by Robin Jarvis
The sewer ledges were treacherous, the gloom hiding every kind of trap: holes, stones and slimy moss. Albert and Piccadilly went forward very carefully and very slowly.
Way above them the new moon of May climbed the night sky and only the brightest stars could be seen above the orange glare of the city lights.
‘Another dead end!’ said Albert in exasperation. Piccadilly ran his paw over the wall that blocked their path and rubbed his eyes.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get out?’ he asked quietly.
The older mouse could see even in the murky darkness that Piccadilly’s eyes were wet and already he was sniffing a little. Albert took his paw and they sat down. ‘Of course we will! Why, I’ve known mice in worse pickles than this come out tail and all. Take Twit – now there’s an example!’
‘Who’s Twit?’ asked Piccadilly.
‘A young friend of my children – must be your age though – got his brass you see: an ear of wheat against a sickle moon.’
‘He’s one of the country mice then?’ said Piccadilly, brightening a little. Talk of the outside and the chance of a story cheered his spirits. Albert was quite clever and tactful.
‘Yes, a fieldmouse Twit is, and the smallest fellow to wear the brass that I’ve ever seen. In the dead of winter he came to the Skirtings to visit his cousin.’
‘In winter, with the snow an’ all?’
‘Snow and all,’ said Albert. ‘A terrible journey he had and many unexpected happenings on the way.’ He paused for effect.
‘Foxes, owls and stoats he met. “Suave is Mr Fox”, Twit told us. You have to be careful of him – Old Brush Buttocks he calls him.’
Piccadilly laughed. ‘Twit’s an odd name,’ he mused.
Albert nodded. ‘Comes from having no cheese upstairs, if you understand me.’
‘And hasn’t he?’
‘That’s a tricky one: first sight yes, but then no.’ Albert sucked his teeth for a while. ‘If I had an opinion and the right to tell it,’ he said eventually, ‘it would be that Twit is an innocent. He’s forever thinking of the good: he’s not simple – no – or else he’d never have made it from his field. No, I think it’s something which other animals sense and they leave him alone. In the nicest possible way Twit is . . . green, as green as a summer field, as green as . . .’
‘The Green Mouse,’ Piccadilly said.
‘Exactly! Now that’s a better thing to think of The Green Mouse in His coat of leaves and fruit.’
‘I think I would like to meet Twit,’ Piccadilly said. ‘If we ever get out of here, that is.’
‘Oh he and Oswald are a pair indeed.’
‘Oswald?’
‘Twit’s cousin.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘Another time,’ said Albert, getting to his feet; he had suddenly become aware of their position and how vulnerable they were. The darkness seemed to close around him.
‘On your feet lad. Time to go – and let’s make this the last stretch, eh?’ He pulled Piccadilly up. An uneasy fear was growing in him and he did not want the younger mouse to sense it.
They started off again. Piccadilly ran his paw along the bricks as they went. ‘I suppose it’s all a bit of an adventure really,’ he said. ‘Ought to make the most of it.’ Then he stopped and cried out.
‘Alby! I think I’ve found something here. Come see, there’s a small opening in the brickwork.’
Albert peered into the hole that Piccadilly had found. The air was still and strangely lacking in all smell. Albert twitched his whiskers and tried to catch a scent that would give them a clue to what lay beyond. There was nothing.
The hole was deeper and blacker than the darkness they were used to, but what choice did they have? At least it would be a change. They were bored with wandering around on sewer ledges; and they could always come back if this turned out to be yet another dead end.
The opening was just big enough for them to squeeze through. Once inside they found that they were able to stand quite comfortably, although the pitch dark was unnerving and they often stumbled over unseen obstacles.
Strange thoughts came to Albert as he led the way, holding tightly to Piccadilly’s paw. He felt that they were crossing an abyss, descending into a deep black gulf. He was unable to make out the paw in front of his face, and in the raven darkness his imagination drew images before his eyes: visions of his wife Gwen, and Arthur and Audrey, forever beckoning yet always distant. Albert despaired and held his sorrow, nursing it in silence.
Following blindly, Piccadilly clung to Albert’s paw. He had never experienced a darkness like this before, not even in the tunnels of the Underground in the city. This was a total dumbfounding of the senses; he could see nothing, he could smell nothing, and even sound was muffled by the suffocating night. He tried not to think of the sense of taste, as he had not eaten for a very long time. The only thing left to him was touch and he was kept painfully aware of this every time his toes banged against stones and fumbled over ‘rough brickwork. The dark seemed to have become an enemy in its own right, a being which had swallowed him. Even now he felt he could be staggering down its throat.
Albert’s paw was the only real thing. The pain of the stones and the passage walls were confused – vague contacts that made him giddy.
They had not spoken for a long time and Piccadilly wondered whether Albert had been replaced by some monster that was leading him to an unknown horror. This thought grew and turned into a panic. The panic seized him fully and became icy terror. He began to struggle from the paw which now seemed to be an iron claw dragging him to his doom.
Then he was free of it and alone. All alone.
The initial relief rapidly turned into fright as he felt the unknown engulf him, isolating him from all that was real. He could not contain his anxiety much longer. The panic was almost bursting him. He closed his eyes but found there the same darkness, as if it had seeped into his mind.
‘Piccadilly?’ Albert’s gentle voice floated out of nowhere and the fear fell away. ‘Where’s your paw? Come on lad, I think I see a point of light ahead.’
It was a dim, grey, rough shape, where the passage came to an end and they made, for it gladly.
‘Trust in the Green Mouse; Dilly-O. I knew we’d be all right.’
At the end of the passage they peered out, blinking. In front of them was a large chamber with numerous openings leading off into the darkness. Along a ledge nearby two candles burned. The mice remained in the tunnel until their eyes became accustomed to the light.
Between the candles was a figure, crouching in an attitude of subservient grovelling. It was a rat.
He was a large, ugly, piebald creature with a ring through his ear and a permanent sneer on his face. He had small, red, beady eyes that flicked from side to side all the time.
The two mice pressed themselves further back inside the passage, their hearts pounding. The rat had a stump of a tail with a smelly old rag tied around the end. He swung it behind him with an ugly, unbalanced motion. It was Morgan – the Cornish rat, Jupiter’s lieutenant.
Although Albert was dreadfully afraid, he strained to see what the rat was doing. It seemed as if Morgan was humbling himself before something. Looking beyond the orange tip of the candle flame Albert could see an arched portal in the brick, and there, blazing in the shadows, were two fiery red eyes, impossibly large and equally evil. Albert put his paw to his mouth as the awful reality dawned. He and Piccadilly had marched into the heart of the rat empire. They were within whispering distance of the altar of Jupiter.
Albert hoped that no one would catch scent of Piccadilly and himself, yet he dared not move for fear of making a noise. He remembered the peeling procedure and shivered. Piccadilly did not need to question the identity of those burning eyes: the powerful evil force that beat out of them was enough to tell him that this was Jupiter.
Morgan lifted his head and spoke into the shadows, his voice thin and cracked.
Albert strained
his ears to catch the words but it was difficult. Jupiter’s voice was soft and menacing; it both soothed and repelled.
‘And why has the digging been delayed?’ he asked from the dark.
Morgan bowed again. ‘Lord!’ he whimpered. ‘You know what the lads are like, “What for we doin’ this?” they do say, an’ “Gimme a mouse”. Fact is – they’m bored, an’ right cheesed off. They want action – an’ now.’ The rat looked up and squinted in the glare of the fiery eyes. ‘One quickie like – grab‘n’dash – with a bit of skirmishin’ in the middle.’ He licked his long yellow teeth.
‘My people must do all I ask of them,’ Jupiter said flatly. Do they not love me?’
‘Oh in worshipful adoration Your Lovely Darkness, more than they love themselves.’
‘Nevertheless, I have asked for one simple task to be undertaken and all I hear is incessant whining. I fear they have little affection for me.’ The voice rose and a sour tinge crept into it.
‘Never, Your Magnificence! Why else would they bring you their tributes: the cheddar biscuits – nearly a whole half packet last week; and that bag of rancid bacon! It fair tore their hearts to part with it but they did. All for your love, Great One! For your greater, glory, oh Voice in the Deep.’
Morgan wrung his hands together for the finishing touch and hung his head for extra emphasis.
‘Love!’ Jupiter spat with scorn. ‘They do these things from fear.’ The soft voice snapped, filling the large chamber. The eyes narrowed but lost none of their fire.
‘I am Jupiter! I am the dark thought in their waking hours, I invade their dreams and bring horror! I am the essence of night, the terror around the corner, the echo behind! They fear me!’
Morgan threw himself on the floor. The candles flared and flames scorched the chamber roof.
Piccadilly shrank against the tunnel wall. This was their chance to escape, but fascinated by the scene before them the two mice remained frozen.
Jupiter continued. ‘You do well to prostrate yourself before me,’ he told Morgan. ‘Perhaps you forget my power and hope to blind me with the honeyed words that ooze from your deceitful tongue. Remember your place as my servant!’ The candle flames suddenly spluttered and turned an infernal red, so that Morgan appeared to be bathed in blood.
‘Oh Master spare me!’ he squealed and buried his snout in his grimy claws. ‘They conspire and grumble, and I am caught in between. What can I do?’
The candle flames dwindled and returned to their normal colour.
‘Send two or three of the troublemakers to me. They shall serve me here in the void, on this side of the candles. Tell the other conspirators that I hear their grumblings – my mind stands beside each one of my subjects.’
Morgan rose and waited for permission to leave.
Jupiter spoke again.
‘Better still, bring them all before me. A demonstration of my unease should quell their mutinous hearts. I will give them the goal that they desire for their work. Leave me.’
The rat bowed and scurried into one of the openings that led off from the altar chamber. The two eyes retreated into the black recess and disappeared. The voice, however, could still be heard faintly as Jupiter talked to himself and went over his plans.
Piccadilly tugged Albert’s elbow. ‘Let’s go now,’ he hissed, ‘while we can.’ But Albert was still looking beyond the candles, trying to pierce the shadows.
‘What’s he up to?’ he asked softly.
‘I don’t care and you shouldn’t either,’ whispered Piccadilly. ‘It’s all rat stuff – nothing to do with us – some mucky scheme or other – sewer business.’
‘No lad,’ said Albert taking a step forward. ‘There’s some terrible evil here and it will affect us all – rats, mice and the world beyond.’ He looked at the young mouse yet did not see him, for his thoughts were far away. He felt an awful doom creeping up on him which he knew he would have to bear. He looked up quickly. ‘I must hear him. You stay here.’
Piccadilly was horrified. The older mouse crept out into the altar chamber and passed the first candle until he was beneath the dark portal. His paw cupped his ear as he listened to the designs of Jupiter.
Piccadilly paced around inside the passage. Was this mouse cracked? Any minute now a whole army of rats would come pouring into the chamber. He scratched his head and looked over to Albert. Albert could obviously hear the rat-god, and what he heard was clearly not good news.
The look of disbelief on Albert’s face turned to one of complete shock. Piccadilly tried to warn him but only a strangled squeak came out. It was too late. Albert felt a terrible pain in his shoulders as they were gripped in sharp claws.
Morgan had him and would not let go.
‘Ho, my Lord!’ cried the rat. ‘See what I, Morgan, have found – a spy!’
Piccadilly saw Albert swinging by his shoulders where Morgan still held him tightly.
‘Alby!’ he shouted and ran from the tunnel.
‘Another spy!’ Morgan snarled.
Albert wriggled in the rat’s clutches as hundreds more gushed into the chamber. Above he could hear Jupiter returning. He had no hope of escape. Morgan’s hot, foul breath was on his neck.
‘Piccadilly! Don’t even try,’ he shouted. ‘Run as fast as you can.’ Albert twisted and tore at the mousebrass around his neck. ‘For Gwennie!’ he cried and threw the charm to the young mouse.
‘Don’t dither, lad!’ he yelled, then turned his attention to Morgan. ‘I bet you don’t know what His Nibs has got in store for you! You’re all going to catch it hot!’
Piccadilly clung to the mousebrass, his heart pounding in his mouth and his feet like dead weights. The teeming force of rats rushed towards him, and Piccadilly ran.
‘Don’t look back, Dilly-O. Tell Gwennie I love her!’
Jupiter’s voice suddenly boomed in the confusion. ‘Catch that mouse and bring him to me!’ Cries and whoops came from the rats enjoying the chase. ‘Now,’ Jupiter turned to Morgan, ‘deliver your spy – I shall peel him myself.’
As Piccadilly ran blindly in the dark passage, over the tumult of the pursuing enemies, he heard Albert cry out then no more.
Sobbing as he fled, Piccadilly clenched the brass tightly to his thumping breast.
2. Audrey
Audrey ate a meagre breakfast; her appetite was small today. Idly she nibbled on a cracker, and thought about the day ahead. It was to be a busy day in the Skirtings. The preparations for the Great Spring Festival were already being made. With her head resting on one paw she sighed. Her brother, Arthur, had gulped down two helpings and hurried away to join in the making of the decorations. Audrey was not in the mood. Where was her father?
It had been a whole day and night since Albert had disappeared – no one had seen him slip through the grating so nobody knew where to start looking.
That morning, Gwen had woken the children as usual and tried to put a brave face on things. When Albert was mentioned she would pause and explain that he was probably on a foraging jaunt and would bring them a wonderful present each. But Audrey had heard her mother weeping in the night: her heavy sobs had kept her awake and now she was tired and miserable.
‘Come on Audrey,’ her mother said. ‘A big day for you, you must eat.’ Gwen Brown had a matronly figure that spoke of a comely beauty in her youth. Her fur was a rich chestnut and her hair a curly brown. Today, however, the usually bright hazel eyes seemed dim – her face looked worn and her shoulders seemed to droop.
‘I’m not hungry, Mother,’ Audrey said and pushed the food away. ‘When will Father come back?’
Gwen sat down next to her daughter and cradled her head in her arms. ‘He’s never been away this long,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps you and I ought to prepare ourselves for grim news – or none at all.’ She stroked Audrey’s hair and held her tightly.
‘Today I get my brass.’ Audrey looked into her mother’s eyes. ‘I’ll be a grown mouse.’ She paused and fingered the brass that hung arou
nd Gwen’s neck. It was the respectable sign of the house mouse – a picture of cheese formed in the yellow metal. ‘Mother, do you know what my sign will be?’
‘No my love, no one knows – not even the Mouse in the Green who gives it to you. It is your destiny. Whatever you receive, it will be right for you.’
‘Then I hope it isn’t like yours,’ Audrey remarked. ‘I don’t want to settle down and be a house mouse forever.’
‘Well, that’s just what you are, my love,’ said Gwen. ‘Now go and help Arthur and the others decorate the hall while I clear away.’
Audrey left the table and wandered into her’ and Arthur’s room. Sitting on her bed, she took a pink ribbon from around one of the corner posts and tied it in her hair so that the top of her head looked as if it was sprouting.
She had delicate features – almost elfin. If you could imagine a fairy mouse that would be Audrey, although she would not have thanked you for remarking upon it. Her eyes were large and beautiful; her nose was long, and tapered into a small mouth fringed by long whiskers which she was careful to keep free of crumbs – unlike her brother, who always seemed so messy.
Audrey missed her father terribly: she was closer to him than to her brother.
‘Why aren’t you here?’ she cried violently. She felt angry at him for being away. It was a new feeling and she was ashamed of it. But where was he? She had looked forward to this, her big day, for so long – but now, without her father, it meant nothing.
All the mice were in the hall outside the Skirtings, decorating busily. From the garden they had brought in bunches of hawthorn blossom and leafy branches – ‘White for the Lady and green for the land spirits,’ they cried as they weaved them into garlands. In one corner were the Chambers of Summer and Winter. Each year these were cleaned and dusted and decorated for the mousebrass ceremony. Today those with brasses were working in them, but no youngsters were allowed in.
