The Twyning

by Terence Blacker

  — But we shall have gone by then, Malaika.

  My revelation was gentle, and she had heard it before.

  — Perhaps.

  She looked into my eyes, and I felt a lurch within me that was so strong that a noise, a small squeak of longing, escaped from me.

  — You are tired, Efren. Let us return home.

  — I am not tired. It is not home. We are rats; we are free.

  — My love.

  She moved closer to me in a movement that was more than merely comforting.

  I cannot tell what would have happened if, at that moment, I had not become aware of a rustle, a sort of tickle of sound, within me. Something about me must have changed, for Malaika looked at me, alarmed.

  — What is it, Efren? What is happening?

  It grew louder within me, refusing to be ignored.

  — I am hearing.

  — Hearing what?

  I closed my eyes. What was reaching me is difficult to describe. It was worse, in its way, than the scream of agony from King Tzuriel I had heard all those days ago. It was citizens of the kingdom keening. There had been a great loss, a terrible defeat. The pain of that chorus made me shake. I was hearing death.

  I turned to Malaika, and in that moment, I was suddenly lost in a new unhappiness. The gift of hearing involves the greatest sacrifice a rat can give. As I looked at her, I knew that what I wanted above all else was impossible.

  — I am a hearer.

  — A hearer?

  — Messages reach me. Only a few rats have the gift. They are important to the kingdom.

  — Efren.

  She looked at me with wide eyes, as if sensing that being a hearer could only be bad news.

  — Does that mean you will have to return to the world below?

  — More than that.

  I moved away from her, knowing in that moment that the choice facing me was no choice at all.

  I was a hearer. The kingdom was calling me.

  Malaika nudged me with her nose, puzzled by my coldness.

  — Tell me.

  — If I have a family with you, I shall lose my gift.

  — Love, Efren. The kingdom lives on love. We can be happy. We can bring more ratlings into the world. Is that not enough duty for one rat?

  I gazed into Malaika’s eyes. She made it seem so simple, so easy.

  She revealed again, moving closer to me.

  — Love, Efren. Your duty is love.

  . . . sniffing at each other, suspicious, stiff-legged, their hackles standing. They are as unlike one another as any two men could be — the doctor, with his suit and waistcoat and his booming voice; Bill, in his baggy working clothes, with his crooked back, unshaven face, and eyes that rarely look at you.

  They have only two things in common, and one of them is that I work for both of them.

  “How d’you know this character anyway?” Bill asks me when we are on our way to the doctor’s house the morning after pit day at the Cock Inn.

  “I work for him now and then, Bill.”

  “Work?”

  “I catch rats with him.”

  “What does he want with rats?”

  “He cuts them up. He studies them.”

  As we turn into the street where the doctor lives, Bill stops walking. He looks at the grand houses that surround us, then at me.

  “Ah.”

  I walk on. Bill may be quiet, and his work may be catching rats, but he is not a stupid man. Now he knows the answer to what has been troubling him throughout the night.

  “It was you.”

  I keep walking, head down.

  “You were the one who told them.”

  Ahead of him, I have reached the front door.

  “There’s money in it, Bill,” I say. “This could be an earner for you.”

  He walks toward me, and for a moment it seems as if he is going to strike me. I wait for the blow, knowing it is what I deserve. But instead he just shakes his head, like a man used to being disappointed by what people do.

  It hurts more than any slap.

  “Sorry, Bill.”

  He lifts the knocker on the door of the doctor’s house and raps it twice. “If this goes wrong, I’ll know who to blame,” he says.

  The door opens, and they are face-to-face at last, my two employers. We enter the house.

  And here’s the second thing they have in common. Rats. I have reason to be grateful for that.

  When we reach the laboratory and the doctor starts talking about his studies of the rat, Bill’s body seems to relax.

  “My research suggests that a single buck and doe could in theory be responsible for fifteen thousand creatures in the period of one year,” says the doctor.

  “They’d be going a bit,” Bill mutters.

  “They would, but it is possible. Take a brood of nine young. The doe can conceive within three weeks. Gestation period is —”

  “Twelve, more like,” Bill interrupts. “I’ve seen several broods of twelve.”

  “Really?” The doctor takes out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and scribbles upon it. “And where were these broods?”

  “There is a granary near the river. The rats in that area always have big families. Strong, too. Great fighters, they are.”

  “Fascinating. Would you be able to show me where they are, Mr. Grubstaff?”

  “Bill’s the name.”

  “Ah, yes, excellent. Bill.”

  Soon they have forgotten my presence altogether. At last, each of them has found someone to share their rat talk. All other differences between them are soon forgotten.

  They chat about traps and gas and ferrets and dogs. With the help of a map of the area, they begin to plan their great campaign — “the battlefield,” as the doctor calls it.

  Later that morning, the three of us go down to the river near the sewerage run. The doctor shows Bill the manhole where we released the gas. Bill leads the doctor to the places where he has seen and heard rats’ nests.

  That gloomy November day, we stand by the river. The doctor talks eagerly about the first battle in his war against rats.

  “There is a place called Fisher’s Field,” he says. “D’you know it, Bill?”

  “I do.”

  “Once sheep grazed there, but today it is scrap land, a place where stray dogs roam, where beggars sleep in the summer months.”

  “Good place for rats, Fisher’s Field,” said Bill.

  The doctor reaches into his leather bag and takes out a heavy, folded sheet of paper.

  “I am no draftsman,” he says, “but I have drawn a map of the area.” He unfolds the paper, and there, more neatly than I would have believed, is a little drawing of the field and its surroundings.

  “The river runs beside it. Here”— he points with a finger — “is one culvert leading to the gutters. There are two others across the field, there and here. If we could flush the rats from the sewerage channels where they live below the ground, they will escape into Fisher’s Field.”

  Bill nods, a little smile on his face. “Put some dogs in the field and you could take a few of the beasts.”

  “Or . . .” Now there is excitement in the doctor’s voice. “Surround the field. Put close-meshed wire on every side. Trap the beasts. Men and dogs all around the boundary.”

  “Like a giant pit.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What about the river? Beasts are good swimmers.”

  “We shall have two nets, upstream and downstream. The riverbank is steep brickwork on the far side. They’ll be trapped in the water. Boats. Men with clubs. Dogs.”

  “And how do you spring them from the sewerage?”

  The doctor glances in my direction, as if his secret may not be safe with me. “Gas.” He speaks in a low murmur. “The councilmen don’t like it, but it’s the way we have to do it. The rats will have only one escape route.”

  “Into Fisher’s Field?”

  “Correct.”

  Bill gazes
at the map, and just for a moment, it seems to me that a flicker of sadness crosses his face.

  “It will be a massacre,” he says.

  The doctor laughs happily. “It will indeed — the most marvelous massacre. Will the setters help us, do you think?”

  Bill nods. “It’ll be the best hunt they’ve ever had.”

  It is dark before I am able to leave for home.

  I should feel glad as I trudge the dark streets on my way back to the tip. My betrayal of Bill and the ratters and setters who come to the Cock Inn has been forgotten. My two employers have become unlikely friends. There will be work for me, and money, too. Today, since I have worked with both the doctor and Bill, I have been given two shillings.

  Maybe Caz will not have to dance in the street anymore. Maybe we can find somewhere to live that is not a rubbish tip.

  Yet there is something that tugs at me. Something feels wrong about this great war on rats.

  I buy two pies at Mrs. Bailey’s shop but I’m in no mood to listen to her chat, however friendly.

  I have never been happier to return home to the tip. There is a cold drizzle falling as I duck into the passage leading into the mound like the mouth of a fox’s earth. I whistle low for Caz.

  Normally she whistles back — it’s a sound that makes my heart lift — but tonight the tip is silent. Stranger still, I see no candlelight to guide me to our little room within its walls of rubbish.

  “Caz?”

  I call her name quietly. There is a rustle in the passage ahead of me and I smile, thinking it is my girl.

  It is her rat, Malaika.

  “Hello, beast,” I say. “Where’s your mistress, then?”

  I reach our room. It is empty.

  “Caz?”

  The pile of bedding is neat, the way she leaves it when she goes to work.

  I wait. I listen.

  Silence.

  Malaika emerges from the tangle of rubbish and sniffs around the bedding.

  “Caz?”

  A feeling of cold dread descends upon me.

  She is gone.

  . . . but they can see visions. During the day while I slept, I heard the screams of the kingdom. The pulsing within me of countless citizens facing their death made me tremble. I saw the faces, wide of eye and with blood around their mouths, of those who had died.

  And yet somehow I could not recognize the faces of those calling out to me. Now and then I thought I saw the three-legged shape of Fang, the smooth flank of Swylar, the gentle lifeless eyes of Alpa, but I could never be sure.

  It was worst at night. The kingdom was drawing me back. As the certainty of what I had to do became stronger, I revealed less to Malaika. I could see in her eyes the hurt I was causing her.

  At first, while I was still weak, Malaika had explored with me. As I became well and the urge to return to the world below pressed harder upon me, she found it difficult to travel as far and as fast as I did. She was a fragile, not built for exploration.

  One night, she simply stayed in the mountain. It was as if I had been released by her to become myself again.

  The journey back to the river was hard, but finding my way was no problem. I followed the voices. The voices of the dead were leading me home.

  There were citizens of other kingdoms out on the streets, but none of my own. I reached a wide space that separated a track from the river. Crossing it, I sensed, would be dangerous, but in the end, it would have to be done. The only way to return to the kingdom was through one of the entrances near the waterway.

  The voices led me to a human building by the track. The enemy was not there and wood covered the windows. I found a way in and made my way upward to the top of the house, just beneath the roof.

  Under a bright moon, I looked across the space, catching the distant glitter of water that flowed from the world below. There would be touch-paths nearby, the tells of citizens, leading to the gouges, rests, and hollows of the kingdom.

  I remembered Malaika, and how she would be waiting for me. The next time I came here, there would be no returning to the mountain. But I had to return to Malaika. I promised. I would tell her that the kingdom needs me. She would be sad. I would promise to return, having done my duty, although both of us would know it was as empty a revelation as any could be.

  Footsore and with an ache in my heart, I turned away from the river.

  Light was breaking when I arrived back in the place where the love of my life was waiting.

  Quietly, I went to where the two humans lived, and where she liked to sleep while I was away.

  There was only one human there. He sat, awake, arms around his knees, his eyes wet and gazing into space.

  Malaika was nearby. I smelled the sadness and fear on her. She was shivering and seemed hardly interested in my return.

  I approached her, in spite of the human’s presence. She was cold. I revealed as I moved closer.

  — Malaika. I am here.

  There was no response from her.

  — What has happened?

  . . . in this great town of strangers?

  I know nobody.

  The police are more a danger than a help.

  And what can I tell people? The girl I am searching for lives in a rubbish tip.

  She is nothing in the world. She hardly exists.

  I would have more chance of finding a stray dog.

  The day after Caz’s disappearance, I walk into the center of the town. I know the places where she dances for pennies — outside theaters and restaurants, mostly — and visit them one by one.

  But when I ask the men and women if they have seen a girl dancing here yesterday, they stare ahead as if my words are no more worthy of attention than the chattering of a sparrow.

  “Have you seen . . . ?”

  “I’m looking for . . .”

  “She’s skinny, small, she dances . . .”

  It is as if I am invisible. Only the thought of Caz keeps me going.

  “I know she was here quite often, sir . . .”

  The suited doorman outside a large hotel looks down at me, and for a moment, I have the feeling he might help me.

  “I was wondering if you —”

  He seems to twitch as if I have uttered some terrible insult. The side of my face is struck by the back of his gloved hand so hard that my body flies through the air before I fall in the gutter.

  Someone is crying. I can hear it in the darkness. As my head clears, I realize that the sound is coming from me. I open my eyes and suddenly all is pain — in my head, on my scraped knees, in every rattled bone of my body. I stare at the pavement where I am lying. It is wet, and when I touch it, the fingers of my hand are red with blood.

  I hear raised voices above me — a man’s, a woman’s. A hand grabs my arm and lifts me to my feet. I am aware of the strong, sweet smell of a woman’s perfume.

  “You come with me, sonny, before you get yourself into trouble.”

  The voice is husky and the hand strong. I try to get away, but the woman holds on to me. The left side of my face throbs where the doorman hit me.

  “Unless you want the police to get their hands on you, you’ll come with me,” the woman says.

  I look around, confused. I am being pulled into a side street by the arm. The woman holding me is tall and is wearing a tight dress that shows more of her than a lady should show. Wild dark curls hide her face, but there is something about her that tells me I am safer with her than near the doorman. I sense that she knows the way things work on these streets.

  I stop struggling.

  “He’s a bad lot, that Cribby Barton.” She looks down at me, a woman in her thirties wearing heavy makeup. “And he’s in with the coppers and all.”

  Still holding me, she turns down another dark side street, and she bangs on a door in the wall so small that it would be easy to miss it. Moments later, it opens. Glancing back down the street, she pushes me into the house before her.

  “Welcome to Rose’s fun parlor,” s
he says, following me inside and locking the door behind her.

  We are in a room where there is no light from the outside world. Candles are on tables around the walls, and as my eyes grow used to the gloom, I see three other women, lolling on low couches. There is a strange, sweet smell in the air that makes me feel drowsy.

  “Now what’s she brought home?” A younger woman gazes at me from across the room with half-closed eyes.

  “Kid was in trouble with that bastard Cribby. Needs his face cleaned up,” says my rescuer.

  “Bloomin’ Florence Nightingale.” Another girl, who had seemed to be asleep, gives a little laugh. “You and your waifs and strays.”

  The woman who brought me in pulls up a chair and, without a word, pushes me back onto it.

  She leaves the room, and when she returns, she is carrying a basin of water.

  “Might as well wash all of the little blighter, Rose,” the sleepy girl calls out. “It’ll only take you a week or two.”

  Rose. It is a nice name. Her powdered face looms up in front of me. She winks and smiles at me, then starts to dab at my swollen eye. Something in the water makes the cut on my cheek sting.

  “Don’t talk to Cribby Barton,” she says. “That’s the number one rule in this part of town.”

  There are noises from the dark doorway leading into the house — a man’s voice, a woman’s laughter.

  Rose notices that I am looking curiously into the darkness and, pinching my chin, turns my face so that my one good eye is looking straight at her.

  “Don’t you worry about what’s going on in there,” she says. “It’s grown-up stuff.”

  I nod.

  “What were you doing talking to Cribby anyway?”

  “I’m looking for a girl called Caz,” I say. “She’s my friend. She dances for pennies.”

  “Dancing for pennies,” the girl on the sofa murmurs quietly, her eyes still closed. “The story of my life, darling.”

  “She’s disappeared,” I say. “She was supposed to come home last night. She’s in trouble. I know it.”

  “Sounds like she just found someone to look after her,” said Rose. “That’s what I’d do if I were a young girl.”