The Secret of the Ginger Mice (15 page)

Then the canary yellow mouse said, “Oy, Tim, how about a song?” and the midnight blue mouse turned away. He whispered something in the yellow mouse's ear, then picked up a fiddle and, turning back to face the crowd, began to play.

Alistair looked at Tibby Rose to see what she was making of the strange scene, and saw her face had lit
up at the sound of the music. Glancing around, he saw similar expressions on the faces of all the mice in the crowd, and many had begun to sway. Then he noticed that his own foot was tapping and, as one, the whole crowd began to dance. Dipping and twirling, spinning and jigging, the music of the fiddle flew around and between the dancers, faster and faster, lifting feet and tails and arms into spontaneous movements. Alistair found himself swept into the stream of dancers, feeling a joy he hadn't felt since—he couldn't remember when. Perhaps since he was a small mouse living in a large stone house in Stubbins with his mother and father and brother and sister and not a care in the world.

He danced and danced and, just when he felt his feet could no longer carry him, the fiddle slowed and gradually stopped. The feet of the dancers slowed and stopped too and, as if waking from a dream, the dancers blinked and looked around them. Then, with dazed but happy smiles, they started to drift from the square, back to whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. The small orange mouse was darting through the crowd holding a battered top hat, and Alistair could hear the clink of coins being dropped into it.

“Sorry,” Alistair said as the orange mouse approached him and Tibby Rose, hat extended. “We don't have any money.”

The orange mouse didn't say anything, but gave Alistair a bright smile as if to let him know that it was okay.

Soon the crowd around the fountain had dispersed, leaving only Alistair and Tibby Rose, and the five colored mice.

The midnight blue mouse, who seemed to be the leader of the group, was gazing into the top hat, raking his fingers through the coins. “Not bad, Pip, not bad,” he murmured to the orange mouse. Then he lifted his piercing gaze to Alistair and Tibby Rose.

“So, little brother, little sister,” he said. “Did you fall into a blackberry bush by any chance?”

Alistair started. Was their disguise that transparent?

“Don't worry,” said the midnight blue mouse. “No one would know but those who know.” He winked. “Well, if you are going to join us for a bite of supper”—he paused and raised an interrogative eyebrow—“introductions are probably in order. I'm Timmy the Winns. This here is Griff . . .” He clapped the yellow mouse on the shoulder. “Lilith and Fergus . . .” Pointing to the scarlet mouse then the green. “And this young lad is Pip.” He laid a hand on the head of the small orange mouse. “And you would be?”

With a quick glance at Tibby Rose, Alistair said, “I'm Huck, and this is my friend . . . ah . . . Jim.”

“Huck, eh?” said Timmy the Winns, gazing at Alistair
speculatively. “Short for Huckleberry, I presume . . . Well, the ‘berry' part suits, I suppose. And Jim . . .” He turned to Tibby, who did her best to meet his stare, though she was darting inquisitive little looks at Alistair from the corner of her eye.

Then suddenly Timmy threw back his head and laughed. “I bet you're pretty handy with a raft, too, aren't you, Huck?”

Alistair and Tibby Rose stared at him open-mouthed. He must be referring to the story of Huckleberry Finn—surely he hadn't seen . . . didn't recognize. . .?

But if he did, he said no more about it. He put one arm around Alistair's shoulders and another around Tibby Rose, and said, “Well, Huck, Jim, it's a motto of mine that a stranger's just a friend you haven't met. So come and join us around our campfire. I'm betting Maggie has a fine stew bubbling away, and you two look like a feed wouldn't go amiss.”

There was something calm and good-humored about Timmy the Winns that put Alistair at ease. Besides, when Timmy had mentioned the stew it had almost made Alistair faint with hunger.

“That's very kind of you,” he said. “We are rather hungry, aren't we, Tib—Jim?”

“Yes,” said Tibby Rose firmly. “
Very
hungry. Is that your camp across the river and downstream?”

“That's us all right,” said Griff comfortably, falling into step beside them as the three younger mice scampered ahead, with Fergus bearing a sack into which they'd packed the items they'd been juggling, and Lilith carrying Timmy the Winns' fiddle. Griff himself held his accordion in one hand and the hat full of coins in the other.

“Where are you from?” asked Alistair curiously.

Timmy the Winns shrugged. “Where are we, Griff?”

The canary yellow mouse looked around. They had crossed the square and turned into a street of shops. He pointed to a dark green awning with the words
PAMPLEMOUSE BAKERY
stenciled in white cursive. “We're either in Pamplemouse, or the baker is named Pamplemouse. Never mind which, let's get some bread.”

“You're the man with the hat,” said Timmy the Winns, and Griff, holding the top hat filled with coins, pushed open the door of the shop, accompanied by the tinkling of a bell.

“So,” said Timmy the Winns as he and Alistair and Tibby Rose stood waiting on the street outside, “today we're from Pamplemouse.” Then he added, not unkindly, “Never ask a question you're not prepared to answer yourself. Got it, little brother?”

Alistair nodded. It was like something his mother used to say when Alistair asked too many questions:
Ask
me no questions, I'll tell you no lies
.

The mice of Pamplemouse—though it did seem more like the name of a baker than a town, Alistair thought—slowed to stare at the tall midnight blue mouse standing with two who were muddy purple. But if any of them met Alistair's eyes, they merely smiled and nodded good evening, or occasionally giggled, which was preferable to them hurling abuse and stones.

Griff emerged from the bakery with three long, thin loaves of bread tucked under his arm, and they set off again.

As they neared the camp Tibby Rose and Alistair had seen earlier, they were drawn on by a rich aroma of herbs.

“Smells like Mags has been exercising her culinary flair,” said Timmy the Winns with an appreciative sniff.

“Aye, I'd know her eggplant stew anywhere,” said Griff as they strolled toward the bridge across the river.

Suddenly, Alistair saw a familiar flash of red pacing the bridge, just as Tibby Rose hissed in his ear, “That's the guard who—”

Timmy the Winns turned to see why they had slowed. “Huck? Jim?”

Alistair's throat was dry. “There's . . . there's a guard,” he said hesitantly.

But Timmy the Winns just chuckled. “Don't bother him and he won't bother you,” he said. And as he led
them across the bridge, he began to tell a story about a talking piece of cheese he had met on his travels. “Now the funny thing about this cheese—”

“Was that it could talk!” interrupted Tibby Rose.

“No,” said Timmy the Winns. “The funny thing about this talking cheese was that it was riding a bicycle.”

“Cheese riding a bicycle?” Tibby Rose dissolved in giggles.

“I tell you it was so,” said Timmy the Winns. “Evening, Purkiss,” he said, raising a hand to the red-coated guard.

The guard nodded. “Wotcher, Timmy,” he replied. “Is that your supper I can smell on the breeze?”

“With any luck, Purkiss, with any luck,” said Timmy the Winns as they continued on their way.

And just like that they were on the other side of the river and walking along a tow path toward the blue-striped tent.

They arrived at the camp to see the three younger mice sitting around a merrily crackling fire, bowls of steaming stew in their laps. Watching them fondly was a round mouse with a fringed shawl thrown around her shoulders. Even in the fading light, Alistair could tell that her fur was a deep forest green.

She turned at the sound of their approach. “If you'd been any longer there'd have been naught but dregs
for ye,” she said laughingly, “the way these wee mites are wolfin' down that stew.”

“Ah, Mags,” said Griff, “I know you wouldn't let me to starve. And here's some bread to fill those ravenous bellies—plus we've picked up a couple more ravenous bellies in need of stew.” He beckoned Alistair and Tibby Rose forward. “Huck, Jim, this is my wife, Mags. You've already met our bairns.” He dipped his head at the mice by the fire.

Alistair and Tibby Rose ducked their heads shyly at Mags, who asked them no questions, but handed them each a bowl into which she had ladled a hearty helping of stew. “And very welcome you are,” was all she said.

Lilith gestured to them to sit beside her, and the two guests slid onto a log which served as a bench and began to eat while Mags served Griff, Timmy the Winns, and herself.

At first, all Alistair's attention was focused on the stew. He never paid that much attention to food particularly—not the way his brother Alex or Uncle Ebenezer did; they were obsessed—but he had to admit he had never tasted a stew so rich and flavorsome.

“This stew,” he gasped, after the first mouthful. “It's delicious! What's in it?”

“Get away, it's nothing special,” Mags said, waving away the compliment, but she looked pleased. “It's just
my eggplant stew. With some tomatoes and a few wild herbs I gathered here and there.”

As Alistair savored the rest of the stew, mopping up the remains as the others did with a piece of bread torn from the loaf, he watched the mice gathered around the fire. Griff, Mags, and the children were a family, but it appeared that Timmy the Winns wasn't part of it. So why was he with them, and why did it seem as if he was somehow their leader?

His musings were interrupted by a hoarse coughing coming from within the tent. The younger mice froze, their eyes fixed on their plates, and as Mags rose from her place by the fire and hurried into the tent, Griff cast Timmy the Winns a guarded look. Alistair opened his mouth to ask who it was that had coughed, but when Timmy the Winns looked over at him, Alistair remembered what he'd said about asking questions and closed his mouth again.

“Poor old Uncle Silas,” Timmy murmured, raising his eyebrows at the younger mice, who tittered nervously and nudged each other, saying “Yes, poor Uncle Silas” and “Poor Uncle Silas is so poorly,” until Griff silenced them with a stern glance.

When Mags returned to the fireside, she said nothing about Uncle Silas, but asked, “And which of ye terrors wants a piece of my blackberry cobbler?”

Pip, Lilith, and Fergus whooped with pleasure, but Tibby and Alistair looked at each other. “No thanks,” they said in unison.

After the cobbler had been demolished they all sat quiet and content around the fire. Before long the three younger mice were asleep and, with a sigh, Griff rose, stretched, and went to fetch a basin of water from the river so he could do the dishes. Mags, after exchanging a glance and nod with Timmy the Winns, slipped into Uncle Silas's tent.

Alistair looked at Tibby. By the light of the flickering flames he could see that her eyes were almost closed and her chin was sinking toward her chest. He was just about to suggest they return to their own “camp” under the willow tree when Timmy the Winns murmured, “Do you know why you're traveling, little brother?”

Alistair, a bit surprised, said, “Yes.” He was going home to Smiggins, home to Alice and Alex and his aunt and uncle.

“Have you thought of those you leave behind?” Timmy asked in the same low murmur.

What an odd thing to say. Those he'd left behind were the ones he was traveling toward. Alistair merely nodded.

Timmy looked at Alistair intently, his dark eyes shining in the firelight. “Perhaps you should travel with
us,” he suggested. “This is no place for two young mice to be wandering.”

It seemed to Alistair that the midnight blue mouse looked faintly worried, and he felt a prick of fear—he would have thought nothing could worry Timmy the Winns. Nevertheless, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “But thank you.” Although it would be safer to travel with Timmy and the others, Alistair knew that he and Tibby would move faster alone.

He glanced at Timmy to see his response, but Timmy was now gazing at Alistair's scarf.

“That's a handsome scarf, my friend,” he observed. “It's been a long while since I've seen its like.”

Alistair tugged at the ends of the scarf self-consciously. “It was a gift from my mother,” he said.

“From your mother,” Timmy repeated. Alistair thought he looked almost sad.

Timmy gazed at the scarf for a few moments longer, his eyes roaming over the strange design, then he reached for his fiddle and said, “Just one song ere we part, I think. I'll sing you a song of the Winns . . .”

“What's the Winns?” Alistair asked.

“The Winns,” Timmy said dreamily. “The Winns is a river, and more than that. It is the spine that knits our head to our feet. Its veins run through our country and its water runs through our veins.” He played a mournful
note on the fiddle. “Above the trees, below the ground, the Winns is with you, all around.”