by Adam Kline
Leek, on the other hand, enjoyed rather pleasant dreams of his boy. But he awakened with a start when dropped roughly to the ground, then thoroughly prodded and poked. Bound though he was, Leek sat upright to gaze at the figure doing the poking.
It was a pig.
The pig was painted with tribal markings and sculptured ornaments dangled from its snout and ears. The pig wore little in the way of clothing, and naught but a slight breechcloth concealed its jiggly bits. But what was most remarkable about the pig was its size. It was scarcely taller than Hamlin—though substantially more menacing.
Leek gasped. “Who, or what, are you?”
“I am Kadogo,” snorted the pig, “king of the Miniature Potbellies.”
“Well, my name is Leek,” replied the rabbit, “and I don’t much like to be poked.”
“You are not very fat,” said Kadogo. “But this will please my physician. She’s very concerned about my cholesterol.”
“I demand to be released this very instant,” cried Leek. “My companions and I have no argument with you or your tribe.”
“The warrior does,” said Kadogo, grinning and gesturing at Morel. “In fact, we had to replace her gag. She is very rude.”
“Yes, sometimes,” admitted Leek. “But she’s quite essential to my journey. She’s my guide, you know.”
“Not anymore,” snorted Kadogo. “Henceforth, she shall be known as supper!”
“Supper!” exclaimed Leek. “But surely you don’t mean . . .”
“Silence!” bellowed Kadogo. “You stink of sea monster! And now you shall suffer the fate of all who trespass in my realm. It’s bath time!”
At this, the dozens of surrounding potbellies burst into laughter and cheers. Several rushed forth, bearing wood and tinder, which soon produced a blaze. Atop the fire was placed a massive cauldron, filled to the brim with broth, which quickly simmered and steamed. And to Leek’s horror, his captors hoisted the threesome aloft, then plopped them in, one by one, to cook. Leek’s paws were still bound, and Morel’s rough gag was still tied tightly in place. Leek’s last hopes soon commenced to drift away, with the smell of boiling rabbit.
But as Kadogo danced past the great vat, Leek just managed to reach out and brush his hide with a paw.
Suddenly, a small voice rang out, clear and high, above the drums and chants of the prancing potbellies.
“Wait!” cried Hamlin the mouse. “I have a last request!”
Kadogo turned, and with a wave of his hoof, the potbellied camp went silent.
“Name any boon but mercy,” said Kadogo, “and I will grant it.”
“Great king,” spoke Hamlin in a slow and steady voice, “this is all a terrible mistake. To these two rabbits, I owe a debt, which I fear now may never be paid. Thus I humbly ask, mighty Kadogo, that I may honor them, in this their final hour, with the last of my meager breath.”
Morel, though gagged and bound, rolled her eyes at Hamlin’s request, and Kadogo laughed with a hearty oink.
“Even denied a voice, the she-rabbit is rude! But so let it be. We will hear you, little mouse, before we eat our stew.”
With that, Kadogo drew a long stone knife from his waist and cut through Hamlin’s bonds. The mouse paused, then raised himself to the edge of the pot, to play with pride one final time. From his fur, he pulled his flute, which sparkled with moonlight and flame. Kadogo narrowed his eyes, awaiting what would come, and as fiery embers leaped toward the heavens, Hamlin’s last song began.
The melody was but a simple one, which Hamlin had never played before. Some songs lie dormant in a minstrel’s heart, you see, often for many years. And some, quite sadly, never emerge at all—and remain unplayed forever. But others, and often the very finest sorts, simply wait until the time is right. This was the sort of tune that sprang from Hamlin’s flute, and the tribe of Kadogo gasped at its pure beauty. To the miniature potbellies, and to Leek and even Morel, it was a song that reached into the hidden valleys of their souls and banished all sadness, however briefly. Kadogo felt that he was floating, and the thick ridge of coarse hair that ran the length of his back tingled and stood on end. He hoped the song would never end.
The mouse played on, his eyes shut tight, as the song spilled forth from his heart. This was his gift to Leek and Morel, and he had nothing greater to give.
As the melody poured out deep into the night, even the moonlight felt warm. For the beams absorbed the song, and with it, Hamlin’s noble spirit. And in the few small spots along the forest floor where the moonlight touched the earth, the black rock trembled, as if touched from far beneath.
From these spots emerged small fungi—deep, dark blue in color—which sprang forth in search of the song.
As the final notes of Hamlin’s song floated into the air and away, Kadogo opened his eyes knowing that somehow an emptiness inside him had been filled. But as the great chief gazed about him, he blinked and blinked again in disbelief.
“The truffles,” he gasped. “The truffles have returned.”
Chapter Five
Millikin hissed and spat, the hapless villain beside himself with rage. As he stormed through the black citadel of the cats, his brethren leaped from his path. Millikin was so angry, you see, even his friends were afraid.
When the scout had returned, Millikin was just preparing to enter the tower and return to the business of Cecil Bean. Then the news had come that, although recently devoured by a carnivorous aquatic monster of prehistoric proportion, Leek and the she-rabbit had just been spotted in the jungle. What’s more, they were apparently traveling with a mouse, adding considerable insult to Millikin’s already injured pride.
At this rate, everyone in Hat would be laughing at Millikin’s expense—and if somehow Leek should actually breach the fortress, an unthinkable circumstance altogether, well, then Millikin figured he might as well just give up entirely and go live in a hole, eat slugs, grow an enormous beard, and compose depressing poetry no one would ever read.
But Leek would never breach the fortress, Millikin assured himself. The jungle paths all led to heavily fortified outposts, and of course there were always the potbellies. Their pathetic little weapons were no match for even the smallest of Dimmer-Dammers, to be sure, and their numbers had dwindled substantially since the disappearance of the truffles. But still, thought Millikin, the pigs were ruthless fighters and could surely be counted on to hunt and dispatch two small rabbits and a mouse.
But Millikin wasn’t leaving the matter of Leek to chance. Thus, he strode to the launch port, his sinister black tail commanding his allies to follow. There, Millikin leaped astride a great iron raptor, terror of the skies and harbinger of ruin.
“Mount the Dimmer-Dammers, soldiers of darkness,” he cried, “and take to the wind! The rabbit Leek yet lives, and on his head, I will rain my vengeance!
“And maybe,” he whispered to himself, “maybe then I will be happy.”
“Truffles are quite timid, you see,” explained Kadogo. “It doesn’t take much to frighten a truffle.”
Leek nodded and rubbed his wrists, which still bore the marks of sticky bonds. Morel sat close nearby, sharpening her spear with a stone, and Hamlin reclined in honor on a comfy bed of leaves to the right of the potbellied king. The remainder of Kadogo’s tribe milled about among the truffles, breathing in the earthy scent for which they long had yearned.
“My people have tracked the truffle herd for countless generations, on its long migrations throughout the Jungle Prime Evil. And in our travels, we have always been content, for it is the way of the pig to wander. Since time began, we have hunted the truffles as nomads, eating those of age and dressing ourselves in their hides.”
“You eat them?” Leek gasped. “Well, then it isn’t any wonder that they’re frightened! I’d be timid, too, were I a truffle!”
“Ah,” said Kadogo, “but the truffles want to be eaten. It is a matter of multiplication.”
“I see,” said Leek, though he didn’t see, exactly, qu
ite what the great king meant.
“We miniature potbellies, you understand, are born as boars or sows, just like rabbits.”
“I am no sow,” snapped Morel.
“But truffles,” continued Kadogo, “are simply truffles. They are not male or female. They do not date or fall in love, and as such, they are quite incapable of multiplication. At least, that is to say, they cannot multiply without our help. Potbellies and truffles enjoy a symbiotic relationship.” (Which is a five-dollar way of saying that the pigs and truffles need each other—and that both get something good out of the bargain.)
“When a truffle is ready, a pig gladly eats that truffle. And when it passes through us (manners prevent me from offering greater detail), then the truffle’s spores are both fertilized and spread. A thousand truffle infants thusly result, to take their places within the herd.”
As if on cue, a truffle trundled up to the side of the great king and leaped happily into his mouth.
“And so,” said Kadogo with a smile, “the circle of life goes on.”
But the great king’s face grew dark. “Yet times have changed, with the advent of feline technologies. Always have we shared this land with the cats, each tribe simply going about its business, in the ways that Mother Moon deems fit. But the cats have grown too great, driven by their lust for ill luck, which has gone too long unchecked. Now their Dimmer-Dammers rend the stillness of the night. Their great roars frighten the truffles—and send them deep into the earth, beyond the reach of even our most skillful snouts. For long years have I, Kadogo, sought some means to bring them forth again, and always have I failed. But on this hallowed eve, fair Hamlin, you have brought us sweet reunion. Of your gift shall we sing until the potbellies are no more.”
“We didn’t really want to eat you,” added the king, with just a touch of sheepishness. “Rabbit’s a bit gamey for my taste anyway.”
“Well,” said Leek, smiling. “No harm done, and no offense taken. I actually think bacon smells lovely, though of course I’m strictly vegan.”
“May your gardens always bear fruit,” said Kadogo. “And now, friend Leek, how may the tribe of Kadogo aid you in your quest?”
“We seek the fortress of the cats,” said Morel in a low tone that made Kadogo cringe.
“Then you seek your end, and I would not see you perish,” replied the king. “Rather, I invite you to join our clan. Roam the jungle with us. Always are warriors welcome in the tribe of King Kadogo.”
“Thank you ever so much,” said Leek. “But I really must return to my boy in the world that I call home. As far as I’m concerned, it’s basically the big creepy tower or bust.”
“Yet to reach the tower,” whispered Kadogo, “you must pass through the Grottos of Ill Repute, where there is only darkness.”
“Well, it was pretty dark inside our sea monster,” said Leek. “How bad can it really be?”
“Ah, but friend Leek,” said Kadogo. “It is not the darkness you must fear, but he who waits within. For it is said that deep down in the caves there lurks an ancient evil. Often have we heard his howls, of hunger and of rage.”
Just then, far away, there came a cry of despair, a gruesome wail that made the rabbits’ blood run cold. Leek couldn’t help but shudder, a foreboding chill seeping through his every vein, but Morel simply stood and raised her spear.
“Is there no other way?” she demanded of the chieftain.
“There is none, she-rabbit. Your path leads only down, where even truffles fear to tread.”
“Then we go down,” said Morel, “to face what lies before us. I do not fear the darkness or that which waits within, for I am Morel. And I have spoken.”
“So let it be,” decreed Kadogo, who didn’t savor the thought of an argument with Morel. “We shall lead you to the entrance of that evil lair and mourn your passing in song.”
“There’s been quite enough song for one night,” replied Morel, rolling her eyes. And with that, she strode forth, past the warmth of the fire, toward the cry that still echoed in her ears.
Cecil had risen early, a bit stiff but otherwise intact. The boy quickly fortified himself with a sandwich, which he cut in two neat pieces with his pocketknife. Part of him might have enjoyed a mug of hot tea, with a liberal dollop of honey, but whatever part of him that was, Cecil decided to ignore. Sometimes, Cecil reasoned, an adventurer must forego such comforts in pursuit of greater goals. And Cecil’s goal, which loomed large before him, was to track the villain Imbrolio and the hat that wasn’t his.
So Cecil Bean walked straight toward the horizon, which is where adventure always lies, following the trail of bad luck through every town he entered. Cecil could only note the villagers’ assorted troubles, as some unfolded right before his eyes. And though he couldn’t be entirely certain, he felt sure he was getting close. For unlike the Not-So-Great Imbrolio, Cecil never stopped to trap rabbits or perform lackluster tricks. He paused only to sleep, and even then, it was little more than a power nap. Otherwise, Cecil simply walked and walked, and once his sandwich had properly digested, he even jogged a bit.
But again, as had happened the day before, Cecil walked all day with nary a glimpse of his quarry’s dilapidated caravan. Dusk settled like a thick woolen blanket over the sprawling forest ahead, and Cecil took careful note of dark clouds that gathered in warning of storm. As the first great drops fell heavily upon him, Cecil peered into the soupy gloom, hoping for yet another hollow tree in which to weather the night. Of course, thought Cecil, that would take some luck, of which he seemed in short supply.
Then, through the murk, he spied the bright blue flame of a cookstove.
Cecil crept forward with the stealth of an assassin and soon beheld the garish silhouette of a caravan. The boy caught his breath at the sight, lest his prey should detect him. But all stayed still, and when Cecil dared to breathe again, his nose caught a toothsome scent.
Sausages, thought Cecil. The cheeky brigand is grilling sausages—fresh pork, I’d say, by the smell of them.
“I can smell it, too.” Leek shuddered.
Led by Kadogo and his warriors, the companions had traveled countless leagues through the dark heart of the jungle, following no proper path so far as Morel could discern. But to Kadogo, the path was all too obvious. For the sovereign’s sensitive snout now followed a very specific stench, which grew stronger as they walked. Soon even Hamlin’s small nose recoiled in frank rebellion.
“I smell the reek of great unhappiness,” whispered the mouse. “And I fear this putrid funk as I have feared no other. Why, it’s worse than cat pee!”
“You are right to fear, my friend,” said Kadogo, “for you smell your own undoing.”
Then, as if repelled by the rotten odor in the air, the trees themselves gave way to barren desert, at the center of which was a hole. From its depths rose dark green vapors, which assaulted the travelers with the grim scent of despondence—which is to say it smelled very bad indeed.
“There lies the path,” said Kadogo. “And I beg you yet again, my friends, to stay with us and live in honor much deserved.”
“Thank you, O king, for all that you have done,” said Leek. “But now our ways must part. Should we fare well, my companions and myself, we have only you to thank.”
“And should we not,” said Morel, “it will be our courage, and not Kadogo, that has failed us.”
Kadogo smiled. “You speak fair words, and in thanks, I now bestow such gift as only a king may offer.”
Kadogo then held forth an earthen jug marked with the rune-sign of his people. Tiny holes were pierced in its lid, for that which was within was alive.
“Inside this sacred vessel, I have placed my greatest treasure, held within since I was but a piglet. For every king, before he may ascend our throne, must prove himself by surviving alone in the infinite jungle for twelve moons, with only his bow and his wits to guard him in time of need.”
“This custom seems just,” said Morel, “for only the worthy may
lead.”
“My trial was a cruel one,” continued Kadogo, “and I wandered to the darkest corners of this land. But it was there, where even my bright spirit dwindled and nearly went out, that I beheld two spheres of glowing light dancing before me—held aloft by some forgotten brand of sorcery. These lights gave me comfort and rekindled the flame within my breast. So I took them from the air and returned in triumph to my people. To this day, they burn with a hope that may never be extinguished. My father, in his final breath, spoke of a vision and said my hope had come to me from a land beyond my own. This land, I think, must also be yours as well, lucky Leek and brave Morel. Thus I give the gift of light to you who dare to walk so deep. May it serve you well.”
“Your light shall shine upon my spear,” said Morel, “and give it greater glory.”
“Yes, thank you very much,” added Leek. “It’s a lovely present.”
Just then, a shadow passed across the moon of Hat. Kadogo’s hairy spine bristled in sudden alarm, and his keen black eyes narrowed as he looked to the sky.
“The Dimmer-Dammers are upon us!” he snarled. “Into the abyss, before they descend, or your quest ends here and now!”
“I will not shrink from battle!” yelled Morel. “Let them come and feel my wrath!”
“Nay, shield-maiden of the rabbits,” said Kadogo, a twinkle in his eye. “Trust now in the might of our potbellied bows. Continue on your quest, and return to the world where you belong.”
The Dimmer-Dammers dropped from the sky in droves, their engines shrieking with hate. The beating of their loathsome wings lashed the troupe with the force of a thousand storms while their churning gears croaked warning of death from above.
On the foremost of these beasts rode Millikin, with wrath in his eyes and malice in his heart. Baring his fangs, he called out to those who followed behind.
“One metric ton of catnip for he who brings me Leek! Disgrace, dishonor, and dismemberment for all who allow his escape! Attack! Attack without mercy or restraint! And, needless to say, no quarter for the mouse!”