The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal (10 page)

‘Then that do leave only us,’ said Twit glumly.

Arthur sat with his head in his hands. He had to decide what to do. Should they follow Audrey and break the promise to his mother? What would they come across down there this time – a whole army of rats perhaps? Arthur had always thought that things became easier when you came of age but it wasn’t turning out like that at all. He felt very unprepared for this responsibility. If only his father was there he could ask him – but that was how this all started. Albert was not there and Arthur had to grow up fast to take his place in the Brown family. His mother had had enough worry and strain that day, he could not turn to her. Whom could he ask for advice? Arthur did not believe strongly enough in the Green Mouse to pray to Him. Audrey had gone to that ratwoman Akkikuyu, Arthur remembered, but who else was there? Then he had it. The bats.

Those strange creatures in the attics. They had supernatural powers – everyone knew that. Sometimes you could ask them for advice: Master Oldnose did it once.

Arthur cheered up considerably. ‘Twit,’ he announced, ‘I’m going to visit the bats. They’ll know what’s going on and what I should do.’

Twit’s eyes opened wide – he had never even seen a bat before. They were secret animals who wrapped themselves in mystery. A tingling thrill went through the fieldmouse. He longed to meet them and his whiskers quivered with excitement.

‘Oh yes Arthur, I’d dearly love to go a-greetin’ the bats.’

Arthur turned to him. ‘Oh no, I’m sorry but they only allow one visitor up at a time, please understand, Twit.’

Twit was disappointed, but knew there was nothing to be done about it. Arthur had to go alone.

They climbed the cellar steps.

‘How do you get there, Arthur?’ Twit asked.

‘There’s a passage under the stairs in the hall which leads to a space between two walls. There are bits of junk stickin’ out all over them right to the top, easy really, just like a ladder.’

‘All the way to the attics?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I reckon there’s a handsome view from up there. Can you see out?’

‘Well I suppose there must be holes in the roof for the bats to get in and out.’

Twit tried to imagine what it would be like to see all the buildings from on high. When he had arrived in the Skirtings months ago, it was the dead of winter and he was too cold to pay much attention to the scenery. At home in his field he had climbed an oak tree once and marvelled at the view then. He wondered at the possibilities here.

By this time the two mice were in the hall. Arthur crossed to the stairs.

‘The opening is here somewhere,’ he said, lifting a corner of the carpet. ‘Good job Oswald’s not here – it’s bound to be full of spiders down there.’

Twit thought of his cousin somewhere in the sewers. ‘Don’t be long, Arthur,’ he whispered.

But Arthur had already found the hole. It was obscured by webs and fluff. In disgust he cleared them away, sending spiders scampering back to the shadows. As he prepared to lower himself he took Twit’s paw.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can – I promise, and then we’ll know what to do. I’m sorry you have to stay here.’ He gave the small paw a last squeeze and was gone.

Twit leaned over the hole to see him but there were so’ many webs and dust bundles down there it made things extremely difficult. Then he saw two bright round eyes blinking up at him.

‘I didn’t think it was such a big drop.’ Arthur’s voice drifted up to him. ‘Good job there’s so much dust and stuff to land on. See you soon.’

‘Good luck,’ murmured Twit.

Poor old Twit. He felt so lonely – everyone had gone. First Oswald and Piccadilly, then Audrey and now Arthur. He wondered if he would see any of them again.

The fieldmouse sat at the brink of the hole, his light spirits thoroughly subdued. What a world this was, he thought to himself. Little had he realised when he left his field what lay in store for him.

A cloud that had hung about the moon now sailed clear. The moonlight flooded through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Silver beams filtered down, spreading in a tide of ghostly splendour across the hall. Once more it was a playground for the night.

The little mouse was lit by the soft, shimmering moon rays. He tipped his head to one side and the light glimmered through his ears.

Twit sighed. Far away his parents would be sleeping under the stars, and that same moon would hang brightly over his field. Twit thought of his parents and smiled. The story of their love affair had been a scandal in the past but now it was a romantic tale loved by the younger mice. Twit knew it off by heart; perhaps even now it was being told by old Todmore, the storyteller of the field.

Twit went over it in his mind to ease his sudden homesickness.

‘Elijah Scuttle was a fieldmouse,’ old Todmore would begin, ‘respectable and simple. He loved feeling the sun on his back as he sat at the top of a barley stalk keepin’ a lookout for enemies. Only one night when the blackberries had been too long fermentin’ and he was slightly dizzy with it all, an owl came swoopin’ out of the sky, all quiet like and snatched him off the ground.’

Here old Todmore would gaze dramatically at his open-mouthed audience.

‘High the bird carried him, cackling to itself, and poor Elijah dared not look down. Far they flew until Elijah shouted, “Hoy owl, where you takin’ me?” Now birds, as we all know, don’t talk much and few can get sense out of them.

‘Well, this owl cocked its flat head down at Elijah, dangling there in his talons, and he gabbled, “Fooood fooood – dinner for meee an’ the missis – ooooh lovely mooouse grub!”

‘“Oh lawks!’ said Elijah an’ many another exclamation not fittin’ for your ears.

‘Then he had the sense to bite the dratted bird hard on the ankle.

‘How it hooted! It hooted and howled so much that it plum let the fieldmouse go. Down he dropped, wondering if it had been such a good idea, that bite – when SPLOOSH! Water swallowed him.

‘Elijah struggled and splashed, feelin’ only then how deep that owl had dug his talons into him. Well, as luck would have it there was a piece of wood a-floatin’ in the river – and he made for that . . . What’s that? Yes, he landed in a gert river – anyways on to this wood he hauled himself, all shakin’ and wet through.

‘Terrible cold he was and faintin’ too, them being awful painful wounds on his shoulders like.

‘Well, next he knew it was daytime an’ he was a-shiverin’ an’ coughin’ but worse of all there weren’t no country no more. On either side of the water there were buildin’s an’ smoke an’ such – well somehow Elijah paddled his raft to the bank and stepped on land. He didn’t know how long he were in that swoon but he was mighty hungry – “Oh woe,” he cried in the strange place and roamed about for near on a week steadily gettin’ in a sorrier state. His wounds went all pussy an’ started poisonin’ his blud. One day it got so bad that Elijah just gave up and crashed down in some poor excuse for a garden.

‘Well his shoulders being what they were and his fever a racin’ he were all done in – a goner he was. Then, as the Green will have it, out came two city mouse sisters – Arabel and Gladwin.

‘“Look yonder,” cried Gladwin, the prettier of the two, “poor young fieldmouse,” and ran to aid him.

‘This stuck-up Arabel said, “Leave him – ’e’s ded an’ maggoty.”

‘But her kind sister, she found a flutterin’ heartbeat and made snotty Arabel help her indoors with him.

‘That Gladwin she were all carin’ and tended to his wounds. Real rotten they were but she stayed up all night till the fever passed. In the mornin’, Elijah opened his eyes and saw her fast asleep next to him – her paw in his. Right there and then he fell straight in love with her – him a fieldmouse and she a city mouse. Fever do strange things.

‘Well this Gladwin she were willin’ to wed Elijah but her dad wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t want his daughter wed to a fieldmouse an’ ranted about the disgrace an’ shame she were bringin’ on him. Everyone seemed against them so one night they ran off together an’ eventually Elijah came back to his field here with his bride. We’d all thought he was dead months back! Greatly shocked we all were. Well upshot was they settled down ’ere, an’ you know yourselves how nice Mrs Scuttle is an’ she soon forgot her city ways. Happy they lived from then on and as time went by they were delivered of a son.’

The moon fell on Twit’s face. He looked like a small silver statue. Sadly he recalled the end of the story. ‘William Scuttle he was called, although you all knows him as Twit. Yes, him with no cheese upstairs, poor young moon-kissed lackwit that he is.’

Here the audience would laugh and old Todmore would caution them.

‘Now don’t you go lettin’ this tale turn your heads. City and country don’t go together, and he’s the proof of it – always ’appens, mark you well young ’uns.’

Twit’s eyes were moist at the memory yet he still felt he should return home soon.

Then he thought of the bats again and wondered if Arthur had reached them yet. Suddenly, with a resolution foreign to him, he swung his short legs over the side of the hole and dropped down. The dust flew as he landed with a bump. Great chocking clouds of it billowed out and spiders, annoyed at this second disturbance, ran to protect their eggs.

Twit scrambled to his feet. To follow Arthur without him knowing was the plan. With a bit of luck he might be’ able to overhear what was being said with the bats.

The passage under the floorboards was very dark but it wasn’t damp or smelly like the sewers. Old abandoned cobwebs dangled down, thick with dust. They brushed over him in a horrid tickly way as he pushed ahead.

There were traces in the dust to show where Arthur had gone and Twit followed them.

For a while he tracked the footprints until a rush of cold air met him so abruptly that he stopped and wondered what it could be. He sniffed his small web-covered nose. He could smell the night air. Cautiously he groped around until he found a sheer brick wall. High above, pale moonlight shone through the occasional gap and revealed to him the giddy heights of the wall. This he would have to climb if he hoped to get to the attics. Twit began to search for the first rung of his ascent.

Arthur heaved himself up one more level. He was nearing the eaves now. What a climb it had been; his arms ached madly. He let out a grateful sigh, knowing it couldn’t be much further. Arthur’s esteem of Master Oldnose soared; he had no idea the boring old fuddy-duddy had this sort of thing in him.

He rested for a moment and rubbed life into his muscles then stretched his arms and massaged his shoulders. There was a cool, steadying breeze wafting around him it whispered experiences of the night, of closed buds and unseen clouds scudding across the sky. The tiles were loose on the roof and here and there a star could be seen stabbing through with frosty light. Arthur felt sure it was the last leg of his journey. He hoisted himself to his feet, taking great care to balance properly with his tail.

The fall was too dangerous for any mistake to be made. The next support was above him: Arthur reached up and gripped the wooden strut firmly, then pulled himself up and swung his tail like a pendulum to counterbalance his weight.

There. He had managed it. One more stage upwards: two more clambers would do it. Already he could see the opening to the attics.

When he reached it he lay on his back and stroked the beam beneath him thankfully. He tried not to think how difficult it would be to get down again.

There was an unusual calm in the attics. An atmosphere of expectancy hung in the air. Arthur picked his way around under the rafters, hopping from beam to beam.

A sweet incense hovered thickly about him. He felt truly as if he had entered another realm. Hushed and tranquil, even the noise of the street was muted. The attics were silent and reverent, nothing disturbed their peace; nothing except for Arthur. He tried to walk as quietly as possible but it wasn’t easy. He shuddered at the din he was making and looked about him for any sign of the bats.

‘Hello?’ he murmured. There was no answer; all was still. Maybe the bats were out flying in the night. Should he continue?

Arthur tried again. ‘Hello?’ Nothing.

What an odd place it was with the sloping beams and lofty ceiling. It was all new to Arthur. He marvelled at the sight. Thick solid rafters rose from the eaves and met at a great beam overhead.

Arthur felt it was like being in the belly of a huge animal and the rafters were its rib. Not far away the outline of the chimneys could be discerned faintly.

Arthur decided to try to reach them: maybe the bats were on the other side.

Something tugged him along, something more wholesome in feel than the power of the Grille. A wave of excitement washed over him as he reached the chimney and peered round it.

This part of the attic looked like a great hall of kings. High and magnificent, the rafters soared into the darkness above. Yet there was one lying broken and askew.

Arthur stared up at it. The roof had been broken in the rafter’s ruin and through the open space he could see a cluster of stars in the midnight sky.

A dark shape on the rafter stirred unexpectedly. It shifted its position then settled down again. Arthur gasped – it was a bat.

The mysterious creature was perched high on the rafter so that Arthur had to tilt his head right the way back to see him. The bat’s head was hidden in his great folded wings. Only two tall pointed ears could be seen behind them.

Arthur gave a slight polite cough.

There was a dry rustle as the bat raised his head. Above the tips of his wings it reared and Arthur noticed that the ears were set on the side of a noble, fox-like face. The light of the stars came down to rest on the bat’s brow in an aura of knowledge and wisdom. Haughtily the bat gazed down from the rafter and scrutinized the mouse keenly.

Arthur stammered greetings, trying to remember the correct formal introductions you must use with bats.

‘A hundred felicitations I offer thee,’ he said, hoping this was right. ‘May I present myself, Arthur Brown, a cousin in the links of creation. Mouse of the Skirtings. Most humbly do I beseech thy help.’

Suddenly it occurred to him that this was in fact the correct etiquette when dealing with foxes. Arthur blushed to his ears and bowed hastily.

The bat eyed him with large black orbs, which sparkled beneath the stars.