The colonel grunted to himself. For some reason or another this year's batch of war shortages included sawdust and kriskringlite, the rare ore Christmas tinsel was made from.
He planted his back against the bar and looked around the room again, noticing for the first time the table under the staircase where a fat porcupine in a thick quill overcoat with long coattails brooded into a mug of lager. A tall ringmaster's hat lay on the table at one porcupine elbow and a heavy brass caravan key at the other. Horseless caravans were wind-up things based on music-box technology.
De Filbert guessed that Mr. Porcupine there had tired of the main roads with their bothersome military police checkpoints and heavy traffic of fresh wooden soldiers moving toward the Front and turned off here to refresh himself.
Yes, thanks to the switch to wooden soldiers and the assembly lines of Toyland, the army of the Rodent Alliance was now outnumbered in the field. Earlier toy soldiers had been lead, until they started dying off as if there was something in their drinking water or the pipes it came in. So the powers that be had gone to tin. Though steadfast enough, tin soldiers tended to come out of the molding process missing one limb or another, more suited to hook-and-peg work along pirate lines than soldiering.
So they turned to wood. And wood had worked out. Thank God, for the stakes were high. It would be a disaster for humankind if Toyland lost the war. The toy, as they say, is father to the man. Humans remember more of old playthings than they realize. Know it or not, poets hone a toy's merest musings to craft their verse; novelists quarry toy dreams and adventures to plot their stories; philosophers turn toy platitudes into eternal verities.
Now for the business at hand. Tossing his greatcoat over his shoulder, De Filbert threw a bright play-money bill on the bar, picked up his shako and drink, and crossed the room.
The porcupine raised his head to peer at him through thick eyeglasses as he passed.
Sliding into the booth across from the hooded figure, the colonel murmured, “Herr von Rat, I presume."
A high-pitched whisper corrected him. “Ratte, it rhymes with latte. Richthofen von Ratte."
The nutcracker raised a wooden eyebrow. He'd been sent there by Toy Military Intelligence to make contact with its most valuable agent. He had expected a gruff Ratavian accent, not something you might hear from behind a baseboard. Still, what did it matter? The Rodent Alliance was doomed. Starvation stalked the Kingdom of Mouse and, to quote a New Toyland Times headline, “Rat Riots Roil Ratisbon.” No wonder rodents were deserting the sinking ship.
"You are late, Colonel de Filbert,” said Von Ratte.
Yes, he was late. The colonel might have answered that all ruined villages look alike. But he hated traitors even more than he hated rodents. So he said, “At night all cats are black.” Talk of cats always took the wind out of mice.
Von Ratte knew what he was up to. “I am not a mouse,” he squeaked, giving each word equal weight. “I am, in some fashion or other, supposed to be a rat.” Here he opened his cape and raised his hood, revealing a face more shimmer than substance, like moonlight slow-dancing across dark waters. Ratlike, yes, but with large roundish ears, blank disks for eyes through which he somehow saw. He wore lederhosen over a black body stocking.
Lederhosen made the colonel think of Switzerland. So he asked, “You some kind of wind-up cuckoo-clock Johnny? Or one of those fancy new marionettes, the what-do-you-call-'em, the Geppetto Wireless?"
"I'm a toy just like you,” Von Ratte squeaked.
The colonel thought his companion gave off a smell of warm celluloid mixed with buttered popcorn when out of temper.
Von Ratte continued, “Those jack-in-the-boxes at Military Intelligence wanted some kind of a magic-lantern thing who could pass for a rat. Well, R and D botched the job big time. So here I am. Oh, the rat recruiters signed me up all right. But they thought I looked so funny they made me entertainment officer."
Here the face inside the hood winced as though in pain and then dimmed wearily. Von Ratte put a three-fingered glove to his temple. “R and D tried to correct the royal hash they'd made of things by hoisting me up into an electrical storm in a box kite with bolts attached to my neck,” he explained. “I am no stranger to headaches, Colonel."
When De Filbert opened his mouth to sympathize, Von Ratte cut him off. “I don't want your pity,” he said, adding an urgent, “Listen, I was not spawned willy-nilly in some dark corner like a mouse or a rat. I was designed by an intelligent hand and created for a purpose, just like you. I asked for this meeting so I could tell you, toy to toy, that we've got to call off the Big Push.” He pulled a map from inside his cloak and spread it open. “Something's very wrong in Sector Five."
As Von Ratte spoke, the colonel saw the porcupine get up, wave his hat at the bartender, and take the steps up to the open air with the big brass key under his arm.
De Filbert turned back to the map and shook his head. “We've finally got the Ratavians looking the wrong way. Daytime tin zeppelin overflights report all enemy troop movements have been out of Sector Five into Sectors Four and Six where we've massed our fresh troops. At dawn our seasoned units will break through their front line in Sector Five.” He shoved his hand across the map. “Nothing'll stand in our way. Then we'll outflank them, right and left. Why call off a perfect plan?"
"Because the Ratavians are up to something."
The colonel waited.
"Even after the Ratavians started to pull out I heard stories of heavy night traffic along this road,” said Von Ratte, drawing a finger across the map on a line leading north from the Front through the middle of Sector Five. “Late yesterday I went for a little look-see. I found myself a good spot about here in a hedgerow beside the road and settled in. Just after nightfall along came these two closed wagons with a heavy rat dragoon escort. Now this stretch of road's rutty as hell. One of the wagons must've popped a knothole. After they'd passed I found this narrow trail of sawdust on the road."
"Sawdust?” The colonel frowned.
Von Ratte tapped the map. “The trail turned off here onto wagon tracks across a field. I followed, and just beyond some trees, there it was: a giant tent all fenced round with barbed wire and crawling with rat dragoons."
The colonel looked over at the table where the porcupine had been sitting. “So let's add things up. We've got a big tent. We've got sawdust. Sounds like a circus to me."
"I'm entertainment officer,” Von Ratte reminded him. “If there was a circus in Sector Five, I'd be the first to know."
"So what are we talking about?"
"You tell me,” said Von Ratte. “But the canvas would hide it from the air."
The colonel cradled his massive jaw in a thumb and forefinger. His one big fear was germ warfare. He knew laboratory rat scientists were working on a spreadable form of the Dutch Elm disease to use against Toyland's wooden soldiers. Had Von Ratte lucked onto some kind of biological-warfare facility?
The rats already had a perfect delivery system. The Christmas Eve before last they'd used their mortars to hurl glass shells filled with Greek fire into the trenches, causing havoc among the ranks. Today's wooden soldiers were protected from Greek fire by a fire-retardant lacquer. But Dutch Elm was another kettle of fish.
The colonel stood up. “Come on. Let's take a closer look at what you've found."
* * * *
Outside, a cold wind had driven the rain clouds away, leaving a sky decked out like a Christmas tree with starry constellations: there the Great Rocking Horse and there the Lesser.
The colonel had come by wind-up toy motorcycle and parked on the village outskirts. With Von Ratte in the sidecar directing the way, they sped off between hedgerows down a narrow country lane lit by the rising moon.
As he drove, the colonel reflected on how much he'd missed the snow. Last year on night patrol he'd stopped to let his men watch a woods fill up with the stuff. He remembered how peaceful it was with the snow coming down on little cat feet. As it happened, he knew th
e owner, a stuffed bear who used the property for a picnic ground. Not long afterwards, on furlough in town, he ran into the bear and mentioned stopping there. “Hey, be my guest,” came the reply. Stuffed animals were like that.
Later he told his wise old medical corps buddy Toby, by far the ugliest apothecary jar on the shelf, about that pleasant meeting. Toby understood. He said one of life's small treasures was a toy village with a real stuffed animal in it.
Squeaking over the whir of the motorcycle, Von Ratte asked, “Ever wonder what the hell this is all about?” By “this” he clearly meant the war.
"The rodents are after the children's candy canes and sugarplums under the Christmas tree,” replied the colonel.
Von Ratte gave a high-pitched laugh and started to reply. But a loud “sproy-oy-oy-ing!” interrupted him. This was followed by an even louder noise, like the lingering clatter of a tray of flatware being slowly spilled down onto a hard surface. (Noises had become considerably drawn out since 3StoogesRusco won Toyland's sound-engineering contract.) The motorcycle came to a sudden stop with a huge mare's-nest of metal spring billowing from its rear end.
Dismounting, the colonel gave the machine a healthy kick, muttering, “Had the damn thing in for a lube and a good wind-up just before I left headquarters."
Their mission was urgent. Dawn was less than five hours away. They pushed the dead motorcycle into the bushes and hurried off on foot. When they'd walked for a bit, Von Ratte returned to what he'd been saying. “Let the rat bastards have the damn candy. What makes this our fight anyway?"
Raising his hand for silence, De Filbert looked back down the road behind them. In a moment, the Porcupine Brothers Circus caravan came trundling along. A lantern above the driver's seat revealed Mr. Porcupine nodding behind the steering handle. He'd almost passed them when his head popped from his quilly chest. “Hey, need a lift?” he asked. “Going far?"
"To Bloques,” said Von Ratte, naming a village on the Toyland side of the Front just southeast of Sector Five.
"Kind of close to the action for me,” came the reply. “But I'll get you to St. Golliwoq-les-Deux-Eglises."
"That'll do fine,” said the colonel, though he found it strange that Mr. Porcupine, who left the estaminet ahead of them, had ended up behind. They hadn't passed him on the road.
"Climb on up, then,” said the circus owner.
The ample driver's seat was none too big to hold the fat creature in his quill overcoat. But when they slid warily past him they found the cargo of gunnysacks in back made comfortable seating. Mr. Porcupine pulled a lever and the caravan rolled forward.
"You and your brother performing hereabouts?” asked the colonel.
The animal looked quizzically back over his shoulder. Then he understood and smiled. “I'm an only child, Colonel,” he said. “'Brothers’ is just something we circus people call ourselves. To spread the blame.” He shook his head and returned to his driving. “No, wartime's no place for circusing. First your clowns get sent off to officers’ training school. Next all your bandsmen get drafted."
"And the sawdust shortage mustn't help,” ventured Von Ratte.
"Tell me about it,” agreed the porcupine.
In a clatter of harness a brigade of toy cavalry dashed by looking smart astride their stick-and-horsehead mounts. Behind them marched a regiment of wooden soldiers whose cheeks still bore the red circles the toy medical corps painted there as certificates of good health.
"A fine-looking bunch,” said the colonel proudly. “They'll give a good accounting of themselves. Hearts of oak."
"Bodies of pine, though, eh?” said their driver.
Yes, the nutcracker had to admit the enlisted toy soldiers were pine. Only the officers were hardwood.
"Me, I like my pine a bit saltier,” added the porcupine as an afterthought.
Before his call-up to Christmas duty, the colonel had served in a toy box in rural Ontario amid walnut trees with shells so thick his jaws ached at the memory. Nighttime meant much gnawing from the direction of the outhouse. Porcupines, they told him, favored outhouse wood salty with urine.
"Tell you what a circus owner does in wartime,” said the porcupine. “First he restocks his supplies. Like those spangles you're sitting on. Boy, do we go through spangles. I paid a little visit to the local spanglesmith back there in What-do-you-call-it where I first saw you gentlemen.
"Second, a circus owner searches out new acts for when the world comes to its senses again.” He laughed. “You two, for example, could be circus stars. You, Colonel, could be a rock eater, Billy the G., the Human Goat. And your friend there could be the Celluloid Man, a.k.a. the Human Shirt Collar.” For the rest of the journey Mr. Porcupine regaled them with stories of the circus life.
At St. Golliwoq they bid goodbye to the circus owner. As the caravan rolled away, Von Ratte said, “Funny how every time we got to a military checkpoint our friend Mr. Porcupine dropped his voice. What was that all about?"
"To make me put my head outside the wagon to catch what he was saying,” said the colonel. Seeing a nutcracker officer, the Toy Military Police invariably waved the caravan through. The colonel scratched his jaw, wondering if the creature had sabotaged his motorcycle for just that purpose.
* * * *
The colonel and Von Ratte worked their way along the front-line trench north of Bloques, which was crowded with battle-scarred Toyland units catching what sleep they could with Zero Hour little more than four hours away.
At last they reached a long observation sap jutting out into no-thing's-land. At the end of it an officer was waiting for them. He saluted, helped Von Ratte into a black rat dragoon greatcoat, and handed him his sword and kepi. The nutcracker's spy companion buried his face in the coat's broad lapels. Then he and the colonel slid over the sandbags and crawled out on knees and elbows onto the battlefield following the breach in the barbed wire Von Ratte had made on his way over.
The low moon lit their way across a morbid landscape of bloated, rotting rodents dead from the toxic cork shrapnel from the popguns, and the broken and well-chewed remains of wooden soldiers. When at last they stopped to rest in a shell crater, Von Ratte gestured around at the carnage. “I still say, why's this our fight?” When no answer came he continued, “You know what I mean. You and I were designed. But the mice, the rats, and the children, yes, the children too, are animals spawned willy-nilly in dark corners."
"You'll have to try your regimental padre on that one,” said De Filbert. But he felt it did Von Ratte credit that he'd framed the question. No rodent would have, not even a church-mouse. Then he added, “Perhaps it's a small price to pay for immortality. Toys who fall in the Battle for Christmas don't die, you know. They live on in the dim of grownup memories.” Maybe he ventured a step too far when he added, “Like ‘Rosebud.’”
"'Rosebud,’ my ass,” said Von Ratte bitterly and crawled off toward the rodent lines.
* * * *
When they were within hailing distance, Von Ratte called out “Camembert,” the rodent password. Then they slid over the lip of the trench. As agreed, the colonel now raised his arms and became Von Ratte's prisoner, captured on night reconnoiter. A few mouse foot soldiers came in their pink and gray uniforms to sniff De Filbert and make threatening squeaks. But they let Von Ratte march him back behind the lines to the prisoner pens.
The last of the mouse light infantry and rat dragoons crowded the roads now, heading into Sector Four and Sector Six. The colonel watched an anti-zeppelin artillery unit swing past complete with a makeshift searchlight made of a flashlight mounted on a roller skate. A brigade of rat lancers with bright pennants followed after them.
Rat cavalry were formidable and ingenious fighting units. A rat rode another rat until the mount tired. Then the mount became the rider and any rat guilty of leaning on the whip got a taste of his own medicine. This rat read on the Golden Rule gave them a primitive democracy. Where mice were all squeak, nibble, and mob, rats were disciplined and resourcef
ul.
The colonel studied them as they passed. He marveled at the constantly churning noses, how each cupped ear moved independently this way and that to catch every sound and silence, the black unblinking eyes and sharp yellow teeth.
Oh, he'd heard all the atrocity stories, how rats killed pets and bit babies and ate all the cheese and soup and pickled sprats. He made a sour face. The pickled sprats part, now that was hard to swallow.
And here came a double column of leather-jacketed rat artillerymen transporting fragile glass mortar shells to their batteries the same way they looted eggs in peacetime. One rat lay on his back and cradled the precious cargo in his four legs while another threw the egg carrier's tail over his shoulder and dragged it away. De Filbert looked hard and deep into the glass shells. What was it this time, more Greek fire, Dutch Elm, or some other concoction from hell?
Von Ratte and his prisoner marched deeper into Sector Five until they reached the quiet, rutty road the sawdust wagons had taken. Here the colonel lowered his arms, by now as numb as wooden dowels, and rubbed them vigorously. The moon peeped down on them just over the treetops as though standing on curious tiptoe. Von Ratte studied his map by its light.
Suddenly an approaching drum of rat feet sent them ducking into the hedgerow just as a dragoon patrol rushed by. After that they kept to the countryside behind the hedgerow where the going was slower but safer. This caution cost them time. Dawn was only three hours away when they got to the place where the sawdust wagons had turned off the road. When they reached the small stand of trees they crouched down. Ahead of them stood Von Ratte's immense tent, its perimeter surrounded by barbed wire.
The colonel judged the place large enough for a biological-weapons facility. But how to get inside to find out for sure? Rat dragoons patrolled inside the compound and out. As he pondered, he heard a familiar hum. Working its way up the slope behind them came the circus caravan. A white sheet with a red cross now covered the Porcupine Brothers emblazonment. The driver wore a white medical duster over his spiny coat and had a Red Cross badge stuck in his hatband.
EQMM, January 2007 Page 8