Читать книгу Child of the Cloud - Cameron Stelzer - Страница 10

Creatures Great and Small

The wooden door burst open with tremendous force, sending the terrified twins diving under the covers. Mr Tribble stood quivering next to the fire, clutching a metal poker in his paws. Whisker raised his scissor sword, preparing to engage the intruder.

In the faint light of the entrance way, the advancing figure looked more like a miniature yeti than a thick-shelled soldier crab. It was grey and furry, with a shaggy white mane surrounding a blue-grey face. Long scars ran down both cheeks and two small teeth protruded from an open mouth. The beast raised a strange hooked hand into the air and pointed straight at the trembling teacher.

‘Shiver me schoolmasters!’ it cried, heaving its large feet over the doorstep. ‘I’ve found you at last.’

Mr Tribble staggered backwards in panic, dropping the poker on his toe.

‘Ooogh!’ he cried. ‘Save me, Whisker!’

The furry beast shot Whisker a puzzled expression. ‘What’s Tribble’s problem?’

Whisker relaxed his sword arm and let out a deep sigh. ‘I think it’s your new outfit, Horace. It’s a little on the grizzly side.’

‘Oh,’ Horace said, stepping into the firelight. ‘I thought it was quite flattering.’ He stroked the fluffy white lining of his snow hood and glanced down at his oversized hiking boots.

‘These clompers are certainly no fashion statement,’ he admitted, ‘but at least my toes won’t get frost bite. I can’t afford to lose another limb …’

‘Hook Hand Horace, you preposterous little Pie Rat!’ Mr Tribble howled, finally recognising the pint-sized mischief maker. ‘Couldn’t you wait until someone opened the door? You scared the living daylights out of me!’

‘Whoops, sorry about that,’ Horace replied. He winked at the two children watching in amusement and added, ‘It’s hard to resist a grand entrance.’

Mr Tribble hopped painfully on one foot and squeaked, ‘And while we’re on the subject of courtesy, I do not recall granting permission for you to raid the winter section of the uniform shop.’

‘Err, well … I was hoping we could sort that out now,’ Horace murmured. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll return everything by the start of the ski season.’

‘What do you mean by everything?’ Mr Tribble snapped.

‘Just a few supplies we stumbled upon while looking for you,’ Horace said awkwardly.

Mr Tribble stopped hopping and straightened his glasses.

‘I have no qualms about helping you rapscallion rats,’ he said in his sternest teacher’s voice, ‘but there are school rules to be followed.’

‘And we totally respect every one of them,’ Whisker said, nudging his companion. ‘Don’t we Horace?’

‘Oh, yeah, absolutely,’ Horace muttered absently. ‘Respect thy rules – that’s what I always say …’

Shaking his head, Whisker reached into his brown drawstring bag and pulled out a shiny gold coin.

‘Our deposit for the items Horace borrowed,’ he said, handing the coin to Mr Tribble. ‘Ask the Captain to fix you up with the balance when he passes through.’

Mr Tribble weighed the coin in his paw.

‘It feels extremely light for gold,’ he muttered to himself, before adding, ‘not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s been a while since I’ve held anything but copper.’

Whisker pointed to the diamond design on the face of the coin.

‘It’s one of the new Freeforian coins,’ he explained, ‘which might account for the weight difference.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Mr Tribble recalled. ‘The coin came from the fox during his trade for your family’s boat. And you received this coin and two others like it from Rat Bait when you deciphered the Forgotten Map –’

‘– and now it is being used to fund his sister’s rescue mission,’ Horace chimed in. ‘Kind of fitting, don’t you think?’

‘In a roundabout way,’ Mr Tribble said, slipping the coin into a pocket of his pyjamas. ‘Thank you, Whisker. I’ll hand your deposit to the school bursar first thing on Monday. If anyone asks about the clothing, the twins and I have taken up hiking. Now, about your map –’

‘I’m one step ahead of you, Tribble,’ Horace said, stepping towards the door.

Mr Tribble peered at him suspiciously. ‘I’m not sure I like where this is heading …’

Horace stuck his hook in his mouth and let out a sharp whistle. There was a sudden movement from the trees outside.

The next moment a huge blue-and-yellow macaw squeezed through the open doorway carrying an overflowing assortment of mountaineering clothes, ropes and scrolls under his colourful wings. When he reached the centre of the room, the flamboyant parrot spread out his wings and his cargo clattered to the floor.

‘Caw, caw,’ he chirped. ‘Everything as requested, Master Horace.’

Mr Tribble’s glasses almost fell off his nose.

‘You-you-you’ve got half the school library in there,’ he spluttered, pointing to a crumpled scroll lying under a pair of hobnailed boots.

‘Only the precious maps collection,’ Horace said casually. ‘I was hoping you could point out which scroll was Cloud Mountain. I would have inspected them all myself, but it took forever to break into the library.’ He tapped his hook on his chin. ‘That reminds me, I need to ask Madam Pearl about my replacement skeleton key when I see her next.’

Whisker shot a fleeting glance at the ceiling but kept his mouth shut.

‘So,’ Horace said, resting his hook on Mr Tribble’s heaving shoulders, ‘which one of these lovely scrolls is our map?’

Mr Tribble looked down at the hundred or so ripped, squashed and flattened scrolls and almost burst into tears.

‘W-well,’ he quavered, trying to calm himself down, ‘the back of each scroll contains a unique four letter code. ‘The first letter stands for the country, the second represents the region and the third and fourth letters tell us the specific location. The scroll we are looking for contains the code AHCM, which stands for Aladrya Highlands Cloud Mountain.’

‘That shouldn’t take long to find,’ Horace said, turning over the closest scroll with his hook.

‘For goodness’ sake, be careful!’ Mr Tribble scolded, as the tip of Horace’s hook tore a hole through the thin paper. ‘Some of these maps are a century old.’

Horace got the hint and gestured for the twins to take over. He still managed to stomp on a few of the maps with his heavy boots in the process of gathering up the clothing.

‘I found a w-w-warm winter wardrobe for you, Whisker,’ he shivered theatrically, his arms bulging with sweaters and scarves. ‘A threadbare traveller’s cloak and a bright red sports shirt are hardly covert mountain attire.’

Whisker nodded hesitantly as Horace passed him a pair of thick woollen trousers, a matching charcoal sweater, a blue-grey mountaineering coat, gloves, boots and a long black scarf. Discarding his old clothes, Whisker dressed discreetly in a dark corner of the room while the mice searched for the map.

He’d finished squeezing into the sweater and reached down to adjust the gold anchor pendant hanging around his neck when he noticed that the thin cord had become twisted and the rear of the design was facing outwards. In the flickering light of the fire, its shiny surface revealed a series of tiny engraved initials.

Whisker rarely looked at the writing on the back of the pendant but today the letters seemed to leap out at him.

The anchor was the symbol of hope and the official crest of the Winterbottom family. The initials represented four generations of the seafaring rats. The pendant had been passed down from father to son starting with Whisker’s great-grandfather, Augustus ‘Anso’ Winterbottom (AW), the famous adventurer and author of the Book of Knowledge.

The second set of initials, EW, stood for Ernest Winterbottom, Anso’s only heir. Whisker knew very little about his mysterious grandfather except for the fact that Ernest had run away before his son, Robert (Whisker’s father) was born. From what Whisker had been told, Ernest never found out about his son and he was never seen again. Anso, who had been planning to give the pendant to Ernest when he retired, struck his son’s initials off the pendant and passed the heirloom directly to his young grandson, Robert Winterbottom (RW). Years later, Robert, together with his wife Faye, gave the pendant to their oldest child, Wentworth Winterbottom (WW).

Wentworth, who had taken the name Whisker when he became a Pie Rat apprentice, knew that one day he would pass on the pendant to his first son – provided he stayed alive long enough to have a family.

Family and hope, he said softly to himself, running his fingernail over the faint engraving. His finger stopped at the initials RW, and for a moment he imagined his father standing beside him as they carved the decorative anchor on the bow of their small boat.

‘I’m going to rescue Anna for you, Dad,’ he whispered to the pendant. ‘And after that, I’m going to find you and Mum and we’ll be a family again …’

Whisker faltered, struggling to hold back the tears, longing to hear his father’s voice – a single word, that was all he needed; a sign that everything was going to be alright.

But no words came and Whisker’s vision of his father quickly dissolved into the darkness of the room.

Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, Whisker turned the pendant around and tucked it under his sweater. Then he buttoned up his coat and wrapped the long scarf around his neck, hiding any trace of the golden charm. Sentiment had given him purpose. Now it was time to be brave.

He refastened his pie-buckled belt and attached his brown drawstring bag. Along with the anchor pendant, the bag contained the sole items Whisker possessed: his last gold coin from Rat Bait; a string of pearls and an extendable spyglass from Madam Pearl; and the Hermit’s faithful old compass. Each object had been a gift from a mentor and Whisker had a feeling he would need them all before his mission was accomplished.

My bag of magic tricks, Whisker said to himself, shifting his attention to his new mountaineering coat. Studying the thick outer fabric of the blue-grey coat, Whisker came to the conclusion that the colour would camouflage him perfectly against the rocks and snow of the mountains. He also realised that the hooded coat looked uncannily similar to the grey hooded cloak of his alter ego, the Hooded Mouse Bandit.

As thoughts of safety filled his mind, Whisker was suddenly aware that something was terribly wrong.

‘Where’s Ruby?’ he asked in alarm, his eyes scanning the room for any signs of the emerald-eyed rat. ‘Wasn’t she supposed to be with you, Horace?’

‘She was,’ Horace said, looking away guiltily, ‘but halfway between the school buildings and the cottage, she decided to go on a little scouting expedition. I believe it had something to do with noises from the school gates …’

Whisker’s tail dropped to the ground. ‘And you let her go by herself?’

‘I tried to stop her,’ Horace said. ‘Honestly I did, but you know what she’s like – headstrong and independent.’ He glanced at Chatterbeak for support. ‘Look, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. We saw a couple of pigeons flying past an hour ago and Chatterbeak thought they’d returned to do their business on the school crest.’

‘Pigeons,’ Mr Tribble said, suddenly anxious. ‘You saw pigeons?’

‘True, true,’ Chatterbeak squawked, ‘two pooping pigeons, no mistake.’

‘Which direction were they heading?’ Mr Tribble asked, hurriedly rising to his feet.

‘Due north,’ Horace answered. ‘Why?’

Mr Tribble thrust a scroll into Whisker’s paws.

‘You need to leave at once,’ he hissed. ‘Your safety has been compromised.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Horace protested. ‘No one could possibly know we’re here.’

Mr Tribble scooped up Whisker’s tattered cloak and hurled it into the fire.

‘North-flying pigeons are carrier pigeons,’ he said, quickly adding Whisker’s Pirate Cup uniform to the blaze. ‘Messages are sent directly from Two Shillings Cove to the Oakbridge barracks near the river. By now, every soldier in the district will know about your encounter with General Thunderclaw. All it takes is for one lookout to spot a brightly coloured parrot circling the school grounds, and the entire Oakbridge battalion will be here in an instant.’

‘Rotten pies to aerial surveillance,’ Horace muttered. ‘Chatterbeak is hardly a stealth flyer.’

Chatterbeak stuck his head under his wing and clucked sulkily.

‘Pull yourselves together, both of you,’ Whisker said, thrusting his scissor sword into his belt. ‘If the Blue Claw are already at the school gates, Ruby will need our help.’

‘It’s not the Blue Claw you have to worry about,’ Mr Tribble said, shaking his head, ‘it’s the Highland Hounds. The vicious hunting dogs of the Oakbridge battalion will sniff you out a mile away and then tear you to shreds before you know what’s biting you.’

‘Rotten pies to sniffer hounds!’ Horace gasped, plunging his nose into an armpit. He raised his head a moment later and winced, ‘Oh boy, we’re in serious trouble …’