The Deptford Mice 2: The Crystal Prison (11 page)

‘Poor Dimsel,’ mused Alison in a throaty whisper. ‘Face like a cow’s behind and wit to match.’ She laughed softly and stretched. ‘Dear Iris, legs like a redshank and not a curl in her hair.’ She passed her paw through her own crowning glory and made a mock appeal to the world in general. ‘But friends, let us not forget Lily Clover, she has the grace of a swan – but she do stink like a fresh steaming dung hill’ They were the names of Alison’s rivals and she spoke of them with casual disregard, because today she had decided she had surpassed them all. It was clear in her mind now that she had no equal anywhere.

A bee droned in and out of the dear patch of blue above. ‘Old Bumble knows,’ laughed Alison and her voice rose high and flutey. ‘He do know it! Bees go to honey and I be the sweetest thing by far.’ She rolled over and spied a forget-me-not pricking through the grass stems. Reaching out she plucked it mercilessly. After weaving it into her hair she paraded up and down for her invisible audience. She contemplated whether she should return to the pool to assess the impact of the flower but when her mouth curled and she set off purposefully.

Jenkin kicked the hard ground and scratched his head. He was carrying a large bundle of dry wood and felt like throwing it all into the ditch. His friends, Hodge and Todkin, were in the field practising their stalk climbing whilst Samuel and Young Whortle had gone off to quest the oaks beyond the meadow.

Jenkin was tired and fed up – his father made him work hard. ‘Waste not the hours the good Green gives’ was just one of the rules drummed into him.

Suddenly his mousebrass reflected the sun full into his downcast eyes. He dropped the sticks and rubbed them. For a moment he was blinded. It was a brass of life and hope – a sun sign. His father, the local mousebrass maker, had forged it specially with him in mind and was gravely pleased when Jenkin managed to choose it from the sack two springs ago.

‘Ho there! Jolly Jenkin!’ came a clear voice suddenly. ‘Why for you rubbin’ your eyes? Do I dazzle so much?’

Jenkin blinked. As his eyes readjusted through the misty haze of light he could just see Alison strolling towards him out of the meadow. Her fur was a fiery gold and there was buttercup dust glittering on her face. In her eyes there were dancing lights.

‘Is that you, Alison Sedge?’ he ventured, doubting his vision.

‘Might be,’ she answered, staying just within the fringes of the meadow grass. ‘Then again I might be the goddess come down from the moon to torment you with my beauty.’

Jenkin snorted. ‘Pah! You don’t half talk addled sometimes, Alison Sedge. Just you mind my dad don’t hear you goin’ on like that. He’ll tell your folks, he will.’

‘Pooh.’ She stepped out on to the hard ground.

Jenkin eyed her again. She had certainly changed in the past year – why before she had been given that mousebrass they had been firm friends. He had even thought that perhaps . . . He saw her eyebrows arch in that infuriating way of hers. She had guessed what he was thinking about and tossed her head.

‘Like my flower?’ she asked huskily.

‘Look better in the ground,’ Jenkin replied shyly, turning away from those eyes which held those dangerous lights. ‘Why don’t you go show Hodge?’

‘I may,’ Alison answered mildly. It amused her to flirt with the boys and see how she set them at odds with one another. How easily they could be confounded by a sideways glance or a sweet smile. It was Jenkin though, whom she enjoyed teasing most. He was so serious and po-faced and when he was with his father she revelled in disconcerting him. In fact, if her pride and vanity had not swelled so much she would quite happily have married Jenkin. He was by far the most handsome mouse in Fennywolde. Now though she enjoyed dangling him on a string with all the others, tempting and rejecting with soft, mocking laughter.

An impatient voice rang out over the field. ‘Jenkin! Where are thee lad?’

He jumped up and hastily retrieved the bundle of sticks. ‘That be my dad callin’ for me.’ Jenkin began to run to the ditch, past the bare stony stretch and up to the cool shade of the elms.

Isaac Nettle stood stiff and stem outside one of the entrances to the winter quarters. He scowled as his son came panting up to him. He was a lean mouse whose face was always grim and forbidding no-one had heard him laugh since his wife had died. His eyes were steely and humourless, set deep beneath wiry brows in a sour face.

‘Where did thee get to?’ he snapped. ‘Idling again, I’ll warrant. Come here boy.’

Jenkin set the wood down before his father, watching him warily.

‘What’s this?’ bellowed Isaac. ‘The wood is green. How am I to burn that! We should choke on smoke!’ He grabbed his son by the neck and raised his hard paws to him. ‘I’ll beat sense into thee yet boy and with the Green’s help I’ll cure thee of thine idleness.’

Jenkin knew, better than to protest. He gritted his teeth and screwed up his face. His father’s paw came viciously down on him. Jenkin gasped as he opened his eyes; the blow had been a severe one. The blood pounded in his head and the side of his face throbbed with pain.

Isaac raised his paw again and smacked his son across the head once more. He spared no effort, so that Jenkin sobbed this time. ‘Thou must learn,’ exulted his father. He hit him one more time to emphasise his words.

Jenkin staggered on his feet when Isaac had finished. His head was reeling and already he felt a swelling around his eye. In his mouth he tasted the tang of iron and knew that his lip was bleeding. Soon the shock would wear off and he would be left with a dull ache and painful stinging.

‘Now what have thee to say?’ rumbled Isaac.

‘I . . . I thank thee Father,’ stammered Jenkin holding his sore lip.

‘We shall pray together,’ intoned Isaac to his son. ‘Midsummer scarce a week away and still we live in winter holes. ‘Tis a judgment on us all. The Green is angry. There are those in our midst who have offended thee, Lord. Heathen loutishness creeps in. Give your servants strength to drive out the vain pride which you despise. Let us walk free at night once more.’ He dragged Jenkin inside.

From a safe distance Alison had watched it all. She had flinched as she saw Jenkin suffer those three terrible blows. Everyone in Fennywolde feared Mr Nettle. His temper was dreadful but he commanded the authority and respect due to the mousebrass maker. Several times Jenkin had carried the bruises given to him by his father and no-one dared do anything about it – indeed Mr Nettle was not the only staunch Green Mouser in Fennywolde.

Alison walked up to the ditch. She knew that Isaac classed her as one of the offenders in the field. He sermonised at her whenever he saw her. She thought of the miserable night which lay before Jenkin: he would have to kneel on a painfully hard floor next to his father for hours praying to the Green Mouse for deliverance and forgiveness. Alison sighed and told herself that she must make sure to be kind to Jenkin the next time she met him – why she might even let him kiss her. She chuckled at the notion and looked about her.

The evening was growing old, and clouds of gnats were spinning over the barren stretch of ditch. It was time for her to go home.

She turned on her heel and made for one of the other entrances to the winter quarters.

‘Alison Sedge,’ came a distraught voice. She looked up quickly and noticed a group of six worried mice. A plump harassed mouse bustled over.

‘Hello Mrs Gorse,’ greeted Alison politely. The mouse brushed a long wisp of hair out of her red-rimmed eyes’ and asked, ‘Have you seen our Samuel?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Why no, Mrs Gorse. I think he went off with Young Whortle this morning’

‘Oh dear,’ murmured Mrs Gorse. ‘I was hoping you might know where they were. Mr and Mrs Nep are asking everyone in the shelters. If they don’t come back soon . . .’

Alison turned towards the meadow and stared at the grasses intently. It was getting dark and no mouse was safe above ground then.

Samuel Gorse was close to tears. He held on tightly to his friend and tried to pull himself further under the oak root.

It had been a magnificent day. The morning had been so fine that he and Young Whortle Nep had decided against joining Todkin and Hodge in the field and planned an adventure.

‘Warty’ – as Samuel was fond of calling his friend – was always full of terrific ideas. Last year he had built a raft and together they had sailed it along the ditch, fending off imaginary pirates and monsters from the deep. This year though, the ditch had dried up and they had been forbidden to sail the raft on the still pool as it was too deep.

Young Whortle was older than Samuel though not as tall. ‘Right Sammy,’ he had said that morning. ‘If Jenkin’s too busy an’ Todders an’ Hodge are set on climbin’ today then it be up to us to take what thrills the day has to offer.’

So they sat down and thought seriously about what they could do. They had already explored the field this year and the ditch promised little in the way of adventure in its parched state. They had been to the pool once or twice but Alison Sedge was always there teasing them. Alison Sedge had been declared dangerous territory by them both, so the pool was out of the question, with or without the raft.

Whilst the two friends contemplated the day’s destination Young Whortle had raised his head and seen the oaks in the hazy distance.

‘Aha!’ he cried, jumping to his feet and assuming a triumphant pose. ‘The oaks, Sammy. We shall quest the oaks and see what secrets they keep.’ So off they went, passing a dejected Jenkin and waving cheerily to him as they entered the meadow.

Now Samuel shivered. Fear chilled him and his teeth began to chatter.

‘Sshh!’ whispered Young Whortle close by. ‘It’ll hear you.’

What a situation they had landed themselves in. All had been going wonderfully. They had charged through the piles of last year’s leaves which still filled the hollows near the oaks and had played hide and seek behind the roots; then Young Whortle had suggested that they attempt a climb.

‘Don’t go frettin’ Sammy,’ he had said. ‘We won’t pick a difficult tree and we won’t go too high promise.’

‘But Warty,’ Samuel had protested, ‘shouldn’t we be getting along now?’

‘Bags of time yet! Sun ain’t low enough to think on going back. Come on, give us a leg up.’

So up an oak tree they had climbed. It was gnarled, knobbly and ideal to climb. Footholds were plentiful and there were lots of low branches to run along and swing from.

Then Samuel had noticed the hole.

‘What’s that up there?’ he had asked, pointing higher up the tree trunk. ‘Looks like some sort of big gap in the bark.’

Higher they had clambered. Samuel had been determined not to look down and had kept his eyes strictly on his paws. Eventually, Young Whortle had drawn near to the hole.

‘Seems like the tree’s hollow here,’ he had called down.

‘Wait for me!’ Samuel had pulled himself up to his friend’s side. Together they had peeped over the brink of the hole.

Inside all had been dark . . . but their sharp eyes had picked out something in the gloom. Something terrible . . .

Samuel shrieked and nearly fell off the tree. Young Whortle’s eyes opened very wide and he gave a funny sort of yelp. Here, in the oak, was the frightful thing which had kept the fieldmice below ground this year – a large and very fearsome barn owl.

It was fast asleep amongst some old straw but it stirred when the mice gasped in fright. Lazily it opened one eye and puffed out its soft feathery chest.

Quickly Young Whortle and Samuel ran down the tree. They slid and slithered, scraped their knees and broke the skin on their paws scurrying down it.

As Young Whortle jumped from the lowest branch a great shadow fell on him.

Quickly he yanked Samuel to the ground and ducked under one of the roots.

Seconds later sharp talons scored the ground where they had been. Now here they were, two small frightened fieldmice cowering in terror from a dreadful enemy.

‘Be it still up there?’ asked Samuel in a tiny voice.

‘Aye Sammy, prob’ly sat on one o’ them low branches just a-waitin’ for us to make a move.’

‘Oh Warty, I’m whacked,’ whimpered Samuel. ‘It’s gettin’ so dark now an’ I haven’t eaten for ages: just listen to my belly!’

‘I hear it an’ so can the owl most like. Put your paws over it or summat.’

‘I can’t! I be starved.’

‘So be yon owl Sammy, an’ I don’t want to be no bird’s breakfast.’

Samuel tried to control the growls and rumbles coming from his stomach. He was a thin mouse, too thin some said. The likes of Alison even called him ‘skinny Samuel’. His mother was most perturbed by his weight, but no matter how much he ate he never got any fatter. ‘’Tis his age,’ Old Todmore said of him. ‘Too much energy – he’ll plump out afore he’s wed.’ Now the thought that he would make a poor breakfast brought Samuel no comfort at all.

‘We can’t stay here,’ he said softly.

Young Whortle patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Right,’ he said decisively. ‘I got me an idea.’

‘Smashin’!’ Samuel brightened instantly. ‘I knowed you’d think o’ summat. What be the plan?’

‘Well,’ Young Whortle kept his voice low in case the owl was listening, ‘if I throws a stone yonder,’ he pointed behind them to a patch of ferns and bracken, ‘it just might fool Hooty up there an’ distract him long enough for us to make a dash for them hollows full o’ leaves.’

‘You’re barmy!’ exclaimed Samuel. ‘No way will that work. He’s crafty, he is. He’ll spot that trick for sure an’ we’ll be runnin’ straight down his gizzards.’

Young Whortle said nothing. Instead he picked up a good paw-sized pebble and threw it for all he was worth. The ferns rustled and swayed as it crashed through them.

‘Now!’ he hissed grabbing Samuel by the arm.

The fieldmice darted from under the root. Samuel ran as fast as he could, too terrified to look up in case he saw the owl rushing down to meet them – talons outstretched.

And then they were at the edge of the hollows and with one leap they dived into the heaps of dry leaves. ‘It worked!’ Samuel cried. His heart was racing and his ears flushed with excitement.

‘I told ’ee we’d have adventures today,’ said Young Whortle. ‘Now we’ll have to be careful. He won’t have liked that trick and it might make him anxious to get us.’

‘So what now?’

‘We tunnel through these here leaves till we’re at the point closest to the meadow. Then you just run like crazy.’

Samuel gulped nervously, but their first success at owl-foxing heartened him. ‘Lead on then,’ he said.