The Twyning

by Terence Blacker

  There is the faintest tremble on the surface of the river. Then, with a mighty crash, a wall of water hurtles downstream like something out of a nightmare, appearing from the tunnel where the river emerges into the open from underground.

  In an instant, what was a gently running course of water is a boiling confusion. The dogs in the river are hit by the torrent, and some of the men on the banks are swept into the water by the rushing wave.

  The doctor is staring at the river, wild-eyed.

  “What’s happening?” he asks. “Where’s Grubstaff gone?”

  Before I can answer, one of the men from the council runs past us on the path. He is heading upriver.

  “Someone’s opened the lock,” he yells.

  “Lock?” the doctor calls out. “What lock? What’s he talking about?”

  I shrug. “There’s a lock from the canal into the river.”

  “Who would want to open it now? The rats are getting away, Dogboy.”

  Moments later, he has his answer.

  On the road, I see a familiar figure walking toward us between two other men, one of whom holds him by the arm.

  Bill.

  The river is calming now, although it is still dangerously swollen. Some of the hunters head downstream in search of their dogs. Others are walking back to the path.

  The doctor walks slowly up the path, meeting the men holding Bill near the bridge.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asks. “What’s Grubstaff doing here?”

  “Found him at the lock,” growls one of the council workers, a short, gray-haired man I had never seen before. “Red-handed, he was.”

  “Said something about rats.” The younger of the two men speaks up. “Thought he must be something to do with the hunt.”

  “He is.” For a moment, the doctor seems lost for words. “What’s going on, Grubstaff?”

  Bill says nothing.

  “He’s a loony, that one.” A young hunter, broad with light-red hair, laughs. “I’ve always said he’s a bit simple.”

  Jem Dashwood pushes his way to the front of the crowd. “If he’s harmed any of our dogs, he better watch out for himself late at night.”

  There are murmurs of agreement.

  The doctor, looking weary now, approaches Bill and stands before him.

  “I don’t understand,” he says. “What were you doing?”

  Bill lowers his head and stares miserably at the ground.

  “I know what he was doing.” I mumble the words softly. All eyes turn toward me. “Bill said he was going to drown the rats.”

  There is a disbelieving silence.

  “It was his plan,” I say as convincingly as I can manage. “He wanted to help in the war against rats.”

  “Drown the rats?” Dashwood moves toward Bill, as if to strike him. “Drown the dogs, more like.”

  “I told you.” The red-haired man speaks again. “He should be locked up in the loony bin, that one. He’s not all there.”

  Away from the river, on the outside of the fence, a terrier begins to bark, as if the hunt is not yet over. Heads turn in its direction. The noise it is making is that of a dog who has picked up a scent.

  A young boy, no older than me, is standing in the field nearby. Suddenly he points to a path near where the dog is giving tongue.

  “Rats,” he yells. “Loads of ’em.”

  . . . and we were waiting.

  Floke and I watched as the humans gathered by the river. For a moment, I had worried that the dogs were so scattered that the last group of warriors would not be able to lead them to us.

  But there is always one dog that can be fooled.

  The warriors had left a trail around the field. As the dog neared the house, the warriors broke cover.

  I saw the pale faces of the humans as they heard the dog’s barking. I heard their shouts as they set out in pursuit. One dog and the enemy were advancing toward us.

  The door below us was half open. I heard our warriors scramble through, their bodies thudding against the timber. Moments later, the dog crashed in.

  Its eager barking turned to yelps of terror. In the darkness, the warriors turned on it.

  We watched the fight from the top of a flight of stairs, where we waited for our moment.

  Small dogs fight well, and this was a brave one. With warriors attached to it, their teeth embedded into the flesh of its face, neck, back, and flanks, it still attacked those in front of it, staggering in the darkness under its deadly burden until it collapsed.

  Beside me, Floke stood with four other warriors and our weapon of terror, ready as the humans approached.

  I revealed to the warriors below.

  — Do not kill the dog. It has fought well. Take up your positions!

  At that moment, the door of the house is filled with the enemy, their dazzling lights and their shouts.

  — Now!

  . . . they reach the abandoned house. They have had rats falling from trees onto their heads. They have watched as beasts escaped when they were supposed to be trapped. They have seen their dogs swept away by a torrent. All they want now, all they need, is to kill rats — a lot of them, if possible.

  By the time I arrive at the house, they are gathered in a hallway around the bleeding, panting body of the terrier that had brought them here.

  “The beasts are in here,” one of the men shouts. “The house is boarded up.”

  There is a noise from the top of a wide staircase ahead of us leading to darkness upstairs.

  The men hold up their lanterns. Looking down at us, unmoving but for the glittering of their eyes in the light, are hundreds of beasts. They seem strangely unafraid. I feel a faint prickling of fear.

  The doctor speaks with an unsteady voice from the back of the room.

  “Just hold hard, everyone. Let’s keep them here until we get the dogs to deal with them.”

  “We’ve got weapons, haven’t we?” A gnarled old hunter, his bald head bleeding, bangs a walking stick against the floor.

  For several moments, no one moves. We look up at the rats. They gaze back. Then, as we watch, the beasts begin to make a sound. At first it is like the patter of rain on a roof. Then the noise seems to take a shape. It surges back and forth in a rhythm of its own.

  “What’s ’at?” one of the men calls out.

  “It’s their teeth,” another answers. “They’re afraid of us.”

  But the noise grows louder, and it is not the sound of fear. One of the rats begins to make a long squealing sound. It is almost like a horrible song.

  “Where are them dogs?” a man near the front calls out, a tremor in his voice.

  Another rat is making a different note, and others follow. Soon there is a heart-chilling chorus of noise from the beasts as they stand looking down at us.

  The men nearest the stairs start to back away.

  The rats are on the move. As the squeals grow louder, the dark mass of brown bodies begins to part. Out of the gloom beyond them, something appears, moving slowly toward the top of the stairs. Even as it enters the light, it is difficult to see exactly what it is.

  “It’s a monster!” one man screams. “It’s a monster rat!”

  At that moment, as if the hundreds of beasts at the top of the stairs were but one animal, the mass twitches, expelling from its heart, rolling and writhing down the stairs, step after step, a truly terrifying sight.

  It is a large ball of hissing and snarling rats, all tugging at their tails, which are merged together. It is like one grotesque beast with glittering eyes looking every direction and countless deadly teeth.

  There is a roar of fear from the front of the group — “Get out! Get out!”— and panic is upon us. Bellowing like stampeding cattle, the hunters scramble for the door.

  “It’s only a rat king!” I hear the doctor calling out. “There is a scientific explanation for it.”

  He sounds terrified, too.

  I am near the back of the group. As I pass the wounded terr
ier, I grab it. I am last out of the door before it is slammed shut behind us. The bodies of the leading rats thud angrily against the timber.

  Nearby, hunters who have found their dogs downriver are running in our direction.

  The doctor addresses the men, but he is unable to disguise the fear in his voice.

  “That was what we scientists call a ‘rat king’— it’s completely harmless,” he says breathlessly.

  “Didn’t look harmless to me,” someone shouted.

  “The rats are trapped in the house,” said the doctor. “Once we have enough dogs here, we shall send them in to finish the job.”

  It is while we are waiting for the dogs that the strangest event of this strange evening occurs.

  I feel a tickle, a sort of tug in the brain.

  No, it can’t be. Not now.

  I shake my head but the feeling grows stronger.

  Without wanting to, I hear it in my head. A revelation.

  — Save us.

  The revelation is so loud within me that I glance at the doctor, who is standing beside me, fearing he might have heard something, too.

  — Save us now.

  It is Efren, reaching me from within the house.

  As the men talk among themselves, I slip away into the darkness.

  The windows on the ground floor of the house have been nailed shut with boarding, but those on the second floor are covered only by shutters inside the house.

  I look up and know at that moment what I have to do.

  There is a thick growth of ivy against the wall of the house. The night is now too dark to see if it is strong enough to take my weight, but I am a good climber.

  It is time to take a chance.

  Stealthily, I make my way upward. One or two of the branches snap beneath my feet, but the main stem of ivy holds. When I reach a window, I push against the shutters within. Locked.

  I reach into my back pocket for my knife. Silently, I slip the blade between the shutters, lift it, and push through.

  The room is full of rats, each one looking up at me. I close my eyes and concentrate with all the brain strength I can manage.

  — Escape, Efren, — I manage to reveal. — This way. Through the window.

  There is a stirring in the darkness before me. I feel a tug within my brain, but it is nothing I can understand. A rat runs over my hand, then another, and another.

  “That’s it, beasts,” I whisper.

  Soon the ivy around me is alive with rats making their escape to the ground.

  It is time for me to move, too. As quickly as I dare, I climb down the foliage.

  Even as my foot finds the safety of solid ground, I know that if I return to the men, my deed will quickly be discovered.

  I steal away into the darkness, looking back to the house only once. It is as if a living waterfall of rats is gushing down the ivy below the window.

  Some hundred or so yards away, I remember, there is a ruined shed in which Bill and I have hunted for rats. I walk briskly toward it, until the sound of the men’s voices is little more than a distant murmur.

  I hear the barking of dogs. Some of the animals that were swept down the river are now returning to the hunt.

  Through the darkness, there is a crack of breaking timber as the door of the house is kicked open. The dogs — it sounds like four or five of them — bark in excitement from within the building.

  A pause. Then raised voices. Anger.

  “They got away!”

  “The window’s open.”

  The dogs pick up the scent of some of the escaping rats, but there is confusion and defeat in their barking as their hunt leads them in different directions.

  I wait in the gloom and damp.

  A few of the hunters continue their work, but most seem to have drifted back to the river, onto the road, and away.

  It is time for me to go home, too. I am about to move from my hiding place when I become aware that someone is walking across the waste-ground toward where I am.

  I strain my eyes. Against the lights of the town, I see the outline of a man, hunched, trudging, something large dangling from his hand.

  Even before I hear the voice mumbling to itself, I know it is Bill.

  I give a low whistle. Almost as if he is expecting it, Bill turns toward my hiding place.

  As he approaches, I scramble out of the cellar and stand before him. I see now that whatever he is carrying is alive. He holds it up.

  “Rat king.” He smiles. “I’ve not seen one of these for years.”

  His big hand holds a ball of rats’ tails that have grown into one another. There are twenty or so beasts hanging down. Their eyes are glassy with shock, but they are still alive.

  “Found it in the house.” He looks at the writhing creatures with something like affection. “Under the stairs.”

  “What will you do with it, Bill?”

  He looks around and notices the stone steps behind me.

  “I’ll leave them in the cellar there, I reckon,” he said. “It’s bad luck to harm a rat king.”

  “So this could be your lucky day,” I say.

  “It’s certainly theirs.” He gives a little chuckle, then walks to the cellar, down the steps, and into the darkness below.

  When he comes back without the rat king, he does something unusual. He lays his big right hand on my shoulder.

  “Someone opened a window,” he says.

  “Did they? Fancy that.” I manage to laugh.

  “Are you all right, boy?”

  “I am, thanks, Bill.”

  “Not much of a hunt, eh?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.” He sniffs, like a man used to being proved right. “You should never take liberties with a rat.”

  “They got a bit of help down at the river. Are you in trouble?”

  “They believed what you told them. They thought that was the kind of stupidity that Bill Grubstaff would do. Sometimes it’s useful when folks think you’re a fool.” He looks away, then adds quietly, “It’s you we should be worried about.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “They know who opened the window. Someone saw you climbing down.”

  I think for a moment. “There’ll be no more work from the doctor, then.”

  Bill frowns.

  “It’s not your job you should be worrying about,” he says. “Turns out one of the setters knows where you live. They’re on their way to the tip to find you. They’re saying they’re going to set light to it and burn you out.”

  It takes a moment for the full horror of what Bill is saying to become clear to me.

  “Lucky you’re not there, eh, boy?”

  “Caz.” I whisper the name.

  “What’s that, boy?”

  I hear his words behind me.

  I am already running.

  . . . in the bark. It is no longer making noise to strike fear in the prey, to summon other dogs. It is merely telling its owner that it is doing its best.

  When a rat hears that sorrowful note, it knows that today it will survive.

  After the escape from the house, there were battles as citizens escaped in every direction. Now and then the unmistakable sound of death could be heard in the darkness, causing those of us who had found hiding places to crouch down, motionless.

  Soon, though, the dogs were making the sound of defeat. They were tired. Their owners were angry.

  What would I have done without Floke? It was he who led the citizens in the house into battle after the Twyning had done its heroic work. In the moments after we left the house, I discovered that I was no warrior. Beside Floke, I was slow, weak. When he leaped over obstacles, I scrambled and fell, short of breath, as panicky as a ratling.

  I may have been the leader of the kingdom, but when it came to facing the enemy, I was a taster, no more and no less. With a dog before me, I was as helpless as any citizen. I could reveal as loudly as I liked. I could be a hearer
and hear great truths. These gifts counted for nothing when deadly white teeth were flashing, blood was flowing, and bones were being crushed in mighty jaws.

  Floke knew that. His only revelation, repeated with every stride and gasp, was — Survive! Survive! Survive!

  And I did. When the dogs were heading away from the river, we moved with speed ahead of them. Then, as others moved onward, we doubled back and into a clod-cave that, through that strange instinct only warriors have, Floke knew would be there.

  As still and silent as two stones, we heard the men and the dogs as they passed, their barking and their shouts fading.

  We waited there until the last sounds of battle had died away and the air no longer smelled of fear and rage and blood, but it was simply nighttime in the world above.

  Floke climbed out of the hollow we had found.

  — All is safe now, Efren. The battle is over.

  I climbed out and looked around. There were no lights, no human voices. The enemy had gone.

  — Floke, I . . .

  For once, I had difficulty revealing. My friend looked at me.

  — You were a leader, Efren. You did what you had to do. You owe me nothing.

  — I didn’t really fight.

  — In your way you did.

  There was nothing more to be revealed. It was time to gather the kingdom, to start again.

  There was a stump nearby. I climbed up onto it, composed myself, and prepared to reveal.

  — Growan?

  Silence.

  — Growan, are you alive?

  Nothing.

  — Driva?

  — I am here, Efren. Some of the does and ratlings died, but many are with me.

  — Stay where you are, Driva. Do not return to the world below until I give the order. Barcas?

  — Here, Efren. On the far side of the river.

  — Gvork?

  There was no reply, and I felt a twitch of sadness. Gvork had been a brave historian.

  One after the other, I called my leaders. Most, I discovered, had survived. The kingdom may have been scattered around the world above, but it was still there.

  — Victory.

  The word was Floke’s.

  — There is no victory when citizens have died, but, yes, there is still a kingdom.

  Yet Floke seemed restless, and I knew why.