The Mousehunter by Alex Milway

heard about this fog?” said Scratcher excitedly, bolting the cage door.
    “Fenwick says it’s trouble,” replied Emiline.
    “All the sailors down below are talking about it like it’s a ghost or demon or something. They all say it’s bad news . . . .”
    “It’s just a fog!” said Emiline. “We get them all the time in Old Town.”
    “But this one’s coming after us. They think it might be a ghost ship.”
    “Sailors are crazy . . . .”
    “But I’ve seen one before . . . ,” butted in Scratcher defensively.
    “When?”
    “A year ago, just off the coast of the Western Isles. It had three masts and tatty sails, but it shot through the water like a rocket!”
    Emiline looked to the fog.
    “Well, I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said, folding her arms.
    For two hours they sailed with the wind behind them, but it all proved to be fruitless: the fog continued to give chase, and was now catching up with them.
    “It’s no good,” said Drewshank to his crew who had massed on the top deck; “we can’t outrun it. Whatever it is that pursues us, the only course of action is to batten down the hatches and face it head-on. Tie up the sails, and weigh anchor. We shall sit here, swords drawn.”
    “But, cap’n,” asked a sailor with a huge bustle of hair, “what if there’s an ambush waiting in the middle of it? Or a ghost ship out to spook some unsuspecting vessel like ours?”
    The huddle of sailors all responded with nervous chatter and mutterings of “Mousebeard.” Superstition ran deep among the crew of the
Flying Fox,
and after the Grak attack, nerves were a little shaky.
    “We will get through this!” said Drewshank strongly. “Nothing will get the better of the
Flying Fox,
but I believe we’re best off fighting whatever it is head-on.”
    “So stand firm at your posts,” said Mr. Fenwick. “We’ll take more measures once the fog’s upon us.”
    “Aye, sir!” shouted the sailors.
    “See!” said Scratcher to Emiline. “I’m not the only one who believes in ghost ships!”
    “You’re all mad!” she returned, then headed off below deck.
    By dusk the fog was so close that the sea behind them was completely hidden. Emiline and Scratcher had fed all the mice onboard and were collecting the Watcher Mice from the bowsprit. Apart from a host of armed sailors standing on guard, most people were now below deck.
    “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Scratcher, placing a mouse into a wooden box full of straw. “It’s as though it’s bewitched.”
    “I agree that there are odd things at sea,” replied Emiline, “but I certainly don’t believe in bewitched fogs. How can a fog be bewitched?”
    Emiline let loose three Night-light Mice from a mousebox, their eyes beaming like torches, and then she leaned over the edge of the ship. The fog was creeping closer, and she watched the wisps of gray claw their way across the water. It would only be minutes before the ship was completely enshrouded in darkness.
    Fenwick shouted out: “Everyone inside or below deck if you’re not on guard!”
    It had been decided that patrols would take it in turns to keep watch on deck, but for safety, everyone else had to remain below in their quarters.
    Scratcher made his way to the trapdoor, and stopped for Emiline.
    “Come on, what are you doing?” he said.
    Emiline was itching to see what the fog was like close up. She wanted to touch it and feel what it was made of.
    “You go on, I’ll follow,” she replied confidently. Scratcher didn’t bother to speak. He simply raised his hand in annoyance and left Emiline to her own devices.
    The fog inched closer and finally touched the side of the ship. Within minutes it had spread over the top deck. Emiline stood by the open trapdoor and let the fog swirl around her. It was cold and damp, but it had a strangely sweet smell, like that of fragrant burning wood. Fogs don’t normally smell sweet, she thought.
    “In you come,” ordered Fenwick, and