You should have been more careful, he scolded himself. You could have put it in a pocket, or left it in the navigation room.
He sat on a rock and wallowed in guilt. The Captain hadn’t spoken a word since Whisker had dragged him from the ocean, but Whisker could feel his black eye watching him closely. The key was Whisker’s responsibility. This was the second time he’d lost it and there were no excuses. He had to come clean.
‘I-I dropped the key in the lagoon,’ he blurted out. ‘I’m sorry.’
The Captain remained expressionless. ‘You risked your life to save me, Whisker. I’m hardly going to give you a lecture about losing a key.’
Whisker sighed and turned back to the ocean.
‘Thank you,’ the Captain added. ‘You didn’t have to come after me. It was more than anyone could have asked. I’m supposed to be keeping you alive, remember?’
Whisker was unsure how to respond.
‘I kind of just fell in,’ he replied humbly, . ‘Besides, what’s an apprentice without a captain?’
‘What’s a captain without his crew?’ the Captain said, the smile draining from his face. ‘Or his ship?’ He stared out at the horizon. ‘You and I are two peas in a mushy pea pie, Whisker. You’ve lost your family and now I’ve lost mine.’
‘B-but they’ll come back for us,’ Whisker stammered. ‘After they escape from the eel … Ruby and Horace and the others … we’ll see them again – won’t we?’
The Captain put a shaky paw on Whisker’s shoulder and Whisker felt a double pang of sadness in his aching chest – the Pie Rats were his family, too.
‘We can only hope,’ the Captain said slowly.
Whisker nodded. He was no stranger to hope. He carried it everywhere he went, in the form of a gold anchor pendant hanging around his neck. It wasn’t a charm, it was a reminder.
He touched its golden surface. The faces of his parents flashed before his eyes: Faye, the green thumb, patient and kind; Robert, the circus rat, crafty and inventive. Then he saw his little sister Anna, the lover of stories, followed by the faces of the Pie Rats: Ruby, Horace, Fred, Smudge, the mice, even Pete. He couldn’t give up on any of them. He refused to give up on any of them.
‘It’s getting dark,’ the Captain said, breaking Whisker’s thoughts. ‘Do you have the energy to swim to shore?’
Whisker peered across the lagoon to the Rock of Hope, its smooth surface radiating the pink and purple hues of the twilight sky. It was a shining beacon on a rough sea. A short distance away, a barrel bobbed in the waves, and broken deck-boards and strands of rope drifted nearby.
‘I can make it to the barrel,’ Whisker said hoarsely. ‘I think it’s safer if we paddle across.’
The Captain agreed. ‘Who knows what other creatures lurk beneath these waters?’
The two rats anxiously rowed their barrel-boat across the choppy surface of the lagoon. Fortunately, there were no signs of giant eels, stinging bluebottles or hungry fish.
They reached the sandy shallows, slid from the barrel and dragged themselves onto the shore. It wasn’t the triumphant landing Whisker had hoped for, but he had finally reached the Island of Destiny.
Grateful to be alive, he squeezed the water from his clothes and staggered up the sand. The Captain limped beside him, wincing with every step. From the safety of their spiral shells, hermit crabs watched the waterlogged rats approach the Rock of Hope.
Whisker knelt down in the centre of the estuary and drank from the cool water flowing around the rock. It was pure and thirst-quenching and tasted refreshingly sweet after the salty water of the ocean.
With renewed strength, he stood up and stared at the giant rock in the centre of the river. In the fading light, it appeared as a ball of pale blue, framed by the black silhouettes of the twin mountains. Whisker could hear the wind howling through the foothills and the waves crashing against the cliffs. The Rock of Hope was like the calm eye of a cyclone – a place of peace in the midst of its turbulent surroundings.
He saw a flicker of movement from the upper edge of the rock. When he looked again, it was gone. He scanned the estuary, puzzled.
‘Is something wrong?’ the Captain asked with a furrowed brow.
‘No,’ Whisker said. ‘I thought I saw … oh, never mind.’
The Captain glanced warily at the rock. ‘I suggest we head into the foothills and find shelter for the night. The further we are from the lagoon, the safer I’ll feel.’
The two rats followed the beach past the Rock of Hope and ascended a grass-covered dune to the east. The wind raced over the crest, spraying grains of sand into their eyes. Whisker raised his arm to protect his face and squeezed his eyes until they were almost shut.
Blindly, they pressed on.
The dune dropped down into a sandy valley and then rose to meet a line of sprawling pine trees. Whisker scrambled up the bank, his toes sinking into the sand. The Captain trudged warily beside him, his eye darting from the trees to the dunes.
They’d almost reached the crooked trunk of a huge pine tree, when the Captain threw out his arm and stopped Whisker in his tracks.
‘Stay perfectly still,’ he hissed.
Whisker froze.
‘What is it?’ he whispered.
The Captain sniffed the air and moved his paw to the handle of his sword.
‘Something’s following us,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Don’t turn around – not until I give the signal, understand?’
‘Y-yes, Captain,’ Whisker trembled.
Cautiously, the rats entered the pine forest, their eyes adjusting to the gloom. The wind whistled above them, and dry needles crackled under their feet. Their pursuer was silent.
As they moved further into the forest, the dense canopy of branches and pine needles blocked the faint light of evening stars. Whisker caught a strong scent of onion in the air and stopped. The Captain pulled him behind a tree and drew his sword.
‘It’s here,’ he whispered, ‘whatever it is …’
‘What do we do?’ Whisker asked, hoping the creature was nothing more than a large onion rolling along in the wind.
The Captain felt the rough, flaking bark of the tree.
‘We either fight the beast or climb and hope our pursuer has vertigo,’ he said. ‘What’s it to be?’
Whisker drew his sword. Although he was still a novice at sword fighting, he’d already faced Sabre, the dreaded captain of the Cat Fish, and survived. Cowering in a tree didn’t seem like a Pie Rat thing to do.
There was a soft crunch from the opposite side of the tree. The Captain pointed at Whisker and gestured to his left, his fingers twitching on the handle of his scissor sword.
Whisker nodded.
The Captain raised three fingers and then lowered them, silently counting, three … two … one … NOW.
The rats attacked. Swords raised, they leapt from either side of the tree to face their enemy. The forest floor was deserted, but the onion smell lingered. Back to back, Whisker and the Captain scanned their surrounds for any sign of life.
‘It must be close,’ the Captain whispered. ‘Watch your feet for hidden burrows …’
Suddenly there was a loud cackling sound from the branches above him and Whisker jumped in fright.
‘Noisy sailors choose to fight,’ laughed a thin, raspy voice. ‘Hermit chooses to climb. Sailors never catch Hermit in a tree. Hermit knows forest like eel knows lagoon.’
Trembling, Whisker peered up, unable to see anything through the mass of needles and pine cones overhead. The Captain slashed at low branches in frustration.
‘Reveal yourself, you devilish fiend!’ he shouted. ‘If that vile sea creature is a pet of yours, you’ll pay dearly, do you hear?’
‘No! No!’ the voice cried. ‘Nasty eel is not Hermit’s pet. Eel is no one’s pet.’
‘So why were you following us?’ the Captain roared.
‘Hermit was curious,’ the voice croaked. ‘Hermit not seen pesky visitors on island for many y –’ h
e stopped himself and laughed. ‘Hermit not seen visitors on island – ever.’
The Captain was far from amused.
‘We’re not visitors to be trifled with,’ he hissed. ‘Our scissor swords are sharp and …’
‘Scissor swords?’ the voice broke in. ‘Noisy sailors carry scissor swords: sparkling, shiny scissor swords? Sailors let harmless old Hermit hold one, yes, yes? Just for a moment?’
‘Not on your life!’ the Captain bellowed. ‘The closest you’ll come to a scissor sword is when my blade is pointed at your conniving throat.’
The voice in the tree didn’t respond. Whisker felt an icy gust of wind blow through the forest.
‘Stay alert,’ the Captain whispered.
Awaiting an attack, Whisker raised his sword above his head and scanned the darkness for the mysterious pursuer.
There was a dull thud to his right. The Captain leapt in the direction of the sound but Whisker stayed rooted to the spot, his tail squirming in the pine needles at his feet.
The onion smell drifted into his nostrils.
‘He’s not there,’ the Captain hissed over his shoulder.
‘I know,’ Whisker said in a petrified voice. ‘He’s standing right behind me.’
The Captain spun around – and abruptly halted. An expression of pure bewilderment ran across his face.
‘You!’ he gasped.
Whisker slowly turned. A scrawny rat stood in the shadows of the trees, his sinewy body draped in a course, fibrous cloak. He was a rat of many years, lean and ragged, but a match for any rat – scissor sword or not. His black eyes sparkled with a familiar intensity, though Whisker was certain he’d never seen him before.
Defensively, Whisker tightened the grip on his weapon and maintained his stance. The rat stared past Whisker to the Captain, a look of recognition filling his eyes. A broad smile grew across his face.
‘Many moons have passed,’ he sighed. ‘Yes, yes. Time has been long.’
‘Not long enough,’ the Captain said through gritted teeth.
The Hermit’s smile quickly vanished. He looked at Whisker with desperate eyes. Whisker took a step backwards, aware this was no ordinary reunion.
The Captain extended his sword and scowled. ‘Ran out of gold, did you, Hermit? Decided to return to the island to finish your failed quest?’
The Hermit’s jaw dropped. His lip trembled.
Whisker turned from the Hermit to the Captain and suddenly it clicked.
‘Return?’ the Hermit gasped. ‘No, no. Hermit could never return. Hermit never left.’
The Hermit
Captain Black Rat had a temper but he wasn’t a fool. The fire died in his eye as quickly as it had sparked.
He lowered his sword and stared, transfixed, at the strange figure in front of him. The Hermit stared back, motionless. Both rats shared the same expression – disbelief.
‘But Rat Bait said …’ the Captain choked.
‘Rat Bait said many things,’ the Hermit murmured. ‘Many stories, many tales, yes, yes. But truth? Hmm …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Hermit remembers stormy afternoon, wild, wild sea. Eel attacked Princess Pie. Hermit tumbled overboard. Princess Pie vanished into storm. Hermit waited months – Hermit waited years. Crew of Princess Pie never returned …’
He pointed to the map canister in Whisker’s belt. ‘Hermit left Forgotten Map for his son.’ He turned back to the Captain. ‘Finally you have come.’
The Captain looked from the Hermit to Whisker, his face a sea of emotions.
‘The map was meant for me?’ he gasped in confusion. ‘My father was here all along … But-but that means everything Rat Bait told us was a lie.’
Whisker searched his mind for clarity, trying to separate truth from treachery. He remembered the night he’d met Rat Bait, the former first mate of the Princess Pie, and recalled the words the old rogue had spoken. One line of Rat Bait’s story suddenly took on a whole new meaning: We lost the c – we lost the cargo and supplies over the side.
At the time, Whisker was fixated on the treasure and thought nothing of Rat Bait’s awkward pause. But now it was obvious. Rat Bait had almost given himself away. The Princess Pie hadn’t lost her cargo, she had lost her captain.
‘We know Rat Bait lied about the key,’ Whisker said quietly. ‘There’s nothing to stop him lying about your father, too.’
The Hermit gave the Captain a pleading stare. The Captain stared back, speechless. His tongue moved, but he didn’t utter a sound.
Whisker could only imagine what was going through his mind. The very rat the Captain had trained himself to hate was standing right in front of him, no longer a monster but an innocent victim of a terrible lie.
After an agonising silence, the Captain slowly extended the handle of his scissor sword to the Hermit, struggling to hold back the tears.
‘A noble captain deserves a sword,’ he quavered, ‘and the loyalty of his family.’
The Hermit took one look at the sword and threw his arms around the Captain.
‘Hermit needs his son,’ he sobbed.
For a moment, the Captain stood rigid, then, with a gush of tears, he dropped his sword and hugged the Hermit tightly. The Hermit pounded the Captain on the back like a giddy school boy celebrating a winning goal. The sobbing soon turned to laughter.
Whisker watched the joyous reunion, unable to look away. Part of him felt like an outsider, but the rest of him longed to know what it felt like to finally have his family back. He’d come to the island with high hopes. The Island of Destiny had already rewritten one future.
The Captain finally broke from the Hermit’s embrace and regained his composure.
‘Whisker,’ he said in a formal voice, ‘may I present to you my father, Ratsputin, noble captain of the Princess Pie and Pie Rat extraordinaire.’
The Hermit extended his paw to Whisker and spoke with oniony breath. ‘Hermit pleased to meet you, master Whisker.’
Whisker shook his rough paw. ‘The pleasure is mine, Captain Ratsputin, sir.’
The Hermit twitched his ears. ‘Captain Ratsputin, no, no. Hermit it is. No captain here, only Hermit, scorpions and owls.’ He waved his arms theatrically above his head. ‘Hermit welcomes you to windy, windy island where wind is always windy.’
‘Nice to, err … be here,’ Whisker replied, wondering if the Hermit had spent a little too long in the sun – or the wind.
The Hermit gave him a long stare and waved his finger in a circle around his ear.
‘Hermit not cuckoo,’ he laughed. ‘Hermit just muddles words. Hermit not used to visitors. Owls and scorpions not friendly neighbours, no, no.’ He lowered his voice and looked around suspiciously. ‘Owls hunt at night. Must hurry. Hermit’s lair this way.’
He took a step into the undergrowth and beckoned for them to follow. The Captain picked up his sword and gave Whisker a reassuring nod. Together, the two Pie Rats followed the Hermit into the darkness of the forest.
The ground rose steadily upwards as the Hermit marched on, leading the rats further from the lagoon. The sandy dirt of the forest floor became rockier and the pine trees turned to mountain shrubs. Moss-covered boulders dotted the dark landscape, heralding the foothills of the mighty twin mountains. The sound of running water echoed in the distance.
The Hermit stopped next to a small plant, bent down and wrapped his fingers around its thin, green stem. Giving it a sharp tug, a brown onion bulb popped up from the dry earth. He brushed the soil from the onion and continued up the slope, quietly whistling to himself.
The sound of water grew louder and a gurgling brook came into view, meandering past rocks and bushes. Starlight sparkled across its rippling surface. Whisker stopped, hypnotised by its gentle rhythm.
‘River flows from mountain spring,’ the Hermit whispered, moving steadily away from the river. ‘Hermit’s lair on eastern mountain, Mt Moochup. Keep moving. No time to waste.’
Whisker pulled his eyes from the enchanting stream and trailed after him.
Soon they were in the open, scrambling up egg-shaped boulders and creeping through crevices on the lower slopes of the mountain. The wind tore through their clothes. Whisker pushed his body close to the rocks, hoping the next icy gust wouldn’t carry him away.
He looked to the air for any sign of owls. The rocky peaks of the mountains spiralled upwards towards the starry heavens and a dark ring of cliffs surrounded the lagoon far below.
The Hermit vanished into a crevice and Whisker and the Captain shuffled after him, entering the onion-scented interior of a small cave.
With a TAP of two stones, a spark flashed in the darkness. Several taps later and the Hermit had managed to start a small fire in the centre of the cave. He threw a bundle of dried grass and sticks onto the fire and chuckled, ‘Owls don’t see smoke on windy nights, no, no. Hermit has roast onions on windy nights, yes, yes.’
He proceeded to gather an armful of small onions from a pile in the corner and handed several to Whisker and the Captain.
‘Onions and pine nuts – island delicacies,’ he said, taking a seat next to the fire. ‘Roast pine nuts for dessert.’
The Hermit peeled an onion and wedged it on the end of a stick. The others watched as he began turning it over the flames.
Whisker generally disliked brown onions. His mother once told him they were packed with essential vitamins, but that hardly compensated for their terrible aftertaste. On this occasion, however, hunger and good manners ensured he gave at least one a try. He figured it would be impolite to ask for dessert before he’d touched his main course.
Hesitantly, he selected the smallest onion from the pile and tore off its outer layers. Following the Hermit’s lead, he skewered the onion on a stick and thrust it into the fire.
The smell of roast onions was surprisingly appetising. Whisker ate three well-cooked onions and several pawfuls of roasted pine nuts before his hunger was satisfied. He leant back against a rock and hoped it was only raw onions that gave the Hermit his terrible breath. A loud oniony burp that popped out of his own mouth quickly convinced him otherwise.
The Island of Destiny Page 3
