He stuck his head out the top of the nest – and gasped. For the first time he saw exactly where he was. He wasn’t at the top of a pine tree as he had thought; he was on a ledge, halfway up an enormous cliff. The huge rocks of the cliff face were as smooth as glass. There was no way up and no way down.
Whisker pounded his fists on the nest, in confounded frustration. He’d been the fool all along.
Pride comes before a …
The faint glow spread across the eastern sky. On any average day, Whisker would have marvelled at the changing hues of the heavens and stared dreamily at the orange-rimmed clouds of a world waking from its slumber. Dawn made him feel alive, invigorated. But today, the prospect of a glorious sunrise brought him no comfort. He was stuck on a cliff, about to become the main ingredient in a dish he’d foolishly orchestrated. Not even the warm rays of sunlight could thaw his icy disposition.
He crawled out of the nest and shuffled to the edge of the rocky ledge. The wind roared up the side of the cliff from the pine forest far below. Whisker knew he was too high to even consider jumping.
Accepting defeat, he retreated from the edge and gave the nest several hard kicks in anger. It was tightly woven but extremely light and slid across the rock with every kick, the wind buffeting its outer twigs as it moved closer to the edge. Whisker had a sudden urge to kick the nest straight over the side of the cliff.
Serves them right, he thought vindictively. They’ll have to build a new nest out of rat pie.
He gave the nest several more kicks, imagining the three owls were sitting in a soggy pool of gravy while their soft nest blew away in the wind … of course!
Whisker stopped himself mid-kick. Suddenly the nest had a whole new purpose. He grabbed the closest twigs with both paws and yanked the circular object away from the edge.
Perfect size, he thought, examining it closely. But it needs a slight modification.
He squatted down next to the nest and gripped its underside with his fingers. Using the strength of his legs, he slowly stood up, lifting the sides higher and higher into the air until the entire nest was standing upright.
Whisker gave it one last push and the nest dropped upside-down onto the ledge. Wasting no time, he squeezed his body into the hollow cavity at its centre. The nest arched over his head like an igloo, or, as Whisker imagined, a makeshift parachute.
After checking the map and his sword were secure in his belt, he gripped the inner sides of the nest with his paws and wrapped his tail around the twigs behind him. One step at a time, he began dragging it towards the edge.
He felt a gust of wind as the front of the nest slid over the side of the rock. His tail trembled in anticipation and his legs stopped moving as panic set in – he had to be sure he was making the right move. Once he stepped off the cliff, there was no going back.
A distant hoot gave Whisker the motivation he needed. With a jolt of panic, he took the leap of his life and threw himself over the edge.
Like a turtle tumbling through a tornado, Whisker and his shell of sticks plummeted down. The icy wind blasted his face and stung his eyes. Helplessly, he struggled to hold on as the nest flapped from side to side and began to spin. He dug his toes into the nest to steady himself, but he was dropping too fast.
Suddenly, the tops of the tallest pine trees were everywhere and the ground was rushing towards him. Pine needles brushed his tail. He saw a branch in his path and leapt free, wrapping his arms around a prickly pinecone.
The branch bent under his weight, dragging Whisker down. He held on with all his might as the branch sprang up, vibrating back and forth like the string of a harp before finally quivering to a stop.
Nervously, he loosened his grip and looked down. He was only metres from the ground. The nest lay in tatters below him.
‘Perfect landing,’ he muttered. ‘One day I’ll get an easy escape.’
He carefully lowered himself from branch to branch and dropped onto a thick bed of pine needles. Relieved to be on solid ground, he looked up at the monstrous cliff, towering high above him. Silhouetted against the pale blue of the dawn sky he saw three owls, flying in a line. The first carried an onion in its claws, the second clutched a small barrel of gravy and the third hauled two broken deck boards.
Crunchy onion pie for breakfast –, Whisker mused. He stopped himself short. I’ve already had my own slice of humble pie.
Sighing to himself, he tightened his belt and set off in the direction of the rising sun.
Somewhere in the middle of the dense forest, Whisker heard a croaky ‘HOOT HOOT,’ followed by the overpowering aroma of onion.
He drew his sword and crept forward. The owls had either choked on a piece of onion pie and were out for revenge or an imposter was lurking in the woods.
‘Hermit said it was Whisker,’ laughed a familiar voice above him.
Whisker looked up. The Hermit and the Captain were sitting on a branch of a tree, clutching small pinecones in each paw like two cheeky children waiting to attack.
Whisker gave them a wave with his sword and the Captain lowered his pinecones.
‘You win, Hermit,’ the Captain said begrudgingly. ‘It’s Whisker alright. But I’m certain I smelt owls.’
The Hermit pointed to a feather sticking out of Whisker’s shirt.
‘That would explain the fowl smell,’ the Captain joked. ‘Fell into a pile of feathers did we?’
‘My evening wasn’t exactly a hoot …’ Whisker replied evasively.
‘Well, it’s good to find you safe and sound,’ the Captain said warmly. ‘We were beginning to get a little worried. There are all sorts of nasty creatures out here.’ He glanced around warily. ‘Owls and scorpions are just the beginning … I’d hate to think what would have happened if any of them had caught you.’
‘L-lucky me, eh?’ Whisker stammered, deciding to leave it at that. Being captured by scorpions and owls on one night wasn’t exactly bragging material.
‘Hermit takes Whisker to his rowboat now,’ the Hermit said, climbing down from the tree. ‘Vessel hidden in dunes.’ He threw Whisker a ripe pinecone. ‘Whisker hungry, yes, yes?’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ Whisker replied. ‘I’m famished from …err, getting lost – and stuff.’
He hurriedly picked the small nuts from the pinecone and stuffed them into his mouth. At least with his mouth full he couldn’t say anything incriminating.
While the Captain collected several more pinecones for their breakfast, the Hermit casually wandered over to Whisker. He glanced at Whisker’s torn shorts and grinned.
‘Whisker fell into bramble bush and pile of feathers, did he?’
Whisker stared back at him with bulging cheeks. ‘Mmm- hmm.’
The Hermit gave Whisker a sly look that said your secret is safe with me and gestured for Whisker to follow him through the trees. Whisker stuck to the Hermit like a piece of gum clinging to the sole of a shoe. There was no way he was losing sight of him a second time.
The three rats reached a rocky lookout on the outskirts of the forest. The wind, for once, was surprisingly calm. Whisker stood and admired the striking panorama around him. The Rock of Hope lay to the south-east, the waves gently lapping its smooth base – the tide was fully in. Beyond the sandy shore, the curving cliffs of the island surrounded the peaceful lagoon. It was a stark contrast to the Treacherous Sea Whisker had experienced two days ago. The black shapes of the rocks dotted the still, turquoise water like chess pieces on a glassy board.
Whisker caught a glimpse of something silver disappear behind a distant island.
‘Down! Now!’ the Hermit hissed, pulling Whisker to the ground.
Whisker hit the earth with a hard THUD and the Captain dropped beside him. Even with his nose squashed into the dirt, Whisker could see enough to know what was out there. A slender ship appeared in the middle of the lagoon, its silver hull shimmering in the sunshine. Its three square sails flapped gently in the breeze, each emblazoned with a fish skeleton. The ship was too di
stant for Whisker to identify its crew, but he’d seen that dreaded vessel often enough to know that six of his least favourite felines were onboard.
‘Not the rescue party we were hoping for,’ the Captain muttered.
Whisker didn’t respond. He simply watched in growing dread as the armour-plated vessel of the Cat Fish, the Silver Sardine, sailed through the tight passage into the centre of the lagoon.
On the Prowl
The Owl and the Pussy Cat was Whisker’s least favourite nursery rhyme. After narrowly escaping from owls, he was not looking forward to adding pussy cats to the mix.
The Captain was equally unimpressed.
‘Infuriating Cat Fish,’ he growled. ‘Why do they get the easy run? Fine weather, high tide and not an eel in sight.’
‘Cat Fish?’ the Hermit gasped. ‘Hermit not fond of Cat Fish.’
‘No one’s fond of Cat Fish,’ the Captain muttered. He hesitated and looked directly at the Hermit. ‘I should have mentioned this earlier, Father, but we have a particularly nasty crew of cats on our tails and they’re as eager as we are to get their paws on the treasure.’
The Hermit twitched his ears nervously. Whisker’s tail followed suit.
The Captain continued gravely, ‘It was my hope that General Thunderclaw sent Captain Sabre and his feline followers to a watery grave, following an impromptu fireworks show a few nights ago, but the evidence clearly suggests otherwise …’
‘H-hermit puts key-diving expedition on hold,’ the Hermit stammered.
‘Obviously,’ the Captain grunted. ‘Sabre won’t be leaving in a hurry. Not without the treasure.’
Whisker felt a wave of panic sweep across his body. The Cat Fish clearly knew what path to take across the lagoon.
What else do they know? he wondered. Has Sabre solved the mystery of the riddle?
‘W-what’s our next move?’ he asked in a trembling voice.
‘We watch from a distance,’ the Captain replied. ‘It shouldn’t be hard to discover what the Cat Fish are up to.’
‘But they’ll know we’re here,’ Whisker shot back. ‘They’ll see the broken boards on the beach and find the fresh holes at the treasure site.’
‘That could work in our favour,’ the Captain said thoughtfully. ‘If we stay out of sight, the Cat Fish may be fooled into believing we’ve already dug up the treasure and departed the island. With no treasure to plunder, they’ll be gone before the next high tide. This place is hardly a holiday destination.’
‘No, no,’ the Hermit said in a worried tone. ‘If Cat Fish leave, rats will be stranded on windy, windy island forever.’
The Captain shook his head. ‘My crew will come back for us. It’s only a matter of time. Mark my words.’
The Hermit looked doubtful. ‘What if Pie Rats believe Captain and Whisker are dead?’
‘That won’t stop them searching,’ the Captain said defensively. ‘They’re Pie Rats – loyal to the very end. Why is that so hard for you to see?’
The Hermit stared into the distance. ‘Hermit sees what Hermit sees. Hermit sees only silver ship. Maybe …?’
‘You can’t be serious,’ the Captain gasped. ‘There’s no way I’m begging for a lift or stowing away on that mobile seafood cannery.’
‘No, no,’ the Hermit exclaimed. ‘Hermit has better idea. Hermit and rats steal ship while cats search mountain.’
The Captain glared at the Hermit. ‘I’m not leaving the Cat Fish alone on this island – not with the treasure still out there. Who knows what terrible havoc they could wreak with it in their possession?’ He paused and then added, ‘And I’m definitely not leaving without my crew.’
The Hermit turned to Whisker for support. Whisker was torn between his loyalty to the Captain and his overpowering feeling of guilt. He knew the Hermit had waited years to escape the island. Whisker wondered if he could deny him his one shot at freedom, all for the sake of an unknown treasure they were yet to discover.
For all his noble intentions, however, Whisker knew that as soon as he left the island he would turn around and sail straight back again. He had no doubt the Captain would do the same. Neither of them could spend a life of freedom on a stolen ship, wondering what could have been.
He weighed up his options. The Captain believed the Pie Rats would return and rescue them. If he was right, the Hermit would have his freedom. If he was wrong, they still had the treasure to help them.
Whisker chose to trust his captain.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the Hermit. ‘I have a duty to the Apple Pie.’
Whisker expected the Hermit to be angry with him, or at least disappointed. But the old rat simply smiled back.
‘Hermit wishes crew of Princess Pie were as faithful as Whisker,’ he said nostalgically. ‘Loyalty before all else, even pies … Hermit forgets there is more to life than survival.’ He put one paw on Whisker’s shoulder and the other on the Captain’s arm. ‘Hermit is agreed. We all stay. Mashed potato pies will have to wait.’
The Captain laughed heartily and Whisker felt proud to be in the presence of two great captains. Both were as stubborn as oxen, but both were willing to sacrifice all they had for the greater good. Whisker hoped that one day he would be a leader like that.
The three rats crept back into the forest and began their game of cat and mouse; or, to be more precise, six cats and three invisible rats.
The Hermit led Whisker and the Captain through the trees to the lower outskirts of the western forest, where they could get a closer view of the lagoon. Silently and stealthily, the three rats climbed the upper branches of a tall pine tree overlooking the beach. From their high vantage point, they watched the small party of cats travel to shore in a heavily laden rowboat.
Captain Sabre, the black and orange Bengal, sat at the bow of the boat, his head darting from side to side, searching the dunes for signs of life.
Whisker was well camouflaged in the dense foliage of the tree, but it didn’t stop him freezing to the spot like a petrified pigeon. He’d given Sabre a boat load of reasons to want him in a cooking pot and, without wings, Whisker knew the top of a tree wasn’t the safest place to be discovered.
The boat landed near the Rock of Hope and Sabre stepped onto the sand. He was followed by Furious Fur, the wild, white Persian, and Master Meow, the glass-eyed silver tabby. All three cats carried large cheese knives, strapped to their backs with thick belts.
Sabre drew his knife and began sharpening its blade on the Rock of Hope, while the others unloaded a cargo of canvas tents, fishing lines and shovels. After two large chests were dragged onto the beach, Master Meow gave Sabre a high-pitched whistle.
Sabre tipped his orange captain’s hat to his second-in-command and continued sharpening. Meow climbed into the boat and began rowing back to the Silver Sardine.
Furious Fur approached Sabre. Although Whisker couldn’t make out the words over the rustling wind in the trees, he saw Sabre pointing to Mt Mobziw and drawing fish shapes in the sand. Sabre’s intentions were blatantly obvious: set up camp, catch half-a-lagoon of fish and then dig up the treasure.
Under Sabre’s direction, Furious Fur lugged armfuls of canvas and rope to the foot of the dunes. Using long pieces of driftwood for framework, he constructed a primitive-looking shelter. Soon after completion, the rowboat returned with two more passengers.
The ladies of the crew, Cleopatra and Siamese Sally, pranced up the beach on all fours. Cleopatra, the graceful Abyssinian, gazed straight ahead with hypnotic green eyes. Siamese Sally, bony and bored, looked even more lifeless than usual. Her huge hook-earrings weighed down her scraggly ears. Her red bandanna hung loosely from her skull-like head and a scrap of red material was tied around her scrawny left arm.
A bandage from the fireworks incident, Whisker thought. Yet another reason for the Cat Fish to have me for lunch.
He counted the cats. One, two, three, four, five –
There was still one crew member missing: Prowler, the Russian Blue and shadow
y lookout of the Cat Fish.
Whisker turned his gaze to the Silver Sardine. He ran his eyes across the deck and then raised them to the broadsword-shaped masts. Something grey and furry moved in the crow’s-nest – Six.
‘I believe we’ve seen enough,’ the Captain whispered. ‘There are safer places I’d rather be when the Cat Fish venture inland.’
Without protest, the rats crept down from the tree and set off towards the Hermit’s cave on Mt Moochup. The forest thinned as the terrain grew steeper and the three companions found themselves wading through the shallow water of the mountain spring, far upstream from the Rock of Hope.
Whisker stopped and gulped down huge mouthfuls of the crystal-clear water. He hadn’t drunk anything for nearly two days, and the water was soothing on his dry throat. His mother once told him that rats could go without water for longer than camels. Whisker thought the spring water could keep him going for weeks, such was its pure taste.
‘Whisker needs to keep moving,’ the Hermit said from the opposite bank.
Whisker wiped his mouth with the back of his paw and hurried out of the stream, following the Hermit into rocky country. He kept a keen eye out for his black-shelled buddies, the scorpions, and was relieved to reach the Hermit’s lair without a repeat of the previous night’s desperate dash. If the scorpions were lurking nearby, they were in no hurry to reveal themselves in the light of day.
The Hermit stashed his small bag in its hiding spot at the back of the cave and the three companions took turns monitoring the cats from a nearby boulder-top. It had a clear view of the beach but was too high up the mountainside for the rats to see much more than a few blurs of fur without magnification. The rats took no chances and lay perfectly still on the rock on the off chance the Cat Fish were looking back up at them – with a telescope.
The cats devoted their entire morning to fishing. Whisker thought it a rather odd activity to choose, considering there was a mysterious treasure waiting to be discovered, but he knew it was pointless trying to fathom the logic of cats.
The Island of Destiny Page 6