The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal by Robin Jarvis Page B

skin and clothes and an empty bottle was clenched tightly in his hand.
    With slow movements he raised his shaggy head and Twit noticed with alarm the same desperate soulless look he had seen in the cats’ eyes. A miserable, melancholy sound came up to them. Twit shuddered and the bats flew by. On they went into the night. Gradually Twit became aware of a faint musical sound; it had a quality that tugged his heart and made him catch his breath.
    ‘So you can hear that,’ said Eldritch. ‘It is to be expected.’
    Twit strained his ears to listen. It was so sad and lovely.
    There were no words to the melody – just continual tones of deep yearning and loneliness, desperate and urgent.
    ‘Who is it that sings?’ asked Twit. ‘They’m so sad, why’s that?’
    ‘The night hears everyone,’ said Orfeo. ‘You heard the cries of the cats and the howl of the man. The night collects the sounds of the heart and we who ride beneath the moon hear it. Sometimes still and peaceful, sometimes roaring and angry – tonight it is despondent and despairing. Listen to the heartaches Master Scuttle and grow wise. And thank your Green Mouse that you were blessed with your simple wit.’
    It seemed to Twit that they were flying in a sea of music; music which eddied around them in soft, sad waves. It was a sound that the fieldmouse never forgot although he could never explain it to anyone else.
    Then as they spiralled higher the wind rushed into his ears filling them until they were numb and Twit heard the music no more.
    Deptford passed below them: the cramped estates, the old buildings with grimy windows and sagging lintels. A bright neon cross flickered outside the mission and on the gateposts of St Nicholas’ Church at Deptford Green two stone skulls grinned up at them.
    Three small silhouettes glided before the moon. They had come to a quiet, squat power station with one tall chimney. The bats circled it twice.
    ‘Not your story, Master Scuttle,’ cried Orfeo.
    Twit saw the shimmering ribbon of the Thames on their left, snaking around the docks. They cleared the power station and passed on over a scrapyard.
    Great iron posts and springs encrusted with orange rust stuck sharply out among the heaped piles of discarded rubbish. Tall skeletal cranes straddled the refuse and the bats flew through their lattices.
    Deptford was behind them; ahead lay Greenwich.
    ‘What’s that down there?’ Twit asked as they passed over an unfamiliar object.
    ‘A ship to sail the high seas,’ answered Eldritch.
    Before Twit had time to consider the strange, spiky thing, it had been left behind. They swept along over beautiful white buildings, their many windows and pillars reflected in the calm river. Soon Twit saw a wide parkland drawing near. Within it was a green hill crowned by bulbous buildings and ancient trees.
    ‘And what are they?’ he asked.
    The bats flew around the observatories, and swooped low over the domes. Twit’s feet caught a golden weather vane and sent it spinning round frantically.
    ‘This is where the stars are studied,’ boomed Orfeo. ‘They search for answers far out in the deep heavens.’
    ‘When at their feet the Starwife knows all. Wise fools!’ snorted Eldritch.
    Twit wondered who the Starwife was, but the bats seemed to be slowing. Not far off lay Blackheath and the fieldmouse could see the vast expanse of flat grassland. But his companions refused to go any further.
    ‘Back,’ they cried, ‘we must return.’
    Actually Twit was glad. He was awfully cold, for the wind bit right through his fur. They made haste and veered away from the hill.
    ‘This has been splendid,’ he thanked them.
    Orfeo looked at him oddly with that strange smirk on his face.
    ‘I tire,’ he said. ‘Who could have thought that a small mouse would weigh so?’
    Eldritch agreed. ‘This burden wearies me also. Shall we release him?’ he asked casually.
    Twit heard them and trembled.
    ‘Don’t drop me,’ he squeaked, ‘I’ll