MICE

In the darkness of the night, in a square Queen Anne house by a river in the depths of Yorkshire, a small grey man wakes to hear a scuttling and a scratching in the wainscot. For long moments he lies still, unable to move, his eyes wide and staring until, with a sudden surge of movement he urges his trembling limbs into action and leaps from his bed.

In another room another man is wide-awake. He sits at a small table reading a book by the light of a single candle. His concentration is broken by noises from the floor below and he lifts his head with a sigh, pushing dark hair back from tired eyes. As he opens the door and descends the stairs the sounds that disturbed him grow clearer and resolve at last into the petulant complaints of the small grey man who stands, shivering in his nightshirt, before a closed door. Seeing the other man approach his complaints grow louder and more bitter. Fear becomes anger and he vents it upon his audience.

Childermass, for it is he, composes his face to hide a wicked smile and assumes an air of disinterested concern. “Did I hear you call?” he asks, placing his hand upon the door as though he were about to open it.

This implied threat is not lost upon Norrell, he shrinks back from the door and now, amongst the litany of complaints Childermass hears the familiar invective against worthless and untrustworthy servants who were never where they were meant to be.

Childermass stares coldly at the little man, whose thinning hair is fairly standing up with fright, and feels the sudden desire to open the door, push his master back into the darkness and listen while he screamed. He does not, he waits until Norrell falls silent and then raises an eyebrow. “Mice again, is it?” he asks.

Norrell nods vigorously. “Mice! Of course there are mice! Mice in the walls, mice that could eat my books! My books!” He glares at Childermass who stares impassively at a section of the wall just to the left of Norrell’s head. In fact Childermass is wondering whether he should suggest getting a cat and calculating whether the pleasure of distressing his master further is worth the irritation of the inevitable diatribe against the entire feline race. “Well?” Norrell stamps his naked foot upon the floor, “Do something! What do I pay you for? You do nothing when I need you!”

Childermass inclines his head. “I will light you a lamp and you will see that there is nothing of which to be afraid.” He feels a moment of pleasure as Norrell’s face pales and the trembling in his limbs grows more pronounced. He allows himself a small smile as his master opens his mouth to protest.

“No!” Norrell is almost beside himself with fear as he stares up at the man who, on occasion, he finds more frightening than the darkness of the night. Then, from somewhere in his hard little heart he finds the strength to transform his fear into anger, an act of ordinary alchemy he has practiced throughout his life. “I won’t! I won’t do it! I’ll have you cast out without a character, I’ll ruin you!”

Childermass shrugs his shoulders. The threats mean nothing to him; he has heard them all before. “But sir, what else would you have me do? What else can I do?”

Norrell looks down, a flush rising to his pallid cheeks as he screws his bare toes into the carpet. “You know,” he mutters. “You know.”

“Do I?” Childermass’s dark voice taunts with its pretence of ignorance. “Do I, indeed?”

Norrell looks up and like the single drop of rain that heralds the flood, a tear rolls down his cheek. He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

Perhaps it is the tear, or perhaps that one childlike gesture that makes the difference, but suddenly Childermass relents. He nods abruptly and touches the other mans arm. “Come then,” he says and leads his master down the darkened corridor.

Shoulders hunched, defeated, Norrell follows like a lamb up the uncarpeted back stairs where only the servants would usually tread, to the small, stark chamber where Childermass sleeps. He looks at the plain iron bedstead and the neatly made bed, at the hard chair and the little table, at the meagre pile of books upon the shelf. And there, in that bare little room he begins to feel the fear evaporate from his fragile frame.

Placing the candle back upon the table Childermass leans against the wall and nods toward the bed. “Go on, then.” He says and Norrell obediently folds back the coverlet and climbs between the coarse white sheets.

“I won’t be able to sleep.” He says and the complaining, querulous voice stabs at Childermass, urging him to strike out, to silence that feeble whine. He suppresses the urge as he has done many times before, as he has done every day of his life since he came to Hurtfew. Instead he raises an eyebrow as though to point out who had the bed and who had not. Then, commanding his master to silence he seats himself upon the wooden chair and reaches up to take a book from the shelf.

“The Magician of Appleby!” Norrell’s whisper breaks the silence and Childermass looks up to meet the pale, pleading eyes. He nods, thumbing lazily through the book.

“Be silent now, or I’ll not bother.” He says and Norrell shrinks back against the pillow, his lips pressed tight together, the covers pulled up close to his chin. Childermass watches him closely for a moment to be sure the silence is maintained and then, adjusting the candle to throw its light upon the pages, he begins to read.

“Long ago,” he began, “when The Raven King still sat upon his throne in Newcastle, a boy was born to a poor farmer in the village of Appleby in Westmorland. It very soon became apparent that this child had a gift for magic and so his proud parents began to search for a magician who could teach their son the magical arts…”

After a few pages Childermass looks up to see his master curled beneath the covers, sleeping as deeply and as peacefully as a child. Quietly he closes the book and turns the chair to face the window. Then, stretching out his legs he settles himself to await the dawn.