in the city, Piccadilly. No, these are far worse. They will eat each other, let alone us. They have cruel yellow eyes and they are driven by a burning hatred of all other creatures.’
‘I’ll drive’ em!’ Piccadilly scoffed. ‘Ain’t nothing different Alby, rats is rats wherever!’
Albert closed his eyes and lowered his voice. ‘Jupiter,’ he whispered. ‘They have him.’
The young mouse opened his mouth but no cheek came out. ‘In the city we’ve heard rumours of Jupiter,’ he stamme
red at last. ‘The great God of the Rats, Lord of the Rotting Darkness . . . is he here?’
‘Somewhere,’ Albert replied unhappily.
‘Are the myths about him true then?’ continued Piccadilly. ‘Has he two great ugly heads, one with red eyes and the other with yellow?’
‘No mouse has seen him,’ said Albert, ‘but I don’t think that the rats have either – I’ve heard he lives in a dark hole and doesn’t come out. I’ll wager Morgan has seen him though.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Oh Morgan is his chief henchrat, and slyer than a bag of lies. He does most of Jupiter’s dirty work.’
Piccadilly looked around him. The dark seemed to press in on him now. ‘So the rats are more cruel here then?’
Albert nodded. ‘Do you think we ought to find a way out?’ he said.
They set off together, searching the tunnels and exploring deep into black places. Paw in paw, the two mice found comfort in each other’s company; but both were terribly afraid. All they could hear were steady drips and every so often a sploosh sound in the sewer. Sometimes they had to turn back when the smells got too bad and made their whiskers itch. Then a tunnel would end abruptly and they had to retrace their steps back to the last turning point.
