by Joy Cowley
Retsina, the only one of us not gripping a tail, called, “Wrap your legs around the rope! Quickly!”
We did that, and only just in time, because the wet rope shook so much that we slid around to the underside. There we were, hanging upside down, nothing but spray between our backs and that hungry torrent of water. Retsina called out again. “I’m going to ease back to the top of the rope. Follow me! Crawl slowly and calmly. Any jerky movement will make the rope shake again.”
Somehow, we managed to get back with the rope under our bellies, and although it quivered and dipped, it didn’t threaten to toss us off. We reached the first plank and went over it, feeling the change of texture to old wood slippery with green slime.
Retsina called encouragement but the rest of us did not dare reply. We could not relax our grip on the tail in front of us.
We had short distances between the next two planks, and the rope was quite steady, but after that there were no wooden steps, only a long loop of rope to the opposite bank.
“Be very calm,” called Retsina. “Panic makes it shake. We’ll go slowly, and if it does shake, we’ll stop and wrap our legs around the rope, until it is still.”
We didn’t turn upside down again, but progress was so slow I feared that night would come and we’d all be clinging to that rope in the darkness. We did, however, get to the track on the other side, Retsina first, the rest of us following. We did not let go of the tail-tow line until we were all on rocky ground. What a crossing! We rested there for some moments, our legs still trembling from stress, our jaws and tails aching. Far below, the river thundered and we were in a fine mist of spray, but no matter. We had managed the last challenge on the Ratenburg map and there was only the mountain slope ahead. We were very pleased with ourselves. The ratlets seemed to forget their discomfort. They shook the wetness off their fur and scampered about, pushing each other and turning somersaults, as though they had actually arrived at the rat city. “We’re here! We made it!”
It was late afternoon. The track wound in great curves up the side of a mountain covered with brown rocks and clumps of tussock grass. There was no shortage of adequate shelter but we would need to keep going to find food. The air was very cold, and because we were newly from the city, we had warm-weather fur, short and thin. Walking would warm us, but we also needed a nourishing meal.
There were no predators to be seen. I searched the sky for sign of hawks or hungry seabirds, and saw a solitary skylark. As for ground creatures, there were only two rabbits, who stared at us in astonishment.
Roger called to them, “We’re going to Ratenburg.”
They didn’t answer, which did not surprise us. Rabbits do not speak to rats.
We knew they understood us, because one said, “Ratenburg!” and they both laughed in a mocking way.
When we had passed them, Retsina said, “This ground is solid rock. How do they make their burrows?”
I thought about that. “Maybe they have no enemies and don’t need burrows.”
Retsina shrugged. “Everything is food for something else. Of course they’ll have enemies.”
She was right for, further up the slope, Beta drew our attention to a wild cat running across the hillside. It had a dead rabbit in its mouth. That sight immediately brought back caution and we found a secure hiding place in a gap between two large rocks. We cleared out some pebbles, lining the space with tussock grass. By the time we had finished, mist had come down the mountain, hastening nightfall. We were all hungry, but shelter was more important than food and we tucked ourselves into the narrow crevice, huddled close to keep out the cold.
When morning came, there was still heavy mist and I had to make a decision. Did we stay in hiding or did we continue on the track? How many wild cats were there on the mountain? Did they hunt when the mountain was covered with low cloud? Would they smell us through the moist air?
“Papa, we’re very hungry,” said Alpha.
It was decided that Roger and I would go out and see if there was anything edible in the area. I found a nest of speckled quail eggs nearby. Roger came back through the mist, triumphant. “A thorn bush covered with berries, shipmate!”
Cautiously, we escorted Retsina and the ratlets to these discoveries and everyone had a very full breakfast. The air was still cold but sunlight was coming through the mist, turning water drops into small rainbows. We had new energy and decided that, cats or no cats, we would continue up the mountain.
“It’s not something I would recommend for a solitary traveller,” I explained. “But a family of six strong rats should be able—”
“Seven!” said Roger. “A family of seven!”
“Exactly!” I corrected myself. “A family of seven rats can deter any prowling cat.”
“We’re an army!” said Gamma.
“We have great courage, Papa,” said Alpha.
“But don’t let your courage make you less cautious,” I reminded her. “We will walk in line as usual, always alert for danger. A careless rat is a cat’s dinner.”
“You’re doing it again,” said Roger, licking egg yolk off a paw.
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Preaching,” he said. “Spinnaker the dictator.”
“Close your mouth, Roger,” said Retsina. “It’s making a silly noise.” But she said it with a laugh, and he laughed in return.
I felt happy with the thought that, in a family, you can say what you like and feel safe. Knowing that Jolly old Roger was my brother Ensign had made a big difference. Now I understood him because he was a part of us. On top of that, there was an energy among us that brought good humour.
I ask you this, my friend: have you ever put your ear to a wall where a colony of rats are nesting? Have you heard the squeaks of newborn young and the excited chatter of proud parents, and known that you have only to gnaw a small hole to be a part of that happy gathering?
Well, that’s how we felt on that mountain slope. On the other side was the place of perfection, the wonderful city of Ratenburg.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FINDING RATENBURG
As the day went on, the mountain grew steeper and colder, until there was no vegetation on the rocky slopes, just patches of snow and ice seen through the chill mist. We didn’t know how far we were from the summit. It could have been minutes away, or hours. We passed a small cave in a rock, and soon after the mist became swirling snow. That caused us to retrace our steps and return to the cave. It wasn’t much of a hollow, simply a recess where some rock had fallen away, but it was big enough for seven cold rats. We crouched inside and although we were not warm, the feeling came back to our frozen paws. It was still daylight, or that murky light that passes for day, and it was story-telling time for the ratlets. They wanted Uncle Roger to tell them about his life in the dog-food factory. “What went in the dog food?” Gamma asked, although they had all heard this that same morning.
Jolly Roger put on an actor’s voice. “The bones of dead horses and the blood of dead cows! The feathers of ducks! Chicken heads with staring eyes! Sacks of wheat with weevils in them!” His eyes got wilder. “Bits of old carpet! Pigeon droppings off windowsills! Dog scrapings from—”
“Roger!” said Retsina. “That’s enough!”
The ratlets were laughing and burying their heads in expectation of the next line.
“Rat droppings,” said Roger. “That’s true, me hearties. Dogs go crazy for a nice tasty rat dropping.”
“You’re impossible!” Retsina said.
“I know,” said Roger, winking at the ratlets, who were hugging themselves with laughter.
Our youngsters said I always told them serious stories. That is probably true. I am not my brother. But all the same, they wanted to hear about our early life under the wharf and how there was a big wave whenever a ship came alongside. “Engines work the propellers, which plough up the sea. We were on a high ledge under the wharf, but water still washed over our floor. When a big wave came we needed to hold on to the w
ood, or we would have been washed away.”
Delta nodded. “It’s called a tsunami. That’s when an underwater disturbance creates a giant wave.”
“Some rats were washed off the ledge,” I told them. “But we were all good swimmers. There were seven ratlets in our family: five boys and two girls—me, Hawser, Ensign, Compass, Briny, Starboard and Hull.”
“Did you eat fish?” Beta asked.
“Sometimes. Mostly it was whatever the humming beans threw overboard—potato peelings, cabbage, apple cores.”
“Tell us about the pest control company,” said Alpha.
I looked at Roger and he looked away. We had been very young, but we both remembered that dreadful day—the poisonous gases pumped under the wharves; screaming, fleeing rats, some getting away, others not able to escape. I could not talk about it. “It was just another case of ratophobia,” I said.
Swirling snowflakes made a thick curtain in front of our shelter, and we were not tempted to go out. The murky light faded, became darkness, and we huddled closer as the temperature dropped. I thought sleep was impossible but when I woke there was a chink of light coming into our cave. The entrance was almost entirely blocked with snow but above it was a hint of fine day.
We dug our way out, shaking the snow off our backs, and blinked in daylight as bright as white fire. I had seen it before in the city, drifts of snow in gutters, snow packed to ice by the wheels of cars, but never had I stood before a world of undisturbed white. We huffed on our front paws, and our breath was the only mist in the day. Everything sparkled, including the eyes of our ratlets who, in spite of the cold, were enchanted with the beauty around us. Not only was the day clear and bright, we were almost at the top of the mountain.
Retsina licked my cheek. “We’ll soon be home, Spinnaker,” she whispered.
“Tonight we’ll sleep in Ratenburg!” Roger told the ratlets.
The snow on the track was paw deep in some places, body deep in others. Being the biggest and able to push a path through drifts, I was at the front of the line. The sun rose higher and threads of steam lifted from rocks and from our fur. No one complained about the cold. We were all eager for our first glimpse of the rat city. But the view of the valley did not emerge as we expected. From below, the top of the mountain range had looked like a series of sharp peaks. In fact, the top was a rugged plateau that went as far as another horizon. The track curved over it but there was no vegetation, nothing to eat, just patches of snow and small trickles of water where that snow was melting. We were disappointed but knew we would eventually come to the place where we could look down on the valley.
My brother Roger sang, “Yo ho ho! Have a bite of snow! This mountain leads to Ratenburg town. What goes up, must come down.”
I told myself that he was trying to cheer his nieces and nephews, who were cold and hungry. Unfortunately, he didn’t cheer me. I wanted to thrust a pawful of snow into his mouth. Retsina sensed my agitation and turned to me. “Spinnaker dear, he’s not causing any harm. This is his way of being helpful.”
She was right. Roger was my brother Ensign, but he was not me. I should allow him to be himself.
By the middle of the day, the horizon had become a line of rocks in front of us, with nothing but sky beyond it. We were close to the edge. My heart beat fast and I ran towards the highest rock to be the first to see Ratenburg. The others had the same idea, and we scrambled up the rock together, crouched and leaned over the top.
The valley far below was a green basin, fields and trees, some streams as small as silver whiskers on the land. But the information we’d been given was wrong. Humming beans did live in the valley. At both ends of the basin were small villages, connected by a narrow road.
Delta was not surprised. “Logically, there must be humming beans. Otherwise, where would the food come from?”
Beta said what the rest of us were thinking. “I can’t see Ratenburg.”
Delta turned to her. “Why would you see it from here? Look how small the humming-bean houses are. Anyway, it’s probably hidden—in that forest, or underground.”
“Fear not, me hearties,” said Roger. “It’s there somewhere, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
“Pot of gold?” Delta looked puzzled.
I said to them, “Let’s go. The sooner we get out of this snow, the better.”
Although the track was covered with a blanket of white, it was easy to follow, for it was flat, with rocks on either side. I realised the track would have been made by humming beans for their own use. I’d been disappointed to see their houses in the valley, but Delta was right. If there were no humming beans, where would Ratenburg get its food supplies? Was it possible there was no ratophobia in the valley?
We descended past the snow line and into an area of vegetation more varied than the tussock grass on the other side. Wild roses grew, thorny bushes close to the ground, and although the hips were withered with frost, we ate them. After that, we needed to make a decision. Did we repeat yesterday, and find early shelter on the mountain? Or did we push on down to the valley?
With their stomachs full, they all wanted to continue.
“It will be night before we get there,” I warned them.
“We have no hope of finding Ratenburg in the dark,” Retsina added.
Alpha said eagerly, “It’ll be much easier going down the mountain than it was climbing up.”
It was decided. Our shadows lengthened as the sun went down, and the air grew chill, sharp with frost. Below us, the valley turned gold with the last light of day. Our eyes strained to see Ratenburg, but in fact none of us had the faintest idea what we were looking for.
Have you ever been in that situation, dear friend? You need to find something that’s very important, and yet you’re not sure what it looks like? That’s how we were, coming down the mountain—excited, curious, anxious.
The humming-bean houses in the village were not big by city standards. They were made of stone with tin roofs, and there were black lumps of cattle beasts grazing in the fields. We watched until the long fingers of purple shadow reached over the entire valley, and everything was in darkness.
We continued to follow the track through low hills that bore the strong scents of cows and goats. Roger moaned. “Milk!” he said. “Cream! Butter! Cheese!” In the distance, there were lights in the windows of some of the houses, and we smelled humming beans and their food. The aroma of meat and potatoes drifted across the valley to our quivering noses.
The track led us past a farmhouse and a barn with an open door. Retsina and I agreed that we needed to find a place to rest and maybe this barn was it. We stopped and sniffed the air. I could smell hay and machinery, but no cats or dogs. “Wait here,” I said, “I’ll make sure it’s safe.”
My night-sight is good, but for detail I rely on my nose. There was hay in the barn, a large tractor and tools for working the land. I called to Retsina, “Bring them in!”
After nights of cramped shelter, the size of the barn made the ratlets timid. They crept in, looking about with anxious gaze. I indicated the heap of loose hay. “It’s warm and dry,” I told them. “Make your own bed.”
No sooner had I said it than the hay moved and out came a large rat. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
I should have expected a rat in this valley, but I was so surprised I couldn’t speak.
Retsina said, “Good evening. We’re on our way to Ratenburg.”
The rat was glossy and black, with eyes like bits of coal. She studied us for a moment, then turned towards the hay. “Hey, guys! Another lot of immigrants!”
At once, about twenty black rats jumped out of the hay and stood beside the first. They stared at us, neither friendly nor unfriendly, and I hastened to introduce myself. “I’m Spinnaker of the Ship rat clan and this is my wife Retsina and my children and my brother Roger. We don’t wish to impose on you. All we want is shelter. We will leave at first light tomorrow.”
The rat nodde
d. “I’m Furrow of the Farm rat clan. You came over the mountain?”
“Yes. We’ve travelled for several days—”
Furrow smiled at the rats beside her. “It’s that old Pied Piper story again!” she said.
Retsina stepped forward. “We’d be very grateful if you let us stay the night. In the morning, you might be able to give us directions.”
“Directions?”
“To Ratenburg,” said Retsina.
Furrow sighed. “It’s all fiddlesticks!” she said. “It’s all humbug and jingle bells! How many times do I have to say this to rats like you? There’s no such place as Ratenburg.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE JOURNEY AND NOT THE ARRIVAL
You may have guessed this truth, dear friend. We certainly hadn’t. We were in shock. At first I thought the Farm rats were deliberately being unkind and unhelpful. In fact, they were the opposite, and Furrow, in particular, could not have been more considerate. She said, “That Ratenburg story is a myth. But a myth is not a lie, you understand. A myth is truth wrapped up in a story. You have to open up the story to find the true meaning.”
Greatly upset, I shook my head. “You say Ratenburg doesn’t exist. Then it’s not a myth. It’s an outright lie.”
Furrow corrected me. “I didn’t say Ratenburg doesn’t exist. I said it isn’t a place. The truth in the story is that Ratenburg is the journey.”
“The what?”
“Ratenburg is the journey,” repeated Furrow. “Most rats want a life that’s easy, full of pleasure and good food. They want a Ratenburg place. But that kind of life doesn’t make you strong. It doesn’t teach you anything. I don’t know what kind of journey you’ve had but I’m sure of this one thing—it was very hard work. Am I right?”