by Adam Kline
In the far corner of the stomach was a shack, constructed of trash and bone and all manner of undigested detritus. From within came the unmistakable glow of a hearth, which Morel could not deny seemed faintly cozy. And sitting on the stoop of the shack, dolefully playing a miniature flute, was . . .
“A mouse!”
Leek had summoned just enough courage to peep over Morel’s shoulder, and he had cried out prior to thinking twice. Leek wasn’t stealthy like Morel.
The mouse looked up in pure and utter shock, dropping his flute midnote.
“They’ve found me!” he gasped. “At last, my doom has come!”
But before he could scurry into his shack and bar its feeble door, Morel strode forward, holding her torch aloft.
“It is not doom that seeks you here this day,” she said. “We are simply two rabbits, wayfarers of the savage lands, and we are doomed ourselves.”
The mouse’s eyes grew wide in wonder and relief, and his muzzle ceased to quiver quite so much.
“Brown coats and long ears!” he said. “Why, you aren’t black cats at all! You are rabbits!”
“As I said,” countered Morel. “And we are wet and cold besides and would welcome a seat by your hearth.”
“By all means,” squeaked the mouse. “Bless me, I’ve forgotten my manners entirely! It’s been simply ages since I entertained, you see. But do come in, and I’ll have the kettle boiling straightaway.”
The rabbits needed little encouragement and soon found themselves seated in the tiny hovel, sipping dark green tea from tiny makeshift mugs.
“Seaweed tea.” The mouse sighed. “It isn’t overly tasty, but I’m afraid it’s all I’ve got.”
“I rather like it,” said Leek. This wasn’t entirely true, of course, as seaweed tea is something of an acquired taste. But Leek didn’t want to be rude. That was Morel’s department.
“What is your name, mouse?” demanded Morel. “And how came you to the belly of this dark beast?”
“My name is Hamlin.” The little mouse sighed. “I am a wandering minstrel, or at least I was, and rather a good one, if I do say so myself. Why, there was a time when I played for very important rodents, of the very highest quality. But a wandering minstrel wanders, you see, by definition, and earns his daily crumb by luck, on a road that never ends. Yet perhaps you know, as wayfarers yourselves, that the road is not always kind.”
“Of this”—Morel frowned—“we are aware.”
“It was a dark and stormy night,” continued Hamlin. “The hail came down as big as . . . well, as big as me—and bigger. I was all alone in an unfamiliar land and soaked to the tip of my tail. But in the distance, I saw a snatch of light and made for it posthaste, in hope of warmth and cheer. As I approached, I soon beheld a caravan—rather a ramshackle affair, to be frank, but a caravan nonetheless—and crept inside. Its sole occupant was a conjurer of sorts—and not a well-mannered conjurer by any standard! Though wet and bedraggled, I pulled out my flute and embarked on a merry tune. But rather than clapping and cutting the cheese, the conjurer reached for his broom.”
“Imbrolio.” Leek shuddered. “It could only be he.”
“I was forced to flee for my life,” moaned Hamlin, “and leaped into a hat. And the next thing I knew, a legion of black cats was chasing me through a world without a sun. A harrowing affair, to say the absolute least, and me with only a flute for protection!”
“Flutes make very ineffective weapons,” agreed Morel, “especially small ones.”
“They chased me to the water’s edge, where I was forced to swim, only to be swallowed by this loathsome fish. And I’ve been here ever since. It is a terrible fate, and yet the beast provides safe haven from the cats, for which I must be grateful.”
Leek sighed and politely sipped his tea. The mouse had experienced the very worst sort of luck, for cats hate mice even worse than lucky rabbits. Hamlin couldn’t possibly have found himself in a more inhospitable realm. But Leek liked the little mouse, and he was glad to have him as a friend.
“My name is Leek,” said Leek. “And this is my guide, Morel. Together, we are on a mission. We seek a dark, mysterious tower within the fortress of the cats, where it’s said there’s a way back home. I’d very much like you to join us. One never knows when a minstrel might come in handy.”
Morel raised an eyebrow. As far as she could tell, their mission had come to a definite and decidedly unpleasant end. Hamlin’s shoulders slumped in obvious agreement.
“Thank you very much,” said the mouse. “But I am afraid of cats, as well as their towers and fortresses. And even if I was a brave mouse warrior rather than a musician, the fact remains that we are held captive in the belly of a fish. There’s no way out. I’ve looked.”
“There’s always a way with luck.” Leek smiled.
“I would like to see the sun again,” admitted Hamlin. “And the tale of our escape would make for a wonderful song. But my luck has met its end, here beneath the sea, and so has yours.”
Hamlin suddenly felt such a terrible sense of desperation that he turned from the rabbits to cry. His sadness had been bearable, in a way, when he was alone, if only because he didn’t have to talk about it. But then his guests had come, and manners dictated that he answer their questions willingly and honestly. Answering questions meant he was forced to recount, and in some ways relive, all the very worst moments of his life. The moments all gathered in two little glands behind his eyes, then oozed out in great wet drops, which trickled down his whiskers in such numbers that Hamlin soon felt rather dehydrated.
Just as the last tear wound its way slowly down Hamlin’s longest whisker, Leek reached out and brushed his back with a paw, offering small comfort and something more besides.
“Terribly sorry,” said the mouse, wiping his eyes. “I really ought to serve a bit of a bite, I suppose. I haven’t much, but I have been experimenting with seaweed cheese. It isn’t half bad, all things considered.”
Morel wrinkled her nose. Seaweed cheese didn’t sound all that appetizing. And, in truth, it isn’t.
“That’s very kind,” she said in her most diplomatic tone, “but we have brought provisions, of which you are welcome to partake.”
With that, she withdrew her pouch of neeps. But just as Morel loosened the cord that held the satchel tight, the great fish turned abruptly from its course, and the satchel fell to the floor, spilling the dried rutabaga hither and yon. Just like that, seaweed cheese was immediately back on the menu. Morel sighed heavily, then sighed all over again. More bad luck, she thought. Just when things couldn’t possibly get any worse, they got worse.
Suddenly, the cavern shook, with a tremor that on a scale of one to ten would have registered a resounding twelve and a half. Leek, Morel, and Hamlin found themselves flying past one another and bouncing against the walls of the little shack.
“Out!” commanded Morel. “Before it collapses upon us!”
Hamlin snatched his trusty flute, the one thing in his life untarnished by ill luck, and the troop bounded out of his rough home just as it shuddered and collapsed in a heap.
“What,” yelped Hamlin, “was that?”
Before Leek could even think to offer a guess, there came another tremor and another and many more. As he was tossed about the cavernous gut of the beast, Leek glimpsed two furry shapes whizzing past him at speed, which he took to be his friends. This is a most unexpected turn of events, he thought as he careened past a fleshy stalactite.
The tremors subsided just briefly, and Leek rose from the pit of that great stomach, turning to Hamlin and smiling in sudden revelation.
“I believe our fish is sneezing.”
“Sneezing!” cried the mouse. “But what possible allergen could cause a giant fish to sneeze?”
Morel stared at Leek in sudden wonder. She had seen him touch the mouse, but she hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now she knew what Leek had done. And what’s more, she knew just what foreign allergen had caused the fish t
o sneeze. As the last and greatest tremor rocked the cavern, sending the mouse and both rabbits up and out of the fish, into the indigo sky and past the ever-present moon, Morel called out:
“NEEPS!”
Precisely six seconds later, the threesome landed in a furry little mound on the far shore of the Great Ink, where precious few rabbits—and certainly no mouse—had ever laid a paw. But Leek, you understand, was a very persistent sort of lucky rabbit. After all, he had a little boy to think about.
Chapter Four
Cecil Bean, in the meantime, had embarked on an adventure all his own, in search of the Great Imbrolio. He had stuffed his pockets with all the things he thought an adventure might require, including a pocketknife, a bit of twine, and one spare pair of tighty-whities, as well as four fresh slices of whole-wheat bread, and eight cross sections of thinly sliced salami. Cecil had elected to wear a dark blue anorak with a hood, which seemed like it might offer some degree of invisibility, were the boy given opportunity to sneak up on Imbrolio deep in the shadow of night. He had also decided to wear two pairs of socks, but that was just because it was chilly.
Cecil had been walking all day and had passed through two small villages, much like his own, where he duly noted signs of Imbrolio’s passage. In the first, Cecil spied a tiny girl caked in mud, staring up through cracked glasses at the remains of her kite, which had been shredded irrevocably by an osprey. In the second, Cecil watched as a boy his own age sprinted by naked as a jaybird and covered in black molasses, pursued by a swarm of bees. The villain Imbrolio had left a trail of ill luck, all too easy to follow. So Cecil pressed on, farther than he had ever traveled before, emboldened by the knowledge that there were other victims who desperately needed his help, in addition to their rabbits.
As he walked, Cecil pondered at length the mysterious gentleman he’d met at his favorite café. Why was it, wondered Cecil, that the man’s own rabbit had retired? What precisely was the secret that had freed him from the whims of his cat? And why on earth, wondered Cecil Bean, must the magician’s code be so exceedingly stringent?
The orange sun sank lazily behind the hill beyond the meadow, where Cecil suddenly found himself exhausted, alone, and increasingly cold. So the boy sank into a warm bed of russet-red leaves, in the hollow of an ancient tree, and peeked out from the hood of his anorak as the stars took their places in the sky. Before sleep took him, one bright star shot across his field of vision, trailing a streak of bright white. And as Cecil closed his eyes, he made a wish.
“I wish,” whispered the boy, “that I was a magician, too. For then I’d have mysterious secrets of my own. And I would only ever share them with my rabbit.”
“The Jungle Prime Evil,” said Morel. “Legends speak of the perils that await within.”
“What sorts of perils, precisely?” asked Leek, who still smelled strongly of fish.
“The legends,” whispered Morel, narrowing her eyes, “are unspecific.”
“Well,” said Leek with a smile, “I suppose the answers to such questions lie in courage. So we’d best be off, then, hadn’t we?”
“Wait,” squeaked Hamlin. “I am compelled to thank you both. And though the aid of one small mouse may hardly seem like much, I hereby pledge it to you, with allegiance evermore, until my debt is paid.”
“That’s awfully good of you to say,” said Leek, rather moved by Hamlin’s speech. “We accept your offer with great honor and humility.”
Leek and Hamlin shook paws with a great deal of bowing and formality thrown in for good measure, and as they did, Morel considered their plight. Though Hamlin was a very small mouse to be sure, he was yet another mouth to feed. What’s more, Hamlin, by his own admission, was merely a musician. A warrior would be one thing, armed with a halberd or mace, but Morel doubted a flautist would be much use at all.
“If the Dimmer-Dammers catch us,” she muttered under her breath, “he can play our swan song.”
The fellowship of three strode forward into the jungle, led by a rabbit who doubted their luck would hold. But still she had her spear and sword. And a stout blade, considered Morel, just might be luck enough.
Leek’s approach was rather less considered. His only thoughts were of Cecil.
The jungle soon enveloped them, dense and cruel and dark. The thorns of trees were big as spikes, the vines thick as the largest of snakes—and some equally poisonous. High above them, moonbeams pierced the pitiless canopy, spotting the forest floor in polka dots of doom. Morel was pleased to note that there seemed a path of sorts, but even as she stared ahead, it seemed to almost slither—and wind in ways that made the warrior wary.
The path was the least of her worries. Strange sounds soon reached her ears: squawks and snorts and squeaks. Some such sounds seemed surprisingly close, often just inches away. But every time Morel twirled and turned, she saw only her companions, following close behind.
Once, and only once, Morel might have sworn she heard the snuffling of a pig—and glimpsed the telltale gleam of beady, porcine eyes. But she dismissed the notion at once. This was the dominion of cats and cats alone.
The path squirmed upward, and summoning their strength, Hamlin and Leek strove hard to stay close to their guide. As they crested the rise, Morel suddenly crouched and motioned her friends to be silent. For there below them, rising from the undergrowth, stood a solitary outpost. And even from a distance, its stench was ripe with warning.
“What is it?” whispered Leek.
“A watchtower,” said Morel, wrinkling her nose with foreboding. “And it stinks of cat. The path has betrayed us.”
“Then we must stray from the path,” said Leek, “and trust ourselves to luck.”
“Of all the rabbits condemned to life in Hat, I have always proved most willing to seek another way,” said Morel. “But I am a stranger to the Jungle Prime Evil, and to stray from this trail might well prove our ruin.”
Leek smiled. “Nonsense. You must simply follow your spear, and we will follow you, our guide in whom we trust.”
Hamlin nodded in agreement, and so the vote was cast. They dared not creep too close to the tower of the cats; that much was all too clear. But which way, then, to go? Morel just wasn’t sure. So she spoke unto her spear.
“Great spear, old friend,” she whispered to its shaft, “I trust the path to you. I beg you point the way, and do not fail.”
Morel thus closed her eyes and gripped her weapon tight—and of its own accord, the spearpoint pointed right.
“We will go right,” spoke Morel in resolution.
“Of course we will,” said Leek. “Things always go right, with luck.”
Leek was unaware that high above them a scouting Dimmer-Dammer, soaring noiseless on the wind, had spied the faint glint of steel, as well as the fellowship it briefly alit, and returned to its roost to report. For luck, as you well know, comes in two distinct varieties. And within the world of Hat, they seldom rise in equal measure.
As the trio pressed on, deeper into the jungle, even Leek’s eternal optimism soon sputtered and went out. With every step, his paws recoiled at the bites of rock and thorn, and poor Hamlin, small as he was, soon proved the worse for wear. The little mouse did not complain, but his stomach rebelled against him, growling for attention.
“You would think,” whimpered Hamlin, “that even an evil jungle might bear a bit of fruit. We haven’t had a thing since teatime. Teatime yesterday, come to think of it!”
“Let your hunger fuel your courage,” said Morel. “We will be lean and mean.”
But Morel had to admit that she was hungry, too. Only the memory of her human girl drove her forward. It had been years since they had parted, and as Morel pressed on through vines before her, she suddenly recalled her human’s love of orchards. The girl had always been partial to a very specific fruit, and when she walked among the trees, Morel had followed close behind, making sure that only the very finest specimens fell at her charge’s feet. The recollection was a warm one, from an ag
e almost forgotten, so strong that Morel could almost smell it.
“Apple,” she said to herself, and sighed.
“I’m not quite sure what it is,” said Leek, “but it does rather smell like an apple!”
Morel snapped from her reverie and stared ahead. Not fifty feet before her was a clearing, and sitting in a narrow shaft of moonlight was just what she had smelled: a sort of apple. Yet the apple was nearly black in color, and something about its odor just didn’t smell quite right.
“Well, whatever it is, I think it smells delicious!” cried Hamlin, his belly gurgling in agreement. With that, the mouse rushed forward, with Leek in eager tow. An apple, of all things! Luck was with them after all, even in the Jungle Prime Evil.
As the pair rushed toward their prize, Morel’s whiskers twitched with apprehension. And suddenly, she dashed for her friends, for she had recognized the smell that wasn’t right, masked as it was by the apple.
Before she could even cry out, a great net sprang from a patch of black leaves. Morel’s sword and spear fell to the earth, as did the traitorous apple, and the companions could only stare down, suspended as they were, as dark forms gathered beneath them.
The smell Morel had smelled was a trap.
Cruelly gagged and tightly bound, the companions soon found themselves tied by all fours to a stick, which Morel recognized with a grimace as her spear. From her spear they dangled while small figures, masked in shadow, carried them through the bush. Morel twisted and writhed, but the vines that held her were far too strong to break. And the bitter gag in her mouth prevented her from voicing all manner of nasty remarks. At last she relented and ceased to struggle. She would wait, conserving her strength, and hope for some later chance to fight back.
It didn’t take long for the prisoners to lose all sense of direction—and then, one by one, to nod in sleep. Hamlin was plagued by nightmarish dreams and shuddered more than once in abject fear.