The Twyning (34 page)

I hold up the lamp and peer into the gloom. Against the far wall is a heap of earth and a few sacks. When I move closer, I see that there are thousands of rats’ tails, only some of which have been put into sacks.

I back toward the door. There is a loathsome taste in my mouth. I lay the candle on the damp stone and cover my mouth and nose with my hand.

Time passes slowly when you are in a cellar with only rats’ tails for company. I close my eyes and try to force the filth and evil — Champagne Charlie, the hunting of beasts, the stink of their tails — from my mind. In the lobby of the town hall there are pictures of men on horses hunting foxes. I think not of the men in the pink coats or their hounds and horses but of what surrounds them. The trees, the fields, the hedges, the streams. One day I will take Caz away from the town and its cruelty into the green of the country.

I am deadly cold by the time I hear the sound of steps on the stairs. The door opens. It is the clerk.

“You’re wanted in the chamber,” he says. “Bring one of the sacks.”

“But —”

“Just do it, boy. And don’t come too close to me.”

I cross the room, and trying to ignore the smell, I heave a sack onto my shoulder.

I follow the clerk up the stairs, into the light of the entrance hall and up some wider stairs. Halfway down a corridor, there is a small door, beyond which I can hear the sounds of a meeting.

As I approach, the clerk winces with distaste.

“Wait near the door until you are called.”

Quietly he opens it and stands back for me to enter with my sack of tails.

I am in the biggest room I have ever seen, and it is full of people, standing in silence, their eyes fixed on the stage. A few of those close to the door catch the smell of the sack and, casting reproachful looks in my direction, move away.

Mr. Petheridge is making one of his speeches. It is the usual stuff — “war,” “health,” “danger to our children,” “the great challenge of our age”— but I am too amazed by what I am seeing in that hall to pay much heed. Everything has changed. The last time I saw the MP making a speech, there was laughter and chat. Now it is as if he has some great secret to impart, something that will affect each of them, and which they have never heard before.

He is talking about what he calls “the great extermination campaign” when he glances in my direction.

“This borough has shown the world that the rat can be defeated,” he declares, holding a finger in the air. “My esteemed colleague Dr. Ross-Gibbon”— he gestures to where the doctor is standing toward the back of the stage — “has shown us how to destroy the beasts. And you, the people of this great borough, have shown that each of us can help.”

He beckons to me.

“Mr. Smith,” he calls out. “Kindly join me on the stage.”

I am about to put down the sack when he adds, “No, bring your booty with you, my boy.”

With some difficulty, I drag the sack of tails across the hall and up the few steps that lead to the stage. There is alarm in the audience as they notice that the sack is leaving a trail of dark blood on the floor.

“Thus far”— the MP raises his voice — “our people’s campaign has resulted in more than twenty thousand beasts being exterminated from our streets. And we have the proof.”

I look down on the crowded hall. No one is looking at Mr. Petheridge now, nor at me. Their eyes are on the bulging, bloodstained sack that is beside me on the stage.

“Show them, Mr. Smith.”

I reach for the bottom of the sack. Those nearest the stage back away hurriedly.

“No, I don’t think we need to see all the contents of the sack, Mr. Smith.” Mr. Petheridge gives a nervous laugh. “Just show us a sample.” He made a scooping gesture with his hand.

For a moment I stare at him in disbelief.

His look becomes more threatening.

“Show us a sample, Mr. Smith, please.”

I take a deep breath, reach into the sack, grab a slimy handful of tails, and hold them aloft. There are screams and shouts and pandemonium from the audience.

“Calm down, everyone,” Mr. Petheridge says, nodding eagerly in my direction. “They are safely dead and can now be returned to the sack.”

I do as I am told and return the tails to the sack.

“There are many sacks like that, and we need more,” the MP continues. He pauses for a moment, as if a sudden thought has just occurred to him. “We should, though, be on our guard. The enemy is now on the attack.”

At this point, the doctor moves to the front of the stage. He is carrying a newspaper.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I believe that I have explained in the past how my research has shown the rat to be a cunning and vicious creature. Its instinct is to fight and destroy any species that competes with it. That is, us.”

He unfolds the paper slowly until he finds what he is looking for.

“We are engaged in a war, and we now know that the war has entered a new and dangerous phase. The rat is desperate, and it is fighting back. We know already that it likes to attack babies in their cribs. Now it is going further.”

He flourishes the newspaper before him. “Some of you may have read yesterday’s newspapers. They made shocking reading. The headline here says it all —
MAN EATEN ALIVE BY RATS.
”

He holds up the newspaper, showing everyone in the hall the headline.

“We have the first known adult victim in the war against rats, ladies and gentlemen,” the doctor continues. “His name”— he glances at the paper — “is Mr. Ralph Knightley.”

. . . but citizens who could lead. Driva and I knew it was not enough to believe in the kingdom. Every rat believes in the kingdom. We needed courtiers who would show citizens that if they believed in something, they should be prepared to fight for it.

It was to be a Court of Governance unlike any other in the history of the kingdom. Those who would be part of it would not have fame or reputation or great heroic deeds to offer. They would simply have the hearts of ordinary citizens, and a determination that we should not be defeated by the enemy.

When Driva set out alone in search of leaders, she faced a harsh struggle. She was a doe, and the only member of her sex who had been a courtier was Jeniel, whose name was now never mentioned in the kingdom.

Her revelation was weak. Why, rats would ask, should we follow a doe who reveals no more clearly than an ordinary mother of ratlings?

Yet we had no choice. It was to be a court of ordinary citizens. That would be our strength.

We agreed to meet on the Rock of State at the end of the night. By then, we would know if the kingdom had a new court.

I sensed Driva’s doubts as we said farewell.

— Strength is what we need, sister. Others like you.

She looked at me, communicating her feelings as only a doe can, and for the briefest of instants I thought of Malaika. It was like a sharp jab of pain within me.

Driva left, and I headed for a small wood near the river where, I knew, rats foraged for food during the night.

It was strange, emerging once more from the drain into the world above but not turning toward the home I had made with Malaika and her humans. I wondered about them for a moment. Had Malaika found her human? Were they safe? Did she ever think of me, back in the kingdom?

I moved toward the trees. I needed warriors, and I knew that some had survived the battle. But where were they? If their captain was alive, they would be together somewhere. If he had died, they would have dispersed and would be causing trouble somewhere.

I listened. From across the town, human sounds reached my ears. They meant no more to me than the rustling of the wind through dried leaves on the forest floor.

Advancing slowly, I made my way into thickets of brambles. There were rabbits here, mice and hedgehogs, but little sign of citizens of the kingdom.

It was as I crossed a clearing that I smelled that I was not alone. Something was tracking me. I froze for a moment, my senses alert.

It was a rat, and not a cunning one. It was making too much noise, not listening for danger. Only a warrior would be that clumsy.

I backed into a rabbit’s burrow and waited as he followed the touch-path. When he appeared through the undergrowth, I saw that although he was strong like all warriors, his coat was dull and matted.

Head down, in a world of his own, the warrior followed my trail until it turned toward the burrow. There was something wrong. No warrior would be that unguarded. I looked around, suddenly aware of the scent of other rats, but it was too late.

Several heavy bodies were upon me. For a few seconds, the rats nipped and nosed me. Even as I was attacked, I knew that I should not offer or even humble. I stood my ground as their teeth cut into my flesh. Only when they sensed that I was not fighting them did they release me and shuffle backward, eyeing me all the while, their teeth bared.

I was surrounded by six strong, large warriors.

— My name is Efren.

My revelation sounded feebler than I intended. One of the warriors snickered.

— I mean no harm. Are there many warriors in these woods?

The first rat I had seen was about to reply when an older warrior nipped him into submission.

I moved toward him and revealed.

— I come from the world below. The kingdom needs fighters.

— The kingdom?

The warrior seemed less guarded now.

— Yes. There is still a kingdom. Even after the battle.

— What do you want with us now?

I waited, my eyes on the older warrior in front of me. With a warning glance at the others, he moved closer to me. I took my chance.

— I am from the Court of Governance. Are you the leader here?

— I am. My name is Growan.

— There will be a new court.

Ignoring the sharp smell of suspicion in the air, I revealed more strongly.

— The kingdom is good. Every citizen knows that. It was lost for a while, but now it is back. We must work together.

Growan fixed me with a cold eye.

— Why should we trust you?

— Because trust is all we have.

We stood for several moments, one rat surrounded by six others. Then Growan seemed to reach a decision.

He turned away from me, revealing as he went.

— I’ll take you to the other warriors.

. . . by rats shakes Bill.

All his life he has been afraid of the law. Now he thinks it is only a matter of time before he will be tried for murder.

“Tell me again,” he says as we sit together in front of his fire that night. “What exactly does it say in the newspaper?”

“Knightley was found dead. There were rats in the closet. When they opened the door, they were feasting on his body.”

“They must have been starving, them beasts,” he mutters, holding his head in his hands. “I never should have trapped him in that closet.”

“You didn’t.”

He looks up at me, surprised.

“The walking stick. I left it —”

“I pulled it out. Knightley could have escaped.”

We stare at the fire, the same question forming in our minds.

“So what happened?” Bill breaks the silence. “How did he die?”

“In the newspaper it said that the doctor thought the rats attacked him.”

Bill pokes the fire. “Shows what he knows. Beasts aren’t like that — not against a man, anyway.”

“There would have been a fight,” I say. “Even if they did attack him. We would have heard something from that room.”

“Maybe the doctors will find something.”

“They won’t.”

Bill is looking more confused than ever.

“They want the rats to have done it,” I say. “That way the war can continue.”

A low moan comes from Bill. “Now what are they planning?”

“Another hunt. Bigger than the last one. The hunt to end all hunts. They want you there and all.”

He stands up and wanders over to the empty well. “Who would have thought a few rodents would be of such interest to humans,” he growls sadly.

“Maybe it’s what rats can bring them. The politician gets his votes. The doctor becomes famous. The hunters get money.”

Bill sighs. “Poor beasts,” he says.