The Deptford Mice 2: The Crystal Prison

by Robin Jarvis

  But as she said it the hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Suddenly the corn stems were thrust aside and something crashed towards them.

  Audrey could not believe her eyes and Jenkin fell back in fear. The corn dolly she had made was lurching towards them! No longer was it the trim, neat figure she had woven but a mass of tangled, twisted stems – bent with hatred and evil spells. The arms which had been pretty corn ears had grown long and wild with spiky fingers which clutched at the air greedily and waved around full of menace.

  The nightmare figure staggered towards them, its twiggy fingers outstretched, ready to catch them.

  Jenkin acted quickly.

  He grabbed Audrey’s paw and dragged her away just in time. ‘Come on!’ he yelled.

  Audrey snapped out of her trance and they stumbled off through the field, the figure pursuing them closely. It scraped its untidy skirt over the stony ground and flayed the air with its thin arms, groping for them. Its plaited loop head twisted from side to side, seeming to sense rather than see where it was going.

  Jenkin and Audrey ran in blind terror with the papery, crackling sound rustling close behind. She slipped and quick straw fingers grasped at her heels. ‘Aaarh!’ she squealed as they dragged her back and the figure loomed over her, lowering its plaited loop purposefully.

  Jenkin beat the straw with his fists and the fingers released Audrey and grabbed him. The loop slipped over his head but he ducked and nipped off with Audrey. ‘Not far to go till we’re out of the field,’ he called to her, ‘then we should be able to go faster.’

  Audrey leapt over stones and dodged the stems which blocked her path. Her tail bells jangled wildly as the clutching fingers searched for her hungrily.

  ‘Quick Audrey, hurry!’ Jenkin had reached the edge of the field and turned round to help her.

  She glanced over her shoulder and cried out. The corn dolly bore down on her, sweeping over the stony ground at a terrific speed. It raised its spindly arms and brought them knifing down.

  Audrey felt herself yanked backwards. Jenkin had hold of her and he carried her clear of the field.

  ‘Look Jenkin,’ she gasped, ‘it isn’t following us.’

  Jenkin put her down and stared back. The corn dolly remained within the confines of the field, its arms upraised.

  ‘Why isn’t it chasing us?’ asked Jenkin nervously.

  ‘Maybe it can only live in the field,’ suggested Audrey. ‘Perhaps it needs to be amongst the growing corn to come alive.’

  ‘It’s horrible,’ said Jenkin shivering. He frowned; the thing seemed to be waiting for something to happen. It reared back the loop head as though sensing another presence. Jenkin moved his eyes from the straw figure, up to the tops of the dark elms and out into the starry sky—

  ‘Get down,’ he yelled and roughly pushed Audrey to the ground. It was too late to save himself.

  A pale, silent ghost slipped out of the night sky and snatched him up. Jenkin squeaked in pain as Mahooot scooped him up in his vicious talons. He saw the ground disappear below him and heard the owl cackle to itself wickedly.

  ‘Foood, foood, lovely mooouses.’

  Audrey saw the owl swoop into the darkness over the meadow and heard Jenkin’s frightened voice fade away.

  Then Audrey screamed.

  The corn dolly rustled its pleasure and slunk back into the shadowy cover of the field.

  On sentry, Arthur recognised his sister’s voice and soon everyone in Fennywolde was awake and lighting torches. They ran in a blazing line to see why she was making that fearful noise.

  Audrey was on her knees when they found her, staring across the meadow with big dark eyes that were dreadful to look on. Arthur shook her to stop the piercing screams.

  ‘What is it Aud?’ he asked wildly. Without seeing him she pointed out into the sky and said weakly, ‘The owl! The owl has got Jenkin.’

  The fieldmice cried out in dismay, but from their midst, one figure stepped forward into the circle of torchlight. It was Jenkin’s father. None dared look at him. His face trembled with emotion and his lips turned white.

  ‘Jenkin lad,’ he said, sounding as if he had been stabbed. He turned on Audrey and his eyes burned at her accusingly. He raised a quivering finger and pointed. ‘You have done this, you!’

  Before she could reply, out of the crowd stepped Madame Akkikuyu. The rat took a torch from one of the fieldmice and held it above her head.

  ‘So,’ she shouted and all looked to her. ‘Mousey boy got by owly. What you do?’

  ‘What can we do?’ asked Arthur bitterly.

  ‘Go fight the mangy bird!’ she cried, whirling the torch around. ‘Come mouseys, we go to save him!’

  The fieldmice cheered her as she led them down the banks of the ditch like a general. Mr Nettle followed like a sleepwalker.

  Arthur and Audrey were joined by the Scuttles. ‘Arthur,’ Audrey whispered to her brother, ‘Jenkin and I were chased out here by a terrible thing! It was . . . it was my own corn dolly, Arthur! It must have killed Hodge! It tried to kill us too! What can I do?’

  Arthur gulped. There was no use doubting her. Twit had been attacked by something made of straw that morning. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘don’t mention this to anyone yet – you’re in enough trouble already. What do you think they’ll do if they find out your figure has come to life and murders people?’

  They hurried after the lights of the rescue party. Twit took Audrey’s paw and patted it.

  In the empty glade near the field only one mouse was left. It was Alison Sedge. She watched the torchlight dwindle in the distance and shook her head. Her sobs were silent and her heart broken. She ripped off her mousebrass and flung it away.

  Madame Akkikuyu led the fieldmice through the dark meadow. She whooped and shouted challenges to the owl and the fieldmice took heart at her courage. They came to the oak trees and the rat thrust her torch into the earth.

  ‘Stay here mouseys,’ she told them. ‘I go to hooty!’

  ‘Find my boy!’ begged Mr Nettle.

  ‘Kill the owl,’ chanted the fieldmice, and Arthur and Twit were alarmed to hear them. They spoke, not as individuals but as a great, many-headed creature with a hundred fiery eyes eager for blood. Only Twit’s parents and Mr Woodruffe did not join in. They hung back and put their paws to their mouths fearfully.

  Madame Akkikuyu began to climb the tree. It was easy for her. Her claws sank into the soft bark and she ascended swiftly.

  ‘I get you hooty,’ she snarled angrily. ‘I tell you leave my mouseys be.’

  She pulled herself up to the hole in the trunk and announced herself.

  ‘Hooty. Akkikuyu here again.’

  ‘Whooo?’ came a hollow voice.

  ‘Akkikuyu – the owl rider and neck plucker. I have mattress need stuffing!’ she laughed and pulled the bone from her hair.

  Sounds of agitated scrabbling issued from the black recess. Mahooot was trapped and he knew it.

  ‘Ha!’ bawled Akkikuyu, springing across the threshold and stabbing the bone in front of her.

  Mahooot had been lying in wait for her, intending to bite her head off as soon as it poked through the hole in the tree trunk. He darted forward, but she brought the bone crashing down on his open beak. It crunched and chipped, and Mahooot hooted in agony.

  In a foul temper he shot out a deadly talon and snapped it tight around the fortune-teller’s neck. She wailed in surprise and dropped the bone as he dragged her into the darkness.

  ‘Not so fast hooty,’ she yelled and kicked the owl in the stomach.

  ‘Oooof!’ moaned Mahooot as the air rushed out of him and he collapsed wheezing on the floor. Madame Akkikuyu shrieked with laughter and disentangled herself from his clutches.

  She retrieved her bone and brought it smashing down on the talon that had gripped her. The sharp claws splintered into a thousand bits.

  Mahooot roared in his pain and Madame Akkikuyu crowed with delight. Then she dealt the other foot a devastating
blow and danced about.

  The owl lunged at her in a mad rage. He knocked her off balance, so that she stumbled and fell backwards. Then Mahooot beat her down with his powerful wings until she was overwhelmed by his feathery bulk. His body crushed her and he bent his flat head to nip with his damaged beak. He pulled out a quantity of her thick hair until Madame Akkikuyu squawked shrilly. That was it! This owl was getting above itself.

  ‘Enough hooty,’ she said, spitting feathers out of her mouth.

  Mahooot cackled and continued to squash her. She thrashed her tail from left to right so he bit it and the blood oozed out. Madame Akkikuyu gnashed her teeth. He had gone too far.

  ‘Dooown yooou doxsie!’ he hooted, revelling in her suffering. ‘Mahooot is yooour dooom!’

  Madame Akkikuyu blew a muffled raspberry underneath him and managed to pull an arm loose. With one swipe she punched Mahooot savagely under his beak. He staggered backwards and she was free.

  Nimbly she stepped out of the dark hole and ran along the branch outside.

  ‘Nyer nyer,’ she taunted him, waggling her bottom at the hole. ‘Come out hooty, Akkikuyu thrash you good an’ proper.’ In a cloud of soft white feathers Mahooot left the hole. He spread out his enormous wings and reared himself up to a towering height.

  ‘Die!’ he boomed in a chilling voice.

  ‘Oho,’ chuckled the fortune-teller, ‘not yet owly, Akkikuyu not ready to snuff candle – you play her game now.’ She slipped her claw swiftly into the bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a small cloth pouch.

  Mahooot made a ravaging dive at her. The rat flung the pouch at him and a poisonous concoction exploded in his face.

  She smartly stepped to one side as Mahoot floundered past. His eyes were stinging and he could not see. The smell of burnt feathers fouled the air.

  ‘Ooow!’ he screeched in panic as he fumbled along the branch on his broken talons. ‘Mahooot is blind, ooow.’

  Madame Akkikuyu poked and teased him mischievously, until he could bear this monstrous rat woman no longer. The owl flapped his wings and rose shakily into the air.

  The fortune-teller let him go unmolested.

  Mahooot spiralled round, unable to see where he was going. Then wit, a dull thud which smashed more of his beak he flew into a tree trunk. Mahooot fell to the ground bouncing off the branches.

  ‘A fine sight to see,’ said a voice in the fortune-teller’s ear. ‘What a heroine you are. The darling of Fennywolde.’

  ‘Nico,’ she welcomed, ‘I thought you not come tonight.’

  ‘I have been busy elsewhere,’ said Nicodemus, ‘but come, we must talk, you and I, for it is time you learnt of the spell which will release me.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Madame Akkikuyu as she remembered Jenkin, ‘I have mousey to find.’

  ‘The lad is dead!’ said Nicodemus coldly. ‘Now step into the owl’s hole Akkikuyu and I shall tell you what must be done.’

  As Mahooot came crashing down out of the high branches the fieldmice who were waiting below cheered wildly and rushed forward.

  ‘Stop, wait!’ ordered Mr Woodruffe but they surged past him like a river and began to hurl stones at the dazed owl and beat it with their sticks.

  ‘This is obscene,’ shouted the King of the Field. But they did not hear him. They only heard the gasps and cries of Mahooot as they tore at him.

  ‘They’ve gone mad,’ said Arthur appalled.

  Mr Woodruffe turned and hid his head in disgust, then threw down his staff of office. ‘They will not listen to me any more and I want nothing more to do with them. They are not mice tonight – they are the nastiest kind of rats.’

  ‘It’s far worse than it ever was at home,’ said Audrey. They walked away with Mr and Mrs Scuttle. Fennywolde had become an evil place to live.

  In the owl’s nest Madame Akkikuyu listened as Nicodemus began. ‘It is a mighty spell which we dare to attempt Akkikuyu,’ he said. ‘Are you brave enough for it?’

  ‘Yes Nico.’

  ‘Then this is what we need. You must build a fire and feed it with the herbs I shall tell you to gather. Around this fire you must say the words of release and cast into the flame a mousebrass.’

  ‘A mousebrass Nico – why so?’

  All this shall become clear to you, yet it must be a special mousebrass, it must be made in hatred and be a sign of destruction and death.’

  ‘Where I get such a dangler?’

  ‘That also I shall tell you. All has been arranged. Wheels have been set in motion Akkikuyu, and the time for the ritual is soon. At the time of the ceremony however I must be protected from the heat of the fire, for I shall be vulnerable for a while. I must project my essence to a place of safety. Look in your bag – there you will find a vessel suitable for me.’

  Akkikuyu rummaged around inside her bag until she found what Nicodemus meant.

  ‘You mean this, great one,’ she muttered, reluctantly taking out her most prized possession. The moonlight curved lovingly over the smooth glass ball that the fortune-teller had brought with her from Deptford.

  ‘Excellent,’ he crooned delightedly. ‘That is most suitable! Have it with you at the fire’s edge – only remember Akkikuyu, that once the spell is complete you must smash your prize to release me. I do not want to spend another age imprisoned in there.’

  ‘I promise Nico,’ she said with regret as she stroked her beautiful crystal ball.

  ‘And one more thing, Akkikuyu. There must be an exchange of souls or the spell will be useless.’

  The fortune-teller trembled. ‘Souls? What am I to do this time?’

  ‘There must be a sacrifice to the flame,’ Nicodemus whispered. ‘My essence will cross over to your world, and a soul must cross back in return. We must cast into the fire one who is not protected by a mousebrass.’

  ‘Who you think of?’ she asked warily.

  The reply was snarled back at her: ‘The one who has abandoned you, Akkikuyu, the one who spurned your friendship and tried to make a fool of you in front of everyone.’

  ‘No,’ cried the rat in dismay.

  ‘Yes!’ hissed Nicodemus. ‘She is unfettered by the Greenlaws and bound to no-one. It must be her. You are sworn to obey me – throw Audrey Brown into the fire!’

  ‘Mouselet!’ Akkikuyu wailed miserably.

  13. A Witch and a Fool

  The sun rose over Fennywolde to announce yet another feverish day.

  Twit rose and leant out of his and Arthur’s nest. The Hall of Corn was unusually quiet – but not calm. He could almost feel dark forces surging through the field like evil water and a half-forgotten memory awakened in him.

  ‘Blow me,’ he said to himself.

  Behind him, in the sweet mossy darkness, Arthur’s drowsy voice mumbled, ‘What is it?’

  The fieldmouse scratched his head and said, ‘I just remembered summat, Art.’

  ‘If it’s about last night I don’t want to know,’ came the weary reply.

  ‘Well it has summat to do w’ last night,’ admitted the fieldmouse, ‘but really I was just thinkin’ of those bats back in Deptford.’

  ‘Oh, Orfeo and . . . who was it?’

  ‘Eldritch.’

  ‘That’s right – what made you think of them?’

  ‘Well, when they took me a-flyin’ through the roof an’ into the sky they showed me some wild critters they were ’orrible and mindless. I only just recalled that Orfeo askin’ me if there were any of the – how did he put it – any of this “untame breed” in my field. I said as I didn’t know of any.’

  ‘So?’ Arthur was baffled. ‘What made you think of that now?’

  Twit turned a worried face to his friend, ‘Don’t you see Art? The bats knew. They was warnin’ me!’

  ‘What, against wild cats here?’

  ‘No,’ said Twit gravely, ‘against my own folk here. Last night, Art, they weren’t mice – Mr Woodruffe said so, they were just like that “untame breed” in the city. Horrid beasts with no thought �
��cept killin’. I’m afeared for Fennywolde. What’ll happen next?’

  Madame Akkikuyu looked down into the ditch and prepared herself. Her task today was not pleasant, but she had sworn on her soul to obey Nicodemus. She mopped her brow with a corner of her shawl and set her jaw determinedly. She hated the idea of what she had to do, but Nicodemus would not be pleased with her if she failed him today.

  She marched from the edge and strode to the elm trees where she hoped to find Mr Nettle. A mousebrass was needed and he was the only one who could make it. Her problem would be persuading him.

  Isaac Nettle, grim and steely-eyed, was hammering a piece of metal in his forge. The ruddy glow of the forge fire shone on his fur and glinted off his drooping whiskers. But that was the only light in the gloomy place. Even in Isaac’s heart there was darkness. Only grief and loss filled him. He pushed himself into his work passionately, smiting the red hot metal with his hammer, trying to blot out his sorrow with the effort. Fiery sparks flew and scorched his skin, but he was thankful for them. He wanted to feel pain and be punished: for Jenkin, the shining joy of his sour life, was gone, plucked out of existence.

  The ringing of his hammer was so loud that he did not hear the knocking at the door. He continued to beat the yellow metal till it was flattened, then, with a pair of tongs, he plunged it into a bucket of cold water. It was only when the steam had cleared that he noticed the rat woman standing quietly by the door.

  Madame Akkikuyu nodded at him. ‘Morning,’ she said.

  Isaac grunted. He did not want to talk to anyone this day – or any other for that matter. He turned back to the fire and raked the embers together.

  ‘I say morning,’ the fortune-teller repeated. Isaac looked at her with unfriendly eyes. ‘Leave me!’ he growled.

  She shook her head. ‘You lose boy last night. You need talk – get it off bosom, Akkikuyu good listener, she hear your woe.’

  For a moment his face was impassive, but suddenly he broke down. Like a wall of glass his defences shattered. Mr Nettle wept openly.