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The Final Reckoning

E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
Englisch
Pushkin Children's Bookserschienen am29.08.2024
A newly illustrated edition of the classic children's fantasy adventure set in a magical world of mice and rats in the sewers of Deptford __________ 'A humdinger of a tale [with] a poignant denouement that will satisfy the trilogy's fans' Booklist 'A superlative conclusion to a top-notch series' Kirkus 'The perfect stories for dark, cosy evenings. A once read, never forgotten series' Phil Hickes, author of The Haunting of Aveline Jones __________ As London shivers in the grip of an icy blizzard, the Deptford Mice huddle indoors, telling ghost stories to keep the bitter cold at bay. Little do they know that this is no ordinary winter. Their most fearsome enemy has returned from beyond the grave. He plans to use his evil sorcery to plunge the world into an eternal, freezing night, and at his command the bloodthirsty rats of the sewers are stirring once more. Alone and seemingly powerless in the face of this most terrible of foes, the mice are close to giving up hope. Can they draw on their last reserves of strength to defeat Jupiter one final time, or is it already too late?

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.mehr
Verfügbare Formate
TaschenbuchKartoniert, Paperback
EUR13,00
E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
EUR8,39

Produkt

KlappentextA newly illustrated edition of the classic children's fantasy adventure set in a magical world of mice and rats in the sewers of Deptford __________ 'A humdinger of a tale [with] a poignant denouement that will satisfy the trilogy's fans' Booklist 'A superlative conclusion to a top-notch series' Kirkus 'The perfect stories for dark, cosy evenings. A once read, never forgotten series' Phil Hickes, author of The Haunting of Aveline Jones __________ As London shivers in the grip of an icy blizzard, the Deptford Mice huddle indoors, telling ghost stories to keep the bitter cold at bay. Little do they know that this is no ordinary winter. Their most fearsome enemy has returned from beyond the grave. He plans to use his evil sorcery to plunge the world into an eternal, freezing night, and at his command the bloodthirsty rats of the sewers are stirring once more. Alone and seemingly powerless in the face of this most terrible of foes, the mice are close to giving up hope. Can they draw on their last reserves of strength to defeat Jupiter one final time, or is it already too late?

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.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9781782694397
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Format HinweisePub Wasserzeichen
FormatE101
Erscheinungsjahr2024
Erscheinungsdatum29.08.2024
ReiheThe Deptford Mice
Reihen-Nr.3
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse8179 Kbytes
Artikel-Nr.15637417
Rubriken
Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe




1
Yule


The old empty house in Deptford looked blankly out at the wet, wintry world. The neglected building was the home of many mice, but only at special times of the year would they all come together to celebrate the various mouse festivals. There was the great Spring Ceremony where mousebrasses were given out to those youngsters who had come of age, there was Midsummer´s Eve - a particularly magical time - and finally there was the Festival of Yule.

Yule occurs in the midst of winter, when cold storms batter and rage outside. It is a time of hardship for most creatures and all the more frightening because food is scarce. This is the time when the midwinter death kills the old and the very young. For many long years mice have gathered together during Yule and lit fires to keep the ravening spirits of cold and ice away.

They feel themselves to be particularly vulnerable during this season because the Green Mouse, their protector and symbol of life, is dead. Every autumn, when the harvest has been taken in and the last fruit falls from the trees, the great Green Mouse dwindles and dies. Throughout the long, dark winter months his spirit is neither felt nor seen as Death binds him close, and only when the first sign of spring appears is he reborn once more. It is through this bleak, dangerous time that mice have to survive, and those who dwell out of doors dread it.

In the Skirtings, however, Yule was much looked forward to. The mice had a plentiful supply of food from the larder of the blind old lady who lived next door, and so the threat of winter was never felt as harshly by them. They would light fires to roast their store of chestnuts and mull their berrybrews. For them all the seriousness and the danger of the season had been forgotten and Yule had become a time of feasting and the telling of ghost stories.

This year the hall had been decked out with sprigs of evergreen and bright streamers which some of the children had made. They took a long time preparing the food, and many an impatient husband received a sharp smack from an annoyed wife as he tasted the mixtures when he thought she wasn´t looking. Those children not involved in making streamers lingered close by, sniffing the different smells which wafted through the house. There was Mrs Coltfoot´s tangerine jelly and Mrs Chitter´s spiced fruit buns, Miss Poot´s almond tart and Mr Cockle´s own berrybrew. All these wonderful fragrances to savour! The children smacked their lips and longed for the days before the celebrations to pass quickly.

A large roof slate, specially kept for the occasion, had been hauled out of the cupboard where the Chambers of Spring and Summer had also been stored. This they placed in the centre of the hall and, on the first night of Yule, built a fire on it. All the mice from both the Skirtings and the Landings were gathered around the crackling flames, warming their paws and listening to tales. Some were cleaning their whiskers wondering if they ought to make another attack on the scrumptious feast, while others were dozing contentedly, musing on things past and long ago. Most of them, however, wanted to hear ghost stories, which were customary at that time of year, and the younger ones turned to the stout, retired midshipmouse Thomas Triton to entertain them.

Take the hat, Mr Triton please!´ they begged. Tell us a scary moment from your days at sea. Give him the hat, someone.´

The hat in question was an old, battered thing of burgundy velvet, stitched around with gold thread and beads of red glass. It had somehow become the traditional hat of the storyteller in the house and only the wearer could command everyone´s attention. Thomas Triton stepped reluctantly into the circle of golden firelight and placed the hat on his head. Kneeling, and clearing his throat, he began his tale. All eyes turned to him, and they were reminded of the fact that outside all was dark by the story he told them.

´Twere a bilge-freezing night such as this,´ he said in a deep resonant whisper, not long before I went off to sea. I was dry docked in an old farmhouse. There weren´t no moon, and it was cold as an iceberg´s breath. I was much younger then - and rash - an´ all evenin´ I´d been listenin´ to yarns like you are now. I was fair put out that I had no tail-tingling tale of me own to tell, so I persuaded the best friend I ever had to come with me an´ visit the haunted barn.´

An appreciative murmur ran through his hushed audience.

Well, the loft of that there barn had a sinister reputation among us mice - nobody never went there if they could help it. ´Twas said that the frightful ghost of a murdered mouse haunted the place, and we were all mighty sceered of it.´ Thomas paused and gazed solemnly round at the young faces gaping up at him, their whiskers gleaming in the firelight.

So,´ he resumed, me an´ my friend, we leaves the safety of the farmhouse an´ makes our way to the barn. Our hearts were hammerin´ hard an´ we held fast to each other´s paws. We was both shiverin´ with the fear of it but on we went. Now, as I said before, ´twere a dark night, but that barn reared up in front of us inkier than the night itself. One of the bravest things we did was walk across that lonely yard to that big, ominous shape. Anyway, when we gets there, I goes in first. That barn hadn´t been used in years an´ it smelt all damp and musty. I wondered if rats lived there but my friend had a sniff round and said there weren´t none. Ah, he could scent an east wind squalling over the horizon, he could - a genius nose he had! Well, we look up to the hay loft, where we mean to go. All is quiet an´ the only thing we can hear is ourselves breathing and the wind whistlin´ through the eaves. I makes my way to the rickety ladder and begins to climb.

Don´t go, Tom! hisses my friend suddenly. Let´s go back!

Scupper that craven notion, I answered. Come on, Woodget lad! Don´t stand there frettin´! Ain´t no such thing as ghosties.

I climbed up to the loft and looked about me. The bitter wind that found its way in ´neath the slates was rustlin´ the old rotten heaps of hay up there. It was pitchy dark an´ I was glad when Woodget put his paw in mine. Come on, I said, let´s scout round a bit.

Through those piles of smelly old straw we went, a-fearin´ what was lurkin´ round the next corner or what might rush out at us. But, apart from the rustlin´, all you could hear were two mice breathin´ - him an´ me. We walked all round that loft an´ not one ghost did we see. I didn´t know if I was relieved or disappointed, so we returned to the loft entrance an´ I let go of Woodget´s paw to climb back down the ladder.

What a waste of time, I said, exasperated. I told you there were no such thing as ghosties, Woodget! ´

Here Thomas stopped his tale and his eyes bulged as he raised his eyebrows. Then,´ he continued in a wavering voice, before I could clamber down the topmost rung, to my horror I hear my little friend a-callin´ up to me from the barn floor, You comin´ down now, Tom? he shouted. I´m gettin´ scared down here on my own. My fur stood on end and for a moment I was frozen to the spot. I dare not look to right nor left and the silence - you could have cut it with a knife. I don´t know how long I was transfixed with fright, maybe only a second, but it felt like a lifetime. Then Woodget called up to me again to get a move on, breaking the ghostly spell.´

The audience gasped and cooed. But whose paw were you holding, Mr Triton?´ piped up one of the youngsters.

That I don´t know, lad,´ Thomas replied, an´ I didn´t stay to find out. Woodget an´ me were out of that barn faster than anything.´

A shiver of excitement rippled through the assembled mice. They liked Thomas´s stories - he had been to so many places and they loved to hear of his adventures.

Tell us another,´ they pleaded.

The midshipmouse laughed but shook his head. No,´ he refused gently, I´ve worn the hat too long, and you know your rules. One yarn per wear - let someone else have a turn.´ He removed the faded velvet hat from his head and passed it on to Master Oldnose, who had been waiting close by for some time. He used to be the main storyteller and he spent many evenings making up new tales especially for the Yule Festival. He did not like Thomas´s popularity, and he took the hat from him stiffly. Several young mice groaned rudely and wandered away from the fire as Master Oldnose began The Story of Bohart and the Friendly Moon Spirits´.

Thomas stretched himself and left the circle, winking at his admirers. A young albino...

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