‘What are you doing? Are you crazy?’
Oswald stared at him with glassy, heavy eyes. He held his head to steady himself as the mania wore off – the divining rod was limp in his paws. Oswald swayed and came out of his trance. At his feet gleamed the mousebrass.
Piccadilly looked down and froze. Oswald, coming to his senses at last, blinked and gasped.
The chamber they had barged into was the main sleeping quarters of the rats. The sacks they had jumped over were sprawled, sleeping brutes. All about them were hundreds of snoring rats.
Oswald and Piccadilly had run slap bang into the middle of them.
The mousebrass they had come so far to find was clenched tightly in the cruel claws of a large brown rat. Oswald gulped: strapped to the stump of the rat’s arm was a peeler. It was Skinner. The sharp talons of his one good arm were twined about the cord that had once held the charm around Audrey’s neck. Oswald thought of the skins he and Piccadilly had found and wondered if this creature had taken part in their murders.
He stared at the grunting, snoring beast at his feet, feeling weak and sick. If there had been any colour in him it would have drained away. He turned and saw all the terrible brutes slumbering around them. In all the chilling horror stories whispered around the winter fires he had never heard of anything so dreadful as the situation he had run into headlong. Oswald finally looked back to Piccadilly.
‘Pick it up,’ hissed the grey mouse indicating the mousebrass.
Oswald shook his head, appalled at the suggestion. He didn’t want to touch the snoring monster to retrieve Audrey’s brass. ‘Let’s leave,’ he implored.
‘Not till we get what we came for.’
Piccadilly bent down. The heat from the nostrils blew harshly against his arms. Piccadilly braced himself and gingerly unwound the cord from the claw. A disturbed mumble growled from the rat. The grey mouse paused, waiting to see if the rat stirred, but there was nothing more. Piccadilly resumed. Gently he lifted one of the talons and pulled the cord free. Slowly he passed the mousebrass to Oswald and lowered the sharp talon.
‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘let’s go. One clumsy move, Oswald, and we’re rat meat. You’d better let me go first and you tread where I do.’
Oswald nodded. He wanted to get out of this frightening place. His instinct was to flee, to run wildly through the rag partition – but there were so many sleeping bodies between it and them that he knew Piccadilly made sense.
He marvelled at the luck which had brought them this far without treading on a tail or whisker and inwardly thanked the Green Mouse. Oswald’s admiration for Piccadilly soared as well. He could never have taken the mousebrass like that. He glanced at the gleaming yellow charm in his paw. They had come all this way for this, an anti-cat sign – was it worth it? Oswald was not sure now.
Piccadilly began to pick his way through the rats, showing Oswald where to step safely. With a nervous last look at the sleeping rat, the white mouse followed.
With a painful slowness that made every bone of them ache the two mice edged their way back to the cloth stretched across the entrance. Piccadilly sighed when he reached it and pushed it aside gladly.
Oswald hopped over the last rat – he was a scrawny villain with one ear torn off, and he ground his teeth loudly as he slept. But as Oswald neared the partition an almighty gong boomed throughout the chamber and the rats awoke.
Oswald couldn’t move. There were yawns and stretches as the rats prepared for their shift in the mine. The sound of two hundred knuckles cracked in the chamber.
Oswald should have run but his legs wouldn’t respond. He stayed there and whimpered, stricken and frozen. Through a rent in the cloth he saw Piccadilly’s urgent face calling him, but it was no use. He was rooted to the spot.
Piccadilly cursed his luck for running out here at the end of their journey when the mousebrass had been found. The rats were sure to catch them. He saw Oswald, bleak and terrified, trembling in the chamber – what could he do?
Oswald grasped the mousebrass tightly. He saw Skinner rub the sleep out of his eyes and then stare blankly at his empty paw.
‘Nar! Where’s it gone? Who’s ‘ad me prize – which stinkin’ sot’s pinched me mouse dangler?’ Skinner turned on his neighbour and gripped him by the throat. ‘Were it you, Spiker?’ he snarled. ‘I’ll gut you an’ make rope from your entrails.’
The rat called Spiker eyed the peeler as it swayed menacingly before his face. ‘Keep yer bile in,’ he spat. ‘Haven’t got yer poxy bauble. Mebbe Pokey ‘ad it,’ and another rat was involved in the argument.
So far no one had seen Oswald. All eyes were on the brawl in the middle of the chamber. The mouse felt life return to his legs and he crept quietly towards the partition.
A claw gripped his shoulder.
‘’Ere, who’re you then?’ the rat with the torn ear growled behind him.
Stammering, Oswald turned round – face to ugly face. The rat grinned; there were bits of rotten green in his long teeth.
‘New are you?’ he sneered, looking Oswald up and down. An odd light flickered in the rat’s eye. ‘Where’d you get this then?’ he said, pointing to the green scarf. ‘Trophy is it? You’ll not get many of them in the mine.’
Oswald was totally puzzled. And then he realised what had happened – he had been mistaken for a young rat! His pride was somewhat injured by this insult, but it was hardly the time to complain – he told himself that after everything he had been through he probably did look quite dishevelled.
The rat told him it was time to start and the gong sounded again. ‘I hates it! That’s our shift that is. Look at them over there, most of ’em too thick to tell dung from apples – they do what they’re told. What’s it all for though, eh?’
He turned to see the fight between Skinner and Spiker.
Oswald shot a glance at the hole in the rag. Piccadilly was bewildered. ‘It’ll never work,’ the city mouse mouthed.
Oswald pulled a what can I do? face and Piccadilly mimed to him to hide his obvious mouse hair and ears from view.
Oswald quickly removed the scarf from his neck and tied it about his head in a rakish manner, then he tucked the mousebrass under it.
‘I’ll get help,’ Piccadilly assured him and the grey mouse turned and ran back down the passage as fast as he could.
The scuffle in the chamber ended suddenly. There was some cheering – others muttered, but Spiker said nothing – he fell dead to the ground, a great slit up his middle.
‘I’ll finish the job later,’ said Skinner and he licked his bloody device clean.
‘I hates both of them – should have both copped it,’ mumbled the rat next to Oswald. ‘Pus-buckets they are.’ He tore the cloth aside and made to stomp through, but he turned to Oswald and said, ‘You’d best stick wi’ me on yer first day. I’ll show yer the ropes. We’ll get on fine you an’ me – mates together, be old cronies this time next shift. You’d like that wouldn’t you lad?’ He brought his face closer. Oswald nodded hurriedly.
‘Name’s Finn.’
‘Oh . . . I’m . . .’ Oswald coughed and tried to sound harsh and croaky like a rat whilst he fumbled for a Suitably rattish name, ‘ . . . Whitey’
‘Mmm, most like,’ Finn smiled unpleasantly. ‘I’ll show you the mine, Whitey lad.’ Oswald followed the scrawny rat into even greater danger.
The night air was cool and refreshing. Twit quickly recovered from the stifling atmosphere of the sewers as the breeze ruffled his fur and blew away the memory of the cloying, sweaty rat smell.
Thomas had led him back through the sewers a slightly different way from the one they took when they entered them. The two mice had surfaced near to the park where great iron gates kept out unwanted visitors in the night. They ducked under the ironwork and pattered along. Immense trees stood black against the sky, looming above them so high it hurt Twit’s neck to look. Their new leaves dappled the mice with moonlight as they passed underneath.
‘The oldest trees are over the hill there,’ pointed Thomas when he noticed Twit’s upturned face. ‘Huge chestnuts, ancient and knobbly. Give good feast to the squirrels and Her Ladyship.’
‘Who’s Her Ladyship asked Twit curiously.
‘The squirrels here are a watery lot by and large,’ Thomas continued, not seeming to hear the question. ‘I’ve no truck with them mostways – ’cept her, she is a grand lady.’ He gazed about them and scratched his whiskers. ‘This way matey.’
Twit trotted after him. Thomas was striding briskly again. ‘But if you please, who is a grand lady?’
‘Why – the Starwife,’ he replied. ‘Have you not heard of her?’ Thomas tutted at this gap in Twit’s education.
There were no lights in the park, and the streets to the right were obscured by the tall trees, so little light from the lampposts fell on the sweeping lawns.
‘See yonder hill?’ Thomas nodded to the dark mass that rose to their left. ‘The strange domed building that sits on top is for lookin’ into the sky.’
‘Oh yes,’ Twit said brightly, ‘the bats told me it was to see the stars, but I can see ’em anyways.’
‘Aye the stars,’ winked the midshipmouse. ‘Oldest navigation points. Hmm, there’s paths to be found up there. Lead you far away and back again they can.’ He cleared his throat and dismissed the urge to roam that was rising in him.
The seafarer shook his head slowly and removed his woollen hat. He stared at the glittering heavens and sighed; ‘No, you’ve had my best, I’ll not wander again, whatever you tempt me with. I’ve anchored down at last and nothing can draw me out.’ Thomas pulled his hat back over his head, covering the white wisps of hair that had been revealed and which waved like seaweed floating in the deep. He smiled at Twit. ‘It’s a strong pull the world has, once you’ve seen it. Well, where was I?’
‘The Starwife,’ the fieldmouse reminded him.
‘Yes ’at’s right. Well, below yonder hill in their dreys an’ whatnot live the squirrels.’
‘I’ve known a squirrel family,’ said Twit unexpectedly, ‘They was all right – though always fussin’ about one thing an’ another.’
‘It’s the same here, as I said. Wet they are: most of them not worth a candle.’
‘Except the Starwife?’
‘True enough. Oh she’s wise – an’ older’n some of those trees I daresay. Doesn’t get about much now though. Has to stay indoors with rheums and warchin’ in the bones but she’s not gone “ga ga” like most old dames do. Strike me but she’s sharp – need your wits to tackle her. Only met her the once when I first come here: that were plenty.’
Now they were walking up the gentle slope of the hill next to the dark road which was only used when the park was open.
‘Maybe we should visit her and get some advice,’ suggested Twit eagerly. He loved meeting strangers and the Starwife sounded intriguing.
Thomas shook his head. ‘No, it’s best when dealing with her to visit only when invited. The squirrels always get jumpy with other folk about. That thought has crossed my mind, though – I was wondering what she’d make of it all.’ He paused for a while brooding on the matter. ‘Summat’s not quite normal ‘bout her you know, she’s got an other world quality – serene in peace, frightenin’ in a temper; very like the sea in some ways. Rules those squirrel colonies with an iron rod. No, I don’t think tonight’s the night for payin’ calls. Not a hospitable hour and they’re only new awake after the winter.’
They had reached the top of the hill where it levelled out into an expansive plateau. The road split into three. Thomas took the right fork.
‘Not far now,’ he said. ‘Blackheath is just through those gates.’
‘What do you think we’ll find there?’. Thomas shrugged. ‘Nowt I suppose. I just want a look-see.’
The gate was before them: they ducked under it and blinked. A main road lay in front of them. For a moment Twit and Thomas steadied themselves and watched as roaring, wheeled monsters hurtled past. Twit did not like the road. It threw him into such a confusion that Thomas had to hold his paw tightly.
We’ve got to cross this nightmare,’ he called above the tumult. ‘Wait till there’s a break.’
So they stood and waited until there was a space between the receding red lights and the oncoming white beams.
‘Now,’ shouted Thomas and he dragged Twit off the pavement and down on to the road. Quickly they ran. Then up on to the paving at the other side, just as an oncoming engine swept past. Twit panted heavily and Thomas coughed into his hat.
‘That was a near thing,’ he said after a while. They turned to look at what lay before them.
‘Oh no,’ groaned Twit, ‘another ‘un.’
They were sitting on a grass verge sandwiched between two roads and the next one looked busier than the last.
The two mice walked through the grass up to the edge of the road. Beyond the dash of bright lights and the rumble of traffic was the Heath. It was a dark place, a vast area of flat grassland surrounded by roads and buildings. A few paths crossed the breadth of the Heath but hardly any trees grew there. There was only one small tight clump and this was fenced in.
An old church rested uncomfortably on the brink of Blackheath – it was a disturbing place: nothing stirred and only the stars gazed down on it. Thomas and Twit waited patiently on the pavement as the noisy engines sped by. They wiped the smoke from their eyes and held their paws over their noses as the fumes spluttered over them. Conversation was impossible so they just sat and waited for their chance. Twit regarded his new friend and wondered what had made him give up the sea. Was it merely his age? Or had something dreadful happened to make Thomas want to forget his voyages? Twit knew that Thomas longed to be out on the rolling oceans. He was such a strong character that the small matter of his age would surely be no problem. But then Twit had seen enough of folk to understand that everyone has a reason for doing what they do even if they can’t explain it – even he was going to return home soon, back to his parents, back to the sniggers of some and the pity of others. If the midshipmouse had a reason for staying on dry land then it had to be a good one, Twit decided.
Gradually the number of the machines became fewer.
‘This is it.’ Thomas jumped to his feet. ‘Now Twit!’ Once more they dashed from the pavement and ran across the road. When they reached the grass they flung themselves down on the ground and caught their breath.