The Trophy of Champions

by Cameron Stelzer

  Horace was responsible for most of the bunnies’ squeaky voices, though the occasional comment from Ruby stopped him from going completely overboard. The green-eyed sharpshooter waited patiently with a loaded bow in her paws and a silver arrow aimed unnervingly at Whisker’s left foot.

  Glad to be on friendly terms with her again, Whisker wrapped his fingers around a rope of the kite sail and ran his eye up the tense, quivering line. The dark shape of the Eagle hovered silently above the Velvet Wave.

  ‘A little to your starboard side,’ Whisker mouthed to Pete behind the wheel.

  ‘Aye,’ Pete sniffled, giving the wheel a subtle spin.

  As the Apple Pie slowly righted its course, Whisker recalled the words of Baron Gustave from the opening ceremony: Ze first team zat can touch ze trophy, before ze end of ze last event vill receive one bonus point.

  In the fading light, Whisker could barely make out the Silver Sardine in the dark haze of sea spray that surrounded the desert island, but he knew that the cats were only minutes from the shore.

  Now comes the real race, Whisker told himself, gripping the rope tightly. He knew his plan was reckless and bordering on insane, but that was exactly what made it so brilliant – the rabbits would never see it coming.

  The bow of the Apple Pie drew level with the stern of the Velvet Wave and, with the Eagle flying directly above the trophy room, Whisker made his move.

  Wrapping his legs around the course rope, he let out a sharp wolf-whistle. The sound had barely left his lips when Ruby released the string of her bow, sending a silver arrow whizzing through the air. With pin-point accuracy, the arrowhead sliced through the rope beneath Whisker’s feet, severing it in two.

  The sudden release of tension on the rope of the Eagle sail catapulted him upwards. All he could do was hold on as his body was jerked high into the air and then began curving down in a sweeping arc towards the trophy room.

  The wind howled in his ears. The salty air stung his eyes. In the blur that surrounded him, he glimpsed the awakening figure of the Captain staring through a cabin window, he saw the rabbits raise their bewildered faces to the sky, and he felt the rope shake violently in his paws as the Eagle lost control in the wind.

  Unable to maintain his grip, he began to fall.

  For a moment he was bathed in a sea of purple light. Then he was tumbling through the open roof of the trophy room, clawing at crimson curtains and crashing onto a velvet covered pedestal.

  With his head spinning and his eyes clouded with tears, he blindly threw himself forward, stretching out his rope-burned paws as six rifle-carrying rabbits stormed into the room.

  They took one look at him, lying in the centre of the room and trained their sights on his twisted torso.

  Not daring to breathe, Whisker waited for the purple projectiles to pepper his body, but the rabbits merely stared at him with bemused interest.

  Exhaling in relief, Whisker looked down to see his fingers resting on a line of jewels at the base of an enormous gold trophy. The metal was warm, the jewels smooth under his grazed skin.

  ‘Nice touch,’ said one of the rabbits, lowering his rifle. ‘It’s yours for the keeping, you know. That little stunt just won you the championship.’

  Whisker wiped his eyes with the back of his paw and looked up at the glittering object. Violet flames danced over the sides of its ornate rim, each tongue of fire reflected in the edges of two crossed torches and an engraved skull.

  It was truly magnificent. It was breathtaking. And, best of all, it was his.

  Deep down inside, he knew what the future held for the coveted cup, but right now, all he wanted to do was bask in its glory. It was a trophy made for champions and he was a champion. He had outwitted the rabbits and conquered the cats. And he had done it in true Pie Rat style – he had won by a whisker.

  Through the open door of the trophy room, Whisker could see the orange glow of a signal flare rising into the dusk sky. The Cat Fish had reached the beach first but there could only be one winner.

  They can have their Sea Race, he told himself, I’ve got the Trophy of Champions.

  The Trophy of Champions

  The next thirty minutes of Whisker’s life were nothing short of surreal.

  The flaming trophy was carried onto the Apple Pie, where Horace smothered it in wet, slobbery kisses. Fred began a celebratory rendition of the Pie Rats’ battle cry: ‘We are the dreaded Pie Rats and we are the cham-pie-ons,’ while Smudge buzzed along with his wings.

  As promised, Pete awarded Whisker a pass on his sailing test (although the word unconventional was used repeatedly in the announcement).

  In the midst of the excitement, Ruby helped the dazed Captain onto the deck and tried to explain what in Ratbeard’s name was going on.

  The rabbits, heartbroken to learn their beautiful bunnies were simply dolled-up billboards in expensive clothing, used a lantern to signal the news of the Stealth Raid to the island.

  Whisker wished he could have seen the look on Sabre’s face the moment the message arrived, but by the time the Pie Rats pulled their rowboat onto the sandy beach, the Cat Fish had finished any protesting and were nowhere in sight.

  It seemed that every other animal on the island wanted to join in the victory celebrations, and the entire shore was teeming with Sea-Dog-turned-Cat-Fish-turned-Pie-Rat supporters, cheering and clapping and stomping their feet.

  ‘Well done, Whisker,’ Granny Rat applauded, using his real name for the first time. ‘My husband was right. You’re not such a spineless worm after all.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the Hermit gabbled. ‘No worms here.’

  ‘Thanks, Coach,’ Whisker said, smiling politely as his tail writhed like a worm behind him.

  Papa Niko and Mama Kolina began offering their congratulations, but were cut short by a loud squawk from Chatterbeak, calling everyone to attention. When the crowd was silent, Baron Gustave commenced his official closing speech. After a few token words, he presented the Pie Rats with three chests of gold and six gold medals engraved with the words 25th Pirate Cup Champions.

  ‘Argh me pastries, these things are heavy!’ Horace exclaimed as Gustave placed the medal around his neck.

  ‘What did you expect?’ Hera muttered from the crowd. ‘They’re made from gold, not sea sponges …’

  ‘That’s true,’ Athena added, tipping her glasses for a better look. ‘Although sea sponges can be extremely heavy when they’re holding water.’

  ‘Put a sock in it, Miss Science,’ Aphrodite snorted. ‘Whoever heard of anyone wearing a wet sea sponge? They’re so unflattering!’

  ‘Here we go again,’ Horace groaned to Whisker. ‘Even world champions have to deal with annoying family members. Next they’ll be wanting to wear our medals.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure …’ Whisker responded half-heartedly.

  At the mention of the word family, his attention had shifted from the ceremony to the daunting task that still lay ahead. His medal could have been made out of tin and worn by every member of the Cat Fish crew for all he cared. All that mattered was finding his family. But that required the trophy, and smuggling the priceless object off the island seemed almost as hard as winning it in the first place.

  The moment Chatterbeak extinguished the trophy’s purple flames, a swarm of star-struck spectators flocked to have their portraits drawn with it. Some held the trophy aloft like they were the champions. Others (like Horace’s sisters) wrapped their arms around the glorious object and refused to let go.

  Whisker watched patiently from the shadows – a thief in the night, his eyes never leaving the trophy.

  As darkness set in, small campfires were lit around the island. Most were quickly abandoned in favour of the roaring bonfire in the centre of a jungle clearing.

  In contrast to Whisker’s pensive mood, the Pie Rats were the happiest they had been in a long, long time. Pete danced with Athena around the fire, twirling on his pencil leg, while Granny Rat and the Hermit skipped youthfully behind the
m. Horace, Papa Niko and Fred relived their Death Ball victory with the help of a small coconut and two palm trees. The Captain swapped tales with his fellow captains King Marvownion, Baron Gustave and the entire penguin crew (who all claimed to be captain of the Arctic Wind). Athena and Hera wore Horace’s and Fred’s medals and posed for a sketch artist, while Mama Kolina stirred a large pot of soup in the coals of the fire. Above her, Smudge perched on the tip of a palm frond, taking in the glorious spectacle.

  Further from the clearing, Whisker heard the rambling chorus of a sea shanty as Rat Bait rolled a large barrel through the bushes.

  That left Ruby.

  Whisker didn’t have to wait long to find out where she was.

  ‘Howdy, stranger,’ came an abrupt voice from behind him.

  Taken by surprise, Whisker spun around to see Ruby standing a few feet away.

  ‘H-hi,’ he squeaked.

  ‘Everything alright?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Oh – yeah,’ Whisker gabbled. ‘Everything’s … fine.’

  Ruby took a step towards him, clearly unconvinced.

  ‘Look, Whisker,’ she began, ‘I don’t know what’s been going on lately, but you said you had something important to tell me on the ship. If you still want to talk, I’m all ears.’

  Whisker’s bottom lip quivered. Of course he wanted to talk. He wanted to free himself from the lie and tell Ruby everything: his encounter with the fox; the secret deal; his plan to steal the trophy.

  But he couldn’t.

  Not now. Not with the trophy in his possession, not with his family’s life at stake. And definitely not with two dozen furry ears listening to every word he said. As a member of the winning team, he was bound to attract some form of attention, but he couldn’t shake the sick feeling that any one of the weasels, ferrets or meerkats skulking around the bonfire could be spying for the fox.

  It was a risk he wasn’t prepared to take. The fox had demanded secrecy and Whisker knew he had to hold his tongue.

  He stood there like a statue without uttering a word.

  ‘So we’re back to the silent treatment, are we?’ Ruby asked after a long, awkward pause.

  Fighting hard to avoid Ruby’s piercing stare, Whisker pretended to be distracted by Rat Bait. The jolly sailor was pushing his barrel into the clearing and singing loudly:

  A barrel full of berry juice, sour as a plum.

  Yo ho, ho and the night be young!

  A toast from the trophy be my idea o’ fun.

  Yo ho, ho and the night be young!

  When Rat Bait reached the foot of the enormous cup, he turned the barrel on its end and clambered up.

  ‘Well I’ll be a chimney sweep!’ he exclaimed, peering over the broad rim of the trophy. ‘There’s more ash in this wee vessel than a blacksmith’s fireplace!’ He held up a soot-covered finger. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s got a scrubbin’ brush?’

  Whisker’s tail twinged. This was the invitation he’d been waiting for.

  Without hesitation, he leapt out of the shadows.

  ‘I’ll clean it for you, Rat Bait,’ he piped. Then not wanting to sound overly enthusiastic in front of Ruby, he added, ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be right to have an ash-tainted victory toast.’

  ‘That be mighty kind o’ you, Master Whisker,’ Rat Bait said. ‘But no one expects the tournament champion to be gettin’ his paws dirty on celebration night.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly,’ Whisker said, scrambling over to the trophy. ‘I’m not really much of a celebrator.’ He could feel Ruby’s eye boring a hole in his back, but resisted the urge to turn around and explain himself. As much as it pained him to leave things on a sour note, he knew there was no other option. Ruby could see straight through him. A single word would give his intentions away.

  He heard a frustrated ‘Hmph’ as Ruby finally ran out of patience and stomped off to join the Death Ball re-enactment.

  Whisker climbed up beside Rat Bait.

  ‘If you ask me,’ he said, peering at the blackened insides of the cup, ‘a dash of salt water is the key. The beach isn’t far from here and I can use the sand as an abrasive cleaner.’

  Rat Bait looked hesitant.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Whisker reassured him, ‘I’ve had plenty of experience scrubbing pots in the galley, and I’ll have the trophy back to you before you’ve even popped the cork.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Rat Bait conceded, climbing down from the barrel. ‘Yer a trustworthy lad an’ charcoal-flavoured berry juice is hardly me drink o’ choice.’

  Whisker tried to smile, but the pang of guilt in his stomach made it almost impossible. Rat Bait was yet another companion he was about to betray. He’d grown fond of the old rogue over the course of the games and the thought of breaking his trust now pained Whisker almost as much as stealing the trophy itself.

  This is the way it has to be, Whisker repeated in his mind. You already know that.

  Pushing his guilt aside, he removed the medal from his neck and placed it over Rat Bait’s head, hoping, in some small way, it would atone for his actions.

  ‘What’s this?’ Rat Bait exclaimed, looking down at the golden object.

  ‘It’s … a thank you present for helping us win the championship,’ Whisker replied cagily.

  Rat Bait shook his head.

  ‘I can’t accept this,’ he said, beginning to remove the medal. ‘It belongs to ye.’

  ‘Then it’s mine to give away,’ Whisker said, placing his paw on Rat Bait’s forearm.

  ‘I still can’t accept it,’ Rat Bait said, brushing Whisker aside. ‘This medal be made for a champion, not for a lousy Head o’ Security.’

  ‘You’re not lousy,’ Whisker objected. ‘If it wasn’t for your tip-offs, we would have been out of the contest days ago.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, if you won’t accept the medal, at least hold on to it until I return from the beach. Pete would pickle me in pineapple juice if I lost it in the surf.’

  Rat Bait gave a long sigh and let the medal drop onto his chest. ‘Very well, I’ll keep it safe ‘til ye return. Now be off with ye, young scallywag. Me throat be growin’ dryer by the minute!’

  Taking his cue, Whisker leapt down from the barrel, wrapping his paws and tail around the trophy. The golden cup was nearly as tall as he was and Whisker was barely able to raise it off the ground. After several struggling steps, he realised he’d never navigate past the dozen or so curious spectators blocking his path.

  Fortunately, Rat Bait’s cry of ‘So, who’s first in line for a drink?’ had them scurrying out of the way in an instant.

  With the rest of his companions distracted by the celebrations, Whisker made his way past a silver bow and a quiver of arrows propped up against a tree and slowly disappeared into the jungle.

  He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see Ruby skulking after him or at least aiming an arrow in his direction, but she was nowhere in sight.

  The voices of jolly revellers grew fainter as he continued through the lush undergrowth. In utter silence, he reached a small campfire at the crest of a sand dune overlooking the beach. Whoever had made the fire had long since joined the festivities in the centre of the island. All that was left was a charcoaled branch and a pile of glowing coals.

  Staring down at the smoking remains, Whisker realised he’d come to a crossroad. Behind him lay the bizarre, unpredictable world of the Pie Rats – a world he had come to know and love. Ahead of him lay the answer he so desperately sought: Where is my family?

  For the first time, he realised that there was no going back. Once he made his decision he was on his own.

  As he watched the smoke coiling around the coals, the words of the Pie Rat code drifted into his mind: Loyalty before all else, even pies …

  Even trophies, he told himself. Even families …

  He knew the consequences of his actions. He was about to become a traitor, and traitors had no place on a Pie Rat ship.

  Never again would he stand with his f
ellow crew members and raise his scissor sword high. Never again would he laugh at one of Horace’s one-liners or gobble down a slice of Fred’s piping hot berry pies. And never again would he blush bright red when Ruby walked into the room.

  Whisker knew he would miss her the most.

  He missed her already.

  How he wished things could be different. Overcome with a deep feeling of helplessness, he sank to his knees, his paws sliding despairingly down the sides of the trophy.

  It was almost too much to bear.

  Why am I cursed with this burden? he asked himself. Why does it have to be this way?

  Six weeks ago he was a happy-go-lucky circus rat with a family and a future, and now he was sitting on a beach with a golden trophy, facing a decision that could leave him with nothing. It pained him to think about it, but deep down inside he knew that his family might already be dead.

  Trying to dispel the dark thoughts from his mind, he raised his eyes to the moonlit sea. The glowing ball of white hovered over the waves like an enormous lantern, its crater-covered face an almost perfect sphere.

  In the radiant light, Whisker could see everything: the foaming white caps of the breaking waves; the silver-lined edges of cottonwool clouds; the line of small spectator vessels running along the sandy beach. And, in the midst of it all, he saw the fleeting silhouette of a cat disappearing into the Pie Rats’ rowboat.

  Whisker froze.

  Was he imagining things? He rubbed his weary eyes and looked again. The beach was deserted.

  Puzzled, he continued to stare, praying the smoke of the fire would conceal his whereabouts as several more cats materialised out of the darkness and converged on the rowboat. In seconds, they had leapt over the side of the small vessel and vanished from sight.

  Whisker stifled a cry. The Cat Fish were setting an ambush.

  For nine days, the protective rules of the Pirate Cup had kept the Pie Rats safe, but with the games officially over, the cutthroat laws of piracy once again reigned supreme.