The Deptford Mice 2: The Crystal Prison

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘When leaves do fall and the sun goes shy

  I reach for my bowl and the hours roll by

  For the juice of the berry do make me so merry

  With my legs in the air, my head ’neath a chair,

  I’ll burp till the spring comes round again’

  The hedgehog stayed to hear the chorus, which was made up of various tuneful belches, before turning away in feigned disgust. These traders really were a disgrace! He waddled off to find some slugs to eat.

  Kempe sauntered happily along. He was in high spirits. It had been a good week for business and his packs bulged as never before. He was looking forward to the Traders’ Fair in a fortnight’s time. All the travelling mice would be there to exchange news, sell their wares, look for bargains and meet old friends and rivals. It was the only time in the year when everyone could meet up and see how the others were doing. Kempe loved it all and there was a jaunty bounce in his step and an excited twitch in his tail to prove it.

  He ran through in his mind all the things he would have to do: of course he would have to stock up on certain goods, it was nearly his busiest period – Yule was fast approaching. Kempe chuckled to himself and made a mental note to find larger packs to hold his wares.

  Kempe thought of the feasting that took place during the midwinter festival and wondered where he ought to spend it himself. There had been numerous invitations made and he had nodded to those kind mice who had offered, but privately he knew all along where he would be at Yule: at Milly Poopwick’s place. She was a hearty, round mouse. Widowed three times she was now on the lookout for husband number four and there was always a grand welcome for Kempe there. He grinned to himself as he thought of her. Life with Milly would not be so bad after all; things were never dull while she was around. The traveller pulled himself up sharply and tutted. The idea of settling down had never occurred to him before and a startled look crossed his face. He was a traveller through and through and hated staying in one place for too long.

  ‘Reckon you’re gettin’ old, Kempe me boy,’ he told himself. ‘Try a day or two at me darlin’ Milly’s and see how it goes; after that there’s other deals to be struck. Once Yule’s over folk’s thoughts’ll turn to spring and the makin’ of mousebrasses.’

  He sighed contentedly. It looked as though he would be kept very busy indeed and the lovely Mrs Poopwick would just have to wait if she wanted to catch him. Kempe kicked away the leaves that had drifted over the path and chortled to himself.

  The pale sun hung low in the colourless autumn sky and sparkled over the surface of the rippling river. Kempe looked at the lengthening shadows of the trees and decided it was time to bed down for the night. Not far off he knew the perfect place.

  It was an old stone wall close to the river bank. It was very thick and parts of it were hollow, making wonderful shelters inside. Kempe swaggered up to the wall and found the opening he usually used. It was near the ground and partially hidden by moss. The traveller cleared the moss away from the entrance and tried to enter.

  A look of surprise registered on his furry face as his pack became thoroughly wedged in the gap; he had forgotten that it was fuller than normal. With a groan and a curse he tried to heave it in.

  ‘Drat and blast! Bother and blow!’ he ranted and puffed as he strained at the bag straps.

  All his pots, buckles, pans, spoons and beads clattered and rattled. The opening was just too narrow for the fat, bulging bag. And as he was strapped to it he could not turn round or do anything useful to relieve the situation. He squirmed and struggled and cursed out loud.

  ‘Plague take it!’ he snarled. The pack was wedged firmly and refused to budge. The traveller went red to the ears and looked ready to burst. ‘Tis a cruel joke to play on an honest trader!’ he fumed to himself. Then with one final effort he pulled and heaved, dust fell from the stones all around and the inevitable happened. There was an ominous tearing sound and the pack split open.

  ‘Bless me!’ wailed Kempe as he fell headlong into the hollow wall. His wares flew everywhere, jangling raucously as he crashed to the floor. The contents of his pack spilled out and buried the alarmed mouse.

  Kempe groaned and raised his head. A pink ribbon hung over one eye and he blew it away impatiently. When he saw the mess all around he gave a weary sigh. There was more clanging as he fumbled with the straps and buckles that bound him to the forlorn-looking pack which hung empty from his shoulders.

  ‘To be sure, Kempe laddy,’ he muttered to himself sadly, ‘there’s a tidy bit of work for you to do here before you sleep tonight.’ He began to gather up all the ribbons, silks, beads, trinkets and tassels that lay scattered in the dust.

  Inside the wall it was dry and safe from the wind but it was also dark. Kempe delved into a smaller bag and fished out a candle stub. He lit it and gazed about for any treasure he might have missed. There, in the corner, something glinted and threw back the flickering light.

  ‘Hello,’ Kempe said thoughtfully. ‘And what may you be then?’ He stopped and picked up the object with nimble fingers. Before him was a small, delicate silver bell which tinkled sweetly as it rolled into his palm. He held the candle closer and examined the bell with interest, talking to it as though it were a lost child.

  ‘Not one of my little darlings are you?’ he addressed the tiny thing. Kempe narrowed his shrewd, gleaming eyes. ‘But I get the feeling as how we’ve met before, little one.’ He shook the bell and listened to it in satisfaction. There was no doubt, it had once belonged to the young mouse from Deptford he had met not so long ago. It was one of two bells she had worn on her tail. Kempe wondered about that mouse and her friends. They had been going to a place called Fennywolde when he had known them – they must have returned to Deptford and mislaid the bell on the journey.

  ‘I shall be passing by Deptford soon,’ Kempe told the bell. ‘That Oldnose will want stocking up on stuff, I expect. I’ll drop you off with your mistress. Stick with Kempe – he’ll see you safe home.’

  The traveller shivered. It had grown very cold all of a sudden. A deadly silence descended on the world outside. He could no longer hear the sounds of birds or the wind high in the trees.

  ‘Storm must be comin’,’ he said and stepped through the opening once more to take a look at the weather. Everything seemed normal enough. There were no heavy clouds in the sky, yet there was a strange, charged feeling in the air as if the world was holding its breath waiting for something to happen. Kempe hummed a tune to himself as he walked down to the river’s edge.

  ‘Don’t pick your nose laddy or wipe it on your paw I’m not being faddy ’twill make your nostrils raw.’

  It was terribly cold outside, and an icy blast seemed to be blowing down the river. Kempe shrugged at the unpredictability of the weather and made to return to the relative comfort of the wall where he could warm his paws over the candle.

  His movement caused the silver bell to jingle in his fist, and as if that were a signal, the storm broke.

  A vicious, icy wind bore down on him and a strange, thick fog rose up out of the river. Before Kempe had reached the wall the fog had rolled up the bank and surged round him. The traveller was uneasy – this was no ordinary mist. The fur on the back of his neck tingled as an awful sense of horror and fear swept over him.

  The fog was impenetrable and it now completely surrounded him. It bit into his flesh with cold clammy fingers. He stamped his feet desperately as he groped for the safety of the wall opening but it was no use.

  A deep rumbling purr began, menacingly soft at first, then slowly growing deeper and more fearsome. Kempe’s legs trembled and he could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. There was a monster hiding in that mist – some mind-numbing terror from the deep cold regions had come to claim him. Scarcely conscious of his own actions, only of the overwhelming horror, Kempe waved his arms about in despair as he felt the monster’s freezing breath fall on him. In his paw the little bell tinkled; an incongruously delicate and beautiful
sound.

  There came a savage roar and Kempe cried out as the bell was torn from his clenched fist by an invisible power and he wept with fright to see it float up into the fog where an immense, dark shadow was gathering.

  ‘No!’ screamed the traveller stumbling backwards. ‘Leave me, please . . . I have done no harm . . . I . . .’

  From the evil shape that was mounting before him there came a sneering, mocking laugh. It ended in a cruel snarl and Kempe gasped when he saw what form the shape began to take.

  Then high in the smothering fog a bitter blue light flashed and a great spear of ice hurtled downwards. That was the last thing Kempe ever saw, for he felt a sharp pain in his chest before he fell to his knees and collapsed lifeless on the ground. The terrible ice spear had pierced his body and the blood which trickled out froze quickly. The shadow in the fog purred to itself and somewhere in that blanketing greyness the sound of a small, sweet bell tinkled softly.