by Adam Kline
“I don’t think so,” said Gordon, who had always considered himself a vegetarian. “But now that I have the little dancing lights, the caves don’t seem so bad.”
“Gordon,” spoke Leek, choosing his words with care, “we couldn’t help but notice an unsettling aroma when we entered your subterranean realm. It’s remarkably pungent.”
“Oh, I suppose that’s probably me.” Gordon sighed, and as he sighed, a fresh wave of green vapor washed over the rabbits. “In addition to my nyctophobia”—which is a five-dollar word for fear of the dark—“I also suffer from simple chronic halitosis”—which is the five-dollar way dental technicians refer to bad breath.
Leek thought instantly of the large patch of mint that grew wild in the field behind Cecil’s home and made a mental note to pick a bushel or two for Gordon one day if his mission proved successful. Yet thoughts of the little Bean cottage returned his mind to the business at hand, which it was long past time to address.
“How well do you know the caves and tunnels, Gordon?”
“Oh, like the back of my paw,” replied the monster. “I’ve lived here my whole life, you see, and despite my debilitating nyctophobia, I have intimate knowledge of the caves’ every nook and cranny.”
“We are on a quest most perilous, you must understand,” said Leek. “And it would be ever so helpful if you could show us to the exit.”
“Gladly.” Gordon smiled. “You have brought light where light has never shined before. And I will offer what aid I can, in payment for this boon.”
Gordon then rose from the cavern floor, and his chest swelled to nearly the size of a zeppelin. The firefly family shone around his head, rejoicing in their expansive new domain, and the monster glowed with pleasure.
“Now follow me, into the dark,” he said with obvious pride, “for I am not afraid.”
The rabbits followed Gordon into the distance, hopping fifty of their longest hops to match his single stride. As they scrambled to keep up, Morel found herself sneaking curious glances at Leek. The rabbit bore no blade or bow, no shield or heavy club. Yet it had been he, not she, who had gotten them so far, and he had done so simply by giving. Leek had given Hamlin luck, which propelled them from the fish. His gift to King Kadogo had sprung from Hamlin’s flute, which in turn had summoned the truffles. Gordon’s gift now danced between his mighty horns, buzzing in cheery glee, and a pang of guilt seized Morel as she stared at her companion. It was Leek and his simple generosity that had carried them past the Great Ink and through the Jungle Prime Evil. Her spear, her sword, her mighty words of courage, had all proved sadly useless. As a guide, Morel had altogether failed.
Perhaps, thought Morel, she would try to be less rude. And maybe, if she was very lucky, she would yet prove her warrior’s worth.
“It’s not far now,” said Gordon as he entered the largest of caverns. “The back door’s just ahead.”
But as he spoke, the cave floor trembled, and great stones came crashing from above. Gordon rushed to shield the rabbits with his bulk, and beneath this friendly canopy, the rabbits were quite safe. However, safety is a fleeting thing in Hat, and as the tremors came to a stop, Morel’s hunter’s sense sprang to high alert. She knew in an instant, beyond any semblance of doubt, that other hunters were near and that they were hunting rabbit.
Before she could cry out, the cavern walls shattered, and from them crawled a brand-new breed of Dimmer-Dammer designed only for destruction. The sharpened drills at their snouts revolved with sinister groans as they ground to a dusty pulp the rock that barred their way. Cold lights, affixed atop their iron heads, lit their warpath of doom. As the beasts converged upon their hapless prey, one such light trained its evil eye upon them. Its master rose behind it, and Gordon blanched in terror. For small as it was, this was a beast of perfect blackness, cloaked in shadow everlasting, like the darkness he so feared. And from its mouth came even darker words.
“And so we meet again,” said Millikin to Leek, licking a smudge of dust from his paw. “Never have I beheld this stinking pit of infamy, and yet, my eyes rejoice at the sight. It will make a fitting tomb for you and the wench.”
Then Millikin turned his gaze to Gordon, whose great girth shivered in fright. Cats, and most animals in general, are quite adept at sensing fear—even when one tries very hard to hide it. But Millikin required no such sixth sense now. Gordon’s fear was plain as day, a fact that made Millikin smirk.
“You fear me, monster, yes? You are right to do so, for I am he who walks unseen, the shadowmaster! It is I who command the blackness in your dreams, and it is I who rule the night! My stride brings with it ruin, and to cross your path, large as it may be, will bring me glory tenfold!”
But even as Gordon shrank in abject fear, the tiny she-rabbit, only a small fraction of his size, strode forward to defend him.
“Our host is not your business,” spoke Morel, her brown fur shimmering with fury. “Get thee gone, or you will rue the venomous words you so idly spit.”
“My, my,” hissed Millikin, “yet another empty threat from the mighty warrior princess. The toys that you call weapons may bring you passing comfort, but they cannot bring salvation.”
Morel strode closer to Millikin’s iron mole, and beneath its beam of light, her eyes sparkled with courage.
“You may not fear my sharpened steel or the paw that bears it. But you are wrong to doubt the rabbit in my charge, for he is the luck-giver! And no machine, no power you can muster, will ever quell his strength. If it is his hide you seek, then kindly come and try to take it. But first, you must pass me.”
With that, Morel crouched low and readied herself to strike. But before the shield-maiden could leap, Gordon stepped between Morel and certain death.
“You are so brave for one so small,” he told Morel. Gordon’s dancing crown gleamed golden, in a sign of newfound courage. “And though my great breast may not boast as much against the dark, it does take hope. And in hope, surely there is courage.”
“Well said, Gordon,” whispered Leek. “As a matter of fact, she gives me hope as well.”
“I have my light,” whispered Gordon to himself. And the black cats watched in sudden horror as he heaved himself to his full height, a colossus as of yore, and bellowed.
“I HAVE MY LIGHT! AND I . . . AM NOT . . . AFRAID!”
With that, Gordon breathed deep and roared. Dark green vapors shot from his gaping jaws, and as black cats leaped from their Dimmer-Dammers, the machines turned red, then white, and melted.
“Run, my friends!” commanded Gordon. “I will see to these intruders who dare invade my lair. For I am Gordon, and I am a monster! AND I . . . AM NOT . . . AFRAID!”
The rabbits sprang for the tunnel’s exit, far in the distance, even as iron missiles whistled toward them through the air. Leek dodged two, then three, and yet even as he dodged and leaped, he did not forget his manners.
“Thank you, Gordon!” he yelped. “We will never forget you! And do have a look at the surface sometime! King Kadogo truly is a peach!”
Gordon was too busy to respond. The machines swarmed his girth from every side, but in this, he was glad. For as he waded toward their leader, crushing the iron beasts with both his fists and feet, the fireflies grew ever brighter. Even they had risen to the defense of their new home, their bottoms shining fierce with patriotic ire. As Gordon towered over Millikin, whose hackles rose in fright, the monster’s own huge shadow cast the black cat into darkness.
“Now, shadowmaster! Behold the shadow of true power, and tell me who’s afraid!”
An answer never came. Millikin was already running back up the tunnel he himself had dug, his tail between his legs. He had never known such fear, he thought, and he dearly hoped his tail wouldn’t stick permanently in such a position. Perhaps he’d have to have it surgically rearranged. Happiness, Millikin considered, was an increasingly evasive goal. And even as he ran, the black cat made a mental note to schedule a follow-up appointment with his therapist.
The caravan had stopped. Cecil listened carefully for some sign of their location or of Imbrolio, but the trunk was a thick one, and he heard nothing. Perhaps the villain had simply stopped to heed the call of nature, as Cecil rather needed to do himself. But by this time, Cecil had resigned both his spirit and stomach, as well as his bladder, to sacrifice in the name of adventure. So the boy crossed his legs, which helped, and continued to listen.
Long minutes passed before Cecil heard the so-called magician huffing and puffing as he climbed to the caravan’s roof. The boy’s heart froze in fear, for though a rough plan had been brewing in his head, it had not yet come to boil. Should Imbrolio find him now, surely all would be lost. Cecil clenched his fists and thought of Leek and prayed for just a little luck. If the trunk’s lid opened now, he would need it.
The lid did not open, but Cecil heard the villain speak now clear as day—mere inches from his trunk.
“You’re a crafty one indeed,” said Imbrolio, “and your hiding place a good one. But I’ve found you in the end, as I always do. You may abandon hope of rescue or escape, and I suggest you have a nap, should your trembling relent. You must rest while you can, you see, for we have a show to perform!”
With that, Imbrolio let go a great cackle, which chilled the boy to his core. But the cackle quickly receded as Cecil heard the man climb down. The caravan grumbled back to life, and as it rolled on down the road, Cecil found just enough courage to crack the lid above him and peek out.
Tied to the caravan’s roof, not two feet from his trunk, was a cage. And within its tiny confines was a rabbit, shivering in fear and grief. The rabbit paced its little prison and shook the bars with its paws, to no avail.
“Don’t worry,” Cecil whispered. “My name is Cecil Bean. I know now of the cats, and of the war you wage against them. So never fear, I will save you. I have the makings of a plan.”
The rabbit’s eyes grew wide, for it had thought its daily mission quite the secret. Conversation with a human was quite outside the rules, and rules, the rabbit considered, were important. All lucky rabbits had pledged sacred oaths to obey them.
The trunk then closed tight, and the rabbit calmed its nerves to try to think this through. Plans were all well and good when hatched by lucky rabbits. Saving the day was simply what they did. But since when did humans ever save the day for them? This was all highly irregular, thought the rabbit. Then again, being caught in a trap was highly irregular as well. The morning had been filled with high irregularity. And rather more was yet to come.
Chapter Eight
The path before them was a bleak one, barren and cruel. Leek and Morel had been walking for hours or days or even weeks. Both had quite lost track of time in their hunger and their thirst. Morel trudged doggedly forward, drawing from reserves of strength and will she never knew she had. Occasionally she turned, to be certain Leek still followed—and to her continued amazement, always he was there. But the sight of him broke her heart. Once almost chubby in his health, Leek’s face was gaunt and sunken, his lustrous brown coat stained gray from the dust of the road. As to his cheery spirit, Leek seemed altogether listless and bent with the burden of certain defeat. Morel thought often that if she had but a single neep to give, she would force it on him. She would gladly go hungry herself if only Leek would smile, just once, however briefly.
“Let us pause,” she croaked, “and rest.”
Leek heard her voice, vaguely, as in a dream. And through the murk and haze, he saw her shape before him. But while every fiber of his body cried out for some small respite, his mind would not relent.
“We must press on,” he mumbled, “for the sake of Cecil Bean.”
“If you will not rest at my command,” said Morel, “then rest for the sake of your boy. The hardest part lies before us, and we must save what strength remains. Come and lean against this rock. Do so for Cecil, and he will thank you for it when you see him.”
Too tired to argue further, Leek’s slim shoulders sank. The cold moon of Hat shone down from high above as if to mock his torment, and Leek collapsed to his knees to weep.
Morel stood above him, trying hard to hold her great spear steady in case of sudden attack. She stared into the distance and resigned herself to sacrifice. She would give all, she knew, to see Leek meet his goal—even if it meant that she abandon hers. In this resolution, Morel discovered newfound strength. She realized she must harden herself further still, to the strength of steel itself. In her warrior’s tongue, she spoke grim words.
“You must not weep, for we cannot spare the water.”
Leek slowly raised his eyes to stare at his companion. Her will was greater than his own, he knew, and in that, he took small hope. Whenever one feels tired or weak or altogether helpless, it’s nice to know one has a stalwart friend. Without exception, that always makes things at least a trifle better.
“Yes. Yes, of course, you’re right.” He sighed. “I will not weep again, unless it be with joy.”
“See that you don’t,” said Morel, avoiding his gaze. “Our enemies do not cry, and we must become as hard as they or more so.”
With that, Leek rose, and the pair crept on, two dusty specks on an endless plain of darkness. The faint path soon wound its way uphill, adding effort to their toil, and as the moon slid behind some wayward patch of cloud, Morel peered forward, into the distance, and swore beneath her breath.
“A storm approaches, it would seem,” she whispered. “See how the blackness grows darker up ahead.”
Leek raised his eyes to look, straining through the murk, and a cold wind blew hard against him, smiting what spirit remained.
“Yet even in this wind,” he whispered, “the dark cloud does not move.”
The cloud bank parted briefly, revealing the moon in pale and sudden brilliance, and in doing so, revealed what lay before them, stretching to the sky. There upon a crooked mountain sat a sprawling compound, evil beyond measure. This was the fortress of the cats, and it had no name but doom. This was the seat of all bad luck’s grim power, a power so great within the world of Hat that it seeps into our own. Here at night, when humans fall asleep, their black cats come to plot dark new twists of fate. Here they conspire and compare wicked notes and laugh at all that is good. Here, with iron chalices, they toast to chaos, to sadness and despair. And here they curse the rabbits and all who would stand with them. Here no hope may rise. There rose only one great tower, so tall as to nearly kiss the moon itself. This, Leek knew, was the one great goal he sought. For within, it was said, he might find some means of reunion with his boy.
Leek looked up at the castle and sighed at the challenge ahead. This was the home of the Dimmer-Dammers, and against those sinister engines, steaming with hate for his kind, what chance had two small rabbits—and one unarmed at that? Leek wished he had some weapon, some token of defense, but wishes are not granted on the mountain of ill luck. Unless, thought Leek with a grimace, one wishes for defeat.
“This does seem a frightfully intimidating prospect,” he said, and sighed, “yet of course I’ve still got to try. But Morel, I think it best you now turn tail and hop back home. Here there’s just no hope, even for mighty warriors like you wielding great swords and spears. You should really go back to Komatsuna, much as I hate to say it. I’d feel just terrible if you were hurt. Please go back while I press forward alone.”
Morel turned to stare at Leek, her sole companion in this forsaken land, and laughed.
“Return? Return to what? To tears? To heartache? To the bitter taste of neeps? Nay, Leek, you will not see me off this day. For never has a rabbit come so far along the hopeless road, against all odds, to behold at last its end. Together we shall walk, as we long have done, and together, we shall storm the palace gates. I too sense the danger. It is clear enough to see. Yet even should we fail, I am certain glory awaits.”
“Small consolation, but consolation nonetheless, I suppose,” said Leek, who had never won an argument with Morel—even when he was
pretty sure he was right. “But I’ll take it. All right, glory it is. And we will seek it together, until our last remaining breath. Proceed.”
But Morel had already proceeded, as was her way, and Leek hopped very quickly to catch up with her, even as she made for the shadow ahead.
The path rose steep and high, and as the pair crept slowly toward its zenith, the rock converged on either side. Soon, they could no longer walk abreast, and Morel stepped quickly to the lead, her spear held ever at the ready.
“Strange,” whispered Morel, “that the path should go unguarded. The cats are far too lax in their defense.”
Leek smiled. “Well, they haven’t much to fear in one small rabbit and his guide.”
Morel scanned the ramparts looming ahead, in search of feline sentries, but there were none to see. The quiet that enveloped them was absolute, and Morel awaited with dread the hiss or cry that must surely break it—and summon the cats to arms. But no call came, shrill and piercing in the night, as the companions marched on to whatever lay ahead.
Then, as one, the rabbits beheld the very last thing they had ever expected to behold.
It was a turnip.
There, where even thorn and vine had never thought to grow, was a turnip, just sitting in the dirt. What’s more, it was a specimen of the very highest quality, a fact Morel’s sad stomach hastened to confirm.
“A turnip!” she gasped. “Here beyond the reach of hope, far from the world that has a sun, luck has provided, in defiance of the cats! With this turnip, this gift of the ancient fates, we will fortify ourselves for battle! And with the strength that it provides, we will scale the castle walls! None shall stand against us!”
With that, Morel rushed forward. But Leek paused, uncertain, and sniffed at the turnip ahead, which just didn’t smell quite right. It had been some time since he had smelled one, and yet in his long, strange travels, Leek had learned a thing or two. What’s more, he’d learned the hard way.
