The cellar under the Happily Ever After Inn was large and deep so that root vegetables and spare casks of alcohol could be stored below the frost line. They had plenty of the latter which lined the far wall. It was their stocks of the former that concerned Louis. He had been sent to retrieve twelve pounds of potatoes for that night’s dinner, and he had been concerned to find a hole in the bottom of one of their two remaining sacks of potatoes. He rummaged through it and sighed. Many of the potatoes were half eaten. He took his lantern and inspected the corners of the cellar, and found mouse droppings, confirming his fears.

“I’m afraid we have mice Mister Weaver,” he declared as he emerged into the kitchen with a basket full of potatoes, “They’ve gotten into the potatoes. We’ll have to stop serving them and tighten our belts if we’re going to make it to spring.”

Winston looked up from the carcass that he had just started butchering and blinked. “Well, that’s worrying. Do we still have barley?”

“We have a little, and old Mister Brewer might have some to spare,” Louis replied.

“Well, we may have to make do with barley soup until Carson gets here,” Winston remarked as he returned to his work.

“If he does at all,” Louis frowned, “Perhaps we should stop offering our guests dinner until he does.”

“No, that won’t do,” Winston replied. He made a few quick, expert cuts and laid out a perfect shoulder loin on the table, “Many of the people in this town live alone and work from dawn to dusk. They rely on us for their meals and won’t have anything in their larders.”

“We won’t have anything left to serve soon,” Louis protested.

“Let’s deal with that when the time comes,” Winston suggested firmly, “In the meantime, perhaps you should deal with our mouse problem before they eat us out of house and home.”

“First Mrs Parsons and now us,” Louis grumbled, “There’s an epidemic going on. I’ll start in the cellar.”

“That’s a sensible decision,” Winston remarked. “Don’t worry about your chores. I’ll deal with them while you’re on your mouse hunt.”

Not having to deal with chores made Louis feel a little better about the task at hand as he descended back into the cellar. He decided to begin with a thorough inspection of the cellar. After an hour, most of it spent on all fours, he had combed every square inch of the cellar with nothing to show for it. He stood up and stretched his back wondering where on earth the buggers could have come from when he felt a draft on his face.

He frowned as he held his lantern up to the wall, inspecting it carefully under his lantern’s dim light. Soon, he narrowed down the corner of the cellar where the draft was coming from and frowned. He decided to lick his finger and held it up. He soon narrowed the location down further and surmised that it had to be coming from the top of the cellar at around ground level. Not able to see anything, he took a stool and stood on it, feeling along the edge where the wall met the ceiling. Eventually, his hand touched snow, and a smile crept across his face. He poked his finger through the snow and saw daylight.

Triumphantly, he ran up the stairs and out of the inn. He eagerly circled the building until he found the corner of the cellar and eagerly shovelled snow out of the way until he found the hole that was scarcely large enough for him to fit two fingers through. He kept his eyes peeled for any signs of a nest as he scraped the snow away carefully with his shovel until he came to a naked hedge that had been buried under so much snow that not even the outline remained.

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“Are you off skiving, Louis?” Greg called as he walked past.

“I’m on a mouse hunt, Mister Brewer,” the boy called back without looking up, totally focused on the task at hand.

“I have them round my house as well. The little blighters ruined two sacks of barley!” the plump old man groused from the road, “Perhaps you could come by later and help me sort them out.”

Louis didn’t even dignify that with an answer. Greg was notoriously cheap who thought a simple ‘thank you’ was payment enough for any chores. He was the former owner of the Happily Ever After Inn, Greg’s Public House it had been called in those days. Greg had been secretly delighted when Winston made an offer for the place. Business hadn’t been good enough to be worth his while according to him, and selling the inn enabled him to live in semi-retirement, having only to brew ten or so barrels of ale a month, most of which was purchased by Winston. Louis figured his boss didn’t brew his own ale like most inn proprietors did was as a favour to Greg, and the boy could hardly think of a less deserving recipient.

When he didn’t receive the offer he was fishing for, Greg muttered, “Kids these days.” And shook his head before carrying on with his walk.

Carefully, he dug around the hedge until he spotted a small hole at the base. He carefully scraped more snow aside and peered inside to see a pair of fearful eyes staring back at him. A closer inspection showed that it was a fairly sizable nest.

“Mister Weaver!” Louis called out not moving from his post at the entrance to the nest for fear of them fleeing, “I found them!”

“Look!” Louis said excitedly. “There have to be at least six of them in there.”

“So there are,” Winston remarked, “Well done finding them. What do you want to do about them now?”

Louis looked at the wiry man and blinked. He had been so absorbed with finding them that he hadn’t really thought about what he’d do when he’d found them. “We could chase them out and destroy the nest?”

“That will just make them someone else’s problem, won’t it?” Winston pointed out. “They would just go on to ruin someone else’s winter supplies.”

Louis’ blood ran cold when he realized what the landlord was suggesting. “Do we have to kill them?” he asked as his excitement evaporated.

“Doing the right thing can sometimes be distasteful,” Winston pointed out, “Would you like me to do it for you?”

Louis took a deep breath and shook his head. “No, you entrusted this job to me, and I should see it through.”

“Well said.” Louis looked up to see Winston smiling back at him. “But I don’t know how to go about it… Should I club them?”

“We could be a little humane about it,” Winston remarked, “Might I suggest we set a fire at the entrance to their nest. That ought to suffocate them.”

Louis turned pale and nodded. “That sounds good,” he croaked.

At Winston’s direction, Louis piled twigs up at the entrance to the nest and used his lantern to set it on fire. Soon, the deed was done. Louis stomped out the fire and felt a little guilt when he saw the motionless mice inside, staring back at him with lifeless eyes.

Once the hole was filled in, Winston knelt in the snow and clasped his hands together in front of him. “Goddess, born mortal and made divine, please take these gentle souls into your keeping.”

“Do you think mice ascend to the realm of the gods when they die?” Louis asked incredulously.

Winston shrugged as he got to his feet and dusted the snow from his trousers. “Well, you never know, do you?” he said with a rare smile.

“it’s normal to feel bad about taking lives,” Winston said as he clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You did a good job today. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?”

“No,” Louis said, shaking his head, “That won’t be necessary.”

“Perhaps you could tell this evening’s story,” Winston suggested with a mischievous twinkle in his eye as they made their way back inside, “You could tell them about the Great Mouse Hunt.”