The Mousehunter (18 page)

“This way!” snarled Miserley, and kicked Emiline, making her walk toward the dense vegetation at the edge of the platform. As she stepped down onto the path around the edge of the lagoon, Emiline was struck by the warmth and lush green of the jungle. Miserley kept poking her to walk along the path faster, but Emiline looked around her as much as she could. It was unlike any place she’d been to. Instead of grass there was a mass of strange flowers and tendrils covering the ground, and to accompany them, shiny metallic-colored insects hovered from one plant to the next. To her left, dark green trees rose up from the jungle floor with leaves the size of handkerchiefs and bright fruit as big as cannonballs hanging from their branches. The trees were strung with creepers and the plants were alive with all kinds of rustlings and squeaks.

Suddenly a tongue shot out from the undergrowth and caught an insect on its fat blobby end.

“A Flycatcher . . . ,” muttered Emiline.

A small mouse with curly blue fur and massive ears darted out into Emiline’s path, followed by three more in quick succession. They ran across extraordinarily fast, and then plopped into the lagoon with a tiny splash.

“What were those?” said Emiline, realizing she’d never seen that species before — not even in
The Mousehunter’s Almanac.
She peered carefully into the bushes as she walked and spotted more weird and wonderful mice, momentarily forgetting the pirate girl behind. One was clinging to a tree, seemingly secured to the bark by its thick corkscrewed tail that wound into the very wood itself. She gasped as another swung before her out of the trees, hanging from a vine by its tail, its arms stretched out as if in a pose. Emiline wanted to tell Scratcher about it, but Miserley was right next to her and barging her at every opportunity.

“Right,” barked Scragneck, bringing Emiline back to reality, “this way!”

They turned from the lagoon into the jungle, and the path quickly became damp and muddy, with the noise of the island’s fauna growing in intensity. They walked farther along the shadowy path, and a smell so foul and horrible that it could turn milk sour wafted toward them.

“Blech!” spluttered Scratcher. “What on earth’s that?”

Miserley smirked. “That’s where you’ll be spending the rest of your days — the Dung Mouse pen, clearing and packing mouse dung like good prisoners.”

“Roarph!” choked Emiline, feeling Portly hide deeper into her hair.

“You’ll soon get used to it,” snarled Scragneck. “Thank your lucky stars I ain’t in charge here, or else you’d already be dead.”

Emiline turned and caught the pirate’s eye. Scragneck was altogether different from Mousebeard. He wasn’t inquisitive or particularly clever. His eyes burned only with fire and hatred, and she could tell he was rotten to the core.

They walked a few minutes more before they came to the Dung Mouse pen. It was built like an iron prison, with a thick wooden padlocked door, and through the barred windows she could see the herd of Dung Mice. They were quite large animals, almost as tall as Elephant Mice, but with shaggy coats and long tails.

A woman pirate stood on guard, with the longest sword Emiline had ever seen held at the ready. She greeted Scragneck and unlocked the door to the pen.

“There are shovels inside,” said the woman. “Scoop up the dung and fling it into the hut at the back. They do their business at least thirty times daily, and with the eighty or so animals in there, it should give you more than enough to do. You’ll find beds on the walls. They ain’t that comfortable, but once you stink of mouse dung, you start not to care too much for luxuries.”

Miserley shoved Emiline into the pen, and Scratcher was pushed in behind her. The smell was even worse inside, and the mice made no hesitation in investigating the new arrivals. The door slammed shut, and Scratcher sighed heavily as his legs were sniffed unceremoniously by a Dung Mouse.

“This is going to be horrible,” he said, and put his hand over his nose to block the smell.

“Not even the Flaming Stink Mouse was as bad as this!” said Emiline, spluttering into her shirtsleeve. “How did we end up here?”

Miserley and Scragneck walked back to the ship along the lagoon. The rest of the prisoners had been deposited in the Dung Mouse pen, and they were returning for some well-earned rest. They felt happier now that they’d been reminded how horrible life for the prisoners would be. Life as a pirate was always made better when you could inflict suffering on someone.

Miserley was about to speak, but her attention was suddenly taken by a small flying mouse landing in front of them. It seemed rather directionless, and wandered around on the dirty floor without a purpose.

“That’s a Messenger,” she said. “What’s it doing here?”

Scragneck picked it up and removed the note that was secured to its back. He unfurled it and read it quietly.

“It’s from the navy,” he said, looking at Miserley, his eyes bright. “They want Mousebeard, Lovelock’s stolen mice, and any prisoners. If they get what they ask then the rest of us will be paid a fine ransom and set free.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, it’s signed Lord Battersby, and gives his word as an officer of the Old Town Guard.”

“Ouch!” yelped Miserley as another Messenger Mouse hit her on the head. She looked up to see at least twenty more flying over the lagoon. “It won’t be long before everyone sees the note,” she said, “including Mousebeard. It’s got to be some sort of trick.”

“Well I ain’t gonna trust them navy types as far as I can throw ’em,” said Scragneck. “But I reckon it’s somethin’ to bear in mind. Between you ’n’ me, Miserley, I don’t care much for that Mousebeard. Never ’ave done, and I don’t think he cares much for us too.”

“I hear that,” she replied, “but it’s too risky, and Mousebeard will surely see it coming?”

“If many of us see this note, though, somethin’ might ’appen of its own accord — if you know what I mean . . . . Something to think about, eh? I mean, if there’s a lot of us, there’s nothin’ he can do about it!”

Miserley fell quiet and let Scragneck plot and scheme to himself. Maybe she would play a part in a mutiny, but just for now she was keeping her allegiances secret.

The Howling Moon Mouse

THIS MOUSE IS THE BEST KNOWN OF ALL THE HOWLER MICE, CHOOSING TO
howl only on nights when there is a full moon. Found on the Plains of Albermarle, and on the remote islands of the Cold Sea, the Howling Moon Mouse lives a quiet life of solitude, and the only occasion when the species gather is on the first full moon of the year, when males will try and out-howl each other in order to win a mate.

MOUSING NOTES

The Howling Moon Mouse is prohibited in residential areas (Mousing Regulation
567
) because its howling can be deeply unsettling.

The Stolen Cargo

D
REWSHANK WAS DRAGGED FROM THE BRIG ON THE
Silver Shark
and hustled over to Mousebeard’s fortress. The rest of his crew had been taken to join Emiline and Scratcher. He surveyed the imposing structure before him and suddenly felt very alone. His eyes followed the rough walls, hewn from tree trunks, as they shot upward into looming, twisted towers. An unusually large and sinister mouse skull glared down at him from the wall above his head. The captain gulped and prepared for the worst.

He was pushed through a painted, bone-adorned gateway and directed up a twisting staircase by the pointed end of a spear, closely followed by a stinking pirate. He eventually came to a door with a mouse skull and crossbones emblazoned on it in thick red paint, and he pushed it open cautiously.

The room was sparsely decorated, with a large window looking out over the lagoon and a finely knotted rug spread over the floor. There wasn’t much furniture: a weathered wooden cabinet stood beside the window; a rounded driftwood table with a rare mousetusk candle-holder sitting on top near the door; at the far end of the room, a sturdy, metal-strung hammock stretching from one wall to the other. The room was chilly at best, despite the warmth of the island, and Drewshank thought of his own rather nice cabin and how this one could really do with a lick of paint.

Mousebeard was standing staring out over the water toward the jungle-covered land, his massive form almost filling the window.

“Ah, Drewshank, my unlikely adversary,” said Mousebeard, without turning around.

Drewshank held his head up and took a few steps farther into the room without replying. He felt uncomfortable in his dirty clothes. He always preferred to face difficult people dressed as smartly as possible. Under the circumstances, however, he thought he’d try not to let it bother him.

“It was brave of you, captain — chasing after me like that. The fog encounter usually scares the life out of people.”

“Well, when I saw your handiwork with a needle, I thought I had a chance, I must admit. You do a nice line in cloth mice.”

Mousebeard jerked his head to the side and snarled. Drewshank stepped back quickly. He’d been pleased with his reply, but then realized that he should be less inflammatory.

“So you’re a friend of Isiah Lovelock,” said the pirate gruffly, turning around. “As you know, I hate him with every ounce of my flesh and every hair in my beard.”

“I’m no friend of his. I was just doing some work for him.”

“Ah yes,” said the pirate. “You’d do anything for money. I know your type.”

“I have some scruples, pirate, and though I do things for money, and dress as though I have plenty, I sail through life with a clean conscience. Unlike yourself . . . ”

“Ha!” said Mousebeard. “You certainly know how to make yourself sound important!”

Drewshank clenched his fists. He didn’t appreciate such a blatant slur on his character.

“Did you honestly think that aging ship of yours was capable of taking me on?” asked Mousebeard. “Did Lovelock really think I was that much of a pushover?”

“My reputation must surely precede me!” snapped Drewshank. “The
Flying Fox
was noted for her feats of daring!”

The pirate shook his head and laughed. “You are certainly entertaining company, I’ll give you that.”

Drewshank was starting to fume. Never in all his life had someone spoken to him in this way.

“Just out of interest, why did Lovelock send you after me?” said Mousebeard, walking closer to Drewshank.

“Because you sank his ship and stole from him!”

“Of course!” boomed Mousebeard. Drewshank got the feeling that the pirate already knew full well why he had been sent after him. Mousebeard was playing with him, and it made him feel uneasy. He told himself to calm down.

The pirate suddenly strode over to the cabinet, his huge feet sending shudders around the room. He withdrew a mousebox with ornate metal edging, walked back toward Drewshank, and gently placed it on the table. The captain crept nearer.

“You should see this, Drewshank. If this is the reason you came this far — and it’s a very good reason, I must admit — then it only seems fair to show it to you before we have you executed.”

Drewshank swallowed sharply and grabbed the table to steady himself.

With the utmost care, the pirate unlocked the lid. It eased open and a bright shining golden light beamed out.

Drewshank gasped and bent closer. It was a pair of Golden Mice: the most sought-after and yet most dangerous creatures you could ever hope to find inside a mousebox.

“No, it can’t be . . . ,” muttered Drewshank. “They’re a death warrant . . . .”

There were thought to be fewer than a hundred of these mice left in the wild, and their fur was made of the purest gold. For centuries they had been the most desired of all species, but to be found in possession of them was punishable by death.

“Why would Isiah be after them? Every government and every army in the mousing world would come bearing down with full force on his doorstep.”

“And now do you realize why he’s been hunting me so ferociously?” replied Mousebeard.

“I can certainly understand why that navy is surrounding your island, but what could he do if he got them? Word would get out. He’d be brought to justice. There would be hell to pay . . . .”