The Road to Ratenburg

by Joy Cowley

  Retsina repeated the tale about her brother’s love of fruit and how he stole her black olive because he thought it was a grape. That started everyone talking about their favourite food. The ratlets listed such delicacies as peanuts, bacon rind, pizza crust and cornflakes. Jolly old Roger’s eyes gleamed. “I know what Spinny’s favourite food is.”

  I waited for it.

  “Milk!” he said.

  No one laughed. I said to him, “Apart from unfortunate spiders, what do you like to eat?”

  He did not react to my sarcasm, but smiled and rolled his eyes upwards as though a memory was hanging above his head. “Popcorn!” he exclaimed. “When the theatre was empty, we’d go between the seats and pick up delicious kernels of popcorn—puffy, salty, buttery …” He got lost in the memory and saliva dribbled at the corner of his mouth.

  “So you were a Theatre rat,” I said with some satisfaction. “I always thought you were a bit of an actor.”

  “It was a movie theatre, shipmate. Films. Only for a short time, though. You know how it is. You go from place to place until you get the boot. My clan is definitely Pirate rat, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.” He scratched himself. “The food wasn’t good at sea, salt pork and hard ship’s biscuit. Boring, I have to say. The projection room of the picture theatre offered more. I still have a great fondness for popcorn.”

  I sniffed. Salt pork and ship’s biscuit indeed! That was a thousand generations back in Pirate rat history. He was making it up. The movie theatre was probably make-believe, too. Who was this Jolly Roger who had attached himself to my family? Was he some lonely rat without friends? Was he a trickster or, worse, a criminal? Could we trust him? While he gabbled on about popcorn, my head was full of questions and concern for my family. The more I thought about it, the more my whiskers twitched, telling me there was some something I did not know. Some comfort came with darkness, for there, in a gap of clear sky opposite the tree hole, was our beautiful family star. I alerted Retsina and the ratlets and they crowded around me to gaze at it. How lovely it was, a lamp of reassurance. Retsina rested her head against me, and I whispered to our young, “Our very own star! See how steady its light is!”

  From the back of the tree hole came a grunt and a terse voice said, “It’s the planet Venus.”

  Arrogant mouse! I thought.

  We settled to sleep and woke the next morning to a clear, cloudless day. After more grass seeds softened by sips of dew, we planned our direction by the sun, Delta assuring us that it would be midday before we came to the edge of the Forest of Perilous Pines and the hawks’ territory. In the earth, Delta scratched some lines that represented his memory of the map. “We are here. Between us and the pine forest is land covered with vegetation, bushes, grasses, a few stony areas. Uncle Signal said there were no humming beans.”

  “That means no cats and dogs,” said Beta.

  “Unless there are wild cats,” said Delta. “But it should be quite safe. Today, we won’t go any further than here.” He pointed to a line outside a circle. “This is the last stretch of wilderness before the Forest of Perilous Pines. The problem with pines is that nothing grows under them. There’s only a mat of needles. So once we’re there, we’ll have no hiding place if the hawks attack. We have to travel when it’s dark.”

  We were ready. Although my tail was shorter than it had been the morning before, it was less painful. The crushed area had caused me constant soreness, and now that the lumpy part had come off, I was not nearly so uncomfortable. Retsina and I walked as we usually did, with the ratlets in a line between us, but this time I went in front and Retsina walked at the back. “You shouldn’t risk another attack on your tail,” she said.

  Roger, as usual, walked in the group where he pleased, but more often than not, he was by my side. He chattered a lot, mainly to draw attention to himself, and I thought he was probably a very lonely rat. My opinion of him became more generous. The sun was warm on our backs, the earth smelled sweet and it was surprising how a mood changed when pain eased.

  There were animal tracks in the long grass, and the scent of deer and wild pigs, sometimes faint and sometimes fresh. I also caught a whiff of ducks and decided there was probably a pond nearby—nests in the reeds, eggs in the nests. Thoughts of duck eggs were a great temptation. But I knew an angry duck would not hesitate to attack a small rat and so we kept moving. I sighed. The responsibilities of parenthood could be a nuisance.

  By mid-morning, the earth under our paws was less soft, more stony, and the growth was not so thick. By standing on my hind legs, I could see over the stubby weeds. There was more of the same barren land ahead, mounds of stone and rock dotted with dry plants, and an occasional small tree. I suggested that we rest under one of these shrubs until the day was over.

  Delta objected. “We’re still a long way from the forest.”

  “There’s very little cover,” I said.

  “Cover isn’t needed when there’s no danger,” Delta patiently explained. “Sniff the air, Papa. Sniff the ground. What can you smell? Beetles, mice, some ground birds. We should walk until middle-day. By then we’ll be tired. We’ll sleep and go through the pines when it’s dark.”

  My sensible son was right about the smells around us, so we continued the journey, although my whiskers were trembling slightly. Where Delta had made a mistake was in his calculation of the habitat of blue-tailed song hawks. They may have had their nests in the Forest of Perilous Pines, but their aerial territory was much wider. Also, a bird of prey flying high leaves no scent on the land.

  Fortunately for us, my whiskers are reliable. They suddenly shook so violently that I yelled, “Follow me! Run!” and we raced across some open ground to the small hill of rocks and stones. No sooner had we reached it than the sky seemed to fill with sound. I would not have called it a song. It went up and down over many notes but it was harsh, more like a scream. I looked up and saw, hovering above us, a huge bird. It had a blue tail. It also had a great curved beak and talons curved to snatch a meal.

  Retsina saw it and pushed the ratlets into the narrow cleft between two rocks. We crowded in after them, but there was not much room. The bird could not swoop down and grab us in its claws, but that was not going to stop it. It landed on the rock, folded its wings and screeched in a menacing manner. I looked up. Its head was on one side as it stared back at me with a red eye. The smell of musty feathers was powerful. Its beak opened, and in a lightning movement, it struck at the place where I was crouched next to Gamma. The beak hit the rock above my head. The bird pulled its head back and eyed me again. Then it shifted forward on its massive claws. I saw the dark feathers on its breast and belly, the bright colour of its tail. I pushed Gamma down into the cleft and stood over him. My teeth were bared but I knew my bite would be no match for the hawk’s beak.

  As I prepared for the attack, I heard a small, unfamiliar squeak. “In here! In here!” I looked down and saw Roger and three ratlets wriggling through a hole at the base of the rock. Gamma followed and I dropped down as the bird struck again. Once more its beak hit the rock face, missing me by a whisker. I looked for Retsina. She wasn’t there. As the bird came over the crevice, I, too, wriggled into the hole. It was a tight fit around my stomach and haunches, but I made it, and heard a furious shriek behind me. The hawk had lost its lunch.

  In front of me were Roger and my family, so for a while I didn’t know who had saved us from the bird. But I should have known from the pitch of the squeak. The small cave in the rock was occupied by three mice.

  Let me tell you this, dear friend, generally rats and mice do not get on well together. We compete for the same territory, the same food supply, but the differences are more substantial than that. I would have to say that, overall, rats despise mice. One of the worst insults a rat can offer another rat is to call him or her a mouse. Mice, on the other hand, are contemptuous of rats, seeing them as rogues and bullies. Although we are distant relations, the gulf between us is so wide that I have always considered i
t impossible to cross. Which is why I was amazed that these small field mice should come to our aid.

  The older mouse, a squat-nosed creature, introduced himself as Moonshine, and he wasted no time in berating us in a shrill voice: “You’re pathetic, that’s what you are. I’ve seen more brains in a potato.”

  Delta said, “Potatoes don’t have—” But I nudged him.

  “Why would you be gallivanting around hawk country in broad daylight? Is it your mission to become part of a hawk? You near as dammit did just that!”

  Retsina clasped her two front paws. “Thank you, thank you, Moonshine Mouse. We were mistaken. We were told the hawks were in the Forest of Perilous Pines.”

  “So you didn’t think they could fly, huh?”

  We looked at each other and didn’t say anything. This small, angry mouse made us sound and feel rather stupid. I decided it was time to introduce myself.

  “I am Spinnaker of the Ship rat clan. This is Retsina, my wife, and our children, Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta.”

  Roger bowed low. “I am Jolly Roger of the bold tradition of Pirate rats. Pleased to meet you, Moonshine.”

  Moonshine, however, had turned his attention back to Retsina. “What did you say your name is?”

  “Retsina.”

  “Ah!” His expression changed and he looked at her with admiration. “Retsina! Now that’s a fine name. I believe I feel a poem coming on.” He cleared his throat. “Moonshine’s all about whisky. Retsina’s all about wine. Welcome, my fine rattess. I think we’ll get on fine.” As small as he was, he then came close to my wife and touched her nose with his in a manner I did not like one little bit. I would have bitten the insolent creature, had he not sheltered us from the ferocious hawk. Then I thought how ridiculous that was. If he had not got us away from the hawk, I would not be alive to bite him—or anyone else.

  Moonshine then squeaked at the two young mice and they scurried away down a passage to get us food and drink. The food, dragged in on large leaves, was very good: ripe hawthorn berries, mushrooms, hazelnuts and some pieces of honeycomb. The drink, though, presented in acorn cups, was disgusting. He said it was made from flower nectar but that was hard to believe, for it burned the mouth more than the worst of humming-bean liquor. The only one of us able to sip it was Roger, who became increasingly jolly as he finished one acorn cup and moved on to another. He and the mouse sang together, songs made up by Moonshine, who fancied himself a poet.

  Most of the songs were extremely silly, and in favour of Retsina, who ignored them. Now don’t misunderstand me, dear friend. My beautiful wife is often admired by male rats, to whom she reacts calmly, kindly and with dignity. But an elderly mouse one third her size? I believe the songs embarrassed her, for she moved to the far side of the nest and gathered the ratlets around her, making sure they did not drink from the acorn cups. The intoxicated mouse must have realised what she was doing, but he took this as a challenge and squeaked all the louder. “I couldn’t be keener, on lovely Retsina …”

  As for the two young mice who served us, they didn’t say a word, although we tried several times to engage them in conversation. Perhaps they were afraid. Maybe they’d been taught never to speak to rats. As soon as they’d presented us with food, they would scuttle away down the little dark hole.

  I nibbled on a hazelnut and reflected on the ups and downs of the last few days. It was extraordinary that we should be targeted as food by a blue-tailed song hawk, and in the next instant, find ourselves being fed by a drunken, singing mouse. There appeared to be some connection, but I didn’t know what that was. The hazelnut was delicious.

  Moonshine and Roger were on their hind legs and singing a new song. “Going to Ratenburg, the city of rats. Ain’t got no dogs. Ain’t got no cats. And if old Ratenburg falls down, we’ll take a trip to Mousie town.” When they finished, Roger leaned against Moonshine, who fell over and stayed on the ground, sound asleep. Roger looked at him in a puzzled way, then went down on all fours, and moved towards a full acorn cup. He didn’t get there. He also rolled over and went to sleep.

  Although we had not drunk the horrible stuff, we too were tired. We went to the far side of the mouse burrow and curled up as family, Retsina and I forming a semicircle, with the ratlets snuggled against us. In the moment before I drifted into sleep, I listened to our soft breathing, six rats, each a slightly different sound, but all in harmony and rhythm. I thought it was the most beautiful sound on earth.

  Moonshine woke us to tell us the sun had set and the hawks would be back in their nests. The old mouse looked sober, although his eyes still sparkled at Retsina. I held my tongue because he was trying to be helpful.

  Delta asked him, “Please, how far is it to the Forest of Perilous Pines?”

  “You’ll be there by midnight,” said Moonshine. “Stony ground most of the way. Two small streams to cross, shallow, not swift. You’ll be all right holding tails. Before dawn get a hiding place in the forest. Those blasted hawks wake up at first light.”

  I said, “We were told there’s no hiding place in the forest.”

  Moonshine snorted. “Who said that piffle? ’Course there’s places. Look for the biggest pines, roots sticking out of the ground. Dig under the roots. Stay there. Don’t go out to stretch your legs. It’ll be the last thing you do. Those blasted birds see everything and they dive faster than the wind. Stay hidden till night comes. See these two?” He jerked his head towards the young mice behind him. “They were caught, one in each talon. Another bird came. Hawk fight. These two were dropped and I dragged them inside. Haven’t said a word since. Shock, you see. Lucky they didn’t lose more than their voices.”

  The two young mice turned away, heads down, and set to work, tidying the burrow.

  I thanked Moonshine most sincerely. He was an odd character, to be sure, but beneath some annoying traits, he was generous. I could understand a mouse rescuing a couple of young mice, but a family of rats? That showed a certain greatness of heart, and I was sorry I had been less than charitable in my opinions of him. Mind you, when he clasped Retsina around the neck and sang a final goodbye in her ear, my sorrow lessened.

  He said to us, “When you’re out of the pine forest, my friend Barker will give you a paw. I’ll send him a message by dragonfly to look out for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, although I was much amused. Barker! What a name for a mouse. It was almost as odd as Moonshine.

  He guided us out into the cleft of the rock, and then beyond to open sky and land. Immediately I saw our family star overhead, but I didn’t remark on it, to avoid comment from Roger. We said farewell to Moonshine, thanked him again and started walking towards the pine forest over a wilderness of gravel and small plants.

  Roger was quiet much of the way, because he had an aching head, but at one stage, he paid Moonshine a compliment. “There are mice and there are mice,” he said. “That mouse deserves to be called a rat.”

  I didn’t say anything. I had already decided that prejudice came from ignorance.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A DAY IN THE FOREST OF PERILOUS PINES

  Moonshine was right. The dark towers of pine trees came before us in the middle of the night, and the ground beneath our paws changed in texture, stone replaced by the rustling smoothness of dried pine needles. The forest was so dense that we could no longer see the starry sky. In the tops of those dark trees were nests where savage predators had their eyes closed until dawn. Before then, we needed to be hidden.

  As soon as we entered the forest, I was looking for tall old trees with gnarled roots above the ground. My night-sight was good for nearness, but I found it difficult to see distant objects. Our daughter Alpha had excellent farsightedness in the dark and she directed us to several trees that had possibilities. Their big roots arched over the bed of pine needles, but the earth beneath was too stony and hard for easy digging. As the night progressed, I became increasingly anxious. I could not see the sky to the east. How would we know the coming of day? In
the end, it was Delta who came up with a solution: “Papa, the ground is too hard to dig one big hole. Why don’t we make three small ones?”

  That seemed to me to be infinitely reasonable. We selected one big tree that had roots splayed out in all directions, and chose the three roots that offered the best protection. We all took turns at digging, scratching out dry clay and small stones to form a cave long enough to avoid a hawk’s neck and beak.

  Delta, always practical, considered the bird’s anatomy. “Blue-tailed song hawks are predators that hunt from the air. Their beaks and talons are not made for scratching and digging. As long as we’re out of reach, we’ll be safe.”

  Night in the forest was still densely black when we completed the three burrows, lining them with pine needles for comfort. I still had no idea of how close we were to dawn, but I suggested that now was a good time to move into shelter. Retsina decided that an adult rat should be in each hole. I agreed, and suggested that Alpha and Beta go with their mother. I sent Delta to keep Roger company, because I knew my son would keep Roger from any foolish decisions. Gamma would come with me.

  I felt uneasy at being separated from Retsina and the other ratlets, but thought we’d been wise in making three separate nests. Gamma settled in beside me and offered me his opinions about Ratenburg. “Papa, remember you said that if something was easy, it wasn’t worth having?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yes, and I’m convinced you’re right. The way to Ratenburg is meant to be hard. We all thought that the dangers would finish after the swing bridge near the mountain. Why would we think that? Surely, the mountain will be just as difficult as the rest.” His voice sounded earnest and old.