The Deptford Mice 2: The Crystal Prison (22 page)

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 futile 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.’

When Arthur and Twit hobbled into the Hall of Corn, they found a throng of mice waiting for them. The Fennywolders had heard Arthur’s alarm call but had had no idea where to go, so they had assembled in the Hall and waited.

Arthur breathlessly explained what had happened to him and Twit, and Mrs Scuttle hurried over to help her son.

The fieldmice shook their heads, stunned that this could happen again. Mr Woodruffe stepped on to the throne and raised his staff for silence.

‘
Now
we know,’ he declared, ‘the creature whatever it is – is still at large. We must search the field once more.’

As the fieldmice went to find weapons, Mr Nep came rushing out of his nest with a pale, frightened face. ‘My son,’ he cried, ‘my son has gone.’

‘Has anyone seen Young Whortle?’ asked Mr Woodruffe grimly. All the fieldmice shook their heads and a chill entered the Hall. ‘Then we must look for him also,’ he said, ‘and let us hope he has only gone exploring again.’

A large party of strong husbands set off through the field, wielding sticks and cudgels. Arthur was too tired to join them – he had been up all night and desperately wanted some sleep. He even declined the offer of breakfast.

A group of wives who had been left behind chatted together dismally and clutched at their mousebrasses. All were fearful.

Suddenly one small child asked its mother, ‘Are we all going to die, Mam?’ Nobody answered. But the tension was broken and a hysterical mousewife burst out, ‘Who is doing these things? What have we done to deserve this?’

Just then, Mr Nettle came into the Hall followed by Jenkin. ‘Perhaps the villain is amongst us!’ he shouted above the hubbub.

This was too much for the worried mice. A ripple ran through them, and they looked at their neighbours suspiciously. Why, it might be anyone of them.

‘What do you mean, Nettle?’ asked Mr Woodruffe sternly.

‘All I say is that though ye search ye will find nought. Maybe the foul one is one of our folk, play-acting behind a fair mask’

The crowd stirred uneasily and murmured to each other.

‘Now just wait a moment,’ said Mr Woodruffe. He feared that something nasty could happen if Isaac was allowed to go any further. He did not want the fieldmice to be at odds with one another. ‘You’re talking out of your hat, Nettle,’ he said. ‘We were all at the ditch with Madame Akkykookoo when this happened, so it can’t be any of us.’

The crowd sighed with relief. Isaac Nettle shook his head and gazed upwards. ‘Were we all present, I wonder?’ he said loudly.

Everyone, followed his glance and the murmurs began again. There, climbing out of her nest, was Audrey.

‘I think perhaps one was not with us,’ uttered Isaac darkly.

Arthur sprang forward in spite of his fatigue. He saw what Mr Nettle was driving at. ‘Rubbish!’ he growled angrily. ‘Not even you believe that.’

Mr Nettle’s face was stony and the crowd’s mutterings grew louder. Jenkin stepped up to his father. ‘Dad,’ he pleaded, ‘you know Miss Brown’s not to blame.’

Isaac turned on his son and struck him violently across the face. ‘What dost thou know of yon painted sinner?’ he bellowed, but Jenkin merely glared back at him with a face full of anger, then turned and walked away.

Isaac strode after his son.

‘Listen to me all of you!’ boomed Mr Woodruffe, commanding their attention again.

‘If there are any among you who are foolish enough to listen to old Nettle’s rantings then I warn you now. There are stiff penalties for those who disobey the King of the Field. Let none of you lay a paw on our guests from the town. Now go about your business or wait for your husbands to return; only clear the Hall.’

The crowd shuffled away grumbling and whispering.

Audrey had watched all this curiously. She had not the faintest idea of what was going on but caught several hostile glances aimed at her from the crowd. The fieldmice moved away from her when she passed them as though terrified of what she might do to them. She quickly made her way to the throne and asked Arthur, ‘What’s going on? What’s happened?’ Quickly Arthur told her about the creature that had tried to choke Twit.

‘Arthur,’ she said when she had made sure that Twit was all right, ‘I don’t like it here – these mice don’t like me. They think I’m some sort of devil and quite frankly they give me the shivers too. You wouldn’t believe some of the stares they were giving me then. I felt as if they would tear me apart given half a chance.’

Mr Woodruffe put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Now lass, don’t you fret none. They’re a friendly lot in Fennywolde really. It’s just that right now they’re scared, what with the weather and Hodge’s murder and now poor Twit this morning. They need to feel safe, and if that means they have to stick the blame on some outsider then that’s what they’ll try and do. Don’t worry though, I’ll not let them – I’ve a cooler head than most, but it’s a tricky job with old Isaac sticking his tuppence in. He knows how to get them riled, he do, and it’s a shame, but he don’t like you, and once he’s got summat in his mulish bonce that’s that.’

Audrey was not comforted. The day was another scorcher but she stayed away from the still pool for fear of confrontations. Instead, she helped Mrs Scuttle with small tasks and jobs that did not really need to be done, but it kept her busy and out of folk’s way.