The Island of Destiny

by Cameron Stelzer

  He tried to wrench himself free. The leg of his canvas shorts tore away and he broke from the pincer’s grip. Three stumbling steps later and he was up and racing again.

  Whisker had the advantage of speed. But speed wasn’t much good if he was paralysed by a sting. One wrong step and it would all be over.

  He drew closer to the barricade of scorpions. Two large scorpions scuttled out to intercept him. Whisker hacked at the first scorpion’s legs before it had time to strike. Its legs bent beneath it and its abdomen collapsed onto the ground.

  The next scorpion was ready and raised its tail in anticipation. Whisker sidestepped to the right as its sting rocketed down.

  It thrust again, but this time, Whisker swung his blade through the air in a wide arc, hoping to make contact. His sword missed its mark and his body continued to spin. He felt the scorpion’s tail brush past his arm, narrowly missing him with its poisonous barb.

  Whisker let the movement take over. He spun a complete three hundred and sixty degrees and slashed at the tail with his next pass. This time his sword made contact and with a sharp CRACK he severed the poisonous tip off the sting.

  The scorpion flicked its tail in fury and beat the ground wildly with its claws. Whisker darted past the enraged creature while he still had the chance.

  He could hear the swarm of scorpions advancing behind him and saw the barricade only metres away. More scorpions had gathered to block the narrow space. Whisker knew that even if he reached them, he could never fight his way through.

  Run or fight? he asked himself.

  Before Whisker could decide which way he was going to perish, he remembered the advice of his great-grandfather, Anso – advice that had saved him more than once before: Always look for the third option.

  Whisker scanned his surroundings and, with a rush of adrenalin, seized his escape plan. It lay directly in front of him, as clear as a boulder on a mountainside.

  He whipped his tail over his shoulder and wrapped it around the handle of his sword, freeing up both paws. Arching his sword over his head like the sting of a scorpion, he charged at the outermost guard. He knew he only had one shot to get it right. Imagining he was an acrobatic possum from the circus, he prepared his routine.

  It’s all in the timing, he told himself.

  The scorpion raised its tail and Whisker increased his speed. He was three steps from the scorpion when he altered his pace, taking several short hops instead of his running strides.

  Misjudging Whisker’s timing, the scorpion struck too soon. It thrust its tail downwards, crashing its sting into the ground.

  Whisker took his final step and leapt onto the arch of the scorpion’s bent tail. The scorpion flicked its tail upwards, catapulting him into the air.

  Whisker soared over the barricade of scorpions with a double somersault and landed on a rocky ledge, halfway up the side of a rough boulder. Before the scorpions realised where he had gone, Whisker had scrambled to the top of the boulder and was racing along its upper edge.

  He reached the next boulder, stuck his sword in his belt and continued climbing upwards. The army of scorpions scuttled after him, but the furious snaps of their claws only spurred him on. With a newfound strength, he leapt over narrow ravines and sprinted up slopes with a pace that would rival even the Hermit.

  The sounds of his pursuers grew fainter and fainter as he continued, but Whisker didn’t stop moving until he was high up the mountainside and all he could hear was the roar of the wind.

  As the first fat raindrops exploded around him, Whisker found shelter in a rocky crevice, covering himself with leaves and sticks to conceal his location. Thunder rumbled overhead and the heavens opened, sending an icy cocktail of rain and hail pelting down.

  Whisker shuffled to the very back of the crevice to the only dry spot he could find. He tried to remain alert but his eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. The low rumble of thunder and the steady trickle of water running over the rocks finally lulled him to sleep.

  It was still dark when Whisker awoke. Cautiously, he brushed the damp foliage from his body and crawled out from his hiding place. Outside, the sky was clear and dotted with stars.

  He scanned the dark landscape. Pine trees, loose rocks and small boulders surrounded him. The rain had washed away any lingering scents from the previous day, but the small muddy holes in the earth told him he had found his way back to the treasure site.

  He studied the constellations in the sky to get his bearings. Locating a small cross of stars above him, he moved his finger through the axis of the cross to an imaginary point in the sky.

  ‘South,’ he muttered to himself.

  He swivelled his body to the west and saw the unmistakable shape of a saucepan. The saucepan was his favourite group of stars. No matter how lost or alone he felt, it reminded him that there was at least one family sharing dinner together, somewhere in the world. He knew the stars belonged to a constellation called Orion, but Whisker preferred the saucepan title.

  ‘A saucepan of boiled onions,’ he mused. ‘That’s one dinner I’m happy to have missed.’

  He turned his head and looked east. The twisting constellation of Scorpio stood out against the blackness.

  ‘Scorpions,’ he shivered. ‘Something else to avoid.’

  He set off east in the direction of his least favourite constellation. He knew if he continued on the highest path between the two mountains, he could reach Mt Moochup and bypass the scorpions. In the light of day he could then wind his way south towards the Hermit’s lair.

  He was still staring up at the heavens when the stars overhead suddenly darkened. An instant later they twinkled back to life.

  Whisker stopped and scanned the air. The stars to the north disappeared and then reappeared as if something had passed in front of them.

  Clouds don’t move that quickly, he thought. Even on windy, windy islands. Something else is up there …

  Whisker realised the danger too late. With a sudden rush of air, powerful talons griped his shoulders and his legs were lifted off the ground. He squeaked in alarm, but the talons only gripped him tighter. There was nothing he could do. An owl had him.

  A Nest of Fools

  Whisker watched the constellations swirl around him like a kaleidoscope of diamonds. The owl flapped its wings and soared higher.

  Whisker shut his eyes tight and tried to relax his wildly twitching tail. It wasn’t the height that terrified him; it was the thought of being dropped from such a height. He’d been in the air many times before, with flying foxes from the circus. But flying foxes ate fruit, not rodents.

  The owl seemed determined not to release its prey, nor to squeeze Whisker to death and, after a turbulent flight, Whisker felt the woven twigs of a nest beneath his feet.

  The talons released their grip and Whisker slumped onto his back. He cautiously opened one eye and looked up. The sides of a large nest rose around him. Three owls perched on its uppermost edge.

  In the darkness, Whisker could just make out subtle bands of white, grey and brown feathers covering their bodies. Short tufts protruded from the owl’s heads like ears. Their huge yellow eyes stared inquisitively down at him.

  Whisker opened his second eye.

  The owls blinked.

  Startled by the sudden movement, Whisker lunged for his sword but the owl in the middle shot out a powerful claw and pinned his arm to the nest.

  ‘Not a wise moooove,’ hooted the owl to Whisker’s right. He was the biggest of the three owls and puffed up his feathers to look even larger as he spoke.

  ‘Of course it’s not a wise moooove,’ shrilled the owl on the left. ‘He’s a pesky rat. Whooooever heard of a rat dooooing anything wise?’

  Whisker felt mildly insulted by the owl’s remark, but decided it wasn’t the time to start an argument about the underrated intelligence of the rat race.

  The owl in the middle kept Whisker pinned down, staring hungrily at his captive.

  ‘Can we eat him yet, mother
?’ he asked excitedly. ‘I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten anything but bugs and slugs for weeks.’

  Whisker gulped.

  ‘Ask your father, Hoooouston,’ the mother owl squawked. ‘He’s responsible for breakfasts. I have more than enough on my plate providing yoooou with lunches, dinners and crunchy snail snacks.’

  The pupils of the biggest owl grew wide as he studied Whisker in the gloom.

  ‘He’s a bit scrawny for a proper meal, son,’ he considered. ‘How would yoooou feel if we ripped out his gizzards and mashed them intoooo entrée sized rat-balls?’

  ‘I’d feel absolutely terrible,’ Whisker blurted out.

  ‘Whoooo asked yoooou?’ the mother owl hooted.

  ‘N-n-no one,’ Whisker stammered. ‘B-b-but I’d hate for you to make a big mistake, being so wise and all.’

  ‘Eating breakfast is never a mistake,’ Houston said pompously. ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Everyone knows that.’

  Whisker had no comeback. He simply stared up at the owls as a horrible realisation sank in: they were actually going to eat him and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t fight his way out and he couldn’t argue for his release – not with three know-it-all owls hovering over him.

  His eyes shifted from the owls to the saucepan constellation above their heads. Suddenly the thought of boiled onions didn’t seem so bad.

  Onions sure beat rat-balls, he thought, his mind drifting off. He wondered what his parents and sister would be eating for breakfast, wherever they were. Coconuts from a deserted island, perhaps?

  His thoughts turned to the Pie Rats, swirling in circles on their leaky boat. Maybe they’ve risen for an early breakfast? He pictured Ruby and Horace tucking into one of Fred’s scrumptious berry pies, piping hot from the oven.

  Who doesn’t love pies? he thought sorrowfully. The words lingered in his mind. Whoooo doesn’t love pies …?

  With a strange calming clarity, a plan began forming in his head – a fusion of memories and half-truths. It didn’t involve arguing and it didn’t involve fighting; it involved playing along. Whisker refocused on the three owls and tried to contain his excitement.

  ‘It’s such a shame, really,’ he began.

  ‘What’s a shame?’ the mother owl asked suspiciously.

  ‘It’s a shame you’ve only got one measly rat for breakfast, when you could be feasting on a delicious rat pie,’ Whisker replied.

  The owls turned their heads to each other in puzzlement.

  ‘W-what’s rat pie?’ Houston asked, intrigued.

  ‘What indeed!’ Whisker exclaimed. ‘Rat pie is the most scrumptious, mouth-watering and delicious dish you’ll ever taste. It’s succulent, juicy, tender and makes even the toughest of rat tails melt in your mouth.’ He paused and continued with a grin, ‘But being wise and worldly owls, I expect you already knew that.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the father owl hooted. ‘Of course we know about rat pie. Whoooo doesn’t? We adore the stuff … can’t get enough …’

  Whisker sighed. ‘It’s a terrible shame you won’t get to taste any today. As you know, rat pie is extremely easy to make, but unfortunately you’re missing a key ingredient.’

  The owls blinked in disappointment.

  ‘Which ingredient exactly?’ the mother owl enquired. ‘I mean, I know them all of course, but there are so many variations toooo the recipe …’

  ‘Endless variations,’ Whisker said, going along with her. ‘But to bring out the full flavour of the rat you’ll need a juicy brown onion.’

  ‘An onion?’ she repeated.

  ‘Why of course,’ Whisker exclaimed. ‘You can’t have rat pie without the onion. It would be an outrage!’

  The father owl flapped his wings in agitation.

  ‘Owls doooo things according toooo tradition,’ he said sternly. ‘We have a respectable reputation toooo uphold. If we need an onion, we’ll get an onion.’

  Whisker tried not to smile.

  ‘A wise decision,’ he concurred. ‘Onions make all the difference. I, err … did see some growing down near the river, if you’re interested, but I suspect the Hermit will pick them as soon as the sun comes up.’

  ‘The Hermit!’ the father owl hooted in disgust. ‘We hate the Hermit.’

  ‘We loathe him,’ Houston added.

  ‘We despise him!’ the mother snapped. ‘Don’t get me started. He’s the rudest rat on the island. Whoooo does he think he is? Always running away and hiding under a rock whenever we try to catch him. Disgraceful!’

  The owls glared angrily at Whisker, expecting a response.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Whisker muttered awkwardly. ‘He’s an abomination. And he smells.’

  ‘That settles it,’ the mother owl shrieked. ‘I’ll show him whoooo owns the onions!’ She beat her wings rapidly and her body rose into the air. ‘I’ll be back soooon, boys,’ she hooted, ‘with the biggest, tastiest onion on the island …’

  Her voice drifted away in the wind. The two remaining owls stared down at Whisker.

  ‘A little tenderising never went astray,’ Houston hooted, prodding Whisker in the stomach with his talons.

  ‘Speaking – of tenderising,’ Whisker spluttered between prods, ‘I almost – forgot – to mention – the gravy.’

  Houston removed his talon and tilted his head to one side. ‘Gravy?’

  Whisker clutched his chest and took a few calming breaths.

  ‘Well?’ the father asked impatiently.

  ‘Every – gourmet pie – has gravy,’ Whisker gasped. ‘Rich, thick, peppery gravy. Rat rump is far too dry for distinguished owls like yourselves, but with a dash of gravy it’s softer than a slug and more tender than a trout.’

  ‘Where does this gravy grow?’ the father enquired.

  ‘Gravy doesn’t grow,’ Whisker said. ‘It comes in small barrels. I know for a fact there are several barrels of the scrumptious substance bobbing around in the lagoon right now. They tumbled overboard a couple of days ago. You might have seen them roll off my ship?’

  ‘We saw them alright,’ the father hooted, ‘from a distance, mind yoooou. We refoooose to go anywhere near the lagoooon.’

  ‘It’s those slippery fish,’ Houston elaborated. ‘We hate them nearly as much as we hate that pesky Hermit. They taste far toooo salty and we always get our feathers wet trying toooo catch them.’

  Whisker sighed. ‘It’s for the best, you know. A tiny gravy barrel is far too heavy for any owl to lift. Besides, the barrels have probably broken on the rocks by now.’ He shrugged. ‘Oh well. At least the fish will be enjoying a delicious gravy treat.’

  The father owl puffed himself up again.

  ‘There’s no way I’m sharing a drop of my gravy with those slimy sea dwellers,’ he hooted. ‘I’m the lord of this island!’ With a flurry of feathers he took off into the sky.

  A small smile crept across Whisker’s face.

  Houston glared down at him, suspiciously. ‘I know what you’re up toooo, little rat. I’ve seen your type before. You may have my parents bamboooozled but yoooou don’t fooool me one bit.’

  ‘Up to?’ Whisker gasped. ‘Me? H-how could I possibly be up to anything? I-I’m just lying here at the bottom of the nest …’

  ‘Exactly!’ Houston snapped. ‘You’re loafing around on your lazy behind while the rest of us doooo all the work. It’s the height of rudeness yoooou know.’ He crossed his wings and hooted in disgust. ‘Don’t expect me toooo share a single crumb of my delicious rat pie with yoooou.’

  ‘Rat stew you mean,’ Whisker corrected.

  ‘Steoooow?’ Houston squawked.

  ‘Rat stew,’ Whisker repeated. ‘You know, tender pieces of rat and onion in a rich gravy sauce.’

  Houston was dumbfounded.

  ‘Rat steoooow, oooogh!’ he hooted. ‘I thought we were having rat pie.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Whisker said. ‘It’s definitely rat stew. You can’t have rat pie without the crisp, golden pastry.’<
br />
  ‘Pastry?’ Houston exclaimed. ‘No one said anything about pastry.’

  ‘Really?’ Whisker said in surprise. ‘I’m sure I mentioned pastry. It’s practically all I think about. I love pastry so much I built the entire hull of my ship out of the stuff. It’s no wonder the giant eel attacked us. Pastry is to die for! It has the flavour of buttery toast and the crunch of snail shells, without the gritty bits.’

  Drool dribbled from the sides of Houston’s beak.

  ‘I do hope my ship is alright,’ Whisker continued. ‘We lost dozens of pastry sheets on the rocks. Most of them washed up on the beach. I suspect the hermit crabs will make their own seaweed pies when the sun comes up …’

  ‘Hermit crabs!’ Houston exclaimed. ‘I hate hermit crabs more than I hate the Hermit. Those sneaky cheats are always hiding in their shells and I can never get them out.’

  ‘How terribly selfish of them!’ Whisker cried in outrage. ‘It would be such an injustice if they got all the pastry. I’m more than happy to pitch in and steal a couple of sheets for you – one for the top and one for the bottom. To quote a famous pastry chef: the provider of the pastry gets the biggest slice of pie.’

  Houston sucked up his drool.

  ‘I’ll be the one toooo retrieve the pastry,’ he said, stretching his wings. ‘That humungous slice of pie is mine.’

  He released his grip on Whisker and, with a hoot, he was gone.

  Without an owl in sight, Whisker clapped his paws together and stared triumphantly up at the stars.

  He couldn’t help but start a little victory rhyme:

  Twinkle twinkle little star,

  rats are wiser, yes we are!

  Up above a tree so high,

  owls won’t put me in rat pie.

  Twinkle twinkle little star,

  rats are smarter, yes we are!

  He finished his tune and lazily sat up.

  ‘Now for the escape,’ he said, chuckling to himself. ‘Piece of cake … or should I say piece of pie.’