by Joy Cowley
Near one farm, we passed a curly black dog that would have come after us, had it not been for Barker. The two knew each other. “A fine morning to you, Barker,” called the dog, while greedily watching us. “Doing your good deed for the day, are you?”
“Nice to see you in such good health, Towser,” Barker meowed. “How did you like those vege dog crackers I gave you?”
The dog’s expression answered that question, and it turned away, its tail curled between its hind legs.
Barker smiled at us. “Don’t mind Towser. If his teeth and stomach were as good as his heart, he’d be a remarkably fine dog.”
Near the outskirts of the town, the cat led us to a small stream where we could drink again. “Fill yourselves. It’s a hot day. There’s nothing worse than dying of thirst and seeing a fancy bowl of poisoned water. Remember, from here on through the town, your pretty mouths are only for talking.”
It was time to say goodbye to Barker. I had a speech prepared, about the guidance of our family star and how it had brought us amazing help in unexpected ways, from a hedgehog, a mouse and a cat. I wanted to talk a little about the importance of this journey and how these three creatures had given up all their selfish instincts to help us on our way to Ratenburg. I stood on my hind paws and looked up at Barker. “I would like to say—”
He interrupted. “It’s my job. Goodbye, my dearie-os.” And with that, he ran off, his long legs stretching over the grass, like those of a galloping horse.
Again, we formed a walking line, the ratlets between me and their mother, and Jolly Roger somewhere in between, next to whoever would provide an ear for his fantastic stories.
A small rise took us onto the highway, where there was a considerable amount of traffic. Not that we went on the road. We travelled in the vegetation at the edge and sometimes needed to cross patches of short grass. The humming beans who roared past in cars must have seen us, but, as Barker had predicted, no one stopped. Each vehicle caused a wind that ruffled our fur, while the big trucks, thundering by at speed, caused a gale that tangled our whiskers and sometimes knocked us off our feet.
In one patch of cut grass we passed a few ripe cherries, shining in the sun, although there was no cherry tree nearby. Further on, there was an intact meat pie resting against a thistle bush.
“These foods are so obviously poisonous baits!” said Alpha, pointing at the crust untouched by birds or insects.
I addressed my children. “Ratlets, let this be a lesson to us all. The cherries and pie look most appetising, and the only reason we know they’re toxic is because we had a warning from a charitable cat. Let us also be charitable. We should not tell ourselves that all cats are bad. There are some notable exceptions—like Barker.”
Beta said, “Most rats think cats are bad. I suppose grasshoppers think all rats are bad.”
“Grasshoppers?” Gamma frowned.
“We eat grasshoppers,” said Beta. “They must hate us.”
“For goodness’ sake, Beta!” Gamma cried. “Grasshoppers are different. They’re made to be eaten.”
“They are insects,” said Beta. “They are living creatures and they have feelings.”
Before Gamma could retort, Delta said, “Beta’s right. The relationship between cats and rats is the same as that between rats and grasshoppers.”
“It isn’t,” said Delta. “I don’t eat grasshoppers.” He thumped his tail against the ground. “They’re greatly overrated, all crunch and no taste. Give me a fresh sparrow egg, any day.”
Retsina stepped between Beta and her sons. “I don’t like all this talk about food,” she said sternly.
“We were only thinking out loud,” protested Gamma.
I agreed with my wife. “Thinking about food leads to talking about it and talking leads to eating. If you want to employ your minds, think of something worthwhile. Focus on Ratenburg.”
We continued along the edge of the highway. On either side, beyond the strips of vegetation, were high metal fences, mesh big enough for rats, but not of a size to admit cats and dogs. Through the fences, we glimpsed more roads lined with humming bean houses.
Barker’s number one rule, walk along the highway, was not difficult if we also obeyed the other rules. The only time we had to walk on paved road was at the turn-offs, side roads that went down to the town. There were not many of those. The main danger came from the baits, which looked very appetising.
“Here’s another one!” shouted Alpha. “Chocolates!”
On the grass, a square of gold paper presented two dark chocolates that had not melted with the sun. A few steps on, there was a small mound of sugar-frosted cookies.
I realised it was impossible not to think of food when we were passing the kind of meals we dreamed about. The ratlets were fascinated. I could see saliva shining on Beta’s whiskers. “Listen!” I said. “We will take note of these baits. How many are there? Let us count the number of times we could have died.”
That worked. Their fascination turned to dread as the tally rose: a ham sandwich, a bag of peanuts, two hard-boiled eggs, some potato chips, a whole rasher of cooked bacon. Now each item represented a dead rat.
The baits seemed fewer as we neared the other side of the town, but here we found a new danger. Retsina, who was walking in front, suddenly dropped out of sight.
“Mama!” the ratlets screamed.
My dear wife was unharmed, but if she had been on her own, she would have been trapped in a metal-lined hole in the ground. The ratophobic humming beans had dug the hole, lined it with some tin pipe and placed grass straws over the top. She had fallen through.
She was more annoyed than upset. “May a thousand fleas infest their armpits!” she said, stamping her paws. “May their teeth fall into their porridge!”
It was easy to pull her out. We employed the same rat-tail tow that we had used to get Delta out of the bog, but this time there was no sucking mud to hold her back. Retsina came up the side, spitting crumbs of dirt and angry words. “Do they call that a sophisticated trap?” she said.
“Watch where you step,” I called to the others. “If you can’t see earth, there probably isn’t any.”
Later we saw another hole, just as carefully disguised, grass stalks on top looking like mown hay. I poked the edge, and the stalks fell into the deep, slippery pit. How fortunate we were to be a family, I thought. A single rat travelling this road, without family and friends, would not get far.
It seemed that poison baits had been replaced by traps, but near the end of the road, a special scent hung in the air, something so tantalising and delicious that it had to be the REC of Barker’s last warning. I had never smelled anything like it. It was as though all my wishes for cheese had come true and moulded themselves into one flavour. My nose and whiskers trembled. Saliva ran down my fur. Every one of us was affected, and Jolly Roger was making tiny squeaks as though he was in agony.
Yes, my friend, it was cheese, but oh, what cheese! That smell drove us mad. We hurried, following the thickening of that wonderful aroma, and saw in front of us a huge trap. Set well back from the road, between some small bushes and the high mesh fence, it was simply a big version of an old-fashioned mousetrap. It had a spring holding a steel bar that would be released when the bait was touched. The bait, of course, was a slab of that special REC. Rat Effective Cheese!
“Come away, ratlets,” I called.
“Wait,” said Roger. “This bait isn’t poisonous.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
He pointed. “Look at those ants.” He indicated three black ants that were removing crumbs of cheese. “It’s logical, shipmate. They don’t put poison bait in a trap. Why would they? You can’t kill something twice.”
“Stay back, Roger,” I warned. “It’s big and it’s deadly.”
“It’s also got the best cheese in the world—and the ants are eating it!” Roger jumped up and down. “Spinny, me lad, I know traps. I can release this and the cheese will be ours.”
We all stepped back a pace.
Roger eased the fennel stalk over the wooden base of the trap, while we all held our breath. He pushed it further in, touched the spring, and slam! The metal bar came down, crushing the stick and making the trap lift off the ground. Roger gave a cry of delight, and as soon as the trap settled, he ran forward to collect that lump of REC. “You are mine!” he yelled.
At the same time, Retsina shouted, “Stop!” and she grabbed Roger’s tail. She yanked it so hard that he turned a backward somersault, landing on the ground as a second metal bar, nearer the cheese, thudded down with great force. Roger sat on the ground, staring at near death.
The ratlets walked backwards, and so did I. The cheese was probably now safe, but we had lost our appetites. Roger didn’t complain about Retsina grabbing his wounded tail. Indeed, he didn’t say anything. Head down, and slightly wobbly, he walked away from the trap, and we all travelled in silence out of the town of Grissenden.
CHAPTER TEN
MEANINGFUL FICTION AND MEANINGLESS TRUTH
When Roger rushed for the cheese, Retsina had acted instinctively to save him. Later, she told me she had surprised herself. “I’ve grown used to him,” she said. “He’s become a part of the family.”
I had to admit that I was greatly relieved when she pulled him away from danger. Many a time I had wished that Jolly old Roger would disappear, but the thought of him lying on a trap, with a neck broken by a steel bar, brought a wave of sadness. He was lazy, greedy and unreliable, but Retsina was right. If he had been killed, we would have felt considerable loss.
Roger, being Roger, changed the story. Once he’d recovered from his fright, he denied trying to get at the REC bait. “I knew the second spring was there,” he said. “I simply wanted to know how that horrible trap worked.”
Alpha reminded him that he had said, “You are mine!” to the cheese.
“Wrong on two counts,” he told Alpha. “I said, ‘You are mean,’ and I said it to the trap, not the bait.”
Arguing with him was of no use whatsoever: he had more excuses than a fish has scales. Because we were silent, he thought he’d convinced us, and he walked jauntily, telling us what a lovely day it was—as if we didn’t know.
We were on the same road, but beyond Grissenden it had ceased to be a highway and was narrower, with only occasional traffic. There were no mesh fences and we had some clear views of farmland with cows and pigs, and humming beans sitting on earth machines. Ahead, the road was even smaller. It went over a hill, looking like a string over a green parcel of land. Even further in the distance, as misty as cloud, was a mountain range.
“Stop!” I commanded, and everyone turned to me. “Look ahead! What do you see?”
“A hill,” said Beta. “Some trees.”
“Yes, yes, but in the distance! What is it?”
“Some mountains?” suggested Gamma.
Retsina knew. She came close to me and her beautiful eyes were bright as she stared into our future.
“I see a road that goes on forever,” growled Roger. “Isn’t it time we stopped for a rest?”
I looked at our ratlets and said, “Tell them, Retsina.”
She smiled. “They’re not some mountains. They are the mountains. On the other side of them is a valley—” She paused.
Beta’s eyes opened wide. “Ratenburg?”
“Yes, Ratenburg.”
Our young squeaked and cheered, and even Roger did a small dance of excitement. We all stood on our back paws, stretching to see better, but the mountain range was far distant and only visible because the day was clear.
I said to the family, “Roger’s right. We need to rest now. There are trees near the top of that hill. They should provide safe shelter.”
We knew we were nearing the end of the Railway rats’ map, but actually seeing the mountains filled us with new energy. I’m sure, dear friend, that we would have kept on walking, such was our enthusiasm. I have also learned that every positive feeling has a negative side, and too much enthusiasm can make creatures careless, especially if their senses have been dulled with weariness. We had walked much of the day as well as the previous night, and it was time to catch up with ourselves. As we travelled up the hill, our views were wider. We saw a great stretch of water far to the left, and a fast-flowing river to our right, exactly as Moonshine Mouse had described. I thought the river was probably the same one that went under the swing bridge near the mountain. Compared with the perils we had already met, a rope-and-plank bridge did not seem such a dangerous thing.
The trees at the top of the hill proved to be a grove of willows next to a small road that led to a farmhouse. I had hoped for apple or plum trees, but the willows would give us shelter, and we could fossick for a meal after dark. Then Roger drew attention to a box on a post by the gate.
“This is it!” he said. “The perfect hiding place!”
I looked up at the white-painted box. It had a gap in the front, not large, but wide enough to be an entrance. I was doubtful. “I’ve seen boxes like this in the city.”
“That’s right,” said Roger. “They’re birdhouses. People make them for birds to nest in. Funny world, isn’t it, shipmate? The two-legs hate rats but they love birds. Many a day I’ve had breakfast on bread thrown out for sparrows.”
I sniffed the post but could detect no bird odour. “Are you certain these things are birdhouses?”
“Absolutely,” said Roger. “I once found a couple of starlings in one. They thought I was after their eggs—bad-tempered pair.”
I was certain he had been egg hunting, just as I was sure there were no birds in this box. It was of a size that could accommodate us all.
“Darling, I think we should shelter in the trees,” Retsina said.
“Cats can climb trees,” said Roger. “No cats or dogs can get us in a birdhouse. That’s why they are made this way.”
“I’ll investigate,” I told my anxious wife. I ran up the pole, eased myself over the platform and peered through the gap in the box. It was empty, except for some paper on the floor. “No one’s home!” I called cheerfully. “Come on up!”
One by one, they followed me: Roger, Gamma, Beta, Alpha, Delta and finally Retsina. For once, Roger was right. It was an admirable shelter. The papers lining the floor of the box provided a soft nest, and we were very comfortable. I lay at the front so I could see through the gap, and the others curled in a heap behind me. They were all asleep in minutes and I, too, was dozing when I heard the crunch of heavy steps on gravel. Instantly, I was alert. The smell of humming bean was strong, yet when I looked through the gap, no one was there. Someone must have passed by on the road. The footsteps stopped. I heard humming-bean breathing, snorting sounds and then an extraordinary thing happened. The back wall of the birdhouse fell open. I jumped, and everyone woke up. The back wall had gone! How could this have happened?
But wait, dear friend, it gets worse. A face filled the open space, and what a face it was! Round eyes behind glass windows, red cheeks with little blue lines in them and a thin red mouth! The eyes stared and then the mouth opened. A scream came out, louder than a song from a blue-tailed hawk. None of us could move.
“Rats! Filthy rats!”
The back wall of the box slammed into place and we heard rapid crunching noises as the humming bean ran away.
Roger lay down again. “That scared her off,” he said.
“No, it didn’t,” I said. “She’s probably gone to get her cat. Or a gun. We have to get out of here before she returns.”
Haste made us clumsy, and we were slower getting out of the birdhouse than we were climbing in. I helped the ratlets and Retsina through the gap, then turned to Roger, wh
o still insisted that the humming bean would not come back.
“All right,” I said. “You can stay here on your own.” But as I put my head through the opening, Roger decided to move. Unfortunately, he tried to push himself through at the narrowest end of the gap, and he was caught around the middle.
I was now outside the box and on the platform. Below me, Retsina and the ratlets were running towards the willow trees. I said to Roger, “That end is too small. Go back and come through down here.”
He waved his front paws at me. “I can’t! I tried but I’m stuck. Help me!”
The last squeak sounded urgent because we could both hear the barking of a dog. “Try harder!” I said, as I glanced at the ground. My sensible Retsina had reached the trunk of a willow and was ushering our young up it.
The barking of the dog was getting louder, and the female humming bean was screaming encouragement “Get ’em! Get ’em, boy!” The number of feet on the gravel road was now six instead of two.
“Help me!” screamed Roger.
There was only one way to do this. I climbed back inside the box and went to the far wall. Then I ran as fast as I could and hurled myself at Roger’s rear end. He shot out so fast that he flew through the air, missed the platform and fell to the ground. I climbed out and looked down. He was sitting on the grass, looking dazed.
The humming bean and her big cattle dog were almost at the gate. She was screaming. “Get those filthy rats!”
I scampered down the pole and pushed Roger into action. “Dog!” I said.