The Twyning

by Terence Blacker

  “He’ll be more than hurt if I catch him.” Bill gives a little laugh. “They even tried to get into the well, bloomin’ varmints.”

  He walks to the trapdoor over a disused well where he likes to keep the beasts, and puts a finger over the wood where tooth marks can be seen. “They were curious, I suppose.”

  He lifts the wood and throws in some scraps from his bucket.

  The rats squeal as they fight for food.

  “Must be a fair few in there,” he says. “It’s going to be a good day for us, Dogboy.”

  He looks at the beasts, and a little smile is on his big, weather-beaten face. He could be a farmer looking at his prize pigs.

  He passes me a sack. “In you go, then, boy.”

  I take the ladder that is leaning against the fence and slowly lower it into the well.

  Carefully, I descend. On the last step, I feel the warmth of scurrying feet and tiny claws around my ankles.

  I reach down and my fingers close around a tail. In a quick movement, I pick it up and drop it into the sack.

  One after the other, I take them, counting them aloud as I go. Bill is not good at figures.

  I have been counting for several minutes when I lift a beast who is smaller and lighter than the rest.

  To my surprise, I see it is a pet rat, of the type that has become all the rage among the gentry.

  “A fancy,” I say to Bill.

  Bill glances at it. “That’ll be from Barnaby Smiles,” he says. “He gives me the beasts he can’t sell in the market.”

  “Bit small for the pit,” I say, feeling a touch sorry for the little thing.

  He laughs. “You’re going soft, Dogboy,” he says. “A rat’s a rat. She’ll do.”

  I lower the fancy rat into the sack.

  . . . to the world below when all I wanted was to rest my poor bloodied feet. Behind me, though, I smelled the pain of Fang, who was now limping badly.

  His brother Floke, beside him, revealed every stride or so.

  — Onward. Onward. We shall soon be there.

  It was Floke who first sensed we were not alone.

  Then we smelled it. The kingdom. We were among citizens.

  We were on a flat, damp stone. Ahead of us, under some rotting wood, was a gouge. There, watching us, was a group of five rats, citizens of the kingdom.

  I stood beside Floke and revealed to them.

  — We came from the world above. I am Efren.

  I noticed that the strength of my revelation stirred the rats into life. They advanced toward us.

  — Are you from the Court of Governance? — one of them asked.

  I hesitated, and in that moment Fang replied.

  — He is. And we are warriors.

  The rats, who I now saw were quite old, turned to one another and seemed to be having a nervous debate about what to do.

  Floke moved toward them.

  — Who are you, citizens?

  One of them faced us, crouching. His revelation, when it came, was so feeble that it was little more than an irritation in the head.

  — I am Hurh.

  Another of the rats stood beside him. Their revelations came tumbling out one after another.

  — My friend is named after Hurh, the king of many generations back.

  — Although, there is some doubt whether Hurh was actually king in this kingdom.

  — But he was certainly a king somewhere.

  — Not that the Court of Governance has seen fit to recognize him.

  — These days all citizens think about is today and tomorrow.

  — What about yesterday? That’s what we say.

  — But no one listens.

  — Ever.

  — Ever at all.

  Floke had heard enough. He seemed to breathe in deeply, becoming twice his normal size. The rats shrank back. The one called Hurh revealed nervously.

  — We’re historians, you see. We’re part of the Court of Historians.

  I had never really known what the Court of Historians did. By the look of them, Fang and Floke had never heard of it. Hurh was gaining in confidence.

  — We believe historians are important because —

  — No!

  I interrupted the old historian as sharply as I could manage. I was tired; my feet were bleeding. One of my comrades was badly wounded. History could wait.

  — Hurh, we need you to take us to the Great Hollow.

  Hurh was taking a closer interest in me.

  — Are you a fragile? — He was looking at the white streak on my head. — There has not been a citizen with fragile blood on the Court of Governance since —

  — Now!

  As I revealed, Floke bared his teeth.

  Another historian, lighter in color, emerged from the back of the group.

  — Are you with the changers or the keepers? — he asked.

  — Changers? Keepers? What is this? We have been in the world above.

  The historian sat back on his haunches as he revealed with painful slowness.

  — I am Divnit, and I shall now tell what happened.

  Floke darted forward and nipped his shoulder. The historian screamed as if he were in his death throes. I moved between them before there was more trouble. I revealed as calmly as I was able.

  — We are tired. One of us is injured. We need two of you to take us to the Great Hollow. You can tell us about what has happened in the kingdom as we go.

  Encouraged to talk, Divnit recovered quickly. With Hurh, he led us out of the gouge, revealing as he went. The kingdom, he told us, had been changed by the news that King Tzuriel had been captured by the enemy. In every court, sorrow had turned to anger. King Tzuriel’s words of peace had been forgotten. If humankind was prepared to do such terrible things to an old king, citizens were asking, what else would it do? Where would the violence end?

  The certainty about who would succeed Tzuriel had disappeared. Grizzlard was a figure from the past. He was too old, too peace-loving to rule the kingdom at a time of peril.

  Some citizens believed the doe Jeniel should become queen. They were the changers. Behind Grizzlard were the keepers.

  By the time we had been led by Hurh and Divnit down winding touch-paths that led to the Court of Governance, I knew what I had to do. It was time for the kingdom to hear what had happened to King Tzuriel.

  When we reached the entrance to the area behind the Rock of State where the Court of Governance stayed, two warriors blocked our path.

  As bravely as he could manage, Hurh revealed.

  — I am Hurh from the Court of Historians.

  — And I am Divnit.

  The revelation from Divnit was like a small sneeze in the brain.

  One of the warriors snickered, and went back to nibbling at a root. Historians, I was discovering, were not widely respected.

  I pushed forward.

  — I am Efren. Let me through.

  The warriors ignored me. I felt Floke tense beside me, ready for a fight. I tried again.

  — I have seen the king in the world above.

  There was movement in the hollow behind the warriors. The ancient form of Quell appeared.

  — Efren? Is it you?

  The warriors moved back. I led Floke and Fang, followed by the two historians, onto the Rock of State.

  — Tzuriel is dead. Stabbed to death by the enemy. I saw it.

  He seemed almost displeased that the three of us had returned from our mission. Eventually, he appeared to have reached a decision.

  — You will be fed and given water. When your strength has returned, you will tell the court what you have seen in the world above.

  Hurh pushed forward, his eyes glistening with the excitement of the moment.

  — It would be useful for future historians if one of our court could attend this . . . occasion. His revelation tapered off as, ignoring him, Quell turned away. As we followed, the two historians were approached by the warrior gatekeepers.

  — Thank you, his
torians, — I revealed as they were led off the Rock of State.

  Quell moved slowly. He seemed to have aged by another lifetime since we had been away.

  As we reached the Court of Governance, I noticed for the first time a smell of fear and anger in the dark air.

  — The ratling is back.

  Quell’s revelation caused all eyes to turn in our direction. They were not welcoming.

  A guard led me into a small chamber to the side of the main court, where a cache of food — some grain, cooked potatoes, and apples taken from a human cellar — had been left. There was a disturbance behind me.

  As I turned, I saw Floke and Fang being nipped and bustled away from me by four guards.

  — Where are you taking them? They must eat with me.

  Desperation added strength to my revelation.

  A dark figure filled the entrance to the chamber. It was Swylar, the sleek young deputy to Jeniel.

  — They are injured. Do not worry, young Efren. They shall be taken good care of.

  He moved closer to me and nudged me with his nose. Normally the gesture would have been to judge my mood by the scent of my breath — whiffling, as it is called — but Swylar, I could tell, had no interest in how I was feeling. He simply wanted to make me afraid.

  I turned to the food and began to eat.

  — They didn’t want you back, you know. — Swylar’s revelation was easily conversational. — They assumed you would all die in the world above and that the kingdom could continue as it always has. I fear that you are now in rather serious danger.

  I stopped eating.

  — Danger? Why?

  — Some members of the court, the keepers, as they are known, were hoping that if nothing was known of the end of Tzuriel, the succession would be as normal. Grizzlard, the foolish old warrior, would become king. Now that we know the enemy stabbed Tzuriel to death, it changes everything. For some, a subject who caused all this to happen is a traitor and must suffer a traitor’s fate.

  — I saw what I saw. What can I do about that?

  Swylar prodded me once more.

  — You have to do nothing, little Efren. Fortunately, I have it in my power to help you. The guards listen to me these days. You will be safe if you listen to me and do what I say.

  — And what is that?

  — Tell the truth. — Swylar glanced toward the entrance of the chamber, from where there were sounds of courtiers approaching.

  He scuttled away into the darkness at the back of the room.

  Quell stood at the entrance to the chamber.

  — Are you strong enough to address the courtiers?

  When I emerged from the chamber, I was aware that the area outside the door was thronging with members of the court. Courtiers climbed over one another in their attempts to get closer. Some of them had scratches around their faces, suggesting that scuffles and skirmishes had even broken out within the Court of Governance. It was strange. Something surely was changing in the kingdom.

  — Is this ratling to be trusted? — one of the courtiers revealed as if I were not standing before him. — We have had too many plots recently. This could be another one.

  Quell stepped in front of me. — We need to close this business. Let us hear what this young rat claims to have seen.

  My revelation was slow, and in spite of my tiredness, it reached all the courtiers who were listening. I told of the events that had happened to the three of us in the world above, from the first time we had sensed the pulse of the king to the meeting with Malaika.

  As I finished my revelation, a figure pushed to the front of the crowd. It was Grizzlard, the rat who would be king. He seemed less in control, more disheveled and ordinary, than he had been until recently. As he addressed the courtiers, a whiff of disrespect was in the air.

  — If what we have heard is indeed the truth and not some story invented by a ratling, it is a tragedy for the kingdom. What our subjects need now is their new king to bring back stability. As the courtier nominated by the great martyr Tzuriel, I —

  — Your moment is past.

  The revelation came out of the darkness of the chamber behind me, from where, after a few moments, Swylar stepped forward.

  — This brave young rat from the Court of Tasting has shown us that courage does not have to involve the noise and fighting and aggression of the Court of Warriors. It is not the time for a warrior to lead us. Efren has borne witness to an act of open war by the enemy. The planned capture of our king and his execution before cheering crowds.

  Quell looked up sharply. — That is not what the ratling said. There was no talk of war or execution.

  Swylar moved forward to stand closer to Quell than was deemed respectable at court. Beside the creaking, ancient figure, he seemed lithe and young. I was crouching low, hoping not to be seen, but to my horror he turned to me.

  — It was no accidental death, the end of our king, was it? More like a declaration of war, surely.

  I gazed into the eyes of Swylar. They narrowed with the merest hint of a threat. I remembered the courtier’s words: We are in this together. I revealed quietly. — It was no accident.

  — See? — Ignoring Quell, Swylar turned to the court. — We are in a state of war. Grizzlard belongs to yesterday. The kingdom calls out for a new leader.

  Grizzlard attempted to interrupt.

  — It is for this court, not for subjects —

  Before he could finish, Swylar scurried forward and delivered a contemptuous nip on the side of Grizzlard’s neck.

  In spite of his superior strength and his famed courage in battle, the courtier did nothing to retaliate.

  — We have discussed enough. The court must unite for the future. It is time to choose a new ruler. The kingdom awaits.

  As if some silent but powerful command had been given, the citizens who had been pressed together in the center of the court began to move back, allowing a passage through their midst. A small figure, gazing ahead as if into the eyes of destiny, moved through their ranks. It was Jeniel.

  — I request the nomination of this court. Let us end this uncertainty. The kingdom demands it.

  The heads of several courtiers turned to Grizzlard and then to the senior courtier Quell. One after the other, they lowered their heads in agreement. In response, relieved that the uncertainty was over, the courtiers acclaimed the doe would be queen.

  Swylar had moved closer to me.

  — Stay near to me. — The revelation was low and urgent. — You have just become part of the Court of Governance.

  He nudged me in the direction of Jeniel.

  The Court of Governance? What was he talking about? I was gripped by panic.

  — Can I return to the Tasting Court? I want to see Alpa and all my friends.

  Smiling coldly, Swylar replied. — Too late for that, little one. Step out of my protection now and you will quickly be dead.

  — Dead? But why?

  — You are with me and the queen now. If you are not, citizens may believe that you are with the enemy. And you know how citizens can be when they are angry.

  Within me, I heard the revelation of Grizzlard when he had spared me from the Court of Correction. It was those words I revealed now.

  — The kingdom is good.

  Swylar looked more closely at me. There was threat in his eyes.

  — Good? Be very careful, little one. The kingdom is changing. In times of war, the only good is to obey your leaders.

  — What of Floke? What about Fang?

  — Efren, your dear simple friends have, unfortunately for them, seen things that will require them to make the small sacrifice of their insignificant lives.

  — You told me that they were being taken care of.

  Swylar turned away from me.

  — And so they are. In a sense.

  . . . or so many people believe anyway.

  I sit in the back of Bill Grubstaff’s cart, a cage full of rats at my feet. His old black horse, Jim, hairy heele
d and with a tragic look in his eye, takes us through the town.

  Some of the townspeople recognize Bill and his cart. Others catch sight of the sign painted on each side. It reads, BILL GRUBSTAFF, RAT-CATCHER, and has a rough drawing of a big rat beneath the letters. I have never thought that was a very good idea.

  Children stare at us now and then. Their mothers or nannies hurry them along. Men joke to one another as we go by, but I can tell that they are uneasy.

  Nobody wants bad luck, do they?

  You would think people would welcome Bill. Stories are told about giant rats being found in cellars, under the floorboards, in postboxes. I have never understood why someone who catches them should be seen as a person to avoid.

  Bill cares nothing for all this. He is slumped on the seat, his old cloth cap over his eyes. Now and then he shakes the reins against Jim’s neck. The horse ignores him.

  It is a gray November morning when we reach the Cock Inn, an old tavern that has the look of a place hemmed in by the houses on each side.

  As we pass, I see faces peering out the window. There is movement behind the glass as we approach.

  Bill looks in their direction, and smiles.

  “Well, they’re pleased to see us anyway,” he murmurs.

  We continue down the road until we reach a yard behind an ironmonger’s shop. It is here that Bill tethers Jim, by a stone water trough.

  I once made the mistake of asking Bill why we had to hide the cart away from the Cock Inn.

  He became unusually angry.

  “Anybody would think we was animals,” he said. “Ducking and diving, hiding ourselves away from the coppers. All because we provide a few rats for sport.”

  The pit was against the law now, he told me. He talked of the days when the Cock Inn was famous for its bouts — cockerels, bears, dogs, monkeys, and even humans had fought in the pit that was to be found in the big back room away from the street.

  Now, Bill told me, they had to be careful. Coppers needed to be paid off. News of the next pit day was passed on, quietly, from sportsman to sportsman, pub to pub.

  On days like this, though, the Cock Inn is full of life and noise and sport, just as it was in the times gone past.

  We carry the rat cages, one after the other, down a narrow alleyway that leads to the backyard of the Cock Inn.