The Bag of Bones

by Vivian French

  “We can see better from here, ma’am,” Bodalisk announced. “Not a lot of us are allowed on the tank, as it happens.” He pulled on a whisker. “Just . . . just us seniors.” He glanced at Evangeline to see if she was impressed, but she was staring down in horror. Bodalisk mistook her expression for admiration and smirked. “Fine body of brothers and sisters, ain’t it? Could overrun the palace any day if we wanted, but we keep to ourselves.”

  “What was that?” Truda’s eyes were gleaming. “How could you overrun the palace?”

  Bodalisk looked at her in surprise. “We’ve got runs everywhere. Whole place is riddled with them. But there’s no point in causing trouble. We go where we want, and we live as we please, but we stick to the Rule of Rat. Out of Sight and Around the Edge. Keeps the Large Ones happier that way.”

  “The Large Ones?” Evangeline asked faintly.

  “You know.” Bodalisk shrugged. “Humans. And Huwomans. People. There’s a queen here, you know. This”— he waved an arm —“is a queen’s house. The Large Ones call it a palace. Wadingburn Palace.”

  Evangeline gave the rat a feeble smile. “Fancy that.”

  Truda was stroking her whiskery chin and inspecting the milling hordes beneath her. Her expression was one of extreme cunning. “Who’s the leader here?”

  Bodalisk shook his head. “No leader, ma’am. Brother Burwash went missing, been gone for days now. Shame . . . he was a good leader, he was. Now we’ve got to choose between Brother Squint, Brother Bolder, and Brother Mildew, and they’re all three just as bad as one another —”

  Ms. Scurrilous interrupted with an offended cough. “Ahem. Are there no — erm — sisters?”

  “Sisters?” Bodalisk sounded appalled. “Certainly not!”

  Truda cut in before Ms. Scurrilous could begin to argue. “So there’s no other leader, then? No kings or queens, nor anything of that kind?”

  “We rats are a democracy,” Bodalisk told her. “We don’t believe in inherited power.”

  “Hmm.” Truda had her hands in her pockets. “Could be you’re right, thinking that way. None of this la-di-da Bluebelly the Twenty-eighth nonsense for you, then.”

  Bodalisk was about to reply but was interrupted by a shrill whistle from the floor below. A well-rounded rat with self-important whiskers was climbing onto an old and battered cardboard box that served as a platform. “That’s Brother Snirkles,” Bodalisk whispered. “He’ll open the debate.”

  Brother Snirkles blew again on his whistle, and the squeakings and mutterings faded into silence. “Brothers and sisters,” he began, “we are here to mourn the passing of Brother Burwash.”

  “Wail! Wail for Brother Burwash!” called a shrill voice from the crowd.

  “Hush, Sister Millifee!” Brother Snirkles looked angrily in the direction the voice had come from. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Brother Burwash has left us. He has gone to the great rat heaven down below, where the sewers are filled with succulent bacon rinds and yellow-crusted cheeses and plump little raisins and —”

  “Get on with it!” This voice came from another part of the cellar and was deeper in tone.

  Brother Snirkles looked anxious and shifted from one foot to the other before continuing. “Yes, of course, Brother Squint. Whatever you say, Brother. Erm . . . where was I? Oh, yes . . . We are here to bid our leader farewell and to regret the manner of his passing —”

  “Get ON with it, Snirkles!” The voice interrupted again. “We all know he’s vanished. Missing, believed dead. Bad show and all that, but it’s time to vote. Some of us have better things to do than to listen to you droning on and on and on. In fact, when I’m leader, we won’t be having —”

  “And who said you were going to be chosen, Squint?” There was a sudden flurry at the side of the cardboard box, and an exceptionally bulky rat climbed up to join the unfortunate Snirkles. He folded his arms and gazed around. “What you need is me. I’m a plain-speaking rat, but I know what’s what. Bolder by name, and bolder by nature. I’ll take you rats where you’ve never been before, I will.”

  There was an interested murmuring, and Bolder grinned, showing a set of viciously sharp teeth.

  “How many of you are aware that changes are in the air?” he demanded. “How many of you know that Queen Bluebell the Twenty-eighth, ruler of Wadingburn —”

  “But not of us rats!” shouted a voice.

  “Exactly. How many of you know that the ruler of Wadingburn is about to declare her successor?”

  There was a muttering from the rats, and many heads nodded.

  “We heard her talking last night,” said one.

  “And the night before,” said another.

  “Couldn’t make up her mind at all,” said a third.

  “What’s it matter, anyway?” asked a very small rat with very few whiskers.

  Brother Bolder frowned. “It matters a great deal, my foolish friend. Bluebell may have left us alone, but a new time is coming upon us. We — who listen under floorboards and skulk behind skirtings — we hear these things. Already our runways and passages are fraught with danger, and traps are set that never were set before. Already the rat catcher is called for. Already the rat catcher’s dog is sniffing and whining —”

  “Wail! Wail for the ratcatcher’s dog —”

  “SILENCE, Sister Millifee!” Brother Bolder stamped his foot. “We will not wail! Our time for wailing is gone. Now is the time for action. Now is the time for us to rise against our oppressors, before it is too late!”

  As Brother Bolder paused there were loud and enthusiastic shouts from the floor, as well as a good deal of air-punching.

  “Vote for Brother Bolder!” yelled a voice, quickly followed by many others.

  “Uh-oh,” Bodalisk breathed in Evangeline’s ear. “Brother Bolder’s going to cause trouble. . . .”

  “It’s time to rise!” Brother Bolder began to march around the top of the cardboard box. “What have the Large Ones done for us? Are they not our enemies? Who among us has ever had kindness from a Large One? Who knows of —”

  “Excuse me!” A single skinny arm waved in the air.

  Brother Bolder stopped and stared in amazement. “What? Who’s that?”

  “Excuse me!” The owner of the arm was elderly and apologetic. “Sorry, Brother Bolder, very sorry — but it’s Brother Brokenbiscuit here. I feel I ought to mention Loobly. . . . Loobly Higgins.”

  Evangeline Droop and Truda Hangnail jumped.

  “She’s been a real friend to me,” Brother Brokenbiscuit went on. “And to my dear sister and her husband. A best friend, even though she is a Large One. Why, we’ve known her since she was a tiny girl, and she’s never —”

  “That’s enough!” Brother Bolder was acutely aware that the militant atmosphere was fading fast. “One Large One is an exception, not the rule! Is she here? No! Is she cheering with us? No! Has she ever waved a flag on our behalf, demanding the end to all rat catchers and their fiendish dogs? I think not!”

  “It would be difficult for her.” Brother Brokenbiscuit was determined to be heard. “You see, she lives in the orphanage—”

  “Then she’s not here!” Brother Bolder snapped his fingers, and a couple of well-muscled young rats detatched themselves from the walls of the cellar. With practiced ease they slid a paper bag over Brother Brokenbiscuit’s head and whisked him away to a far corner of the cellar.

  “And now, let’s have a show of hands!” Brother Bolder looked around expectantly. “Who here believes our time has come? Who stands with me, to right our wrongs?”

  “I do!” Truda Hangnail stepped forward. “I’ll stand with you, if you’ll stand with me!” And she pulled her hand out of her pocket.

  The mist of purple floated into the cellar above the heads of the shocked and wide-eyed rats. Slowly it sank down, and slowly the rats’ whiskers began to droop and their eyes to glaze over.

  “Wail! Wail! Wail! Wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a . . .” The wailing died away.r />
  “Hey!” Bodalisk grabbed Evangeline’s arm and hauled her into the tunnel behind the water tank. “What’s she doing? What’s that purple stuff?”

  “Shh!” Evangeline whispered. “It’s Deep Magic!”

  “Deep Magic?” Bodalisk’s eyes popped. “You don’t want anything to do with that, doll.”

  “I know!” Evangeline stamped her foot in frustration. “But if I don’t do what she wants, I’ll never get back to normal. I can’t stay like this!”

  The rat blinked. “You look perfect to me, babe. But if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  Evangeline looked at Brother Bodalisk and saw that he was in earnest. It didn’t seem likely that one romantic rat could save her and the entire kingdom of Wadingburn, but she thanked him before the sound of Truda’s voice made her turn away from him to see what was going on.

  “Rats of Wadingburn,” Truda was chanting, “rats of Wadingburn, do you hear me?”

  Every rat in the cellar turned as one to face the water tank. Brother Brokenbiscuit froze under his paper bag.

  “We hear you.”

  “You will do as I say!”

  “We will do as you say.”

  Truda cackled gleefully. “Now, my little ratty friends, listen to me, and listen carefully. I want to be Queen of Wadingburn — and what Truda wants, Truda gets. There’s a party tomorrow, and by the time Bluebell stands to read her declaration, the people of Wadingburn will be begging me to take over, begging on bended knees, ‘Be queen, Truda Hangnail, be queen!’ Crying and weeping and wailing they’ll be, every last king and queen and princess and prince, and why? Because if Bluebell doesn’t declare me rightful queen, then the room, the palace, the kingdom, and the country — will be overrun with rats.” She rubbed her bony hands together. “There’ll be rats in the kitchens, rats in the halls, rats in the bathrooms, rats in the beds. Pick up a saucepan, and what’ll they see?”

  “Rats!” The response was unanimous.

  “Turn back the bedcovers, and what’ll they see?”

  “Rats!”

  “Step in the bathtub, and what’ll they find?”

  “Rats!”

  There was another loud cackle from Truda. “When those pretty princesses go twirling and whirling — what’ll they find hiding under their skirts?”

  “RATS!”

  “Good, my little scale-tails, good!” Truda’s eyes were gleaming.

  Evangeline, overcome with a mixture of terror and horror, could feel the old witch quivering with evil energy. There was a darkness hovering around her that was slowly freezing Evangeline’s heart; when Bodalisk slipped his arm around her, she looked at him gratefully.

  “And now, get busy!” Truda leaned forward, and the rats gazed up at her with their strangely blank eyes. “Call your friends and relations, and bring them here. Bring them all, from the highways and byways. Bite and scratch, but make them come. We want every rat in the kingdom sneaking and skulking and hiding in corners, creeping and crawling and lurking in cracks, ready to leap out when I give the signal. And when I’m Queen of Wadingburn, it’ll be parties for you all, each and every one of you — parties and fun every day.” Truda raised her arms in salute. “You will be welcome everywhere. You have the word of Truda Hangnail!”

  There was a riot of squeaking and squealing as the rats leaped up and down, cheering and yelling their agreement. Almost before Truda had finished speaking, Brother Bolder and Brother Squint were organizing rats into teams and issuing orders in total harmony with each other. Brother Snirkles hurried to assist them, and even Sister Millifee was seen exhorting her neighbors without so much as a wail.

  Truda Hangnail nodded and turned to her companions. “Time to eat and to rest,” she said. “We’ll be busy tomorrow.” And she chuckled unpleasantly before poking a sharp finger into Brother Bodalisk’s back. “I need something to fill my old body.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bodalisk said obediently. “There’s good pickings to be had in the dairy, ma’am, or you might prefer the kitchen?”

  Truda considered the possibilities. “The dairy,” she said. “Kitchens have cooks, and cooks are nasty. Of course, after tomorrow it’ll all be mine, and I’ll be telling the cooks what’s what.” She licked her lips in anticipation. “I’ll be ordering cookies and cake and apple pie and cream until their hands drop off with cooking. And I’ll be sitting on my golden throne ordering silks and satins and a diamond crown, and everyone will bow and scrape before they so much as speak to me.” She cracked her knuckles and grinned so terribly that Bodalisk all but jumped off the water tank. “And if they don’t do just as they’re told, then I’ll grow their noses down to their toes. I’ll give them tails with scales and wither their bones. I’ll make them dance to my tune — every minute of every hour of every day!”

  If Brother Bodalisk wondered how this fitted in with Truda’s promise that the rats would have the run of the palace, he said nothing. All he said was, “This way, ma’am,” and he led the way down the tunnel and into a side passage.

  Brother Brokenbiscuit quietly extricated himself from his bag and tiptoed unseen toward the entrance to the cellar.

  Prince Marcus of Gorebreath was humming as he rode through the marketplace. He had taken the precaution of borrowing a tattered old jacket and a well-worn woolen cap from Ger, the stable boy, and very few of his subjects gave him a second glance. They were much too busy arguing over the relative merits of carrots and cabbages and cauliflowers, or telling one another what they should have done (but hadn’t) when Buckleup Brandersby’s dogs ran wild amid the stalls that morning.

  “Don’t know what the place is coming to,” said an old apple-woman indignantly. “Just like ravenous beasts, they were. Took one of my best hams, they did, and a string of sausages as well! And there’ll be nothing paid for it. He’s as mean as string beans, that man.”

  “Heard he was after a runaway,” said her neighbor. “Caught her, too, by all accounts. Our Jem saw him marching along with the poor little thing slung over his shoulder with her braids a-swinging in the road dust. Dead to the world, he said she was.”

  “Not all he saw, either.” A large red-faced butcher pushed in front of Marcus’s pony in his excitement. “Told me there was a green-faced troll heading this way, large as life and crying its eyes out, and —”

  “Excuse me!” Marcus interrupted. “Did you say a troll?”

  The butcher put his hands on his hips and glared. “Mind your manners, lad! None of your business!” He turned back to the old women. “Jem took care of it. Said the troll asked him the way to the palace, if you please. So Jem asked it what business it had with the Royals, and when he didn’t get any sense, he gave it a good hearty shake, and — would you believe it? Its head fell off! So he left it lying by the side of the road, and for all I know it’s lying there still, and good riddance —”

  “Excuse me!” Marcus pulled off his cap and did his best to look royal. “Where exactly is this troll?”

  “I told you, laddie —” the butcher began, but one of the old women caught his arm, and whispered in his ear. Frowning, he looked Marcus’s pony up and down. Noticing that the saddle and bridle were of the very best quality and that Marcus bore an uncanny resemblance to the picture on the Gorebreath two cent stamp, he began to cough and splutter. “Didn’t mean any harm, Your Highness, only it was difficult to see it was you under that there hat —”

  “The troll!” Marcus snapped. “This could be urgent! Where is he?”

  “Back along the road between here and the forest,” the butcher stammered. “That’s what Jem said, Your Highness —” But Marcus was gone.

  He took Glee through the marketplace at a swift trot, and the moment the road was clear of stalls and barrows, he persuaded the pony into a steady canter. “Why was Gubble asking for the palace?” he wondered. “Something must be wrong! He hasn’t left the House of the Ancient Crones since he got there. Maybe he’s bringing a message from Gracie? But surely she’d send a ba
t; that’d be miles quicker.”

  A terrible thought made Marcus pull on the reins so hard that his pony skidded to a sudden halt.

  What had that woman been saying about a run­away before the butcher got in his way?

  Marcus went hot, then freezing cold. “Gracie!” he said out loud. “Could it have been Gracie?”

  “Sure was, kiddo,” said a voice in his ear. “Knocked out and carried off.”

  “Marlon!” Marcus jumped as the bat circled in front of him. “Where did you come from?”

  “Been looking for you. Get that pony turned around. If we’ve guessed right, Gracie’s behind bars.”

  Marcus snatched up his reins. “Bars? What bars? Where is she?”

  “Orphanage. Ugly big building between Dreghorn and Wadingburn.” Marlon took in Marcus’s hat and coat and the saddlebag slung behind him. “Were you off somewhere?”

  “The Less Enchanted Forest,” Marcus told him. “Arry needs a white peacock feather, or Nina-Rose won’t dance with him, and I was going to see Gracie and ask if she wanted to help me find one. But why was she in Gorebreath?”

  Marlon shrugged. “No idea, kid. But get her home.”

  Marcus straightened his back. “I’ll get her out of the orphanage, even if I have to bring in the army. And then we can go to Flailing — that’s where the peacock is.”

  “Good plan,” Marlon said approvingly.

  As Marcus turned Glee, he asked, “Have you seen Gubble? There was a guy in the marketplace talking about a troll. . . .”

  Marlon grinned. “He’ll be waiting for you, kiddo. Him and Alf together. Keep your fingers crossed they don’t try to bust in before you get there and get slapped in irons. Now, how fast can that pony go?”