Chapter 1: Re-acquaintances

“Mother!” the young voice rang out.  A little mouse ran along the bank of the brook, darting between ferns as the summer light, filtering through the trees, played across his grey fur.  The flowers were all in bloom, splashing colour amongst the tree roots where they grew, and insects lazily flitted from plant to plant.   There was no wind and the grass that grew on the gently sloping bank was unmoving until the tiny creature disturbed it, starting them twitching in the sunlight.  The brook itself flowed swiftly on, and the background murmur of the forest was all to be heard.  Well that and:

“Mother!” came the insistent voice again, now lightly burdened with the tone of insistent impatience used by children everywhere.

Mrs Brisby looked up from her work.

“Yes Timothy!” she called.  She was sitting on top of the hollow log that was the Brisby family’s summer home.  It lay amongst the roots of a tree, on the bank of the brook and moss and vines had grown to cover almost its entire surface.  They had returned to it each year, and each year the log needed some work, mostly clearing out and patching up.  Even now after a few weeks it was still not perfect.  The log was showing its age and Mrs Brisby was using leaves as a means to plug the growing number of cracks in the bark.  She had stopped to reapply the bandages that still covered her hands.

The little mouse bounded up, leapt onto the log and ran up to his mother.  He was small, skinny; a mass of unruly hair on his head fell down in a wild fringe, and he wore a green vest.  Breathing heavily from his run he saw what his mother was doing and looked concerned, for she had told them all how she had received the burns on her hands.   Breathless from running, Timothy spoke between gasps for air.

 “Do they… still hurt?”

Mrs. Brisby smiled and looked sideways at Timothy.

“No.  The bandages have just come loose.  What are you in such a hurry for?”

“Martin said… I couldn’t play unless… I’d had my medicine.”

Mrs. Brisby rolled her eyes and went back to what she had been doing. 

“Well that’s right.”

“Aw, do I have to?” Timothy said gazing out into the golden woods.  A group of other infant mice were playing amongst the roots of a gnarled oak tree.  Mrs. Brisby finished tying the bandage and picked up a piece of red material.  This turned out to be sewn into a tube that she pulled over her hand and forearm as a covering for the bandages.  She quickly did the same for the other arm and then turned, hand on hip, looking at her younger son.  Timothy was still gazing into the distance, lost in his own imagination, but eventually turned back when he realised his mother had not replied.  His eyes met hers, then his gaze dropped to the floor.

“Okay,” he said.  Mrs. Brisby smiled and reached out and ruffled her son’s hair.

“Mum!  Cut it out,” he said, brushing her hand away, a grin on his face.  Mrs Brisby laughed.

“Come on.  We’ll get your medicine and then you can play.”  She leapt down to the ground, Timothy following close behind, and they walked around to the front door.

The entrance led straight into the main living area that was the larger part of the log.  A large circular table in the middle of the room dominated much of the space; pieces of cork and other assorted objects around it acted as chairs.  Around the edges of the room were stored various other items acting as more furniture.  Twigs that would act as fuel for the fire were stacked near to the hearth.  Doorways led to other parts of the house including the larder and the tunnel to the bedrooms that were actually beneath the tree, amongst the roots.  They also saw Teresa.  She had been working on the log’s interior, though at the moment she sat on the floor, a broom in one hand, fast asleep.  Timothy giggled and Mrs. Brisby smiled again.

“Best not disturb her,” she said moving to get the medicine from the storage room.  “She’s had a long day while you’ve been out playing.”  She gave Timothy a quick sidelong glance and a grin as she took out a bowl and placed it on the table along with the various other ingredients ready to prepare the mixture.  Timothy playfully pulled a face in response.  Mrs. Brisby poured some water from a jug into the bowl, adding some powder from an envelope.  Then she went over to the hearth and poured the mixture into the pot that hung over the glowing embers.  The mixture quickly began to simmer and bubble, a broth appearing on its surface.  It was then quickly removed and Mrs. Brisby poured the mixture back into the bowl and straightened up carrying the medicine over to Timothy.

“Drink up.  This is almost the last of this medicine.”

“Really?” asked Timothy, smiling as he began to drink from the bowl.

“Mm-hmm.  I’ll have to go to Mr. Ages and get some more.”

“Aw Mum,” he said handing the empty bowl back to his mother and wiping his mouth with his other hand.

“ ’Fraid so.  You know it’s for your own good.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.  Can I go play now?”

“Yes, you can go play.  Be careful.”  She smiled and Timothy returned a quick grin before heading back outside.

“And if you see your brother tell him there is plenty of work to do back here!” she called as Timothy was already scampering out of the door.

“Yeah Mum.  I will!  Don’t worry!” he called back and was gone.

Mrs. Brisby smiled to herself, still holding the bowl.  What a difference a few weeks makes.  Timothy was still small for his age (both Martin and Teresa were now almost fully grown and Cynthia was bigger than Timothy now), but he showed few other signs of his previous sickness.  When they had arrived here a few weeks before Timothy had been quick to join in and play with the children of the mouse families that lived along the brook.  Mrs. Brisby had grown up in this area, knowing of all the things there were to see and do.  It was a relief that Timothy would be experience these too, after already missing out on so much.

It was not long ago that Timmy had been bed-ridden through sickness.  She still needed to collect medicine from Mr. Ages, which was crucial for Timmy’s continued health, but that was a small price to pay for her youngest son to be able to live normally.  She looked down at the other price she had to pay.  Her hands were still scarred and sore from the Stone’s power, the bandages needing to be reapplied ever few days.  For some reason they did not seem to be healing.  Mrs. Brisby tugged on the red sleeves making sure none of the bandages were showing.  She still had trouble remembering the events from the night when she had received them.  It had all been so fast and confusing.  But she realised that despite the discomfort of having these scars the Rats of NIMH had lost so much more…

Mrs. Brisby smiled at the memory.  She would never forget her children’s faces as she told them about their father and all that he did with the Rats.  They looked so excited and so proud, and asked many questions many of which she couldn’t hope to answer.  She was drawn from her reverie by a voice from the door.

“Mrs. Brisby!  Are you in?”  Another mouse had appeared at the door, another larger mouse stood behind her.  Mrs. Brisby put a finger to her lips and darted outside.

“Sorry Janice.  Teresa is exhausted.  Hello Michael.” 

Janice nodded understandingly her dusty brown pelt shining in the sun, her husband Michael, his fur light grey, smiled.

“How are you, Mrs. Brisby?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Is that your Timothy I saw running off?” Janice asked.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Brisby, smiling.  Janice was another mother who lived nearby and a good friend.  She had heard of Timothy’s condition.

“The one with the spider bite?” said Michael.  “He’s made a good recovery.”

“He’s still not right though,” said Mrs. Brisby.  “He can’t seem to put on weight.”

“He’ll be fine,” soothed Janice.  “He’s a late bloomer.  He’ll probably end up like Martin.  Michael was just the same way.  You were skin and bones when you were young,” Janice smiled and looked to her husband who shifted uncomfortably.  Janice turned back to Mrs. Brisby.

“Is now a good time for a visit?” asked Janice smiling.  “We’re looking for Leslie.  He usually plays with Cynthia and Timothy and we were wondering if you’d seen him.”

Mrs. Brisby would have liked to have rested and chatted with her friends but she needed to get Timothy’s medicine.

“I haven’t seen him I’m afraid.  Timothy did say they were all playing together.  I can’t help any more than that I’m afraid.”

“It’s no worry,” replied Janice.  “Our son, always running off without telling us.  Getting into trouble no doubt.” 

Michael noticed Mrs. Brisby’s traveling cape.

“Are you off out somewhere?” he asked.

“I have some errands at the farm.  I’m sorry I can’t stay.”

“Not at all,” said Janice, with a little wave of her hand, “but…  Well, you better get going or else you will never make it back before nightfall.”

“Goodness… yes.  I better be off.  I’ll have to speak to you later.  Sorry.”

“Certainly.  Bye, Mrs. Brisby.”  At this, Janice and Michael wandered off back into the forest, towards their own home.

Mrs. Brisby looked back into the relative darkness of the log and saw Teresa, still sound asleep.  She would have to wake her before she left or else she’d worry.  She walked over to her and, reaching down, gently stroked her hair.  Teresa smiled, stirred, and woke up.  On seeing her mother standing over her she quickly sprang to her feet.

“Mum.  I… er… I was just resting my eyes for a moment.  I…Sorry,” she said, lowering her gaze away from her parent’s eyes.

“No harm done.  You’ve been working really hard.  You’ve done a great job.”

Teresa made a few feeble sweeps at the floor.

“Thanks,” she said, brightening.

“I’m going to go and see Mr. Ages to get some more medicine for Timmy.  If I go now, I should be able to get back before it gets dark.” Mrs. Brisby said, moving to the door.

“Shall I come?” Teresa called, propping the brush against the wall.

“No, you try and finish here.  I shouldn’t be too long.  Remember not to let Timmy get too tired, okay?  I’m leaving you in charge.” 

Teresa smiled.

“Okay Mum.  Take care.”

“I will,” said Mrs. Brisby.  After making sure her old, red cape was secure and tugging on each of the sleeves, she ran out into the sunlight.

Timothy sprang through a patch of long grass into one of the forest glades.  It was brighter here, with a gap in the trees letting the sunlight spill down onto the shorter grass of the clearing.  The tree that had once filled this breach in the canopy lay across one side of the clearing.  This was the place where all the younger mice came to play.

Timothy looked around for his sister.

“Cynthia!” he called and looked around.  He searched the fallen tree where other mice were running and playing amongst its limbs, but could see no sign of her.  Then he heard something behind him.

“Pssst!”

Timothy turned towards the direction of the noise but could see nothing.  Until, that was, Cynthia poked her head out of the undergrowth.  She was grinning.  Timothy smiled back.

“There you are…” he started, but quickly fell silent at Cynthia’s signal.  She beckoned to him to follow, then disappeared back into the undergrowth.  Timothy was puzzled, but he leapt in amongst the long grass, following a sort of trail until he came upon his sister crouched low and peering out between the blades of grass.

“What are you doing?” asked Timothy, keeping his voice low as he crept up to Cynthia. 

She giggled.

“Martin’s talking to a girl!” she whispered and pointed.  Timothy looked in the direction she had indicated and saw his older brother leaning against a tree.  The load of supplies he was meant to be collecting and taking back home lay on the ground ignored.  He was looking uncharacteristically nervous, grinning awkwardly; beside him was a young female mouse, with dark brown fur.  She was smiling at Martin as they both talked.  Martin scratched the back of his neck as he said something that made them both laugh.

Cynthia giggled again.

“Pretend to chase me,” she said, getting ready to run.

“What?” asked Timothy.

“Just follow me and make a lot of noise.  Or stay here and watch if you want to,” she said.  She gave Timothy a wide, mischievous grin and sprang out from her hiding place.  Timothy moved to where his sister had been and looked out at the ensuing pandemonium.  Cynthia had not been alone: half a dozen young mice were now darting around, running and screaming and being generally disruptive.  In the centre of the mess the dark haired girl mouse was trying to suppress her laughter at the sight of Martin who was managing to look both furious and shocked at the same time.  The children attacked the pile of food that Martin had gathered but left unattended and began to hurl it at each other and into the forest. 

At this, Martin exploded.

“Cynthia!” he roared and pounced at his younger sister.  She let out a burst of laughter and dodged away from his desperate lunge.  Then, as quickly as it had begun, the young mice had disappeared again leaving Martin and the other mouse alone.  Martin still looked angry as he began to pick up the scattered food, though he seemed to calm immediately when the girl mouse started to help him.  Timothy thought that now was as good a time as any, so he walked up to his brother.  Martin saw him coming and scowled.

“I suppose you were in on this?” he said.

“I didn’t mean to be,” replied Timothy.  “I just wanted to say that Mum is wondering where you’ve got to.”

The girl mouse handed the last of the items of food to Martin and obviously thought she was intruding on family business.

“I’ll see you, Martin,” she said with a smile and she departed.  Martin waved after her, a rather dopey expression on his face.  Timothy gave him a nudge.  Martin turned to him, still wearing a dopey smile that quickly changed into a slightly grumpy expression, one that Martin seemed to perpetually sport nowadays.

“I’ve had my medicine.  Can I go play now?”

Martin grinned and hefted the pile of food.

“Yeah, sure.  I’ll get this back to the house.  If you see Cynthia, tell her I’ll get her back for that.”  Martin had a glint in his eye, but Timothy hardly noticed it.  He was running off to join Cynthia and the other children.  He found them nearby.  There were a group of about five of them, laughing and smiling as Cynthia did a bad, but very amusing impression of Martin getting cross.  As Timothy approached they all greeted him.

“Hey everyone.  Where’s Leslie?” he asked.

“He’s not feeling up to coming out today.  Apparently ate some bad berries or something.  What did Martin say?” asked Cynthia looking proud.

“Martin said he’d get his own back later.”

“He’s always saying that.  Anyway it’s his own fault for being so grumpy all the time.  And also for being so funny when he’s angry.”  Everyone gave a laugh at this.  Even Timothy had to smile in agreement.

“Sophie thinks it’s funny too,” said one of the other mice.  His name was Rory, and was the mouse girl’s younger brother, having the same dark brown pelt.

“What shall we do now?” said another called Nancy.  She was a young mouse girl with sandy yellow fur and was slightly younger than the others.

“I could quite happily just lie here all day in the sun and do nothing,” said Rory lying back

“That’s because you’re lazy,” said Cynthia playfully.  She looked thoughtful for a moment and then suddenly brightened.  “Hey!  We could go to the haunted warren!”

Timothy let out a sigh, but the others all seemed interested.

“The what?” asked Rory.  He looked intensely curious.

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Cynthia.  Her expression was one of disbelief.

“Cynthia!” said Timothy wearily.  He gave his sister a pleading look, but she ignored it.

“I have,” said Nancy.  “My older brother said he had heard about it.”

“What’s the haunted warren?” asked Jack, his voice quavering slightly.  He was a slightly podgy, dark grey mouse and seemed perpetually agitated about something.  Cynthia drew herself up.  She loved to tell stories; often she had had the whole group entranced.

“Well, I heard the story from Martin.  He said there was an abandoned rabbit warren near the brook, right around here in fact.  Apparently there used to be an old rabbit that lived there alone.  He was a grumpy old rabbit and whenever he came out to feed he would shoo away any of the smaller creatures that came too close to his patch.  No one even knew his name.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Nancy with a quick nod of the head.

Timothy watched his sister put the others under her spell.  It was true, Martin had told them the tale recently.  Cynthia and Martin’s good natured bickering was itself becoming the stuff of legend amongst the younger mice of the forest.  Cynthia had been aggravating Martin one morning and with an apparent stroke of genius their older brother decided to counter the behaviour with the promise of a story if they were to leave him alone.  Cynthia had agreed at once.  She liked stories, as did all the Brisby children.  Their father had often told them many tales when they were young.  And so it was that the three (for Teresa had quickly joined in the story telling) Brisby children had listened to Martin as he told them the story of the warren.  Timothy had understood it wasn’t real, kept a healthy scepticism about the story, and had forgotten it for the most part until now; but Cynthia had apparently taken it to heart.  He waited for Cynthia to finish relating all that Martin had said, knowing she would be impossible to stop before the end of the story.  So he let Cynthia continue:

“Anyway, one day it was said he just stopped coming out.  Everyone supposed he was dead, as he was quite old, but no one knew for sure as everyone was too afraid to go and check.  At first it was because they were scared of the rabbit, though later it was because people said it was haunted.  Even the other rabbits stayed away and would not use it.”

“Why?  What was there?” asked another young girl mouse.  She was a much lighter shade of grey, with brown flecks, and was called Amanda.  Timothy thought about giving an answer but Cynthia ploughed on.

“I’m coming to that.  Martin had never seen it himself, but he had heard others, his friends, talk about it.  About what they found at the old warren when they went there.  They said that in the evening light, when the rabbits come out to feed, the ghost of the old rabbit that lived in the warren would come out of the warren to scare off intruders…”

“What?” squeaked Jack, his eyes widening with fright.  Cynthia nodded gravely and Timothy rolled his eyes at these theatrics.  Everyone went quiet; a few exchanged nervous glances.  Cynthia let the moment linger and then went on, “Now Martin wouldn’t tell us where it was; he said it was just a story and there was no such thing as a haunted warren.  But the thing is… I found it!”

Even Timothy looked a bit surprised at this.

“You found it?” he asked.  Cynthia nodded gravely, obviously relishing the climax to the story.

“Where is it?” asked Rory.  He seemed fascinated.

“I’ll show you,” said Cynthia.

“Huh?”  This came from Jack.  It looked like he had just choked on something.

“Is it safe?” asked Nancy.

“I don’t know.  I didn’t go close to it,” explained Cynthia.  “That’s what I thought we could do now!  There are a group of us.  It will probably… probably… make it less dangerous.”

This started an exited muttering amongst the group of young mice.

“What if we see the ghost?” gasped Jack. 

Timothy shook his head.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” he said.

“Want to test that?” asked Cynthia.  Despite her solemn expression, Timothy noticed a strange glint in her eye

“Let’s go.”  Everyone turned to the speaker.  The last of the young mice who had so far said nothing was Geraldine.  She rarely spoke at all, so whenever she did the others usually took notice.

“Okay!” said Cynthia, triumphant.  “Anyone else who isn’t scared can come too.”  She looked pointedly at Timothy though it was accompanied with her mischievous grin. 

“Lead on,” he replied.

Cynthia’s grin remained as she turned and scampered off into the woods.  The others followed.  Jack was slow to start off, but seeing he would be left alone he hurried after his friends.

“Hey!  Wait up!” he called as he tried to catch up with them.

Cynthia led them into through the woods for quite some time, but Timothy suspected that she was taking a longer route to add effect to her story.  Rory was the one who voiced the suspicion.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked.  Cynthia replied by treating him to a grave stare and a finger pressed to her lips.  Then, very deliberately, she pushed back some leaves to reveal a ragged hole in a bank of earth, almost completely overgrown with grass.

“Wow!” said Rory.

“Big deal,” said Geraldine.  “It’s a hole.”

“Maybe you should go closer then,” suggested Cynthia in a whisper.

“I think we should all go,” said Nancy.  This suggestion was met with another strangled sound from Jack.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” whispered Timothy, though he kept a wary eye on the dark opening in the ground.

“Then why are you whispering?” asked Jack

Just then, there was a moaning from the tunnel entrance: a forlorn cry, though quite faint.

“What was that?” cried Jack.  Rory clapped a hand over his mouth and the whole group stared wide eyed at the patch of darkness.  The wailing came again.  Louder.

“I think we should go,” said Nancy, bouncing nervously on her feet.

“I thought there was nothing to be afraid of?” said Cynthia, though she was looking at Timmy.  He returned the look, slightly nervously.  There was another wail that sounded as if it was coming from just inside the tunnel entrance.  Jack screamed and dove into the undergrowth.  The others stood rooted to the spot.  The sound came again, though this time it changed.  It became the sound of laughter.  The originator of the laughter stepped into the light.

“Leslie!” shouted Rory.  A brown mouse staggered out of the tunnel entrance, nearly doubling up with laughter.  He was joined by Cynthia.  The others in the group couldn’t decide whether to be relieved, angry or embarrassed.  Jack settled for embarrassed as he poked his head out from a clump of grass nearby.

“Very funny, Cynthia.  Well done,” said Timothy.  The comment was sincere, praise for a master at work. Cynthia had fooled them all.

“You should have seen your faces!” said Leslie.

“It was priceless,” added Cynthia.  She was nearly in tears.

“Who dares disturb my home?”

The roar stopped all other sound from the group as they all turned to face the rabbit hole.  The words had come from just inside the entrance.  Cynthia and Leslie exchanged glances and then looked pleadingly at the others.  They looked back, just as baffled.

“Be gone!” the voice boomed again.  As one the young mice squealed and bolted back into the woods, heading for home, leaving the old rabbit hole deserted once again.  When he was sure that they were gone for good, Martin slipped out from his hiding place near to the tunnel and laughed most of the way back home.

Beside the farmhouse, in the northeast field, a breeze was just picking up.  The corn swayed gently: splendid gold in the late afternoon sunlight.  In the middle of the field, rising above the level of the corn, was the old tractor.  It had broken down many years ago and Farmer Fitzgibbon had not bothered to move it.

Mr. Fitzgibbon himself crossed the area between one of the farm buildings and the house.  He ran his hand over his face as he entered through the front door.  As soon as he was out of sight there was a movement at the edge of the field.

Little shapes moved through the corn.  Three shapes, mouse-sized and moving incredibly quickly, shot across the field, darting nimbly between the plant stalks, and into the shadows beneath the old tractor.  Then with amazing agility they began to scale the dead machinery, towards the entrance to Mr. Ages’ home.

Inside, along the dark passages, between the pipes, cables, and cogs of the tractor there shone a dull light.  It came from a door that was slightly ajar: the entrance to Mr. Ages’ workshop.  Within was amassed a vast collection of gadgets, papers, equipment, jars, boxes, and other assorted curiosities.  These were stored on every available surface, piled on the benches, arrayed on shelves or even in some cases left in the corner of the room gathering dust.  The light came from a small burner that was focussed onto a particular bulb near the centre of vast and complex system of tubes.  An old mouse, his fur white with age, was standing on a stool observing the equipment that was before him, watching as liquid circled round looped tubing and filled glass flasks.

Mr. Ages stood with his hands clasped behind his back, and wore a tattered apron with pockets stuffed full of more assorted tools and utensils.  The light reflected in his glasses, flickered, and his whiskers twitched nervously as he stared intensely at something amongst his apparatus.  He picked up a bag and took out a square plate of metal, then placed it into a wide wooden trough and pulled a cork stopper from the end of one of the tubes.  Then, pulling sharply on a cord that dangled above the work area, he picked up a huge lens and leaned over the trough and as the burner flared up with a whoosh of heated air.  Liquid flowed from the tubes and poured into the trough, soaking the little plaque.  Mr. Ages straightened and watched, tense but obviously trying not to show it.  The burner died down again and the room settled back into the gloom.  He waited, unmoving.  The plate itself became cloudy then patches began to darken. As it did so, a smile formed on his old face.  As more patches became darker, slowly a pattern emerged.  Blurry though it was, Mr. Ages could definitely see his own face staring back at him from when he had leaned over the trough a moment before.

“Ha ha!  Got it!” he cried.  Quickly he lifted the plate and placed it back in the little sack.  He reverently carried it over to a shelf and placed it there.  Then, taking out a little piece of paper, wrote in a neat hand:

Experiment one.  Silver nitrate solution prototype.  Successful.

He placed the label on top of the sack and had picked up the glue bottle when he heard a noise.  The door to his workshop had creaked.

“Now who can that be?” he muttered to himself.  Replacing the bottle, he wandered across the room.  He peered around and saw his workbench and his equipment all as he had left them, the door to the workshop was closed.  He shrugged and turned, going back to the shelf.  He stopped suddenly, wondering at what point he had shut the door.  His thoughts were interrupted by a blade being thrust in front of him at neck height.

“Oh my.”  He tried to work saliva into a suddenly dry mouth.  He looked into the gloom and saw a shadow lurking at the blunt end of the blade.  He tried not to look at the sharp end of the blade, but he couldn’t help it.  All he could focus on was the highly polished and brutally curved edge in front of him.  It looked like a wicked, barbed hook.  He felt a movement of air behind him and breath on his neck as another creature spoke into his ear in a rasping whisper.

“The Rats,” was all that was said.  Mr. Ages became aware of a third party playing around with his experiments.

“I say, could you not touch that…” he said automatically though he finished with a strangled sound at a sudden, sharp pressure in the small of his back.

“The Rats, Ages.  Where are they?”  The voice was not raised; it had adopted a lowered tone.

“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr. Ages stammered.  His mind was racing.  There was a tone of familiarity in that voice that made him feel uneasy.  He was outnumbered and, by the size of the shadow, could not hope to fight whoever these creatures were.  He began to scan the shelves for something, anything, to cause a distraction, though he felt it unlikely that he could reach any of the devices anyway.   The decision to act turned out not to be his.  The creature holding the blade in front of him retracted the weapon and glided over to him, its long cape billowing with the movement.

“The Rats of NIMH!” it growled, simultaneously bringing its face forward, right up to Mr. Ages’.  The old mouse stared back into its terrible eyes, for a second his own eyes grew very wide at the sudden comprehension.  The shock proved too much for Mr. Ages and he fainted with a muffled groan.  The shadows worked quickly.  One began to manhandle Mr. Ages up and towards the door, while the others began to systematically disassemble the workshop.  Objects on shelves were tossed aside and delicate equipment smashed on the floor.  The curved hook was brought down on one of the work benches and dragged across its surface with a sickening slowness, leaving a deep rent in the wood and clearing it of equipment.  The destruction was not random.  There was a terribly efficient method to the ransacking as areas of the workshop were cleared and searched.  Drawers were opened and their contents emptied onto the floor.  From the chaos, a small envelope was tossed into the air and glided slowly onto the now cluttered floor.  A hand reached down and lightly grasped the envelope between two claws and read the simple label written on the front.

“Brisby!”

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