The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal (12 page)

With slow movements he raised his shaggy head and Twit noticed with alarm the same desperate soulless look he had seen in the cats’ eyes. A miserable, melancholy sound came up to them. Twit shuddered and the bats flew by. On they went into the night. Gradually Twit became aware of a faint musical sound; it had a quality that tugged his heart and made him catch his breath.

‘So you can hear that,’ said Eldritch. ‘It is to be expected.’

Twit strained his ears to listen. It was so sad and lovely.

There were no words to the melody – just continual tones of deep yearning and loneliness, desperate and urgent.

‘Who is it that sings?’ asked Twit. ‘They’m so sad, why’s that?’

‘The night hears everyone,’ said Orfeo. ‘You heard the cries of the cats and the howl of the man. The night collects the sounds of the heart and we who ride beneath the moon hear it. Sometimes still and peaceful, sometimes roaring and angry – tonight it is despondent and despairing. Listen to the heartaches Master Scuttle and grow wise. And thank your Green Mouse that you were blessed with your simple wit.’

It seemed to Twit that they were flying in a sea of music; music which eddied around them in soft, sad waves. It was a sound that the fieldmouse never forgot although he could never explain it to anyone else.

Then as they spiralled higher the wind rushed into his ears filling them until they were numb and Twit heard the music no more.

Deptford passed below them: the cramped estates, the old buildings with grimy windows and sagging lintels. A bright neon cross flickered outside the mission and on the gateposts of St Nicholas’ Church at Deptford Green two stone skulls grinned up at them.

Three small silhouettes glided before the moon. They had come to a quiet, squat power station with one tall chimney. The bats circled it twice.

‘Not your story, Master Scuttle,’ cried Orfeo.

Twit saw the shimmering ribbon of the Thames on their left, snaking around the docks. They cleared the power station and passed on over a scrapyard.

Great iron posts and springs encrusted with orange rust stuck sharply out among the heaped piles of discarded rubbish. Tall skeletal cranes straddled the refuse and the bats flew through their lattices.

Deptford was behind them; ahead lay Greenwich.

‘What’s that down there?’ Twit asked as they passed over an unfamiliar object.

‘A ship to sail the high seas,’ answered Eldritch.

Before Twit had time to consider the strange, spiky thing, it had been left behind. They swept along over beautiful white buildings, their many windows and pillars reflected in the calm river. Soon Twit saw a wide parkland drawing near. Within it was a green hill crowned by bulbous buildings and ancient trees.

‘And what are they?’ he asked.

The bats flew around the observatories, and swooped low over the domes. Twit’s feet caught a golden weather vane and sent it spinning round frantically.

‘This is where the stars are studied,’ boomed Orfeo. ‘They search for answers far out in the deep heavens.’

‘When at their feet the Starwife knows all. Wise fools!’ snorted Eldritch.

Twit wondered who the Starwife was, but the bats seemed to be slowing. Not far off lay Blackheath and the fieldmouse could see the vast expanse of flat grassland. But his companions refused to go any further.

‘Back,’ they cried, ‘we must return.’

Actually Twit was glad. He was awfully cold, for the wind bit right through his fur. They made haste and veered away from the hill.

‘This has been splendid,’ he thanked them.

Orfeo looked at him oddly with that strange smirk on his face.

‘I tire,’ he said. ‘Who could have thought that a small mouse would weigh so?’

Eldritch agreed. ‘This burden wearies me also. Shall we release him?’ he asked casually.

Twit heard them and trembled.

‘Don’t drop me,’ he squeaked, ‘I’ll smash to bits.’

The bats flew out over the river. ‘A softer landing Master Scuttle,’ they laughed. The fieldmouse saw their reflection in the dark water. ‘No, I can’t swim – I’ll be drownded.’

They dived down, pulling up just before Twit hit the water, and continued along with his tail skipping on the surface. Twit did not enjoy it. He could feel the bats laughing, their chucklings spread down their legs and their feet jiggled in amusement.

Twit felt sick. The water rippled underneath him, and now and again the bats would drop a little so that his toes were dunked.

‘I don’t like this,’ he called up ‘to them.

‘What shall we do with him?’

‘He cannot swim.’

‘What better time to learn?’

They lowered him suddenly. Twit lifted his legs up to his chest but his bottom skimmed the river. He chanced to glance over his shoulder and saw the wobbly shape of a large fish approaching rapidly. He squeaked even louder.

The bats laughed again but soared from the river leaving the fish to clap its jaws together on empty air.

The illuminated glass dome of the Greenwich foot tunnel entrance lit them from beneath as they wheeled over.

‘Oh where shall we deposit our baggage?’ sang Orfeo.

‘He belongs to the fields, put him in a nest.’

They circled round the oId ship they had passed earlier. It was the Cutty Sark. Under the fierce face of the figurehead they darted and then spiralled upwards through the rigging, flitting around the main mast until they reached its topmost point. Then, they let go of the fieldmouse and flapped off, laughing loudly.

Twit fell.

For a moment he was wriggling wildly in mid-air, the ground rushing towards him.

‘This is it,’ he thought.

Then a gasp was thumped out of him as he hit the main mast. He was winded but still managed to cling on to the timber.

The Cutty Sark has no sails to adorn her three masts, and in the moonlight she was a stark, ghostly memory of what she had been. Her rigging was like a dark web spun by a vast black spider.

Twit lay on the mast struggling for breath, clinging to the ropes for dear life. Finally his breathing eased and he dared to look down.

He was teetering on the brink of destruction.

Twit closed his eyes and shook his head. He had thought that the bats were friendly but all the time they must have been laughing at him – just like everyone else. No, not everyone. He knew that he had friends and that thought comforted him.

The wind blew his whiskers this way and that. It carried the deep green smell of the river to him and once again his stomach turned over.

The fieldmouse surveyed his position. He knew that he had to get down somehow. He thought about it carefully, collecting his thoughts slowly. Perhaps he could shin down the mast: but it was so sheer and wide that this idea did not appeal. In the end he decided to climb down in stages, crisscrossing the rigging; he could pretend the ropes were just long barley stalks.

Twit made his way carefully to the end of the yardarm where a rope began.

He clambered on to it, taking it firmly in his paws and winding his tail about it. He began the descent.

With even his small weight the rope swayed and bobbed about. But Twit was an expert and deftly managed the feat. Soon he was on the next level and began again on another rope. It was not long before Twit stood on the deck of the ship.

He ran gladly to the side, happy to have something solid beneath his feet at last. He scrambled up the side of the deck and peered over. The Cutty Sark was in a long concrete trough supported underneath and round the sides by many iron struts. Twit could see no way of leaping from the deck on to the edge of the concrete. It was too far and besides, at the top of the trough a high rail penned the ship in. He looked down as far as he could.

From a hole in the side a great chain issued and fell to the ground where an anchor was attached and rested on the trough floor. He wondered if he could scale down the hull of the ship and reach that chain. At both ends of the concrete grave were steps: he felt he could manage those.

Twit swung himself over the side. Luckily there was a decorative panel immediately below which carried the ship’s name in gold relief. His small pink feet could get a purchase on it. He grabbed the C and worked his way down. At the base of the letters was a ledge overhanging the rest of the ship. Twit squirmed around. If he could just reach . . .

He stretched out his legs. Below him were two ropes that led to the bowsprit under which the figurehead glared out. He caught the ropes and scrabbled about, ready to swing down on to the next border where a gilded scrolling of leaves and vines glinted coldly in the moonlight.

‘Mercy on me!’ Twit hurled himself forward.

‘Ow!’ came a startled voice. ‘What’s that?’

Twit regained his balance. He had thrown himself against something soft.

A beady orange eye blinked at him. ‘Clear off, clear off. My roost, my roost,’ said the voice angrily.

A scraggy, feathered head poked out of the shadows: it was a tatty pigeon.

It jerked its head.

‘My roost, my roost,’ it repeated.

Twit looked at the bird. It was thin. Its beak was blunt and its feathers dirty. There were scabs around its eyes and Twit winced as he noticed its gnarled, mutilated feet.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised, ‘I didn’t know you were there.’

He felt sorry for the scruffy bird. Its voice was filled with fear and nervousness.

‘Clear off! My roost!’ It seemed to be talking to itself now, trying to reassure itself. The bird shivered and twitched, shifting its weight from one mangled foot to the other.

Twit could never understand birds. Few could speak and none could maintain a conversation without drifting off into mindless food talk or the merits of mud in nest building.

Twit excused himself, apologising once more to the jittery pigeon. He left it to its mutterings. Slowly the bird pulled in its ruffled head and closed its dry, sore eyes against the wind.

The fieldmouse crept along the golden carvings. It was a long way down. His progress was slow, even with footholds. He pressed himself close to the gilt where it ended in a flourish of curling fronds. On his left was the hole where the chain left the ship but a metal ridge across his path prevented him from reaching it. The chain was just too far away. He leaned over as far as he could and groped into the hole, hoping there were no more pigeons hiding anywhere ready to peck him. The recess seemed to go a long way back. Twit wondered if he could make it to the chain if he jumped really hard.

He braced himself, tensing his whole body, judging the distance.

‘Ahoy!’ shouted a deep voice.

‘Twit looked around but could see no one.

‘Ahoy there! In here!’ it called again. The voice seemed to be coming from inside the hole. Twit blinked and stared: two eyes approached – it didn’t sound like or appear to be a pigeon.

‘You’re in a spot, matey.’ A thick, strong paw emerged from the dark. ‘Take this, miladdo.’

The fieldmouse wondered who this creature might be. The voice sounded friendly enough yet there was a tone in it that commanded attention and obedience. Twit reached out and clasped the offered paw tightly.

‘Now you jump and I’ll pull.’

Twit jumped and the strong arm tugged fiercely.

Before he knew anything Twit was in the shadows next to the owner of the voice.

‘Not too bad were it?’ it said. ‘Now, you seem done in, let’s away from this dark place.’

The creature pattered away and Twit followed obediently. Soon they, were back on the top deck. What a waste of time, thought Twit. The great chain coiled and snaked its way to a large wheel. But something else caught the fieldmouse’s eye, and he turned and jumped with a start. There seemed to be some large animal lurking to one side.

‘’S all right,’ called the imposing voice ahead of him, ‘it’s not real! Come on now.’

Twit looked more closely at the big creature that he had seen. It was a pig – a wooden pig. He tapped it and it made a hollow sound. What would anyone make a dummy pig for? Twit shrugged and set off after the stranger.

Through dark spaces between decks they went, Twit’s curiosity burning in him to find out more about his guide. Yet he was too polite to ask.

Only when they emerged from the darkness and stepped out on to the dimly-lit lower deck could he see the stranger properly for the first time.

He was a mouse, of middle age, with white whiskers framing a round face. His eyes were bright and wise. He was stout but could obviously move with speed when required and he looked very strong. There seemed to be an air of something foreign about him as if he had been to far-off countries and adopted some of their habits. This effect was emphasised by a red kerchief around his neck and a shapeless navy-blue woollen hat on his head.

‘Well,’ the stranger said, turning to Twit at last. ‘Welcome aboard matey.’ He stretched out his paw. ‘Midshipmouse Thomas Triton,’ he introduced himself.

Twit took the paw in his and shook it vigorously. ‘Willum Scuttle, but mostways I’m called Twit.’

‘Hmmm, well lad you’ve a look as one who’s got a tale to tell. Come with me, back to my bunkhouse. We’ll have a sip of something to warm you down to your toes.’

Twit couldn’t help accepting the invitation. He had an immediate liking for the midshipmouse, for there was something solid and dependable about him.

On the lower deck of the Cutty Sark were great sacks of wool – examples of its former cargoes – and tall screens telling the ship’s history.

‘Nowt in those sacks,’ Thomas said in disgust. ‘I looked, I knows. Fine ship this was once. Now look at her!’ He seemed passionate about it.

‘I think it’s marvellous,’ replied Twit.

‘Well, you speak your mind,’ the midshipmouse laughed. ‘Aye, I’ll think the better of you for it. But no, this ship once sailed the high seas, felt the salt spray in her rigging and the rolling ocean swell against her hull. Now . . .’ he waved his arms about sadly, ‘permanent dry dock! Proper invalid she is – can’t go nowhere, like me I suppose,’ he added softly. ‘Guess that’s why I live here – two of a kind, her and me.’

They walked over the polished floorboards and under glass cases containing models of other ships until they came to a steep flight of steps.

‘I bunk in the hold,’ said Thomas. ‘Don’t see why I should change now after all these years. Can you manage these stairs?’ Twit answered that he could and the two mice descended.