The King's Key

by Cameron Stelzer

  ‘I’ve passed two tests,’ he thought aloud. ‘Survival and Strategy … but they were accidents …’

  ‘They weren’t accidents,’ whispered a voice from the dark.

  Whisker jumped. ‘W-who’s there?’

  ‘Only me,’ Horace whistled, stepping out of the shadows. ‘I wouldn’t recommend the fireworks. They’re a little temperamental in rainforest environments.’

  ‘Err, point taken,’ Whisker said, hastily returning the rocket to the crate. ‘Have you seen any matches?’

  Horace held up two boxes with his hook, keeping his paw hidden behind his back. ‘I’m one step ahead of you.’

  Whisker looked at him suspiciously. An open crate lay to Horace’s right.

  ‘What else have you got?’ Whisker asked.

  ‘Oh … nothing,’ Horace replied guiltily. ‘Just a few essential items …’

  ‘A few sticks of Deadly Dynamite you mean!’ Whisker exclaimed. ‘The Captain would never allow it.’

  ‘Shh,’ Horace hissed. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Pete. The Captain doesn’t have to know …’

  Whisker was well aware of the trouble the dynamite could get them both into and held his ground.

  ‘Look,’ Horace whispered, holding up the sticks. ‘They’ve got extra long fuses, so we’ll have plenty of time to run away.’ He gave Whisker a pleading look. ‘Come on, Whisker. They’ve saved us before.’

  ‘Alright,’ Whisker finally agreed, remembering the exploding pie incident. ‘But only a couple …’

  ‘You won’t regret it,’ Horace said, stuffing two sticks into a backpack.

  Whisker sighed. Something told him he would.

  Back on the deck, the crew laid out their essential items. There were six boxes of matches, five scissor swords, three water flasks, two fruit pies, a notebook, a small stub of pencil, a coil of rope, a compass, Eaton’s mirrored lantern, a bottle of lantern oil, a ball of string, three candy canes and the Forgotten Map rolled up in a canister.

  Horace scratched his head with his hook. ‘How are candy canes essential items?’

  Ruby gave him a sour look. ‘I thought that was obvious. We tie them together to make a grappling hook, or eat them if we run out of food.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Horace shrugged. ‘Speaking of all things sweet, do we have any of Pete’s treacle medicine?’

  ‘We’re all out,’ Pete grumbled. ‘Whisker drank it all.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Horace recalled. ‘After that giant spider crab tried to rip his arm off.’

  Whisker rubbed his shoulder and winced.

  ‘Come to think of it,’ Pete considered, ‘you’re likely to find the two herbs I need for a new batch while you’re frolicking in the jungle. The first herb comes from a large-leafed plant that looks like this –’ He hastily sketched the plant on the deck. ‘I don’t need the leaves, just the dried roots.’

  ‘I’m aware of that species,’ Mr Tribble said knowledgeably.

  ‘Good for you,’ Pete sniffled. ‘Make sure Horace doesn’t bring back a bag of shrivelled sweet potatoes by mistake.’

  Horace stuck out his tongue.

  ‘The second herb,’ Pete continued, ignoring Horace, ‘comes from the red fruit of a climbing plant. When the fruit ripens, it pops open like an eyeball. You can’t miss it. Bring me the black seeds. Autumn is approaching, so there could be some early ripe fruit.’

  ‘What quantity do you require?’ Mr Tribble asked.

  ‘Equal quantities of each dried herb,’ Pete stated. ‘One to numb the pain and the other for a healing rush of energy. Bring as much as you can carry. With a reckless apprentice on board, I’m sure to run out in no time.’

  Whisker considered sticking out his tongue but decided that Pete was probably right.

  The supplies were packed into calico backpacks and the team of jungle adventurers clambered into the small rowboat. Pete and Emmie waved goodbye from the deck to the out-of-tune chants of, ‘Row, row, row your boat’ as Fred ferried the companions to shore.

  The quest for the key had begun.

  Puddle Mucking

  'Mud, mud, mud,’ Horace moaned. ‘Nothing but mud.’

  It was low tide and the mangrove-dotted mudflat prevented the rowboat from travelling any further. With a soft bump, the vessel ran aground.

  ‘That will do, Fred,’ the Captain said. ‘We can walk from here.’

  ‘Squelch through muddy puddles, more like it,’ Horace muttered sulkily. ‘It’s easy for you tall folks, but look at me. I’ve hardly got the long legs of a flamingo.’

  ‘Or the elegance,’ Ruby smirked, as Horace stumbled out of the boat, landing spreadeagled in the mud.

  Whisker swung his body over the side of the small vessel. Sticky mud oozed through his toes. Reluctantly he hoisted up his trousers and trudged after Horace. Fred gave the companions a departing grunt and began rowing back to the Apple Pie.

  The Pie Rats hadn’t trekked far when Whisker heard a loud SPLOOSH behind him. He whipped his neck around to see a large ripple expanding from the centre of a nearby puddle.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Probably a bored toadfish,’ Horace replied morosely. ‘I suspect he’s tired of eating mud for breakfast.’

  Whisker gazed into the puddle. There was another SPLOOSH to his right. He looked up to see a long, scaly creature, twice his size, with a brown, sausage-shaped body twisting in the air. With a sharp flick of its tail, it knocked Horace face-first into the mud before disappearing into the water.

  ‘Jumping jelly cakes!’ the Captain exclaimed as Whisker pulled Horace from the mud. ‘That’s no toad fish.’

  ‘Disgustingly disgusting!’ Horace spat. ‘Which one of you clowns pushed me in?’

  ‘H-h-he did,’ Eaton stammered, pointing to a muddy puddle.

  Two black eyes pierced the surface of the water, gazing up at the companions.

  ‘Periophthalmodon schlosseri,’ Mr Tribble said quietly.

  ‘Perio-I’m-gonna-chop-its-ugly-head-off!’ Horace roared, reaching for his sword.

  ‘Periophthalmodon schlosseri,’ Mr Tribble repeated, ‘is an amphibious fish that uses its pectoral fins to walk on land. It is commonly known as the giant mudskipper.’

  ‘Oh joy,’ Horace groaned. ‘Yet another creature with the word giant in its name. Why can’t it be a miniature mudskipper for a change?’

  Ruby drew both of her swords. ‘Can it eat us?’

  ‘It is carnivorous …’ Mr Tribble replied.

  Smudge wasted no time in scrambling inside the Captain’s backpack. There was another SPLOOSH and a second mudskipper launched itself from a pond. Its powerful tail thrashed from side to side, its stumpy fins beat the air and its dorsal fin fanned out like the crest of a crazed cockatoo.

  ‘Duck!’ the Captain shouted.

  The Pie Rats belly-flopped in the mud. The second mudskipper soared over their heads, landing with a SQUELCH on top of the first mudskipper. There was a flurry of fins as the two creatures engaged in a savage wrestling match.

  ‘They’re territorial,’ Mr Tribble cried. ‘We’ve got to keep moving.’

  The rodents scrambled to their feet and took off through the mud. Dozens of mudskippers emerged around them, dragging their slimy bodies from the water. With savage flicks of their tails, they slithered across the mud in pursuit.

  ‘Down on all fours,’ the Captain commanded. ‘Stay on top of the mud.’

  With heads down and front paws scrambling, the Pie Rats raced to escape. They kept to the driest spots, but every puddle they passed contained another waiting menace.

  It was fortunate the mudskippers disliked each other more than the trespassers. The moment one got within striking range, another would leap out to protect its territory. Whisker discovered it was safer to run towards the mudskippers and jump clear when the wrestling began. It was messy work, but his brazen tactic ensured the mudskippers took out their fury on each other – not on the rodents.

  The P
ie Rats reached the first mangrove tree and scampered up its slippery trunk, filthy but unscathed. The mudskippers continued to brawl below.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ Horace muttered from an outer branch. ‘They’re fighting over a patch of mud.’

  ‘Mud to a mudskipper is like a pie to a Pie Rat,’ Mr Tribble reasoned. ‘Just be thankful they haven’t dragged you off to their underwater mud burrows.’

  ‘Oh, I’m thankful alright,’ Horace gulped, turning his attention back to the fight.

  When the mudskipper brawl was over, the companions scurried down the trunk. Fresh attackers joined the pursuit and the Pie Rats dashed towards the next tree. One mangrove at a time, they zigzagged their way through the danger zone. The mud became sandier and the trees grew thicker closer to the shore. Finally, the puddles were little more than moist patches in the hardened mud. Conceding defeat, the mudskippers gave up the chase and retreated to their underwater lairs.

  Exhausted, the adventurers collapsed in a dirty heap on the sand and lay panting for several minutes. Not even Horace had the breath to speak.

  Whisker sat up and surveyed his surroundings. He was on a sandy strip of earth, separating the mudflat from the freshwater pools of the marsh. A line of shady beach oaks lined the bank. Ruby was already on her feet, impatiently scratching mud from her neck and face.

  ‘Mud is great for your complexion,’ Horace remarked, still lying on his back. ‘It’s a popular beauty treatment back home on Freeforia.’

  Ruby glared at him with a wild look in her eye. ‘Are you saying I need a beauty treatment, Horace?’

  Horace covered his face with his hook.

  ‘No,’ he squeaked. ‘I was just … saying.’

  ‘Humph!’ Ruby snorted and turned away.

  Horace lowered his hook and gave Whisker a pleading stare.

  ‘Go on,’ he begged. ‘Say something to her.’

  ‘Huh?’ Whisker said in confusion.

  ‘So she calms down,’ Horace whispered. ‘We both know she’s worse than a bull with a bee sting when she’s angry. And she won’t believe a word I say.’

  Whisker doubted anything he said would make a difference. It was only recently that Ruby had dropped her major grudge against him. The Apple Pie was her domain. The Captain was her uncle and he simply got in her way.

  ‘What should I tell her?’ Whisker asked hesitantly.

  ‘Tell her she looks ravishingly beautiful even when she’s covered in mud,’ Horace whispered. ‘Girls love hearing that sort of rubbish, especially from handsome young apprentices.’

  ‘I can’t say that!’ Whisker exclaimed, far louder than he’d intended.

  ‘What can’t you say?’ the Captain asked, intrigued.

  Ruby raised her eye and looked at Whisker. Whisker hoped there was enough mud on his face to hide his reddening cheeks.

  ‘I, err … can’t say if mudskippers will be in the marsh,’ he lied.

  ‘They won’t be,’ Mr Tribble said confidently. ‘Freshwater crocodiles, perhaps, but definitely no mudskippers.’

  Horace flopped backwards into the sand.

  ‘Crocodiles,’ he whimpered, ‘Can’t you give us some good news?’

  ‘Pull yourself together, Horace,’ the Captain snapped. ‘You haven’t stopped whining since we left the boat. Anyone would think you had an acute case of land-sickness.’

  ‘I do,’ Horace coughed dramatically. ‘I can feel the infection spreading. I’m beyond saving … feed me to a crocodile and put me out of my misery…’

  The Captain shook his head and dragged Horace to his feet. ‘No one’s going to feed you to a crocodile, Horace. We’ll avoid the pools and stick to the grass. Come on.’

  Horace trudged after the Captain, steering well clear of Ruby. She was still cleaning mud off her arms and looked no less angry when Whisker walked past. He plucked up the courage to say something.

  ‘Um, Ruby …’ he began.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, frowning at the mud.

  He tried to find the right words. ‘I was just going to say…’ He panicked. ‘Err … ladies first.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, losing the frown. ‘Thanks, mud boy. I’m glad there’s one gentleman in the crew, even if he does need a good scrub.’ She spun on her heel and hurried after the others.

  Whisker trailed behind her, scraping mud from his flushed face.

  The trek through the marsh was a slow and cautious process. Smudge flew high above the expedition party, guiding them along the grassy banks between pools. More than once the Pie Rats ran into dead ends and more than once they were forced to paddle through shallow water. In places where the reeds grew thick, they clambered up tall stalks and leapt from reed to reed. Despite the challenges of the crossing, the faint croaks of frogs were the only sounds they heard.

  As the foot of the jungle drew closer, fallen trees formed natural bridges, reeds intermingled with leafy jungle plants and pools turned to sandy bogs.

  In unison, the Pie Rats looked up at the thick canopy of trees in front of them.

  ‘The glorious jungle,’ Mr Tribble sighed. ‘Walking should be much easier from here.’ He stepped off a log onto a sandy patch of ground and immediately began to sink. ‘H-h-help!’ he cried, waving his paws in the air.

  His ankles quickly disappeared.

  ‘Quicksand!’ Horace gasped. ‘Stay perfectly still, Mr Tribble.’

  Ignoring the advice, Mr Tribble thrashed his legs in a desperate attempt to escape. He sank to his waist.

  Whisker lowered his body over the side of the log and stretched out his arm.

  ‘Grab my paw,’ he cried.

  Mr Tribble made a frantic grab for Whisker, but his paw was well beyond reach. The hysterical mouse continued to panic and the quicksand rose to his chest.

  ‘Stop moving or you’ll go under,’ the Captain shouted.

  Mr Tribble kept moving.

  ‘Mr Tribble. Stop!’ Eaton squeaked.

  With only his head and arms above the quicksand, Mr Tribble finally stopped.

  ‘Don’t move a muscle,’ the Captain ordered. ‘You’ll only sink faster. Just relax your body and we’ll get you out.’

  Ruby removed a long candy cane from her backpack and passed it to Whisker.

  ‘Essential survival item,’ she said smugly. ‘This should do the job.’

  Whisker extended the sugary stick to Mr Tribble.

  ‘Take hold of it,’ he directed.

  Mr Tribble grasped the candy cane in both paws.

  ‘Pull me up,’ Whisker cried.

  Ruby and the Captain grabbed Whisker’s legs, hauling him backwards and Mr Tribble’s sandy body slowly rose from the quicksand.

  ‘And I thought students had trouble following instructions …’ Horace muttered, dragging Mr Tribble onto the log.

  Mr Tribble straightened his glasses. ‘Are you volunteering to be our new guide, Horace?’

  ‘N-no,’ Horace said, changing his tune. ‘I’m quite happy in the middle of the pack.’

  The Captain stood up and peered into the jungle. ‘How far does the quicksand continue, Smudge?’

  Smudge buzzed off into the undergrowth to explore. He returned several minutes later and landed on the rough bark of the log, repeatedly thrusting one arm towards the jungle.

  ‘I think that means a long way,’ the Captain said.

  ‘Too far to leap,’ Horace conceded, glancing down at his stumpy legs. ‘… though, we could use the bark to make a bridge.’

  He tore off a large sheet of bark with his hook and held it up for the others to see.

  ‘We’d require an enormous amount of bark to cross the quicksand,’ Mr Tribble said, warily.

  Ruby threw her paws in the air. ‘Look around. Trees are everywhere.’

  Whisker stared into the jungle and suddenly another idea came to him.

  ‘Bridges don’t have to be on the ground,’ he said excitedly. ‘There are endless branches, leaves and vines we can cross in the air.’

  M
r Tribble wasn’t convinced. ‘We’re not all trapeze artists with circus experience, Whisker.’

  ‘Who needs experience?’ Horace scoffed. ‘If monkeys can swing off vines then so can rats and mice. It’s either the trees or the quicksand.’

  ‘Trees,’ Mr Tribble replied quickly.

  The Pie Rats formed a small bridge of bark over the quicksand and crossed to the nearest tree. Using strangler vines for paw holds they pulled themselves up the thick trunk. When they reached the upper branches they searched for hanging creepers.

  ‘Here’s the fun bit,’ Horace said, grabbing a sturdy vine. ‘Geronimo …’

  He leapt off the branch and swung through the air in a wide arc. In moments he had reached the next tree. Whisker was right behind him, surprised at how easy and enjoyable it was. With so many leaves and vines around him, even a small slip meant he had something to grab hold of.

  ‘I could live up here,’ Horace exclaimed, using his hook to catch a passing branch.

  ‘It’s still a long way down,’ Mr Tribble gulped, holding on for dear life.

  ‘Look,’ Ruby exclaimed. ‘Monkeys.’

  Sure enough, to the left and right of the Pie Rats, small brown monkeys with white ear tufts and long banded tails appeared in the trees.

  ‘Marmosets,’ Mr Tribble pointed out. ‘Good natured creatures, though a little cheeky at times.’

  ‘Hello monkeys,’ Horace shouted. ‘We’re swinging just like you.’

  Whisker wasn’t sure if the monkeys took offence to Horace’s comment, but the next moment, several of them crashed into the rodents with angry hisses.

  ‘Hey!’ Horace exclaimed. ‘Get your own vine. It’s a free forest.’

  Whisker ducked out of the way as a monkey in a rusty metal helmet tried to head-butt him out of the tree. His tail coiled around a vine, but before he had time to steady himself, he felt a hard kick to the head.

  Losing his grip, he half jumped, half fell onto a branch and scrambled towards the safety of a huge tree. He’d nearly reached a hole in the trunk when the sound of bells filled his ears.

  A monkey in a jester’s hat plunged through the foliage, landing on Whisker with a jingle, jingle, THUD! Unable to support the weight of his attacker, Whisker’s legs crumpled beneath him. He tried using his tail to shake the monkey off his back, but the side-to-side motions sent him sliding over the edge of the branch.