The Rescuers

by Margery Sharp

  As for Mamelouk, his whiskers fairly twitched in anticipation. He’d suspected for weeks past that there was something of interest in that hole beside the stove; now he promised himself a proper mouse-tea — with a little game of cat-and-mouse first.

  If only his prey could be lured from the safety of the hole!

  “Little lady,” purred Mamelouk suavely, “won’t you come out and play with me?”

  Miss Bianca advanced to the very threshold.

  “Are you calling?” she asked hopefully.

  “Certainly I’m calling!” purred Mamelouk.

  “I’m sure it’s very nice of you,” said Miss Bianca; and to Mamelouk’s surprise and joy tripped out into the room. “I should have been delighted to make your acquaintance sooner,” she added, “but my friends are a little unsociable . . . How shall we play?”

  “Like this!” grinned Mamelouk.

  He flashed out a great black paw and touched her on the nape. Only a little more force, and he would have broken her back — as he intended to break her back; but only after reducing her to helpless terror. Such was his horrible nature.

  “Now, run, little lady!” he ordered. “Run between my paws!”

  “With pleasure,” said Miss Bianca. She darted gracefully to and fro. “Touch, and touch again!” she cried. “What shall we do next?”

  Mamelouk looked at her with renewed astonishment. She was the first mouse he had seen in years, for he had come to the Castle when only half grown — yet he couldn’t believe his memory played him so false, that this was the usual way for a mouse to behave.

  “A lady of spirit, I see!” he growled. “All the more sport, then, before the end! This is what we do next, my love!”

  He flashed out his paw again and pinned Miss Bianca to the floor. She lay absolutely helpless, not an inch from his jaws, under a weight like a mattress stuffed with lead.

  “What beautiful eyes you have!” observed Miss Bianca. “They remind me so much of a friend’s . . . Were you ever in Persia?”

  “No, I was not!” shouted Mamelouk. “And this is what we do afterwards!” he shouted — with one movement scooping her up and flipping her through the air. From his point of view it was a mistake; Miss Bianca landed quite safe, if a little breathless, in the long hair of his back, where he couldn’t immediately get at her. “Hide-and-seek!” cried Miss Bianca delightedly; and ran deeper in.

  By this time Mamelouk was so baffled, and so angry, he would have made one mouthful of Miss Bianca there and then — if he could have got at her. But he couldn’t. He rolled, and shook himself, then leaped and gallopaded, but he couldn’t shake Miss Bianca off. She nestled deep in his long thick coat, and clung on tighter and tighter, emitting little squeals of pleasure. (“I know it’s a common taste,” cried Miss Bianca, “but how I do enjoy a switchback!”) It was Mamelouk who tired first, flinging himself down before the stove quite worn out.

  Miss Bianca’s voice next came from somewhere near the root of his tail.

  “I’m sorry to tell you,” she called kindly, “but your coat needs a great deal of attention. When were you last brushed?”

  Mamelouk began to swear — using really the most dreadful language, but fortunately Miss Bianca couldn’t quite hear. She just gathered that he was annoyed, and made haste to soothe him.

  “Now don’t get into a pet!” she begged. “I’m only speaking for your own good —”

  “Cats aren’t brushed!” shouted Mamelouk.

  “Oh, indeed they are!” retorted Miss Bianca positively. “My friend often told me how uncomfortable it was, if his Page missed even one morning. — And what’s this?” she cried, really distressed. “This dreadful matted patch?”

  “Probably blood!” shouted Mamelouk. “Mouse blood!”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Miss Bianca. “It’s treacle. Really, what carelessness! — But at least I can get that out for you — if you’ll only hold still.”

  Mamelouk held still. He was too exhausted to do anything else. Miss Bianca nibbled and nibbled, and at last nibbled the treacle patch clear. — But it wasn’t only treacle: it was a tiny scrap of cloth, stuck with treacle to Mamelouk’s fur! And with writing upon it!

  “Do see about your brushing tomorrow,” said Miss Bianca hastily. “Now forgive me if I run!”

  Mamelouk had actually fallen asleep. Bernard and Nils, rushing in at the sitting room door, could streak straight across to join Miss Bianca in their hole.

  “Are you safe?” panted Bernard.

  “Of course I’m safe,” said Miss Bianca. “And just look at this!”

  10.

  The Message

  THEY had to scrape and scrape, and lick and lick till their tongues felt like emery paper, being careful all the time not to scrape or lick away any writing. (Mamelouk was right in one respect; the message, for such it was, was written in blood, from a pricked finger.) At last the treacle was cleaned off, and there quite clear upon the poor scrap of rag showed three or four words in an educated hand.

  “And in Norwegian!” shouted Nils.

  He pushed Bernard roughly aside, to see better. Bernard didn’t mind.

  “What does it say?” cried Miss Bianca.

  They had never before seen Nils overcome by emotion. Now he actually used the precious rag to wipe his eyes! “For goodness’ sake don’t wash anything off!” cried Bernard — offering his own spotted handkerchief. “Just tell us what it says!”

  Nils gulped and controlled himself.

  “It says . . . well, roughly, it just says, Shall I ever see Norway again . . .”

  For a moment, at these pathetic words, all fell silent. Then —

  “But at least he’s still alive!” exclaimed Miss Bianca.

  It was wonderful what a difference the knowledge made. Each mouse felt a fresh surge of hope and energy. Discussing the matter among themselves — as they did for hours and hours — they decided that the prisoner must have prepared the message in advance, and seized an opportunity when Mamelouk jumped down into the dungeon to stick it to his fur. However despairing, then, the poor poet, besides being still alive, was still capable of resource! — and how much more should they be, at liberty at least within the Castle! “We’ve been idling!” cried Nils. “We haven’t been using our heads!” This wasn’t strictly fair, but both Bernard and Miss Bianca understood what he meant: while they didn’t know the prisoner was there to be rescued, they had gradually let hopelessness get the better of them, and lived from day to day waiting on events . . .

  “I shall explore the Castle more thoroughly,” said Nils, wiping his eyes for the last time. “There must be some way out, besides the gate! I’ve just been sitting on the Ledge like a stuffed owl —”

  “I shall make a timetable,” said Bernard, “of exactly when the jailers go their rounds, and exactly when they unlock the dungeon corridor.”

  “And I,” said Miss Bianca, “shall talk to Mamelouk.”

  The other two at once stopped making their own plans to argue with her. Even Nils now realized what risk she had just run, and as for Bernard, he could hardly trust himself to speak moderately.

  “Don’t think of it, Miss Bianca!” he begged. “Wonderfully as things have turned out, do please believe it’s an even greater wonder you’re not eaten up this minute! No mouse on earth could talk to Mamelouk twice! — and live to tell the tale! Why he didn’t eat you —”

  Miss Bianca looked down at her fan.

  “I think I fascinate him,” she said simply. “You may be perfectly right, perhaps he does mean to eat me — Oh, dear,” sighed Miss Bianca in parenthesis, “how very different a nature, in that case, from my poor friend’s! — but he didn’t, you know. His expression, as I ran between his paws, was, really, quite fascinated. I’m sure he wants to meet me again — if only from dishonorable motives. Let me engage him in conversation, and guide it into the right channels, and what may I not learn, to our advantage? For if anyone knows everything that goes on in the Castle,” said Miss
Bianca, “it’s Mamelouk.”

  Bernard and Nils couldn’t deny it.

  “But the danger — !” cried Bernard nonetheless.

  “You and Nils make your plans,” said Miss Bianca gently; “aren’t they dangerous too? You have strength and agility; I —” she looked modestly down again — “have only charm. You must allow me to employ it. Now good night, dear friends, and in the morning to our tasks!”

  She carried the prisoner’s message to bed with her, and placed it tenderly under her pillow.

  Before they all fell asleep, a short conversation took place in the room shared by Nils and Bernard.

  “Nils,” said Bernard.

  “Um?” said Nils sleepily.

  “Who called Miss Bianca a bit of a nuisance?”

  There was a slight pause.

  “I ought to be kicked,” said Nils. “If you like you can come and kick me now.”

  “That’s all right,” said Bernard. “Good night!”

  2.

  Now all was action and enthusiasm again. Nils and Bernard returned to exploring the Castle — Nils on the outside, Bernard within. (They left Miss Bianca alone as a matter of course.) Nils ran about the great walls, utilizing every nook and cranny, while Bernard even more daringly slipped to and fro at the jailers’ heels, noting and memorizing their every movement. Miss Bianca deliberately threw herself in Mamelouk’s way, and this was useful to the other two as well, since she kept him fixed in the sitting room for long periods at a time. Mamelouk couldn’t tear himself away from her!

  It is hard to speak too highly of Miss Bianca’s courage — shot with vanity though it might be. Her gaiety and wit fascinated Mamelouk completely. At the same time, as she came to know him better, she recognized him to be just as cruel and wicked as Bernard said. He did indeed mean to eat her up! — He as good as told her so! “Can you really be as sweet as you look, little lady?” Mamelouk would purr, with horrible double meaning. “I wonder what’s the way to find out?” Then it was always just one more game, or one last game — “To give me an appetite for my dinner!” purred Mamelouk. Miss Bianca’s nerves were so taut, she had to go and lie down as soon as she regained the hole. — But she always did regain it: always, at the last moment, by some exquisite trick or clever piece of flattery, she held Mamelouk’s paw suspended — and then skimmed like a hummingbird to safety.

  Unluckily, when Mamelouk felt like conversation, it was mostly about himself, and Miss Bianca grew very tired of hearing what a handsome kitten he had been, and what an enormous sum the Head Jailer had paid for him, and how even dogs, in the days when he was out in the world, used to howl for mercy at the sight of him. (Besides all his other vices, he was a shocking liar.) One piece of information, however, she did gather, which she hoped might be highly important.

  Every New Year’s Eve, all the jailers in the Castle, including the Head, held a midnight feast. From midnight till dawn not a single one was on duty. “And not next morning neither,” leered Mamelouk.

  “Indeed? Why is that?” asked Miss Bianca.

  “They’ve all got bilious attacks,” leered Mamelouk, “they stuff themselves so! One’s supposed to be on duty, the one who takes the prisoners their grub, but it’s all he can do to stagger!”

  Miss Bianca’s heart beat with excitement, but she kept her wits.

  “And do you have a bilious attack too?” she inquired solicitously.

  “Not me!” swaggered Mamelouk. “I attend, of course, to prevent disappointment — and I eat everything going! — but the feast hasn’t been spread yet that could upset my stomach! I am Mamelouk the Iron-tummed!”

  But when Miss Bianca made her report to Nils and Bernard, she added that she was sure he was lying again!

  “He protested too much,” she explained. “I remember a child at one of the Boy’s birthday parties who said the same sort of thing — until a footman carried him out! In my opinion, Mamelouk won’t be on duty either.”

  “Which means,” said Bernard eagerly, “that on that morning, the morning of New Year’s Day —”

  “We can get into the dungeon corridor!” shouted Nils. “All of us! And down through the grid — for a mouse can pass where a food pan can’t! We may reach the prisoner at last!”

  “But as to getting him out,” said Bernard, more soberly, “we’re much where we were. A man can’t pass where a mouse can; and even if he could, he’d still be inside the Castle. The gate won’t open till next autumn; and we could never hide the prisoner until then.”

  “At least Nils can speak to him in Norwegian,” said Miss Bianca, “and keep his spirits up. Nils can call a few words of Norwegian through each grid (like Blondel and Richard the First), and as soon as he gets an answer —”

  “Down I’ll jump!” promised Nils. “But in the meantime,” he added, “how long is it, to New Year’s Eve?”

  Bernard ran out and looked at the Head Jailer’s calendar.

  “Three days,” he reported back.

  “In the meantime,” said Nils stoutly, “I shall go on exploring.”

  They then passed a vote of thanks to Miss Bianca, and retired for the night.

  None of them slept much, however, partly through excitement and partly because there was another thunderstorm. The thunderstorms at this time were more furious than ever. So was the River more furious than ever — lashing and beating between its banks like a captive dragon. Even up in their hole the mice could hear its voice, ever present between the thunderclaps, and almost more alarming in its steady, thwarted rage.

  Yet the River was to prove their best, if erratic, friend.

  3.

  Two days passed in feverish yet unrewarded activity. Bernard gave up making timetables and explored with Nils. They discovered several fresh cracks and crannies — what a buffeting the Castle had taken! — but none of any use to a man-size prisoner. Then at last, very early after the worst night of all —

  “Come quick!” cried Nils, pulling the pillow off Bernard’s head.

  To Bernard’s surprise, Nils had evidently been out already; his fur was damp and staring from the morning air.

  “What, before breakfast?” mumbled Bernard. He was still only half awake.

  “Bother breakfast!” cried Nils. “Come on!”

  He was away before you could say knife, and now Bernard leaped up and followed. Together they ran recklessly across the sitting room, out into the corridor, up through the bars of the corridor window, and then down, down, down the Castle walls to a little boss of rock out-jutting from the cliff itself. The last of the gale almost whipped them off their feet; below snarled the still angry River, tossing and turning in its bed.

  “See anything different?” asked Nils excitedly.

  Bernard leaned so far over, Nils had to hold him by the tail. He gazed with all his eyes. There was something different, though at first he couldn’t make out what. Then he discerned at the very foot of the cliff, where once rock rose sheer from water, a great jumbled heap of stones.

  “The Castle’s crumbling!” cried Bernard.

  “Not the Castle,” corrected Nils, hauling him back. “It’s too solid. But there was just one weak spot — as the River’s found out! Look at those stones — cut stone! Look at those steps! D’you know what I think’s down there?”

  “Go on, tell me!” implored Bernard.

  “An old water gate,” said Nils. “Some time, down there, there’s been a water gate. Stands to reason! No one ever built this castle just for a prison,” said Nils positively. “In its time it must have been an honest Castle, with — stands to reason! — a water gate. Then it was blocked up; and now the River’s worried it free again, like worrying the stopping out of a tooth. So there is another way out!”

  For a moment they gave themselves up to happy excitement — Bernard congratulating Nils and slapping him on the back, Nils flourishing his whiskers in honest self-approval. Then Bernard looked over the edge again.

  “I wonder what part of the Castle it leads to?
” he said practically. “And if it’s unblocked all the way?”

  “That we must find out,” said Nils. “Come on!”

  11.

  The Other Way Out

  DOWN the cliff they scrambled again, down and down towards the river brink. It was a perilous journey, but they achieved it. (On some particularly difficult ledges they had to use each other’s tails as mountaineers use ropes: one of them held on tight while the other slid down, then the one below made a back for the one above, or even caught him as he jumped.) Down they went and down — fur scraped, tails aching — and at last stood gasping but triumphant upon the heap of jumbled stone.

  “What did I tell you?” panted Nils.

  There was a water gate all right. Up under a cavernous stone arch — cut stone! — rose a flight of granite steps that disappeared into the gloom above, and in the buttress to one side was even an old iron mooring ring!

  But how well had the River done its work? Were those steps still blocked, higher up?

  Exhausted as they were, the mice had to know.

  At least it was easier going up than coming down: though the steps would normally have been too high even for tail-work, the River, retreating, had washed down ramps of sand and small stones against either wall. Nils and Bernard slipped a bit on wet mud and shreds of waterweed, but otherwise made good progress — and with each step passed felt their hearts lift. It looked as though the whole flight was clear! — As so indeed it proved, right up to the top, where a high rusted gate lolled half-fallen from its hinges . . .

  Even a man could have squeezed by. Bernard and Nils of course simply ran between the bars.

  Where were they now?

  “We’re still pretty deep down in the Castle,” said Bernard.

  “Aye; at dungeon level!” said Nils.

  Before them stretched a long narrow passage cut from the rock itself. For a moment they thought it was the corridor where the jailer with the food pans came to let down the prisoners’ food. But there were no grids in its floor, the floor was solid rock too. (Nils and Bernard ran up and down twice, to make sure.) So was one wall solid rock. But in the other was a row of iron doors.