The Road to Ratenburg

by Joy Cowley

  “On the other side of the ghost trees. Big swamp with lots of whoflicky! You must be very careful.”

  “What is the—” I tried to remember the word “—flicky thing?”

  “The whoflicky? Mud. Very sucky mud. You step off the solid thingy and it pulls you down.” She shuffled closer until her eye was close to mine. “There’s solid thingy and not-solid thingy. Lumps of grass. You need to know the difference. Stick is the answer. Take a stick. Poke, poke. Solid grass, good. Floating grass, goodbye.”

  “Madam, I’m so grateful for that advice. We were told the Bottomless Bog was dangerous, but no one said what that danger was. Is there anything else we need to know?”

  “Whoflicky,” she said. “Just whoflicky.” That appeared to be the end of the conversation, because she turned and waddled away through the brambles, and she did not look back. She had given me valuable advice.

  I could hear squeaks of pleasure as my family feasted on blackberries. What had the hedgehog called them? Thingummies! But I needed to tell the ratlets to be quiet. We were not out of dog country yet.

  The morning was clear and misty, the sun not yet up and raindrops lay as silver balls in the creases of leaves. There was scarcely a ripe berry and all the ratlets, and Roger, had stained fur about their mouths. Retsina ate more delicately but her front paw pads were dark red with juice.

  “We should live in the country, Papa!” Beta said. “There’s so much to eat!”

  And so much to eat us, I thought. I stood on my hind legs to reach a dark blackberry that promised sweetness. “Have you heard any dogs?”

  “No,” Beta said. “It might be too early.”

  “Make sure they don’t hear us,” I told them. The blackberry fell with a small plop and I took it in my mouth.

  Roger smiled at me. “That would go down well with a drop of milk.”

  “Yes, Roger. And good morning to you, too.” I looked past him to Gamma, who was trying to stand on his front paws to flick ripe blackberries off a branch with the tip of his tail. “Gamma, I need to talk to you about the swamp.”

  “Why, Papa?”

  I smiled. My dear athletic son could be forgetful. “Because the Bottomless Bog is in your map memory, Gamma. And I have some more information to add to it.”

  The ghost trees mentioned by the hedgehog were a cluster of poplars that had died. Bare branches reached upwards, pale grey, not a leaf in sight. At this point, the road ceased, its end marked by white-painted barriers and red signs warning cars to go no further. I was surprised that cars could read these signs, but Roger assured me that motor transport was very intelligent these days. We stopped at the barrier, aware of other signs that showed humming beans sinking in water. I knew it was not water that lay ahead, but sticky whoflicky, mud that could suck us down to bottomless depths.

  “That can’t be true,” said Delta. “Nothing is bottomless.”

  “This bog is,” Gamma insisted.

  Delta’s whiskers curled. “If it’s bottomless then it must be a hole right through to the other side of the planet, in which case the water would drain out.”

  “It’s called the Bottomless Bog.” Gamma emphasised each word.

  “Names are not necessarily accurate,” Delta replied. “Everything on this earth has a bottom.”

  At this, Beta and Alpha giggled. They danced and sang, “I’ve got a bottom. You’ve got a bottom. Everything’s got a bottom.”

  “Girls!” said Retsina. “Hush! This is very important. Listen to Papa and Gamma. They have worked out a plan for crossing this swamp.”

  I said, “We get over the bog by walking on clumps of grass. The problem is this: some of the grass is on solid ground, other clumps are floating. If we tread on the floating islands, they will sink beneath us. But all the clumps look the same.”

  Beta, now frightened, asked, “So how do we get across?”

  “I will go first,” I told her. “I will walk two-paw like a humming bean, and I will carry a strong stick to poke each lump of grass before I tread on it. You will follow. None of you will step onto grass I haven’t tested. Is that clear?”

  They said yes, but I asked them individually to repeat my instructions. I wanted to be sure they all understood the importance of obeying orders. Only when I was certain did I lead them to the other side of the white barrier.

  The bog could not have been bottomless because there were many more dead trees ahead, different kinds, some of which I recognised—willow, gum, poplar, oak. The sun shone on a surface that looked like water, but as we got closer, we realised it was black mud, gleaming like coal. Sticking out of the mud were tussocks, mostly green grass but also some small shrubs and buttercups. My stick was a thin branch of yew with the leaves torn off. I chose yew because although it is not a pleasant wood, being toxic to taste, it is strong, and I knew it would not break halfway across the swamp. I gave the family my last order: “Follow me—and stay together!”

  The first five grass clumps were solid, and the way seemed easier than I had imagined; it was a simple matter to jump from one to another. But when I poked my stick at the sixth, a lump of short grass growing in a tangle of watercress, the little island wobbled and tipped sideways like a sinking boat. The dark mud around it gurgled, sending up bubbles that popped with a stagnant smell. I felt quite faint. After five solid clumps I had grown so confident that I was ready to forget about my stick. I looked back at the ratlets and tried my best to sound cheerful. “That one’s a bad egg—and it smells like it.” I turned sideways, poked another lump. Yes, it was solid. “We’ll have to make a short detour,” I said.

  After that, I was very careful. There were only a few floating grasses, but it was impossible to know them by sight alone. I was so pleased I had the hedgehog’s advice. Without it, we would have been sunk. The memory of the milking shed was still fresh in my mind, and having escaped certain death in white milk I was not anxious to risk it in black mud. The prodding stick was a valuable guide, although we soon discovered we could not go in a straight line across the swamp. Sometimes, we needed to go back in order to find a different route on stable grass clumps. It was a slow and difficult journey. Some of the ratlets were impatient.

  “Papa, you listened to a hedgehog,” Gamma said. “Hedgehogs are heavy. Rats are light. We could jump one at a time onto a floating island, and I’m sure it wouldn’t sink. If it did tip, I would just jump off again.”

  “We won’t risk it, Gamma. If you fall in the mud, that’s it. No one can rescue you.” I poked my stick at some grass and it wobbled, sending out thick ripples. We had to go back again.

  On one of the stable islands, I put a stone in my mouth. It was very small, a mere pebble. When I had the ratlets’ attention, I spat the stone at the mud. As light as it was, it hit the mud with a glop and immediately sank, leaving a small hole that closed over. I didn’t have to say anything. The lesson was obvious. They all shivered, and Retsina said severely, “Gamma, this is your map memory! I expect you to be responsible and do what is safe. Obey your father!”

  Gamma laughed. “I was only thinking out loud.”

  For once, Jolly Roger supported me. “Don’t be such a mouse!” he said to Gamma. “We’re not here to take risks.”

  So we continued, testing each clump of grass before we jumped. The sky had clouded. It hung like a grey roof propped up by dead trees, and I thought we might have rain again. I was anxious to get across the swamp before more wetness came, for I had no idea how a downpour would affect the mud level in Bottomless Bog. But I could not hasten our journey. Dying in this foul-smelling ooze would be much worse than drowning in milk.

  Dear friend, I would like to tell you that we got through the bog unscathed, but we didn’t. It was careful, practical Delta who fell in. We don’t know how it happened. The gap between the two green islands was not great. Even Beta, the smallest, jumped it with ease. I can only assume that Delta had jumped absent-mindedly. I turned when Retsina gave a horrified squeak, and saw poor Delta clutch
ing grass with mouth and claws, while his lower half was submerged in that dark, sucking mud. I yelled at the others, “Hold him! Pull him out!”

  Retsina and the other three ratlets were now with Delta but there was more panic than progress, and Delta had freed his mouth to shout, “Don’t leave me! Don’t let me sink!”

  I handed my stick to Jolly Roger, “Hold this! Don’t lose it!” and went back through the weeds to Delta. He had stopped calling out, and again had his teeth fastened around grass stalks that would surely give way as the mud sucked him down. I needed to act quickly. One of us could not pull him out. We all had to do it. It would have to be a team tail tow.

  I looked into Delta’s frightened eyes. “Listen carefully, my son. We’re going to get you out. We’re lining up, jaw to tail—your brother, sisters, your mother and then me. When I say the word I want you to let go of the weeds and grab my tail. See it? There’s a bump near the end. Whatever you do, don’t bite that bump. Hold onto it higher up and don’t let go. Do you understand? Don’t hold onto the broken bit!”

  He nodded, and that slight movement rippled the thick mud around his hind legs.

  I positioned myself so that my tail was close to his mouth, then I made sure that Retsina’s elegant tail was close to mine. “Is everyone ready? All right, Delta. Now!”

  He let go of the grass and, immediately, the mud sucked him back. As a result, his jaws closed on the bump on my tail. Oh, the pain of it! I would have screamed had my jaws not been clamped to Retsina’s tail. She was holding onto Beta, Beta to Gamma and Gamma had the tail of Alpha, who was out in front. Without a word, we all pulled. We all heard the sucking sound, and smelled the foul mud, as slowly, very slowly, Delta came out onto the green island. Poor Delta. He looked as though he had been dipped in tar. He lay on the grass, gasping and shaking with fright.

  I cautiously curled my tail about me to examine it. There was no feeling in the end of it, and I could see the reason why. The lump was hanging by a sliver of skin to the rest of the tail. When I licked it, it dropped off. Yes, right off! I had lost a whisker’s length of tail. It lay on the ground like a small dead worm with a lumpy head, and I knew that I would be like those rats who’ve had their tails caught in humming-bean traps.

  Retsina saw it. “Oh Spinnaker,” she whispered, nuzzling my cheek. “What a great sacrifice you have made for our son.”

  That made me feel better. Yes, I suppose it was a sacrifice, although to tell the truth, the end of my tail had been useless after that train guard’s boot. But I liked the thought that I had given part of myself to save Delta.

  The other ratlets came back to see their brother safely out of the bog. “You smell awful!” said Alpha.

  Beta comforted him. “Don’t try to lick your fur, Delta. That horrible mud could still kill you. It might be poisonous. Wait until we find a stream.”

  Gamma patted Delta on the head. “Brother, we defeated the undefeatable bottomless bog.” Then he looked at me and his eyes went wide. “Papa! Your tail!”

  Retsina leaned against me. “Your father’s tail has always been handsome. Now it is both handsome and brave.”

  I laughed and swished my tail. “Short is very fashionable,” I said.

  “Did I show you the tooth marks in my tail?” said Jolly Roger, ready to retell the story of the milk.

  Alpha cut in. “Uncle Roger helped us, Papa. I held on to his tail when we pulled Delta out of the mud.”

  Roger was pleased with himself. “I had to make my contribution,” he said.

  I looked at him. “Where is the stick?”

  “The stick?”

  “Yes! The poking stick. I told you to hold it. Don’t lose it, I said.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Roger looked in the grass. “It’s here somewhere. I dropped it when I needed to rescue Gamma.” He parted some tall weeds. “It can’t have walked.”

  “Maybe it flew,” I said.

  “Flew?”

  “Maybe you didn’t drop it. Maybe you tossed it and it landed in the mud.”

  “I would never do that!” But now Roger looked uncomfortable, for clearly, the yew stick was not on the island.

  I, too, was feeling great discomfort, and I am not talking about my amputated tail end. Without that yew stick we had nothing to test solid ground in the stretch of bog that remained. We were marooned.

  Soon everyone realised the gravity of our situation. Roger made a series of jittery excuses. He had laid the stick carefully in the grass and someone had kicked it over the side. He had given the stick to Alpha. Or was it Gamma? The grass was wet and the stick was slippery. None of this was his fault.

  Delta was standing and shaking himself, trying to get rid of the mud that coated the lower half of his body. The others helped Roger to look again in the grass. They trampled the island as flat as a tablecloth. There was no stick.

  Gamma stood up on his hind paws and stretched. “At the risk of making myself unpopular, I have a suggestion.”

  “Any suggestion would be welcome,” I told him.

  “See that dead tree? The one with grass around it? I think I can jump that far.”

  The tree he indicated was a small oak some distance away. The branches spread wide and there were a few dried leaves on some limbs almost above us. On the near side of the bottom of the trunk was an island of short grass and twigs. I said, “Gamma, of this I am certain: that island is a floater. It will tip you into the mud.”

  “I’m fast,” said Gamma. “I will be up that tree in the shake of a whisker. I can chew through a branch, drop it down to you and then jump down myself.”

  I could see logic in his suggestion but was afraid for him. That first jump was four rats long, a colossal leap even for an athlete like Gamma. If he did land near the trunk, it was likely he would go through the mat of weed, or else it would tip him into the bog. “I’m sorry, Gamma. It’s brave of you to offer, but I can’t allow it. We’ll wait. Maybe someone will come by to help us?”

  “Who?” asked Gamma.

  No one answered him.

  “I would run,” said Gamma. “Like this!”

  I thought he was merely demonstrating how he could run across the solid land beneath us, but then I saw that his speed was increasing.

  “Gamma!” Retsina called in fright.

  That reckless ratlet left the edge of our island and sailed through the air, ears flattened, tail straight behind him. Over the mud he went, like a bird. Then, nearer the tree, he brought his hind legs up under his chest. I saw what he intended. He landed feet first on the grass mat and in the same movement launched himself at the tree trunk. Just as well, for the clump of weed and twigs split in two and sank into the mud.

  “Well done, Gamma!” called Alpha.

  My brave, disobedient son had his claws embedded in the bark. He grinned at us, and then scuttled up the tree as though this was something he had done every day of his life. Chewing through a thin, straight branch took a little longer. He nibbled carefully, his legs and tail wrapped around a thicker branch, higher up. We watched as his sharp little teeth worked through the wood. At one stage he paused to say the wood was still damp and strong. “It won’t break when you poke the islands.”

  Eventually the branch sagged, tearing some of the remaining fibres. “Step back!” Gamma yelled. We moved away as he bent over to deliver a few more bites, the last done with a toss of his head that propelled the stick our way. It fell neatly beside me and I was able to nip off some protruding twigs.

  Gamma went as far as he could on the overhanging branch. “Now you’ll have to catch me!” he called.

  At once, Retsina and Roger and I stood on our hind legs. We made a triangle and held our front paws together in the middle. “Jump!” I shouted.

  We didn’t catch him as we intended, but we did break his fall, and he got to his feet, as sprightly as ever. I tested the stick. It was even better than the first, being a little longer. I reached out and prodded the next green mass. Yes, it was firm. We would
get across the bog before the rain came.

  The rest of the journey went without incident. The only tension was between my two sons who, after their perilous adventures, could only go back to their old argument as to whether the bog was bottomless or not.

  When we came to the other side, the clouds released their burden and we walked some distance through thick grass that dripped with water. At one place the water had filled a small hollow. Retsina told Delta to sit in it.

  “But it’s cold,” he said.

  Retsina was firm. “I don’t care if the bog is bottomless or not. You are going to have a bogless bottom.”

  With that, dear friend, we left the smell of that foul bog behind us.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A LAND OF ENEMIES AND FRIENDS

  Delta is sensible about everything. He quickly recovered from his terrifying experience, and refused to talk about it, would not even explain why his jump had failed to land him on solid land. As soon as the mud was washed off his haunches, he busied himself planning the next phase of the trip that was in his memory. “Hawks are day hunters,” he said.

  “What if the blue-tailed song hawks are different?” asked Alpha.

  “Do you know of any bird that sings at night?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Alpha. “Owls.”

  “Hawks are not owls.”

  Retsina intervened. “Is this going to be another silly argument?”

  “No argument,” replied Delta. “I am right. Cats and owls are dangerous at night. Hawks and dogs hunt during the day. We are half a day from the Forest of Perilous Pines, so I suggest we rest tonight and travel again in the morning. When we get to the forest, we’ll go into hiding until it is dark again.”

  That seemed a reasonable plan. We were still in the weed wilderness near the end of Bottomless Bog. The sun was low, and although there were still dead trees in the area, the ground was solid. We would need to find shelter before dark.

  Retsina found a hollow in a dead tree. It was dry and comfortable, apart from a few spiders that Jolly Roger ate. I shuddered when I saw spiders’ legs at the corner of his mouth. Arachnids were not a part of my diet. The rest of us fossicked for grass seeds, which were plentiful, although dry and tasteless, then we curled up among the cobwebs and as usual the ratlets clamoured for a story.