by Tor Seidler
To her relief, Beckett was home. He’d found a pen somewhere and was using it to scribble on the back of a magazine, totally oblivious to the hubbub outside.
“Haven’t you heard, Beck?” she said. “Rats are being poisoned!”
“Mmm, best to steer clear of green pellets,” he said, looking up distractedly. He grinned and tapped his writing with the nib of the pen. “Know what this says?”
“What?” Lucy said, mystified.
“ ‘Buy one, get one free.’ I copied it from inside.”
“Beckett, there’s a crisis going on.”
She forced him to put down the pen and tugged him out of the crate. The crowd in front of Mrs. P.’s was making such a clamor that Mrs. P. soon appeared in her doorway. To get through it she had to turn sideways and suck in her belly. The crowd gasped in admiration at her size, but even so, Mrs. P. looked uncharacteristically grave.
“I’ve tried my best,” she said, “but it hasn’t been good enough. Three rats, lost. And our mayor hanging on by a thread.”
Rats sucked in their breaths in dismay.
“Where’s the poison?” someone asked.
Mrs. P. turned and called: “Oscar?”
No response. But after a second summons Oscar came out lugging a very full sack, which he deposited at her feet with a servile bow. Poor Oscar wasn’t happy about facing this mob. Being a sewer rat by birth, he was smaller and lower to the ground than these wharf rats and knew they considered him inferior. He wasn’t happy about doing Mrs. P.’s bidding all the time either, though he never complained. As a youngster he’d figured he owed her for rescuing him and giving him luxurious accommodations—two whole crates of his own. Even after he came to the conclusion that she’d just wanted slave labor, the prospect of inheriting her treasures had kept him obedient and obliging. He especially coveted the glittering valuables in her lockbox. But while Mrs. P. was far and away the oldest rat on the pier, she remained annoyingly healthy. And her growing fondness for Lucy and Beckett worried Oscar no end. Would she leave her treasures to them? But this latest chore had given him an idea.
Mrs. P. thanked him and opened his sack so the crowd could view the contents.
“Oscar found these sprinkled around the front of the wharf,” she said. “If you come across any he missed, don’t be fooled by the enticing smell. They’re deadly.”
“The green pellets?” Lucy whispered.
Beckett nodded. Someone near them called out, “Who put them in front of the pier?”
Before Mrs. P. could respond, a buzz ran through the crowd as Old Moberly himself staggered out of the crate. Sick as he was, the stout, white-whiskered rat retained an air of authority. A niece of his rushed forward to support him, and even Augustus brought his listeners over to join the throng. But when at last Old Moberly spoke, his usually grand voice was almost as soft as Beckett’s.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Mrs. P. said firmly.
“My megaphone,” Old Moberly rasped.
Frowning, Mrs. P. asked Oscar to fetch it. Oscar climbed to Old Moberly’s topmost crate and brought down the megaphone—a small Dixie cup with the bottom gnawed out. Old Moberly thanked him and, raising it to his snout, brought the assembly to order.
“May I ask,” he said, “if any here present has sighted a human being in proximity to our pier?”
Lucy and Beckett exchanged a look. Their father’s nocturnal habits were an embarrassment, but under the circumstances Lucy felt compelled to speak up.
“Um, our father says he saw some humans ‘skulking around the pier’ recently,” she said. “Very early in the morning.”
“Where would Mortimer be?” Old Moberly asked. “I would be interested to hear more.”
“Um, he’s not here at the moment, sir,” Lucy said.
“Have there been any other viewings of humans?” Old Moberly asked, scanning the crowd.
“Oscar tells me he saw one outside the pier while he was collecting the poison,” Mrs. P. said.
All eyes shifted to Oscar. Speaking in front of all these wharf rats was beyond him, but he managed to mutter something to Mrs. P.
“He says the human was sticking a notice up on the door,” Mrs. P. relayed.
“Probably just one of their advertisements,” said Augustus. “They put them everywhere.”
“Go look,” Lucy whispered to her brother.
As Beckett made his way through the crowd, Old Moberly told the rats it was “imperative to be extra vigilant henceforth.” But even with the megaphone his voice was reedy, and as he was floating the idea of posting a round-the-clock watch for human intruders, he suddenly collapsed. The rats were aghast—except for Augustus, who experienced a little thrill. Though grateful to the mayor for appointing him sergeant at arms, Augustus was of the opinion that Old Moberly should have retired some time ago, paving the way for a special mayoral election in which he would be the clear favorite. He may have lacked Old Moberly’s eloquence, but he was younger and healthier and certainly looked more like a leader of rats. Not that he wished harm on anyone. But if the old rat was too stubborn to step aside, ill health would have to do.
Following Mrs. P.’s instructions, Oscar helped Old Moberly’s niece drag the mayor back to the infirmary. Mrs. P. followed. By the time she reappeared, Beckett was back, squeezing his way through the crowd to Lucy. When he told his sister what he’d seen, she cried out: “Beck deciphered the notice!”
“My hind foot,” said Junior.
Other young rats scoffed too. But Mrs. P. motioned Beckett up to her.
“Pipe down!” Mrs. P. said as Beckett joined her.
The crowd quieted somewhat, but when Beckett spoke, few could hear. Mrs. P. shushed them again.
“The top of the notice is bubbles,” Beckett said as loudly as he could.
“Bubbles,” Junior said, rolling his eyes.
Beckett waited for the laughter to subside before saying something in Mrs. P.’s ear.
“It’s a picture of what looks like bubbles,” Mrs. P. said. “The caption says they’re actually something called tennis courts. . . . He thinks the bubbly parts are meant to shelter them from the elements.”
This drew more snickers, though not a rat among them knew what a tennis court was. Beckett spoke into Mrs. P.’s ear again.
“It’s what they want to turn the pier into, he thinks,” Mrs. P. told the crowd. “At the bottom of the notice it says, ‘Beware, Rat Poison, Keep Out. Pier demolition commences August twenty-eighth.’ ”
This killed off the snickering. In fact, several rats started to moan. Mrs. P. was quick to reassure them, saying she’d heard of a time when humans tried to exterminate them before.
“No need to despair,” she called out. “We’re still alive. If need be, we can always go underground.”
Her words comforted no one. This last remaining pier meant the world to the wharf rats: If they had to scuttle around in basements and sewers, they would no longer even be wharf rats. And before they had time to digest the idea of their precious home being demolished, Old Moberly’s niece rushed out in tears. Her uncle, their beloved mayor, was dead. For everyone other than Augustus, who experienced a second thrill of excitement, the double whammy was too much to handle. A few rats stared at each other in silent shock, but most of them set up a keening and a wailing that shook the pier to its very pilings.
10
MIXED NUTS & MANCHEGO
THE NOISE EVEN WOKE PHOENIX in the fromagerie. He’d been dreaming that he was perched between his parents near the top of their pine, enjoying the view of the shimmering ocean and wetlands and the rippling cornfield, so it was a rude shock to find himself alone in a dusky crate full of putrid cheese. But that wasn’t the rudest shock. In his dream he was the old Phoenix, with his shiny fur and bushy tail—not a scabby, furless freak.
When the racket finally died down, he managed to drift off again. This time he was at Tyrone’s funeral, with all the other squirrels sneaking him admiring glances.
But this dream was ruined too—by a growling sound. It was his stomach. He was starving. But he refused to be tempted by the whiff of nuts just detectable under the stink of the cheese. If he gave in, he would regain his strength and prolong this nightmare life.
Sometime around dawn a peculiar noise woke him again. Lifting his head, he could just make out a small rat on the other side of the crate. It was Oscar, poking holes in a wheel of cheddar with the sharp end of a pencil. Eventually Oscar started dropping tiny things into the holes, using the eraser end of the pencil to tamp them in. This seemed very odd, but it didn’t keep Phoenix from drifting off again.
Next time he woke, Oscar was gone, and the nutty smell was stronger. On the outside of the can was a picture of the contents: nuts, all shelled, just like in the heaven mentioned by Tyrone’s mother. He could almost taste them. And Beckett’s admonition came back to him: Lucy had risked her life to get them. Even in his misery Phoenix could see there was something touching about that. Shouldn’t he tell her about Oscar’s suspicious behavior? She’d been so good to him, he probably owed her that much. Though to do it he would need a little strength. A nut or two. Just enough to tide him over till he could talk to her.
He struggled onto his hind feet, peered into the can, and nearly swooned. Not a single shell! He plucked out a nut. It was the first pecan he’d ever sampled, and the taste nearly made him swoon again. Next he tried a filbert. It wasn’t quite as good, but still delicious. He ate another nut, and another, and another.
He had to force himself to stop. With a burp, he stumbled into the gallery. He stupidly glanced toward the compact mirror. But after the initial shock of seeing himself, he took a deep breath, walked back into the fromagerie, and started gnawing on the metal can. There was nothing to be done about his spoiled fur, but he might at least be able to do something about his farcical front teeth.
It took far longer than he’d expected, but after finally working his teeth down, he went back out through the gallery, this time careful to avoid the mirror. In the parlor Mrs. P. was collapsed on her cushion, clutching her breakfast, a good-size chunk of cheddar. When he asked if she was all right, she groaned. He rushed to the front door and peered out. He’d been in the murky fromagerie so long that the early morning sunlight slanting in the dirty pier windows made him squint. Not many rats were out and about, though a group was gathered around four dead bodies lying near the metal drum.
As he emerged from Mrs. P.’s crate, he almost keeled over. Without his nice, bushy tail to wave behind him, his balance was totally off. He took a few more unsteady steps. It was as if he had to learn to walk from scratch.
His memory of being carried from Lucy and Beckett’s crate in a shoe was hazy, but he knew theirs was a bottom crate. He also remembered that it was messy, so when he looked into one that was neat as a pin he wobbled on to the next. This one seemed right—full of books and periodicals—and as he crept inside, he made out Lucy and Beckett asleep in their shoes. He wasn’t sorry to see that the father’s shoe was empty.
Maybe it was because they were asleep, but the two young rats didn’t look quite as repulsive as when he’d first seen them coming down the ramp to the dock. Or maybe it was because they’d been nice to him. Either way, he gave Lucy a poke, and she sat up, blinking.
“Phoenix!” she said, surprised.
Beckett let out a sleepy moan. Phoenix apologized for waking them.
“It’s just I think Mrs. P. is sick. And I saw something strange earlier.”
When he told them about Oscar and the cheese, they both hopped out of bed and led him straight back to Mrs. P.’s. Mrs. P. was just as he’d left her. Her belly jiggled when Lucy shook her, but she didn’t wake up. Beckett took the chunk of cheese from her paws and broke it in half, revealing an embedded green pellet.
“Get the antidote,” Lucy said breathlessly.
Beckett suspected it was too late, but he went into the infirmary and brought back the canister he’d seen, along with a cup of water. Lucy shook Mrs. P. till she half opened her eyes. They tried to get her to take a capsule, but she mumbled that they mustn’t waste them. When they tried to force it into her mouth, she turned her head away.
Lucy hurried back to the fromagerie, returning with a piece of manchego, Mrs. P.’s particular favorite. She shoved the capsule inside it and held the cheese under Mrs. P.’s snout. Mrs. P.’s whiskers quivered. Her lips parted. Lucy popped the cheese in. Mrs. P. chewed and swallowed.
Lucy and Beckett and Phoenix didn’t leave Mrs. P.’s side, watching anxiously to see if the antidote would work. Beckett’s pessimism grew as the day wore on, but Lucy kept her hopes up. As for Phoenix, he could hardly believe he cared about this oversize rat, yet he found himself wishing for her recovery. And just as the light in the parlor was beginning to wane, Mrs. P. came around.
“What are you all doing here?” she said, sitting up on her cushion.
“You were poisoned,” Lucy told her, pointing at the evidence. When she explained what Phoenix had seen in the fromagerie, Mrs. P. didn’t seem all that shocked.
“But I had cheddar for breakfast,” Mrs. P. said, licking her lips. “I taste manchego.”
“That’s how Lucy got you to take the antidote,” Beckett said.
“Ah. Clever girl.”
“Phoenix deserves all the credit,” said Lucy.
When Mrs. P. pulled Phoenix to her and gave him a hug, he was appalled and pleased at the same time. Though he was glad she was feeling better, who would want a hug from a rat? But then who would want to hug the hideous new him?
“You see, Beck, she’s going to be fine,” Lucy said. “You always look on the bleak side of things.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Mrs. P. took Oscar in when he was a helpless ratling,” Beckett said. “And how does he repay her? If that’s not bleak, I’d like to know what is.”
While Lucy was trying to come up with a response to this, Oscar himself came rushing through the doorway. He’d gone to hide under a stack of shipping pallets in the back corner of the pier, figuring he’d wait there till the poisoned cheese took effect. But he’d dozed off and had a nightmare in which he’d fallen into a vat of green pellets and couldn’t claw his way out. Just as he was suffocating, he’d woken up and raced back here, guilt-stricken, to get Mrs. P. the antidote. At the sight of her looking fine, he froze, stupefied.
“I must be such a disappointment to you, Oscar,” Mrs. P. said, rising from the cushion with a sigh. “I just live on and on, don’t I?”
As she waddled over to him, Oscar cowered back, lifting a paw to protect himself. But all she did was open her amulet and hand him a small key that was inside it.
“For the lockbox,” she said. “Take whatever you like. Heaven knows, you’ve earned it.”
Oscar’s yellow eyes widened. He’d been itching to get hold of this key, but now that he had it, it felt as if it were burning a hole in his paw. He dropped it and bolted out the door, nearly running into three rat elders on their way to call on Mrs. P.
“Dear me,” said the eldest elder as Oscar sprinted away. “Why would he be in such a rush?”
“To look for more poison?” guessed the youngest, a graying female.
“But he doesn’t have his sack,” said the middle one, who had a matchbox in his paws.
The elders were something like judges, their chief duty being to settle disputes concerning crates, but today they’d come to ask Mrs. P. to assume the position of temporary mayor. They didn’t have an easy time of it. They were considered old and wise by most wharf rats, but to Mrs. P. they were young whippersnappers. The matchbox they tried to present her was supposed to confer power and prestige—one of the mayor’s traditional duties was to light the fire in the metal drum at the start of winter—but neither power nor prestige interested Mrs. P. in the least. Nor did she need matches. She kept a good supply of her own for lighting her kerosene stove and sterilizing needles.
“It would only be for a few days, till we can hold a sp
ecial election,” the eldest elder assured her.
Mrs. P. suggested they try the sergeant at arms, but they explained that Augustus would be busy campaigning, plus he didn’t have her long experience, which seemed crucial in this emergency.
In the end she reluctantly gave in, so long as it was only for a short time. Before she could address the demolition situation, however, there was the matter of the four bodies to attend to. If rats died in the wintertime, the bodies were dumped in the metal drum and incinerated: cremated. In the summertime the deceased were given a burial at sea—or, at least, the bodies were dropped into the river, which generally flowed toward the sea. The logical place for this ritual would have been the half-submerged dock, but since young rats liked to swim there, the dead were slid under the front door and dropped off the south side of the pier. In the daytime this would have been in plain view of human joggers and bikers, so these burials were performed after dark.
By the time Mrs. P. squeezed out of her crate—followed by three elderly rats, two young rats, and a furless squirrel—night had indeed fallen. Except for Oscar, who’d vanished, and Mortimer, happily ensconced at Clancy’s Pub, the whole rat community attended the pier-side burial ceremony. The moon had yet to rise, but the city’s shimmering skyline gave them enough light to tell the corpses apart. One had been a cousin of Augustus’s, and when the body plopped into the water, Augustus stretched to his full height and declared, “He is now, my fellow rats, in a far happier place.”
“He’s now fish food,” Beckett remarked to his sister.
Another poisoning victim was a busybody who’d been known to scold Beckett for borrowing reading material from the fuel pile. When she plopped in, Beckett murmured, “Good riddance to the paper police.” But even he was respectful when Old Moberly’s turn came. Being the weightiest of the four, Old Moberly made the loudest plop. As soon as the river swallowed him up, his inconsolable widow rushed to the edge of the pier, bent on following him into the watery depths. But it was a very long drop, and when no one stepped up to pull her back from the brink, she contented herself with tossing in a scrap of black pantyhose she’d worn as a mourning veil. Phoenix, who’d known none of the deceased, found the whole thing quite pitiful. Creatures were supposed to return to the earth they came from. But in a place that was all concrete and pavement, he supposed a burial at sea was better than being left out to rot.