Anton and Cecil, Book 2 (3 page)

“I'm starving,” said Cecil, his nose working. “Nothing in here smells like food, except those berries.” He nodded toward some containers wrapped in burlap sacks in one corner.

“That's why we stuffed ourselves with fish before we left, remember?” said Anton.

“That was ages ago. Who knows how long this trip will take? I'm heading up.” Cecil crept carefully to one end of the stack of boards and began to climb.

Anton raised his voice. “You'll be caught by that sickly mate,” he called to his brother.

“Nah,” said Cecil, peering up into the darkness from the top of the stack. “It's probably nighttime now, when most of them sleep. I'll just look around for a few scraps.” He tucked his front paws under his chest and settled in to wait for someone to open the hatch. When that happened, Anton knew, Cecil would dash up the ladder and blend in with the blanket of night on deck.

“That stomach of yours is nothing but trouble,” muttered Anton. He closed his eyes, but he waited as well, listening along with Cecil. At last a sailor, swinging a lantern before him, threw the hatch open and climbed down to retrieve a small cask. Anton opened his eyes just long enough to glimpse Cecil slipping up and out like a shadow.
For a big guy, he's fairly quick,
Anton thought before curling into a dreamless sleep, rocked by the motion of the ship across the moonlit sea.

Anton was awakened by a sound—a ripping, tearing sound nearby, followed by a slight smacking. Instantly alert, he crouched low, slinking past the crates on silent paws.
Not a rat,
he thought
. Please not a big ugly rat trapped down here with me
. He took a deep breath and peeked slowly around the crates.

On top of the burlap sacks in the corner sat the two mice who had brought the message from Hieronymus, feasting on blueberries. Anton blew out his breath and sat down, watching them. The gray mouse reached through the hole he had clawed in the sack and pulled out a fat berry, then turned to Anton.

“We meet again,” said the gray mouse, his pointed nose covered in blue juice.

“So we do,” said Anton. “How long a journey is this, anyway?”

“Not long,” said the gray mouse between bites. “We'll arrive at the next daylight.”

The brown mouse sat stiffly atop the bag, keeping one eye on Anton as he ate. He leaned and whispered something to his sidekick that Anton did not catch.

“Right!” squeaked the gray mouse. “Almost forgot.” He turned to Anton. “There was another part of the message.”

“Another part?” said Anton, frowning. “Why didn't you tell us before?”

“Your friend, the big guy.” The gray mouse winced. “He's got a look in his eye, that one. Too dangerous, we had to go.”

“Never mind him. What's the other part?”

The gray mouse held his berry, looking mystified for a moment. He consulted with the brown mouse quietly, then sat up tall. “Got it. Ahem. Hieronymus says he's to be found ‘between the whale and the coyote.' ”

Anton opened his eyes wide. “Between the whale and the coyote,” he repeated. “What's a coyote?”

“No idea.” The mice began cleaning their faces with their tiny forearms. A thud on the deck above made them jump and they scurried away, knocking berries to the floor as they scrabbled.

The brown mouse paused to glance back at Anton. “Good luck,” he squeaked softly. “You'll need it.” And the mice vanished into a crack in the wall.

Anton stepped forward to nibble on a few of the strewn berries. Alone in the dark hold, he felt his heart stutter in a way it hadn't for months.
Oh, yes,
he thought.
We'll need it.

CHAPTER 3

Shriek and Growl

I
t had seemed like a good idea at the time.

After all, Cecil had visited a ship's galley before. He knew it was the place where food was prepared for the crew, often haphazardly, where chunks of meat or fish might be found wedged between barrels, and drips of stew could be lapped up from the floorboards next to the stove. Perhaps part of a hard biscuit to nibble on, but that wasn't real food, in Cecil's view. The galley of the
Sea Song
was empty of humans, as he'd hoped, though a lantern still burned on the sideboard, and he found a small wedge of hard cheese and some dried peas for his snack. As he sat and cleaned his face, he could hear the clickings and scurryings of rodents in the walls.
A shame,
he thought.
A good ship's cat could whip this place into shape in no time.

There was a stomping down the steps toward the doorway. The only problem with the galley, Cecil suddenly recalled, was that there was just one way out. He caught a quick glimpse of a sailor stepping in with an armload of tin plates, and he dashed into the tiny larder, squeezing himself behind a tall sack. The sailor dumped the plates into a wooden tub, then picked up the lantern from the sideboard and walked out again, pulling the door shut behind him.

Cecil groaned. He really should have been more careful. Now he was stuck, and Anton would worry. “Ah, well,” he said to himself as he made his way through the darkness over to the tub to lick the plates clean. “It's a nice place to be stuck.” A little snooze on top of the flour sack, and he'd wake up refreshed, and the crew would have to eat again sometime.

But hours passed and Cecil felt the ship slow and then stop. The thudding and banging of dockside activities began, and he paced in the galley. Were they not even going to come in to prepare that foul black liquid they drank at all hours? He positioned himself near the door and listened to the sailors tromping back and forth on the deck above. He tried to think like Anton. What would he do? Anton wouldn't venture off the ship alone, so Cecil would have to get back to the hold to find him—as soon as somebody opened this blasted door.

Heavy boots tramped across the deck above Anton's head, and he could hear muffled voices shouting and answering as the steady rolling of the ship quieted. Anton guessed they were coming in to dock, but Cecil hadn't returned. The hatch hadn't been reopened, so he was still up there, somewhere.
Should I get off the ship by myself ?
Anton wondered.
What if Cecil's gotten himself trapped, or captured?

The hatch creaked open, spilling in sunlight. Anton pressed himself against a barrel as several crewmen climbed down the ladder and began hoisting crates onto their shoulders to carry up again. He slipped behind the men and crossed the hold. As quietly as he could, Anton scaled the stack of boards as Cecil had done and crouched to wait for his chance to escape.

“Aw, something got into the berries,” said a sailor in the corner, holding up the torn bag with one hand. The others stopped and scanned the grimy walls for a moment as if they might spot the culprit. Anton put his face between his paws and tried to flatten himself along the boards. The sailors shrugged and bent to heave more cargo, and Anton saw his opportunity. With a running leap he sprang to the ladder and scrambled through the opening without a sound.

Out on the deck, Anton blinked in the sunlight and gasped.

Before him was a wharf, and beyond it was a city bigger and busier than Anton had ever seen or dreamed of. Horse-drawn carriages and loaded wagons crowded the street. Dogs, cats, and chickens wove among the legs of people thronging everywhere. Children laughed and ran past adults selling knives, bottles of liquid, candles, pots and pans, all manner of clothes, and food in roadside stands. Behind all of them rose tall buildings along blocks that seemed to stretch outward forever. The noise hit Anton like a wave over the bow—the shouting and neighing and rumbling, all unceasing. The chaotic scene made the unpredictable ocean seem calm and inviting by comparison.

As Anton stood, mouth ajar, taking everything in, he heard a loud sneeze from behind him. He flinched and looked back, straight into the watery eyes of the first mate who'd blocked their way. The mate pulled the green scarf covering his nose down long enough to bellow, “Off my ship this instant!” Wielding the broom, he charged at Anton.

For a second Anton froze. Should he stay and try to find Cecil, or disembark and wait for him on land? No time to decide before the mate was upon Anton, shooing him frantically toward the gangplank. Anton dodged to one side, glancing toward the bow and then the stern for any sign of a big black ball of fur, but the mate hustled Anton down the plank at broom-point.

In the middle of the muddy roadbed, Anton sidestepped cart wheels and the boots of strangers. He swiveled his ears, listening for Cecil's voice in the crowd. He dove into the shadows behind one of the stalls and surveyed the hectic activity on the street, a knot of fear twisting in the pit of his stomach. He'd lost Cecil already and had not the first idea where to go from here.

The
Sea Song
still rested against the dock, her gangplank empty now, her sails wrapped tightly around the crossbars. Anton gazed at the ship in a panic. It was the last connection he had to anything familiar, and he felt its pull. Then Hieronymus's voice floated through his mind, and Anton remembered being trapped in a cage at an animal market on a distant island with his friend. The mouse could have escaped easily to save himself, but he refused.
I've pledged my troth!
he'd declared, holding up a paw.
I will not leave a friend in danger
. Anton shook his head sheepishly. Hieronymus would not give up so easily.

The noise of the bustling town settled around Anton, and he began to hear distinct sounds in the din. Crying children, screeching shorebirds, shouts of men's laughter, and the creak of wagon wheels. One sound he could not place. It hung heavy as a storm cloud above and below and among the others. Anton could feel its vibrations in his rib cage, but it was not the pleasing music of the saloons. This was a dense, chuffing sound, like bursts of wind against the sails, or an enormous creature taking slow, panting breaths. Anton didn't know what it was, and it terrified him.

At long last the cook and the cabin boy burst into the galley, not even noticing as Cecil scampered behind their legs and up the steps to the main deck, awash in sunlight. He hustled to the hatch, which lay wide open, and peered down into the hold. His stomach lurched. The space was empty; all of the crates and barrels and even the stacks of boards had been carried out. “Anton!” Cecil's voice echoed in the hold. But he knew his brother was gone—there was nothing left to hide behind.

Cecil straightened up. What now? Only a few crewmen were about, including the sneezy mate, clutching his dastardly broom and talking with the captain down by the ship's wheel. There were lots of other places Anton could be hiding—under tarps or inside coils of rope, down in the fo'c'sle, up in the ratlines, but . . . Cecil's nose began to twitch.

What was that smell?

He turned his head slowly toward the pier, his eyes narrowing and his nose working furiously. Among the people and carts and animals crowding the roadbed, Cecil detected the scents of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, simmering stews, and an ocean of fish, all close at hand, some of it in plain sight as humans behind counters held steaming packets out to others passing by. On their own, his paws began moving toward the gangplank.

“Surely Anton would go this way,” Cecil murmured, breaking into a trot at the sound of the mate shrieking behind him. “Any cat worth his salt would.”

He reached the docks and continued right on, his nose in the air and leading the way.
Anton must be hungry,
Cecil reasoned.
He's had no snack. So what would he . . .
Cecil turned and sprang out of the path of a horse pulling a loaded wagon.
That was close
. He recovered his balance, then yowled as his tail was smashed under the boot of a little boy running past holding several steaming sticks above his head. Cecil bared his teeth to hiss at the boy, but noticed that he'd dropped one of the sticks, and it smelled like something with great potential. What luck! The stick ran straight through the middle of several chunks of fish. Cecil quickly clamped one end of the stick in his mouth and darted behind a tree on the far side of the roadbed.

He had just figured out how to hold the stick down with both paws and pull the fish away with his teeth when he felt the close presence of another creature. Cecil lifted his eyes to see a small orange cat creeping toward him, low to the ground. It was just a kitten really, a male with a skinny tail and big ears, and he froze under Cecil's glare. Cecil continued gobbling down the fish and the kitten advanced smoothly, like a little hunter. Finally Cecil stepped away and began cleaning his paws, leaving a fat chunk behind on the stick. The kitten dashed forward and leaped upon the fish, wrestling off little bites while gazing up at Cecil.

“I haven't seen you before,” said the kitten with his mouth full. “You just get here?”

“That's right.” Cecil nodded. “Passing through.”

“Where you going?” asked the kitten.

Cecil paused. “To rescue a friend, you could say.”

The kitten nodded. “That's nice of you.”

“Maybe,” said Cecil, turning to the kitten. “Say, do you happen to know anything about landships?”

The kitten sat up, his round eyes wide, his long pink tongue licking the fish from his lips. “Landships!” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope. What are they?”

“They're the way we need to get where we're going,” said Cecil, suddenly remembering Anton.

The kitten looked around. “Who's we?”

Cecil had opened his mouth to explain when a high whistle blew in the distance, followed by a deep, rasping chug, and then another, and another, slow and even. “My whiskers!” said Cecil, his ears cocked. “What is that?”

The kitten gave a tiny sigh. “That,” he said, solemnly, “is something we call
rolling death
.”

Cecil eyed the kitten closely. “What do you mean, rolling death? That sounds horrible!”

“It does, because it is.” The kitten bobbed his little head up and down. “It's a huge carriage that moves without anything pulling it, and it's loud and ugly, and my mom says if you get too close it'll roll right over you. She says that's how Uncle George disappeared.”

“A carriage that moves without anything pulling it,” said Cecil softly. “This I've got to see. And it's over that way, you say?” he asked the kitten, pointing a paw.

“Well, yes, but don't go over there!” said the kitten, arching his back above his skinny legs. “Didn't you hear the part about it squishing you, and Uncle George?”

Cecil smiled at the kitten knowingly. “What do they call you?” he asked, appraising its orange fur. “Pumpkin?”

“Herman.”

“Well, Herman, I say don't be a chicken, be a cat! Get out there and have an adventure!”

Herman swiveled his ears at another blast from the whistle. He shook his head. “No thanks. Too dangerous.”

“Fair enough,” said Cecil, turning to leave. “But if you see my brother Anton passing through, be sure to introduce yourself. You two have a lot in common.” He gave a side-to-side swish of his tail and disappeared into the crowd of legs on the roadbed.