Braver

by Suzanne Selfors

  “Why would he rent his boat to a night monster?” Rupert asked.

  “Greed, pure and simple,” Captain Jeb said. “If it’s true, if Sam’s taken gold from a Tassie devil, he’ll get kicked out of the Platy Union, mark my words.”

  Rupert smacked his paw on the table. “If history tells us one thing, it’s that no good ever came from associating with those red-eared carnivores. They only care about themselves, and they’ll betray you in an instant if they believe they’ll get away with it. There’s no honor to be found amid those mammal-eaters.”

  Everyone suddenly looked at Lola. She knew what they were thinking. “She isn’t going to eat the wombats,” she insisted. “She said she was going to sell them.”

  Captain Jeb snorted. “How can ya be sure? Everyone knows that wombat is a Tassie devil’s favorite food and always has been.”

  “Jeb!” Josie scolded.

  “What? She might as well face the truth. The chances of her seeing her family again are—”

  Josie whacked Captain Jeb on his head with her unused spoon. The gesture got his attention. He stopped talking and rubbed his head. Josie reached across the table to pat Lola’s paw. “There, there, my dear. Don’t listen to that cranky old platypus. Queen Myra is the dearest queen we’ve ever had. She’d never let anything happen to the wombats. Never. She knows that we critters of the Northern Forest are her most loyal and always have been. She’ll make this right. I know she will.” Her husband said nothing, prompting her to elbow him. “Everything will be fine, won’t it, Rupert?”

  “I’m loyal to our dear queen, don’t get me wrong.” He shrugged. “But if those monsters start leaving the mountain, what can she do?” Josie huffed, but seemed to agree, and didn’t reach for the spoon again.

  The knot in Lola’s stomach tightened. “I can’t just sit here.” She pushed her chair back.

  “Hold on,” Captain Jeb said, lifting his bill from the bowl at last. “Where ya goin’?”

  “I’ll walk to Dore if I have to. My uncle is the ambassador to the Northern Forest. He’ll help the wombats. I know he will.”

  “Ambassador? You mean old Tobias Bottom?” Rupert asked.

  “Yes,” Lola said. “Do you know him?”

  Rupert leaned back in his chair and smiled fondly at some distant memory. “It’s been ages since I saw him. He visited here when he was setting out to seek his fortune. He was a chatty one. You remind me of him—quite a bit, actually.”

  Josie poured another round of sun tea, her snout scrunched in a fretful way. “I don’t like the idea of you going off on your own. You’re younger than my grandpuggles.”

  “I don’t know what else to do,” Lola said. “I’ve got to find my uncle.”

  “It might not be such a bad idea,” Captain Jeb said as he dropped three sugar cubes into his teacup. “Maybe someone high up in the government can fix this mess. If Tassie devils have come to hunt wombats, then who might they hunt next? Besides, Lola seems mighty determined to continue on.”

  “Yes, I am mighty determined,” Lola confirmed.

  “That being the case…” Rupert slipped out of his chair and walked over to the stairway, climbed up, and disappeared. The sounds of shifting furniture could be heard scraping across the floor above. And Rupert’s muffled voice: “Where is it? Where is it? Aha, found it.” Then the footfalls began to patter around once more, until Rupert reappeared from the stairway with a roll of paper in his paw. “I hope this will serve you for the journey ahead.” Pushing aside the bowls and cups, he unfurled the paper, revealing a large, timeworn map. Spying a nasty little mite eating away at the paper, Rupert quickly snaked his tongue out and got rid of the problem.

  Lola jumped out of her chair, hurried around the table, and carefully leaned over Rupert’s spiky shoulder so she could get a better look.

  “Here’s the southern fork of Fairwater River,” Rupert explained. “That’s where the night monster was taking your wombats. But she can only take them this far, right here where the river meets up with the Royal Road.”

  “What’s the Royal Road?” Lola asked.

  “It’s the road that leads to Dore. But before it reaches Dore, the road passes through the Mouse Farmlands and the town of Bounty. Someone there might have seen the wombats and might know where they are. But if not, this is the road that will lead you to your uncle.” His finger traced over the map. “Now, to get to the Royal Road you follow the old path along the river.”

  “How long will that take?” Lola asked.

  Rupert’s tongue darted out to catch a wayward worm just as it was about to make its escape over the edge of the table. But Josie was faster, smirking shyly at him as she chewed. “It depends,” Rupert said.“How fast do you walk?”

  “Wombats can run,” Lola said. “Faster than most critters.”

  “Then it shouldn’t take you more than a week.”

  “A week?” Lola asked with alarm. Her gaze traveled over the map. “Can’t I take a shortcut?” She pointed. “Across this section?”

  Captain Jeb and Rupert exchanged a concerned look. “That’s swamp,” Jeb said. “It’s full of bities.”

  “But it’s shorter, right?” Lola asked.

  “Yes,” Rupert said. “Should take you two days at the most. But those bities are nasty.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” Josie mumbled. “I hate bities.”

  Lola hated them, too. But wombat fur was a natural defense against the annoying little bugs, and she knew to coat her nose and ears with mud. “I’m going,” she announced.

  Rupert rolled the map and handed it to her. Lola winced as she accidentally brushed against his spikes. She carefully tucked the map into her pack. Then she glanced out one of the broken windows. There was still half a day of sunlight left. “Thank you for the map and the ferry ride. I think I should be going now.” The three grouped around her to say their goodbyes. “When I get to Dore, I’ll tell my uncle about your burnt shed and broken windows. I’m sure he’ll help.”

  Josie’s eyes filled with tears again. “You listen to me, my dear. If you get scared, don’t hesitate to come back.” She hugged Lola, acting as if one of her own was leaving the nest. The hug prickled something fierce, but Lola held her breath until Josie let go. Then Josie tucked some bags of peppermint tea into the backpack, along with two oatmeal acorn biscuits and a small tin of worms, which Lola politely accepted.

  They walked her to the start of the shortcut. “Safe journey to you, and give Tobias our best,” Rupert said. He and Josie stood side by side, smiling sadly, as if they’d never see her again.

  “May the wind be at yer back,” Captain Jeb said, waving his captain’s hat. “And beware the bities!”

  The three continued to wave goodbye as Lola started down the path, her backpack a bit heavier, and her heart as well.

  7

  SWAMP SOUP

  A few hours into her trek, the ground grew increasingly wet. Lola’s paws left little furrows that slowly filled in behind her. At first the small pools of fetid water were easily avoided, but soon the majority of the ground was covered in thick muck, with large ponds disguised by floating green plant growth. Long tendrils of moss hung from the trees. It was a peaceful and quiet landscape, which would appeal to most wombats. But dampness was seeping through Lola’s fur and she shivered. She wondered if her parents had ever been to this place. If she found them, she’d tell them all about it.

  When she found them, she corrected herself.

  There was no time for doubts. No time to get scared and sad. So with a determined jut of her furry chin, she paused and unrolled the map. Careful to keep the paper dry, she checked the route. Unfortunately, no lines had been drawn to indicate a way through the swamp. She climbed onto a log, stood on tiptoe, and searched for a trail. The slimy landscape lay before her, green and watery, with no signs or arrows to point the way. According to the map’s compass, she needed to head southeast, which meant that she needed to keep the setting sun on her right and slight
ly behind. She’d learned about using the sun during her daytime sneaks out of the burrow.

  At first Lola tried to avoid swimming through the stinky water, and ended up having to backtrack several times to find ways around. But as dry land disappeared, she found herself waist-deep in the swamp. Balancing her pack on her head, she walked, her claws feeling along the bottom for sharp rocks. She hoped she wouldn’t step on anything that might sting or pinch. Was that a fish that brushed past her leg? She shuddered.

  That’s when the bities appeared. Little black insects, humming eagerly as they caught the scent of a warm-blooded critter. Lola scooped some mud with her claws and rubbed it onto her nose and ears, but not before a squadron of the little demons had bitten her. Her nose felt itchy and bumpy, but the mud soon soothed it and her coarse fur protected the rest of her. The bities were still annoying little things. “Go away,” she grumbled. “Go bother someone else.” But who else was there to bother? She hadn’t seen a single rat since leaving Fairwater, and this was their home. Were all of them helping the gold-toothed devil? Swamp water rats and wombats had never been enemies, but after what they’d done to her family, she wanted to stay as far away from them as possible. She thought about reciting a story to break up the silence, but she didn’t want to attract attention. If there was one Tassie devil on the loose, there might be others. With that thought, the swamp began to seem eerie—like the moss tendrils were waiting to grab her. She squeaked in sudden fear.

  The sun was Lola’s best indicator of direction, but it was almost setting. While she was well suited for moving about at night, she needed the sun to guide her from the swamp, so she decided to find somewhere to rest. But there’d be no burrowing in this landscape. She didn’t want to sleep in the muck and she certainly couldn’t sleep in the water. She needed to find a dry spot, perhaps in a hollowed tree trunk. And she needed to eat. The bug-eaten and egg-laden swamp grasses didn’t look appetizing. Fortunately, she had water-ribbon roots and Josie’s biscuits to feast upon for supper.

  As she began her search for dry land, a faint orange glow caught her attention. She sniffed. Notes of fire rose above the tangy scent of swamp. There were voices, too.

  A dry patch of ground appeared up ahead. Lola took care not to make any squelches or other noises as she stepped out of the water. Rather than shake her fur dry, she resigned herself to shivering. The smoke was near. She peeked out from around the trunk of an ancient, gnarled tree. And there, in the middle of a clearing, she saw it.

  Real, living fire.

  It was her first sight of what she’d long heard about. The flames danced inside a ring of stones and sang a strange, crackling song. As fear tightened her stomach, Lola told herself that fire shouldn’t be a danger in a place as wet as this. Any flame that tried to travel would quickly be extinguished. She stared at the reddish-orange light, her gaze sinking into its depths. The effect was mesmerizing. She might have stood like that forever had a voice not woken her from the trance.

  “Hurry up. I’m starving!”

  Three swamp water rats sat around the campfire. The first rat was large with a broad chest and thick arms. He was also missing an ear. The second rat was shorter but equally muscular. And the third rat was small and lanky, seemingly younger than his companions. While the larger rats had a green tinge to their gray fur and were covered in dried bits of swamp slime, the leaner rat had perfectly combed gray fur and was slime-free.

  They sat on fallen branches. Three buckets were stowed behind them and three shovels leaned against a tree. One of the buckets was wrapped in bright-red cloth that included patchwork pockets on the outside. Each rat held a wombat-carved bowl on his lap. Unlike the others, the smaller rat had a white napkin tied around his neck.

  “I hate soup,” the shorter rat said. “Nothing proper about cooking something in water, even if it’s swamp water.” He sniffed at steam that rose from a cauldron hanging over the fire. He turned his snout up in disgust. “It doesn’t even smell that bad. What kind of decent food doesn’t smell bad, Bob?”

  “Stop complaining and eat your supper,” Bob, the larger rat, said. Then he pointed to the skinny rat. “You don’t hear Melvin complaining, do you?”

  “Of course Melvin’s not complaining. He’s the one who cooked it.”

  “I think it’s delightful,” Melvin said. He ladled some soup into his bowl. Then, after blowing on the soup to cool it, he tipped his bowl to his mouth and took a delicate sip. Then he coughed. “The roots and greens give it a crisp flavor, with notes of, um, licorice.”

  “Crisp flavor? Notes of licorice?” The shorter rat frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Melvin dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “There’s nothing the matter with me, Stanley, just because I like trying new things. Even if they don’t turn out as well as I hoped.” He mumbled the last sentence to himself, but continued to eat the soup.

  Stanley glared at him. “Well, Melvin, if you hadn’t taken so long making the soup, we’d be halfway to Dore by now. I don’t want to eat this. Where’s the rotten bits? Where’s the greasy film? The unrecognizable floaties?”

  “I’ve got an idea.” Bob reached into his bucket and pulled out a small, green lump. “Been saving this piece of moldy cheese for a special occasion.” He tossed it into the cauldron. He stirred, then ladled soup into Stanley’s bowl. “That better?”

  Stanley took a sip. “Not bad. But it would be better with a petrified spud or two.”

  “That goes without saying,” Bob said.

  Melvin rolled his eyes.

  Swamp water rats sure liked to eat horrid things. Lola wondered what she should do. Should she talk to them? Or were they up to no good, just like the rats who’d helped take her family and neighbors? Bob ladled soup into his bowl. “Things are going to change for us, Stanley. No more scrounging. No more scavenging. The queen promised us our fill. Mountains and mountains of slimy garbage, the kind that feels like it’s trying to crawl back up your throat. All we have to do is to join the Royal Guard.”

  “Glory to Queen Myra, may her reign be long.” Stanley smiled, revealing his yellow teeth. “And may our feasts be ever rotten.”

  “May our feasts be ever rotten,” Bob repeated. The two rats raised their bowls, knocking the wood together with a loud crack. Soup flew through the air, spilling all around. Bob and Stanley didn’t seem to mind, but Melvin scooted down the branch, narrowly avoiding the downpour.

  Lola leaned against the trunk, still unsure what to do. She had questions. But she still didn’t know if these critters were friend or foe. She leaned a bit farther, trying to take in more of the scene. There were no signs of any Tassie devils. Perhaps these were nice rats after all. Maybe she could join them for supper. Maybe they could show her the best way to the Royal Road.

  Bob spoke next. “Think of it, mates. Dore! A place rats like us could only dream of.”

  “It’s a dream that’s coming true,” Stanley said. “With all the critters who live in Dore, there will be garbage heaps as high as the sky.”

  “Personally, I’m looking forward to the bakeries,” Melvin said. “Dore is renowned for its winter wheat loaves. Fresh out of the oven, warm and buttery.” He looked sheepishly at his companions, who stared at him, mouths agape. “I’m sure they taste great when they get moldy.”

  Bob snorted. “I’m beginning to think your brain is moldy, Melvin.” He and Stanley laughed. Then he raised his bowl. “We’d best eat and get to bed so we can get an early start come morning. Bog in, blokes.”

  As they ate, Lola’s legs began to cramp and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand still. Her stomach ached, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten much that day. Darkness had fallen over the swamp and a chorus of frogs began an evening lullaby. The temperature had also fallen. Lola shivered again. At least the little bities had gone to bed.

  She couldn’t stand there forever. She needed to make a decision.

  But as Bob stopped slurping, Lola’s decision was mad
e for her. “Do you smell that?” he asked. He stuck his snout up in the air and took a few deep sniffs. Stanley and Melvin sniffed as well.

  Then they turned toward Lola’s tree.

  8

  ALL ABOUT MUD

  Stanley dropped his soup bowl and grabbed his shovel. “Who’s there?” he demanded, holding the shovel in both hands, ready to swing. “Show yourself!”

  “Oh, hooly dooly.” Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Lola stepped into view. Stanley’s arms relaxed.

  “You’re a joey,” he said with surprise. “Why were you spying on us?”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t spying, exactly…” She held tight to her backpack. “My name’s Lola. Lola Budge. I’m looking for a place to sleep.” She could feel the fire’s warmth on her cheeks, so she took a step back. What if those flames leapt free, pranced across the ground, and nibbled on her feet?

  “What are you doing in the swamp?” Bob asked.

  “I’m trying to find my family.”

  “Here?” Bob scratched the spot on his head where his ear had once been. “Wombats never pop around these parts.”

  “No one ever pops around these parts,” Stanley added. “Why would your family be here?”

  It was the story she hated to tell, for each time she told it, she relived those terrifying moments—especially the last view of her mother and father. Her shoulders sank, her ears drooped, and she scratched at the itchy bites. “A—a Tassie devil and some rats took everyone from the burrows. Everyone but me, because I was down at the stream talking to a platypus. He had a message for me and after he gave it to me, I heard a snarling sound and—”

  “I thought wombats were quiet,” Stanley grumbled, wriggling his claw inside his ear.

  “This one’s a real yabberer,” Bob said.

  “You asked me a question and I’m answering it,” Lola retorted, slightly annoyed.

  “Guess I did,” Bob said with a snort, sitting back down. “Go on.”