The crowd ran out after him. They watched him soar high over the town, high above the tallest steeples and across Lake Superb. They saw him disappear into the forest on the other side. The King stood there and vowed to all gathered around him that he would track Gawain down and see that he got what was coming to him.
The real thief, the one who should have been on trial, had been sitting in the courtroom watching the proceedings with much emotion. He was not easily noticed because he was small. Who was he, this thief? A mouse, Derek. He was a friend of Gawain’s, though he seldom saw him, tending to associate more often with creatures his own size. Several times during the trial he had wanted to come forth and announce that he was the thief, not Gawain, but he was afraid. At one point he felt that he was about to stand up and remind them all that the evidence against Gawain was merely circumstantial. But he couldn’t do even that, because it might lead to the confession he wished he had the courage to make.
How did Derek come to be a thief? Well, the treasure house was not so entrance-proof as the King, the architect, the builders, Gawain, the other guards, and everyone else thought. True, the walls were stone a foot thick, and the floor was stone, and the only way in or out was through the heavy, well-locked, well-guarded door. The only way? Not really. Between two stones in a corner of the floor, there was one small, uncemented chink big enough for a small mouse to get through, taking something with him—and Derek discovered it.
One day, exploring an old mole run that started at his own door, he arrived right under the chink between those two stones, and like any mouse confronted with a small opening, he just had to know what was on the other side of it. Coming through, he found himself inside the Royal Treasury. He gasped at what he beheld. King Basil, who’d been there earlier, had forgotten to turn down the lamps, and from all sides the immense treasure of his kingdom glowed and glinted. For a long time Derek just gazed about, overawed with the glittering abundance. He tiptoed here and there and shyly touched a few rubies, delighting in the red richness of their honeyed gleam. Remembering his own digs, his home among the writhing roots of an old oak—the sometimes damp, sometimes crumbly walls, the rickety furniture, the bed he had recently made of a moldy piece of burlap, the smell of stale cheese and prehistoric earth—he was slowly overcome with sickening envy.
And a strange, perhaps not so strange, thing happened. Though he had never in his five and a half long years of life done anything criminal, he decided he had to have a bright red ruby, and he took one down through the chink and back to his home among the oak roots.
For several days he spent much of the time looking at his little apple, the stolen ruby, placing it now here, now there, in his home. He knew he had done something wrong, but he reasoned that a mighty king would never miss a little ruby, and though he felt bad, on the whole he felt rather more good than bad with the ruby in his possession. He soon went back to the treasury and, one at a time, he took a few more rubies. He set these where he felt they showed up to good advantage.
The place was beginning to look a lot better, and he felt somehow more like a mouse of consequence. When he went out briefly into the world, he noted that his friends treated him with more respect, perhaps because he was behaving in a more respect-commanding way.
No longer satisfied with the less than modest existence of an unimportant mouse, he went back for still more rubies, and then for more. He now owned, or at least he had in his house, twenty-nine claret-colored gems that glowed and sparkled warmly by the light of his lamps. He arranged them in various ways. First he tried them as a border around his room, but found they had to be spaced at too great intervals; it was not the effect he wanted. Next he placed them around his bed. The contrast with the burlap was startling. It had an almost humorous aspect that he liked. He wished he could share this with his cousin Jeffrey, but Jeffrey was a blabbermouth. Too bad. He would have to enjoy it by himself.
He next discovered that lying down on his bed he couldn’t see the rubies, and he wanted to be able to enjoy them from the luxury of a reclining position. He got up and scurried about, rearranging them in concentric circles in the middle of his floor. The bright red rubies made a brilliant sort of rug on the dun-colored earth. Later he sat cross-legged on his burlap bed, playing on his tiny zither, enjoying the new décor.
The treasure wasn’t his, he knew it wasn’t his, but there it was on his floor, and it made him feel wealthy. He got up, fashioned himself a cane from a fine oak twig, and went out walking. Everyone he met said he looked very sporting carrying a cane.
That night he dreamed he was the emperor of a realm populated by small creatures like himself—mice, moles, frogs, bats, hummingbirds, and such—with large insects acting as servants. In the morning he went back to the treasury. Now he began taking bright golden ducats. He felt he was taking, not stealing, because it never occurred to him that he had become a criminal. As far as he was concerned, a criminal was a ruffian, a dangerous creature ready to harm others, someone who belonged in prison. And Derek, though he knew he was wrong, knew he was not a ruffian, and dangerous, but only Derek, a mild-mannered, goodhearted mouse.
He was a very busy rodent, plying back and forth through the old mole run carrying the heavy ducats. He was a worker, a collector, a decorator, and, when he rested, a nabob. He decided the ducats would look best on his walls. He built scaffolding and with mighty efforts he raised the ducats and pounded them into the sides of his room, using a sledgehammer covered with cloth to keep from nicking the surface of the coins. He had to do this all by himself, lifting the ducats and holding them in place while he hammered.
The effect was glorious. In the mellow, golden glow all about him, the rubies were here and there mirrored in the ducats, and their own rubescent light was here and there gilded by reflected images of the ducats on the walls. Derek decided to light candles. This was even better than lamp-light because the flickering made the ruby and gold reflections dance ecstatically, as Derek’s heart beat with excitement. How utterly beautiful! If he could only share it with someone.
He picked up his cane, climbed the stairs to the outside, and scampered into town. There he walked up and down the streets pretending to be interested in the contents of shop windows, loitered on corners, saying hello to whoever passed by and knowing that he could not tell anybody what he wanted so much to tell. It had to be a secret.
If it had to be a secret, he might as well get the most out of having one. He sauntered along the boulevard with his cane under his arm and his paws in his pockets, knowing he knew something no one else did. He stopped to talk with a rabbit of his acquaintance, and as they wondered whether it was going to rain or whether the clouds were just threatening and not intending to deliver, he pictured his bejeweled home and smiled inwardly at the rabbit’s ignorance.
Derek ate truffles that night. They were hard to find, but he had taken the trouble to find and dig them up. He had them with a mellow Burgundy three years old. He looked about him, satisfied. A bit of wine wet his whiskers. He wiped it. No, he was not completely satisfied. All the color in his little mansion was on the warm side—red rubies, gold ducats, brown earth, tan burlap, wood—all yellowed by candlelight. He needed some offsetting coolness in the color scheme.
He thought about this all night and in the early morning he returned to the treasure house. He was still mightily impressed with what he saw there, but no longer was he overawed. He himself now lived in a similar luxurious setting. Rummaging about, he found some silver pieces of excellent craftsmanship, including a medallion of gracefully carved lilies that he had once seen pinned to King Basil’s purple robe. He took this down the hole and back to his home, and then he returned for a few more silver ornaments—a couple of rings, a brooch, and an engraved spoon as big as himself.
The silver spoon he leaned casually and artfully against the wall by his dresser. The silver medallion he placed on top of the dresser, to serve as a sort of salver. The brooch he fastened over his door, and he hung the rings o
n the backs of his two chairs. Then he studied the results of his work from various viewpoints and saw that he had done well. But still, something was missing—a center of interest. He hurried back to the treasure house.
There, lifting a velvet covering, he discovered the Kalikak diamond. Its grandeur stunned him. Now that he had seen it, his own home seemed poorer again by contrast. He had to have it, no two ways about it. Tremulous with excitement, breathless, alarmed at his own audacity, yet proud of it, he began moving the large diamond. He pushed it off the table where he had found it. He rolled it along the stone floor, and when it reached the crevice, it dropped through. He rolled it along the mole run and got it into his house.
He didn’t know that it was called the Kalikak diamond and that it was world-famous. He only knew how unspeakably impressive it was, flashing, radiating, almost alive. He knew where to put this awesome gem—where it belonged: on top of his rickety table in the center of the room. He managed to get it up there, and then he lighted all his lamps and candles. The Kalikak diamond not only reflected the yellow light but shot heavenly blue arrows everywhere, and the lights, the reflections, and the inter-reflections created a marvelous atmosphere that completely turned Derek’s small head. His place was a palace and he was mighty proud of it. True, it still smelled of stale cheese and of everlasting earth, and it still had rags in it and rickety furniture, but it was a palace all the same.
Stuffed with cheese, wine, and mushrooms, he lay on his bed of jute that night, tossing, turning, belching, and thinking. Was it an accident that had led him through the mole run and into the treasure house, or was it Fate or some other great power? Was he not destined, being Derek, uniquely himself and no other, to come by this great good fortune? He wondered.
He fell asleep late and when he woke up he felt he had to find a confidant. There must be someone, someone he had not yet thought of, with whom he could share his secret. There must be someone he could discuss his feelings with and show off to. Of course it would have to be someone small who could fit into his home and see what he was talking about.
At noon he hastened into town; and there he learned about Gawain’s trial. They were all talking about it. Everywhere.
He hurried home and flung himself on his bed. It had never really occurred to him that the robberies would be discovered. He had not let himself think about that. Sometimes he had begun to think about it, but he had quickly pushed the thought aside, and his fears with it. As long as he kept the secret, he had felt, it would remain a secret. He realized now how unrealistic that had been.
He began anxiously to consider Gawain’s plight, and his considerations led to the conclusion that the good goose was safe. No one would ever believe that anyone like Gawain had committed a crime. He had everyone’s highest esteem, especially the King’s. Would anyone have believed that he, Derek, had done it? Would he himself have believed it before it happened? But what if Gawain were found guilty? Well, if Gawain were found guilty, he, Derek the mouse, would come forward in court and point to himself as the culprit so that justice should prevail. If Gawain were found innocent, which would surely be the case, Derek decided he would keep his mouth shut.
He looked about him at his own handiwork. The golden walls seemed somewhat tarnished. The rubies had lost some of their luster. He turned and lay with his face in the burlap. He got some comfort from his own warm breath, and from the familiar, musty smell of his bed.
In the three days before the trial, Derek came to realize that he was a thief. And not just a little thief but a thief on a grand scale. And he had stolen from royalty. Why had he not understood this before? He had not allowed himself to understand it. A trial was being held because a crime had been committed, and he had committed the crime.
He looked in his mirror many times. He didn’t look like a criminal. He looked as he always had, only sadder, more worried. Did Gawain the goose look like a criminal? Certainly not! Yet he was being brought to trial; it was considered possible that he was guilty. Derek decided he would confess. He would go straight to the King, make restitution, and take his punishment. Punishment? What punishment? Hanging in the public square? Whipping? Years in a verminous prison on a diet of stale bread and water? Banishment from the kingdom? The loss of the King’s affection?
No, he would not confess. He would confess only if absolutely necessary. Only if Gawain were found guilty. And that wouldn’t happen. These and similar ruminations oppressed Derek’s sleepless nights and weary days until the day of the trial.
At the trial he could hardly believe what was happening. He sat in the corner of a bench alongside the rump of Uriah the pig, clasping his hands together, biting his nails, staring. How could the wise King make such errors of judgment? How could the whole community, Gawain’s friends, turn against him? Even if he were guilty, were they not still his friends? What kind of friendship were they showing? Why didn’t Gawain speak up more, defend himself? Why did he only assert his innocence, instead of arguing his case?
Derek was convinced that if Gawain hadn’t flown out the window, he would finally have come forward and ended the joke, the stupid injustice, by confessing. He had to think that.
He shambled home on weak legs and sat down at his rickety table with his head against the Kalikak diamond. Though thoroughly depressed, he was not unmindful of the sensation of the hard, smooth, cool diamond against his soft, furry brow. He wished he could go back in time to the turning point, the moment inside the treasury when he was smitten with envy of the King’s wealth. If history could be unwound and he were there again, he would consider the consequences and he wouldn’t steal. Instead, he would go straight to the King, report the existence of the crevice between the two stones in the floor so that it could be cemented, and he would be rewarded in some way, even gain a pleasant prominence in the community.
Why had he wanted to be rich, or to feel rich? Was he an unhappy mouse before? Didn’t he see the King himself often looking sad? Was anyone completely happy?
Well, Gawain had escaped; he was not being punished. Derek had at least that to be thankful for. He decided to cheer himself up with some music. He got his zither and sat down to play. A few times he strummed lightly on the strings. His plectrum fell from his fingers. He was overpowered by misery.
Weeks passed. Derek sat in his hole among the oak roots, not eating, not doing anything, staring at the foolish ducats sticking in his walls. Sometimes he lay like a corpse on his burlap bed, and whenever he was unable to abide his own company a second longer, he went into town. His friends said he looked unwell and ought to see a good doctor. He kept hearing that the King’s scouts were searching for Gawain all over the forest on the other side of Lake Superb, where he had disappeared.
At home he began wondering about Gawain again. Wherever he was, was he happy? Derek hadn’t faced this question. Now it was plain that he couldn’t possibly be happy. Would any innocent creature be who had been condemned by society and forced to flee like a criminal? Of course not! He was somewhere all by himself, hurt and in hiding. Derek thought of a scheme to clear the goose’s name. He would go on stealing. Then they would realize that they had been mistaken about Gawain.
In the next few days he went back to the treasury and stole at random—gems, medals, money, whatever—and piled the things up in his home. In town he soon learned that the new thefts had been discovered and that there was no one to blame now because only King Basil had keys. It was a mystery. But at last everyone knew for certain that Gawain was innocent and had suffered a grave injustice. They all went about with their heads hanging in shame. The King was devastated. All he could do was scowl at his Prime Minister, offer a large reward for whoever discovered the real thief, and double the forces combing the woods for Gawain.
Vindicating Gawain was the first good work Derek had done since he’d become a thief. It eased his misery, but only briefly. All he had to do was think of the unhappiness he had caused in the royal household and in all the King’s subjects, and realiz
e that the restoring of Gawain’s reputation was still no help to Gawain himself, and he fell into paralyzing despair.
He had to do something, to accomplish something, to assuage his feelings of guilt. It struck him that he needn’t have done more stealing to establish Gawain’s innocence. He could just as well have put the stuff back. Little by little he began carting the loot from his home to the treasury. It was hard labor, but knowing it was the right thing to do gave him strength.
He began to eat again so he could work better, and working, in turn, made him hungry. In one day he took down the gold ducats and hauled them back to the treasure house. The next day he brought back all the rubies and the Kalikak diamond. The third day he returned the rest.
The news spread quickly through the town. Wherever Derek went, it was being discussed with great wonder and puzzlement, in the tavern, on the streets, everywhere. Derek pretended great interest when the subject was broached to him. He also learned that the King’s scouts had given up searching for Gawain in the forest. They had decided he was not there and they were starting to look farther afield. Perhaps their efforts were useless. Perhaps he had flown to a distant land.
The return of the treasure did not restore anyone’s happiness. After the initial excitement, it hardly seemed to matter. What mattered was what had been done to Gawain, and everyone knew that it had to be righted or no one would ever feel glad to be himself again. Little thought went to finding the thief.
The “thief” sat in his poor den, staring at the indentations the gold ducats had left on his earthen walls. If he were happy now, he could feel at home again in this modest hole. But he was far from happy. Since all the treasure had been returned, perhaps he was no longer a thief. And Gawain’s name had been cleared—but he knew that Gawain was miserable. He knew that King Basil was miserable, that everyone in his realm was miserable, and that he, Derek, was the sole cause of it. Tears blurred his eyes. The pall of gloom that hung over the whole kingdom hung thickest over him.
The Real Thief Page 2
