With no time to leap clear, Whisker braced himself for the impact. The bucket hit with seismic force, knocking the breath out of his lungs and saturating him with icy cold water. Gasping for air, he threw his arms around the bucket and held on for dear life. There was more than one way of reaching the other side – and he was riding it.
The bucket express carried Whisker’s shell-shocked body all the way to the willow trees on the far bank. As it began to slow down, Whisker leapt free, commando-rolling into a patch of clover and springing to his feet.
It was now an uphill dash to the finish line.
Whisker had a head start, but he was winded, woozy and sopping wet. Cleopatra, on the other hand, had speed. Oodles and oodles of speed. By the time Whisker had cleared the thicket of trees, the Egyptian speedster was already bounding off the trunk.
He increased his pace, his legs pumping, his heart pounding in his chest. The words of Frankie Belorio flashed through his mind: Keep on running. Keep on fighting.
Cleopatra’s footsteps thundered behind him. With grit and determination, he clambered higher up the hill. Ahead of him, the southern edge of the dam came into view. Frenzied spectators threw their paws in the air, cheering the runners home.
Fifty metres to go, he told himself.
Cleopatra was closing fast, tearing up the hill like a hungry cheetah.
Whisker’s muscles burned. His lungs heaved. His tail did nothing. Losing the strength in his legs, he began to falter.
Forty metres. Keep it together.
The crowd was suddenly all around him, shouting and screaming. He could feel Cleopatra’s breath on the back of his neck. He could hear her snarling victoriously.
Thirty metres, he panted, willing himself on. You can still win it.
The purple ribbon of the finish line drew closer. Cleopatra was right beside him. Shoulder to shoulder, they tussled for the lead.
Twenty metres.
Reaching the edge of the dam, Cleopatra made her move. She broke away from Whisker with explosive acceleration and hurtled up the steep bank like a mountain goat on a sugar rush. Before he knew it, she was a full body length ahead of him. Then she was two bodies clear.
With only ten metres to go, Whisker knew he would never catch her.
It can’t end like this, he told himself. Come on …
With a mighty KABOOM! KABOOM! two cannons roared to life from the centre of the dam. Caught unawares, Cleopatra was blasted off her feet by a wave of sticky, green goo. Startled onlookers screamed in panic as mangled chunks of Granny Smith apples sprayed everywhere.
Avoiding the brunt of the attack, Whisker brushed an apple seed from his chin and kept on running.
Five metres to go. You’ve still got a chance.
Ahead of him, Cleopatra began dragging herself out of the putrid muck, clawing her way to the finish line. Fuelled by adrenalin, Whisker lowered his head and powered on.
Four metres.
Cleopatra stumbled forward, green-eyed and terrifying, her brown fur glistening with apple juice.
Three metres.
He was almost there.
Two metres.
Neck and neck, they approached the line, the ribbon close enough to touch.
One metre.
It was now or never.
With every last ounce of his strength, Whisker hurled his body forward. He heard the roar of the crowd. He felt the ribbon brush the tip of his nose.
Victory.
As he crashed to the ground in a tangle of purple material, he knew he had done it.
This one’s for you, Mum, he said to himself as he lay in a heap, panting for breath. Red roses and rotten apples. If only you could see …
To either side of him, Horace and Pete thumped their cannons in celebration. Granny Rat and the Captain cheered and paw-pumped the air.
‘Caw, caw,’ Chatterbeak screeched. ‘What an explosive finish. Watch your backs, Cat Fish. The Pie Rats are coming for the trophy.’
‘Awesome treasure hunting, Whisker!’ Horace cried, rushing over.
‘Awesome shooting, yourself,’ Whisker said, untangling himself from the ribbon.
‘Aw, shucks,’ Horace replied, brushing the praise aside with his hook. ‘I can’t take all the credit. It was Pete’s idea to plant the cannons on the finish line.’
‘Thank Ratbeard the Cat Fish supporters stayed out of our way,’ Pete added dryly. ‘The fools all presumed our cannons were for the victory celebrations.’
‘The celebrations vill have to vait, I’m afraid,’ Gustave said, stepping out of the crowd. He gestured behind him to where a throng of rowdy Cat Fish supporters were leading a chant of, ‘Death Ball! Death Ball! When do we want it? Now!’
‘In an endeavour to avoid a riot,’ Gustave continued, ‘I have rescheduled ze Death Ball final for zis morning.’
Whisker felt his jubilation turn to despair. The Pie Rats’ rent-a-crowd was nowhere in sight and, without their camouflaged uniforms, the entire team stood out like bright-red strawberries in a spinach patch.
‘We begin in thirty minutes,’ Gustave said firmly. ‘Gather your vits and prepare to do battle.’
Fuming with rage at her inaccurate game-time prediction, Granny Rat called an emergency meeting in the grassy centre of the dam. Ruby arrived, sopping wet and shivering, and joined the five rats in a tight huddle.
‘We’ve got good news and bad news,’ Horace said, bringing her up to speed.
‘Let me guess,’ Ruby said, glaring at Whisker. ‘We lost the Treasure Hunt, right?’
‘Err, no, that’s the good news,’ Horace replied, ‘The bad news is that Gustave has scheduled the Death Ball final for nine forty-five this morning.’
Ruby shrugged. ‘It’s a good thing your mother has finished our uniforms, Horace.’ She pointed a wet thumb over her shoulder. ‘I saw her with Rat Bait and the Hermit a few minutes ago. They were lugging an entire cartful of clothing through the apple grove. I didn’t spot Fred, but he may have been blending in with his surrounds.’
‘That definitely halves the bad news,’ Granny Rat said. ‘What about our opposition?’
‘Prowler won’t be much good until at least the second half,’ Whisker said, holding up his tranquilised tail. ‘Those darts were quite a knockout.’
The Captain managed a small laugh and, for the first time since the Fish ‘n Ships Inn, Whisker felt like he was part of the crew again. Ruby was still giving him the cold shoulder, but the others appeared to have softened after his winning performance in the Treasure Hunt. Whisker knew they would think otherwise if they discovered what he was secretly planning to do with the trophy.
Pushing the guilt to the back of his mind, he watched as Mama Kolina, Rat Bait and Fred appeared on the bank of the dam with their cart. Dressed in a flowing piece of canvas with a hole for his head, Fred looked more like a camouflaged potato sack than a Death Ball finalist.
‘Frankie always said that loose fitting uniforms were best,’ Horace murmured in bemusement.
Although Whisker’s uniform was slightly more streamlined than Fred’s ‘sack’, his long-sleeved top and three-quarter pants prompted a string of snide pyjama remarks from the assembled spectators.
The Cat Fish were clearly unimpressed with the Pie Rats’ last-minute uniform swap, but Sabre’s animated protests to Gustave were in vain.
‘It’s in ze rules,’ Gustave said firmly, pointing to a scroll in Chatterbeak’s claws. ‘Now if you vill excuse me, Captain Sabre, I have an important timepiece to attend to.’
Sabre grabbed the scroll from Chatterbeak and thrust it towards an old ginger cat wearing a top hat.
‘Find me a solution, Tom,’ he hissed. ‘Now!’
While Sabre glared menacingly at Whisker and the rest of his camouflaged opponents, Gustave made his way towards a large grandfather clock on the southern bank of the dam.
‘Next time I vill remember to bring ze spare hourglasses,’ he grumbled to two rabbits as they moved the clock into position.
Whisker looked up at the clock’s enormous face. The time read nine thirty-six.
Only nine minutes to the opening bounce, he thought, and over two hours till Smudge is due back with our rent-a-crowd.
He scanned the perimeter of the dam. An army of Cat Fish supporters dressed in orange and silver scarves stood shoulder to shoulder in an unbroken circle. Papa Niko and his daughters tussled for a front row position, but were soon forced to the very back of the crowd.
‘Listen up!’ Granny Rat snapped, gathering the crew in a huddle near the reserve bench. ‘I want you to play for possession, not for position – the Cat Fish can’t score if they don’t have the ball. If they’re as callous as they’ve been in the past two games, you should get at least one penalty shot at goal.’
She pointed to a nearby leader board and addressed the team with determined focus.
‘It all boils down to this,’ she said, ‘if we win this match, we’ll go from dead last to first place in one day. If we lose, the Cat Fish will take an unassailable lead. Even if we win the Sea Race and the Stealth Raid, the cats will have an extra Death Ball victory, guaranteeing them the championship.’
‘It’s all or nothing then,’ Horace said, clicking his racket attachment into place. ‘Right here, right now.’
Granny Rat shot him a wary look. ‘This isn’t a ten-second sprint, pipsqueak. It’s a sixty-minute marathon.’ She waved a wrinkly finger in the direction of the grandfather clock. ‘You’ve got until the eleventh stroke of the hour to snatch victory. Make every second count.’
Whisker watched the rest of his crew take their positions on the field before he ventured through the thick grass to his spot on the wing. It didn’t help his confidence that his old rival, Cleopatra, stood waiting for him, her fur still gleaming with apple juice. She arched her back and extended her claws as he approached.
‘Isn’t this a pleasant surprise,’ she purred. ‘Together again without a single apple-filled cannon in sight. What’s going to save you this time, little rodent?’
‘Who says I need saving?’ he blurted out.
Cleopatra glared at him. ‘You’d be wise to remember the food chain, apple boy. Big cats eat little rats.’
With a small gulp, Whisker realised he’d probably said enough. He tightened the drawstring of his baggy pants and waited for the action.
When the hands of the grandfather clock reached nine forty-five, the referee blew his whistle. With a delighted roar from the crowd, the game was underway.
Chatterbeak squawked frantically as he tried to follow the events on the field. ‘Caw, caw, the cats take first possession and make a break though the centre circle … Master Meow passes the ball to Sabre … Sabre steps around a puddle. Out of nowhere he’s tackled by a green potato sack and the ball bounces free … It flies through the air … It lands in a clump of grass … Wait a minute folks, the grass is moving. Possessed parsley! I think it’s a Pie Rat. Yes, here comes Horace … or is it Whisker … Ruby, maybe …?’ He waved his wings in agitation. ‘Caw, caw, I have no idea. It’s all a green blur in there …’
With the ball tucked firmly under his arm, Whisker wove through the grass in the middle of the field, struggling to see where he was going. He could hear Cleopatra hissing behind him and knew he must maintain his pace.
Head down, he told himself, splashing through a puddle. Don’t let her catch you.
He saw the Captain darting out from behind a thistle and had just enough time to get a clean pass away before Cleopatra crashed through the grass, swiping wildly at him with her paw. He leapt clear, rolling to one side as her razor sharp claws sliced the stem of a large weed in two.
Scrambling after the Captain, Whisker knew that Death Ball had suddenly become a whole lot more deadly.
A Mischief of Rats
Thwarted by their canvas-clad opponents, the frustration of the Cat Fish grew as the grand final wore on. Unable to identify who was carrying the ball, the cats resorted to tripping and tackling any rat they came in contact with.
Whisker found himself illegally upended on at least three occasions. The referee, unable to see what was unfolding in the long grass, allowed the brutal game to continue without awarding a single penalty.
It wasn’t a pretty sight, but with play restricted to the centre field ‘swamp,’ the Pie Rats managed to hold the Cat Fish to a scoreless first half.
Whisker had barely plonked his bruised backside on the bench for the fifteen-minute break when a throng of Cat Fish supporters leapt onto the field with an assortment of sickles, machetes and rusty harvesting equipment.
‘Half-time entertainment?’ Horace wondered, looking up from a broken string on his racket attachment.
‘If only,’ Pete sniffled, pointing a bony finger at the ginger cat. ‘It seems our beloved opponents have found their own loophole in the rules.’
Pete was right. The ginger cat stood on the top of the dam bank reading from Gustave’s scroll, ‘Playing surfaces must be maintained to a standard befitting an international tournament at all times …’
In unison, the army of orange and silver spectators raised their tools and began slashing the tall grass and weeds of the dam.
‘Oh, that’s just swell,’ Horace muttered. ‘The gardening brigade is about to destroy the one thing that’s keeping us in this contest: our cover.’
Ruby threw her water flask on the ground in disgust. Pete scratched something unpleasant in the dirt.
The sombre mood seemed to spread down the entire bench. As more grass disappeared in the centre of the dam, the Pie Rats’ heads slumped further into their laps. Whisker could see it written all over their faces. They had accepted defeat long before they had even lost.
Who can blame them, he thought. They’re bruised, battered and utterly exhausted. For them this is simply another contest they’re destined to lose.
For Whisker, however, the next thirty minutes meant much more than a game of ball. It was his one chance of finding his family. Realising what he had to do, he slowly stood up from the bench and turned to face the crew.
He had never given a half-time speech, and he didn’t know the first thing about Death Ball tactics, but what he was about to say had nothing to do with strategy. It had everything to do with spirit.
The weary line of rats peered up at him as he began his desperate plea.
‘I-I know I am not your captain,’ he said, nervously, ‘nor am I your coach, but if I have learnt one thing during my time on the Apple Pie, it is that even the most insignificant rats can have a voice. The task we face today is near impossible, to say the least. Our opposition is stronger, faster and vastly more experienced.’
He surveyed the sorry line of rats and then shrugged. ‘But hey, what’s new?’
There were several downcast nods.
‘Umm, Whisker,’ Horace said, ‘I don’t mean to be critical, but your doom and gloom pep talk is hardly raising anyone’s spirits.’
‘Bear with me,’ Whisker said, searching his mind for a more positive approach to take. He recalled a passage he had read in his great-grandfather’s book comparing rats with other species. For once, rats had come out on top.
Trying to remember the exact words, he looked directly at Ruby and whispered, ‘We do not possess the rich colours of a peacock nor the glorious wings of a butterfly, but we can still be beautiful.’
Ruby stared back at him, her cheeks flushing pink. Trying to stay focused, Whisker turned to the Captain and said with passion, ‘We are not a pride of lions, but we still have pride.’
The Captain raised an eyebrow in recognition.
Recalling another fact, Whisker addressed Pete. ‘We are not a school of fish, but we love to learn.’
‘That’s true for some of us,’ Pete murmured half-heartedly.
Growing in confidence, Whisker stepped towards Fred. ‘We are not a tower of giraffes, but we can still be mighty.’
Fred straightened his hunched shoulders and gave Whisker a beaming smile.
Finally, with the rest of the crew hanging on to every word, Whisker turned to Horace.
‘My friend,’ he said with fire in his eyes, ‘we are not a pack of dogs nor a barrel of monkeys and we are definitely not a litter of cats. We are a mischief of rats and mischief is what we do best. So hold your head high, for on that field, mischief awaits!’
Horace leapt to his feet and saluted Whisker with his racket attachment, ‘Now that’s more like it! You can sign me up for a double dose of mischief.’
‘I’m in, too, Whisker,’ Fred said with a stirring round of applause.
‘I hate peacocks and I loathe butterflies,’ Ruby added, punching her paws together, ‘so book me a spot on the victory podium.’
The Captain adjusted his eye patch and rose from his seat. ‘As a wise rat once said, it’s better to go down fighting than sitting on a bench.’
‘For the record, I was referring to a game of chess when I said that,’ Pete sniffled. He squirmed awkwardly for a moment before adding, ‘But if you’re desperate for a substitute, you know where to find me.’
Invigorated and energised, the Pie Rats made their way onto the now barren dam. A few flattened stalks of grass lay in shallow puddles in the centre of the playing arena, but most of the vegetation had been removed by the fanatical Cat Fish supporters.
Lying on the cats’ reserve bench, Prowler began to move his arms and legs as the effects of the tranquiliser darts wore off. Whisker looked over his shoulder to see his own tail twitching haphazardly behind him.
As the clock ticked over to ten thirty, the referee blew his whistle and the final half of Death Ball was underway.
Whisker was amazed at what spirit could do. Although the soft squeaks of half-a-dozen Pie Rat supporters were drowned out by the roar of three hundred hostile Cat Fish fans, the rats played like every opposing cheer and chant was intended for them.
Granny Rat’s game plan was simple: make as much mischief as you can without conceding a goal.
Ball in arms, the rats darted and wove between the cats’ legs, jabbing them in the belly for good measure. Whenever the cats won possession, the rats would cling to their hind legs and yank their tails, causing the ball to bounce free time and time again. The size and strength of the Cat Fish proved no match for the nimble acrobatics of their smaller opponents, and they had no choice but to hurl the ball into the crowd as soon as they touched it.
The Trophy of Champions Page 16