‘And what happened to the poor hamsters?’ Whisker gasped. ‘Did the Cat Fish …?’
‘Eat them?’ Horace said, horrified. ‘Of course not! What kind of heartless rats do you think we are? While Pete patched up our wounds, Fred kept the Cat Fish at bay with a fork in one paw, while flinging the hamsters onto our ship with the other. He was amazing.’
‘I thought you didn’t carry passengers – or prisoners,’ Whisker said in confusion.
‘They weren’t passengers,’ the Captain clarified, ‘they were victims of tragic circumstance, and we dropped them off on the very next island.’
‘That’s right,’ Horace reminisced, ‘Drumstick Island … it’s a great place for a holiday. It’s got the best lagoon. Fred still keeps in touch with them, you know. He always pops in for a pie if we’re sailing past …’
‘Is this really relevant?’ the Captain interrupted.
Horace stared at the floor. ‘No, sir.’
‘I think he’s just overtired,’ Whisker said.
The Captain looked at both of them.
‘Go and get some rest,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t want my crew stumbling around half asleep if the Cat Fish decide to change their course. I’ll keep watch until dawn.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ they replied gratefully, tiptoeing into the darkness.
‘The sun will be up soon,’ Horace yawned as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘It must be four o’clock by now.’
Whisker didn’t answer. He was intrigued by something the Captain had said.
He peered over his shoulder and saw the Captain staring into the fog where the silver ship was last sighted. The Captain mumbled to himself and Whisker made out a few of the words: ‘… I certainly hope we get to it first … for all our sakes …’
Scissor Swords
Two rats faced each other on the sun-drenched deck. Whisker nervously clutched a rusty green scissor sword in his trembling paws. Opposite him, Ruby stared back with a confident smirk on her face and a scarlet scissor sword in each paw.
It was late afternoon and there had been no further signs of the Cat Fish. Whisker had slept until lunchtime and his rusty weapon had been scrounged from the cargo hold only minutes before the fight.
Win or lose, this was his chance to earn some respect. As he tightened his grip on the sword, he felt his nervousness turn to determination. He took a deep breath, steadied his tail and waited for the signal.
As the Quartermaster of the ship, Pencil Leg Pete began proceedings with a long-winded spiel. ‘The purpose of this fight is to determine the skill, speed and strength of the Pie Rat recruit …’
‘Yeah, yeah, enough of the boring banter,’ Horace yelled from the sidelines. ‘Jump to the fun bit where you say, fight!’
Whisker couldn’t imagine anything less fun than playing the role of a loser in a one-sided annihilation, but at least he was fighting Ruby and not one of the Cat Fish.
Pete glared at Horace and resumed, ‘Rule One: No intentional killing. Accidental death due to incompetence, excessive bleeding or drowning is excused. Rule Two: The fight ends when one rat either voluntarily surrenders, accidently dies or faces a fatal blow …’
As the rules were read out, Whisker’s feeling of determination shifted back to nervousness and then spiralled into fear. He doubted Ruby would show him any mercy if he was hanging off the side of the boat with a missing ear and dislocated tail.
Pete raised his paw. ‘Are the fighters ready?’
Before Whisker had time to answer, Pete swept his paw through the air with a cry of ‘FIGHT!’ and the battle was on.
Neither Whisker nor Ruby would strike first. Whisker thought a defensive approach would keep him in the contest for longer and Ruby clearly had her own strategy.
The fighters began circling each other in the centre of the deck. The tight space between the masts defined their battlefield. Only their feet moved. Whisker shuffled to his left, shifting his weight from foot to foot in sync with the rocking of the boat. Ruby was forced to follow. He hadn’t chosen this direction carelessly. He knew that by moving left, he was constantly stepping into the blind spot of Ruby’s eye patch. She couldn’t fight what she couldn’t see.
‘Get on with it, Ruby,’ Pete barked. ‘Go for his legs.’
‘Hold your ground, Whisker,’ Horace encouraged.
Fred began a chant of ‘Whisker – Whisker –’
‘You’re supposed to be on my side,’ Ruby snapped. ‘I’m representing the crew.’
‘It’s nothing personal,’ Horace called out. ‘Whisker just needs a little encouragement. We all know you’re the best swords-rat on the ship.’
Ruby flashed a devilish smile.
‘Now you tell me,’ Whisker muttered in annoyance. He considered launching an attack but restrained himself. The one thing he knew about fighting was that reacting in anger was the quickest way to end up flat on his back with his tail in the air. He had to play to his strengths. The problem was, he didn’t have any strengths. The only sword he’d ever touched belonged to a juggling jumbuck from the circus.
He summed up the situation. There were still only two options: attack or defend, and either choice would spell instant defeat and humiliation.
His tail trembled as he began to panic.
It was at this moment of desperation that an extraordinary thing happened to Whisker. A great feeling of peace swept over him and his mind began to drift into memories. At first he tried to fight it, but then he recalled – on the terrible night of the cyclone, as his body sank towards a watery grave, his mind did the very same thing, it drifted into his memories and it found him an answer: air.
Whisker let his wandering mind take over. His body remained on the deck, but his mind was somewhere else. He was sitting in the hull of his father’s half-built boat, in the middle of a dense forest …
‘Father,’ the young Whisker asked. ‘I’ve been wondering about something.’
His father put down his small wooden hammer.
‘What is it, Son?’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Have I put the rudder at the wrong end?’
‘No, Dad!’ the young Whisker laughed. ‘The boat itself is fine. The problem is the forest. There’s plenty of wood for building, but there are no rivers or beaches for miles. How will we get the boat to the ocean? It’s far too heavy to lift, even for an army of weightlifting walruses!’
His father smiled back at him without the least bit of concern. ‘You’re a bright lad, Wentworth. Much smarter than I ever was. But don’t worry, I have a plan. Your great-grandfather Anso once gave me a piece of advice. He told me that most sailors, when making an important decision, would select one of two clear options: the river or the beach, for example. But in some situations there was a third option, a hidden option. I didn’t choose this spot solely because of the forest. I chose it because in four months’ time when the summer rain comes, this forest will flood. That, my boy, is how we’ll get our boat to the ocean …’
Back on the Pie Rat ship, Whisker straightened his back and breathed deeply. He’d resisted the journey back from his memories. He still needed his third option. Flooded rivers weren’t about to help him now.
But his answer didn’t come from a distant memory. It was recent, very recent. Refocusing on his current surrounds, he knew exactly what to do.
A wary expression spread across Ruby’s face. Whatever he was planning, she didn’t like it. The young combatants continued circling; their tense bodies moving in and out of the long afternoon shadows cast by the sails.
Half a circle more, Whisker told himself, and then he would act.
Ruby’s fingers twitched on the handles of her swords.
She’s going to pounce, Whisker thought … only a few more steps …
He edged into the shadow of the mainmast and stopped. Ruby, trailing his every move, halted mid-step. Neither of them blinked.
Now for the bait … Whisker took a nervous step backwards, breaking Ruby’s gaze. At the same
moment, he dropped his sword and it clanged noisily to the deck.
The crew gasped in horror and Ruby made her move. With both swords raised, she uttered a loud ‘AAAAARGH!’ and leapt towards him.
Her display would have terrified even the fiercest of cats, but the fear that gripped Whisker was his salvation. With lightning speed, his frenzied tail picked up the sword and swung it over his shoulder in the direction of the mast.
The sword sliced through the halyard rope, bouncing off the metal mast with a high pitched CLANG. In an instant, the giant coat hanger plummeted down.
Whisker jumped back as the sail cascaded onto the deck, smothering Ruby as she charged towards him. He grabbed his sword and scrambled over to the writhing lump under the sail. Part of him thought a few well-placed kicks to the backside were in order, but he wasn’t the type to kick a rat when she was down. Instead he put one foot on Ruby’s back and pinned her to the ground.
‘Get off me!’ she yelled, thrashing her arms wildly about in an attempt to locate her two swords.
Triumphantly, Whisker lowered his sword to her back.
‘Can you feel that?’ he whispered.
Ruby didn’t answer.
‘That,’ he declared, ‘is the fatal blow.’
Whisker waited for applause, but all he got was a hard kick between the legs from Ruby, who was clearly tired of being his footstool. He dropped to the deck and groaned, ‘But I won.’
The stunned crew rushed over to him. Fred lifted up the corner of the sail and Ruby crawled out. She picked up one of her swords and pushed to the front of the small crowd gathered around Whisker.
‘Get up,’ she hissed. ‘We’re not done.’
Whisker looked to Pete for an official verdict.
Pete shrugged. ‘Strange fight. I guess it’s over …’ He turned his back and, ignoring Ruby’s howls of protest, hurriedly clomped towards the stairs.
Whisker staggered to his feet. He was still sore from Ruby’s kick but felt relieved the fight was over. Fred gave him a friendly pat on the back and Whisker nearly fell over again.
‘Congratulations,’ the Captain said warmly. ‘I have never seen anyone use their tail so successfully in a fight. It’s a great achievement considering your, err … ailment.’
‘Ailment?’ Whisker said coyly.
Horace laughed. ‘We all know you have a rather unique tail, Whisker. While you were unconscious in Pete’s bed, it scribbled in one of his books with a pencil. Pete challenged it to a game of chess, but your tail threw the board out the window. If you could train it to fight with a sword, you’ll be unstoppable.’
Whisker sighed. His embarrassing secret was out.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for sword practice,’ the Captain said. ‘There’s a lot Whisker can learn from Ruby.’
Whisker doubted if Ruby would be willing to teach him anything. He just hoped she wouldn’t hold a grudge for too long.
He thought about the story his father had told him.
The third option, he said to himself. I could have picked surrender.
KABOOM!
As Whisker soon discovered, Ruby held grudges. The sword fight was one of the rare times she’d been beaten and she wasn’t about to let it go. She spent hours on the deck in the following days, practicing her technique and fighting invisible foes. Whisker considered challenging her to another fight, but feared too much for his safety. He doubted he could block even one of her slashing moves.
On the morning of the cannon class, Whisker saw her up before dawn, creeping like a shadow from one end of the deck to the other, slicing through the crisp morning air with her swords. More than once she nervously glanced up at the sails.
‘She’s preparing a counter attack,’ Horace whispered as they secretly watched from behind the ship’s wheel.
In silhouette against the dawn sky, Ruby spun on one foot like a ballerina, while waving two swords around her head. The spinning got quicker and quicker until suddenly Ruby released one of the swords and it shot through the air towards them. Horace and Whisker leapt back as the sword struck the wheel with a TWANG.
Whisker gasped as he realised the sword was protruding from the centre of the wheel only millimetres from his tail.
Ruby stopped spinning.
‘I thought I smelt a filthy spy,’ she hissed.
‘We are neither filthy, nor are we spies,’ Horace replied indignantly. ‘We were merely watching.’
‘Watching, spying, it’s all the same to me,’ Ruby huffed, striding up the stairs to the helm.
She stopped in front of the wheel and stared at her sword. It was still vibrating from the impact.
‘Bull’s Eye,’ Whisker said, trying to cover his fright with friendly conversation.
Ruby glared at Whisker. ‘I wasn’t aiming at the wheel.’
With a nervous twitch of his tail, Whisker decided the conversation was over.
‘What are you doing here, Horace?’ Ruby asked, ignoring Whisker. ‘You never get up this early.’
‘We are preparing for cannon classes,’ Horace replied.
‘The cannons are below deck, not up here,’ Ruby sneered.
‘True,’ Horace considered, ‘but it’s too cramped below for a proper demonstration. Besides, look at the sky. It’s going to be a beautiful day. What else could you wish for? A romantic sunrise and the booming sound of cannons – magnificent!’
Whisker stared out at the horizon. The sky was turning a rich shade of pink and the distant clouds were rimmed with the golden light of the approaching sun.
It does look stunning, he thought. He chanced a look at Ruby. For a moment, in the soft light he saw a different Ruby; a girl with a serene and peaceful face and a gentle smile. She reminded him of his mother on the summer morning they first launched their boat. He could almost picture Ruby holding his sleeping sister, Anna, as their boat sailed from the flooded inlet into the vast, sparkling ocean.
Ruby, suddenly aware she was being watched, shot a glance at Whisker. Whisker dropped his eyes awkwardly and awaited the harsh remark that would certainly follow. It never came.
He looked up and his eyes made contact with hers. She looked at him crossly, but without all of the venom he had come to expect. Their gaze was broken by a loud thudding noise from below the deck.
‘Right on time,’ Horace said, rubbing his hook.
‘On time for what?’ Ruby muttered. ‘Waking up the rest of the crew?’
The noise grew louder and Whisker saw a large body poke up from the stairwell, followed by an even larger cylindrical shape, thudding on every step.
‘Fred has arrived with our cannon!’ Horace cried excitedly.
When Whisker turned back to Ruby she was already pulling her sword from the wheel.
‘Make sure the boy doesn’t hit anyone,’ she said sternly as she left the deck.
Welcome back, Ruby, Whisker sighed.
As the morning sun rose over the horizon, Whisker helped Horace and Smudge assemble the cannon. Fred made several trips down the stairs, each time returning with a stack of stale pies and a terrible stench.
‘Oooh, yuck!’ Whisker gagged. ‘Your pies are disgusting, Fred. Some are close to putrid.’
Horace laughed. ‘Putrid is preferred.’
‘But what are they for?’ Whisker asked. ‘Target practice?’
Smudge twitched his wings to get Whisker’s attention. Excitedly, he pointed to a pile of pies with one arm and the cannon with another. With two more arms he made an explosion gesture. Whisker immediately understood.
‘They’re cannonballs!’ he exclaimed.
‘Exactly,’ Horace said with a wide grin. ‘They don’t call us Pie Rats for nothing.’ He beckoned for Whisker to follow him to the nearest pile of pies. ‘We have two categories of pie projectiles, long range and close range. You are currently looking at the long range variety. They are triple-baked by Fred and left in the sun until the pastry is harder than an armadillo in armour. They won’t disintegrate in the air o
ver long distances and can tear a hole through a sail.’
He walked over to the second pile of pies. ‘Over here, we have everyone’s favourite, the Close Range Chaos.’
Whisker took a step towards the pies and caught a whiff of something truly disgusting. He decided not to venture any closer.
‘Close range pies,’ Horace continued, ‘are child-friendly projectiles that disintegrate in the air, showering our enemies in a stinky, sticky slop.’
‘Child-friendly?’ Whisker scoffed. ‘You’d have to be a skunk with a blocked nose to find that friendly.’
‘It stinks, but it’s safe,’ Horace said. ‘As Pie Rats, we can handle a few drops of putrid pie filling on our sleeves, but to our enemies, it’s utter chaos. Some victims think they’ve been sprayed with acid. Some think their gizzards have been blasted out of their stomachs. Others think we’ve used our cannons as toilets. But whatever they believe, it’s the quickest way to send them jumping overboard for a much-needed bath.’
Horace chuckled and tapped the side of a pie with his hook. It effortlessly broke through the soft, green pastry.
‘Don’t you just love mould?’ he mused. ‘I keep these pies in the bottom of the ship where it’s damp and dark.’
As he removed his hook, a slow stream of grey-green slime oozed out. Whisker screwed up his mouth and groaned, ‘What on earth is that?’
Fred leant down and took a big sniff. He paused and considered, ‘It’s seven months old.’
‘Good vintage,’ Horace chimed in.
Fred sniffed again and frowned miserably. ‘Triple garlic with Brussels sprouts and blue-vein cheese. Two dozen pies and no one wanted any.’
‘Cheer up,’ Horace said, patting Fred on the back. ‘If all your pies were perfect, we’d have no ammunition. Your worst pie is our best weapon.’
Fred’s face lit up with a beaming smile. Horace poured a small amount of gunpowder into the barrel of the cannon and packed it down with a ramrod.
The Forgotten Map Page 4