by Joy Cowley
Without looking, Retsina said calmly, “That’s not a hand. It’s an udder full of milk. And the thing with four tubes is not a light, but a milking machine. It goes on the four teats on the udder and takes out the milk. The milk is then made into delicious cheese and yoghurt.”
I stared at her. “How do you know all this?”
She licked her lips. “Feta cheese. Greek yoghurt. Spinnaker dear, you haven’t had the benefit of a restaurant education.”
I glanced back at Jolly Roger. “You said those tubes were lights.”
He shrugged. “I was only joking.”
The humming bean came in and switched on the machines, which roared and rattled, drowning the noise of the cows. The big beasts went into the spaces made for them and the tubes were plugged near their back legs. There were slosh-slosh sounds as the smell of milk mixed with cow breath, cow poo and dog smell. I found it all very interesting, and encouraged the ratlets to come to the edge, one at a time, to witness the taking of milk. Not once did the humming bean in the blue cloth-skin look up at us. He was much too busy washing each cow’s udder, putting on the tubes, then removing them and opening a door to release the cow and make room for the next.
Many cows went through. The sun was up and flies were buzzing by the time the last cow went out its door. The farmer then turned on a hose to clean the floor, which was now covered with cow poo, a dark green colour, the consistency of mud after rain. I watched. I had always been amused by the humming bean need for separate poo and pee rooms, but now saw some logic in it. To have creatures excreting in a place where food is produced is a back to front way of doing things.
When the cleaning was done, and the floor and pipes in the shed were dripping with water, the dog stood up and followed the humming bean from the shed. We heard boots crunching gravel on the little road.
I was surprised that the dog did not detect us, but then guessed that the strong cow and milk odours would mask any smell of rat. By now, all the ratlets were asleep against the rafter, and I did not wake them. For the last two days they’d had little rest, and a long sleep was greatly needed. Retsina and Roger agreed, for they, too, were tired. We would stay in the roof of the shed until evening.
Before long, Roger was lying on his back, paws across his chest, snoring at the far end of the ledge. Retsina curled up with the ratlets, her nose close to Beta’s neck, her tail around the other three, her eyes closed. They all looked very peaceful.
I, on the other hand, was measuring time since the last meal of corn kernels. The smell of fresh milk brought juices to my mouth. It would do no harm, I decided, to see where the milk was. I turned my ears to outside noises. Certainly, there were dogs barking, but all in the distance. The only close sounds were Roger’s snoring and the harmless chatter of sparrows on the roof. I could risk a small expedition of discovery.
I climbed down the rough wooden support to the concrete floor, still wet in patches. On the far side, a white-painted door was ajar, leaving a gap wide enough for a grown rat. I found myself in an enclosed room on two levels. On the lower level was more machinery, but up four concrete steps was the biggest pot I have ever seen. It was of the same shining metal and shape as the boat pot we had used to cross the lake, but a thousand times bigger. A mountainous pot! The sides were so smooth that even our acrobatic Gamma would not have been able to climb it. I was sure, though, that this was where the milk was stored.
I was a Ship rat who had never been on a real ship, but I had inherited all my parents’ instincts about engine rooms and pipes. If I looked at a problem long enough, I would solve it. Could I use a rope to climb up the pot? No. That wouldn’t work. Was there something else I could use as a ladder? No. Nothing. I scratched my head. The sweet smell of fresh milk overwhelmed me, and my stomach made hungry sounds. How did the milk get into the pot? Ah, there was the answer! From a machine there was a metal pipe connected to a wrinkled white hose and, if I wasn’t mistaken, that hose went into the opening at the top of the pot mountain. Oh yes!
The machine was silent, still and cold. Quickly, I ran up it, up the metal pipe and then the plastic hose, my paws easily skimming over the lumpy, bumpy surface. Now I was on top of the enormous round metal tub and looking over the end of the plastic hose at enough milk to feed all the rats in the world. There was one small problem. This sea of milk was beyond reach. It was at least half a tail’s length below the rim of the pot. How frustrating! There was, however, a tiny puddle of milk inside the opening of the plastic hose. I would at least, have a taste. I perched on top of the hose end. Normally, I would have wrapped my tail around it as a precaution but you may remember, dear friend, that my tail was rather tender. I simply balanced myself as best I could, and leaned down, my tongue fully stretched. I could see the drops of milk. I could almost taste them. I moved forward a little and then, suddenly, my mouth, eyes and nose were full of milk.
I had fallen into the pot!
I came up gasping. The milk was cold. I swam to the edge and tried to climb out. My paws slipped on the smooth metal. So I turned and swam back to the pipe but that was also too high. Although I tried leaping, it was to no avail because there was nothing solid to leap from. So I tried the metal sides all around the pot. My claws made scratching sounds but would not grip.
The seriousness of the situation replaced my hunger. I could not get out! I, Spinnaker of the Ship rat clan, would drown in a sea of milk! I paddled back and forth.
“Help!” I cried. “Help! Help! Help!”
My squeaks were pathetically small and I knew they would not be heard. The milk pot was far from my family, who were all asleep. A great sorrow rose up in me. Not only would I drown in this white sea, but my family would never know what had happened to me. Retsina might conclude that I’d been eaten by a dog. My children could believe I’d run away and deserted them. Oh, what a terrible state I was in!
My legs felt weak. I was growing tired and I could not even say farewell. I thought of my darling wife Retsina with her large, soft eyes, and my precious ratlets and I wept bitterly. What would they do without me? “Forgive me!” I cried. “Forgive me!”
“What for?” someone said.
It was Roger. He was sitting on top of the plastic pipe and his mouth was white with milk.
My fortune had changed! “Help me!” I said. “Get me out of this!”
“How?” he asked.
I thought for a moment. “Let your tail down. I’ll grab it and climb up.”
He shook his head. “You’ll pull me into the vat and we’ll both be in trouble.” He peered down at me. “Tell you what, shipmate. I’ll go back to the edge of the vat where I’ve got something to hang onto. You can hold my tail there.”
“Thank you!” I said. “Oh, thank you, Roger!”
He ran back along the pipe to the place where it came over the edge. With his hind legs gripping the pipe and his front paws on the rim of the giant pot, he flicked his tail over the side. Wonderful, a rat rope! My relief was inexpressible. Never again would I have an unkind thought or word about Roger. The tip of his tail went into the milk and there in front of my nose was the way out of my predicament.
I grabbed hold of his tail, but my wet paws couldn’t get a grip.
“Hang on!” he yelled.
“Roger, I can’t! Your tail is slippery.”
“Shiver me timbers! It’s you made it slippery. You got milk on it. Try again!”
I tried again and fell back into the milk. I choked and spat. “It’s no good. Roger, I’m sorry. I’ll have to hold your tail with my mouth.”
“Don’t you dare!” he cried, and his tail twitched.
Before he could raise it beyond my reach, I grasped it between my teeth.
At this point, dear friend, I have to leave out some of the story. I can’t repeat what Roger said about me. The words are not fit for a book, and they made me think that Roger may have had a Pirate background after all. I didn’t answer for fear of letting go but hung on, my teeth clenched on his
tail, while he struggled to pull me up. Actually, I think he was struggling to get away. The effect was the same. I gradually came out of the milk, up the side of the pot and onto the plastic pipe. The procedure took a long time and we were both exhausted when it was over.
“You’ve ruined my tail!” he moaned, examining tooth marks.
“I’m sorry, Roger. I’m very sorry.” I looked at him. “You are a great hero. Did you hear me calling for help?”
“No.”
“So how did you know I was there?”
“I wasn’t looking for you,” he said. “I wanted some milk and I heard you calling. What on earth made you jump into the vat?”
“I didn’t. I fell off the pipe.” Then I told him how I had tried to get the drops of milk.
He frowned. “That was a silly way of getting a drink. Why didn’t you turn on the tap?”
“What tap?”
“The tap at the bottom of the vat. You lean on it and you get milk. Lean on it again and the milk stops. Come on down and I’ll show you.”
We walked slowly down the pipes, over the machine and onto the floor. Roger took me to the front of the giant pot and showed me the tap. There was a pool of milk under it. “Help yourself,” he said.
I shook my head.
“Well, at least lick yourself clean,” he told me.
I couldn’t even do that. I would be happy if I didn’t taste milk again for the rest of my life. I went back into the shed and rolled in a puddle of water until my fur had lost that sticky whiteness.
Roger made a great fuss about his tail, although it was no more hurt than Beta’s. Both would heal in a day or two, whereas the damage inflicted by the train guard to my tail was permanent. I crawled up to our shelter under the roof, and in spite of the trauma I had experienced, I slept. I was extremely tired. But I was awake again well before nightfall, because no one had informed me that cows were milked twice a day. The sun had scarcely begun its descent in the west than those big creatures returned—same dog, same humming bean, same noise and mess. It was well past sunset when the shed was returned to a quiet and clean state and we were all able to come out of hiding.
The ratlets were hungry. Jolly old Roger was pleased to turn the tap on the pot so that they could drink the milk. “It’ll be cold,” he told them. “The vat has a refrigerator in it.”
“Have some, Spinnaker,” said Retsina. “It’s delicious.” I had not told them about my accident. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
Roger turned off the tap. “It should be delicious,” he said to Retsina. “You husband has been swimming in it.” Then he turned his smile to me. “Tell them about your swim, Spinny.”
So I told them. If I hadn’t, he would have done so.
Retsina looked alarmed, but Roger laughed at her anxiety. “I don’t know how many times I’ll have to save his life,” he said.
“Don’t be such a mouse!” I muttered under my breath.
CHAPTER SIX
WE DISCOVER THE BOTTOMLESS BOG
A fine rain accompanied us that night and although it was cold, it brought two favours: it prevented our scent from reaching dogs, and it washed the last traces of milk from my fur. I wanted to forget about that near disaster. There was not much chance of that, however, for Roger kept reminding me of my swim in the milk vat, and the tooth marks I had put in his tail. I was grateful to him for saving my life. Of course I was. But several rounds of thank you were not enough. It was a never-ending supply of gratitude he wanted, and I struggled with my irritation. When I thought of Roger crossing the lake in a picnic basket, Roger turning the tap for milk, anger flared up in me. I walked a little faster to avoid his talk, but he always caught up.
“The milk tanker comes to collect the milk,” he said. “Imagine what the driver would have said when he found a drowned rat.”
“I know, I know. If it hadn’t been for you, Roger, I’d be dead.” I tried to shorten his story.
“You might have blocked his intake pipe,” he said cheerfully.
We were nearing the outskirts of Sweet Clover Meadows, passing more trees and fewer humming-bean houses. We had chosen to travel at the edge of the road, rather than cross unknown country, for although there was traffic, we were outside the bright focus of the eyes of cars and trucks. I knew we would need to stop before we came to the Bottomless Bog. Although our night-sight was adequate, we would need full daylight to detect the dangers, whatever they were, of the swamp.
Having slept most of the day, Retsina and the ratlets had fine energy. The girls and Gamma wanted to know more about Ratenburg. I told them, “Its beauty is beyond our imagination. The nests are lined with silk and swans-down. The food barns are always full—”
“So Ratenburg has silkworms and swans,” said Delta.
“No, only rats,” I said.
“Then how do they get—”
“Delta, they may use product from other creatures, but only rats can live there. Every creature has its own natural home. Why do you think humming beans suffer from ratophobia? It’s because they’ve built their cities for humming beans and we have invaded them. Those cities don’t belong to rats. Birds have their nests in trees. Tigers have jungles in Africa. Rats have Ratenburg.”
“India,” said Delta.
“What?”
“Tigers live in India. There are no tigers in Africa.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure, Papa.”
“Well then, tigers in India. It makes no difference to the point I’m trying to make. All rats want to go to Ratenburg because it belongs to rats.”
“Not all,” said Delta. “Personally, I believe the basement of another humming-bean apartment building would suit us just as well.”
“And face more ratophobia?” I tried to see his face in the dark. “My boy, I’m tired of moving from place to place. I’m tired of fighting wars. I want to live in a place where rats can truly feel at home.”
He was silent after that, and I was likewise, remembering places where I had lived for a time. Let me tell you, dear friend, all my places of abode have been of short or very short occupancy. I have only infant memories of the wharf where I was born. Dogs and poisonous smoke guns were brought in to exterminate rats. My father fled with me and my brother, Hawser, and we went inland, taking refuge in the attic of a humming-bean house that had a fine vegetable garden. I remember eating strawberries and green peas and wondering where my mother, sisters and other brothers were. We were not at the garden house for long. The owners bought a cat. So we moved on and that became the pattern of our lives, each move made to avoid a danger.
Papa Mizzen said he would take me away on a ship, but before that happened, he and Hawser disappeared. I didn’t know what happened to them, but I desperately wanted to believe they had gone to Ratenburg. Then one day I met Retsina, the beautiful rat who lived in a drain behind the Greek restaurant. She had always lived there, but the drain was overcrowded, so together we made a nest in the old apartment building I described at the beginning of this book. We had our four ratlets and I believed I had at last found permanence. How wrong I was! How utterly wrong! As this thought overwhelmed me, I gave a sigh that must have come from the depths of my heart, because Retsina hurried to my side.
“Spinnaker dear, what’s wrong?”
Her sympathy brought moisture to my eyes. “Dearest wife, I have a confession to make. I have failed you and our ratlets. I have not been a good provider. Here we are, wandering in the dark, no food, no home, no idea of where we are going or what we will find when we get there. We’re vagabonds.”
“Not vagabonds, Spinnaker. We’re pilgrims on our way to Ratenburg.”
Her words failed to cheer me. “I have put your lives at risk,” I said. “What dedicated father does that to his family? Look at me, Retsina! I’m a failure. I have nothing to offer you.”
For a moment she rested her head on my neck. “My darling, you’re a loving husband and father, and a family can walk a long way on love.�
� She sniffed my face and then licked the salty wetness on my cheek. “I think you’re sad because you’re tired. We all slept, but you had a stressful day. Spinnaker, can you smell wild blackberries? Let’s stop here until the dawn comes.”
I was so full of misery that I wanted to argue with her, but she was right, and there was a thicket of wild blackberries on the other side of the road. In the dark, we sniffed out some ripe berries and then rested under the bushes in a spot untouched by rain. I knew the thorns that surrounded us would provide protection from any stray dog or cat. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, it was daylight and my back was against a nest of prickles. I moved, and the prickles moved. I rolled over and saw—a hedgehog. Oh my goodness! I had been sleeping back to back with a large brown hedgehog, who was now looking at me with kindly curiosity. “So you’re awake then?”
She had such a thick country accent that I barely understood the words. “What are you doing here?” I asked, but as soon as I said it, I realised it was a silly question. I also knew what the answer would be.
“I live here,” she said.
“This is your home?” I looked around the underside of the thorny bush. There was no sign of the family and Roger, but I could hear them on the other side, picking fruit. “I didn’t know this was your nest. I’m very sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “Plenty of room.” She turned her head towards a rustling noise. “They’re eating the thingummies on the whatchamacallit.”
“Blackberries,” I said.
“Yes, those thingummies.” She put her head on one side. “City rat?”
“No, I’m a Ship rat, but I come from the city.”
She nodded. “Taking your family to Ratenburg, eh?”
I was surprised. “How do you know?”
The hedgehog snuffled a small laugh. “Why else would you be here? Bottomless whatsit next?”
“Bog. Yes, it is. How far is it?”