Beginning to doubt himself, Whisker took another look at the map. Scanning its inked surface, it only took him a moment to spot a fallen tree crossing the creek.
‘Round, tall and windowless,’ he thought aloud. ‘It ticks all the boxes – except the falling down bit. The tree has already fallen down.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ Ruby muttered. ‘One of our teams is right. The other is out of the competition.’
Hoping desperately they had the right ‘tower’ Whisker continued his scramble through the grove in the direction of the well. He was soon surrounded on all sides by gnarled trees and thousands upon thousands of apples. The ripe fruit dangled from branches and lay in rotting heaps at the bases of trunks – every colour under the sun: red, green, pink, golden and brown.
We should be baking Trojan Apple Strudel, he thought, as the forge came into view.
Through the gaps in the trees he could see thick, grey smoke drifting upwards from the top of the chimney. The heavenly songs of Mama Kolina and her daughters filled the forest. Ruby pulled a sour face.
‘The well’s just ahead,’ she said, pointing past the forge. ‘Unless you’d prefer to visit the house of the three little pageant queens for breakfast …’
Whisker shook his head and kept on running, annoyed that it wasn’t Fred’s out-of-tune singing they had heard.
The stone well lay in the centre of a small clearing at the eastern end of the Apple Grove. Sunlight streamed through a hole it its brick-tiled roof to reveal four ropes descending into the watery darkness.
One rope for each team, Whisker thought in relief. We must be in the right location. He rushed over to the well and took hold of the closest rope.
In moments, a wet coil of rope lay on the ground and a water-filled bucket was making its way to the surface. Ruby reached her paw inside the bucket and removed a round river stone. She brushed the water off its smooth surface to reveal several lines of chiselled text:
‘It’s a reference to water,’ Whisker said, peering over her shoulder. ‘Somewhere we can relax and paddle our toes – the creek perhaps? The stone is a dead giveaway –’
‘Not necessarily,’ Ruby cut in. ‘Look at the fourth and fifth lines: the bull who rushes … The words bull and rushes are in italics – like the last clue – which means they must have a double meaning. I haven’t seen any rushing bulls on this farm but I have seen bulrushes. I picked some when we docked last night.’
‘The wharf,’ Whisker acknowledged. ‘There are bulrushes everywhere and it’s the perfect place to paddle our toes.’
‘We’d better rush on down then,’ Ruby said, cracking a rare joke. ‘The river stairs aren’t far from here.’
Handing the stone to Whisker for safekeeping, Ruby hurried through the trees in the direction of the Hawk River. Whisker slipped the stone into his bag and darted after her.
Slow and Steady
As the trees thinned and the edge of the cliffs became visible, Whisker was suddenly aware of a pungent burning smell in the air. Wondering if the scent was coming from the forge, he looked to the air for any signs of smoke.
The morning sky was clear, but the falling autumn leaves told him the wind was blowing in the opposite direction. Taking no chances, he pulled Ruby behind a tree and raised a finger to his lips.
‘Can you smell that?’ he whispered.
Ruby inhaled deeply and then contorted her face into a repulsed frown.
‘Flaming fur-balls,’ she hissed. ‘I’d bet my scissor swords on it.’ She peered around the side of the tree for a closer look. ‘There’s a burnt patch on the ground near the top of the stairs. The cannons must be stationed further along the cliff, ready for an ambush.’
‘Can we sneak past them?’ Whisker asked.
‘Not likely,’ Ruby said. ‘Our safest option is to wait until they fire at another team and make a dash for the stairs while they’re reloading.’
‘We both know that isn’t going to happen,’ Whisker murmured. ‘We’d lose too much time.’
‘Alright,’ Ruby said. ‘We’ll have to create our own distraction. What’s in that magic sack of yours?’
Whisker loosened the drawstring of his small bag and peered inside. ‘I’ve got the Hermit’s compass, a white napkin, two gold coins, an extendable spyglass, a map of the farm and the river stone.’
‘I’ll take the stone,’ Ruby demanded. ‘Please.’
Whisker slid his paw into the bag and removed the discus-shaped rock.
‘Perfect,’ Ruby said, eyeing it closely. ‘Here’s hoping the trigger-happy Cat Fish shoot first and think later.’
Stepping wide of the tree, she raised the stone behind her back and hurled it towards an apple tree dangling over the cliff. The smooth object whizzed through the air, colliding with an outstretched branch.
Leaves shook. Apples fell. Cannons exploded. The next moment, two flaming fur-balls raced past the rats and exploded in a shower of sparks at the base of the tree.
‘NOW!’ Ruby shouted. ‘RUN!’
Whisker took off like a paper plane in a windstorm. With powerful strides, he sprinted from the grove, leapt over a tree root and bounded across the cliff top towards the stone stairs. As he reached the top step, with Ruby close behind, he heard a third KABOOM!
‘DOWN!’ Ruby cried, grabbing Whisker by the tail.
Losing his balance, Whisker toppled forward, collecting Ruby on his way as a flaming projectile crashed into the upper steps. The two rats rolled in a ball of flailing arms and legs, coming to a halt halfway down the stairs.
Bruised and battered, they slowly untangled themselves and staggered down the remaining steps. Sheltered from further shots by the surrounding cliffs, they began hunting for their next clue.
They focused their attention on the southern side of the wharf, where the bulrushes grew thicker, searching between wooden wharf-boards, behind mooring bollards and under the wharf, with no success. Growing impatient, Ruby expanded her search to include the rest of the wharf and the tips of the closest bulrushes.
Still no success.
‘We must be missing something,’ Ruby said, slashing the reeds with her scissor swords. ‘What else did the rock say?’
‘I don’t know,’ Whisker muttered. ‘You threw it in a tree, remember?’
Ruby rolled her eye. ‘Search the entire wharf again. And make it snappy. We’ve lost enough time as it is.’
Whisker knew a second search would reveal nothing. He’d been ultra-thorough the first time around – and so had Ruby. Hoping for a flash of inspiration, he tried to recall the words of the clue: Sitting, watching, paddling toes. The bull who rushes never knows.
He looked across at Ruby, frantically searching under a mooring rope and, suddenly, he knew exactly what to do. Taking a calming breath, he sat down on the edge of the wharf, dangled his legs over the side and slipped his toes into the cool water. Then he waited.
‘Whisker,’ Ruby hissed, storming towards him like an angry bull. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘I’m following the advice of our friendly river stone,’ he said calmly. ‘Come and join me. The water’s lovely.’
Ruby considered his offer for a moment and then, without bothering to remove her boots, plonked herself down next to him.
‘Humph,’ she muttered. ‘Sitting around never won anyone a race …’
Before Ruby had finished speaking, a stream of bubbles appeared on the surface of the water. Both rats watched with open mouths as a dark shape appeared beneath them, rising from the depths of the river.
‘What is it?’ Ruby whispered, as the round shape drew closer.
‘Not what but who,’ Whisker responded. ‘Look. You can see the patterned shell.’
As the rats continued to watch, the small head of a green turtle pierced the surface of the water. Whisker recognised the turtle immediately as the third judge from the diving competition. The turtle gazed up at them with sleepy eyes and yawned, ‘Nice morning for a paddle, don’t you think?�
�
‘Um … sure,’ Whisker responded.
‘I like to start each day with a nice little dip in the water,’ the turtle went on. ‘It soothes my joints and reminds me of a time when I was a sprightly eighty-year-old …’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Turtle,’ Ruby broke in, ‘but we were kind of hoping you could give us our next clue – today.’
The turtle sighed. ‘Young folk – always in a hurry. No one stops for a friendly conversation anymore.’ He yawned again. ‘Very well. Listen carefully: Red and yellow mixed as one, but some don’t ripen in the sun.’ And with a polite ‘Cheerio,’ he closed his eyes and sank beneath the surface.
Whisker turned to Ruby, excitedly. ‘It’s an art riddle. Red and yellow mixed together make what colour?’
‘Orange,’ Ruby replied. ‘That’s easy.’
‘And what turns orange when it ripens?’ Whisker asked.
‘Pumpkins – another easy one,’ Ruby answered. ‘There’s an entire patch of them on the other side of the creek. I’m guessing if we find an unripe pumpkin, we’ll have our next cl-’
‘Thank you very much,’ purred a sweet voice behind Ruby, ‘You’ve just saved me from getting my toes wet.’
Whisker spun around to see Cleopatra standing halfway along the wharf, grinning from ear to ear. Prowler was visible in the distance, racing silently up the stairs.
‘Catch us if you can,’ Cleopatra hissed, dashing after him.’
‘ARGH!’ Ruby yelled, leaping to her feet. ‘I hate those cats!’ She took several strides down the wharf, but skidded to a halt as the cannons roared to life from the cliff top.
Whisker looked up in horror to see two flaming penguins leap off the top of the cliff and dive into the river in a hiss of steam. They rose to the surface, shaking their singed flippers at the escaping cats.
‘Come on!’ Whisker cried, pulling Ruby backwards down the wharf. ‘We’ll never get past those cannons.’
‘But there’s no other way up,’ Ruby protested.
‘You’re forgetting the ships,’ Whisker said, leaping onto the gangplank of the Silver Sardine.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Ruby gasped. ‘I’m not boarding that floating funeral parlour.’
‘The cats are up there, not down here,’ Whisker said, pointing across the ship. ‘Look. The bowsprit is almost touching the southern cliff face. It’s a simple climb up the rocks and a short run to the pumpkin patch. We can avoid the cannons and bypass the entire Apple Grove.’
Gritting her teeth, Ruby followed Whisker up the gangplank onto the Silver Sardine. Flattened sardine tins lined the hull and bulwark of the vessel, reflecting sunlight in all directions. Shielding their eyes from the dazzling light, the rats staggered along the gently-swaying deck until they reached the sword-like bowsprit extending from the bow of the ship.
Clutching the edge of the jib sail, they shimmied their way along the razor-sharp blade and then leapt onto a small ledge partway up the cliff.
The nimble climbers took a diagonal route up the rocks, arriving at the top of the cliff, to the south of the Rose Maze. From their elevated vantage point, they could see the mouth of the rushing creek and the fishing jetty to the south-east. As predicted, the Velvet Wave was moored on the small jetty, its flaming trophy guarded by a line of white rabbits.
Whisker caught sight of two furry bodies being swept down the centre of the gushing creek. They splashed their arms hysterically as they tried to stay afloat. One of the rabbits threw them a rope before they were sucked into the Hawk River.
‘It appears the marmosets took more than one wrong turn,’ Ruby muttered.
Drawing their eyes from the dramatic rescue, the rats raced down the hill towards an ancient stone bridge.
They crossed the lichen-covered stones of the bridge to see the field of pumpkins stretching out in front of them. The glorious, golden vegetables dotted the leafy ground like miniature suns. There was no sign of the cats, but Whisker knew they could arrive at any moment.
He hurried over to the pumpkin patch and began searching the crop. Every leaf he turned concealed another succulent orange vegetable. It was a bumper harvest, a farmer’s dream. Every pumpkin was ripe and ready for the market. But Whisker wasn’t there to make pumpkin pie, he was there to find the one pumpkin that not even Fred would throw in the cooking pot: a hard, green undersized reject.
The longer he looked, the more desperate his searching became. Over the loud gurgle of the creek he could hear the frustrated mutterings of Ruby as she, too, struggled to locate any pumpkins of ‘value.’
Then he saw it: a small, round shape lying on its lonesome under a thick layer of leaves. Barely bigger than his fist, it was a pottery pumpkin, glazed lime green.
‘Ruby,’ he hissed. ‘Over here. I think I’ve found it.’
Ruby reached him in moments.
‘That’s got to be it,’ she said, running her paw over the smooth surface. ‘I can’t see anything written on it, but it definitely won’t ripen in the sun.’
Together, the two rats turned the clay object over, searching for a clue on its base. They heard a soft tinkle, tinkle from inside.
‘Maybe that’s our clue,’ Whisker said.
Ruby wasted no time in drawing one of her scissor swords and, with a powerful blow, smashed a hole in the side of the pumpkin. Whisker reached his fingers through the opening and pulled out five clay seeds. One side of each seed was blank. The other side contained a single word.
‘I’m guessing we need to arrange them into the correct order,’ Whisker thought aloud, laying the seeds on a leaf.
‘How about this,’ Ruby said, shuffling the seeds around.
Whisker shook his head.
Ruby let out a small ‘humph’ and then hurriedly reordered the words.
‘That’s it!’ Whisker exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down. ‘The finish line must be the dry dam – it’s a perfect circle.’
‘So what are we waiting for?’ Ruby said, brushing the seeds aside with her paw. ‘The dam’s only a short sprint from the fallen tree.’
Side by side, the rats took off in the direction of the second river crossing. The vibrant colours of the field flashed past them in a blur as they leapt over leaves and hurdled pumpkins.
Whisker burst through an enormous line of leaves and skidded to an abrupt halt. Directly in front of him, lying deathly-still on the ground, was the unmistakable blue-grey body of Prowler.
Whisker half expected the cat to spring up and bite off one of his ears, but all Prowler did was gaze in his general direction with stone-cold eyes.
As Whisker stared warily at the silent cat, he noticed a dozen small, feathery objects protruding from Prowler’s fur.
Before Whisker could figure out what they were, he heard several vrooshing sounds over his shoulder.
Ruby gasped in panic, pulling Whisker behind a pumpkin as a red, feathery shape whizzed past them. As he hit the ground, Whisker felt a needle-like pain in the tip of his tail. He looked up to see a red dart sticking out of his skin. A numb feeling began spreading through his tail.
‘Tranquiliser darts!’ Ruby hissed, yanking the object free. ‘They must be the marmosets’ handiwork. Can you move?’
‘I think so,’ Whisker squeaked, wiggling his fingers and toes. He tried to lift his tail but it remained motionless on the ground.
‘You’re lucky you only copped one dart,’ Ruby whispered. ‘Prowler won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.’
Whisker took another look at the frozen feline. Prowler was still staring at them, unable to move a muscle. The remains of a second pottery pumpkin lay strewn over the ground beside him. There was no sign of any seeds.
‘Where’s Cleopatra?’ Whisker asked in alarm.
‘No idea,’ Ruby answered, ‘but if she’s good at word games we’re in big trouble. Come on!’
Leaving Prowler where he lay, Ruby began crawling through the leaves. Whisker followed silently after her, keeping his body close to the
ground.
There were further vrooshing sounds and a stream of darts raced through the air, striking the tops of pumpkins to either side of them.
Head down, Whisker scrambled forward, his tail dragging paralysed behind him.
‘This way,’ Ruby whispered from up ahead. ‘I can see the creek.’
A few steps later, Whisker was peering through the pumpkin leaves at a shady riverbank. A fallen, moss-covered tree lay to his right. To his left sat a green-eyed Abyssinian cat, grinning at a pawful of porcelain seeds.
The Other Side
Whisker didn’t wait to see what Cleopatra had discovered. He stuffed the limp end of his tail into his pocket, scrambled out of the pumpkin patch and leapt onto the trunk.
Ruby was right behind him.
Startled by the sudden movement, Cleopatra’s green eyes flashed in the rat’s direction.
‘Pesky Pie Rats,’ she snarled, scattering the seeds. ‘I’ll be dammed if you reach that dam before me.’ Hissing and spitting, she bounded after them.
Ruby ran a perfectly straight line and quickly overtook Whisker, struggling to maintain his balance without the use of his tail. He swayed awkwardly from side to side, almost toppling into the water. As wayward as his path was, it proved to be his saving grace.
Reaching the centre of the trunk, he saw three horrifying things at once: Ruby lurching backwards through the air yelling ‘AMBUUUSH,’ a water-filled bucket swinging straight past him, and two penguins clutching a long rope from the top of a tree.
Steadying himself, Whisker made a desperate snatch for Ruby’s arm, but his fingers clutched at thin air. He watched helplessly as she plummeted into the creek with a loud SPLASH and disappeared beneath the frothing rapids. A moment later, her head burst from the surface.
‘RUN, YOU FOOL!’ she spluttered, as the current swept her away. ‘I can swim …’
Before Whisker could move, he heard a startled hiss behind him and spun around to see Cleopatra throwing herself onto the trunk. Above her, the flying water bucket hurtled back on its return journey.
The Trophy of Champions Page 15
