The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning Read online

  With a last, anxious look at the broken, delirious figure, Arthur scrambled up the. stairs. He puffed I with the exertion and the breath rattled in his chest as he mounted the topmost step and threw himself against the cellar door.

  The Hall was bathed in the orange glow of the fire. All around its lazy, lapping flames the slumbering shapes of blanket-shrouded mice snored and dreamed of harvest feasts. For this short while the sorrows of life were forgotten and they wandered through sunlit, daisy gardens, leaf dappled glades and golden, corn filled meadows where the food was abundant. But the sun of their sleep was pale and cold, the fruit they ate was tasteless and amid the soft snores whimpers were heard and stomachs growled. Into this troubled peace burst Arthur. He fell stumbling through the cellar door and called at the top of his voice, ‘Help, help! Wake up!’

  At once the sleepers stirred and awoke. Some I covered their heads expecting the roof to fall in whilst others shook off the sleep and hurried over to see what was the matter.

  ‘It’s Mr Triton!’ Arthur explained quickly. ‘He’s down there, I couldn’t bring him up on my own he’s been wounded, please go and help him.’

  Master Oldnose and Mr Cockle pushed through the doorway and vanished in the darkness beyond.

  Gwen came running up to her son full of concern, ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Is he badly hurt?’ Arthur nodded and felt his own legs give way under the strain. He collapsed into her arms.

  ‘Audrey!’ called Gwen urgently. ‘Bring some water, quickly.’ She pulled Arthur near to the fire and laid him on a blanket with a pillow under his head.

  Audrey scurried forward with a bowl of water and dabbed her brother’s face. ‘I’m all right,’ he told her, ‘just feel so tired, but poor Mr Triton . . .’

  Gwen looked at the doorway and clenched her paws tightly. Several other mice had gone down to help bring up the midshipmouse and already they were carrying him into the Hall. She drew her breath sharply when she saw the terrible wound: his leg was now immovable, transformed absolutely into ice.

  They put him next to Arthur and when the warm firelight fell on his face Thomas opened his eyes. He raised a trembling paw to the flames but the effort was too much and he descended into the black swoon once more.

  ‘What happened Arthur?’ Gwen asked again as she tended to the midshipmouse and tried to make him comfortable.

  ‘We didn’t get the mousebrass,’ Arthur said shivering at the memory, ‘Jupiter has an army of ghosts and they threw spears at us. One of them hit Mr Triton. It was only a flesh wound but it’s got steadily worse – there’s some evil magic at work in it.’

  Audrey had grown very pale and silent. Now, with a small voice she asked, ‘Where’s Piccadilly, Arthur? Why isn’t he with you?’

  Arthur shook his head and sobbed, ‘I don’t know. We were coming back when, all of a sudden, he went mad and charged back to the power station. Barker went to get him but I don’t know what happened to either of them.’

  The anguish of loss stole in and closed about Audrey’s heart. She said nothing but sat back and stared at the fire.

  Gwen did not know what to do about Thomas’s leg. Splinters of frost were now edging their way up to his waist, his breathing was faint and his face drawn, a shadow of his former, robust self.

  ‘It is the winter sickness,’ barked a cracked voice behind her. Gwen turned and the Starwife staggered into the light. She was haggard and shuffled along feebly; her moist, milky eyes shone orange with the flames that framed and gilded her thin fur. With her arthritic paws locked round the handle of her walking stick she glared goblin-like at the fearful gathering. She waited for the astonished whispers that rustled round on her appearance to die down and lowered her withered head.

  ‘The forces of Hagol have been invoked,’ she told the frightened mice in a hushed, ominous tone. ‘Ancient powers long idle have been kindled by the Unbeest and the spears of Narmoth fly once more.’ The squirrel stared at Gwen and said darkly, ‘I fear the sea mouse will die.’

  ‘Can’t you do anything?’ implored Mrs Brown desperately. ‘We can’t sit here and do nothing while poor Thomas, while he . . .’

  ‘I agree,’ said the squirrel shifting her glance, ‘it is a most painful death. I suggest we finish him off now.’

  The mice of the Skirtings and Landings gasped in disbelief. How could she suggest such a thing? They were appalled by her callous disregard of the midshipmouse. Gwen said nothing but stared dumbly with shock. She did not understand how anyone could be so cold and unfeeling.

  The Starwife tapped her stick on the floor with irritation. ‘You think me cruel,’ she snapped at them, ‘but you do not know what happens to one bitten by a Narmoth spear. You cannot imagine a thousandth of his torture as his body is so totally consumed by frost that it shatters. He will be aware of every crack and every fissure that splinters across his frozen body – until he dies. Is that what you would spare him for?’

  For a full five minutes no-one uttered a sound and all eyes were fixed on the prone figure of Thomas. The frost was up to his middle and began creeping down the other leg. Gwen felt helpless and she stroked his chill forehead. ‘Oh Thomas, Thomas,’ she wept forlornly.

  His two, sunken eyes blinked open and gazed up at her, but he did not know where he was and the face he saw was a phantom from his youth ‘Bess?’ he whispered lovingly. ‘It’s Tom. I tried for years to find you again.’

  Gwen squeezed his paws and nodded. ‘It’s all right Tom,’ she said in a voice that struggled to sound bright even though the tears streamed down her cheeks as she pretended to be the lost love of his boyhood, ‘you’ve found me now. Bess is here.’

  Thomas sighed deeply and he spoke in little fits of emotion. ‘Oh Bess, I never made him come wi’ me – honest. Say you forgive me.’ He gripped her paws fiercely and they shook as he quivered with the pain.

  ‘Of course I do Thomas,’ Gwen assured him, ‘now you get some rest my dear.’

  The midshipmouse threw his head back and screamed piercingly, ‘I can’t rest! I can never rest! Bess he’s gone, Woodget’s gone and . . .’ his voice became a sob as he fought to control the passion that racked him, ‘I killed him!’

  ‘Oh Thomas,’ sobbed Gwen bitterly.

  ‘It is the madness speaking,’ chimed the Starwife’s solemn tones, ‘and so it will continue till his jaw freezes. Do your best to humour him – he is raving and knows not what he says.’ She turned away and her eyes closed guiltily, fully aware of the dark secret which the midshipmouse had struggled so hard to forget, of which she alone knew the truth.

  Huddled by the fire Audrey surfaced from her thoughts. The scenes with Thomas had washed over her and the piteous cries of her mother had rung hollowly in her heart for she sensed that Piccadilly was dead and all else had faded round her. Now she roused herself and took in the awful plight of those dear to her. Arthur had covered his face, hiding his sorrow from everyone, whilst Gwen’s distraught tears fell fast down her cheeks for all to see as the ice made its way up to Mr Triton’s chest. Audrey looked on all this as though she were observing it through a window. It was a strange sensation and for a few moments she felt set apart from them and their grief, in a separate, tranquil world.

  Then it was over and the babble of voices clamoured round again. She shook herself and the fragments of her heart went out to her mother. If only they could do something. She paused, there it was again, the noise died down and she was viewing her family as though she was cut off from them. Audrey did not know what was happening. She looked round nervously and there was the Starwife, regarding her with keen eyes. The squirrel glowered but Audrey’s spirits lifted, somehow she had read the other’s thoughts!

  The real world snapped back and with a determined, angry expression Audrey rose and strode briskly over to where the Starwife was tapping her stick in agitation.

  ‘Keep away from me child,’ said the squirrel tersely, but there was a hint of caution in her voice and she backed away.

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bsp; ‘I know!’ hissed Audrey vehemently, ‘I don’t know how I do but that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You’re demented,’ muttered the Starwife crossly, ‘the cold has unhinged you.’

  She started to move over to her seat by the stairs but Audrey caught hold of her stick and held it firmly. ‘You can heal him can’t you?’ she declared furiously. ‘I know you can. I sensed what was running through that nasty, dried up old brain of yours. You were telling yourself what a waste of time it would be as we’re all going to die soon anyway. That’s right isn’t it you mean old hag?’ The squirrel pounded her stick imperiously on the floor. Up till then their conversation had gone unheeded by everyone but now all the mice looked up in surprise. The Starwife apologized for the disturbance.

  ‘It is nothing,’ she told them, ‘a cramp in my foot, no more,’ then she resumed the whispered discussion with Audrey.

  ‘What a clever creature you are girl,’ she said.

  ‘It’s true, I may be able to heal the midshipmouse.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’ asked Audrey incredulously.

  ‘As you said, soon we shall all be destroyed – this I have sensed child, in much the same way as you. For days I have sought out Jupiter’s thoughts to fathom the ways of his mind and now I know at sunset tomorrow he will use my Starglass for the last time and the world will be plunged into darkness and despair – a perfect place for a spirit used to the eternal cold of the void. All life will end.’

  She stood defeated and spent before the mouse.

  ‘What would I be saving Triton for?’ she asked hopelessly. ‘His fate may be sweet compared to what awaits us.’

  ‘You can give Thomas the chance to live!’ answered Audrey, outraged. ‘How dare you stand there and decide how someone should die when you have the means to save them.’ Her eyes blazed and were full of contempt for this wizened old creature who idly played with the lives of others.

  The Starwife considered the girl’s words and she raised her brows. ‘You may be right,’ she admitted.

  ‘I will restore Triton – but only on one condition.’

  ‘I’m sick to death of your conditions,’ flamed Audrey, ‘what is it now?’

  ‘Nothing too taxing,’ said the squirrel with a curious smile, ‘I merely ask for your help in this, that is all.’

  ‘I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Then go find my bag, the one containing the herbs I used to feed the beacon fire.’

  * * *

  The mice were excited and held their breath expectantly as the old squirrel sat beside the midshipmouse and grandly declared her intention.

  ‘There is a way,’ she told them, holding grimly onto her walking stick, ‘just one small chance for this mouse. If I succeed he shall be cured and survive but if I fail, then death shall come earlier than looked for.’

  The firelight danced over her face, casting deep shadows over her brows which gave her a sinister appearance. She looked like an ancient force from forgotten legend that shimmered magically before them. Audrey knelt at her side, the velvet bag clutched in her paws. She watched the Starwife warily for she did not trust her and sensed that she was up to something; a devious gleam was glittering in those milky eyes.

  Gwen put a paw to her mouth as she prayed for Thomas’s life. She hoped the squirrel knew what she was doing.

  Just then Master Oldnose came into the Hall carrying a large bowl. ‘I’ve got it,’ he puffed, ‘but my oh my it’s freezing out there.’ The Starwife had sent him into the yard to fetch some snow but did not say what she needed it for. The inquisitive mice peered into the fluffy heaped bowl timidly and shot wondrous glances at the proud, mysterious squirrel. What was she going to do?

  The Starwife took the bowl from him and examined the ice-covered body beside her. The infection had reached Thomas’s shoulders and frosty lines were creeping relentlessly up his neck. She muttered all the while to herself, nodding or tutting at what she saw, then she placed her crippled fingers on both sides of the wound and shook her head. ‘There is very little time left to him,’ she said bluntly, ‘the dread spells of Jupiter speed through his system. Give me the bag child.’ Audrey passed it over and the Starwife foraged inside. With a mumble of approval she brought out a curiously shaped root and deftly bit the end off. A honey coloured sap oozed out and she held it over the gash allowing three drops to fall into it.

  Thomas cried out as each drop touched the dreadful wound. Gwen held his head and stroked his hair soothingly but his eyes rolled back and only the whites showed.

  The Starwife scooped up some of the snow and packed it firmly into the gash, then she tore a strip from a pillow case and bound it tightly round the frozen leg.

  Audrey frowned. She could not see how this would help. Surely what was needed was heat not more cold. She remembered the squirrel’s harsh words concerning Thomas. Perhaps she was merely playing for time until he died.

  ‘The first stage is complete,’ said the Starwife slowly. ‘I have applied the poultice, now we must charge it with our prayers so that it may begin its work.’ She removed the silver acorn from around her neck and dangled it between three fingers over the midshipmouse. With her arm outstretched she sighed and strange words formed on her wrinkled lips. The Hall became tense and a faint breeze stirred, moving her patchy fur and gently swinging the suspended charm.’

  ‘Tah!’ scolded the Starwife as her arm sagged suddenly and the acorn touched Thomas; she snorted with contempt at her own feeble limbs and rubbed her wasted muscles feverishly. With a grunt of frustration she told everyone, ‘It is useless, I can do nothing for him, my arms are too weak for this.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling and shrugged, ‘A firmer paw than mine is needed I fear,’ and she grumbled scandalous curses at the horrors of age.

  The mice all let out a disappointed groan. It. seemed that Thomas was doomed after all. Audrey looked at the squirrel sharply. There was something exceedingly odd about what had just happened. It was too like a performance to be true. She had an idea and hurriedly volunteered, ‘I’ll do it.’ There, she thought, that’s put a stop to the old battleaxe’s delaying tactics.

  The Starwife offered the girl the pendant. She took it and the squirrel smiled, almost from relief. ‘Excellent,’ she said, ‘now hold it over him steadily child,’ she told Audrey, ‘and do not move or drop it until the process is complete.’ She gazed round and raised her paw for attention. ‘Begin now all of you,’ she instructed the mice. ‘If you want this mouse to live you must concentrate with all your might.’

  Only the sound of the fire was heard as the assembled mice prayed hard and the Starwife closed her eyes and spoke softly under her breath.

  Audrey looked suspiciously at the squirrel and wondered what her motives were. She had given in to her request to heal Thomas too easily – there had to be a reason for it. Audrey recalled that it was dangerous to underestimate the Starwife’s guile.

  The silence lengthened and the whisperings of the squirrel grew more heated as she summoned all her remaining strength. With her left paw she touched Audrey deliberately on the forehead and pressed her nail into the fur, combing a circular shape there, ‘May this new vessel serve you well,’ she cried unexpectedly.

  Suddenly Audrey became aware of a faint humming sound in her ears and then a shudder ran down her arms to her paws. She felt a colossal force travel through her and she spluttered with the shock. A cold chill coursed in her veins and passed into her fingers. She gasped in amazement as sparks crackled along the string until it reached the silver amulet where a white light flickered in small tongues of flame. The acorn was glowing and the humming grew louder until it filled the Hall; a high, piercing note charging the atmosphere and tingling every astonished whisker. The orange flames of the Hall fire shrank down and were overwhelmed by the brilliance flooding from the charm. The mice shielded their eyes from the blinding light and stopped up their ears as the shrill note deafened them.

  The Starwife began to cry out the spell she was ch
anting and she raised her arms ecstatically. The Hall blazed fiercely white and then, with a thunderous crash and a terrific rush of air, the radiance fled screeching down to Thomas, battering into his frozen body and leaving the house in darkness.

  Audrey’s eyes and ears were still smarting and ringing as she gazed around. White flames were dripping from the silver acorn hanging from her paws and they crackled over the midshipmouse’s body. Thomas called out in pain, the anguish and agony twisted his face – it was killing him.

  So this was the Starwife’s plan. She had said it would be better to finish him off and now she had tricked them into letting her do it. The midshipmouse’s head was consumed in cold fire and frost devoured his tortured features.

  ‘Stop it!’ shrieked Audrey and she tried to throw the acorn away, but the Starwife reached out and seized hold of her paws, gripping them tightly, bruising the girl’s wrists with her iron grasp. ‘He’s dying you old witch!’ protested Audrey as more liquid ice poured from the amulet and totally smothered Thomas.

  But the Starwife would not let her go and the other mice watched them fretfully, not daring to intervene. Only Gwen and Arthur started forward but the squirrel lashed out with her tail and knocked them backwards.

  Even as Audrey struggled and wrested her paws free the white fires died down and disappeared into the floor. She flung the pendant from her but it was too late, Thomas was completely covered and she gazed only on a statue of ice. A wintry vapour steamed from the grisly figure. It was top horrible to look at and many turned their stricken faces away.

  Before anyone could speak the Starwife took up her stick and gave the rigid form a sound rap. There was a crack and two great lines splintered away from the blow.

  ‘What are you doing?’ wailed Gwen desolately.

  The squirrel ignored her and gave it another mighty clout and another until the ice crunched and shattered, flying into the air in sharp little pieces. As one demented she smashed and battered the figure until it was completely destroyed. And there, blinking and gasping for breath, was Thomas, alive and well. He brushed off the icy fragments and sat up grinning as if nothing had ever been the matter with him. ‘Couldn’t half do with a tot o’ rum,’ he said ruefully.