Before Whisker could protest, Athena tucked the arms of the glasses behind his ears and positioned them on his nose.
‘What a charmer!’ she squealed. ‘You look positively dapper.’ There was a rustle of canvas from the entrance to the tent. Whisker hurriedly tried to remove the glasses from his face.
‘T-that was quick, Horace –’ he stammered. He stopped when he realised the figure in the doorway wasn’t Horace. It was Ruby. She took one look at Whisker and Athena, cuddled up on the stump, grabbed a quiver of arrows and stormed out.
‘What’s her problem?’ Athena said, staring after Ruby. ‘She’s always so uptight.’
‘If you just gave her a chance,’ Whisker began, fighting back a wave of guilt, ‘you’d find she’s really, well …’ Athena gave him a bored yawn and Whisker knew it was pointless to continue. ‘Let’s just focus on these cane toads,’ he sighed, returning the glasses to Athena.
The sun-reactive ink of the blank pages grew clear in the morning light and the two rats were soon flicking through detailed sections, searching for information.
Horace returned with their lunch, bearing news that the penguins were being thrashed by the marmosets in the second pool game. He proceeded to offer them his ‘expert’ assistance, which amounted to a string of loud burps and highly irrelevant comments.
‘Listen to this,’ he said, reading a caption beside a map:
‘And how is that relevant, Brother?’ Athena interrupted.
‘It’s not,’ Horace replied. ‘But the caption goes on to say that the smaller rivers and swamps of Aladrya are discussed on page four hundred and sixty three. I figure that any water-dwelling animals must get a mention sooner or later.’
Athena flicked through the pages until she located the swamp section and began skim-reading the contents.
‘Bingo!’ she said. ‘According to this, the milky-white secretion from the glands of cane toads is toxic. Care should be taken to avoid contact with the mouth and eyes.’
‘Tell us something we didn’t know,’ Horace muttered.
Athena continued, ‘Toads absorb moisture through their skin. Exposure to large amounts of salt, without access to water, can be fatal.’
‘Salt,’ Whisker pondered. ‘Well, that’s an interesting discovery.’
‘It’s not just interesting,’ Horace exclaimed, ‘it’s inspirational! Fred has a large barrel of salt in the ship’s pantry. If we sprinkle ourselves like we’re buckets of hot chips, we’ll be impenetrable.’
‘But what about the poison?’ Athena asked. ‘The passage doesn’t list any preventative measures.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that, Athena,’ Whisker said with a sly grin, ‘and I think I’ve got a solution. When the time comes, how would you feel about being our team’s official fashion consultant?’
The glorious autumn afternoon of Day Five was the perfect time to showcase the Centenary Games’ most ‘graceful’ sport, Plank Diving. Every one of the thirty-six competitors had an opportunity to impress the judges by performing a routine of their choosing. The top four divers would then go into a grand final round.
Unlike other diving competitions, a wide variety of conventional and unconventional techniques were permitted, including: handstands, somersaults, belly flops, bomb dives, face plants and side splats.
‘You’re in with a good shot, Whisker,’ Horace said, as they walked towards the makeshift diving tower on the northern pier. ‘Your practice dives were close to perfect.’
‘I’ve had a little more experience in the jumping department, that’s all,’ Whisker said humbly, recalling the many hours he’d spent on the circus trampoline and flying trapeze.
‘Speaking of jumping,’ Horace whispered, ‘Papa watched some of the other teams practicing this morning. He thinks the toads are the team to beat.’
‘That makes sense,’ Whisker said. ‘They were born in water and spend most of their lives leaping into ponds.’
‘Yeah, but those under-sized swimming costumes will hardly win them any points for presentation,’ Horace shuddered, pointing his hook at six warty toads posing in front of a sketch artist.
Whisker took one look at their hideous polka dot bikinis and hurried past.
The diving tower was a square wooden structure with a set of stairs twisting up three sides and a bendy plank protruding from the fourth. The plank overhung the ocean to the south, allowing spectators to watch clearly from the nearby southern pier. The three tournament officials (a plump koala, a sleepy turtle and an old hare) sat at a table in front of the crowd with large piles of score cards.
Many of the competitors were already milling around the tower when Whisker and Horace arrived. Through the rowdy taunts of, ‘Walk the plank, ye scurvy dog’ and, ‘I put the bomb in bomb dive, watch me explode!’ Whisker heard Siamese Sally and Cleopatra protesting to Baron Gustave about the validity of the event.
‘… It should have been scrapped a century ago,’ Sally hissed. ‘Pirates spend all of their time on the water, not in it.’
While the Cat Fish argued in vain, Whisker noticed Ruby walking over from the far side of the pier. In contrast to the slobbering riffraff around her, she was a sight for toad-scarred eyes. She wore a sleek, red swimming top and a pair of three-quarter black leggings with gold stripes. Her scarlet bandanna was gone, but her crimson eye patch remained firmly fastened across her face.
Whisker suddenly realised how much he missed her. He knew she was only a few feet away, but the gulf between them felt more like a shark-infested ocean than a couple of deck boards. It didn’t help that they’d barely spoken in days. Even before the cup, Whisker was so preoccupied with his training that their conversations were few and far between. And when they had spoken, late at night, neither of them said anything that really mattered.
That was before the games, Whisker thought sadly. Now there are three sisters and a string of failures to complicate things …
Pulling himself together, he tried to say something sincere. ‘Good luck, Ruby. Dive well.’
Without meeting his gaze, Ruby pointed to the southern pier.
‘I think that’s for you,’ she murmured.
Whisker turned his attention to the large crowd standing along the pier’s edge. To the left of the judges hung an enormous red banner. Stretched tightly between two posts, its huge gold letters were as clear as day: WHISKER RULES THE WAVES. Standing behind the banner, wearing red, black and gold face paint, were Aphrodite, Athena and Hera. They let out a cheer when they spotted Whisker staring in their direction.
‘Shiver me Whisker!’ Horace exclaimed. ‘Could they make that banner any bigger? Each letter is larger than my entire body.’
‘I-I had no idea,’ Whisker said, turning back to Ruby. But all he saw was a three-legged pug wearing floaties – Ruby was gone.
The opening round of Plank Diving was a slow and slippery process. Many of the contestants suffered from vertigo when they reached the top of the tower, calling for considerable encouragement from Chatterbeak to coax them down. Despite their thirst for victory, the Cat Fish were afraid to get their paws wet and flatly refused to participate.
The majority of dives followed the predictable pattern of three bounces, an attempted somersault and a splash-landing. There were, however, several failed back flips, an ill-timed synchronised dive by two penguins and the biggest of all bomb dives by Fred, earning him a standing ovation from the soaked supporters and three straight sevens from the judges.
Whisker commenced his campaign with a routine announced eloquently by Chatterbeak as ‘a forward dive with two somersaults in a tuck position.’
Standing on the end of the plank, with the cheering crowd beneath him, Whisker felt like he was back at the circus. He’d never been an official performer in the big top, but he’d swung from the trapeze and somersaulted into the safety net often enough to know what big moments were all about. Today the attention was on him.
He touched the gold anchor pendant hanging around
his neck – not for luck, but for memories, and began his approach. With three steps and a leap he was airborne. He tucked his legs close to his body, somersaulted twice and straightened up. His body sliced through the calm surface of the ocean like a pin. Only his tail left the smallest of splashes.
Invigorated by the freshness of the ocean, he kicked his legs and his body rose through a shower of bubbles. He emerged from the surface of the water to see Mama Kolina and Papa Niko applauding and the judges raising score cards of nine, eight, and eight.
Nothing to brag about, he thought, a little annoyed with his tail. Let’s hope it’s enough to get me through …
With a large number of threes, fours and fives being handed out by the judges, Whisker finished in third place and progressed to the final with two toads and one marmoset. The surprise performer of the event was Jester Mimp. The mumbling marmoset had removed the bells from his jester’s hat and tied them to his toes before his dive. The result was a comical musical routine culminating in a triple spin, which earned him the first ten of the event.
Ruby finished in fifth place with a backwards two-and-a-half somersaults dive. Her aerial performance was exquisite but she entered the water at a slight angle, losing vital points from two of the judges. Her disappointment, coupled with Whisker’s success, did nothing to help their already strained relationship. Whisker made an effort to say something encouraging, but Ruby was whisked away with the other failed competitors before he could get past, ‘Fifth is hardly a result to be ashamed of.’
He was left standing on the northern pier, drawing straws with a musical marmoset, a lipstick-smothered toad and her scantily clad mother.
Perfect Tens
More than any other moment in the Centenary Games, Whisker felt a compelling urge to win. It wasn’t so much the thought of glory that spurred him on, it was the prospect of letting down his entire team if he failed.
He had one dive to get it right.
Drawing the longest straw, Whisker had the advantage of watching the other competitors dive first.
Toad-Pole ascended the tower to perform a triple somersault handstand dive. She began the dive by standing on her hands at the front of the board, with her legs raised above her. With a mighty flick of her wrists, she launched her body over the edge, and completed two near-perfect somersaults.
On her third somersault, she slightly over-rotated and splashed awkwardly into the water. The judges awarded her two eights and a seven and gave her a stern warning about climbing out of the water with a distasteful wedgie between her warty buttocks.
Following Toad-Pole was Penelope Pond Scum, attempting four-and-a-half somersaults in the pike position. As she launched off the board and spun smoothly through the air it seemed she was destined for glory. Reaching her final half-somersault, however, the tops of her feet clipped a passing wave, creating a small splash. The judges awarded her three nines.
‘Caw, caw!’ Chatterbeak screeched, shaking his blue and yellow wings wildly. ‘What a cracking contest this is turning out to be. For his final dive, the unfathomable Jester Mimp will be undertaking a gizmo gando twooba balooba ringa ring ding dong in the freestyle position.’
The crowd watched expectantly as Mimp reached the top of the tower and crouched down in a starter’s position. With a loud SQUAWK from Chatterbeak, Mimp launched himself into action and sprinted down the length of the plank. When he reached the end, he did a half-somersault and bounced off his head. What followed was nothing short of outrageous. There were twists and spins, somersaults and toe-taps, all to the ring of tiny bells. With a face-first dive into the ocean, the spectacular routine was over.
It was impossible to silence the vocal audience as the judges announced their scores. The koala and the hare both awarded Mimp perfect tens for creativity and execution. The turtle revealed a conservative score of nine, citing Mimp’s ‘lack of traditional diving techniques’ as his only criticism.
Standing nervously on the northern pier, Whisker did the maths and realised he needed three perfect tens to win the competition. Fancy freestyle manoeuvres simply wouldn’t cut it. For the turtle to award top marks, the dive had to be a flawless demonstration of technique and skill. Whisker’s only chance was to perform the most difficult dive in the book, a routine known as a reverse four-and-a-half somersaults in the pike position. It was a dive few animals ever attempted and hardly any pulled off.
As Whisker climbed the tower, he felt the pressure mounting. He’d practiced the dive during the training sessions with mixed results. Sometimes his feet had clipped the surface of the water, creating a splash, other times his somersaults were too slow. Today, there was no margin for error. A slight over-rotation meant disaster. A slow take-off would hand victory to Mimp, leaving the Pie Rats with their third straight defeat, and little hope of winning the competition.
It’s all in the timing, Whisker told himself, recalling the instructions his father had given him in the big top. Focus on the routine. Block everything else out.
He reached the top step and slowly walked onto the plank. Beneath him, the crowd was hushed, watching in anticipation, studying his every move. Above him, the sky was ablaze with colour – gold, peach, purple and blue, the dusk tones reflected in the rippling surface of the darkening sea. The sun hovered low to the west, its ochre rays catching the tips of the tallest trees and illuminating the wavy edges of distant clouds.
The stage was set for a glorious finale.
In the quiet of the moment, Whisker felt a distant memory drifting into his mind. He was no longer standing on a plank overlooking the ocean. He was perched on a trapeze at the very top of the circus tent with his parents and sister willing him on.
Drawing strength from his vision, he fixed his eyes on a spec on the horizon and prepared his take-off.
He jumped once.
He jumped twice.
Then, just as he was about to jump a third time, he glimpsed a hazy black shape, moving across the waves. He only saw it for a moment before he launched himself into a backwards somersault, but it was enough to break his concentration and send his dive into disarray.
He felt a sickening blow to the back of his skull as his head clipped the edge of the plank.
Stars filled his vision. His arms and legs went limp.
The next thing he knew, he was spinning out of control, tumbling and falling with no sense of up or down.
He saw a dark cloud drawing closer. Or was it a wave? He really couldn’t tell. There was a hard THWACK followed by an enormous SPLASH and his eyes filled with salt water. The sea awakened his senses and suddenly he knew where he was and what had just happened.
The bubbles rose around him, growing bigger as they made their way to the surface. Whisker made no attempt to follow them upwards. He knew they would only lead to failure. Instead, he waited until the last bubble had meandered past his nose, and began swimming under the northern pier. He reached the far side and surfaced behind a barnacle-covered pylon, out of sight of the watching crowd.
From the shadowy water he listened to the gasps and murmurs of the startled onlookers as the scores were announced.
‘What kind of final was that?’ someone groaned. ‘Two ones and a zero. That’s the lowest score ever recorded at a Pirate Cup.’
‘Was that even a dive?’ someone else asked.
‘Where is that disgraceful rodent?’ questioned a third. ‘Do you think he’s drowned? Good riddance I say …’
Treading water, Whisker pressed his back against the rough post and contemplated swimming to the mainland.
How can I ever show my face again? he thought. I’m the laughing stock of the games.
‘Caw, caw, he’s over here!’ screeched a loud voice above him. ‘Alive and well it seems, though a little disoriented …’
Despite Chatterbeak’s attempts to coax Whisker from his hiding spot, the water-logged rat waited until the sun had disappeared and the celebrating marmosets had left the marina before he finally clambered onto the deserte
d pier. The leader board that awaited him did nothing to bolster his spirits.
No one wants to see a pathetic loser, he told himself, sloshing past the diving tower. He heard the sound of footsteps and a short figure appeared at the far end of the marina.
‘I’ve been sent to collect you, Whisker,’ Horace called out. ‘You’re lucky it’s me and not Granny Rat. She had intended to drag you out herself, but the pier was far too uneven for her frail legs.’
Whisker trudged down the pier without responding.
‘I told Granny the plank was to blame for your mishap,’ Horace said, trying to make conversation. ‘I think she bought it.’
‘It wasn’t the plank,’ Whisker muttered. ‘It was me.’
‘You must have a reason though?’ Horace said sympathetically. ‘You’re much too good to simply hit your head and fall.’
‘I saw something,’ Whisker blurted out, ‘but that’s no excuse. I should have maintained my concentration.’
‘What was it?’ Horace asked.
‘Nothing, really,’ Whisker said, glancing out to sea. ‘Just a ship …’
‘I didn’t see any ships,’ Horace said, perplexed. ‘No one on the southern pier did.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ Whisker moaned. ‘You were all watching me make a donkey out of myself.’
‘Err, good point,’ Horace said, reaching the end of the pier. He stopped to look back at the ocean. ‘The ship wasn’t a Claw-of-War, was it?’
Whisker shook his head. ‘No. It only had three masts, not four, and its sails weren’t blue like Aladryan warships. They were black – jet-black.’
Horace gulped. ‘Jet-black. Are you sure?’
‘I’m certain,’ Whisker said. ‘Jet-black sails. Jet-black hull. I’ve never seen anything like it –’ He paused. ‘Well, I have seen the ship once before – on the night of the training run.’
The colour drained from Horace’s face. ‘You’re positive it was the same black ship? I mean, there were plenty of other ships on the water that night, with all the spectators arriving.’
The Trophy of Champions Page 7
