The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal

by Robin Jarvis

  Twit cleared his throat.

  ‘Well that’s all right,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to go a-sayin’ you’re sorry. I’ve had folk laugh at me ‘afore an’ I reckon they’ll not stop now.’

  The bats winked at each other, drew themselves up to their full height and dived off the rafter. For a moment they flew over Twit’s head and the fieldmouse watched them dart to and fro. Then they flitted down to him, seeming very grave and serious. They pressed round him closely and put their open wings about him.

  ‘Hear not the scorn of others,’ said Orfeo.

  ‘Not many are as brave and true,’ continued Eldritch.

  ‘When horror stalks your field you shall win through.’

  ‘Despair not in the long lonely years.’

  They hugged Twit tightly as if trying to console him for some hurt that was yet to come.

  The fieldmouse struggled, embarrassed by their embraces. He wriggled his arms and flicked his tail about.

  ‘Now what are you a-blatherin’ about?’ he asked, his small voice muffled by bat wing. ‘I can scarce breathe with you so tight round me.’

  He disentangled himself from the two brothers and gasped for breath.

  ‘You’ll do me in at this rate,’ he said crossly.

  ‘Forgive us master,’ they said and bowed formally, draping their languid wings on the ground in dainty apology.

  ‘He needs air,’ declared Orfeo.

  ‘Fresh air,’ cooed Eldritch and that strange smirk lit his furred fox-like face.

  ‘Now come, Master Scuttle, I believe you enjoy visiting folk. Is this so?’

  Twit nodded. ‘Truly that’s how I come to be in the city to pay a visit to my mother’s kin.’

  Orfeo smiled broadly showing a fine row of neat white teeth, ‘Verily and how much of this grand city have you yet seen?’

  Twit admitted that he hadn’t seen anything.

  Eldritch appeared shocked and dismayed, then his forehead crinkled as he glanced quickly to his brother. ‘You must attend to this Master Scuttle, while there is yet time,’ he said. ‘Let us rectify the situation and pay for our bad manners.’

  ‘We shall give you air,’ cried Orfeo gleefully.

  Twit scratched his head. He wasn’t sure what the bats were up to.

  ‘Come, come, they both said.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked nervously.

  Orfeo clambered on to Eldritch’s shoulders and pointed to the sky. ‘Into the night,’ he called down. ‘Let us show you the world as it should be seen – from the air.’

  Twit blew a raspberry. ‘What me? I can’t fly like you.’ He wondered if they were making fun of him again.

  But the bats persisted.

  Eldritch raised one eyebrow and said casually, ‘Is it not in your blood to fly?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘Did your father not fly once?’

  ‘Why he did, as a matter of fact – with an owl.’ Twit suddenly realised their meaning and a slow grin spread across his face. ‘It were one night when my old dad was—’

  ‘No time for that,’ sniffed Orfeo. ‘No dull family histories here, if you please.’

  Eldritch made himself ready. ‘This will not be as painful a journey, Master Scuttle. Just hold up your paws,’

  Twit reached up into the air.

  The bats began to flap their wings and rose elegantly upwards. They each gripped a tiny pink paw in their feet and beat their wings harder until the dust that lay on the beams around them was disturbed and swirled about the fieldmouse’s feet. Up went Twit exclaiming in wild delight.

  ‘Hold tight, Master Scuttle,’ shouted Orfeo.

  With graceful and easy movements, the bats carried Twit higher and higher, until they were out of the hole in the roof and into the night air.

  7. The Midshipmouse

  Twit dangled beneath the two bats as they flew up into the darkness. He could not believe his eyes. They left the red chimney pots behind them and soared higher still, leaving the old empty house far below.

  The night air streamed through his fur, making him wriggle with delight. It was a wonderful sensation to feel nothing under his feet and his tail hanging in empty space.

  ‘Oh my,’ Twit sighed. The stars above were so beautiful.

  The two bats carried him through wispy clouds, which fell like fine damp mist. For a while his tail trailed in them leaving a long thin smoky wake behind.

  Orfeo looked down at him. ‘Observe the night, Master Scuttle, you are a part of it now. We move in our element but only by permission: of the Lady of the Moon. It is she who tempts us out, enticing us with tender, shadowy caresses. All who move in the clear night feel her presence.’

  ‘Patience brother,’ cut in’ Eldritch. ‘Master Scuttle desired to view the city. Look now, mouse of the fields, it is below you.’

  Twit lowered his eyes away from the stars and his mouth fell open.

  All around and beneath them lay glittering sea of light. The great city of London sprawled magnificently in all directions, an incomparable, matchless, slumbering creature, bejewelled and dangerous.

  It was impossibly large for a tiny mouse to imagine. Twit just breathed in wonderment like a fish gasping on land.

  The bats wheeled in circles, chuckling to one another. ‘It’s luvverly,’ Twit managed to say at last. ‘Perfect.’

  At this the brothers laughed loudly. ‘Not perfect, Master Scuttle. Come see.’ They dived. Down they went, past the flat roofs of slim blank tower blocks and through the tops of trees. They reached a weird buzzing orange light on the top of a tall post and Twit had to kick away the moths that fluttered like ghosts around him.

  ‘We will take you to the dark side of the city,’ explained Orfeo. ‘In the night the ferae roam.’

  ‘The what?’ asked Twit.

  ‘The feral creatures – wild, hungry and frightened.’

  They flew over a road where great glaring engines hurtled along at a frightening speed. The bats skimmed some garden fences and Twit received a splinter in his tail.

  A hollow clang clattered nearby.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Twit.

  ‘It is the feral cats,’ said Orfeo.

  And Twit saw thin skulking animals that might once have been cats scavenging in dustbins. Forlorn and ravenous, they tore open bags and spat at each other in their fight for food. The fur on them was thick and dusty, their tails were bushy and their whiskers were more like bristles.

  ‘Do you know others of this untame breed in your field Master Scuttle?’

  ‘Well no, there ain’t nothin’ like that, they’m so scrawny,’ shivered Twit.

  ‘The city makes them so.’

  Twit noticed with alarm the green hungry eyes turned to them as they flew over. The mournful wails scraped into the night air.

  ‘The tune of the dark,’ uttered Eldritch. ‘Come, more to see.’

  They soared up once more and Twit was grateful to be out of sight of those pitiful creatures scattered below.

  Up they went over houses and derelict shops.

  ‘See the feral man,’ said Orfeo.

  The fieldmouse stared down. Amongst the deep grass in the middle of a rough area of wasteland lay a crumpled figure. His hair was long and matted, dirt soiled his skin and clothes and an empty bottle was clenched tightly in his hand.

  With slow movements he raised his shaggy head and Twit noticed with alarm the same desperate soulless look he had seen in the cats’ eyes. A miserable, melancholy sound came up to them. Twit shuddered and the bats flew by. On they went into the night. Gradually Twit became aware of a faint musical sound; it had a quality that tugged his heart and made him catch his breath.

  ‘So you can hear that,’ said Eldritch. ‘It is to be expected.’

  Twit strained his ears to listen. It was so sad and lovely.

  There were no words to the melody – just continual tones of deep yearning and loneliness, desperate and urgent.

  ‘Who is it that sings?’ aske
d Twit. ‘They’m so sad, why’s that?’

  ‘The night hears everyone,’ said Orfeo. ‘You heard the cries of the cats and the howl of the man. The night collects the sounds of the heart and we who ride beneath the moon hear it. Sometimes still and peaceful, sometimes roaring and angry – tonight it is despondent and despairing. Listen to the heartaches Master Scuttle and grow wise. And thank your Green Mouse that you were blessed with your simple wit.’

  It seemed to Twit that they were flying in a sea of music; music which eddied around them in soft, sad waves. It was a sound that the fieldmouse never forgot although he could never explain it to anyone else.

  Then as they spiralled higher the wind rushed into his ears filling them until they were numb and Twit heard the music no more.

  Deptford passed below them: the cramped estates, the old buildings with grimy windows and sagging lintels. A bright neon cross flickered outside the mission and on the gateposts of St Nicholas’ Church at Deptford Green two stone skulls grinned up at them.

  Three small silhouettes glided before the moon. They had come to a quiet, squat power station with one tall chimney. The bats circled it twice.

  ‘Not your story, Master Scuttle,’ cried Orfeo.

  Twit saw the shimmering ribbon of the Thames on their left, snaking around the docks. They cleared the power station and passed on over a scrapyard.

  Great iron posts and springs encrusted with orange rust stuck sharply out among the heaped piles of discarded rubbish. Tall skeletal cranes straddled the refuse and the bats flew through their lattices.

  Deptford was behind them; ahead lay Greenwich.

  ‘What’s that down there?’ Twit asked as they passed over an unfamiliar object.

  ‘A ship to sail the high seas,’ answered Eldritch.

  Before Twit had time to consider the strange, spiky thing, it had been left behind. They swept along over beautiful white buildings, their many windows and pillars reflected in the calm river. Soon Twit saw a wide parkland drawing near. Within it was a green hill crowned by bulbous buildings and ancient trees.

  ‘And what are they?’ he asked.

  The bats flew around the observatories, and swooped low over the domes. Twit’s feet caught a golden weather vane and sent it spinning round frantically.

  ‘This is where the stars are studied,’ boomed Orfeo. ‘They search for answers far out in the deep heavens.’

  ‘When at their feet the Starwife knows all. Wise fools!’ snorted Eldritch.

  Twit wondered who the Starwife was, but the bats seemed to be slowing. Not far off lay Blackheath and the fieldmouse could see the vast expanse of flat grassland. But his companions refused to go any further.

  ‘Back,’ they cried, ‘we must return.’

  Actually Twit was glad. He was awfully cold, for the wind bit right through his fur. They made haste and veered away from the hill.

  ‘This has been splendid,’ he thanked them.

  Orfeo looked at him oddly with that strange smirk on his face.

  ‘I tire,’ he said. ‘Who could have thought that a small mouse would weigh so?’

  Eldritch agreed. ‘This burden wearies me also. Shall we release him?’ he asked casually.

  Twit heard them and trembled.

  ‘Don’t drop me,’ he squeaked, ‘I’ll smash to bits.’

  The bats flew out over the river. ‘A softer landing Master Scuttle,’ they laughed. The fieldmouse saw their reflection in the dark water. ‘No, I can’t swim – I’ll be drownded.’

  They dived down, pulling up just before Twit hit the water, and continued along with his tail skipping on the surface. Twit did not enjoy it. He could feel the bats laughing, their chucklings spread down their legs and their feet jiggled in amusement.

  Twit felt sick. The water rippled underneath him, and now and again the bats would drop a little so that his toes were dunked.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ he called up ‘to them.

  ‘What shall we do with him?’

  ‘He cannot swim.’

  ‘What better time to learn?’

  They lowered him suddenly. Twit lifted his legs up to his chest but his bottom skimmed the river. He chanced to glance over his shoulder and saw the wobbly shape of a large fish approaching rapidly. He squeaked even louder.

  The bats laughed again but soared from the river leaving the fish to clap its jaws together on empty air.

  The illuminated glass dome of the Greenwich foot tunnel entrance lit them from beneath as they wheeled over.

  ‘Oh where shall we deposit our baggage?’ sang Orfeo.

  ‘He belongs to the fields, put him in a nest.’

  They circled round the oId ship they had passed earlier. It was the Cutty Sark. Under the fierce face of the figurehead they darted and then spiralled upwards through the rigging, flitting around the main mast until they reached its topmost point. Then, they let go of the fieldmouse and flapped off, laughing loudly.

  Twit fell.

  For a moment he was wriggling wildly in mid-air, the ground rushing towards him.

  ‘This is it,’ he thought.

  Then a gasp was thumped out of him as he hit the main mast. He was winded but still managed to cling on to the timber.

  The Cutty Sark has no sails to adorn her three masts, and in the moonlight she was a stark, ghostly memory of what she had been. Her rigging was like a dark web spun by a vast black spider.

  Twit lay on the mast struggling for breath, clinging to the ropes for dear life. Finally his breathing eased and he dared to look down.

  He was teetering on the brink of destruction.

  Twit closed his eyes and shook his head. He had thought that the bats were friendly but all the time they must have been laughing at him – just like everyone else. No, not everyone. He knew that he had friends and that thought comforted him.

  The wind blew his whiskers this way and that. It carried the deep green smell of the river to him and once again his stomach turned over.

  The fieldmouse surveyed his position. He knew that he had to get down somehow. He thought about it carefully, collecting his thoughts slowly. Perhaps he could shin down the mast: but it was so sheer and wide that this idea did not appeal. In the end he decided to climb down in stages, crisscrossing the rigging; he could pretend the ropes were just long barley stalks.

  Twit made his way carefully to the end of the yardarm where a rope began.

  He clambered on to it, taking it firmly in his paws and winding his tail about it. He began the descent.

  With even his small weight the rope swayed and bobbed about. But Twit was an expert and deftly managed the feat. Soon he was on the next level and began again on another rope. It was not long before Twit stood on the deck of the ship.

  He ran gladly to the side, happy to have something solid beneath his feet at last. He scrambled up the side of the deck and peered over. The Cutty Sark was in a long concrete trough supported underneath and round the sides by many iron struts. Twit could see no way of leaping from the deck on to the edge of the concrete. It was too far and besides, at the top of the trough a high rail penned the ship in. He looked down as far as he could.

  From a hole in the side a great chain issued and fell to the ground where an anchor was attached and rested on the trough floor. He wondered if he could scale down the hull of the ship and reach that chain. At both ends of the concrete grave were steps: he felt he could manage those.

  Twit swung himself over the side. Luckily there was a decorative panel immediately below which carried the ship’s name in gold relief. His small pink feet could get a purchase on it. He grabbed the C and worked his way down. At the base of the letters was a ledge overhanging the rest of the ship. Twit squirmed around. If he could just reach . . .

  He stretched out his legs. Below him were two ropes that led to the bowsprit under which the figurehead glared out. He caught the ropes and scrabbled about, ready to swing down on to the next border where a gilded scrolling of leaves and vines glinted coldly
in the moonlight.

  ‘Mercy on me!’ Twit hurled himself forward.

  ‘Ow!’ came a startled voice. ‘What’s that?’

  Twit regained his balance. He had thrown himself against something soft.

  A beady orange eye blinked at him. ‘Clear off, clear off. My roost, my roost,’ said the voice angrily.

  A scraggy, feathered head poked out of the shadows: it was a tatty pigeon.

  It jerked its head.

  ‘My roost, my roost,’ it repeated.

  Twit looked at the bird. It was thin. Its beak was blunt and its feathers dirty. There were scabs around its eyes and Twit winced as he noticed its gnarled, mutilated feet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised, ‘I didn’t know you were there.’

  He felt sorry for the scruffy bird. Its voice was filled with fear and nervousness.

  ‘Clear off! My roost!’ It seemed to be talking to itself now, trying to reassure itself. The bird shivered and twitched, shifting its weight from one mangled foot to the other.

  Twit could never understand birds. Few could speak and none could maintain a conversation without drifting off into mindless food talk or the merits of mud in nest building.

  Twit excused himself, apologising once more to the jittery pigeon. He left it to its mutterings. Slowly the bird pulled in its ruffled head and closed its dry, sore eyes against the wind.

  The fieldmouse crept along the golden carvings. It was a long way down. His progress was slow, even with footholds. He pressed himself close to the gilt where it ended in a flourish of curling fronds. On his left was the hole where the chain left the ship but a metal ridge across his path prevented him from reaching it. The chain was just too far away. He leaned over as far as he could and groped into the hole, hoping there were no more pigeons hiding anywhere ready to peck him. The recess seemed to go a long way back. Twit wondered if he could make it to the chain if he jumped really hard.

  He braced himself, tensing his whole body, judging the distance.

  ‘Ahoy!’ shouted a deep voice.