Awakenings

The solitary figure stood motionless in the deep shadows of the juniper trees. Only the whites of his eyes were visible beneath the hood of his tattered grey traveller’s cloak. Needle-covered branches swayed gently in the light morning breeze, brushing lightly against his shoulders and back. The sound of running water echoed softly in the background. High overhead, a thick layer of cloud blanketed the rising autumn sun, confining the world to a hazy state of half-light.

Through gaps in the shifting foliage, he glimpsed a patch of grey among the bluish-greens of the trees. Looking closer, he made out a line of stones forming the wall of a small building. He watched and waited, barely daring to breathe, his eyes fixed on a weathered door in the centre of the wall.

The minutes ticked by. No one entered. No one left.

Choosing his moment to act, he emerged from the safety of the trees, moving swiftly over the frosty grass. In seconds he was pressing his back against the cold stone wall, preparing for whatever lay ahead. His right paw clutched the handle of his faithful green scissor sword. His left paw, open and empty, moved silently towards a brass doorknob.

Steady, he told himself as his fingers made contact with the icy metal. He drew a deep breath and gave the knob a gentle twist. There was a faint click as the latch released.

He paused momentarily, listening for any sounds from within. Hearing nothing, he slowly pushed the door inwards and slipped through the narrow gap, closing the door behind him.

He allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light before moving stealthily across the room. A pale glow filtered through a high grated window, faintly illuminating two single beds and a chest of drawers. To the right of the furniture, a vaulted archway led to a second room. Blackened coals lay in the hearth of a central fireplace, still radiating a faint heat.

A sudden gust of wind whistled through the gap under the door, sending fine clouds of ash drifting across the cobblestone floor. The intruder stopped in his tracks, waiting for the whistling to cease. The roof creaked and groaned as the wind escaped through the high window, then silence returned.

Tiptoeing delicately past the archway, he made his way towards a small coffee table set against the central wall. Its surface was scattered with books, scrolls and loose sheets of paper. He scanned the contents hurriedly, his eyes darting from one object to the next. In the subdued light, he could just make out the corner of a newspaper clipping protruding from the pages of a black notebook. Squinting harder, he identified several words of a headline.

With a growing sense of unease, he wrapped his fingers around the notebook and began to open it.

As the cover swung open in a silent arc, he glanced warily across at the two beds, hoping his actions had gone unnoticed. From a distance, all he could see were two motionless lumps beneath the covers.

Satisfied the occupants were still sleeping soundly, he returned his attention to the notebook. The book was now fully open, revealing a roughly-cut article.

He felt an icy chill run through his tail as he realised what he was looking at. A pair of dark, brooding eyes stared up at him from the centre of the page. He’d seen those eyes before and they instantly filled him with dread.

He staggered back from the table, the haunting, paper eyes following his every move. It took all of his composure not to lose his nerve and run.

Finally tearing his gaze away from the eyes, he crept deeper into the cottage, venturing closer to the beds. Thick tartan blankets were pulled up to the chins of two sleeping bodies. Only the face of the closest sleeper was visible, and there was no mistaking her identity. She had round ears, soft fur the colour of hazelnuts and a small pointy nose.

His heart leapt as he realised who she was.

Trying to slow his racing pulse, he reached out a trembling paw to wake her. As his fingers drew closer to the blanket he felt the sudden, sharp sting of a blade pressing into his back.

‘That’s far enough,’ hissed a voice behind him.

He froze to the spot, his outstretched fingers hovering in mid-air, his scissor sword vibrating like a harp string in his trembling paw.

‘I’d think very carefully about your next move,’ the voice continued, increasing the pressure of the blade. ‘It would be a shame to use an antique letter opener for a less savoury purpose.’

The intruder felt the razor sharp blade slicing through the fibres of his cloak, and knew the threat was serious. Conceding defeat, he lowered his sword and raised both arms in the air. His tail collapsed limply to the ground.

‘A wise decision,’ the voice whispered. ‘Now turn around slowly and keep your paws where I can see them.’

Avoiding any sudden movements, he shuffled in a semi-circle until he was face-to-face with his attacker.

What he saw made him cry out in shock.

Suspended from the ceiling by a thin rope was a lavishly dressed weasel. Pure white from head to toe, her entire body seemed to glow in the dim light. She had snow-white fur, an ivory-coloured coat and a necklace of flawless white pearls. Even the ornate knife she held was solid white gold, its polished blade reflecting the startled expression of the onlooker.

‘Madam Pearl,’ he gasped, staring in disbelief at the elegant white weasel. ‘W-what are you doing here?’

The fugitive antiques dealer let out a long sigh.

‘I could ask the same question of you, Whisker,’ she said, lowering herself to the ground. ‘Don’t you Pie Rats ever knock?’

Whisker opened his mouth to respond, but a flurry of movement from the closest bed caught his attention. A small mouse was wiggling out from under the covers, chattering excitedly.

‘Wake up, Eaton!’ she squeaked, prodding the sleeping lump next to her. ‘Look who has come to visit.’

‘Leave me alone, Emmie,’ the lump mumbled. ‘It’s Saturday and I’m sleeping in.’

Emmie let out an annoyed ‘humph,’ and, abandoning her attempts to rouse her grumpy brother, scampered over to Whisker.

‘Tell us the good news,’ she said, throwing her tiny arms around his waist. ‘What happened after the Death Ball final? Did you win the Pirate Cup? Can we see the trophy?’

Whisker patted her affectionately on the shoulder.

‘It’s, well … it’s a long story, Emmie,’ he began.

She looked up in alarm.

‘Did something happen?’ she asked.

Sighing deeply, Whisker lowered himself onto one knee until his troubled blue eyes were level with Emmie’s delicate face. It had been less than a day since he’d last seen the little mouse, but in those short hours, his entire world had turned upside down.

‘Emmie,’ Whisker said, taking his mind back to their final adventure together on the good ship Apple Pie, ‘do you remember Rat Bait’s story about the mysterious trader he met on Drumstick Island?’

‘Yes,’ she said with a shiver. ‘The fox with no name. He arrived on the island with your family’s boat soon after they disappeared in the cyclone. The fox traded the boat and a bag of gold for Rat Bait’s sloop and then vanished without a trace. Eaton says no living soul has seen him since.’

‘Eaton is a smart little lad,’ Whisker said. ‘And I would have agreed with him two days ago.’

The lump in the bed grunted.

Emmie’s eyes widened.

‘You found the fox?’ she gasped. ‘But-but how?’

‘It was chance encounter,’ Whisker admitted, ‘nothing more.’

‘And what about your family?’ Emmie asked. ‘Did you find them? Are they alive?’

Whisker’s lips moved but no sound escaped. It was a painful subject and he struggled to control the storm of emotions that swirled inside him – fear, uncertainty, guilt.

After a long pause, he finally found the words.

‘I made a secret deal with the fox during the Pirate Cup,’ he confessed. ‘He promised me an answer in return for the Trophy of Champions.’

Emmie stared at him in stunned silence.

The lump in the bed winced.

Madam Pearl turned a whiter shade of white.

‘What devilish cunning by the fox!’ gasped the weasel. ‘And such an enormous burden for one young rat to bear.’

Whisker looked up at her, his fragile emotions quickly turning to anger.

‘Don’t patronise me,’ he snapped, before he could stop himself. ‘The Pirate Cup was always about winning and you know it.’

A spark of indignation flashed across Madam Pearl’s face, but she maintained her composure and accepted the accusation graciously.

‘Quite so,’ she said calmly. ‘A sponsor’s hope is always for victory.’

Whisker held her gaze. Madam Pearl’s look of motherly concern told him more than she was prepared to say. As the secret sponsor of the Pie Rat team, she had given Whisker every possible financial assistance to win the Cup. He was now reminded of what else she had given him: her loyalty and her devotion. It was immediately clear he’d severely misjudged her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a small voice. ‘I know you’re on my side.’

‘Always,’ she said simply.

A moment of understanding passed between them. Whisker turned back to Emmie, who was tugging the hem of his ragged cloak.

‘So tell us what happened,’ she squeaked. ‘Did you win the trophy?’

Whisker wished he could share her childlike enthusiasm, but all he could muster was a hollow, ‘Yes, Emmie. We won.’

‘And did you get your answer?’ she asked.

‘Half an answer,’ Whisker sighed. ‘My baby sister Anna is alive, but she’s in terrible danger.’

‘W-what about your parents?’ Emmie stammered. ‘Are they …?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘The fox refused to tell me. All I know is that Anna is being held captive by the birds of Cloud Mountain, and I have until the next full moon to rescue her.’

‘The full moon feast of autumn,’ Madam Pearl recalled, staring through the slits in the small window. ‘The one night every eagle, hawk, raven and falcon of the mountain gathers to prepare for the coming of winter.’ She turned back to Whisker, her face anxious. ‘Time is against you. The full moon rises the evening after tomorrow.’

‘I know,’ Whisker said. ‘And I must hurry. But first I have a favour to ask. My journey ahead is treacherous. Without a map of the mountain, I fear my quest will be in vain.’

The lump in the bed thrust a blanket-covered arm in the direction of the archway.

‘You’re in luck,’ Madam Pearl said, allowing herself a small smile. ‘Our resident cartographer, Mr Tribble, is asleep in the back room.’

‘Was asleep,’ muttered a hoarse voice from the darkness, ‘but always ready to help a friend in need …’

Whisker looked through the archway to see a middle-aged mouse stumbling into the pale light. The oversized beige pyjamas he was wearing bunched around his ankles, threatening to trip him up as he walked. With dusty, grey fur and a large collection of worry lines across his brow, he blended in perfectly with the rough stone walls of the cottage. He positioned a pair of round spectacles on his nose as he entered the room.

‘Gracious me, Whisker!’ he exclaimed, catching sight of the dishevelled apprentice. ‘Look at the state you’re in. Anyone would think you just survived a fist fight with a mob of angry lobsters.’

Whisker removed his hole-ridden hood and brushed the tangled fur from his eyes.

‘It was closer to a battalion of soldier crabs,’ he said, trying to humour the sleepy teacher.

Madam Pearl and Mr Tribble exchanged nervous glances.

‘When did this happen?’ Madam Pearl asked, her voice deadly serious.

‘Last night,’ Whisker said, ‘in the Fish ‘n Ships Inn. W-why? Is something wrong?’

Madam Pearl’s face darkened.

‘General Thunderclaw,’ she whispered. ‘Was he there?’

‘Yes,’ Whisker said, recalling his narrow escape from the commander of the Blue Claw. ‘He was leading the charge. But how did you –’

‘I know,’ Madam Pearl quavered, ‘because three nights ago the same thing happened to me.’