The Forgotten Map

by Cameron Stelzer

  ‘You can thank Fred’s old sewer buddy for showing up,’ Madam Pearl whispered, drawing level with him. ‘That nosy hound didn’t think once to look up here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Whisker apologised. ‘I nearly ruined everything.’

  ‘Well you didn’t, so there’s nothing to worry about,’ Madam Pearl reassured him. ‘Chin up; we’ve still got a map to collect.’

  Pearl’s Antiques was once the grandest shop in the entire port. Now its ornate plaster façade was covered in misspelt graffiti, its windows were smashed and its interior looked like the aftermath of an earthquake.

  Whisker swung himself through the window of the top floor and landed with a soft thud on a ragged rug. Mr Tribble followed awkwardly, tripping over a lop-sided footstool and landing face first in a pile of shredded velvet cushions.

  Whisker helped him to his feet and they both stared in disbelief at the mess that surrounded them. For a moment, Whisker had a terrible vision of the Forgotten Map lying in tatters under the broken vases and cracked porcelain pie platters strewn around the room.

  Madam Pearl looked up from where she sat, clutching a broken string of pearls. A deep frown ran across her brown face.

  ‘They had no right to do this,’ she said angrily. ‘I know it’s just … stuff, but they could have at least sold it and –’ she looked at Mr Tribble, ‘given the money to an orphanage or something.’

  Mr Tribble shook his head. ‘It’s an absolute disgrace.’

  Whisker gave Madam Pearl a moment to compose herself, then quietly asked, ‘Is the map here?’

  Madam Pearl shook her head. ‘No. It’s not in here. But it’s close. Follow me.’

  She stood up and walked over to the spiral staircase in the centre of the room. Taking one last look around her, she dropped the pearls beside a shattered chandelier and descended the stairs.

  Every floor they passed was the same – utter destruction. What the Blue Claw hadn’t destroyed, they had stolen. The scissor swords, the cheese knives, the human sewing needles were all gone.

  The companions reached the bottom of the staircase and Madam Pearl headed towards the serving counter. She moved a broken chair aside and thrust her arm beneath the smashed cash register.

  ‘It’s lucky crabs have claws and not paws,’ she whispered. She fumbled around for a few seconds until something went CLICK.

  ‘Marvellous,’ she said, regaining some enthusiasm. ‘Stand back, gents.’

  Whisker jumped out of the way as the floor he was standing on started to move. Within moments a square hole appeared, revealing a secret flight of stairs.

  ‘Where does that lead?’ Whisker gasped.

  ‘To the cellar,’ Madam Pearl replied, ‘and beyond to the dock. But a battalion of soldier crabs is hardly my light at the end of the tunnel.’

  Whisker peered down the stairs.

  ‘So the map is in the cellar?’ he said.

  ‘Gracious, no!’ Madam Pearl exclaimed. ‘It’s in my other shop.’

  ‘What other shop?’ Whisker and Mr Tribble cried together.

  ‘The Portside Boutique, of course,’ she said, pointing through a shop window. ‘It’s just across the road. How else would I know about the summer sale?’

  Mr Tribble shrugged.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier?’ Whisker said in a disgruntled voice.

  ‘Because the less you know, the better,’ she replied bluntly. ‘No one knows I own that shop. Not even the squirrels who work there. That’s the only reason it hasn’t been ransacked by the Blue Claw and the only reason your map is still safe. Do you understand?’

  Whisker hung his head.

  Madam Pearl tried to compose herself. ‘Follow these instructions. Go to the Boutique and ask for the red squirrel named Selma. Tell her the password in return for the map …’

  ‘But the Boutique won’t be open yet,’ Mr Tribble broke in.

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she replied. ‘It’s the week of the big sale and the staff will be wide awake and setting up.’

  Whisker looked across the street. She was right. A warm glow already emanated from the windows of the Portside Boutique.

  Madam Pearl continued, ‘Leave town the way you came. When you get to the bridge, tell the Sergeant I went shopping without you.’

  She stepped into the secret stairway and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve done all I can to help you, but in light of what we’ve seen tonight, you’ll be much safer on your own.’

  Whisker started to protest, ‘But will you be …’

  ‘Safe?’ she replied. ‘Yes, Whisker. I have more than one secret cellar in which I can hide.’ She paused. ‘I hope you find everything you’re looking for …’

  Whisker gave Madam Pearl a small wave as she disappeared into the darkness. With another CLICK the floorboards moved back into place and they were on their own.

  Whisker raised his paw to the door of the Portside Boutique.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

  Faint voices drifted from inside, but no one answered.

  He tried again.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

  Still no response.

  ‘We can’t wait here forever,’ Mr Tribble said, glancing around the empty street. ‘What if the patrol comes back?’

  Whisker knocked a third time.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

  ‘GO AWAY!’ cried a shrill voice from behind the door. ‘We don’t open ‘til six.’

  ‘We’re here to see Selma,’ Whisker said politely.

  ‘About what?’ the voice asked grumpily.

  ‘A, err … package,’ Whisker replied.

  There was a pause followed by the sound of sliding bolts. The door opened inwards to reveal the face of a light brown squirrel wearing enormous fake eyelashes.

  ‘Selma’s upstairs,’ she said in an agitated voice. ‘Come inside, if you must, and I’ll fetch her.’

  Whisker and Mr Tribble stepped into the shop and the squirrel bolted the door behind them.

  As they waited, Whisker looked around at the rows and rows of summer frocks, high heeled shoes and sale signs filling the ground floor. A plaque next to the staircase read: 1st Floor Evening Wear. 2nd Floor Cosmetics. 3rd Floor Fragrances.

  ‘Who needs an entire floor for perfume?’ he thought aloud.

  The brown squirrel returned with a red squirrel wearing even bigger fake eyelashes.

  ‘Thank you, Tina,’ said the red squirrel, gesturing for her colleague to leave. The brown squirrel disappeared up the stairs and the red squirrel turned to Whisker and Mr Tribble.

  ‘I’m Selma, the store manager. How may I help you?’

  Whisker took a deep breath, and in his clearest voice recited: ‘The map is ready to reveal its secret.’

  Selma’s large eyes lit up.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ she replied knowingly. ‘Perhaps I should fetch your package then?’

  Mr Tribble nodded anxiously.

  ‘Wait here one moment,’ she said, pulling a small key from her dress. She stepped through a doorway behind the serving counter and disappeared.

  Whisker heard a SWISH, a small CLICK, several WHIRLS, a CREAK and a SHUFFLE. There was a pause and then another CREAK, a dull THUD, several more WHIRLS, a second CLICK, and a final SWISH. He gave Mr Tribble a vacant look.

  ‘Combination-key safe,’ Mr Tribble murmured, ‘hidden behind a tapestry. We’ve got one at school for the report cards.’

  As Selma walked out carrying a long metal cylinder, Whisker knew the item in her paws was far more important than any report card.

  She extended the cylinder towards them, and before he knew what he was doing, Whisker rushed forward like a deranged dog scrambling for a stick.

  As his fingers snatched for the object, Mr Tribble’s paw shot out and grabbed it first.

  Whisker gasped in shock. Mr Tribble stepped back, clutching the cylinder.

  ‘Easy, Whisker,’ he said in a firm teacher’s voice. ‘You ca
n have the map in due course – if it’s genuine. A false map can be a very dangerous thing.’

  Whisker took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. He knew Mr Tribble was right. But it was hard to be patient when the map was so close.

  ‘Do you have somewhere private we can look at this, Selma?’ Mr Tribble asked.

  ‘Of course,’ the squirrel answered. ‘You can use the change rooms in the front corner. I’ll be behind the counter if you need me.’

  Whisker threw open the curtain of a change cubicle and Mr Tribble stepped inside.

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got,’ Mr Tribble muttered, removing the lid of the cylinder.

  He carefully slid out a yellowed paper scroll and Whisker stared in awe, ignoring the sound of voices from the street outside. Mr Tribble unrolled a small corner of the scroll and peered at it through smudged glasses. A smile crept across his face.

  He rolled the corner up again.

  ‘Well?’ Whisker asked.

  ‘It’s genuine,’ Mr Tribble announced.

  Whisker was confused. ‘How can you be sure? You barely glanced at it …’

  Mr Tribble thrust the scroll into Whisker’s arms.

  ‘I’m positive,’ he stated. ‘This is the map Rat Bait promised you.’

  Whisker looked down at the scroll and felt his excitement growing. This is it, he told himself, I’m holding the actual Forgotten Map.

  He began to unroll the map, savouring every moment. He’d only glimpsed a few lines of text when Mr Tribble caught his attention.

  ‘LISTEN!’ Mr Tribble hissed wildly.

  Whisker lowered the map. The voices outside had grown louder and were now mixed with growls, sniffs, and the terrifying scuttle of crabs – hundreds of crabs. Whisker dared not move, he dared not look. But he listened.

  A deep voice raised itself above the chaos.

  ‘ATTENTION!’

  There was silence.

  The deep voice continued, ‘Fellow crustaceans and honorary hounds of our battalion, I have summoned you here under terrible circumstances.’

  There was a gasp from the crowd.

  ‘I have just been informed that a terrible crime has been committed against your brothers on Prison Island.’

  There was another gasp from the crowd.

  ‘It seems that a new enemy has arisen this very night and has single-handedly turned our fine prison into a smoking, smouldering ruin.’

  ‘NO!’ cried the crowd.

  ‘YES!’ boomed the voice. ‘But, my friends, it gets worse. This terrible creature has released one of our most despicable, our most notorious, our most deadly prisoners …’

  ‘Seven-legged Sven?’ piped a small voice.

  ‘Err … no,’ said the deep voice. ‘Sven is still chained up in the dungeon. I’m referring to none other than the wicked weasel whose shop of sin I stand before – Madam Pearl!’

  ‘Save us all!’ shrieked the crowd.

  The deep voice waited for the crowd to be silent. ‘It is my understanding that Madam Pearl and her criminal counterpart may attempt to return to this very street. If they do, they must not escape again. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel,’ roared the crowd.

  ‘But who is he?’ mumbled the small voice.

  ‘Who’s who?’

  ‘The one who’s not the weasel.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the deep voice sighed. ‘We are fortunate to have an accurate description of him. He is none other than… the Hooded Mouse Bandit!’

  ‘Ooh, Arr!’ gasped the crowd.

  The deep voice went on, ‘Our sniffer hounds have detected a fresh scent of male mouse in this area. Your orders are to block off the street, seal the sewer entrances and search every building and rooftop, starting with Pearl’s Antiques. Arrest on suspicion any male that looks like a mouse, rat, hamster or skinny guinea pig. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel,’ chanted the crowd.

  The frantic scuttling resumed and, for the first time in his life, Whisker wished he was a cat.

  A Tight Squeeze

  Whisker’s heart beat faster than a drum in a dance hall.

  ‘W-w-what are we going to do?’ Mr Tribble stammered in terror. ‘The crabs will r-r-rip us to p-p-pieces.’

  Whisker took a deep breath and tried to slow his pounding heart. He’d encountered a stampede of crabs before and on that occasion he’d escaped. Two words sprang to mind. He poked his head from the change room and whispered to Selma, ‘Do you have a back door?’

  Selma shook her head. ‘No. I’m afraid our shop backs onto the solid wall of the pie factory.’

  ‘What about a cellar?’ Whisker said frantically.

  Selma shook her head again. ‘Maybe in another shop?’

  Of course, Whisker thought. Pearl has a cellar … and a secret passage … and it’s right across the road.

  He peeked through a gap in a curtain to see how bad things looked outside – they looked terrible.

  Three hundred crabs pushed, shoved and clawed their way through the narrow entrance into Madam Pearl’s shop. Whisker’s one chance of escape was no chance at all. In minutes, the crabs would swarm into the Portside Boutique, arrest Whisker and Mr Tribble and seize the map.

  I need more options, Whisker thought in desperation.

  He stared through the window, searching for a memory.

  Focus on the circus, he told himself. There must be a daring stunt or a clever trick of illusion you can use.

  Nothing.

  Look again. What can you see?

  Crabs scrambling through a doorway …

  Try harder!

  The circus audience scrambling into the tent …

  And?

  A gentleman in a top hat and lady in a fine frock – and they look so honest the doorman doesn’t even ask for their tickets …

  With a sudden realisation, Whisker jumped back from the window and bounded over to Selma.

  ‘Selma,’ he cried. ‘I need something else. And I need it fast.’

  ‘Do you have another password?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Whisker said. ‘What I need is …’

  He whispered his request in her ear.

  ‘Of course,’ she smiled, ‘if you can pay for it.’

  Whisker patted his empty pockets and wished he hadn’t dropped the suitcase, or the coin purse.

  ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘It’s a life or death situation.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Selma sighed. ‘I’d love to help but I’m just the manager and I have rules to follow. I’d lose my job if the owner found out.’

  ‘But she’s …’ Whisker began, but stopped himself.

  ‘She’s what?’ Selma asked, her eyes narrowing. ‘Do you know her?’

  Whisker hung his head. ‘No. Never mind.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Selma said sympathetically. ‘If you don’t have any money, I’ll accept something else of value.’

  Whisker’s paw instantly moved to his neck. He felt the shape of a gold anchor under his coat. He didn’t want to lose it, but he knew he had it for a reason.

  This was the reason.

  He reached for the strap at the back of his neck, but before he could untie it, Mr Tribble placed something small and silver on the counter.

  ‘Take my pocket pen,’ he said. ‘It’s only a mouse’s size, but it’s solid silver and perfect for drawing maps and … writing receipts.’

  Whisker gave Mr Tribble a look of gratitude. Selma picked up the pen and studied it closely.

  ‘It’s ever so pretty,’ she considered, ‘for a miniature pen.’

  Whisker’s paw moved back to his pendant.

  ‘Will the pen pay for everything?’ he asked anxiously.

  Selma lowered the pen and fluttered her large eyelashes. ‘Why, of course it will. It’s the summer sale.’

  Two ladies stepped from the doorway of the Portside Boutique. The elder was a mouse wearing an ankle-length lilac frock with a matching bonnet, a purple satin shawl and fla
t heeled silver sandals. The younger was a rat, and wore a short floral frock, a pastel pink traveller’s coat, gold high heels and an anchor pendant bracelet. Both ladies carried small matching handbags overflowing with tissues.

  ‘This perfume is driving me crazy,’ Mr Tribble wheezed, holding back a sneeze. ‘My eyes are watering, my mascara is running and I can’t see anything without my glasses.’

  ‘Calm down, Gran,’ Whisker pleaded. ‘The perfume isn’t for you, remember? Just dry your eyes, hold onto my arm, and you’ll be fine.’

  Mr Tribble sighed. ‘At least I’m not wearing your ridiculous high heels. I don’t know how you can walk in a straight line.’

  Whisker looked down at his gold stilettos and tried to keep his balance. He’d never felt so tall or so awkward. He lifted his head and adjusted the pink ribbon over his fringe as a swarm of crabs scuttled from an open doorway. An important looking crab yelled, ‘All clear,’ before disappearing into the Portside Boutique with a horde of crabs.

  Several crabs, however, did not enter the shop. They turned and approached Whisker and Mr Tribble. A sniffer hound trotted behind them. Whisker batted his fake eyelashes and tried to strike a flattering pose.

  ‘Good evening, Officers,’ he squeaked.

  ‘Evening, Miss,’ a Sergeant replied. ‘It’s a bit late to be roaming the streets, don’t you think?’

  ‘Um … well … you see, officer …’ Whisker stammered, as a gentle gust of breeze swept past him.

  Before Whisker had time to invent a story, the sniffer hound dropped to the ground clutching at his nose howling, ‘AWOO! AWOO! It burns! It burns!’

  ‘What’s wrong with the mangy mutt?’ the Sergeant grumbled.

  ‘Dat smell,’ whined the hound. ‘I can’t stand dat ‘orrible smell. Get ‘em away from me or me precious nose’ll be ruined.’

  The rest of the crabs shook their claws in panic.

  ‘We can’t lose another sniffer hound, Sergeant,’ the smallest crab cried. ‘Our last one collapsed in the scented candle store.’

  ‘Humph!’ the Sergeant snorted. ‘Very well, you’re free to go, ladies. But next time leave that stinking perfume at home.’