Hercufleas

by Sam Gayton

  Pain skewered him. His armoured skin crunched as a fat drop of blood welled out from his swollen stomach.

  ‘It is over. You will never have the Black Death.’

  But Hercufleas, though he was slick and red with blood, gave a weak laugh.

  And Sir Klaus knew what he had done.

  ‘NO!’ he cried, but it was too late. The drop of blood splished onto the courtyard floor.

  ‘You spilled your own blood.’ Hercufleas laughed, though laughing hurt. ‘The blood inside me is the blood I drank from you just now. I win. I win!’

  A groan went up from the Mousketeers. It was true. They’d seen it happen. Sir Klaus looked at them, then back at Hercufleas in his grasp. Then he dropped the broken sword to the floor and fell on his knees, squeaking and sobbing.

  ‘I have lost,’ wept Sir Klaus. ‘Forgive me, world, for failing to protect you. The Black Death must be unleashed again.’

  Hercufleas lay on the ground in agony, his broken body grating against itself with each breath. He had won the duel, but at what cost? Everything seemed suddenly far away. Sir Klaus came close but Hercufleas could barely see him. What was the mouse saying? Why was it so cold? When had it got so dark?

  29

  Hercufleas woke on a mouse-hair mattress. For a brief, wonderful moment, he thought he was back in the house-hat and everything had been a long, detailed and extremely far-fetched dream. He sat up, looking for Min and Pin; then the pain in his belly made him double over.

  He remembered: the fortress, the duel, the drop of blood…

  He collapsed back down on the bed, gasping, wondering how he was still alive. Gingerly he prodded his tummy. The wound was sealed with candle wax and stitched shut with mouse whiskers. The Mousketeers had saved his life!

  How long had he slept? He was ravenous. By his bedside was a tiny goblet with a drop of mouse blood in it. He gulped it down (suppressing the desire to nibble cheese) and looked around the room. It was cylindrical and made of red brick. He was still in the fortress, then, in one of the turrets. A young sandy-haired Mousketeer with an azure uniform dozed on guard duty by the door. When Hercufleas plonked the goblet down, he gave a squeak, clutched at his musket and saluted.

  ‘You’re awake!’ Opening the door, he called, ‘Sir Klaus!’

  Footsteps pattered up the spiral stairs.

  ‘You have recovered,’ the albino mouse said stiffly, coming into the room. ‘Then it is time.’

  ‘Time?’ Hercufleas didn’t understand. ‘For what?’

  The old mouse stroked his white whiskers. ‘For me to keep my vow. You won our duel. Every Mousketeer before me has pledged never to let the Black Death out into the world again. Yet I promised to obey you, though I do so with a heavy heart.’

  Hercufleas bounced upright. ‘You’re really giving me the Black Death?’

  Sir Klaus grimaced. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m giving you a choice. There is a difference. The Black Death is a weapon. You must choose to wield it, or leave it be.’

  Hercufleas nodded, remembering the empty houses of Tumber. Greta’s broken heart. His missing fleamily. Sir Klaus might think he was giving him a choice, but what choice did he have?

  ‘I will wield it,’ he said at last.

  Sir Klaus looked at the sandy-haired mouse, who saluted and closed the door behind him. He sat in a chair beside the bed. Suddenly he looked very old.

  ‘I need it,’ Hercufleas said, trying to make Sir Klaus understand. He thought back to what Miss Witz had told him. ‘Arthur had Excalibur. Roland had Durendal. The Black Death is my weapon. I need it to be a hero. Otherwise there won’t be a Happily Ever After.’

  ‘Happily Ever Afters do not come from weapons,’ Sir Klaus said wearily. ‘Weapons are not an ending, they are the beginning of a cycle. First death. Then from death comes heartbreak, and from heartbreak comes hate, and the white heat of hate forges more weapons.’

  ‘What else can I do, Sir Klaus? This is the only way to defeat Yuk.’

  ‘There is always another way. You just have to believe.’

  Hercufleas shook his head. ‘Believing isn’t enough.’

  ‘Believing is more than you think.’ Klaus blinked his red eyes. ‘To survive, you must believe in something greater than you. Just like your kind, who live off bigger animals. We are all fleas on the back of a creature called Hope. What about the girl who came with you to this place?’

  Hercufleas smiled sadly. ‘Greta doesn’t believe in anything.’

  ‘She believes in you.’ Klaus stood up and went to the window. ‘Why else is she still here?’

  Hercufleas leaped out of bed, this time ignoring the pain. ‘Greta?’ He wobbled over to the window, looking out across the courtyard where he and Sir Klaus had fought their duel. There she was, sitting on the battlements, clogs swinging, green scarf streaming in the wind. She was chatting with the Mousketeers while they climbed over Artifax. Hercufleas smiled. He had missed her odd-eyed stares and rare-as-dodo-blood smiles.

  ‘I thought she’d give up,’ Hercufleas said, swaying on his feet. ‘Go back to Tumber.’

  Klaus rested his paw on Hercufleas’s shoulder to steady him. ‘She stayed here. Four days it has been. Because she thinks you can defeat Yuk.’

  Hercufleas felt himself flush pink. ‘You mean she thinks the Black Death can defeat Yuk.’

  Klaus laughed. ‘I do not think so. She does not speak of the Black Death. She speaks of you and your heroic deeds – like firing yourself from a pig’s snout, and being swallowed by a fish.’

  Hercufleas stared down at Greta from the window and saw hope in her face, fragile and fierce as a sparrow. But hope for what?

  ‘You must make the right choice,’ said Sir Klaus gravely. ‘Do you put your trust in the power of death? Or will you trust in another power: yourself?’

  30

  When Greta saw Hercufleas, she ran across the courtyard in a cloud of dust and scattered mice. She pressed her eye to the window to gaze at him, soaking the sill with her tears.

  ‘You’re awake!’ Her voice boomed around the room, making Hercufleas’s head ring. ‘I knew you’d be fine, I knew it! You did it, Hercufleas! They’re going to give us the Black Death!’

  Hercufleas didn’t know what to say. He looked at Sir Klaus. Was the mouse right? Could he really defeat Yuk without such a dreadful weapon? How could he trust in himself when he had failed so many times already?

  ‘Come,’ said Sir Klaus, leading Hercufleas down the spiral stairs. Outside it was evening, and the granite chest threw a long tombstone shadow across the courtyard. Two Mousketeers were busy unsealing the keyhole above the lid.

  ‘You alone can gather the Black Death,’ Sir Klaus said, stooped and hollow-eyed. ‘Go in through the keyhole and take a sip of the plague. But know this: it cannot be undone. You will carry the Black Death for the rest of your life. Anyone you bite will die. And once you unleash the plague upon the world, there is no telling where it might spread. Whom it might destroy.’

  Greta turned pale and looked down at Hercufleas.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

  Do you want to back out? is what she meant.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, jumping through the keyhole, unsure which question he was answering.

  It was dark inside the chest. Still. Lifeless as a crypt. Nothing moved but the dust dancing in the sunbeam that slanted in through the keyhole and down onto a lead-lined box. Hercufleas hopped closer, stale air swirling around him, blood churning in his belly. The sunbeam was hot on his back, but the lid when he touched it was cold. It sucked the warmth from his fingers. In his head, the words of Sir Klaus and Miss Witz clashed together.

  No good can come of the Black Death, only evil.

  I wish there was another way.

  Make the right choice.

  Save us.

  He heaved the lid up. The lead seal broke and a rancid smell rushed up, like a ghost flying free from its coffin. Inside the box was the glass phial, just as Miss Witz had desc
ribed. It was filled with water and a single black speck, like a dried inkblot.

  The Black Death.

  Hard to believe that something so small could be so deadly.

  Hercufleas could scarcely breathe. He grasped the phial. All he had to do was pull out the stopper and swallow the plague. Then he’d have the power to save his fleamily. To protect Tumber. To avenge Greta.

  Inside the glass, the tiny black speck shifted. It moved. He’d woken the Black Death. It could sense him. And he could feel it too. It hungered for life. It had to take life to live.

  Min’s voice came to him then: Be careful, Hercufleas. You are what you eat.

  He shoved the phial back into the box and slammed the lid shut.

  He couldn’t. Mustn’t. Eating something so monstrous would make a monster of him. With one leap he bounded back towards the light. In the dark he thought he heard a howl of rage – or was that just the wind whistling through the keyhole?

  Suddenly he was back in the courtyard, gasping. He gazed up at the expectant faces.

  ‘Hercufleas?’ It was Greta. ‘Do you have it? You were gone for ages. What happened in there?’

  He couldn’t tell her he’d let her down again. So he looked at Sir Klaus. ‘I made a choice,’ he said, and nodded.

  The mouse slumped with relief, his red eyes filling with tears. He turned to Greta. ‘Trust in this flea,’ he said. ‘He is a great hero. Believe in him, and he will never fail you.’

  Greta smiled. ‘Of course he won’t! He’s Hercufleas, the most unbefleavably powerful parasite in the world! Now he can destroy Yuk with a single bite!’

  She thought he had the Black Death. Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? Hercufleas couldn’t meet her eyes. Freezing in the tundra, getting swallowed by a fish, duelling a mouse… It had all been for nothing, because he couldn’t bring the Black Death back into the world. Now he risked everything he cared about.

  His fleamily.

  The Tumberfolk.

  And perhaps more important and fragile than any of those things: Greta’s smile.

  The Mousketeers loaded Artifax with supplies before they left: tiny waxed wheels of cheese, seeds and salted meat, and an enormous blanket stitched together from hundreds of their spare quilts, to keep out the cold.

  When the time came, Sir Klaus assembled his troops in the courtyard. The worry had fallen away from him, now he knew the Black Death was still in its chest. The old mouse looked young again.

  ‘Before you go,’ he called, ‘I have a gift for Hercufleas! Bring it here!’

  The sandy-haired Mousketeer from Hercufleas’s room hurried across the courtyard, holding a plump scarlet cushion. On it was the shard from the tip of Grimm that had splintered off during the duel. It had been reforged and fitted with a minute handle.

  ‘Go on,’ Sir Klaus urged. ‘It was made just for you.’

  Gingerly, Hercufleas picked up the sword and swept the blade left and right. It felt perfect in his grasp – like an extra fang.

  ‘Every hero must go on a quest to find his weapon,’ Klaus said, smiling.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hercufleas replied solemnly. ‘I shall name it m, because it came from the end of your sword, Grimm. And the letter m, if you trace it in the air with your paw, makes the shape of a jumping flea.’

  Sir Klaus laughed. ‘I do believe that is the smallest name for a sword in all the world. Which is fitting, for it belongs to the smallest hero.’

  Hercufleas nodded, trying his best to hide his fears. ‘What will I do?’ he murmured to Sir Klaus, too quietly for Greta’s human ears. ‘A splinter-sized sword won’t be enough to defeat a giant.’

  Sir Klaus stroked his whiskers, nodding. Then he leaned forward and gave Hercufleas a crushing hug. ‘Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘When you reach Tumber, look in the faces of the people there. A way to defeat Yuk will appear, I promise you. Just look at the Tumberfolk, and you will see it.’

  ‘What do you mean? What way?’ But Klaus was squeezing him so tight the words came out in a croak. The Mousketeer put him back on the floor.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Greta, pointing at the sun melting on the horizon. As they watched, it dripped below the earth and sputtered out like a candle. Night fell quickly up in the Waste, and they had to get back to Tumber before Yuk came.

  Hercufleas gulped. He wanted to ask Sir Klaus more questions, but there wasn’t time. Before he could open his mouth, Greta scooped him up and leaped on Artifax.

  Out from the red-brick fortress they went, while the Mousketeers lined the walls and played a fanfare on tiny brass bugles.

  ‘Three cheers for the Mousketeers!’ they cried. ‘But Hercufleas is the bee’s knees! And Greta is even better!’

  Greta laughed, waving goodbye. She took the Howlitzer, which the mice had helped her scrub free of rust, loading it with her own goodbye. She fired it into the air, so loud it made the whole fortress shake.

  ‘And Sir Klaus is the world’s greatest mouse!’

  Off they rode, heading for Tumber. It would be a close thing. The half-moon shone above them. They had journeyed twelve days, then stayed with the mice for another four. In just under a fortnight, when the moon was new and the night was darkest, Yuk would return.

  ‘We will make it.’ She grinned at Hercufleas, hopping anxiously on her shoulder. ‘We’ve got food, and protection from the cold, and I know the way now.’

  Hercufleas forced a smile. Two weeks to find a new way to defeat Yuk – one that didn’t involve the Black Death. He counted in his head what he and Greta were bringing back from their quest:

  1. A splinter-sized sword.

  2. A gun that fired noise.

  3. A week’s supply of cheese.

  That was it. It didn’t seem much. Not anywhere near enough. A way to defeat Yuk will appear, Sir Klaus had promised. Just look at the Tumberfolk. He tried to make himself believe it.

  Artifax ran on, faster than a cheetah, racing through the many layers of the Czar’s fortress. Then they were out on the Waste again, wind howling, frost crunching underfoot.

  Towards Tumber.

  Towards Yuk.

  Towards a battle Hercufleas did not know how to win.

  31

  The journey back was different. Now it was Hercufleas who sat moody and silent, while Greta talked about her family from dawn to gloaming. She told him of evenings spent eating plumpkin pies, drinking nettle tea and listening to Papa’s stories in the warm treacly light of the tinderfly lamp. Days when Mama came back late from the woodn’t and hugged Greta tight, her coat thick with the smell of pine needles. And Wuff, with his scruffy fur and floppy ears. How he used to sit, paws crossed, by the stove. She told Hercufleas things she hadn’t let herself remember for a long time, fearing they would be too painful.

  Then Greta found she wanted to talk about the future too. About how life would be when Yuk was gone.

  ‘I’ll build a new home from everpines and invite the Mousketeers to stay… I’ll brew nettle tea, and it’ll always taste sweet… I’m going to find where the green giants sleep and wake them up.’

  That roused Hercufleas from his gloomy thoughts. ‘Haven’t you had enough of giants?’

  She laughed. ‘Not all of them are like Yuk, you know.’

  And that night by the fire, huddled under the blanket, Greta explained: ‘Papa told me about the green giants. Before them, all Petrossia was like it is out here on the Waste. Then they came along, planting the forests and bringing life.’ She made her voice deep and dreamy: ‘Long ago, back in the time when trees could speak and laugh and rhyme, green giants walked among the firs, like Mother Nature’s gardeners.’

  Hercufleas was sleepy. ‘What happened to them?’ he yawned, cuddling up in her scarf.

  Greta shrugged. ‘They fell asleep. No one knows where. Just think… somewhere out there, so deep in the forest that the trees still whisper to each other, there are these enormous people. Big as cathedrals. All sleeping on beds of wildflowers.’

  ‘
Wish we could wake them,’ Hercufleas mumbled. ‘There’d be no more woodn’ts, only woods. No more rattlesnoaks. No more pine-needlers. No more Yuk either.’

  Greta smiled. ‘We don’t need green giants for that,’ she said, burying her chin in her scarf. ‘We’ve got you.’

  Hercufleas went quiet. Ever since leaving the fortress, he had fixed a confident smile upon his face and never let it slip. It was like wearing a mask. And if Greta saw behind it, she would know the truth.

  ‘How will you do it?’ she asked him, the next night.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Give Yuk the Black Death,’ Greta said. She took a wheel of cheese from their supplies, speared it on a stick and began toasting it over the flames. ‘Do you just have to bite him somewhere? Or does it have to be a weak spot? And then what happens next? How long until he drops down dead? Will he swell up and go pop? Do his eyes fall out? Will his insides turn to mush?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hercufleas said, trying to hide his discomfort.

  Greta’s eyes burned as she stared at the flames. ‘Hope it hurts,’ she whispered.

  Hercufleas shuddered. Greta took the bubbling cheese from the embers, sliced off the soft wax and dipped some roots she had gathered in the gooey centre. Artifax clucked as he gulped them down. Greta smiled and scratched his neck while he ate. Then she pricked her thumb again and gave Hercufleas a thimble of her blood – it was the sweetest and coolest he had ever tasted it, with another flavour too, dark and breathless.

  It was anticipation. Greta couldn’t wait to destroy Yuk. To finally get her revenge.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, looking up. ‘What’s that?’

  Hercufleas followed her gaze. Down from the dark sky a white and silent speck fell towards them. It settled by the fire, like the ghost of a tinderfly come to spark itself back to life.

  Another flake came down, out of the breathless cold. Then dozens, hundreds, uncountable thousands. Artifax stared in confusion. Cautiously he pecked a few from his wing.

  ‘What are they?’ whispered Hercufleas.

  Greta looked up at the clouds. ‘Miss Witz told us about this in school,’ she whispered back. ‘I think it’s snow.’