The Trophy of Champions

by Cameron Stelzer

  ‘It would be better if the Cat Fish were out of the running for the bonus point,’ Pete muttered. ‘They’re cunning – and we’re yet to come up with a plan.’

  Whisker sighed. ‘Believe me. I’m working on it…’

  Bullseye!

  The third event of the Centenary Games was the much-loved Cannon Firing contest. Mid-morning, six teams and their supporters assembled at the firing range to the south of the Death Ball arena. It was a dreary, overcast day and many of the well-to-do spectators carried large umbrellas in anticipation of a passing autumn shower or two.

  Six large circular targets were lined up in a straight row at the far end of the flat plain. Each target was marked with a red bullseye and a white outer ring. Six iron cannons were positioned at the closest end, surrounded by representatives from each team. A crowd of spectators watched from either side of the range. Much to Whisker’s disappointment, no fox was among them.

  In accordance with Baron Gustave’s instructions, each team was required to shoot five projectiles of their choosing. Two nominated team members took turns shooting the first four shots, with the final shot being fired by either member. Shots that touched the bullseye scored two Cannon Firing points. Shots that hit the outer ring scored one point. If two or more teams were tied in first place at the end of five rounds, a shoot-off would be used to determine the winner. The winning team received one championship point.

  Horace and Pete had been selected to represent the Pie Rats and stood in readiness with a pile of Whisker’s finned pies. As the inventor of the three-finned projectile, Whisker acted as an assistant coach, while Granny Rat watched from the safety of the sidelines.

  ‘Ridiculously ridiculous!’ Horace exclaimed as Prince Marcabio inserted a gold-plated Death Ball into his cannon. ‘It’s supposed to be a shooting competition – not a flying art show.’

  ‘And you don’t think our pie projectiles look a tad abstract?’ Pete muttered.

  ‘They’re an engineering masterpiece,’ Horace exclaimed, tapping a pastry fin with his hook. ‘Cooked to piefection! They’re faster than the cats’ flaming fur-balls, more accurate than the toads’ poison blobs and far less temperamental than the Sea Dog’s biscuit bones.’

  ‘I admit we have the aerodynamic edge,’ Pete said cautiously, ‘but the wind will still be a determining factor. It appears to be blowing from several directions at once.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Horace said, inserting the first pie into the cannon. ‘Bullseye, here I come.’

  ‘Let the first round begin,’ Gustave shouted from the sidelines. ‘FIRE WHEN READY!’

  Horace made his final adjustments and lit the fuse. A moment later, the cannon roared to life with an enormous KABOOM!

  The pie rocketed into the air, veering hard to the left. It continued its wayward journey across the field before crashing ungraciously into the grass beside the Sea Dogs’ target.

  ‘Nice shootin’, pie-brain!’ Bartholomew Brawl howled. ‘Hit our target next time and we’ll claim your points.’

  Pete gave Horace a firm prod with his pencil. ‘What the flaming rat’s tail just happened? That was the worst shot I’ve ever seen. Even the penguins hit something with their melting ice cubes.’

  ‘H-how could that happen …’ Horace gabbled, staring into the distance. ‘I did everything right, honestly. It’s not like a fin fell off or anything …’

  At the end of the field, the penguins, toads and marmosets had clipped the edges of their targets to claim one point each, while the Sea Dogs and Cat Fish had both hit bullseyes. Whisker had his doubts about the accuracy of the cats’ shot. With their entire target on fire it was impossible to prove exactly where their flaming fur ball had landed.

  ‘I wish it would pour,’ Horace sulked, watching the misty patches of drizzle blow across the field. ‘Or better still, I wish it would hail. That would put a damper on the cats’ flaming start.’

  ‘You still need to hit something,’ Pete said, preparing his first shot. ‘All the storms in the world won’t steal you a victory.’

  Minutes later, Pete’s first shot hit the bullseye.

  ‘That’s how it’s done,’ he gloated, tapping the base of the cannon with his pencil. ‘Go easy on the blast and you’ll get a straighter launch.’

  ‘Alright, Professor Perfect,’ Horace said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll cut back on the gunpowder next time.’

  The Pie Rats watched anxiously as the other teams completed their second-round shots. The toads and penguins missed their targets altogether and the Sea Dogs’ flying biscuit bone disintegrated in the air. The marmosets and Cat Fish managed to hit bullseyes, moving them to three and four points respectively.

  ‘Oh swell,’ Horace muttered, fumbling with a pie. ‘What are the cats’ chances of missing the next three shots?’

  Whisker took a look through his spyglass. ‘The targets appear awfully soggy from all this drizzle,’ he said. ‘It might put an end to their easy run.’

  ‘Three perfect shots and we’re still in the hunt,’ Horace said, managing a small grin. ‘Okay, wish me luck.’

  Horace’s second shot was neither lucky nor was it accurate. From the moment the pie left the cannon, there was no doubt where it was headed. It curved in a wide, wayward arc and landed at the foot of a gum tree.

  ‘Rotten pies to rotten pies!’ Horace exclaimed, tearing out his fur with his hook. ‘I can’t catch a break. If the blasted thing isn’t pulling left, it’s pulling right.’

  Pete wiped the droplets of water from his nose and flicked them at Horace. ‘You’re as inaccurate as you are incompetent –’

  ‘Ahem,’ Whisker said, interrupting Pete mid-insult. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is the Cat Fish didn’t hit a flaming bullseye. The bad news is they did score a steaming one-pointer. They’re on five points, the same as the marmosets, who managed to pull off another perfect shot.’

  ‘And we’re on two lousy points with two shots remaining.’ Pete added, scratching numbers in the dirt with his pencil leg. ‘You don’t need to be a mathematician to know there’s very little chance we can win from here.’

  Horace pulled his purple hat over his face to hide his disappointment. ‘Granny Rat is going to skin us alive …’

  As the fourth round commenced, the wind increased in intensity, driving the drizzle away. Pete made several last minute adjustments to the cannon and took his shot.

  The pie hit the target, dead centre.

  It was a stark contrast to the other performances of the round. The marmosets and the Cat Fish barely registered a point to remain tied in first place. The toads and penguins both missed their targets and the Sea Dogs’ biscuit bone exploded as it left the cannon, showering the crowd with brown crumbs. Furious at wasting yet another shot, Bartholomew Brawl began howling insults at his crew.

  ‘Which one of you slobberin’ sausage dogs drooled on our ammunition?’ he barked, holding up a corner of a blue tarpaulin. ‘Every last biscuit bone is soaked through – even under this waterproof tarp. It’s no wonder they’re crumblin’ like cupcakes.’ He looked suspiciously at Biscuit and The Kid, hiding behind the cannon.

  ‘It wasn’t me, boss,’ Biscuit yapped. ‘The humidity did it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ The Kid agreed, poking his head out. ‘Wot he said.’

  Brawl punched his paws together. ‘Is that so? Humidity, did you say? Well, if I lay eyes on this Humidity fellow, he’s history!’

  Pete screwed up his nose and snorted, ‘Humidity and Horace. The two biggest excuses of the day.’

  Spitefully, he pushed past Horace to get to the last remaining pie. With a grunt, he raised the heavy object off the ground and inserted it into the cannon.

  ‘At least I can end this with some dignity,’ he muttered. ‘A bullseye is enough to clinch a shoot-off for first place – presuming the marmosets and Cat Fish both miss their targets …’

  The sun appeared from behind a cloud, illuminating the six targets at the end of
the field. Prince Marcabio struck a match and looked across at Master Meow. The cocky First Mate of the Cat Fish gave the young marmoset a confident grin and purred, ‘May the best cat win.’

  Baron Gustave gave the order and six cannons exploded in unison.

  To anyone watching, the final round was quite a spectacle. The toads’ poison blob stuck to the sides of the cannon and went nowhere. The penguins’ ice cube melted in the sunshine before it reached its target. The Sea Dogs’ biscuit bone made it halfway down the field before breaking into pieces. The gold plating of the marmosets’ Death Ball tore in mid-air and trailed behind it like the tail of a comet. Losing altitude, the ball crashed to the ground at the foot of the target.

  The worst shot of the day was reserved for Pete. His pie flew sideways across the field and disappeared over the trees, in the direction of the western ocean.

  The enraged quartermaster stamped his pencil in frustration. ‘I never shoot like that,’ he roared. ‘And I mean never!’

  The only competitors that managed to hit anything were the Cat Fish. Their flaming fur ball soared effortlessly through the air, colliding with the sunlit target in a spectacular display of sparks and smoke. In moments, the entire target was ablaze.

  Baron Gustave checked the final score with the game’s three adjudicators and made his official announcement: ‘Ze Cat Fish maintain zeir unbeaten vecord at zese games vith another vin,’ he said. ‘At zis rate ve vill have our tournament champions by day five.’

  The crowd cheered and chanted, the Cat Fish blew kisses to each other, and several Sea Dog supporters threw their blue and white jerseys at the flaming target in disgust.

  Pete stuck his head into the barrel of the cannon.

  ‘Don’t you dare say anything,’ he sniffled as Whisker and Horace crowded around him. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Err, is something wrong with the cannon?’ Horace asked, unable to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘No!’ Pete snapped, pulling his ash-covered nose from the barrel. ‘But something is definitely wrong.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I’ve got a theory – a rather disturbing theory. I can’t prove it yet but I believe our precious pies are not what they seem.’

  Standing on the edge of the deserted field, the three rats examined the splattered remains of a fruit salad pie.

  ‘Look carefully,’ Pete said, brushing aside a piece of crumbling pastry with the tip of his pencil. ‘There! Between the rotten apple and the mouldy mango. What can you see?’

  ‘A squashed plum,’ Horace replied.

  ‘No!’ Whisker exclaimed. ‘A weight – a circular measuring weight.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Pete agreed.

  ‘Since when did Fred start using measuring weights?’ Horace asked with a puzzled shrug. ‘He’s more of a make-it-up-as-you-go kind of chef.’

  Pete stamped his pencil leg in exasperation. ‘He didn’t, you overcooked omelette! And this is no kitchen accident. It is my hypothesis that this weight and three others like it were inserted into the bottom of three separate pies to shift the centre of gravity. The resulting destabilisation threw the pies off course – it’s basic physics.’

  ‘Basic sabotage more like it,’ Horace gasped. ‘I’m not quite up to speed with the science lingo, but it sounds like someone’s added some deadweight to our perfectly aligned projectiles.’

  ‘I noticed some extra weight when I picked up the last pie,’ Pete explained. ‘At the time it seemed inconsequential, but now it makes perfect sense.’

  ‘So every second pie was sabotaged,’ Whisker surmised. ‘Horace fired the first two – which were all the same weight – and you fired the last one.’

  ‘Correct,’ Pete said.

  ‘Can I have my apology now?’ Horace asked.

  ‘For what?’ Pete snorted. ‘There’s still no proof you would have actually hit anything.’

  ‘Fine,’ Horace mumbled, ‘I’ll get my apology from the culprit – whoever they are.’ He trudged sulkily down the field. ‘Come on, Whisker. All we need are a few more clues.’

  Nearing the line of targets, Whisker caught sight of a gold plated Death Ball lying on the ground. He picked it up and studied it closely. A thin layer of gold had torn off during the flight and a perfectly straight line separated the gold plating from the section that had come adrift.

  ‘Anything of interest?’ Pete asked, clomping up behind him.

  ‘Further evidence of foul play,’ Whisker replied. ‘This line is far too precise to be the result of a cannon explosion. It appears to have been pre-cut.’

  Pete nodded. ‘So we weren’t the only ones targeted. I’d bet a packet of soggy biscuits that someone tipped a bucket of water over the Sea Dog’s biscuit bones as well.’

  ‘Last night,’ Whisker gasped. ‘It had to be last night. The dogs and marmosets were out raiding the Velvet Wave and we were stuck up a tree.’

  ‘You might be onto something there,’ Pete said in agreement. ‘It’s a pity our Chief of Security was frolicking in the tavern with Granny instead of watching the tents.’

  ‘Can we demand a rematch?’ Whisker said. ‘Or call for an enquiry?’

  Pete sighed. ‘That’s not how it works, Whisker. This is the Pirate Cup, not the Honesty Games. Once the organiser declares a winner, there’s no going back. It stands to reason that Sabre and his conniving cats are behind this. But even if we had the evidence to prove their guilt, the result would stay the same.’

  ‘There is one thing we can do,’ Horace said, walking over to them with a second weight in his paw. ‘Gossip spreads like an out-of-control bushfire in the Champions Tavern and I’m sure Bartholomew Brawl and King Marvownion would love to hear what Sabre’s been up to.’

  Belly flops and Bomb Dives

  By the morning of Day Four, the entire athlete’s village knew about the deception at the firing range. The no-fighting policy stopped at least one heated discussion between the dogs and the cats from turning into an all-in brawl, and there were rumours the marmosets were saving their revenge for the Death Ball arena.

  Not everyone seemed to have a problem with the cats’ actions, and a large number of disgruntled Sea Dog supporters began wearing Cat Fish jerseys in the hope their new favourite team could cheat their way to Pirate Cup glory.

  The schedule for Day Four included two pool matches of Death Ball. At the announcement of the first game between the Cane Toads and the Sea Dogs, the Pie Rats learnt two important things: one, their next opponents would be the toads, and, two, they wouldn’t be competing that day. Granny Rat’s orders were to study the Cane Toads closely in anticipation of their final pool game.

  The toads used a similar strategy to the Pie Rats to keep the ball out of the dogs’ mouths. But instead of hot chillies, they smeared the ball with the milky-white poison from the glands on their backs. They also sprayed poison into the mouths and eyes of the dogs whenever they were tackled. It was no surprise that the tournament’s medics worked overtime to stop the Sea Dogs from going into cardiac arrest.

  The Pie Rats’ surveillance was temporarily distracted when six purple penguins waddled into the grandstand after their failed half-time raid on the Velvet Wave.

  ‘… At least we made it aboard,’ one of them squawked. ‘That torpedo idea worked a treat – SPLASH! Straight out of the water and onto the deck.’

  ‘It’s a pity they were waiting for us,’ groaned another. ‘I copped a paintball to the head and four to the chest before I could surrender. My head’s still spinning, and I swear I’ll be purple for weeks …’

  The rest of the game was a scrappy contest which the toads won four-three, setting up a do-or-die clash with the Pie Rats for a grand final berth.

  After the match, Whisker was instructed to return to the supply tent to search for information on cane toads. He found a sunny spot in the corner of the tent and removed the Book of Knowledge from Pete’s impenetrable iron chest – a self-locking stronghold housing Pete’s rarest collection of books. Whisker had only
just sat down on a stump with Anso’s book in his paws when Horace entered the tent with Athena.

  ‘I come bearing help,’ Horace said, leading his sister over to Whisker. ‘Athena’s a speed reader and, considering our book is written in sun-reactive ink – and contains no index – she’s our best chance of finding what we’re after.’

  ‘Okay,’ Whisker said, giving Athena a grateful smile. ‘Pull up a seat in the sun.’

  Athena wasted no time in snuggling down next to him.

  ‘Who needs a seat?’ she giggled. ‘There’s plenty of room on this stump for both of us.’

  Whisker felt his cheeks flush a bright shade of pink.

  ‘Here’s an idea,’ Horace said, before Whisker could wiggle his way out of trouble. ‘Athena searches the right page, Whisker examines the left and I go and get us all a tasty treat from the tavern.’

  ‘Deal,’ Athena said. ‘Bring me back a garden salad, – and don’t forget one of those souvenir placemats they’re giving away this week. I’m collecting the whole set.’

  ‘Sure, sis,’ Horace groaned. ‘That will be three tasteless salads and three tacky red placemats …’

  ‘Isn’t this cosy, Whisker,’ Athena declared as soon as Horace was gone. ‘We could start our very own book club – just you and me.’

  ‘Pete loves books, too,’ Whisker said hastily. ‘I’m sure he’d love to join. Why don’t you ask him?’

  Athena pretended not to hear him and lowered her golden spectacles to the end of her nose.

  ‘Gracious,’ she said, peering down at the sun-drenched book, ‘the writing is ever so small.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Whisker agreed. ‘I go cross-eyed after looking at one page. You’re lucky you’ve got reading glasses.’

  ‘These?’ Athena laughed, removing the stylish frames from her nose. ‘They don’t help a bit. Look, the lenses are clear.’ She held them up in front of him. ‘I only wear them so people appreciate me for my brains as well as my beauty. You can try them on if you like. I’ve got dozens of pairs.’