The Song of the Winns (26 page)

Seeing the hope on the black mouse's face, Alistair suddenly felt embarrassed. “I'm sorry, er . . .”

“Keaters,” the black mouse supplied.

“I'm sorry, Keaters, but the thing is, well I was coming here to rescue my parents, only someone slammed the door shut behind me.”

“Wait,” said Keaters. “How did you get into the cell in the first place?”

“Through the door,” said Alistair, and now he felt both embarrassed and foolish. He remembered Slippers's unease, how she'd called to him to wait, how she'd rubbed at the back of her neck. What was it Feast Thompson had said? It's like she's got a sixth sense for danger.

“The door was open?” asked Keaters in disbelief.

Alistair nodded miserably. “And I just walked straight in, and now look where it's got me.” He sighed. “I should have listened to Slippers.”

The black mouse suddenly looked alert. “Did you say Slippers? As in Slippers Pink? She's here on the island?”

“That's right,” said Alistair. “I came here with Slippers. Do you know her?”

“Do I know her?” Keaters repeated. He laughed—a rusty-sounding laugh, as if it had been a long time since he had last done it. “Slippers and I go way back.” He chuckled, perhaps remembering something from the past. “Way back. We joined FIG together. And she's here now you say? Well, that's splendid. If anyone can get us out of here it's Slippers Pink.”

“You're right,” said Alistair. “But I don't know if she's still here or not,” he admitted. “I called and called after the door slammed shut, and she didn't answer. She was right behind me. I don't know what could have happened to her. Do you think the guards caught her?”

Keaters looked grave. “I'd say so. They've probably put her in a cell on another floor.”

“It was the strangest thing though,” said Alistair. “I didn't see or hear any guards, then suddenly—
bang!
—the door closes.”

The black mouse shook his head. “That's not the strangest thing,” he said. “The strangest thing is that they left the door open in the first place, with me inside.” He slapped a palm to his forehead. “I could have walked right out of here, but instead I went and slept through the whole thing.” He strode over to the door, grasped the bars of the opening and shook them, clearly hoping that the door wasn't really locked. When he was unable to shift it, he paced the floor, much as Alistair had done earlier. Alistair could understand Keaters's frustration at finding out that
he could have walked free.

Abruptly, the black mouse slumped onto the cot, and Alistair sat too.

“So where do you think they've taken them?” he asked Keaters eventually.

The black mouse, who had been staring moodily at the door, started. “Emmeline and Rebus?” He shook his head. “There's only one place a prisoner ever goes from here: the Cranken Alps.”

Alistair gulped. If his parents were already in bad health, how would they survive the mountains' appalling conditions? He remembered the cold bleak valley he and Tibby had crossed. Then, standing once more as the cold, hard metal slats of the cot grew too uncomfortable, he gave a hollow laugh. How would he survive himself? Like Keaters had just said, the next stop after Atticus Island was the Cranken Alps. It looked like he might be reunited with his parents after all. Though how long it might be before that happened was anyone's guess.

He turned to look at Keaters, to find the black mouse regarding him with a curious expression.

“How did you get all the way to Atticus Island from Shetlock without being caught by the Sourians?” Keaters asked.

“I, er...” Alistair hesitated, not sure how much he should tell the other mouse. “Oswald helped,” he said finally.

“Ah yes.” Keaters nodded knowingly. “The owl. But even owls can't travel long distances undetected. You must have used the secret ways, hmm?” The black mouse winked.

Relieved, Alistair nodded, and his hands stole up to clutch the ends of the scarf, which contained the map of the secret paths. He tugged the ends nervously.

Keaters's bright eyes followed the movement, then met Alistair's gaze with an understanding smile. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could speak they heard a screech of metal, as if somewhere else in the building a door was swinging open.

The two mice exchanged looks.

“Do you think it's the guards?” Alistair whispered hoarsely.

The black mouse, with an expression of panic on his face, gave a curt nod. “They must be doing their rounds. I just hope . . .” The black mouse swallowed. “I hope they won't beat me again.”

“Beat you?” Alistair's mouth was so dry he could barely choke the words out.

Keaters inclined his head. “It's their idea of fun,” he whispered, a tremor in his voice.

Alistair glanced wildly around the cell, looking for a place to hide. “There must be a way out of here,” he said, trying to suppress the whimper rising in his throat.

“I'm sure if there was, Emmeline and Rebus would have found it,” Keaters said, but he rose from the cot and moved to stand beside Alistair. His gaze roamed the cell, moving from the solid door to the high window, into the shadowy corners then back to the window and door. Suddenly he narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Is it just me, or do the bars up there”—he
pointed to the small window in the wall—“look different from the bars down here?” He pointed now to the bars set in the door's opening.

Alistair squinted. “I'm not sure,” he said. “I don't think—”

“There is a difference,” said Keaters firmly. “I'm sure of it.” He pointed to the window again. “Those bars are rustier than the bars in the door. And do you know what that means? It means they're weaker. . . .”

Alistair, who was beginning to see what Keaters was driving at, felt a small flower of hope bloom inside him. “But how would we get up there?” he asked.

The black mouse turned to face him, his eyes shining. “Determination,” he said.

Alistair would have preferred a ladder, but if determination was all they had, he was more than willing to give his share. After all, what did they have to lose?

The two mice contemplated the wall, looking for possible handholds, but there were none.

“Typical Sourians,” muttered Keaters darkly. “Everything has to be neat and square. There's not a single bump or crevice in the whole wall.”

“But aren't you Sourian?” asked Alistair.

“What?” Keaters looked at him in surprise.

“You said you joined FIG with Slippers Pink,” Alistair pointed out. “She told me that she joined when she was at university in Grouch.”

“That's right,” said Keaters. “I suppose I am Sourian—by birth. The fact is, I've been working for FIG for so long
that I really feel more Gerandan.”

“I've been Gerandan my whole life without even knowing it,” said Alistair.

“Sometimes,” Keaters said solemnly, “I think the world would be a better place if we didn't think in terms of Gerandan or Sourian or Shetlocker. What's the difference between any of us, really? We're all mice.”

“That sounds like something my Uncle Ebenezer would say,” Alistair said wistfully, thinking of his stout, cheerful uncle. How upset he would be to learn that instead of rescuing his parents, Alistair had wound up being the third member of the family to be captured.

“Ebenezer?” said Keaters delightedly. “Rebus's brother? Rebus used to tell us the most hilarious stories about their escapades when they were lads. It sounds like Rebus got Ebenezer out of all kinds of scrapes.”

“No,” Alistair corrected him. “It was the other way—” Then he stopped. Ebenezer's stories had always sounded rather far-fetched. Who knew how much he had exaggerated? “Anyway,” he kicked at the wall with his foot, “I don't think we're going to be able to scale this.”

Keaters turned his attention back to the wall. “I don't suppose so.”

Alistair could tell that he was losing confidence.

“Maybe if I gave you a boost?” he suggested.

Keaters shook his head. “Too high,” he said briefly. The black mouse's whiskers were drooping now.

Alistair cast desperately about the cell. If only there was something of use, but there was nothing. Nothing except
the cot. The cot . . . with metal slats . . .

“Keaters,” said Alistair excitedly, “what if we lifted the cot so it was leaning against the wall? The slats would be like a ladder.” It seemed to him like the kind of clever idea that Tibby Rose might have come up with.

Keaters turned from the cot to the window then back again, measuring with his eyes. “It might work,” he said. He sounded cautious, but Alistair could see hope flaring in his eyes once more. “Let's try it.”

They stood one at each end of the cot, then on the count of three heaved together. It was much heavier than Alistair had imagined, and they were only able to inch it over in slow stages. They were both breathing heavily by the time they had got it into position. Alistair was disappointed to see that it didn't reach the high window.

“It won't work,” he said gloomily.

“Let's not give up so easily,” said his cellmate. “Come on!” And with Alistair close behind, the small black mouse nimbly climbed the slats to perch on top of the cot.

“Looks rather different from up here, doesn't it?” remarked Keaters. “That window's a way off still, but perhaps not impossible. Now how about that boost you offered me?”

Bracing himself against the cool stone wall for support, Alistair cupped his hands together. Keaters stepped onto the makeshift stair, and stretched.

“Almost . . . ,” the black mouse gasped. “But not . . . quite . . .”

Alistair lowered his hands so that Keaters could step
back onto the top of the cot.

“I was so close,” said Keaters, holding his hands about shoulder-width apart. “There has to be a way.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Alistair, what if I stood on your shoulders?”

“Sure,” said Alistair. “If you think it would work.”

He squatted so that the older mouse could step onto his shoulders, then slowly began to rise. His leg muscles screamed with pain as he moved to a standing position, his hands scraping against the stone of the wall as he scrabbled for balance, his shoulders feeling like they were about to buckle.

“I don't know how long . . . ,” he began breathlessly, but was interrupted by Keaters's crow of triumph.

“I've got it! I can reach the bars!”

The weight on Alistair's shoulders suddenly eased, and he looked up to see his cellmate hauling himself up onto a narrow window ledge.

“Hooray!” Alistair cried.

He watched anxiously as Keaters began to test the bars, rattling one after the other. But one after the other they held firm. Alistair was barely breathing now. They'd come so close. He'd really thought . . .

“This one's moving!” Keaters called. He was grasping the second last bar. Alistair held his breath as Keaters grunted and gave an almighty push. “Almost . . . almost . . . yes!” The bar broke clean through, and the black mouse hastily bent both ends out to create a gap. His head disappeared as he thrust it out, then reappeared again a
few seconds later.

“It's a long way down,” he reported. “But I reckon we could jump. What does it matter if we get a few bruises? We'd be free!” He thrust his head through the gap once more and inhaled loudly. “Free air,” he murmured. “Lovely.” Looking down at Alistair again he said, “Right, let's get you up here.” He kneeled down and extended his hand.

Alistair stood on tiptoes and reached up, but he was nowhere near Keaters's proffered hand.

“Stretch,” Keaters urged.

“I am stretching,” Alistair said in frustration. “I can't reach. What are we going to do?”

“I suppose I could jump down and then try to get back into the tower to let you out,” Keaters suggested.

“But what if you can't get back in?” Alistair asked. “Please don't leave me here alone.”

“No, you're right, it's too risky,” Keaters agreed. “Besides, we're in this together. ‘All for one and one for all,' right?”

“Right,” said Alistair, smiling weakly as he recognized the quote from
The Three Musketeers,
one of his favorite books, which he had lent to Tibby Rose. He thought of his friend, waiting on the beach with Feast Thompson for Alistair and Slippers Pink to return. Of course, they were expecting them to return with Emmeline and Rebus. Now it looked as though he wouldn't be returning at all. He only hoped Slippers had managed to escape somehow. His gloomy thoughts were cut short by a cry from Keaters.

“I've got it!” said the black mouse. “Throw me your scarf, and I'll use it to pull you up.”

Yes! He was saved after all! Alistair hastily began to unknot his scarf, but as he held the precious map in his hands, feeling the unaccustomed sensation of cool air on his neck, he hesitated.