The monkey felt dizzy.
The rhythm was maddening. During the night, the legs of the throne, spindlier by the minute, were reinforced grudgingly by woodpeckers who would have much preferred to take the throne apart. The monkey had to rely on every photographic trick of the trade, now erasing, now trimming with scissors, disguising ears so they looked like shadows and shadows so they looked like wallpaper. He even began using old portraits of the King, trying to make them seem like recent ones.
Until one night, when it was very late, the old monkey was awakened by an angry hand that shook him from his slumber. It was the counsellor, flanked by a fierce escort of soldiers. The Lord Wolf had sent for him.
The whole house was up by now. The little girl watched her father begin dressing.
“Say hello to His Foxcellency,” said the monkey.
“Dad,” she said, and it was astonishing that she did not speak in a low, fearful voice anymore, as if the armed guards were not even there, “today you’ve got to bring me that picture I asked for.”
“A picture?” The counsellor showed interest. “A picture of what, of whom?”
The child continued to ignore him. “Today you’ll bring me a photo of the rabbits, right, Dad? For my wall?”
The mother monkey touched the girl’s head as if she had a fever. “Hasn’t your father told you that rabbits don’t exist? Haven’t we shut you up in your room for telling lies?”
“They exist,” the little girl announced. “Everybody knows they exist.”
“Just as I suspected,” said the counsellor. “Let’s go.”
The Wolfiest of Wolves was waiting for them atop his throne. Around each leg, hundreds of guards and snakes kept watch.
“Monkey, you are a traitor,” thundered the King. “Your photos are being used by people who say that strange and malicious creatures—who are non existent as everyone knows—are conspiring this very night to overthrow my rule. They say my throne trembles and my dynasty will topple. Is there any evidence that my throne trembles? Does anybody dare say so?” And he yowled like a hundred jet fighters in the air. “We’ll start by making a recording of that sound. And you, you monkey, you’re going to help me stamp out these rumours. Touching is believing. You are going to make me a wide-angle, three-dimensional picture that will cover all walls. In colour. Because I am going to crown myself Emperor of the Wolves, the Supreme Wolferor. And if a single wretched rabbit shows its snout, I will make you eat the photos, one by one, a million of them, and then I’ll eat you and not only you, but your wife and your daughter, and all the monkeys in this country. Now. Take that picture.”
The monkey stuck his quaking head under the black cloth behind his camera and focused on the throne. He let out a little moan. Up till then, the rabbits had appeared only later, when the picture was developed. But here they were now, directly in front of his lens, ungovernable and carefree, gnawing away, biting not only the wood of the throne, but also the swords of the astonished guards and the very rattles of the rattlesnakes.
“What’s the matter?” bellowed the future Wolferor, who was not looking downward so his profile would be perfect for posterity.
The monkey moved the camera nearer the throne, hoping the rabbit army would not appear in the picture. The rabbits moved faster than he did. They were clambering up the legs, one on top of the other as if they were monkeys or birds. The soldiers tried to frighten them away in silence, unwilling to attract the attention of the King, but the invaders were too agile. The Wolves kept bumping into one another and hitting each other over the head.
The monkey realized that a contingent of birds had arrived from above, winging freely through the air, without a cord tied to them or a recording.
“Hurry up!” ordered the Wolf of all Wolves.
The monkey closed his eyes very tightly. It was better not to witness what was going to happen. At the very moment that he clicked the shutter, he heard a deafening noise. He knew what he was going to see when he opened his eyes, but still could not believe it: like an old elm tree rotten to the core, the throne had come crashing to the ground along with the King of Wolves, guards, snakes, counsellor, and all. The monkey blinked. There at the foot of his tripod lay the Biggest, Baddest, the Most Boastful Wolf in the Universe. His ribs were broken, his black fur was torn by the fall, his yellow eyes were reddened, and he was wailing in pain.
“Monkey,” squeaked the would-be Wolferer of the World, “this picture . . . you have my permission not to publish it.”
At that moment, all the lights in the palace went out. The monkey was paralyzed. He did not know where to go. Then, as if someone in the darkness were suddenly shining a light on a pathway, he knew what he must do. He grabbed his camera and his bag, and clutching them to his chest like a treasure, he fled.
His daughter was waiting for him at the door of the house.
“Wait,” he said to her. “Wait. I’ve brought you something.” And without another word, he raced into his darkroom to develop the last picture as quickly as possible.
When he came out a few minutes later, his daughter and wife were standing on chairs, taking down the pictures of the Wolf King.
“Here,” the old monkey said to his daughter, blinking in the bright light. “Here, this is the picture you’ve been asking for all this time. I’ve finally brought you your present.”
“Thanks, Dad,” the little girl said. “But I don’t need it anymore.”
She pointed around the room and toward the street and across the fields where the sun was beginning to rise.
The world was full of rabbits.
Considered to be one of “the greatest Latin American novelists” (Newsweek), ARIEL DORFMAN is the author of many novels, poems, plays, essays, and films, often set in his native South America. His plays have been staged in over a hundred countries and his books translated into more than thirty languages. He has received numerous international prizes, including the Laurence Olivier and the Time Out Award for best play of the year for “Death and the Maiden.” His first book, How to Read Donald Duck, which shows the beloved Disney character to be an agent of American cultural imperialism, and which was banned in Chile upon its publication in 1971, was published in English for the first time in 2018. The Rabbits’ Rebellion, first published in England in 2001, is Dorfman’s only book for children, and is being published in North America now for the first time. He is a distinguished professor at Duke University and lives in Durham, North Carolina.
CHRIS RIDDELL is best known as the author and illustrator of the acclaimed The Edge Chronicles series, written with Paul Stewart. He has illustrated many other books including the award-winning children’s book, Pirate Diary, 100 Hugs, and several titles with Neil Gaiman, the most recent of which is Art Matters: Because Your Imagination Can Change the World. He is also the political cartoonist for the Guardian and Observer newspapers. He lives in England.
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