by Adam Kline
“What good are bows against this fearsome flock?” demanded Hamlin. “Your arrows are no match for iron hides!”
“Their armor may be thick, friend Hamlin,” said Kadogo, fitting a dart to his bowstring, “but even machines must breathe. So we will aim for their snouts.”
Kadogo loosed his arrow, which sprang noiselessly, swift and true, streaking across the sky toward the Dimmer-Dammer at Millikin’s left. Its pilot could only curse as the dart found its mark, plugging the nostril of his mount. There it lodged, and the Dimmer-Dammer shuddered and burst with a piercing whistle of steam, its rider plunging into the jungle with a faint meow of fear. Hamlin had never dreamed of such a thing. And as the potbellied warriors sent forth a hail of darts, the mouse squeaked in sudden passion.
“Lend me a bow, Kadogo. This day, I will join you in battle, small as I may be.”
“We potbellies have a saying before we go to war,” said the chieftain, grinning. “Stature has nothing to do with it.”
“Rabbits,” cried Hamlin, “go now, in search of your humans, and think of me when you bring them fair luck!”
“We will,” said Leek, roughly pushing Morel down into the hole. “May your deeds prove worthy of song!”
“There’s been quite enough song for one night,” said Hamlin as he sighted his bow to the sky. With that, the mouse fired upward at the largest of the Dimmer-Dammers, its cold, blank stare focused solely on its prey. The dart whistled softly into its mark, and when the Dimmer-Dammer fell to earth, its great bulk filled the hole where just a moment before, Hamlin’s faithful friends had been.
Rising from the twisted wreck came Millikin, his cold, green eyes aflame with malice and rage. But even as he stared about him, at the mayhem he had wrought, he spied the glint of tribal arrows shining cold and merciless in the moonlight. As one, the arrows pointed toward him, held in check by stalwart hooves. And in a voice that quaked with shame, the savage cat cried out, “Dimmer-Dammers, retreat! The rabbit Leek has gone to certain death within the bowels of the earth! And now I, Millikin, purveyor of fates unfair and most unwelcome, shall return to Cecil Bean!”
“Begone, then, foul ravisher,” spoke the great Kadogo. “Return to that dank underbelly from whence you lately came, and leave my pigs in peace.”
Millikin eyed the chieftain, whose tusks seemed awfully sharp. Perhaps, he thought, he had rather underestimated the little pigs, who didn’t seem so little anymore. But Millikin was not alone, as true cowards rarely are. And even as an iron bird swooped down to carry Millikin away, he spat a final parting.
“Swine! The ground you tread is my dominion, and you walk it at my whim. Pay tribute to your betters, or I shall lay waste the jungle—and all who dwell within! And as for you, little mouse, pathetic rodent that you are, our dispute is far from over.”
“I should think not,” said Hamlin as Millikin’s curses faded into the distance. “I say, Kadogo! I rather like this battle business! And I simply love the smell of singed tomcat in the morning.”
“It is not morning,” said Kadogo grimly. “In my world, there is only night. And yet, friend Hamlin, most worthy of mice, I fear our friends may well be had for breakfast.”
Chapter Six
The Great Imbrolio yawned, picked his nose, and hung his undies to dry.
His sleep had been a fitful one, plagued by one highly disturbing dream, and though the man considered a catnap prior to breaking camp, he quickly decided against it. He didn’t want to risk the dream again.
In the dream, an army of warriors laid siege to his caravan, surrounding it during the night. His tiny bedchamber had been pierced by a thousand spears, and Imbrolio had no choice but to stumble outside, clad only in his single pair of underwear, which he realized in dismay he had wet. There, beneath a sky that burned with flame, the warriors had gestured to his hat, which sat upside down, awaiting him. Somehow, the hat had grown to the size of a hot tub. On its brim, the warriors placed a plank, which Imbrolio was forced to walk as they jabbed at him and jeered. Imbrolio stumbled forward as the plank wobbled and bowed with his weight, and he looked down. Then he fell into the void and was gone.
No, decided Imbrolio, a catnap was most certainly out of the question.
So the man set about packing his small possessions and loading them into and onto his caravan. As he heaved an old black trunk high to the caravan’s roof, it briefly crossed his mind that the trunk seemed unusually heavy. But then he remembered another detail of his dream.
The warriors had all had long ears.
Very strange, thought Imbrolio as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Very strange indeed—and far stranger than an unusually heavy trunk. No doubt he was simply tired after such a distressful night.
But Imbrolio knew what would make him feel better. Today, he would catch another rabbit, which he would subsequently thrust in his hat. How the crowd would cheer—for everyone loves magic. Imbrolio had always loved magic himself, which was why he had become such a very fine magician. Yes, of course that would make him feel better. It always did.
Imbrolio kicked his caravan, which sputtered and puttered to life, and squeezed himself into the cab. Yes, everything would be quite all right. All he needed to set his day in motion was a turnip, which he intended to steal at the very earliest opportunity.
So the caravan rolled slowly into the distance, slightly heavier than it had been the day before.
“Kadogo wasn’t kidding,” whispered Leek. “It’s so black it’s as if we’re wearing sunglasses and trapped in a box at midnight. I suggest we use the chieftain’s magic pot of light.”
“We cannot risk this magic,” said Morel, “lest it draw some evil to us.”
“Oh,” whispered Leek. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Which is why I do the thinking for us both,” replied Morel. “No, we must make our way along the tunnel’s wall, by touch, and stay wary of danger ahead.”
“Quite right,” said Leek. “Proceed.”
But Morel had already proceeded, as was her way, and Leek hopped very quickly to catch up with her.
The stench belowground was overwhelming, and Morel secretly feared she might swoon. But she steeled herself against its onslaught and pressed on. She had faced many foes during her tenure in Hat, and it simply wouldn’t do to be defeated by an odor. No one ever sings songs about warriors defeated by an odor, Morel considered, and when her time came at last to fall, she wanted to fall in battle, with honor. Her tribe could sing of that. That is, if they ever heard about it, which was another consideration altogether.
As they walked through the tunnel, hugging close to the relative safety of the wall, the stones they touched grew warmer with each step. Perhaps, thought Morel, as they crept deeper into Hat, they were nearing a geothermal pool or a lake of molten lava. There were many explanations for the warmth, and none of them were necessarily scary.
Then she heard a sound that was necessarily scary: the sound of breathing. With it came gusts of thick hot air, which explained the warmth of the walls.
“Where’s that coming from?” squeaked Leek from behind her. “It smells awful.”
“Keep quiet, and do as I say,” came the rather rude response.
“Now wait just a minute,” said Leek. “I almost always do as you say, and I feel compelled to note that just once, a ‘please’ would be greatly appreciated.”
“Quiet, you fool!” said Morel.
“Well, now that isn’t very nice at all,” continued Leek, raising his voice. “I may not be a mighty warrior princess, but where I come from, we’re taught to be polite. And I shan’t go another step, or keep quiet, without a ‘please.’ I simply shan’t.”
But even if she’d wanted to say “please,” which she didn’t, Morel did not respond. For before she could even pause to be annoyed, there came a roar, which washed over the rabbits like a sonic wave of rage.
Morel took two steps back, and in the silence after, she dared to peer into the darkness ahead, where she
caught sight of some shifting shadow.
“Run,” she snapped to Leek. “Please.”
Leek could not run, for his legs refused to move. In fact, Leek’s fear was suddenly so great, he had forgotten he had legs at all, or what it even meant to run. It seemed to him that running was a concept he should know, but at present, all Leek could manage to do was tremble, from the tips of his whiskers to the end of his cotton-ball tail.
Morel did not tremble, for she knew her time had come. This was the moment for which her spear had waited, and this was the moment of which her clan would sing. But to merit such honor, she would have to summon a courage the likes of which she had never summoned before. As the shadow darkened before her, mammoth in size and nightmarish in shape, Morel thusly braced herself to fight for her life and for Leek’s. Raising her weapon before her, she spoke as one must speak when certain doom awaits.
“Shadow of darkness,” she yelled in a voice laden with grim resolve, “before you stands Morel, mightiest of rabbits within these savage lands, bearing both sword and spear!”
The black shape crept ever nearer, looming large beyond all reason, and much to his surprise, Leek’s trembling suddenly stopped. Perhaps it was Morel. Her courage could be infectious. But no, Leek realized, that wasn’t it at all.
“From the depths may you emerge,” Morel continued, “to prey upon the weak, but take warning and heed you well the words that I now speak. Oft have I roamed, to fight against all fear. And though I may fall this very day, you will find no weakness here.”
The shadow cried out, turned tail, and ran.
Morel could not have been more surprised. It surprised her even more that precisely six seconds later, she found herself sprinting after it, bellowing a battle cry that shook the very walls around her. More surprising still was the fact that Leek was in front of her, running as only a rabbit can run.
The tunnel rose and dipped, and Leek slid down slippery slopes, with Morel close at his heels. Unlike his companion, Leek yelled no mighty battle cry. He had no wish for battle. No, Leek had something altogether different in mind for the shadow before him, and as he gained upon its bulk, he reached out, even as he ran, and brushed its back with his paw.
With a resounding crash and a yelp of pain, the shadow misjudged the tunnel’s path and collided soundly with its wall. Leek, in turn, collided with the shadow, and Morel collided with Leek—nearly skewering him with her spear.
Such was the force of that fateful collision that the sacred urn of King Kadogo was crushed to smithereens.
In the silence that followed, two tiny orbs of light came forth, followed by dozens more. And as the tunnel grew ever brighter, the tiny spheres rose, as one, to the monster’s gruesome head, for the shadow was shadow no more. Great horns sprouted gigantic from a sea of tousled mane, and warts the size of Leek himself adorned the monster’s chin. As the monster’s eyes grew wide in curious wonder, the lights rose around him, and formed a sort of crown.
Leek gasped. “They’re fireflies!”
“I think you’re right,” whispered Morel. “But I thought Kadogo said that there were only two.”
“Why,” said Leek in realization, “they must have multiplied!”
“Beautiful,” said the monster. “So small and yet so bright. What luck that here, among the caves, these lights should come to me.”
(Though unable to voice their joy, lacking in vocal cords of course, the fireflies were pleased as well. The fireflies had been courting, you see, long ago, in the world that has a sun. And over time, the two had fallen in love and been married. But the he-fly lived on only a modest income, and a honeymoon abroad was quite beyond his means. So the he-fly and the she-fly had decided to leave their accommodations to chance and simply go on a walkabout prior to settling down. So it was that they had come to rest in a hat, with rather unexpected results. And soon enough, they found themselves placed in an earthen jug, which certainly had its charms but lacked in adequate closet space. When the she-fly revealed that she was with child, her husband was overjoyed, to be sure. But his true love’s talk of a cozy nest, where her nesting instinct might reach suitable fruition, worried him to the point of desperation. When his children finally came, one after another after several dozen more, quarters became very tight indeed.
Yet now, before them, was a great mane of tousled hair, warm and wholly inviting, where the pair could raise their young and live happily ever after. The she-fly even thought they might build a little cottage, with a white picket fence, and the he-fly announced that he would go to the local shelter and adopt a flea. His wife agreed, on condition that her husband look after its droppings.)
The monster sighed in quiet reverie, enchanted by the light, then abruptly remembered his manners. And turning to the tiny brown rabbits standing betwixt his toes, he spoke in humble tones.
“Hello,” he said. “I am a cave monster, and my name is Gordon.”
“Hello,” said Leek, smiling. “My name is Leek, and this is my guide, Morel.”
“They’re wonderful, aren’t they?” whispered Gordon. “Little dancing lights.”
“Marvelous,” agreed Leek. “My boy, Cecil Bean, loves fireflies, too.”
“Just a moment,” interrupted Morel. “What kind of cave monster are you, anyway? Every cave monster I’ve ever heard of would have eaten us by now! Why, we heard your roars and growls many leagues from here, deep in the Jungle Prime Evil!”
“Oh, those weren’t roars or growls,” said Gordon rather shyly. “Those were moans of fear.”
“Fear!” gasped Morel. “But you’re a cave monster, ten times the size of any Dimmer-Dammer in existence, with horns and great big muscles! What in all of Hat has such a mighty beast to fear?”
“Well, you see,” said Gordon in his most timid voice, “I am afraid of the dark.”
Cecil Bean was not afraid of the dark, but he had to admit that it did make sandwich construction difficult. The trunk in which he’d stowed away was relatively comfortable, all things considered, but he had reached the last of his provisions and certainly didn’t want to waste them. There’s little worse than a poorly constructed sandwich, and Cecil was a stickler when it came to sandwiches. So he concentrated very hard as he constructed his.
As Cecil munched away, however, he began to think of the many things he did fear. He feared needles a bit, especially when stuck in his arm. And he rather feared beards, for some odd reason. But most of all, Cecil feared failure. For should he fail, then he and his lucky rabbit would never see each other again. To prevent such a dismal prospect from occurring, Cecil realized, he would need two things.
First, he would have to figure out the great secret of the mysterious gentleman, over whom luck seemed to hold no sway. The last thing Cecil needed, you see, was a stroke of bad luck just as he was preparing to save his rabbit. That could prove disastrous.
The other thing he’d need, of course, was the magic word required to operate the hat—and execute rabbit extraction. But with considered regard to this part, Cecil decided he would simply have to trust to trial and error. And maybe, just maybe, he’d get lucky.
Millikin had had every intention of returning to Cecil’s village and to Cecil, for whom he had planned a variety of deliciously nasty tricks. But as he strode for the great black tower, which contained his means of transport to the boy, a nagging doubt tugged at the base of his brain.
Everyone knew that the Grottos of Ill Repute were haunted by a monster of gargantuan size with an appetite to match. Millikin himself had often heard its cries of rage, which made Millikin’s tail puff out to the size of a feather boa. But since Millikin hadn’t actually seen the rabbits mashed and gnashed between the monster’s five-foot fangs, he couldn’t be certain that Leek was truly gone forever. He’d thought he’d vanquished his foe when Leek was engulfed by the fish. Yet Leek had soon reappeared in the jungle, with his girlfriend and mouse in tow. Then Millikin had assured himself that surely the filthy pigs, in their hunger, would catch the
meddlesome trio—and promptly boil them alive. Yet the potbellies had not only failed to boil them, they’d escorted them straight to the caves.
No, thought Millikin, Cecil Bean would have to wait. He simply couldn’t return to work until he was sure, very sure, that Leek had met his end. So Millikin turned on his heels and walked briskly toward the product development lab, where he’d heard that a menacing new brand of Dimmer-Dammer was underway. Some cats enjoyed referring to the new prototype as a “Digger-Dammer,” but Millikin frowned on the term. The cats, in Millikin’s considered opinion, had spent a great deal of time and effort building their brand equity, and he didn’t like to muddy the market with new and confusing names, however catchy.
Imagine, thought Millikin, descending on some hapless victim, only to hear him scream the wrong thing.
Chapter Seven
“It is a terrible thing to be afraid of the dark,” confessed the monstrous Gordon, “particularly when one resides in a cave.”
Gordon sat on his haunches so as to converse more easily with his guests. As he spoke, the light of the fireflies shone brightly against the black rock all around them, which sparkled as if in thanks. Leek felt awfully glad to have made a new friend, especially such a big one. And Morel, for her part, felt awfully glad she hadn’t had to fight the mammoth beast. She was certain that, if properly provoked, Gordon would make a formidable foe. Yet there was something she couldn’t quite grasp about his dilemma.
“But why not simply leave the caves,” she asked, “and roam the surface, where at least there is the moon to light your way?”
“I am a cave monster,” said Gordon, shrugging, “and so by definition, I must live in my cave. I’ve always assumed that roaming the surface wasn’t allowed.”
“Well, I highly recommend it, should you ever reconsider,” said Leek. “We met some lovely potbellies in the jungle.”
“You don’t eat pork, do you?” inquired Morel, fearing for Kadogo and his tribe.