by Josh Lieb
Joey edged over toward the nearest picnic blanket. Half a cucumber, a lemon peel, and some jelly beans were piled in the middle. Nobody was paying any attention to Joey, but he felt too scared to just take a jelly bean like he wanted to. Would he get arrested? Would the rats attack him for stealing?
Then he got lucky. The light in the village started to darken a little, and all the rats started scurrying into their holes. None of them said anything. They just looked at the sky and started going inside. As it got darker—and it got dark fast—more of the rats disappeared. Even the knights led their cats into a little alley where two of the walls came together. Joey guessed this was their stable.
Were the rats scared of a little rain? Joey looked up and saw a dark cloud hanging low in the sky, covering up the sun. A cold wind was starting to blow straight down on him in weird, regular beats: whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
Almost all the rats were inside now, but Joey was way too hungry to be worried about a stupid thunderstorm, even if it had popped up awfully fast. Joey got right next to his intended target, a green jelly bean. Someone had bitten into it and spit it out, and there were some flecks of what was probably mayonnaise stuck to it, but it looked impossibly delicious to Joey. As soon as the last rats were inside—a few of the palace guards lingered at the doorway, looking up—he would grab his jelly bean, run to a corner, and feast.
It suddenly got very dark. The guards squeaked and jumped inside. The wind was really blowing down on Joey hard—WHOOSH-WHOOSH-WHOOSH—but all he could think about was that bright green jelly bean. He was reaching down for it. . . . It was finally his—
A skinny arm grabbed him by the leg and yanked him into the nearest hole, so that his claws only scratched at the surface of the candy. Somebody hissed, “Young fool!” Before Joey could even complain, he was inside the hole looking out—and seeing what had made the sky so dark, what had made the wind blow down. It wasn’t a cloud: it was a huge flock of oily black birds. Crows. They covered every inch of the square.
Somebody tugged on Joey’s back leg. “You trying to get yourself killed?” But Joey didn’t answer or look back. His eyes were fixed on the crows. Especially one that had landed where he’d been standing, and who was now pecking at the hole Joey had disappeared into, as if the bird was still hoping to get an extra snack.
The crow had blank black eyes, like a doll. But it also had a long, sharp beak, like a shark’s tooth. But the worst things were its claws. They were spindly and thin and mean. They raked up the ground like they were tearing open a little animal.
Joey gasped. BlackClaws.
AS QUICKLY as the invasion had begun, it was over. The crows each picked up a blanket by the corners, then folded the blankets over so that the food was wrapped up tightly. Then they flew back up into the air, clutching their bundles in their black claws.
It was suddenly bright and sunny in the village again, but none of the rats was in any hurry to go back outside.
Somebody slapped Joey on the ear. “Little dunce! What were you thinking?” Joey finally turned to see who had saved him. It was a pale gray rat mother, with a whole cave full of pink baby rats peeking out from behind her—and a few stuck to her chest, drinking. She was very skinny but very strong. Joey could see the webbing of her lean rat muscles rippling right beneath her fur. She wore an orange Starburst wrapper around her head, like a handkerchief. And she was furious.
“I . . . I was hungry,” Joey stammered.
“So you thought you’d take a snack from the Tribute?” she squeaked. “Young dung-for-brains. Here.” She stuffed an acorn into Joey’s paws and pushed him out of the hole. “Never darken my den again.”
The village was starting to fill up again. Joey stood outside the hole, munching on the acorn, which tasted better than he thought it would. He could still hear the rat mother muttering to herself inside: “Nearly got myself killed for that half-wit. Never again. Never!”
Tributes. BlackClaws. Rat knights mounted on cats. It was all too much, too fast. Joey couldn’t understand any of it. He figured the best thing to do was to deliver his message to the king and get changed back, as quickly as possible.
But when he climbed the steps to the palace, the guards wouldn’t let him pass. “And where do you think you’re going?” said the biggest one.
“I have a message for King Uther,” said Joey.
The guards laughed. They stood on their hind legs and peered down at him, with their big bellies sticking out. Except for the fur and the teeth, they reminded Joey a lot of some of the bullies at his old school. “Nobody sees the king without an appointment,” said the lead guard.
“But this message is from—”
“Nobody,” hissed the guard, and he patted a toothpick he wore strapped to his side with a rubber band. That’s his sword, Joey realized. The guard seemed mean enough to actually use it. Joey hopped off the steps fast. But he had no idea what he should do next.
Life in the village had gone back to normal. Anybody who just showed up now wouldn’t have any idea that the crows had even been there. But Joey knew, and it made him take in his surroundings with new eyes. Now he noticed that almost all the rats wore a weapon of some kind. There were swords made from toothpicks, and swords made from sharpened matches, and swords made from straightened-out paperclips. There were even some of those plastic swords that his mom put cocktail wienies on for Super Bowl parties. They looked more like real swords than some of the others, but Joey suspected that they probably weren’t as strong.
Joey looked up at the sky and shivered. It made sense that everyone here had a weapon. He suddenly felt very helpless and naked. He was very aware of how soft his rat body was.
He looked around for something he could use to protect himself. A stick, a splinter . . . anything. But everything seemed to be taken.
And then he saw it. Right in front of his eyes, the whole time. The broken spork sticking out of the stale biscuit. Sure, it didn’t look as useful as some of the other swords—the ones made out of paper clips looked especially dangerous—but it was something he could use, if he was ever attacked again. And maybe the guards wouldn’t be such bullies if Joey had a sword of his own. Joey looked around to make sure the spork didn’t belong to anyone. All the rats just walked past it like it wasn’t even there.
Nobody paid any attention to Joey as he walked to the biscuit and scrambled up on top of it. It was definitely stale. The biscuit felt as cold and hard as the marble floor of a bank lobby. He could hear the guards behind him laughing about some mean joke, but he ignored them. He grabbed the broken handle of the spork and was surprised at how warm it felt. Like it was heated from the inside. He took his hands off, wiped them on his fur, and grabbed it again. Nope, still warm. Weird. Then he gave a good, hard tug. The spork stuck for a second . . . then came out of the biscuit with a kind of sigh, leaving four little holes where it had been. Joey weighed the spork in his hands, then tossed it from side to side. It was heavier than he’d expected, but it felt good. Useful. Joey felt like he could do some damage with it, if he had to.
Okay, so he had a weapon, now all he needed was a rubber band or a piece of string to tie it to his waist. He looked around to find one. . . .
He hadn’t noticed how quiet the village had gotten. The guards had stopped laughing, the wheelbarrows had stopped turning, everyone had stopped talking. They were all staring up at Joey now, where he stood on top of the biscuit, holding his spork. Some of them were scared. Some of them were smiling. But all of them looked amazed. And no one said anything . . . until an old lady rat limped forward and pointed at him with a twisted paw: “The Spork in the Scone!” she shrieked, in a high, quavering voice. “He’s drawn the Spork from the Scone!”
And then all the rats were yelling, “The Spork in the Scone! The Spork in the Scone! Look! The lad has it! The Spork in the Scone!”
The crowd surged forward. And sudd
enly a hundred little rat paws were grabbing at Joey, and a hundred little rat throats were screaming: “Ratscalibur! Ratscalibur!”
EVERYTHING HAPPENED very quickly after that.
The crowd picked Joey up and carried him in their paws to the palace. “Hey, wait!” yelled Joey. “I’ll put it back! I’ll put it back!” No one listened. They carried him up the steps and through the palace doors, past the guards (who looked kind of scared), and down long, long curving tunnels that were lit with flickering lamps. The walls were all covered with paintings of brave rats killing monsters. At the end of the longest tunnel, Joey was dumped on the ground, in a great big room filled with torches. Ancient tapestries hung from the walls, showing more brave rats defeating more horrible monsters and giant cats and hordes of terrible-looking wild rats. But the tapestries were faded and old, and there were big moth holes eaten through some of the heroes’ faces.
A very old rat sat in a very large chair at the front of the room. He looked like he was sleeping with his eyes open, and then he woke up and seemed very surprised to be invaded this way.
This was like a nightmare. Trapped deep beneath the ground, with a crowd of rats at his back and some sort of half-dead rat zombie in front of him. Joey quivered in the dirt and wondered—honestly wondered—if he should just curl up into a ball and let them destroy him. But then he thought of Mom. He couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her again, or of leaving her wondering, forever, what had happened to him. Without even saying goodbye. So he forced himself to stand.
That’s when he noticed that the old rat in the big chair wore some twisted tinfoil on his head. And that over his shoulders he wore a purple velvet cape, with the words CROWN ROYAL stitched in gold cursive across the bottom.
And the invisible fishing line from Joey’s nose just seemed to end at the old rat’s feet. . . .
Joey suddenly knew where he was. This is the throne room, he thought. That’s King Uther.
Just as suddenly as the crowd had come in, they were gone. Joey was alone with the king. Except he wasn’t. Joey saw that there were some other rats gathered around the throne that he hadn’t noticed before.
There was a tall, strong-looking rat, with brown, gray-flecked fur, who stood protectively on the right side of the king.
There was a white rat, about Joey’s size, with a bright pink nose and even brighter pink eyes. She’s pretty, thought Joey, and then he added—very quickly—for a rat.
Brutilda the guinea pig was sitting in the corner, lumpishly, staring at Joey with hate. She had pulled her ear to her mouth and was chewing sloppily on her pink bow.
The tall rat stepped forward and held out a paw. “May I?” he asked. It took Joey a second to realize that he wanted to hold the spork. Joey handed it to him. The rat held it carefully and said, “Remarkable . . .” almost to himself.
“Who are you?” asked the pretty white rat.
“Joey.”
She sat silent for a second. “That is a strange name for a hero.”
“I’m not a hero,” said Joey. “I’m just a boy who . . . okay, it’s a long story. Who are you?”
She seemed very surprised by that. “Why, I am Yislene, Princess of the Low Realm, heir to the throne of Uther, and apprentice to Gondorff the Gray.”
“Gondorff!” said Joey. “I know him! He—”
“Don’t try to tell us about Gondorff, stranger,” huffed the guinea pig with open hostility. “I’ve never heard him mention you.”
“Brutilda, please,” protested the tall rat, smoothly. “The stripling is our guest.” He turned to Joey. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sir Aramis, the king’s vizier.” He handed back the spork. Joey wasn’t sure what a vizier was, but it seemed to be important. “And over there, always at the ready, is stout Brutilda, King Uther’s loyal but occasionally short-tempered bodyguard.”
Brutilda snuffled unhappily and glared at Joey.
Joey noticed that the king wasn’t saying anything. In fact, it looked like he had gone to sleep again, though his eyes were still wide open.
“I really do know Gondorff,” said Joey. “I have a message from him.”
The room grew still. It was like everyone was holding their breath at once. The princess said, “Well, what’s the message? Out with it!”
Joey swallowed. “The message is . . . that he has failed.”
The vizier loomed closer. “He has failed? He has failed? Surely there’s more to the message than that.”
“No,” said Joey, shrinking back. “He said King Uther would understand—”
“He said the king would understand?” squeaked Princess Yislene. “But we need to know more! When is Gondorff getting here? When will he explain himself personally?”
Joey swallowed again. It was like he had a tennis ball in his throat. He had a feeling this news was not going to go over well. Joey said, “He won’t be coming here. I think . . .” he swallowed again, “I think Gondorff is dead.”
The silence in the room was complete. Everyone had not only stopped breathing—it was like their hearts had stopped beating, too. Like their brains had stopped thinking. It was like a room full of statues was staring at Joey. Nothing. No sound. No breath. And then the spell was broken by a strange, ghostly voice chanting, “All is lost. All is lost. ALL IS LOST. ALL IS LOST.” Over and over, louder and louder.
It was the worst voice in the world. And Joey saw that it was coming from the waxy, slack-jawed mouth of the king.
YISLENE RAN TO her father to comfort him. She patted his arm and whispered soothing words into his ear, until he stopped moaning. Joey noticed that one of the king’s legs was bent and broken looking, like something awful had happened to it and it had never healed right. It looked painful.
Once the king had been quieted, Sir Aramis asked Joey to tell his story, from the beginning. When Joey described how motionless Gondorff had been when he left him, the king moaned a little. When Joey told how he had escaped the orange cat in the trash pile (and showed them the scratches on his back), the princess gasped and said, “He escaped Wrundel. He was in Wrundel’s den!”
“What’s that?” said the vizier.
“Surely you’ve heard of Wrundel. She’s the terror of the border to the eastern wildlands.”
“I have more important matters on my mind,” answered the vizier, who turned back to Joey. “Please continue.”
Then Joey told about arriving in the village, the jelly bean, the spork . . . everything. When he was done, the vizier nodded sadly and said, “Well, there is little to do now but to submit to Salaman. His deadline for complete capitulation is tomorrow at midnight. Otherwise the BlackClaws will destroy Ravalon completely. We will have to do whatever he asks. . . .”
“What do you mean?” said the princess, waving a paw at Joey. “He has drawn Ratscalibur. We have our hero!”
“Princess, please,” protested Sir Aramis. “You saw the note. We must declare ourselves under Salaman’s command, or his BlackClaws will destroy Ravalon stone by stone!”
“But we have our hero!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Joey. “I’ve delivered the message. Please, just turn me back into myself.”
“Some hero,” said Brutilda. She had a low voice, but it was very musical, like she kind of sang everything she said. That somehow made it scarier. She rolled toward Joey like a big hairy slug. “Look at him. He’s no hero. Just a scrawny jumped-up High-Realmer with his hand on a power he cannot begin to understand. Come, little boy, and give Ratscalibur to someone who knows how to use it.”
Joey didn’t like being called little boy, but he held out the spork to her anyway. “Here, take it.”
“No,” said the princess, coming between them. “Brutilda, you have tried to take this sword countless times. It would not go to you—”
“I loosened it for him,” prote
sted the guinea pig.
“No,” repeated the princess. “Your pure strength had no effect on it. You know that.” Brutilda lowered her head. The princess continued, “This boy has something else in him. What it is, I cannot say. But Ratscalibur has chosen him. He is our hero.”
Sir Aramis gave Joey a long look. He seemed to soften a little. As if a thought had occurred to him. Maybe. “I hope you’re right. But it is a doubtful thing. . . . Only Squirrelin can confirm if this boy truly fulfills the prophecy. Or if the prophecy is a prophecy at all.”
“Then he must go to Squirrelin,” said Yislene, stubbornly. “That’s who Gondorff was trying to see anyway.”
Joey had had enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Stop telling me about prophecies or whatever. Seriously. I’m not a hero. I’m just a kid. A human kid. And I need somebody to turn me back.”
The princess and Sir Aramis shared a look, and the princess shook her head. “Gondorff never taught me the art of Transformation. And all the other Ragicians have fled this court.”
Joey felt his blood run ice cold. “Then I’m stuck forever. As a rat? Isn’t there anyone who can change me back into a person?”
Yislene frowned. “That brings us right back around to Squirrelin.”
“Squirrelin,” repeated Joey.
“Yes. Squirrelin the Squagician.”
“Let me guess,” said Joey. “He’s a squirrel. Who does ‘Squagic.’”
“Well, obviously,” said Sir Aramis. “Now, what I’d like to know is—” but he didn’t finish his question. He stopped and stared at something that had entered the room behind Joey. Before Joey could turn around to see it, he could feel it: a spicy scent tickling its fingers up his nose. A hot wind blowing on his back. And . . . something was hugging him. Wrapping itself around him and squeezing. Something very hot and very wet and very scratchy and—Joey looked down as it curled around his waist—very pink.
