The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal (3 page)

Then he was free of it and alone. All alone.

The initial relief rapidly turned into fright as he felt the unknown engulf him, isolating him from all that was real. He could not contain his anxiety much longer. The panic was almost bursting him. He closed his eyes but found there the same darkness, as if it had seeped into his mind.

‘Piccadilly?’ Albert’s gentle voice floated out of nowhere and the fear fell away. ‘Where’s your paw? Come on lad, I think I see a point of light ahead.’

It was a dim, grey, rough shape, where the passage came to an end and they made, for it gladly.

‘Trust in the Green Mouse; Dilly-O. I knew we’d be all right.’

At the end of the passage they peered out, blinking. In front of them was a large chamber with numerous openings leading off into the darkness. Along a ledge nearby two candles burned. The mice remained in the tunnel until their eyes became accustomed to the light.

Between the candles was a figure, crouching in an attitude of subservient grovelling. It was a rat.

He was a large, ugly, piebald creature with a ring through his ear and a permanent sneer on his face. He had small, red, beady eyes that flicked from side to side all the time.

The two mice pressed themselves further back inside the passage, their hearts pounding. The rat had a stump of a tail with a smelly old rag tied around the end. He swung it behind him with an ugly, unbalanced motion. It was Morgan – the Cornish rat, Jupiter’s lieutenant.

Although Albert was dreadfully afraid, he strained to see what the rat was doing. It seemed as if Morgan was humbling himself before something. Looking beyond the orange tip of the candle flame Albert could see an arched portal in the brick, and there, blazing in the shadows, were two fiery red eyes, impossibly large and equally evil. Albert put his paw to his mouth as the awful reality dawned. He and Piccadilly had marched into the heart of the rat empire. They were within whispering distance of the altar of Jupiter.

Albert hoped that no one would catch scent of Piccadilly and himself, yet he dared not move for fear of making a noise. He remembered the peeling procedure and shivered. Piccadilly did not need to question the identity of those burning eyes: the powerful evil force that beat out of them was enough to tell him that this was Jupiter.

Morgan lifted his head and spoke into the shadows, his voice thin and cracked.

Albert strained his ears to catch the words but it was difficult. Jupiter’s voice was soft and menacing; it both soothed and repelled.

‘And why has the digging been delayed?’ he asked from the dark.

Morgan bowed again. ‘Lord!’ he whimpered. ‘You know what the lads are like, “What for we doin’ this?” they do say, an’ “Gimme a mouse”. Fact is – they’m bored, an’ right cheesed off. They want action – an’ now.’ The rat looked up and squinted in the glare of the fiery eyes. ‘One quickie like – grab‘n’dash – with a bit of skirmishin’ in the middle.’ He licked his long yellow teeth.

‘My people must do all I ask of them,’ Jupiter said flatly. Do they not love me?’

‘Oh in worshipful adoration Your Lovely Darkness, more than they love themselves.’

‘Nevertheless, I have asked for one simple task to be undertaken and all I hear is incessant whining. I fear they have little affection for me.’ The voice rose and a sour tinge crept into it.

‘Never, Your Magnificence! Why else would they bring you their tributes: the cheddar biscuits – nearly a whole half packet last week; and that bag of rancid bacon! It fair tore their hearts to part with it but they did. All for your love, Great One! For your greater, glory, oh Voice in the Deep.’

Morgan wrung his hands together for the finishing touch and hung his head for extra emphasis.

‘Love!’ Jupiter spat with scorn. ‘They do these things from fear.’ The soft voice snapped, filling the large chamber. The eyes narrowed but lost none of their fire.

‘I am Jupiter! I am the dark thought in their waking hours, I invade their dreams and bring horror! I am the essence of night, the terror around the corner, the echo behind! They fear me!’

Morgan threw himself on the floor. The candles flared and flames scorched the chamber roof.

Piccadilly shrank against the tunnel wall. This was their chance to escape, but fascinated by the scene before them the two mice remained frozen.

Jupiter continued. ‘You do well to prostrate yourself before me,’ he told Morgan. ‘Perhaps you forget my power and hope to blind me with the honeyed words that ooze from your deceitful tongue. Remember your place as my servant!’ The candle flames suddenly spluttered and turned an infernal red, so that Morgan appeared to be bathed in blood.

‘Oh Master spare me!’ he squealed and buried his snout in his grimy claws. ‘They conspire and grumble, and I am caught in between. What can I do?’

The candle flames dwindled and returned to their normal colour.

‘Send two or three of the troublemakers to me. They shall serve me here in the void, on this side of the candles. Tell the other conspirators that I hear their grumblings – my mind stands beside each one of my subjects.’

Morgan rose and waited for permission to leave.

Jupiter spoke again.

‘Better still, bring them all before me. A demonstration of my unease should quell their mutinous hearts. I will give them the goal that they desire for their work. Leave me.’

The rat bowed and scurried into one of the openings that led off from the altar chamber. The two eyes retreated into the black recess and disappeared. The voice, however, could still be heard faintly as Jupiter talked to himself and went over his plans.

Piccadilly tugged Albert’s elbow. ‘Let’s go now,’ he hissed, ‘while we can.’ But Albert was still looking beyond the candles, trying to pierce the shadows.

‘What’s he up to?’ he asked softly.

‘I don’t care and you shouldn’t either,’ whispered Piccadilly. ‘It’s all rat stuff – nothing to do with us – some mucky scheme or other – sewer business.’

‘No lad,’ said Albert taking a step forward. ‘There’s some terrible evil here and it will affect us all – rats, mice and the world beyond.’ He looked at the young mouse yet did not see him, for his thoughts were far away. He felt an awful doom creeping up on him which he knew he would have to bear. He looked up quickly. ‘I must hear him. You stay here.’

Piccadilly was horrified. The older mouse crept out into the altar chamber and passed the first candle until he was beneath the dark portal. His paw cupped his ear as he listened to the designs of Jupiter.

Piccadilly paced around inside the passage. Was this mouse cracked? Any minute now a whole army of rats would come pouring into the chamber. He scratched his head and looked over to Albert. Albert could obviously hear the rat-god, and what he heard was clearly not good news.

The look of disbelief on Albert’s face turned to one of complete shock. Piccadilly tried to warn him but only a strangled squeak came out. It was too late. Albert felt a terrible pain in his shoulders as they were gripped in sharp claws.

Morgan had him and would not let go.

‘Ho, my Lord!’ cried the rat. ‘See what I, Morgan, have found – a spy!’

Piccadilly saw Albert swinging by his shoulders where Morgan still held him tightly.

‘Alby!’ he shouted and ran from the tunnel.

‘Another spy!’ Morgan snarled.

Albert wriggled in the rat’s clutches as hundreds more gushed into the chamber. Above he could hear Jupiter returning. He had no hope of escape. Morgan’s hot, foul breath was on his neck.

‘Piccadilly! Don’t even try,’ he shouted. ‘Run as fast as you can.’ Albert twisted and tore at the mousebrass around his neck. ‘For Gwennie!’ he cried and threw the charm to the young mouse.

‘Don’t dither, lad!’ he yelled, then turned his attention to Morgan. ‘I bet you don’t know what His Nibs has got in store for you! You’re all going to catch it hot!’

Piccadilly clung to the mousebrass, his heart pounding in his mouth and his feet like dead weights. The teeming force of rats rushed towards him, and Piccadilly ran.

‘Don’t look back, Dilly-O. Tell Gwennie I love her!’

Jupiter’s voice suddenly boomed in the confusion. ‘Catch that mouse and bring him to me!’ Cries and whoops came from the rats enjoying the chase. ‘Now,’ Jupiter turned to Morgan, ‘deliver your spy – I shall peel him myself.’

As Piccadilly ran blindly in the dark passage, over the tumult of the pursuing enemies, he heard Albert cry out then no more.

Sobbing as he fled, Piccadilly clenched the brass tightly to his thumping breast.

Audrey ate a meagre breakfast; her appetite was small today. Idly she nibbled on a cracker, and thought about the day ahead. It was to be a busy day in the Skirtings. The preparations for the Great Spring Festival were already being made. With her head resting on one paw she sighed. Her brother, Arthur, had gulped down two helpings and hurried away to join in the making of the decorations. Audrey was not in the mood. Where was her father?

It had been a whole day and night since Albert had disappeared – no one had seen him slip through the grating so nobody knew where to start looking.

That morning, Gwen had woken the children as usual and tried to put a brave face on things. When Albert was mentioned she would pause and explain that he was probably on a foraging jaunt and would bring them a wonderful present each. But Audrey had heard her mother weeping in the night: her heavy sobs had kept her awake and now she was tired and miserable.

‘Come on Audrey,’ her mother said. ‘A big day for you, you must eat.’ Gwen Brown had a matronly figure that spoke of a comely beauty in her youth. Her fur was a rich chestnut and her hair a curly brown. Today, however, the usually bright hazel eyes seemed dim – her face looked worn and her shoulders seemed to droop.

‘I’m not hungry, Mother,’ Audrey said and pushed the food away. ‘When will Father come back?’

Gwen sat down next to her daughter and cradled her head in her arms. ‘He’s never been away this long,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps you and I ought to prepare ourselves for grim news – or none at all.’ She stroked Audrey’s hair and held her tightly.

‘Today I get my brass.’ Audrey looked into her mother’s eyes. ‘I’ll be a grown mouse.’ She paused and fingered the brass that hung around Gwen’s neck. It was the respectable sign of the house mouse – a picture of cheese formed in the yellow metal. ‘Mother, do you know what my sign will be?’

‘No my love, no one knows – not even the Mouse in the Green who gives it to you. It is your destiny. Whatever you receive, it will be right for you.’

‘Then I hope it isn’t like yours,’ Audrey remarked. ‘I don’t want to settle down and be a house mouse forever.’

‘Well, that’s just what you are, my love,’ said Gwen. ‘Now go and help Arthur and the others decorate the hall while I clear away.’

Audrey left the table and wandered into her’ and Arthur’s room. Sitting on her bed, she took a pink ribbon from around one of the corner posts and tied it in her hair so that the top of her head looked as if it was sprouting.

She had delicate features – almost elfin. If you could imagine a fairy mouse that would be Audrey, although she would not have thanked you for remarking upon it. Her eyes were large and beautiful; her nose was long, and tapered into a small mouth fringed by long whiskers which she was careful to keep free of crumbs – unlike her brother, who always seemed so messy.

Audrey missed her father terribly: she was closer to him than to her brother.

‘Why aren’t you here?’ she cried violently. She felt angry at him for being away. It was a new feeling and she was ashamed of it. But where was he? She had looked forward to this, her big day, for so long – but now, without her father, it meant nothing.

All the mice were in the hall outside the Skirtings, decorating busily. From the garden they had brought in bunches of hawthorn blossom and leafy branches – ‘White for the Lady and green for the land spirits,’ they cried as they weaved them into garlands. In one corner were the Chambers of Summer and Winter. Each year these were cleaned and dusted and decorated for the mousebrass ceremony. Today those with brasses were working in them, but no youngsters were allowed in.

A pair of old maids were sewing brightly coloured favours on to the leafy images of the Oaken Boy and the Hawthorn Girl. Three stout, sweating husbands had heaved the maypole into the centre of the hall, and already ribbons had been attached to the top of it for the dancing.

Into the chambers strode Master Oldnose carrying a strange straw framework – he was quickly followed by Twit, greatly excited and struggling with a large bundle of leaves and blossom.

Arthur was having a grand time. He was in the middle of it all hanging up boughs of flowering hawthorn. The scent of the blossom had always excited him, for its sweetness signalled the end of the bleak months and heralded the beginning of summer.

Oswald Chitter was trying to help him but mostly he was just getting in the way.

‘Could you pass me that pin please Oswald? Ooch!’ Arthur sucked a sore finger and the row of branches which he had just put up fell down.

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry.’

‘Never mind, Oswald,’ Arthur sighed.

Oswald was an albino runt – which meant that there was no colour in him at all, except for his eyes which were pink. It also meant that he was so weak that he often found it difficult to join in some of the rougher games. He was, however, very tall – perhaps too tall for a mouse. He was painfully conscious of this and was apt to stoop – much to his mother’s annoyance.

‘What sort of brass do you think you’ll get, Arthur?’ he asked.