The Mousehunter

The Mousehunter by Alex Milway Page A

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Authors: Alex Milway
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calls of “yessir” rang out all over the ship.
    Emiline watched the lightning draw nearer while the thunder grew louder. It was a strange sensation, being able to see the storm approach. The waves were growing with each minute, lifting the ship up and down like a slowed-down rollercoaster. The sky above darkened further with the massive spread of clouds chasing toward them. The air crackled.
    “It’s almost upon us,” called out Drewshank. “Only those sailors needed remain on deck. The storm will be quite a ride!”
    Fenwick came to his side and shoved a rope into his hand. Other sailors had already strung out lifelines across the deck, but the first mate always looked after his captain.
    “Hold tight yourself, sir!” he said, doing his best to make Drewshank safe. He then walked to the main mast and shouted up to the crow’s nest.
    “Get yourself down, Emiline! No place for you in a storm!”
    Emiline heard his cry and waved back in response. But as she tried to pick up Chervil, the boat tilted onto its side. She realized the waters ahead had switched direction, and the course of the ship was shifting. It was being drawn slowly onward against its will, and against the direction of the wind.
    Drewshank called out more orders. Emiline picked up Chervil and made for the edge of the crow’s nest to climb down. In the darkness, the descent looked much farther than it had previously. She lifted her legs over the side and caught a foothold. Chervil let out an angry meow and his movements stopped dead — his eyes staring out to the sea.
    Emiline looked cautiously over her shoulder, and gradually it became clear: the frothing, swirling water was vanishing into a deepening twisting circle. This was much more than a freak storm. She threw herself and Chervil back into the crow’s nest, stretched out to grab the bell, and rang with all her might.
    “Captain Drewshank!” she shouted as loud as she could. “Whirlpool dead ahead!”
    On deck, Drewshank heard her words and then saw it for himself. The whirlpool, emerging from the darkness, was at least double the length of the ship and growing, sucking them ever closer with its overwhelming power.
    “Get the sails set! We need the wind!” ordered Drewshank sharply. He threw his rope to the ground and ran to the rigging. Mr. Fenwick beat a course to the wheel and aided the helmsman. Now all the sailors had seen the whirlpool, and were calling orders down the line. The clatter of trapdoors signaled the arrival of the rest of the crew from below deck.
    “We need those sails, men!” Drewshank shouted once more.
    The rigging was soon awash with sailors and mice. They worked frantically, knowing their time was short.
    “Hard to starboard!” shouted Drewshank, his voice almost breaking. The ship lurched in the water as the helmsman turned the wheel forcefully with the help of Fenwick. Sailors grabbed hold of anything secured to the deck as it rose sideways. Emiline tumbled in the crow’s nest, her heart pounding hard in her throat; Chervil fell down on top of her; Portly scratched his way urgently into her jacket. There was no way she could safely climb down now. The rain battered her face as the wind blew it whichever way it pleased.
    Emiline hurriedly searched for a rope and eventually found a piece wrapped around the crow’s nest that was secured to the rigging. She was scared, but she calmly tied the rope to her waist and fitted it around Chervil’s belly. She could feel herself tilting over and clutched the crow’s nest as tightly as she could. The sailors on the rigging struggled to keep hold, grabbing the ropes for dear life as the mast neared horizontal with the sea. Waves crashed onto the deck. The
Flying Fox
fought against the whirlpool and eventually righted in the water, but the circular waves were stronger, pulling the ship closer.
    Drewshank gripped the side of the ship and looked hard into the whirlpool. The black heart of its pull looked closer to hell

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