He looked warily over his shoulder to see Ruby a few steps behind him.
‘Just follow the plan,’ she instructed. ‘Keep pushing and don’t stop. When the time comes, follow Horace’s lead.’
‘Right,’ Whisker gulped. ‘This had better work.’
Side by side, Whisker and Horace bumped their barrels towards the prison entrance. The huge gatehouse loomed in front of them like a hungry monster. Sharp points of the portcullis hung down like fangs from the roof of its snarling mouth, inviting its prey to enter.
Whisker took one last look at the setting sun and, with a nod from Horace, began to run. The crabs to their left were too busy examining barrels to notice Whisker and Horace speeding past them.
As the prison grew closer, Whisker’s barrel hit a rock and veered awkwardly to one side.
‘Hold steady,’ Horace hissed.
Whisker steadied himself and drew level with the gatehouse. Maintaining his pace, he passed through the open doors. The next moment, the portcullis was right above him and he was hurtling through the narrow passageway towards the courtyard.
He’d almost reached the grassy space when his vision was blocked by a snapping silhouette.
‘STOP!’ boomed a panicked voice.
But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.
Whisker’s barrel bounded into the approaching Gatekeeper, sending him flying. The barrel spun uncontrollably into Horace’s barrel, and ricocheted off the wall, knocking Whisker and Horace over like two pins in a bowling alley.
Whisker was used to being thrown to the ground, and bounced back onto his feet in an instant. Horace was not so fortunate. A barrel landed on top of him, breaking on impact. He tried to move, but he was pinned to the ground under a pile of splintered wood and sesame seeds.
‘Can’t breathe … need air,’ he moaned.
Before Whisker could do anything, he was surrounded by a sea of angry crustaceans.
Follow Horace’s lead, he repeated in his mind. Horace was clearly not doing anything, so Whisker did the same and stood perfectly still. In front of him, the Gatekeeper lay on his back, waving eight legs frantically in the air.
‘WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?’ he fumed.
‘We’re new …’ Horace wheezed, spitting out sesame seeds as he spoke. ‘We didn’t realise … the barrels picked up so much speed on the flat …’
‘YOU FAILED TO REALISE A FEW THINGS!’ the Gatekeeper roared, as the soldiers turned him right-side up again.
‘We’re terribly sorry, your crabbiness …’ Horace gasped deliriously. ‘Maybe you should invest in some speed bumps or something … A couple of old shells would work … Just clean out the rotten crab meat first …’
‘HOW DARE YOU – YOU – MISERABLE MOUSE!’ the Gatekeeper shrieked in hysterics. ‘Don’t you know you are inside the walls of a prison?’
‘Where?’ Horace mumbled with flickering eyes. ‘I’m feeling a little light-headed at present … Do you think I could have some crab cakes with that order?’
‘NO, YOU MAY NOT!’ the Gatekeeper bellowed. ‘You are inside an Aladryan prison, not a takeaway shop, and crimes committed inside a prison carry an automatic life sentence.’
‘Well, it wasn’t my barrel that ran you over …’ Horace panted. ‘It was his …’
He twitched his head in the direction of Whisker and promptly passed out.
Prisoners
There was nothing left for Whisker to say. As usual, Horace had said everything.
‘Take them both to the holding cell,’ the Gatekeeper ordered. ‘I’ll need witness statements from all crabs present. I want them to pay for this. Who do they think they are?’
‘They’re my friends and you can’t lock them up for one little accident,’ came a reply from behind the soldiers.
‘Who said that?’ the Gatekeeper snapped, spinning around to face the portcullis.
‘Another mouse,’ snorted one of the soldiers.
Whisker looked up to see Ruby standing between the two open doors.
‘Get her out of here,’ the Gatekeeper said impatiently. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
Two of the guards grabbed Ruby and dragged her, kicking and screaming, out of the prison. In the commotion, Whisker saw a long golden object slip from her coat and clang noisily to the ground.
Ruby stopped howling and the soldiers stared at the object. The closest crab picked it up.
‘Gatekeeper,’ he said. ‘Isn’t this a standard issue government telescope? It’s got the official seal on it.’ He tapped an etched banana symbol with his claw and the Gatekeeper moved closer.
‘You little thief,’ the Gatekeeper hissed. ‘It seems you’ll be joining your friends in the prison after all … Whoops. I tell a lie. You won’t actually be joining them. You’re a lady, and we have somewhere special set aside for ladies who can’t keep their thieving paws to themselves. I doubt you will ever see your friends again.’
Whisker met Ruby’s eye and she looked back at him with her usual stone-cold expression.
‘It’s the western tower for you,’ the Gatekeeper ordered, ‘and there’s not a shred of paperwork to be done. This telescope is all the evidence we need.’
Ruby was pushed into the prison and disappeared from view. Speechless, Whisker continued staring after her.
‘Move it,’ grunted a soldier, giving Whisker a sharp jab in the back.
Surrounded by guards, Whisker was led through the courtyard and into the eastern tower. Horace’s unconscious body was dragged beside him, leaving a trail of sesame seeds on the grass. Whisker hung his head sombrely and made no brave attempt to escape. Even his tail did what it was told.
Inside the tower, Horace was dropped roughly onto the floor of the holding cell – minus his detachable hook and Whisker was thrown in behind. A metal gate was swung closed and locked with a key. The Gatekeeper led a procession of angry crabs across the corridor into a room marked Clerk’s Office.
Peering through the bars of the gate, Whisker saw the dungeon staircase to the left of the office. Beside the staircase stood a small table containing a lit candle, an opened letter and the confiscated items.
The door to the clerk’s office was ajar and Whisker listened to the ruckus of a dozen crabs speaking at once.
‘… I heard what he called the Gatekeeper … They must have been going at least double the prison speed limit … No, I’ve never tried crab cakes …’
‘One at a time, please,’ a timid voice piped through the chaos. ‘All crabs wishing to be considered as credible witnesses, please take an incident report form, fill in your details and write in five hundred words or less, the exact events you witnessed this evening.’
There were murmurs and shuffles from within the office.
‘And please do it quietly,’ the timid voice demanded. ‘I need to concentrate on completing the offender’s portraits.’
Whisker jumped back from the gate as a mottled blue soldier crab with a monocle tiptoed from the office. In his undersized claws, the crab carried a bundle of paper, two pencils and a drawing easel.
‘I am the clerk,’ he said in a small voice. ‘You are charged with a very serious crime. Please cooperate by looking in my general direction, and if it’s not too much to ask, please try and pull your best criminal expression.’
Whisker had never sat for a portrait sketch and felt rather self-conscious. He tried to draw the attention away from himself by pointing at Horace who lay peacefully on the floor with his eyes closed and his gold stump protruding from his coat sleeve.
‘I’m afraid this mouse won’t be much use to you,’ Whisker said to the clerk.
‘Is he dead?’ the clerk asked hopefully.
‘I think so,’ Whisker lied.
The clerk peered closer at Horace through his monocle and snorted, ‘Humph. He’s got you hoodwinked. For a start, he’s not a mouse, he’s an extremely small dog. That’s obvious. And, if he’s already dead, I don’t need his portrait.’ He set up his easel a
nd prepared to draw. ‘You should really choose your friends more carefully next time, young mouse. Not that you’ll get a next time.’
Whisker nodded furiously and his hood slipped further over his face.
‘Perfect!’ the clerk exclaimed, ‘Hooded mouse bandit. It’s a good look … most inmates prefer the snarling teeth approach but I personally prefer the more subtle expressions.’
Whisker declined to comment. If he was about to be immortalised through art as a vicious criminal, at least it would be a shadowy depiction of the entirely wrong species.
The clerk scribbled frantically for several minutes and then lowered his pencils.
‘Done!’ he declared. ‘Thank you for your patience and most importantly thank you for not spitting. It’s terribly off-putting, you know, but most prisoners insist on it. I’ve tried gagging them in the past, but gagged prisoners make terrible portraits.’ He picked up his equipment.
‘See you in court,’ he said, scurrying into his office.
For a moment, Whisker wished he’d asked to see the finished portrait, but remembering there were more important things at hand, turned his attention to the sound of puffing and panting coming through the small window behind him.
Intrigued, Whisker pressed his nose against the bars and peered out. Beyond the courtyard he could see the gatehouse. Coming into view, and almost level with the entrance gates, was the book-laden cart. Exhausted-looking crabs pushed and pulled from all sides. Mr Tribble trudged beside the cart, fiddling with an old pocket watch.
‘Nearly there, chaps,’ he encouraged. ‘Don’t stop now, it’s almost seven o’clock and the rain could hit at any time.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait outside for the Gatekeeper?’ one of the crabs asked.
‘And risk ruining the entire load?’ Mr Tribble squeaked in his most important voice. ‘I don’t think so. Just a few more feet and then you can stop.’
‘All right,’ the crab mumbled. ‘Come on boys – HEAVE!’
The cart rolled forward until it was directly under the portcullis.
‘STOP!’ cried a young crab, running across the courtyard. ‘You can’t bring that inside. It has to be inspected first.’
‘I have a letter from the Governor,’ Mr Tribble quivered. ‘Are you the Gatekeeper?’
‘No,’ the young crab replied, ‘he’s busy. There was an incident.’
‘Oh,’ Mr Tribble gasped.
‘Yes, a very serious incident,’ the young crab said. ‘And under the circumstances, I don’t think he’d allow you to enter with or without a letter. Do you understand?’
Mr Tribble mumbled nervously, ‘Um … well …’ and in the process dropped his pocket watch beside the wheel of the cart.
‘That’s not a government pocket watch?’ the young crab asked suspiciously.
‘No … my father gave it to me,’ Mr Tribble stammered. ‘I’ll show it to you.’
He put one paw on the centre of the wheel to support himself and bent down to pick up the watch. Halfway down he sneezed awkwardly and his whole body lurched forward into the side of the cart.
‘Do please excuse me,’ he apologised, holding out the watch for the young crab to inspect. ‘I must have breathed in a sesame seed. They seem to be scattered everywhere.’
‘No thanks to your fellow mice,’ the young crab sniggered. ‘Here’s your watch back. It’s a piece of junk. No government employee would carry one of these. I doubt it even keeps accurate track of the time.’
‘I assure you it does,’ Mr Tribble said, looking extremely worried. ‘Last time I looked …’
‘Put it away and haul this cart out of here,’ the young crab demanded.
Mr Tribble lowered his head and shuffled out. There was a chorus of groans from the crabs as they re-positioned themselves around the cart and took up the strain.
With a collective heave the cart began to roll backwards. It had barely moved when there was a sickening SCREECH.
The crabs leapt clear as a wheel spun off its axle and the side of the cart crashed to the ground. Simultaneously, the second wheel, unable to support the weight, splintered into pieces and the entire cart plummeted down.
From where Whisker stood in the eastern tower, the sounds of the collapsing cart were partly muffled by the chimes of a grandfather clock in the clerk’s office. It was seven o’clock. The chimes only reached three when an even louder sound rocked the fortress.
A gigantic KABOOM exploded from the rear of the prison, shaking the stone walls and sending Whisker tumbling off his feet. Confused cries came from the clerk’s office, as the soldiers tried to comprehend what had happened.
‘JAIL BREAK!’ the Gatekeeper yelled. ‘TO THE DUNGEONS! PROTECT THE SALLY PORT! SECURE THE PRISONERS!’
A dozen crabs scuttled from the office and headed for the staircase. The Gatekeeper continued yelling from the centre of the group, ‘DROP THE PORTCULLIS! CLOSE THE FRONT DOORS!’
Seconds later, the clerk burst from his office, carrying a notebook. He scurried after the crabs, mumbling, ‘The paperwork for this will be a nightmare.’
Whisker turned back to the window. Two crabs on the top of the gatehouse tugged on a large metal handle. The young crab at the entrance desperately waved his claws in the air to grab their attention.
The next moment, the sharp metal teeth of the portcullis tumbled towards the ground. There was a piercing, crunching sound as the portcullis impaled the cart and stopped. The portcullis lay in a mass of paper and wood, unable to move up or down. The cart and its contents were completely destroyed.
Whisker was about to try to rouse Horace when he heard several more crabs entering the tower.
‘… I saw it all from the northern tower,’ one said excitedly. ‘Two empty barrels lying under a mangrove tree. No one’s down there now and the secret door is still intact. All they managed to do was blow up a chunk of rock. The door is completely sealed with rubble. They’ll never get in and the prisoners can’t get out. I can’t wait to tell the Gatekeeper the good news. He’s sure to give me a promotion …’ The voice faded out as the crabs descended the staircase to the dungeons.
Whisker crouched next to Horace on the cell floor.
‘Wake up, Horace,’ he whispered.
Horace sat bolt upright.
‘I was never asleep,’ he spluttered, ‘I was improvising …’ He took a huge breath and looked around in confusion. ‘W-where are we, Whisker?’
‘In the heart of the prison,’ Whisker said. ‘But don’t worry, the crabs are in the dungeon, the back door is sealed shut, and the front entrance is wedged open for our escape … All we need is a quick way out of this cell.’
‘Leave it to me,’ Horace replied, ripping off the sole of his boot. He pulled out a strange golden object, attached it to the stump of his hook and staggered towards the locked door. With one twist there was a soft click and the door swung open.
‘Skeleton key attachment,’ he said proudly.
Whisker grinned back. ‘Don’t tell me – best thing you ever bought.’
Silently, the two rats slipped off their boots and tiptoed from the cell towards the dark staircase of the dungeons. Horace grabbed his hook from the small table on the way.
Whisker glanced down at the open letter in the candlelight. The subject line read, Important Raid Information. Before he had time to consider its importance, his tail slid the letter from the table and stuffed it in his pocket.
‘Bring the candle, too,’ Horace whispered.
Whisker picked up the candle and the two rats scampered down the twisting staircase, arriving at a small landing. Thick iron doors stood open on either side of an archway. Beyond the doors, the staircase continued into blackness. Whisker could make out the muffled sounds of frantic soldiers far below.
‘It’s time we locked them in with the other scoundrels,’ Horace mused.
Whisker moved to the left door and tried to pull it shut. It barely moved.
‘Lend me a paw, will you?’ Horace whispered
, straining at the other door.
Whisker put down the candle and leapt across the passage to help him. With both of them straining as hard as they could, the door slowly began to swing shut.
‘Where’s Fred when we need him?’ Whisker groaned between heaves.
‘Having fun with my dynamite,’ Horace muttered.
With a dull thud, the door slid closed and the two rats paused, panting for air.
The sound of voices grew louder.
‘Hurry!’ Whisker squeaked, dashing to the second door.
It was even harder to push than the first. The candle flickered as a waft of stale air drifted through the gap.
The voices became clearer.
Whisker dug his toes and tail into the grooves of the stone floor and with every ounce of his strength, gave the door an almighty push. It moved, but not enough.
‘Come on,’ he said in frustration. ‘Hurry up and close.’
Through the narrowing gap, Whisker saw a flash of claw, followed by a loud shout.
‘NOW,’ Horace cried. ‘PUSH!’
With one last desperate attempt, Whisker closed his eyes and pushed. He felt a puff of air rush past his cheek and, with an echoing CLANG, the second door slammed shut. For a moment there was silence. Then Whisker felt a vibrating THUD from the other side of the door.
‘Your key, Horace!’ he cried. ‘Quickly! Use your key.’
Horace slid his skeleton key into the lock and jiggled it from side to side.
‘It won’t budge,’ he groaned in frustration.
The thudding continued.
‘Hurry,’ Whisker panted, bracing himself against the door. ‘I can’t hold them out for much longer.’
The candle started to flicker and Whisker glanced down at Horace, fumbling in the shadows. Below the lock, he caught sight of a long shaft of steel.
‘Use the bolt!’ he exclaimed. ‘Slide it across. Forget the lock.’
Horace grabbed the bolt with his paw and, between crashing jolts, slid it into position. With a small clunk, the doors were secure. Whisker fell exhausted to the ground. Horace tried the lock one last time and gave a little cheer when the key turned without resistance.
The Forgotten Map Page 14
