The Secret of the Ginger Mice (20 page)

“Was this before you dyed yourselves?”

“Yes.”

The old mouse nodded slowly. “I see. Well, it's time someone told you the truth about Gerander: the truth as Gerandans see it, I should say. The story really starts generations ago. Queen Cornolia—I suppose you've heard of her?”

“Yes,” said the two younger mice in unison.

“Queen Cornolia was Queen Eugenia's great-great-grandmother,” said Tibby Rose. “She was the Queen of Souris a long time ago.”

“And she was the Queen of Shetlock, too,” added Alistair.

The old mouse nodded. “That's right. But there was no such thing as Souris or Shetlock in Queen Cornolia's day. They were part of one big kingdom called Greater Gerander, and had been ruled by the House of Cornolius for more generations than history records. But that changed when Queen Cornolia was on her deathbed. She had triplets, you see, and since none was the clear heir, she divided the kingdom into three lands—the countries we now call Souris, Shetlock, and Gerander—each with its own sovereign. For years the three lands coexisted in relative harmony—relative, I say, for what siblings don't squabble from time to time?”

Alistair thought of Alice and Alex, and nodded.

“Anyway, years and years ago—when I was very young—there was an earthquake in Gerander. A
terrible
earthquake! Whole towns were swallowed by the earth, thousands were killed and many more thousands were injured. What hospitals were left couldn't cope with the number of wounded, and there was not enough shelter for those who had lost their homes.”

He cleared his throat, and even in the dim light Alistair could see that his eyes were clouded behind his spectacles.

“Now, Gerander was at that time ruled by King Martain, and he sought help from our nearest and much larger neighbor, Souris, ruled by King Erandus—Queen
Eugenia's father. Erandus sent his army to help. They repaired roads and built new houses; they fixed the drainage and the hospitals and the schools. Truly, they were our saviors. But when Gerander was fully restored, King Erandus's army refused to leave! Erandus insisted that Martain had ceded sovereignty of the kingdom of Gerander to the ruler of Souris until such a time as order had been restored and, in his opinion, order had not yet been restored. Martain disputed this version of events, but it was his word against Erandus's—and Erandus, with his huge army, had the advantage. The friends who had once been our saviors were now our occupiers, and so it has remained to this day, though Erandus and Martain are long since dead. But despite the fact we are ruled by Queen Eugenia, Gerander is no province of Souris. Gerander was an independent country—and will be again.” These last words were spoken so vehemently that the old mouse was momentarily short of breath.

“I don't understand,” said Alistair. “Why would King Erandus want to take over Gerander?”

The old mouse shrugged his thin shoulders. “What does any large country want with a small country? Its land, its wealth . . . Why I bet you didn't know that the produce of all the farms of Gerander is sent to Souris, with only a tiny fraction remaining in our country to feed
our people. We are close to starvation, so meager are our rations! But we are told that we must give up our crops in return for the ‘services' of the Sourian army.”

“But that's awful!” cried Tibby Rose. “Surely if Queen Eugenia knew how the Gerandans suffered . . .”

The old mouse laughed bitterly. “If Queen Eugenia knew? Of course she knows. General Ashwover of the Sourian army is the most powerful man in Gerander, and he reports directly to Queen Eugenia herself.”

Alistair shook his head. “It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for the produce of some farmland.”

“True,” the old mouse sighed, “it's more complicated than that. While Gerander is only a thin ribbon of land, it is of great strategic importance. For one thing, although Souris has ports on the Sourian Sea, Gerander's coastline on the Cannolian Ocean gives Souris access to an ocean port, expanding greatly their potential for trade with countries that lie across the Cannolian to the west. It also gives them a land border with Shetlock.”

He fell silent, his chin sunk onto his chest, and just as Alistair was wondering if the old mouse had fallen asleep, he shook himself and spoke again. “There's something else, of course. There are some powerful mice in Souris who believe that the kingdom of Greater Gerander should be reunited once more, that the capital of Gerander should once more be home to the House of
Cornolius. And who is left from the House of Cornolius to rule Greater Gerander?”

“Queen Eugenia,” Tibby Rose breathed.

“Correct,” said the old mouse, and it occurred to Alistair that he might have been a teacher at one time. “But she is not the only one. . . .”

“Who else could there be?” said Alistair, puzzled. “Shetlock doesn't have kings and queens anymore; the last queen gave up her throne so that Shetlockers could decide who would govern them. Since then we vote for a president instead. And you said that Gerander is ruled by Queen Eugenia now.”

“You might recall me saying that some of the most heroic mice I have ever known were ginger?”

Alistair and Tibby Rose nodded. Alistair had been hoping the old Gerandan would return to the subject of ginger mice.

“Well, one of these ginger heroes is a mouse by the name of . . .,” and the old mouse's voice seemed to fill with pride and awe as he uttered the name, “Zanzibar.”

“Who's Zanzibar?” Alistair wanted to know.

“Zanzibar is the son of the daughter of King Martain. And he is the rightful heir to the kingdom of Gerander. Of course, this has made him the sworn enemy of Queen Eugenia and General Ashwover. Zanzibar has lived most of his life in hiding—and in prison. But he has never
given up the fight to free our homeland. Indeed, it is he who started FIG.”

“FIG?”

“It stands for Free and Independent Gerander; we are a resistance movement.”

He had said “we,” Alistair noted. Alistair was surprised and moved to think of a mouse so old and frail fighting bravely for the freedom of his people.

“But in recent years we have suffered some serious setbacks,” the old mouse said heavily. “Sourian spies infiltrated the movement and many of us were captured and imprisoned—myself and Zanzibar included. That was ten years ago. Six years we passed in the dungeon of Atticus Island, before being moved to a prison camp in the Cranken Alps on the border of Gerander and Souris.” The old mouse closed his eyes and shuddered, as if the memory of the last ten years was too awful to contemplate.

“Five nights ago,” he whispered, “a dozen of us escaped from the Cranken prison. A dozen of us attempted to escape, I should say. Only half a dozen made it.” The old mouse's voice was very low now. “I was one of the lucky ones. Zanzibar too. But my wife . . .” The old mouse trailed off.

“Maybe get him some more water, Alistair,” Tibby Rose suggested softly.

Alistair took the mug, which sat by the old Gerandan's knee, and darted outside to refill it at the trough.

When he returned the old mouse was saying, “Our children, now grown, are scattered I know not where. They were brought up by their grandparents while my wife and I were away working for FIG. I can only hope they understand. . . . Sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

“I'm sure they would understand,” Tibby Rose reassured him.

As Alistair placed the cup in the old mouse's hand, he said, “But I still don't understand what being ginger's got to do with anything.”

The old mouse took a long draught of water and then replied, “Don't you see? Only Gerandans are ginger. Not every Gerandan, mind you, but it's not uncommon. The triplet who inherited Gerander from Queen Cornolia was ginger, and there have been ginger Gerandans in every generation since.”

“But we're not Gerandan,” Alistair pointed out.

“So you say.” The old mouse shook his head. “But if you are ginger, then you are Gerandan. That's all there is to it. Maybe your parents are Gerandan, or their parents were.”

Alistair thought of Uncle Ebenezer's stories about his and Rebus's boyhood adventures. They had all taken
place in Shetlock. What about his mother's childhood? He couldn't remember his mother ever talking about it. Now he regretted that he had never asked.

“It explains why those kids by the river in Templeton were calling us Gerandan rebels, anyway,” Tibby said. “And why the mice in town thought we might be spies.”

The old mouse ran his hands over his face wearily. “They are good at hating, the Sourians,” he said.

“Why have you come to Souris?” Alistair asked. “It must be incredibly dangerous.”

“I have important news for FIG members here,” the Gerandan replied shortly. “That's all I'm at liberty to say.”

“There are FIG members in Souris?” Tibby Rose asked, astonished.

“In Souris
and
in Shetlock,” the old mouse replied. “Every nation has its good and bad. There are those in Souris who detest their ruler's oppression of a smaller country, and there are those in Shetlock who are ashamed by their government's refusal to intervene. Indeed,” he continued, “Shetlock's policy of turning a blind eye might be their undoing if they're not careful. . . .”

At first Alistair didn't understand what Uncle Silas meant, but then it struck him. “A Greater Gerander would mean no more Shetlock. Do you mean Souris might invade Shetlock too?”

“Clever lad,” said the old mouse with a shadow of a smile. “That's a question all Shetlockers should be asking themselves, in my opinion. If they won't help Gerander for the sake of justice, they might at least consider helping us in order to save their own skins.” He took a deep breath, then began to cough violently, both arms wrapped around his bony chest. It was several minutes before he was able to speak again.

“You should rest,” Tibby Rose said softly.

“I will never rest until Zanzibar is king,” the old mouse muttered, as if to himself. Then he sagged. “But you are right. I have an arduous journey ahead of me, and I will need my strength.”

He lay back and pulled the ragged blanket up to his chin. Alistair, too, lay back, deep in thought. Could he really be Gerandan? It would certainly explain his ginger fur. But then why had no one in the family ever mentioned it? Too dangerous, perhaps. And then, even though he had a hundred questions buzzing in his brain, and it was only the middle of the afternoon, he fell asleep.

When he woke a couple of hours later, the old Gerandan was gone. Tibby was standing in the doorway of the shed, looking out. The rain clouds had vanished, and a hot sun beat down.

“Hey, Tibby, where's Uncle Silas?”

Tibby turned. “Welcome back, sleepyhead.” Then she shrugged. “I don't know. I dropped off as well, and he'd already left when I woke up a few minutes ago.”

Alistair stood up and brushed the dirt from his fur. “What do you think? Should we try to walk a bit farther before the sun goes down?”

“Sure,” said Tibby, and after they'd both drunk from the trough of cool, clear water, they set off. They were skirting around the foothills at the edge of the Eugenian mountain range now, and the winding road was hilly with little shade. It was hard going, but after their experiences on the river Alistair was quite pleased to be on dry land again.

As they walked, he and Tibby talked over what the old mouse had told them.

“Imagine what it would be like to have your country invaded like Gerander was,” said Alistair. “It must be terrifying to have someone just take over your home like that. Your home is meant to be the place where you feel safe.” He shook his head. “It's just
not right
,” he declared. “I don't understand how it could be allowed to happen.”

“Me either,” Tibby said. “But it's kind of like what's happening to us now, when you think about it. I thought Souris was my home, but if the Queen's Guards catch us they could lock us up for being Gerandan spies, though we didn't even know we were Gerandan. And
we're completely powerless to stop them! But, Alistair,” she added, “do you realize that if you're ginger and I'm ginger, it means we're both descended from Queen Cornolia's ginger child. So really, we're kind of like cousins, way back and—what's that?”

A shadow had fallen over them. Alistair looked up, expecting to see a cloud skittering across the sun. Instead, he was alarmed to see a giant owl looming above them. It was so close Alistair could see its eyes glittering like beads, its sharp beak quivering in anticipation. He knew he should run, should scream, but, as if trapped in a nightmare, Alistair stood frozen, his legs rooted to the spot, his cry of warning stuck in his throat.

“Ginger mouse!” the owl squawked.

“Ginger mouse!”

Then it dived toward them.