The empty square of the storage room seemed terribly large; the old thrasher
was positively cavernous. Mrs. Brisby laid out two of the blankets Mr. Ages had
loaned her, giving some protection from the cold metal of the floor, and
thought longingly of her much smaller, much homier cinderblock room. And the
company of the rest of her children. She hoped they were all right… Martin was
indeed old enough to take care of them, as was Teresa. And they were smart
mice. But she couldn’t help but to worry. They surely were worrying about her.
Poor dears. She could imagine Teresa comforting Cynthia, Martin standing just
in the door.

As Timothy crawled onto one of the blankets, awkwardly with his hurt ankle,
the incandescent above slammed dark. "Mom?"

"I’m here dear." She draped two of the three remaining blankets
over her son, and leaned close, allowing him to breathe in the comfort of her
smell. "Mr. Ages must have turned off the lights. Wrapping the last about
herself , she negotiated her way blindly back to the cloth she hand laid down
for herself. She was exhausted, and despite a seeping cold in the air, passed
into sleep before remembering to take off her shawl.

Timothy lay awake, breathing softly and trying to wish away the dull throb
in his hindpaw. He could her his mother start to snore. He loved that sound.
But his own fatigue could not overcome the excitement he felt at seeing Justin
again. This time for real, and not through the haze of sickness. Or the wonder.

He stared at the darkness, using it as a canvas for his thoughts and
imaginings. Drawn back only by the flicker of reflected firelight against the
entrance.

The match flared with a pyrotechnic dance of yellow-whites and oranges.
Justin hefted the wooden matchstick up to the wick, watching the fire kiss and
ignite Nicodemus’ candle. Drawing in a deep breath, the noble rat blew out the
match, it’s fire already creeping down towards his paws.

Mr. Ages watched unceremoniously beside the rat as the candlelight bloomed,
shedding soft layers of illumination over the room and casting shadows from the
covered furniture. The two waited.

And waited.

"Well, that’s that, then." Mr. Ages shuffled off, pushing his way
back into the saturated light of his laboratory. "Good night,
Justin." He did not bother to look back as he added, almost flatly,
"It is good to have seen you again."

Then the old mouse was gone.

Justin sighed and slumped back into a chair, then took a moment to adjust
his tail. The chair was curved for the back of a rat—one of the craftworks that
had been created in the Rosebush colony, only to be left hurriedly behind. In
this room, the chair was behind him and the candle before him; but for what
they represented, it seemed the opposite was true.

"Nicodemus?" His voice felt weary, and sounded desperate in the
absence of company. He looked at the flickering shadows.

He spoke to the air again, in the hope that more than air was listening.
"Old friend, if ever I needed your council, it is now." But the air
did not respond. The shadows did not offer their insight. Justin shook his
head. He hadn’t really known what to expect, but somehow, he still felt let
down. Nicodemus had been more than a leader, more even than a friend. Nicodemus
had been more like a father to him. To the entire community, but much moreso to
him… a parent after he had been irrevocably separated from his own by N.I.M.H.
Somehow, he felt now even more hollow than before…

Then the door from the hallway opened. And a figure stepped in.

"Nicodemus!?" Justin sat bolt upright, staring. Then relaxed,
feeling foolish but smiling just the same. "Hello Timothy. Shouldn’t you
be in bed?"

The young mouse hopped in, keeping on her good foot, using his tail for
balance and the occasional covered box for guidance or support. "I wanted
to talk to you. I didn’t get to last time." He looked at the rat, seeming
almost reverent. Then asked, "Do you really think Nicodemus is going to
come back tonight? Like the ghosts the humans are afraid of?"

Justin chuckled in spite of himself. "No. At least, I don’t think so. I
think…" He looked up at the candle. Timothy could see it’s fire reflected
in his eyes. "I think I did expect him, somehow." He looked back down
to the boy as Timothy pulled himself onto a small box where his feet could
dangle off the floor. "Although I think I was expecting something more
kiva-like."

Timothy shifted, trying to get comfortable. His young voice rang out strong
with childlike desire for knowledge. "What’s a kiva?"

Justin played with the word in his mind, trying to construct its meaning in
a way that a small boy like Timothy could understand. But not so simple that
Timothy would feel offended. He was a very smart boy; Mrs. Brisby did say he
took after his father.

Timothy watched him, fidgeting only slightly.

"It’s a room that the humans native to this land used to use a long
time ago. In the center of the room, they would build a fire, and in the room
they would stay, meditating without eating until they had a special spiritual
vision." He looked to Timothy, hoping he had not gone over his head, but
the young mouse’s thoughtful nod assured him he needed not ask if Timothy
wanted clarification. Justin remembered the picture in Nicodemus’ study of such
a room. His friend and mentor had always been fascinated with the mystical
beliefs of the humans, and while Justin had not, he had learned a great respect
for Nicodemus’ fascination.

"I think," Timothy started hesitantly, as if fighting to find the
words he wanted, "I think that maybe when Nicodemus said the candle would
help us remember and connect with the dead, that this was what he meant."

Justin cocked his head. It was he who was having trouble following.
"What do you mean, Timothy?"

Timothy blushed, wiggling his feet. "I mean, well, you’re thinking of
Nicodemus, aren’t you? And I know mom is. Much more than she would have tonight
without you bringing the candle. And I’ll bet it’s gotten Mr. Ages to think
too."

Justin smiles. "A reminder. Yes, I see what you’re saying." Timothy
was a remarkable young mouse, he thought. The child had almost a sage-like
quality he hoped would grow and blossom within him. He wondered if perhaps the
boy shared more in common with Nicodemus than with Jonathan.

Timothy nodded. And looked at the candle as Justin seemed to get lost in
thought. He blinked. Then again, longer this time. He really was tired, and had
probably overstayed his welcome. He began to shuffle off the box and head back
through the door and out into the hall.

"Wait," Justin held up his hand and the tired-looking mouse turned
with a startled ‘yes?’ and forward ears.

"What brought you in here? In the first place. You never told me."

"Oh," Timothy smiled. "I wanted to ask you to make some
pictures for Cynthia. Of yourself. So she can remember what you look
like."

Justin smiled back. "Oh don’t worry, I will. But why not let your
sister ask. I plan on stopping by before heading home. I’m not going to miss
the opportunity to see you all again."

Timothy beamed happily and nearly feel over. "Thanks! All right!"
It took a moment to remember he had been asked a question. "oh, I’m asking
cuz sometimes Cynthia forgets. And she’d be really upset if she forgot to
ask." His eye caught a solitary table leg sticking from under one of the
tarps. He pulled it free and used it to brace himself. "Mind if I borrow
this?"

Justin nodded with a grin. "Looking out for your sister. Good. Are you
all well? Is that house?"

Timothy yawned and nodded vigorously. He started to say soemthing more, but
Justin stood up and shooed him out. "You’re tired. I can see that. Go get
some sleep before your mother wakes up and worries where you’ve wandered off
too. We can talk a lot more later."

Timothy nodded and hopped, a bit less steadily than before, out the door,
closing it behind him. Justin listened as he moved down the hall, makeshift
cane taping against the metal floor. But within a few steps, he was out of
hearing.

Silence descended. Justin slowly walked back towards his seat. Then stopped,
looking at the wheelbarrow. He reached down, and pulled out the bowl of Ages
horrid alcohol.

"To you, Nicodemus." And held the bowl aloft. Then took a sip,
forcing the wretched liquid down his throat to where it warmed his belly.

Brief flashes of encompassing light scored the driving mass of water as it
fell from a muddy sky. Slowly, a black poll extended itself upright into the
raining turbulence.

Mr. Ages whirled the next crank as fast as his aching body would let him.
The water-proof tarp that he had bundled himself in was as unhelpful as the
small overhang on this part of the outer wall of the thresher. He was damp and
sticky with the mist and wet that seeped through the folds of the cloth, water
dripped from his whiskers and numbed the arthritic aching in his paws. His back
protested with little spasms every so often.

Still, there was no time to be comfortable, and even less to be lazy. He had
already spent too much time being a conversationalist. And that meant if
anything was to be accomplished tonight, he would have to raise the rods now.
As he spun the crank, another metal rod rose into place, alongside the three
others.

The Rats had sworn to never again steal electricity from the humans. And so
had he. But without it, there was only so much people could do. Even he was
finding himself more desperate for a source, the old battery from the thresher
weakened to exhaustion. The human, Benjamin Franklin, had started with a kite.
He was starting with four lightning rods, but he also had the knowledge
gathered by humans in the few books on the subject he had gotten a glance at.
Unless they could find a way to store and even generate their own electricity,
the Rats would forever be at the mercy of the world around them, and Jenner
might as well have been right after all.

The old white mouse collapsed over the last crank, breathing hard. He looked
up. Four dark poles lanced into a stormy sky. Their bases insulated, from which
wired ran through the maw of the thresher and deep inside. With more effort
than was really healthy, Mr. Ages picked himself back up and edged his way
carefully towards the porthole entrance, inch by inch, along the rain-slicked
edge of the thresher wall.

The hallway was dark. Timothy held on paw against the wall, guiding his way
along to the room ahead where his mother slept. The table leg poked along the
floor, making sure there was nothing to trip on. It seemed, in retrospect,
foolish to have shut the door, cutting off the candlelight from the hallway.
But by now it would have been as much trouble to go back and open it as to
simply move forward carefully, keeping his senses sharp to make up for lack of
sight.

So when he came upon another figure in the hallway, almost running into the
form before detecting the person’s scent, he was so shocked his scream came out
barely a squeek.

Once back, safe within his lab, Mr. Ages threw off the tarp and untied his
smock, wringing out droplets of water, watching the sheen of water still
trapped each time he twisted. Then he dropped and shook.

Standing and looking at the slight dampness around everything nearby, Mr.
Ages only shook his head. "Bother…" Then he stopped, sniffing at the
air. He frowned. Smoke. A strange, heady scent to it.

Justin’s candle. It was already smoking up the lab. Incense. He had little
use for the stuff, and hoped that the smell wouldn’t seep into everything. He
sneezed. Grumbling, he looked for a tissue. It was likely that he’d caught a
cold tonight. At his age, a cold could keep him down for a week, easily. He excepted
the handkerchief that Jonathan offered him and blew his nose, already
formulating in his mind a proper cold remedy. Best to mix it now; it never did
any good to put off such things.

Mr. Ages stopped cold.

He turned slowly, taking in the very lifelike mouse sitting on his
workbench, smiling at him. "Jonathan?"

Jonathan nodded. "Live and in person." Then the young mouse
frowned. "Well, in person at least."

Mr. Ages shook his head and pulled off his glasses, rubbing them.
"Th-that’s impossible. Jonathan’s dead. I helped bury your remains
myself."

Jonathan hopped down. "Well, old mouse, here I am."

Mr. Ages put his glasses back on. "Impossible." But there he was.
As youthful and charismatic as he remembered him. And in considerably better
shape than he last saw. He reached out a finger and poked his old friend.
Jonathan felt warm, and chuckled at the old mouse. "I don’t believe in
ghosts." His voice was resolute.

Jonathan shrugged. "Neither do I. I’ve always leaned towards
reincarnation myself. I like the idea that I might find my wife again another
time around, have another chance."

"But then how…?"

"I don’t know. I just know that I’m dead. And I’m here. But only for a
little while. You’re the doctor. You tell me."

Mr. Ages frowned, staring suspiciously. And all at once was hugged, for the
second time that night, entrapped in the embrace of someone he had really never
expected to see again. "Oh Ages, you old fool, it’s good to see you
again!"

Mr. Ages stammered. Then clinched his eyes shut. "Nicodemus’
candle…" he muttered. "By the Great Owl, Jonathan…"

Jonathan’s embrace relaxed and he held Mr. Ages at arms length, smiling.
Then his eyes caught something beyond the old mouse and his face broke into a
grin! With a laugh, he scampered past. "I don’t believe it!" And
started to clamber up the still, looking it over.

Mr. Ages started to turn, trying to follow the younger mouse’s movements.
"Careful, Jonathan, that’s…"

"YEEOWCH!"

Mr. Ages lowered his head, one paw to his temple. "…hot." He
sighed. "Oh Jonathan."

After the first sip, the second had come much easier. And after the second,
the third had almost tasted bearable. By the time Justin had finished most of
the bowl, Age’s brew was a warm, pleasant rush, and all in all, he felt much more
relaxed.

"I’m not cutting it," he admitted wearily to the candle. A
continuation of his off and on conversation with the flame. Wax dripped down
along the carvings in silent agreement. For a moment, he wondered if the candle
was weeping.

"The others don’t blame me. Not yet. I’m trying my best… but it’s not
enough." He sips at the remaining pool of alcohol in the bowl. "We
weren’t ready. N.I.M.H. forced us to turn a plan still being argued in the
Council into a reality overnight. We didn’t have enough seeds, enough
provisions, enough time. Thorn Valley wasn’t explored enough; it turned out not
to be the ideal we had hoped it would be." He took a deep breath and stood
before the candle. "It was no rat’s fault. But…I just can’t help but
believe Nicodemus would have been able to make it work. At least, better than I
am."

He heard a whispering response. But it was mumbled, made no sense. He perked
his ears and listened. The world had taken on a haze, all his senses seemed
dulled. But he could make out voices. Not a response to himself, but a
conversation. It seemed excited. Or angry.

Slowly, Justin moved towards the door. He couldn’t make out the words, nor
tell who was speaking. But the voices were both male. And he didn’t really
think either sounded like Mr. Ages. He dropped his paw to his sword, and tried
to focus through the haze and he took another step forward.

Mr. Ages carefully wrapped Jonathan’s paw in the gauze, the silky material
soaking with the painkilling ointment. "Well, for what it’s worth,
Jonathan, you do seem to be real enough."

Jonathan winced. "I noticed."

Mr. Ages frowned. "So why are you here? Why me?"

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "I was rather hoping you could tell me
that. I’m here for you because I’m the one you need the most. But I don’t
pretend to be able to read your mind."

Mr. Ages moved away from his old, deceased friend, and made busywork over
his table. "Rubbish. I don’t need anyone. What I need is to get my work
done. Before the storm passes."

Jonathan crossed his arms and gauged the old mouse skeptically. He clearly
was not buying it. But what could he do? "All right then. If all you need
is to get your work done, then you could certainly use another set of
paws." With a slight blush, and a glance down, "Well, at least one
paw."

He strode over to the workbench, looking over Mr. Ages shoulder. "What
can I do?" He tried to catch some method the old mouse’s putterings. He
took a sniff. "Oh, you smell delightful. Out in the rain?"

Mr. Ages fehhed. "I need a ghost to tell me that?"

Jonathan continued to sniff. "And, is that incense? Are you burning
something?" His nose checked the air, catching different scents. "And
something else, smells like… like…"

Jonathan started. His face fell, his body seemed shaken. Weak. Mr. Ages
turned to help him as the young mouse stumbled. He looked to Ages with a voice
tinged with betrayal. "She’s here! Oh Ages why didn’t you tell me??"

Mr. Ages had no answer.

Jonathan steadied himself, biting back sudden tears.

"You still miss her." It was not so much a discovery as an
observation. " Go, Jonathan. Go to your wife."

"No." Jonathan looked longingly towards the hatch then shook his
head. His voice both firm and filled with defeat. "no."

"Oh for heavens sake, boy. Go! She’s been missing you every day since
you died, and I doubt you’ll get another chance." With an exasperated way.
"Hell, you shouldn’t even be getting this one! Go!"

Jonathan merely shook his head. "If she needed me, I’d be with
her." He lowered his gaze, slumping to the floor. "She’s stronger
now. I have no doubt she misses me, but seeing me now… would only make it
worse. I’d only hurt her more."

Mr. Ages stared in disbelief. With clear scorn, "next time I summon up
a ghost, I’ll make sure to choose someone less neurotic." Then he moved to
his friend. "Think about what you’re saying boy. If it were me…" He
grimaced. "Well, it wouldn’t be me. But it is you."

Jonathan looked up, his eyes meeting the old white mouse’s. Wet with tears.
"I have thought about it. But I know I’m right. She’s with whomever she
needs now. But…" And for the third time, Mr. Ages found himself being
hugged. "oh Ages I LOVE her…"

Mrs. Brisby stirred. She was cold, even wrapped in her shawl and the
blanket. But that wasn’t what had woken her. Voices…

She looked up, perking her ears. In the soft glow of the room, she could see
Timothy’s blankets. Empty. "Timothy…"

Her first instinct was to worry. He was probably fine. He could have
wondered off to talk to Mr. Ages. Or Justin. Or merely to relieve himself. But
the thresher was so large, and dangerous. And it was unfamiliar to him. She
could not help but remember the accident that had brought him here. She stood
up. Something felt wrong.

She listened to the voices. They weren’t far, and even with the distorting
echoes, she could tell one of them was Timothy. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She couldn’t make out the other voice, but no matter. It was probably Justin
after all.

Wrapping the blanket about her, she moved towards the entrance. Then stopped,
looking down at her shadow. Timothy would be cold, she should bring one of the
other blankets for him.

Something was wrong. Her eyes widened. She must be getting slower to have
not realized before. She turned, looking for the source of the light.

As the glow illuminated her features, she gasped. Then lowered her head,
just a little, her voice unafraid. "Your Majesty!"

Justin slowly drew his sword. He crept closer to the door, putting an ear to
it. Listening. He focused on his blade, suddenly disturbed as his vision
blurred. He blinked. Was the smoke that thick? Or had he drank that much? He
swayed, putting a paw out for support. His paw touched warm.

His paw touched warm fur. He was not alone.

He turned, slowly, and when he saw the woman, like a vision, standing before
him, he trembled. His sword fell to the floor.

"Mother?" He felt about to faint.