The Crystal Prison Page 17

The tattoo snarled back, ‘Don’t bother to lie, I know you Akkikuyu – perhaps better than you do yourself. I can see into your soul, and you wish to rule these poor fieldmice.’

  ‘No,’ she protested immediately, ‘I likes them.’

  ‘Twist and turn all you like but you cannot escape the truth. You want them to become dependent on you – to run to you for the slightest thing until they are your subjects, enslaved to your evil will.’

  Madame Akkikuyu sobbed. ‘That false. I not like that, mouseys know – they love Akkikuyu; she their friend.’

  ‘You have no friends,’ snapped Nicodemus savagely. ‘Put your trust in me alone. The mice are using you – can you not see that? They take from you all the time, what do they give in return? Nothing.’

  The fortune-teller fled from the Hall. But at the edge of the ditch Madame Akkikuyu sat down and wept. ‘I like mouseys,’ she blubbed through her great salty tears.

  ‘Then give them the rain you promised,’ muttered Nicodemus.

  ‘I can’t,’ she wailed unhappily. ‘Akkikuyu not powerful enough. Mouseys will laugh at me and say I cheap trickster.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before,’ scolded the voice.

  ‘Nico,’ she began, ‘Nico, can you not make it rain? Only tiny bit, not much?’

  ‘But I have already told you,’ said Nicodemus sternly, ‘until I am freed I can do nothing. My powers are useless!’

  ‘Then Akkikuyu is washed up – mouseys not believe in her any more.’

  The soft voice in her ear whispered to itself and the painted eyes closed meditatively. ‘There may be a way,’ the voice began slowly. The rat sat up, excited and eager.

  ‘Tell me quick,’ she insisted. ‘Akkikuyu will help, best she can.’

  Nicodemus sounded uncertain. ‘Are you ready though?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘What is required might make you tremble.’

  ‘Akkikuyu not afraid,’ she affirmed and to prove it she flourished the dead frog from her bag: ‘See, I bring this, like Nico ask.’

  ‘I asked for it yesterday, Akkikuyu, yet this creature has been dead for more than three days. Do you think you can trick me?’

  ‘No . . .’ she answered feebly, letting the dried frog clatter down the steep bank and smash on the stones below.

  ‘I must have absolute obedience, Akkikuyu,’ demanded the voice. ‘Absolute! Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes Nico!’

  ‘Then swear – on your soul – to obey me in all things.’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Swear!’

  ‘Akkikuyu . . . Akkikuyu swear – on soul.’ She hung her head and said no more. The tattoo smiled an unpleasant, triumphant grin.

  ‘Excellent,’ resumed Nicodemus, ‘now we may proceed. The essence of rain lies in the invocation of two elements, air and water. As I am trapped you must work the spell for me. I shall tell you what to do and let us hope some rain will fall.’ The voice dropped to a low whisper as Nicodemus said, ‘For these elements we must use symbols to call upon the necessary forces – if I was there I could do it myself.’

  ‘Symbols?’ asked the fortune-teller detecting something sinister in the whispered tone. ‘What symbols?’

  ‘Something which represents the elements,’ said the voice. ‘For water a fish will be most suitable.’

  ‘And for air?’

  ‘A bird,’ declared the tattoo wickedly. ‘At the bottom of the field in the hedge you will find a blackbird’s nest. Bring the bird back here.’

  ‘Alive?’ asked Akkikuyu hopefully.

  Nicodemus just laughed at her.

  Madame Akkikuyu set off for the hedge in misery. Would her triumph in getting the rain to fall be worth the life she was about to take? At the hedge she peered up into its dark, brambly depths. It was quite difficult to see anything in there at all at night time, but eventually she discovered it. Gingerly the rat squeezed through the thorns and began to climb.

  The blackbird was still and silent, its feathers were fluffed out and the tiny bead-like eyes were firmly closed. Only its gentle heart beat stirred its breast.

  Madame Akkikuyu pulled herself up and looked at the bird fearfully. She thought about what she had to do and her heart beat faster. The bird looked so peaceful that tears sprang to her eyes again.

  ‘I cannot,’ she whispered hoarsely.

  ‘You must,’ came the voice in her ear. ‘One swift blow and the creature will be dead. It will feel nothing! Think of your mouse friends and the rain you can bring them.’

  So Madame Akkikuyu slowly raised a quivering claw and shakily drew the bone out of her hair. Then, closing her eyes tightly she brought it crashing down on the nest.

  At the ditch she lit a fire under her pot and pushed the feathery body into the bubbling water. And now, a fish, Akkikuyu,’ ordered Nicodemus, not letting her think too long about what she had done.

  So the fortune-teller went to the still pool and stared long at the dark water, taking no notice of the grim reflection that gazed back at her with accusing eyes. Suddenly a string of tiny bubbles rose to the surface. With a great SPLASH she smacked her claw down and scooped out a spout of water. Within it a little fish was wriggling. As she caught it in her other claw Nicodemus said to her, ‘Well done – but listen Akkikuyu, do you hear?’

  The fortune-teller stood still and waited. A faint croaking was just audible amid the rustle of the hawthorn leaves.

  On Nicodemus’ instruction she crept round to a clump of water iris in time to see a small brown frog leap into sight and hop away from the pool.

  ‘Catch it!’ screamed Nicodemus. ‘We still need one and this will be fresh.’ Madame Akkikuyu ran after the little frog and pounced on it.

  Breathlessly she made her way back to the ditch and her bubbling pot. Hurriedly she dropped the fish into the boiling potion and repeated the spell after Nicodemus.

  ‘Here me, folk that dwell in the spaces between the stars,’ he began. ‘I abjure all light, darken the sky, bring down the rain – in the name of Nachteg I command it, for you know who I am.’

  There was a silence and the rat looked up expectantly. But the tattoo said, ‘Now you must kiss the frog, Akkikuyu, and the spell shall be complete.’

  Grimly Madame Akkikuyu returned to the edge of the ditch and picked up the limp, slimy body. She gritted her teeth and kissed its head.

  Nicodemus sighed and the first spots of rain pattered down.

  In the Hall of Corn the fieldmice were disturbed in their sleep. They nuzzled and snuggled deep into their moss beds but could not escape the incessant drumming overhead. One by one the mice were roused from their beds and popped their heads out of their nests to see what the noise was.

  ‘Rain!’ they cried out with glee. ‘It’s raining! Hooray!’

  They abandoned their nests and danced around in the Hall with their faces upturned.

  Mr Nep gasped in wonder at the miracle, woke his wife and went down to tell everyone. ‘It’s the rat lady! I asked her to make it rain and she has! What a marvel she is. We must go and thank her.’ The fieldmice joyously trooped out of the Hall to find Madame Akkikuyu. The door guards went with them.

  Sleepily, Audrey leant out to see what the fuss was. A large drop of rain fell with a plop on her nose. She wiped it off and looked into the drizzling sky.

  ‘Hello dear,’ said Mrs Scuttle, descending the ladder close by. ‘My, what a wonder! Everyone’s saying that your rat woman has made it rain. They’ve all gone to find her – imagine. Elijah and I are going to follow them – I don’t think I’ll sleep any more tonight and it will be light soon.’ She let the rain fall on her gladly. ‘Oh it seems like years since the last drop we had. Are you coming?’

  Audrey shook her head. Here was another feather for Madame Akkikuyu’s cap. Wearily she sighed, ‘Give her my regards – but I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘Oh well, you know best dear.’

  At the ditch they found Madame Akkikuyu beaming broadly. Her potion pot was now empty
and the fire was out.

  ‘Mouseys,’ she welcomed, throwing open her claws. ‘Akkikuyu bring rain as promise.’

  ‘Astounding,’ cried Mr Nep shaking her by the claw vigorously, ‘truly wondrous – well done.’ Everyone joined in to praise her, until Madame Akkikuyu flushed with pleasure.

  But the celebrations were short-lived. The rain suddenly stopped.

  ‘Won’t be no more rain out of that sky,’ said Old Todmore, examining the heavens.

  He was right. The magic rain shower had finished and Madame Akkikuyu shook her head in dismay – it certainly wasn’t worth the murders she had committed that night.

  ‘That spot o’ water won’t have done much good at all,’ observed one mouse sorrowfully. ‘Ground’s too dry to soak it up. It’s not long afore sunrise an’ all that rain’ll steam off soon. Bah – darned waste o’ time.’

  The Fennywolders tutted sadly. All their high hopes had been dashed. Now they felt more flat and miserable than ever. All agreed however that Madame Akkikuyu had done her best, better than any of them could have done, but this didn’t get them anywhere.

  Madame Akkikuyu glanced at the tattoo on her ear but Nicodemus was silent – it was too near daybreak for him. She wondered if he had known how short the shower would be. She left the mice and sat by herself on the steep bank and cried regretfully.

  Young Whortle was making his way through the field when dawn’s grey light crept over Fennywolde. He was a heavy sleeper and was surprised to find himself alone in the nest that morning. He knew nothing of Madame Akkikuyu’s rain-making and none of the others had returned yet.

  He had gone through the great door wondering where Grommel and the other guard had got to.

  ‘Funny,’ he said to himself, ‘where they all gone then?’ He put his paws behind his back and began to hum a jolly tune. He felt much better now and his shoulders only gave him an occasional twinge. Secretly he hoped that he would have scars like Mr Scuttle, as proof of his bravery.

  A mist was rising as the meagre rainfall turned to vapour. It was thick and white and soon, without realising, Young Whortle wandered out of the main corridor.

  ‘Oh curse this fog,’ he muttered crossly. ‘I wish. Sammy was here with me.’ He rubbed his shoulders for they had begun to ache in the damp mist. He looked up suddenly. He ought to be out of the field by now, but the white, swirling mist billowed round him. He was hopelessly lost.

  Something moved in the corner of his eye. He turned quickly and the mist pressed round closely. ‘Hello?’ he called brightly, ‘someone there then?’ There was no reply, only the rustle of the corn stems. Young Whortle shrugged and put the movement down to the swirl of the mist. He set off again in no particular direction, knowing that sooner or later he’d come across some familiar landmark. The mist grew thicker and flowed over his plump face.

  ‘This is a daft nuisance,’ he muttered and began to whistle a tune that Hodge had taught him. The tune died on his lips as he remembered his dear friend. He had been found murdered in this very field . . . Something rustled behind him – and it wasn’t just the corn stems. Young Whortle walked a little faster. He wanted to stop and take a look. But what if it was something horrible waiting for him with long sharp teeth and pointed claws? Young Whortle shivered. He knew he was giving in to panic.

  The rustling sounded again – only this time it was on his left. He yelped and stared wildly around him. Suddenly he broke into a wild, panic-stricken run, deeper and deeper into the field, not caring where he went just so long as he was away from the horror which lurked in the suffocating mist.

  He crashed headlong through the dense stems squealing out loud. Sharp stones bit into his pink feet till they bled and coarse leaves razored through his paws. ‘Oh no,’ he whimpered as he felt his breath rattle in his chest, ‘I can’t go on much further.’

  His legs crumbled beneath him and Young Whortle lay panting on the hard ground. He was a small, frightened animal, totally alone in a turgid sea of mist. He had never felt so forlorn. Even when the owl was after him at least he had known what he was up against. But this was different. Here the danger hid out of sight, waiting to strike when its victim least expected.

  He strained his ears for some minutes but could hear nothing.

  ‘Wait till I tell Sammy this,’ he told himself in a voice louder than he had intended. ‘He won’t half laugh! “Things you get yourself into, Warty”, he’ll say.’

  Young Whortle got to his feet, his legs still a bit wobbly. He scratched the top of his head and tugged the little tuft of hair that grew there. Then he froze.

  Thin, long fingers appeared out of the mist and came for him. As he yelled for his life he felt something tighten around his neck.

  ‘FENNY!’ he screamed desperately, ‘FEN-’

  Only the corn stems rustled in reply.

  Arthur looked up. He was sure he had heard something. He and Twit were the only sentries left on duty – the others having gone to see Madame. Akkikuyu with the rest of the fieldmice.

  Arthur looked across at his friend who was swaying happily on a corn ear. ‘Did you hear that Twit?’ he shouted.

  The fieldmouse gazed over with a blank look. ‘What be the matter, Art?’ he called back.

  ‘I’m not sure . . . but I think I heard the alarm.’

  Arthur tried to pierce the low mist with his eyes. He felt ill at ease. Something dreadful was happening down there – he was certain of it.

  ‘I’m going to raise the alarm myself,’ he told Twit decisively. ‘I don’t like that mist down there – it could hide anything. It’s creepy.’ He cupped his paws round his mouth, keeping a tight hold on the stem with his legs and tail, and called out ‘FENNY!’ as loud as he could. Twice he repeated the cry, then both he and Twit climbed down.

  ‘Should we wait fer the others?’ asked Twit anxiously. Now he was on the ground the mist was up to his chest and writhed over him like a living thing. In the dark places of the field the mist looked deeper.

  ‘No time,’ said Arthur firmly, ‘come on.’ They left the corridor path and plunged into the wild places of the field.

  ‘Is it Hodge’s murderer, do you think?’ asked Twit quietly.

  ‘Might be,’ answered Arthur gravely.

  ‘We should have brought a stick or something just in case.’

  ‘Here.’ Twit pressed a stout staff into Arthur’s chubby paw. ‘Thought they might come in handy,’ he explained.

  ‘Good thinking,’ praised Arthur, greatly cheered. ‘The two of us should be able to handle whoever it is.’

  ‘Or whatever,’ added Twit timidly.

  Arthur gulped. ‘Well,’ he said, trying to sound brave, ‘we’ve fought off a band of bloodthirsty rats before now.’

  ‘Yes, but there was five of us then and only three of them,’ observed Twit glumly. Arthur brandished his stick before him like a sword, cutting through the dense mist only to have the gaps fill up again thicker than before.

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ he said aloud, but his feigned confidence fooled no-one. ‘Just don’t think of anything frightening, Twit. What would old Triton say if he could hear us, eh? Something like “lily-livered land lubbers” I bet. And what about Kempe? Why don’t we sing one of his bawdy songs to make us feel better and get rid of all this gloom?’ Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Rosie, poor Rosie . . . why aren’t you singing, Twit? Twit?’

  Arthur spun round, but his friend was gone. Only the mist met his gaze and closed in on him. From far away – or so it seemed – he heard the little fieldmouse call his name anxiously.

  Twit had stumbled over a stone and in that instant had lost his friend. The mist poured in around him and he was alone.

  ‘Arthur!’ he shouted. meekly. ‘Where are you, Arthur?’ But the fog swallowed his tiny voice greedily. His cries dwindled to murmurs and then into silence. Twit was afraid. The stick he held trembled in his paws as he tried to make his way through the corn. He was totally lost. For all he knew he was going round in fut
ile circles. Then he began to hear the noises.

  The fieldmouse paused and waved the stick about him in a frenzy. ‘There . . . there’s five of us here matey, so clear off sharp!’

  The stems crackled and snapped to his right. He ducked and darted off to the left. Now it was in front of him, rustling and scraping, coming ever closer. It was going to get him – to murder him as it had done with Hodge. Twit turned to flee again, but the noise seemed to be all round him now. His courage left him and he stood still and howled sadly, ‘Please no!’ but the thick, milky mist muffled his voice.

  Long twig-like fingers emerged out of the fog like ghosts. Twit tried to fend them off but it was all in vain. A plaited loop was pulled over his ears and caught him round the neck.

  ‘EEEK! HELP! FENNY!’ he squawked as the loop began to tighten and strangle him.

  ‘Help . . . Fenny . . . Help . . .’ Twit choked on each word and scrabbled at his throat. It was no use. The loop continued to throttle him and Twit fell senseless to the ground.

  ‘Twit!’ bawled Arthur smashing through the stems. ‘Twit!’ He thrashed the air with his stick but could see no-one. The fiend had slipped silently away.

  ‘Twit,’ moaned Arthur as he knelt by his friend’s side. ‘Oh Twit, don’t be dead.’ He cradled his friend’s head in his paws and listened for a heart beat.

  A faint murmur fluttered in Twit’s chest, and Arthur wept. Slowly, the mist began to disperse.

  Gradually Twit came to. His breathing was laboured and he touched his neck tenderly. There were big black bruises forming all round his throat. He grinned at Arthur shakily.

  ‘Reckoned I were a goner then, Art,’ he croaked.

  ‘You’ll be fine now,’ assured Arthur. ‘We ought to get out of here while we can. Look, the mist’s thinning.’ He helped Twit to his feet and they staggered off.

  ‘Did you see who it was?’ asked Arthur, curiously.

  Twit shook his head slowly. ‘No Art . . . but it were uncanny. All I saw was something that looked . . . looked as if it were made totally out of straw.’