E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 320 Seiten
Reihe: The Deptford Mice
Jarvis The Dark Portal
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-78269-437-3
Verlag: Pushkin Children's Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Book One of The Deptford Mice
E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 320 Seiten
Reihe: The Deptford Mice
ISBN: 978-1-78269-437-3
Verlag: Pushkin Children's Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Robin Jarvis is a British children's author who has entertained (and pleasantly terrified) generations of children with his brilliantly imagined dark fantasy stories, including the Deptford Mice and Whitby Witches series. He studied graphic design in Newcastle and then worked in television and advertising making model monsters and puppets before writing The Dark Portal, the first book on the Deptford Mice series, which was the runner up for the Smarties book prize in 1989.
Autoren/Hrsg.
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The sewers were dark, oppressive and worst of all, smelly: Albert had gone quite a way before he shook himself and, with a horrified jolt, suddenly became aware of his surroundings. Quickly he stifled the yell that gurgled up from his stomach and raced out of his mouth. Then he sat down and took in the situation.
He was on a narrow ledge, in a wide, high tunnel. Below him ran the dark sewer water. Albert cursed the madness that had gripped him and sent him running into danger.
‘Yet here I am,’ he thought ruefully and wondered how far he had come. But he was unable even to recall how long since he had left the Skirtings. Alone, in the darkness, Albert sat on the brick ledge trying to quell the panic that was bubbling up inside him. He pressed his paws into his stomach and breathed as deeply as he could.
‘Got to get out! Got to get back!’ he said, but his voice came out all choked and squeaky and echoed eerily around the tunnel. This frightened him more than anything: the ferocious rats lived down here. Around the next corner a band of them could be waiting for him, listening to his funny cries of alarm and laughing at his panic. They might have knives and sticks. What if they were already appointing one of them to be the mouse peeler? What if…?
Albert breathed deeply again and wiped his forehead. The only thing to do was to remain calm: if he succumbed to fright then he would stay rooted to the spot and the rats would surely find him. He stood up and set his jaw in determination. ‘If I use my wits, all I have to do is retrace my footsteps and return to the Grille,’ he told himself.
It was many hours later when Albert sat down on yet another ledge and wept. All this time he had tried to find his way out, but he had been unable to recognize anything that could tell him he was on the right track. What hope had he of returning to his family? He groaned and wondered what time of day it was. Perhaps it was another day altogether? Then he remembered and hoped that it was not. The Great Spring Celebration was today, and he would miss it. He would miss the games, the dancing and the presentations. Albert hung his head. His own children, Arthur and Audrey, were to be presented this year; they had come of age and would receive their mousebrasses. Today was the most special day in their lives and he would miss it. Albert wept again.
In his sorrow he put a paw up to his own mousebrass hanging from a thread around his neck.
It was a small circle of brass that fitted in the palm of his paw. In the centre of the golden, shining charm, three mouse tails met. It was a sign of life and an emblem of his family. Albert took new hope from tracing the design with his fingers – it reminded him that there were brighter places than this dark sewer and he resolved to continue searching until he found home – or death.
He resumed walking along the ledge, his pink feet scarcely making a sound. All too aware of the dangers, he made his way carefully, keeping close to the wall. Presently he heard a faint pit-a-pat from around the next corner. Something was approaching.
Albert turned quickly and looked for a place to hide, but there was nowhere and no escape. His heart beating hard, he pressed himself against the bricks and tried to merge into the shadows. Albert held his breath and waited apprehensively.
From around the corner came a shadow – it sprawled menacingly over the ledge and flew into the darkness of the tunnel. When the shadow’s owner finally emerged, Albert gasped in spite of himself. It was a mouse!
All his fears and worries melted, and he was flooded with such overwhelming relief that he hugged the stranger tightly.
‘Gerroff!’ protested the mouse, struggling to get free.
Albert stood back but continued to shake the other’s paw with gleeful vigour.
‘Oh you’ve no idea how glad I am to see another mouse,’ Albert said.
The stranger was just as thankful. ‘Me too, though you gave me an ’orrid fright pouncing on me like that. Piccadilly’s the name. Wotcha, geezer!’ He took his paw from Albert’s and pushed back his fringe. ‘Who’re you then?’
‘Albert, Albert Brown. How did you get down here, in this horrible place?’
Piccadilly told him his story while Albert looked him over. He was young, a little older than Albert’s children because he already had his mousebrass. He was also grey, which was unusual in the Skirtings, and he had a cheeky way of speaking. Albert put that down to Piccadilly’s lack of parents: who he learnt had been killed by an Underground train some time ago.
Piccadilly had been involved in one of the food-foraging parties in the city when he had lost his comrades and, like Albert, strayed into the sewers.
‘And here I am,’ he concluded. ‘Mind you, where that is I’ve no flippin’ clue.’
Albert sighed. ‘Neither have I, unfortunately. We could be under Greenwich or Lewisham, or anywhere really…’ His voice trailed off and he looked thoughtful.
‘Anythin’ wrong, Alby? You got a face like a bottle of chunky milk.’
‘There’s plenty wrong, and less of that sauce, Dilly-o!’ Albert scratched an ear and looked sternly at the young mouse. ‘Apart from the fact that I shall miss my children’s mousebrass presentations, as yet I’ve seen neither hide nor whisker of any rats down here, so it’s only a matter of time before we run smack bang into them.’
Piccadilly laughed. ‘Rats! Slime-stuffers? Are you scared of them gutless snot-gobblers?’ He paused to hold his sides. ‘Why, I’ll handle them for you, grandpa. A few ripe bits of well-chosen chat from me, will get ’em runnin’ and wailin’ for their ugly mums.’
Albert shook his head. ‘Around here the rats are different. They’re not the cringing bacon rind-chewers that you have in the city. No, these are far, far worse. They have cruel yellow eyes and are driven by a burning hatred of all other creatures.’
‘I’ll drive ’em!’ Piccadilly scoffed. ‘Ain’t nowt different, Alby, rats is rats wherever!’
Albert narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. ‘Jupiter,’ he whispered in dread. ‘They have him.’
The young mouse opened his mouth, but no cheek came out. ‘Crikey!’ he uttered. ‘In the city we’ve heard rumours of Jupiter, the awful God of the Rats, Lord of the Rotting Darkness… is he here, for real?’
‘Yes, and somewhere close,’ Albert replied unhappily.
‘Are the myths about him true then? Has he two great ugly heads, one with red eyes and the other with yellow?’
‘No mouse has seen him, but I don’t think the rats have either – I’ve heard he lives in a deep hole and doesn’t come out. I’ll wager Morgan has seen him though.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Morgan is his chief henchrat, and slyer than a sack of lies. He does most of Jupiter’s dirty work.’
Piccadilly looked around, nervously. The gloom seemed to press in on him now. ‘So the rats here aren’t frightened belly crawlers then?’
‘Savage and cruel,’ came the solemn reply. ‘If we’re caught, they’ll eat us. If we’re lucky, they’ll kill us first. So we really should get out of this place, just as soon as we can.’
‘We’d best find your gaff double quick then.’
They set off together, searching the tunnels, balancing along pipes, bridging the gurgling water and exploring deep into pitch-dark arches. Paw in paw, the two mice found comfort in each other’s company; but both were mortally afraid. All they could hear were steady drips and every so often a ‘sploosh!’ echoed weirdly through the passageways. Sometimes they had to turn back when the smells got too bad and made their whiskers itch. Then a tunnel would end abruptly, and they were forced to retrace their steps to the last turning.
The sewer ledges were treacherous. The shadows hid every kind of trap: holes, stones and slimy moss. Albert and Piccadilly made slow and wary progress.
Way above them, in the great wide world, the new moon of May climbed the night sky and only the brightest stars could be seen above the orange glare of the city lights.
‘Another dead end!’ muttered Albert in exasperation.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get out?’ Piccadilly asked quietly.
The older mouse could see, even in the murky darkness, that Piccadilly’s eyes were wet, and he was sniffling. Albert squeezed his paw gently.
‘Let’s rest a little while,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Of...
