In the leaves it was easy to believe that it was autumn again. The smell of the dry decay was the very essence of that season. The leaves crackled over and beneath them as they pushed their way through. The sound filled their ears, like the noise of a greedy consuming fire. The mice moved quickly. Like moles they scooped the leaves out of the way with their paws and kicked them backwards with their feet.
Through the leafy ceiling the owl could be heard hooting irritably. It froze their hearts and made them move faster than ever.
Suddenly there was an explosion of leaves and twilight shone down on them.
‘He’s dive-bombing us,’ wailed Samuel He looked up and could see the owl soaring above, gaining height for the next dive.
‘We’ll have to zig-zag and hope he misses us,’ shouted Young Whortle, burying himself in the leaves once more.
Samuel jumped in after him, and they madly dashed from side to side.
The owl tore into the leaves close by and gave an angry hoot at finding his talons empty. ‘Hooo mooouses, I’ll get yoooou!’ he bellowed furiously. The owl beat his great wings fiercely and rose high above the treetops. He stared with his great round eyes at the leafy hollow and glided on the night airs, silent as a ghost. There – a movement.
He dropped like a stone. With murderous intent he descended. He’d show them! How dare they wake him, then hide and play silly tricks.
The owl skimmed the surface of the hollow with his talons, churning up leaves and twigs in the chaos of his wake.
Samuel and Young Whortle had managed to dodge that onslaught – but only just. Samuel lost the tip of his tail and the pain was terrible. Blood poured out of it and made him feel sick.
Young Whortle was near to panic himself. Both mice were tired now but the owl had been asleep all day. Young Whortle wished they had stayed under that oak root after all. Even in the dim light he saw how pale Samuel had become, and in horror he noticed his friend’s wounded tail. He knew then that they would not survive the next attack; they were exposed and too tired to move fast enough.
An insane idea gripped him suddenly and in a wild frenzy Young Whortle scrabbled amongst the muck of the floor until he found a stout twig.
Samuel was too groggy and near to fainting to question his friend. He watched Young Whortle bite the twig and strip away the bark with his teeth, gnawing like a demented demon. Then high above he saw the dark sinister shape of the owl plummeting towards them.
The owl had licked the blood from his talons and was cackling to himself, eager for the kill. The blood was warm and it tasted wonderful. The first mouse of the night was always the best and he had been unable to find any for months. But now, oho! Two lovely mice for him to swallow.
The cool night air streamed over his flat face as he hurtled down, legs stiff and talons glinting under the light of the first stars.
He had them in his sights – wise of them to stop running. ‘Ooooh mooouses,’ he chuckled licking his beak in anticipation.
‘FENNY!’ bawled a voice. The owl blinked and as he bore down on the mice one of them jumped up and drove something sharp into his left leg.
‘Ooooww!’ screeched the owl, floundering in the air with the shock. He rose up, shaking his head in disbelief. How dare they! The audacity of it! The owl was really furious now. Screaming with rage he plucked the twig from his leg with one deft movement, spat it out and glared down. This was serious: insult and injury – that had never happened to him before and he was deadly in his wrath.
‘Mooouses!’ he cried in a bitter cold voice. ‘Mahooot will find yooou!’
Young Whortle had wasted no time. As soon as he had wounded the owl he had dragged the wilting Samuel out of the hollow and pulled him towards the meadow.
How they managed he never knew. Samuel had lost a lot of blood and kept swooning. But fear kept them going and suddenly they were in.
Tall grasses surrounded them. Young Whortle knew however that it would take more protection than the meadow afforded to save them from a determined owl.
Samuel panted heavily. He felt very weak and his legs were like water. He tried to focus his eyes but everything was blurred. Young Whortle’s voice came to him urgently, calling his name.
‘Sammy! Come on, we’ve made it to the meadow but Hooty’s still after us.’
As if in agreement a frightful screech came down out of the night sky.
Samuel felt himself tugged at roughly. ‘Leave me, Warty,’ he mumbled. ‘Too tired, you go.’
‘Shut up!’ Young Whortle gripped his friend none too gently and shoved him further into the meadow.
They stumbled and staggered along, flinging themselves to the ground when they felt a shadow pass overhead.
‘What’s he doing?’ Young Whortle asked himself. ‘Why doesn’t he strike? He must know where we are. Why doesn’t he get it over with?’
A wicked cackle told him the reason. The owl was tormenting them, letting them know the full meaning of fear before the kill.
‘Mooouses,’ he called, ‘Mahooot sees yooou.’ A dark wing swept over the tops of the grass.
Young Whortle bowed his head in defeat. He could run no more and even if he could the owl would snatch him before he made it to the ditch. The dark wing soared over again, this time battering down the grass.
Next time, thought Young Whortle desperately. ‘This is it Sammy,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry this adventure has ended so badly.’
Samuel shook his head feebly. ‘Not your fault Warty.’ He held out a thin, trembling paw and Young Whortle clasped it tightly. Together they waited for the end.
Down came Mahooot the owl. He smashed through the grass and landed in front of the fieldmice.
‘Ohooo mooouses!’ he said wickedly – narrowing his baleful, round, tawny eyes into evil slits. ‘Piece by piece will yooou slide dooown.’ He stepped nearer and opened his sharp beak. ‘Mahooot learn yooou tooo behave.’
The owl shot out a talon and grasped Young Whortle by the shoulder. The small mouse squealed in pain as Mahooot drew him near to his waiting beak.
Samuel felt his friend’s paw being dragged out of his own but he was too far gone to be frightened of the sinister night bird about to feast on them.
Young Whortle saw through his tears the ghastly beak open. He felt the iron grip of the talons squeeze even tighter. The musty breath of the bird swept over him and he swooned. Mahooot sniggered. He was about to pop the fieldmouse’s head into his beak when . . .
‘Aiee! Aiee!’ screamed a strange voice. ‘Aiee!’
Mahooot blinked and glanced up. Who was that disturbing his breakfast? The owl swivelled his face around but could see nothing. He grunted irritably and turned his attention back to the mouse.
‘Aiee!’ A stone came flying out of nowhere and stung Mahooot right on the beak.
‘Whoooo? Whooo?’ he began ferociously. He unfurled his wings but kept a tight hold on Young Whortle.
Great clumping footsteps came rushing towards them. Mahooot twitched with uncertainty – he would take to the air and see who this intruder was. His wings opened out and he began to flap them. He decided to leave the thin mouse behind, this one would do, he could eat it at his leisure in the oak tree.
‘Aiee, beaky hooter!’ came the voice. ‘Put down the mouselet!’ Into view, crashing through the meadow, came a large rat woman with a shawl around her shoulders and a bone in her hair. It was Madame Akkikuyu.
Mahooot eyed her doubtfully and rose into the air; he didn’t like rats.
‘Help!’ squeaked Young Whortle dangling from his talons.
The rat leapt up and grabbed the owl’s other leg, bringing him sprawling to the ground with an astounded screech.
Madame Akkikuyu hopped on to Mahooot’s back and dealt him a great thump with the bone from her hair. ‘Let go feathery one, free mouselet.’
The owl twisted under her and scrabbled at the ground in a bewildered frenzy. Another ‘thwack’ hit his head. ‘Oooow!’ he roared.
Madame Akkikuyu laughed out loud, then thrust the bone back in her hair and proceeded to pluck the owl.
Mahooot’s screeches were deafening and he turned his head to snap at the rat.
‘Oh no fowl one,’ she laughed, giving the slashing beak a swift smack with her claws.
Clouds of soft, pale feathers floated into the air as the raw bare patch on Mahooot’s neck grew larger. Madame Akkikuyu began to hoot herself, mocking him as she tore out large clumps of feathers and threw them before the owl for him to see.
Suddenly Young Whortle was free. The talons opened and he staggered over to Samuel where he fell unconscious.
Mahooot writhed and managed to scramble upright. Madame Akkikuyu clenched her claw and gave him a powerful punch. He staggered backwards and she flung her arms around his neck and bit deeply into his shoulder.
That was enough for him. The owl let out one last hoot of pain, shook the rat off his back and rose shakily off the ground – but not before a hail of stones and twigs battered him as Madame Akkikuyu jumped up and down with glee below.
‘Scardee birdee!’ she shouted, sticking out her tongue at the receding dark shape in the sky. The fortune-teller smiled then rushed over to the fieldmice and inspected their wounds. ‘Poor mouseys,’ she cooed sadly, ‘very bad they are.’ She fumbled in one of the pouches which hung round her waist and brought out a broad-leafed herb. With it she dabbed Young Whortle’s punctured shoulder and then with some more, bound Samuel’s mutilated tail.
Madame Akkikuyu stepped back and sat down with a bump. How had she known what to do? She looked into her pouches and knew the properties of all the herbs in it – most of them were deadly. ‘Oh Akkikuyu,’ she gasped breathlessly. ‘What memories are you waking?’ She looked at Samuel’s tail and it seemed to dissolve away and its place was a rough rat’s tail, stumpy and with an old rag tied at the end. From out of the past a coarse voice said, ‘Just don’t get in my way, witch!’.
Madame Akkikuyu shuddered and all her instincts told her not to delve into her past too deeply. Yet she began to wonder, just who was she and why did she carry all these weird objects and powders around with her?
A sound from the real world reached her ears and she broke out of her brooding. The others were coming; already she could see the torches flickering. Silently she waited for them and reflected on the past days.’
The journey to Fennywolde had been uneventful but it had been so wonderful to be with her friend Audrey, to know that they were going somewhere pleasant in the sunshine. She had not stopped counting her blessings and hugged herself with pleasure.
It had taken three different boats to get this far and Mr Kempe had guided them all the way. He had been a little standoffish to her but she was very grateful to him for taking the trouble to lead them here. This afternoon they had all waved goodbye to him and set foot on dry land once more. From there that funny little fieldmouse Twit had led them, pointing out local features and telling amusing stories. Madame Akkikuyu had revelled in the company of her friends. They turned from the river and followed a little stream which divided and became several small brooks. The one they followed soon became a dry ditch. There they found a crowd of worried-looking mice staring across a meadow.
Someone had gone to fetch Twit’s parents and they nearly hugged the breath clear out of him when they saw him. But the celebration had been short-lived. An owl screeched over the meadow and all the mice gasped; some had tears in their eyes. It was explained that two youngsters were missing. Akkikuyu saw the owl circling and knew it was about to strike. To everyone’s astonishment she had dropped her bags and stormed into the meadow calling out a challenge. Yes, what a day it had been – if only the nights were
as good. She had come to dread the empty darkness and the fear it brought her.
‘Over here!’ came the babble of voices. Madame Akkikuyu wrenched herself back to the present and got to her feet.
The meadow was lit by little burning torches carried by a host of fieldmice. They hurried towards her and she threw open her arms in welcome. The mice came and stared at the scene before them with open mouths.
There were the two youngsters lying, dead for all they knew, on the ground, and the peculiar rat woman was boldly waving her arms about. Covering everything was a layer of downy feathers like a light fall of snow. They gazed at Madame Akkikuyu dumbly, not knowing what to do.
Mrs Gorse pushed her way to the front and ran to her son’s side. She wept over his damaged tail and kissed his forehead.
‘He need rest,’ advised the fortune-teller. ‘I make broth to heal tomorrow.’
Young Whortle’s parents came squeezing out of the crowd and knelt beside their son. Slowly his eyes opened and he managed a weak smile for them. Then he lifted a finger and pointed at the rat.
‘She saved us, Dad,’ he said. ‘Saved us from the owl she did.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Nep gratefully to Madame Akkikuyu.
The crowd cheered until she flushed with pleasure. Then to her great surprise and enduring delight they picked her up and carried her on their shoulders, although it took eight of the strongest husbands to manage this feat. Others helped to take Young Whortle and Samuel back to the winter quarters.
Arthur and Audrey could not believe their eyes. Here they were, newly arrived in Fennywolde, and Madame Akkikuyu was being feted as a heroine. Everything was happening so quickly. They hadn’t had a chance to meet Twit’s parents yet.
Arthur stood amongst the feathers and shrugged. ‘I’d never have believed it,’ he said flatly.’
‘She is remarkable,’ said a voice behind them. They turned round and saw a fieldmouse sticking a feather in his hair. ‘Even my father approved of her,’ he added. ‘Oh, sorry, my name’s Jenkin. You’re the ones who came back with Twit aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Audrey. She liked the look of this mouse and he had been the first one in Fennywolde to speak to them so far. ‘I’m. Audrey and this is my brother Arthur. What’s been going on here?’
‘Oh an owl’s kept us in our winter quarters all year. We daren’t go out at night coz he’d catch us an’ eat us. But it looks like we’ve done seen the last of him for a while.’ Jenkin beamed at them and Audrey noticed an ugly bruise on his ear and that his lip was badly swollen.