The Secret of the Ginger Mice (19 page)

A
listair swiped an impatient hand over his eyes. It was almost impossible to see through the rain and the mist rising from the waterfall, but the deafening roar in his ears told him the waterfall was very close. The raft was rocking violently from side to side as the river surged toward the precipice ahead. He was about to shout to Tibby to hold on, that they were going over, when he noticed her edging determinedly toward the front of the raft on her knees, holding the pole horizontally in both hands at chest height.

“Grab onto the pole!” she yelled above the thunder of the water. Without hesitation Alistair dropped his paddle
and did as he was told. As the raft shot through a narrow rocky chute on a crest of tumbling water, the pole held firm across the chasm, the two mice flung against it by the force of the torrent.

For several minutes, they did nothing but cling to the pole, buffeted by the relentless rush of water. Then, at a nudge from Tibby, Alistair began to edge to the right, where the pole rested on a narrow platform of rock at the base of a steep cliff.

Minutes later the two sodden mice collapsed, panting, onto the rock. Alistair lay face down, his heart pounding, still feeling the terror of their close shave.

“We lost the raft,” Tibby said sorrowfully, when she had caught her breath enough to speak.

“Things could be worse,” Alistair joked weakly. “At least we're not ginger.”

Sure enough, despite their thorough soaking, they were still a muddy purple.

Eventually, Alistair sat up. He took his scarf from around his neck and wrung it out, then got to his feet. His limbs were shaky with adrenaline.

“How are you feeling, Tib?” he asked.

Tibby Rose turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were wide. “Scared stiff,” she said. “If that makes any sense
after
the fact.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Alistair assured her.
“But do you feel up to a gentle afternoon stroll—to the top of this rock face?”

“Oh, an afternoon stroll,” said Tibby, flexing her limbs experimentally. “Delighted, I'm sure.”

“After you,” said Alistair politely, gesturing at the cliff.

“So kind,” said Tibby.

The storm clouds were drifting away to the east, and the rain had eased to a light sprinkle, but their journey up the wet rock face was a perilous one. Fortunately, there were plenty of handholds and footholds, though once Alistair's foot slipped and set his heart pounding all over again. He tried to keep his mind empty, focusing on the next placement of his foot, the next spur for his hand to grip. Right hand. Left foot. Left hand. Right foot. At last he was flinging himself over the top onto a grassy bank.

“Lovely stroll, thanks,” said Tibby, standing over him with her hands on her hips. “I hope you're planning to offer me afternoon tea next.”

Alistair rolled onto his back and slapped his forehead with his palm. “I knew I forgot something,” he said. “I left the picnic basket at the bottom of the cliff. You could go back for it . . .?”

Tibby laughed. “No way,” she said. “Let's just admire the view instead.”

Alistair got to his feet. Stretching away before him was a huge egg-shaped lake—Lake Eugenia, he
presumed. The water was a steely gray, reflecting the sky, and around its shore were dotted little settlements, clusters of red-tiled roofs. On the far side of the lake was a mountain range, a jagged row of sharp teeth silhouetted against the sky. To his left was the waterfall they had so nearly plunged over. Alistair gasped when he saw how high it was. There was no way they would have survived.

“That's where we need to go.”

Alistair glanced down to where Tibby was pointing. Directly beneath them was a road, and to Alistair's relief the incline was of loose gravel rather than treacherous rock. They half ran, half slid down the hill, arriving breathless at the bottom. Stretching away on the other side of the road were vineyards, the vines heavy with purple grapes. Food! Alistair plucked a plum-colored globe from a vine and popped it into his mouth, but instead of the tart juicy tang he was expecting, the grape was sour and bitter.

“Yuck,” he said, spitting it out.

Tibby giggled. “Those aren't the eating kind,” she told him. “They're for making wine.”

“They're horrible,” said Alistair. “I don't know why anyone would drink wine if it tastes like that.”

“I think we should make it our policy never to eat anything purple again,” said Tibby, looking at her fur. “I am
so
over purple.”

As they trudged along the road past vine after vine of inedible grapes, Alistair said, “What made you think of putting the pole between the two banks like that?”

“It was in Charlotte Tibby's survival handbook,” said Tibby. “In the chapter on surviving waterfalls.”

“When we get home I'm going to write Charlotte Tibby a fan letter,” said Alistair. “If you hadn't read her book we'd probably still be sitting by the river in Templeton.”

“Go right ahead,” said Tibby Rose. “Address it to the cemetery in Grouch. Charlotte Tibby died about fifty years ago.”

“Her advice has certainly stood the test of time then. What does she say you should do when you're caught out in the rain?” Alistair asked as the clouds above opened in another downpour.

“Seek shelter,” Tibby called, and she took off down the road at a run.

They had been running through the rain for about a quarter of an hour, and were so drenched Alistair wasn't quite sure why they were bothering to run, when he spotted a small square building a short way off the road, surrounded by rows of vines.

“Over there, Tib.” He led the way through the vines to what looked like a blank white box with a rough-cut opening for a door and two tiny windows. A few dry
brown trails of ivy leaves straggled up one side, and the tiled roof had plenty of gaps. Alistair guessed that this must be some kind of shed, probably only used during harvest time given its general air of abandonment and neglect. The trough of water alongside must have been fed by an underground spring, though, for when Alistair dipped his hand in and raised it to his lips, the water tasted fresh and sweet.

He looked in the door. It was almost dark in the shed, with not much light filtering through the grimy window, and the air smelled damp and musty. Alistair, his eyes not yet accustomed to the dim light, struggled to make out some plastic containers stacked on the dirt floor, a couple of buckets (one with a broken handle) and, leaning against the wall beside the door, a rusty pruning saw. In the far corner was a heap of old sacks.

“Coast is clear, Tib,” he called over his shoulder, and she joined him in the doorway, where they shook the water from their fur as best they could and Alistair wrung out his scarf again.

“I hope we don't have to stay here too long,” Tibby said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells kind of moldy.”

Suddenly there was a hoarse cough, quickly muffled.

The two mice froze.

“Who—who's there?” Alistair demanded in a quavering voice.

There was no answer, but as Alistair's eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw a trembling shape in the corner, huddled under a thin blanket. Then the trembling shape coughed again and Alistair remembered where he'd heard that cough before.

“Uncle Silas!” he cried. “You were in the tent last night, with Timmy the Winns and Griff and Mags.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said the huddled shape, but he sat up.

Alistair saw an old, thin mouse with round spectacles. “So you're not Uncle Silas, then?” Alistair asked.

“I most certainly am not,” said the old mouse.

“And you weren't in Pamplemouse yesterday?”

“I've never heard of it.”

“Oh. Well, what are you doing in this shed?”

“What are
you
doing here?” the other mouse countered.

Alistair and Tibby exchanged looks. “We're, ah, traveling,” said Alistair.

“So am I,” said the old mouse. “But you two look a bit young to be traveling about on your own. You—” Before he could finish his sentence his frail body was racked with a terrible coughing fit.

“Oh,” Tibby cried. “Alistair, help him—fetch some water.”

Alistair peered out the door to check that there was no one about, then darted around the corner to the
trough. He was just casting about for something to carry the water in when he spied a tin mug hanging from a hook on the trough's outer edge. He filled the cup and then carried it carefully back to the shed.

The old mouse was hunched over, the blanket around his shoulders, and Tibby Rose was kneeling beside him patting him gently on the back.

Alistair crouched before him and held out the mug.

The old mouse took it in his shaking hands and drank. “Thank you,” he said at last, and his voice sounded stronger now.

“Are you ill?” Tibby asked, sounding worried.

The mouse shrugged. “I'm old, and I have traveled a long, long way,” he said. “My health is a small concern compared to the importance of my mission.”

“You're on a mission?” said Alistair. “What mission? For who?”

The old mouse snorted. “And why would I trust you with that information?”

Alistair paused. The old mouse was right; he had no reason to trust them, just as they had no reason to trust him. And yet Alistair felt sure that this was the mouse who Timmy the Winns had called Uncle Silas (though Alistair doubted that was his real name), and that any friend of Timmy the Winns would do them no harm. Indeed, they might be able to help each other. Like
Alistair and Tibby Rose, this old mouse had reason to hide. Like them, he had reason to be watchful and cautious. Was it possible that their reasons were related? Did he have the answers to some of their questions? Alistair looked into the old mouse's eyes. If he wanted Uncle Silas to trust him, he would have to make the first move.

“Well, I trust you,” Alistair told Uncle Silas. “Enough to tell you our secret.”

He glanced at Tibby, who gave him a small nod.

“We're on the run,” Alistair began. “You see we're . . . we're ginger.”

“You're ginger?!” The old mouse sat up straight and the blanket fell from his shoulders.

Alistair took a step backward, suddenly regretting his admission.

But the old mouse was beaming. “Where are you from, my friends?”

“I'm from Smiggins, in Shetlock,” said Alistair.

“And I'm from Templeton, to the north of here,” added Tibby Rose.

The old mouse peered suspiciously from Alistair to Tibby and back again. “The light isn't very good in here, but even so you don't look ginger. Are you trying to fool an old mouse, is that your game?”

“No!” Tibby protested. “We wouldn't do that. We dyed ourselves with blackberries so the Queen's Guards
would stop chasing us. And other mice called us terrible names. Although we don't really know what's wrong with being ginger,” she confessed.

The old mouse's expression softened, and he pulled the blanket around his shoulders once more.

“If you ask me,” he said, “there's nothing wrong at all with a ginger mouse. Indeed, some of the bravest, most heroic mice I have ever known were ginger. And some of the dearest to my heart . . .” He seemed lost in thought for a few minutes, then asked abruptly: “Do either of you know where Gerander is?”

“Of course,” said Tibby Rose. “It's a province to the south of—”

“NO!” interrupted the old mouse loudly. Then he shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he opened his eyes he said quietly, “No. Gerander isn't a province of Souris—it's a country in its own right. At least, it was . . .”

He took off his spectacles and polished them on a corner of the blanket, as if gathering his thoughts, then resumed.

“How much do you know about Gerander?”

Tibby shook her head. “Great-Aunt Harriet taught me a lot of history, but she never really mentioned Gerander.”

“We hardly learned anything about Gerander at school,” Alistair said with a shrug. “It was just mentioned as part of Souris.”

“Hmph,” said the old mouse under his breath. “It's true what they say: history is written by the victors.”

“Pardon?” said Alistair, who didn't understand.

The old mouse smiled grimly. “There is really no such thing as ‘the truth' when it comes to history. There are always other versions. So while Sourians—and, perhaps, Shetlockers—truly believe that Gerander is part of Souris, the Gerandans themselves see the situation in a very different light.”

“Are
you
from Gerander?” Alistair wanted to know.

“I am,” said the old mouse defiantly.

“The other day, some mice who were chasing us called me and Tibby ‘Gerandan rebels,'” Alistair told him. “What did they mean?”