The Twyning

by Terence Blacker

  — King Tzuriel has been captured.

  Several other heads on the Twyning turned toward me. Out of nervous politeness, I addressed them all.

  — I . . . I saw it with my own eyes.

  For a few seconds, the Twyning was still, as if absorbing this information into all thirty of its brains and bodies. Then it set up a shimmering motion, spreading across its backs like a breeze rippling over the water of a pond.

  Seeing it, Grizzlard, Quell, and Jeniel looked down. No rat, not even a courtier on the brink of kingship, would ignore the Twyning.

  The head that was closest to the Rock of State delivered a revelation that reached all of the Court of Governance and many rats in the congregation.

  — There is news from the world above. It concerns our king.

  . . . and I did not always live on the streets. I had a house, a mother, a father.

  Once I was Peter Simeon.

  Sometimes, even now, the memories catch me before I can stop them.

  I remember warmth, a bed with heavy blankets, the sounds of the house — Mary, the maid, singing as she worked; the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall; my mother and father talking.

  We were happy. We were the Simeon family.

  My father went to work every morning, in his suit, the worried look of a busy man already on his face.

  And my mother? She was beautiful. She still is, probably. She talked to me; she played with me. Sometimes when my father was not there, I sat upon her lap, warm and safe.

  Home, school, food, walls, servants. How could all that have been a dream?

  It was soon after my ninth birthday when late one night, I was awoken by the sound of voices. My father and mother were having an argument.

  All parents argue, but, lying there in the darkness, as he shouted and she cried, I knew that this was different.

  The next day, I was told to take my breakfast in the servants’ quarters.

  My father had left for work by the time I came upstairs from the kitchen.

  My mother, as pale as death, her eyes red, avoided me. She cast not so much as a single look in my direction. Mary took me to school.

  Soon I became used to looking for her large uniformed figure at the end of the school day.

  A few times I asked her what I had done wrong. She would frown and say, “They’re grown-ups. Sometimes grown-ups are like that, Peter.”

  From that moment onward, I ate all my meals with the servants. Now and then I would catch them glancing at one another as if they were in possession of some important, terrible secret.

  Fights between my father and mother continued. Every night, after we had all gone to bed, the voices would start, rising and falling in the darkness. Often I heard them mention my name.

  What had I done? What awful deed?

  Soon I no longer asked myself the question. A feeling of cold dread entered my heart. Something bad, beyond my understanding, was happening.

  I slept lightly, like a cat. The slightest sound awoke me. Even when my father and mother were not arguing, I was waiting for the next fight to begin.

  I would sit on the landing in the dark, listening to the voices below. I wanted to understand.

  One word, shouted by my father every time he argued with my mother, confused me.

  Bastard.

  What was a bastard?

  I asked the children at school. None of them seemed to know. When I asked a teacher, she made me stand in the corner.

  I asked Mary and she looked away, as if I had said something sinful.

  “What is it, Mary?” I asked again. “Please tell me. What is a bastard?”

  Mary’s face was as big and pale as the full moon. She was kind and sometimes would sing to me when my parents were not in the house.

  Now, though, she frowned and pursed her lips.

  “Bad blood, Master Peter,” she said. “It means bad blood. Better not to talk of it.”

  There came a night when there was no argument. The silence was even more frightening than the angry words. The next night was the same.

  One evening, during this time of quiet, something unusual happened. When my mother said good night to me, she cried. She held on to me, squeezing the breath out of me. Then, quite suddenly, she pushed me away from her.

  “Good night, Peter,” she said. It was as if she had suddenly been reminded of the terrible thing I had done, of my bad blood.

  At dead of night, I was awoken by a sound.

  This time, it was not an argument. Someone stood at the door to the bedroom. It was Frank, the footman.

  “Put some clothes in this,” he said, holding out a laundry bag.

  “Clothes?” I sat up in bed.

  “And get dressed. Quietly. We are going for a ride.”

  I put on some clothes, and I looked in my chest of drawers for a shirt, some flannel britches. Was this some kind of test?

  “Warm clothes. You’ll be needing a coat.” Frank spoke gruffly. “Get moving.”

  I opened the wardrobe and took out my only tweed coat. When I turned, Frank was on his way down the stairs. I followed him, past the door to my parents’ room, down into the hall, out the front door.

  Waiting there, in the dark, was a carriage with a coachman slumped at the front. Frank held my arm, as if afraid I would run away, then pushed me, in a way that was not polite, into the carriage.

  The carriage jolted forward.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.” Frank looked out the window.

  Plucking up my courage, I asked the question that now worried me night and day.

  “Is it because of my bad blood?”

  It was as if I had not spoken.

  After some time in the carriage, and only then, when it slowed, did Frank speak. “This will do,” he said, and tapped on the back of the driver’s seat. When the carriage came to a halt, he stepped down and looked around him.

  “Out you get,” he said. “Take your bag.”

  I stood beside him on the pavement. It was dark and we were in a part of town I had never seen before.

  “You wait here, lad,” he said, almost kindly.

  He stepped back into the carriage and immediately it moved off.

  I watched it go, listened to the horse’s hooves until I was standing there in the quiet of the night.

  Minutes. Hours. I looked down the street, waiting for the carriage to return, but it never did.

  Light began to break. I was cold. I was hungry. I was alone.

  I began walking. As day broke, the streets came to life, strangers hurried by. One or two glanced at me, then quickly looked away.

  Bad blood. They could smell it in my veins.

  So began my new life. Where does a boy find food and warmth on the street of a great town? Not among humans, that was for sure. I learned soon that to survive, I had to stay close to the dogs who lived wild. Something strange. They were as hungry as I was, but I discovered that while they would fight each other for scraps, they would become quiet when I spoke to them. The moment we looked into each other’s eyes, dog and human, we understood that we were stronger together. I could help them find food. They could protect me and keep me warm as I huddled close to their bony, scabby bodies at night.

  People began to say that I had a gift, that I could tame wild curs and make them do what I wished, but the truth was simpler. Dogs and I were close because together we could survive.

  There is work of a kind for those who can understand animals. Men who hunted the fields and rivers would use me for pegging out rabbits for their ferrets, or simple skinning work. Sometimes I would go ratting or netting hares. Once I was put down a fox’s earth to retrieve a terrier that had found a vixen and cubs. At the end of the day, I’d be given food or a couple of pennies for my labor.

  I soon discovered that it was not only my bad blood that brought trouble. When I spoke, men and women seemed alarmed, children stared openmouthed.

  My tones were too gentle f
or the ragamuffin way I looked. They asked questions. Who was I? Why was I there?

  Soon I kept my talk for the animals. With humans, I said little or nothing. I was a silent shadow in their company.

  “Dogboy,” they called me.

  I became used to the streets. I lost all sense of time passing. I found a home of sorts.

  Some years later I was working for a rat-catcher called Bill Grubstaff. A tall, whiskered gentleman in a frock coat would pass the compound, watching Bill and me as we worked.

  One evening, as I returned home, he talked to me in the park. He told me his name was Dr. Ross-Gibbon. He was a scientist and was working with rats.

  He asked me if I wanted to earn some pennies, helping him catch “specimens,” as he called them.

  I nodded my agreement. That evening, he showed me where he lived and asked me to come by the following day.

  “And what do they call you, my boy?” he asked.

  “Dogboy, sir.”

  He laughed. “Do they, bigod? Well, I shall call you Mr. Smith. You shall be Mr. Smith while you work for me.”

  That was how I met the doctor.

  . . . to speak to the Court of Governance.

  Within moments of the Twyning’s announcement, as I stood before the thousands of rats of the kingdom, I knew that this time my curiosity had taken me too far. I was that most outrageous, most unthinkable thing, a ratling on the Rock of State on the day a new king was to be announced.

  What was I doing there? That was the thought in my mind, and it was shared by every citizen of the kingdom who saw me.

  But there was no going back.

  Quell stared at me for a moment, his old face gray and sorrowful. I humbled. Then, realizing it was not enough, I rolled on my back, offering to him and to the kingdom. He darted clumsily toward me and I smelled the rot of his ancient teeth as he buried them briefly into my cheek.

  I screamed, as I was expected to, and lay still.

  Quell looked down at me, breathing heavily. He was old, but his revelation, when it came, was powerful.

  — Your name, ratling?

  — Efren.

  — And the information you claim to have?

  The court had moved threateningly close to me. Even if I revealed with all my force, I could only hope to reach some of them. I stood, still crouching, ready to humble if threatened.

  — I have visited the world above.

  — Today? While the kingdom was gathering?

  I closed my eyes, and trembled respectfully.

  It was Jeniel, the doe rat who had spoken earlier, who rescued me.

  — Surely, Quell, why he was in the world above matters less than what he saw.

  His eyes still resting on me, Quell nodded.

  — Go on, then.

  I thought of Alpa. What would she be feeling now as she watched her young taster after he had interrupted great matters of state? Fury? Shame? Fear, perhaps, for her own future.

  I, of course, now had no future.

  I crouched low. It was for my captain that I now revealed. I confessed to the members of the court that, yes, I had followed the king down the river into the world above. I told them the terrible things I had seen. The river, the two humans, the stick, the prison. I finished my account as quickly as I could.

  — I returned to the Great Hollow. I believed I should do my duty as a citizen and tell the court. — I looked at the eyes around me. — He was . . . He is . . . our king.

  When I had finished, Grizzlard stepped forward to face the assembly. He told them, in his own slow way, the story I had told. As his revelation reached the brains of those gathered there, an angry chattering sound arose from the throng.

  I was finished. Surely there could be no escape for me now.

  Grizzlard inclined his head in my direction. There was something about him, a light in his eye, that gave me hope as he began to reveal.

  — Ratling, you have done a bad thing. You have left the Great Hollow at a time when the kingdom must be united.

  From beyond the Rock of State, citizens revealed angrily.

  — The ratling must die!

  — To the Court of Correction with him!

  Grizzlard turned to them slowly, and there was silence in the hollow. He looked down at me.

  — You found our king. You might have remained silent but you had the courage to tell what you had seen. — He paused, then addressed the citizens once more. — The kingdom is good. Those who love the kingdom, however foolishly, should not die. A ratling, even this little cowering thing — he poked me with his nose — can grow to be great. Now he must simply show his loyalty.

  From the courtiers around him, there was a chattering of agreement.

  — I have an idea of how the ratling can do that.

  The revelation, languid with disapproval, came from a young courtier who stood beside Jeniel. He was sleek and dark, and the absence of the slightest scar or marking on his pelt suggested that, unusually, he was not originally from the Court of Warriors.

  — Swylar?

  Grizzlard’s revelation was icy cold. The courtier called Swylar moved forward, then continued.

  — When Tzuriel left the hollow, it was to die as a humble citizen. But now that he is in the hands of the enemy, he is our king once more. Until we know what has befallen him, there can be no other monarch.

  Grizzlard moved toward Swylar, baring his long teeth.

  — This is just a tactic to delay things, Swylar, so that your friend Jeniel will be queen. It is ambition speaking.

  Swylar smiled dangerously.

  — They shall not be pleased, the kingdom, when they are told that their new ruler put his own crowning before the safety of their beloved Tzuriel.

  Quell raised his head.

  — And what are you suggesting, Swylar?

  — We send someone to the world above to discover where King Tzuriel is held.

  — Almost certain death. — Swylar smiled, then turned to me. — There is one young citizen who will know where to start the search.

  And suddenly the eyes of the most powerful rats in the kingdom turned toward one young, humble citizen.

  Me? Me?

  I might have revealed. I might just have thought the word. What Swylar was suggesting was madness. I had no experience of the world above. I was not even a warrior.

  There was a moment’s uncertainty in the court. Grizzlard seemed to have reached a decision.

  — Perhaps he should take his companions.

  — My companions?

  I glanced across the hollow to the Court of Tasting, then noticed that Grizzlard was looking beyond the lip of the Rock of State, where the two young warrior rats who had escorted me were looking up at them. The court seemed to be expecting an answer from me.

  — Yes. I would like them to come with me.

  Grizzlard walked to the lip of the rock.

  — What are your names, ratlings?

  — Floke.

  — Fang.

  — Floke and Fang, this is your lucky day. — Grizzlard smiled sadly. — The three of you are going on a great adventure.

  . . . and you shall have served your purpose to the great cause of science.”

  The doctor is at the long table in his office, where he does his experiments. It is the dead of night. When we returned with the giant rat, he said to me, “We must work just a while.”

  Although I am tired, there is no questioning him.

  I sit on a stool in the corner of the room, watching. The doctor likes me to be here, ready to help him with the rats who are still awake before the chloroform begins to work on them.

  He talks at times like this, sometimes asking questions, never expecting an answer.

  “Have you seen the likes of this creature, Mr. Smith? What a big brute he is. If we can keep him alive, he will be the most famous rat in history.”

  He pokes with his sharp blade at the limp body of the giant rat we found by the river.

  My stomach aches w
ith hunger and my eyelids are heavy. Now and then my head nods forward, before I snap awake. All I want now is the sixpence I will be paid, and to be on my way home.

  “Give me a rat on a slab and I am a happy man.” The doctor laughs quietly to himself. “They find it strange, Mr. Smith. They say, ‘That Ross-Gibbon’s a bit of an odd one.’ ”

  He reaches for his magnifying glass and inspects the rat for a moment.

  “You want to know why? Because I am a man of science, Mr. Smith. The outside world is suspicious of scientists. Particularly women — watch out for the females, Mr. Smith.”

  The doctor makes a small cut in the rat’s stomach.

  “When I came down from Cambridge, I attended a dinner party and happened to mention to my neighbor at the table, a young lady, that I had the pancreas of an interesting water vole in my pocket. When I showed it to her, you should have heard the screams, Mr. Smith! It was bedlam! I was actually asked to leave. Such are the trials of the scientist.”

  He lays down his knife and looks at me solemnly for a moment.

  “Poor boy. You don’t have the slightest idea what I am talking about, do you?”

  He reaches into his pocket, and just for a moment, I think he is about to pay me, but it is not money that he holds, but a dirty handkerchief with which he wipes his hands.

  “Who needs women, Mr. Smith? Give me the inner workings of a small mammal anytime.”

  He beckons me over.

  Almost too tired to stand, I walk over to the table.

  The rat is on its side, a small wound glistening red on its fur.

  “Show me a rat with its organs intact and I will reveal the mysteries of the world,” he says softly.

  Gently, almost like a nanny with her baby, he turns the rat on its back with a pencil. A smell of rotting flesh fills the air. He breathes in, as if it were the scent of spring.

  “Is that not the most beautiful case of rodent cancer you have ever seen, Mr. Smith?”

  He lays down the pencil and reaches for the knife. I watch as he cuts into the flesh in the pit of the rat’s stomach.

  It stirs, opens its eyes, and at that moment gives a scream that seems to fill my brain.

  I gasp and stagger back.

  “Squeamish, Mr. Smith?” The doctor laughs coldly.