‘We’ll start with the long range practice,’ he said. ‘I’m not one for rules, but it’s essential that you look before you fire. You never know what could be in your path.’ He wedged a pie into the cannon, inserted a fuse and adjusted the angle. ‘You also have to consider the wind direction and the distance to your target. Pete has a formula for it, but I rely on experience.’
Looking ahead, he yelled, ‘All clear. Ready, Smudge … FIRE!’
Smudge bobbed up with a flaming match and lit the fuse.
Horace counted down as the fuse sizzled, ‘Three … two … one …’ KABOOM! The cannon exploded.
The pie shot into the air, veered to its left and then splashed into a wave a short distance away.
‘Rotten pies to crash landings,’ Horace said in dismay. ‘I got the angle all wrong … Oh well, let’s see what you can do.’
To Horace’s surprise, Whisker was a natural. His first shot soared in a graceful arc through the sky before wobbling into the ocean twice as far away as Horace’s attempt.
‘Where in the blazing britches did you learn to do that?’ Horace exclaimed.
‘The circus, of course,’ Whisker replied. ‘I was friends with the Armadillo Cannonballs. I sometimes got to fire their cannon during performances.’ He squinted out to sea to where his pie had landed. ‘With a few adjustments, it could go even further …’
Fred shook his head. ‘No one shoots better than that. Not even Pete with his fancy maths.’
‘The angle of the cannon isn’t the problem,’ Whisker said. ‘It’s the pie – and don’t worry, Fred, it’s nothing to do with your cooking. Did you see how my pie wobbled off course before it crashed?’
‘Yes,’ Horace replied. ‘All the long shots do that.’
‘Well, that’s the problem,’ Whisker said. ‘In the circus, the armadillos would often sway in one direction or the other.’
‘And what did they do?’ Horace enquired.
‘They used something a pie doesn’t have,’ Whisker said, pointing behind his back.
‘A tail!’ Fred cried. ‘Are we going to make pies with tails?’
Whisker pondered, ‘A tail only works if you can move it from side to side … We need something that doesn’t require movement.’
‘You’re starting to sound like Pete,’ Fred groaned.
‘Sorry, Fred,’ Whisker apologised. ‘I’ll try to give you an example to make it clear.’
Whisker’s eyes darted out to the horizon for any signs of sea birds. There was no activity against the morning sky. He lowered his gaze to the ocean as a pair of dolphins splashed gracefully from the surf.
‘There,’ he said pointing with his paw.
‘A dolphin’s tail!’ Fred exclaimed.
‘Not a tail,’ Whisker clarified, ‘a fin. Look at their dorsal fins.’
‘We’re not going to catch one, are we?’ Fred asked in horror.
‘Of course not,’ Whisker laughed. ‘We can make the fins out of pastry.’
‘How many do we need?’ Horace asked excitedly. ‘Fred can start baking this afternoon.’
‘Dolphins have three fins,’ Whisker observed, ‘so maybe three fins per pie …’
‘Wow!’ Fred gasped. ‘You are as smart as Pete.’
‘He’s smarter,’ Horace whispered. ‘Pete gets his answers from books. Whisker uses his head.’
Whisker blushed. ‘The dolphins deserve most of the credit.’
The rest of the long range practice ran smoothly, despite having nothing at which to aim. There were no small islands or rocks in sight, and Whisker wasn’t about to start aiming at dolphins.
Pete, Ruby and the Captain emerged from the navigation room to check on Whisker’s progress, but soon lost interest in the demonstration and wandered off to other parts of the deck. Fred returned to the galley to prepare lunch and bake fins.
‘This is the messy part,’ Horace said, placing a large black cut-out against the bulwark.
‘It’s a bear,’ Whisker remarked, staring at the shape.
‘It’s not a bear!’ Horace exclaimed. ‘Why does everyone think it’s a bear? Can’t you see it’s a cat?’
‘It’s a really fat cat,’ Whisker laughed.
‘If it wasn’t this fat,’ Horace huffed, ‘most of the crew would never hit it.’ He pointed the cannon at the fat cat. ‘There are two important things to remember when shooting close range pies. Always turn away when you’re firing, to protect your eyes, and, most importantly, handle the pies gently. If you break one, the stink is on you. Treat each pie like a beautiful rat. Hold her delicately, tenderly and slowly dance with her towards the cannon …’
Whisker watched in amusement as Horace picked up the top pie and held it in a lover’s embrace. Like a performer in a pantomime, he spun the pie in a circle and gently placed it in the cannon.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, bowing to the pie.
Ruby laughed from one of the masts. Not only did Horace look ridiculous with his new lover, but the pie he’d picked up was the one he’d poked a hole in earlier, and left a disgusting line of sludge down his shirt.
‘BLAST!’ Horace yelled, looking down at his soiled clothing.
Smudge struck a match and moved to the fuse.
‘Wait, wait,’ Horace cried, pushing the match away. ‘I said blast, not fire.’
Ignoring Ruby’s laughter, Horace checked that everything was in order and ducked behind the cannon.
‘Now, Smudge. FIRE!’
The pie exploded in a wave of sticky grey muck, showering the target. It was a horrible sight and even Horace winced at the stench.
‘No second date then?’ Ruby hollered down to him.
Horace brushed the comment aside with a wave of his hook and turned to Whisker. ‘Come on. It’s your turn to dance.’
Whisker cleaned out the cannon, poured in the gunpowder and selected his pie. He double checked to make sure there were no cracks or holes and carefully placed the slippery object in the cannon. He glanced up to see Ruby and Pete watching him, but caught no sight of the Captain. Brushing the green mould from his paws, he hurriedly prepared the fuse.
Let’s get this over with, he said to himself. His nose ached, his tail twitched nervously and there was an annoying ring in his ears from all the blasts. He half-glanced over his shoulder towards the target and, seeing the black shape in the corner of his eye, placed his paws over his ears and turned to Smudge.
‘FIRE!’
Smudge held the burning match in his arms but did nothing.
‘FIRE!’ Whisker yelled again.
Smudge still didn’t move.
‘FIRE! BLAST! THREE TWO ONE GO! JUST GET ON WITH IT!’
Still no response.
Running out of patience, Whisker grabbed the match and lit the fuse himself. As he blew out the match, he glanced up to see a horrified look on Ruby’s face. Puzzled, he turned around – and froze. The black shape he had seen was not the target. It was the Captain wandering across the deck with a telescope to his eye.
Whisker tried to scream but the cannon beat him to it. It roared into action with a mighty KABOOM, throwing the Captain backwards in a torrent of sticky grey sludge. His body tumbled over the bulwark and with a startled cry, he plunged into the ocean. There was a splash. And then there was silence.
‘RAT OVERBOARD,’ Pete yelled. ‘MAKE HASTE!’
Horace grabbed a rope and ran to the edge of the deck. Whisker followed after him in shock and fear.
‘There he is,’ Horace cried, as the Captain’s body bobbed up in a cocktail of slime and seawater.
‘THROW ME THE ROPE, YOU FOOL,’ the Captain spluttered.
Whisker was relieved the Captain was alive, but his relief was soon overcome by a terrifying feeling of dread – this was entirely his fault.
Horace threw the Captain the rope and, with Whisker and Pete’s assistance, dragged him onto the deck.
Ruby clambered down from the mast and rushed over to give her uncle a hug. She st
opped in her tracks before she reached him and uttered, ‘Eeeyeeew!’
Whisker could see why. The Captain looked like he had been dragged from a sewer. His velvet coat and vest were smeared with a greasy grey residue. His fur was speckled with chunks of mouldy pie crust. His soggy hat drooped over his face. But the worst part was the terrible smell.
‘We should have left him in the water a bit longer,’ Horace whispered. ‘He’d be much calmer and less smelly.’
The Captain looked down at his ruined clothes and scraped a chunk of garlic from his vest.
‘What in the name of Ratbeard’s breakfast is this repulsive muck?’ he exclaimed.
Whisker looked at Horace and Horace pointed to the lumbering figure of Fred emerging from the stairs.
‘Look, here comes Fred to explain everything,’ Horace babbled. ‘We’ll be over here if you need us …’
‘YOU TWO AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE!’ the Captain roared, grabbing Horace and Whisker by their collars.
Whisker turned his head and tried not to breathe in the putrid vapours.
‘Oh dear, oh double dear,’ Fred said, joining the group. ‘What a nasty accident.’
‘It’s more like a catastrophe,’ Ruby snapped. ‘The boy forgot to look before he fired.’
‘Is this true?’ the Captain asked angrily.
Whisker felt like saying it was partly the Captain’s fault for wandering around in a daze during cannon training, but simply squeaked, ‘Yes.’
‘And who was supervising?’ the Captain barked.
‘That would be me,’ Horace gulped.
The Captain took a deep breath and turned to Pete. ‘What is the mandatory punishment for shooting one’s Captain?’
Pete looked grave. ‘I’m afraid to say … the punishment is death.’
Convicts
Whisker’s tail thudded to the deck.
‘That can’t be …’ he pleaded.
He turned to Pete, but the Quartermaster looked deadly serious.
‘What’s wrong?’ Horace asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I may soon be a ghost,’ Whisker replied miserably.
‘Cheer up,’ Horace encouraged. ‘Things could be worse.’
‘What’s worse than death?’ Whisker groaned.
‘Death? Don’t be silly. You’re not going to die.’
‘But Pete said …’
‘Pete’s just pulling your leg. There is no death penalty on the Apple Pie. The Captain scrapped it years ago. Too many rats were strung up for silly things like spilling tea on an officer’s trousers.’
‘Humph,’ Pete snorted. It was worth a try.’
All at once Whisker felt like a rat on death row with the word PARDONED stamped across his forehead.
The Captain didn’t share his joy. ‘I am wet, I am cold and this smell is getting more unbearable by the minute. There needs to be a suitable punishment for this behaviour. And for Ratbeard’s sake it can’t involve death or dying or chopping off limbs. Is that understood?’
‘What about a whipping?’ Pete suggested.
‘No, Pete,’ the Captain snapped. ‘I want a punishment that fits the crime.’
‘Um, Captain …’ Whisker quavered, raising his paw. ‘What if we were to wash all of your clothes, scrub the entire deck and scrape the barnacles off the hull?’
The Captain looked at him for a moment and then replied, ‘Excellent idea, Whisker. You may be a clumsy, irresponsible buffoon, but at least you’re a modern thinker. Now get scrubbing. I’m off to have a bath.’
The two convicts got straight to work. The scrubbing was gruelling on Whisker’s paws and knees, but he didn’t mind. He had a new lease on life. As he scraped barnacles off the side of the boat, he pictured his family congratulating him on becoming a world class deck scrubber.
Deep down, Whisker wasn’t sure how long he could keep up this new enthusiasm, especially with the Captain’s stinky washing ahead, but at least he would give it a try.
‘What are you so cheery about?’ Horace asked, scooping up a bucket of seawater.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Whisker replied. ‘I was just thinking about my family.’ He felt a bit embarrassed. This was one of the rare times he had spoken about them since coming aboard. Blabbering on about your family didn’t seem like a pirate thing to do.
‘You miss them, don’t you?’ Horace asked.
‘Yeah,’ Whisker answered.
Horace put down his bucket. ‘Do you think they’re still alive?’
Whisker nodded, ‘I have to. Otherwise I’ve got nothing.’
Horace gave him an encouraging smile. ‘You’ve got me and Fred and the rest of the crew, for what it’s worth. We’re a big dysfunctional family.’
‘Thanks,’ Whisker said, and for a moment he felt like he actually belonged. ‘But still …’
‘Don’t worry,’ Horace said, with a look of understanding, ‘it’s okay to have two families. I’ve got two: The Pie Rats and my family across the sea on the fair island of Freeforia. There’s my Mama and my Papa and my three sisters, Hera, Athena and Aphrodite. They’re named after famous goddesses. My Mama is the reason I became a Pie Rat. She’s the best. She used to tell me pirate stories when I was a little rat and now look at me, living the dream.’
‘My father told me stories, too,’ Whisker recalled, ‘mainly about my great-grandfather, Anso. Anso came from Freeforia like your family. I never met him, but my father said he used to wander around when he was old, mumbling about buried chests and treasure maps.’
‘He should have been a pirate,’ Horace chuckled.
‘It wouldn’t have suited him,’ Whisker pointed out. ‘He didn’t like fighting and his stories always had a moral.’
‘Pie Rats have morals,’ Horace said defensively. ‘Well … some of us do.’
‘Anso got his name from telling stories,’ Whisker explained. ‘He always finished his stories with: And so, followed by the moral. The crew shortened And so to Anso.’
‘I wish I had a cool name,’ Horace sighed.
‘What’s wrong with Hook Hand Horace?’ Whisker asked.
‘I don’t mind the hook bit,’ Horace replied. ‘It’s Horace that annoys me. I wish I was named after a famous god. Hercules would have been perfect.’
‘Does everyone in the crew get a new Pie Rat name?’ Whisker enquired.
‘Ruby didn’t,’ Horace said. ‘But she’s an exception.’
Whisker stopped scrubbing and looked up.
‘What’s the deal with her anyway?’ he asked, intrigued.
‘What do you want to know?’ Horace said with a sly smile.
‘Everything.’
Horace glanced around suspiciously. ‘Ruby’s mother was Black Rat’s only sister. She grew up in Fishers Bay on the west coast of Aladrya. Apparently she met a smooth talking sales-rat and ran away to the capital, Elderhorne where she had three children. The whole family died in the plague, except the youngest daughter, Ruby. She was only a baby and was taken back to Fishers Bay, where her grandmother raised her. I’ve heard Ruby was dressed in the sweetest little outfits and taught to be a lady.’
He lowered his voice and beckoned for Whisker to move closer. ‘But here’s the thing, she always wore an eye patch. Don’t ask me what happened. I don’t know and she won’t tell anyone. Anyway, the older kids of the town would pick on her for her pretty dresses and pirate patch and she learnt to fight to defend herself. After the Captain built the Apple Pie, Ruby had one goal in life, to join his crew. As soon as she was old enough, she came aboard.’
Horace stopped and whispered, ‘Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, will you? Ruby hates talking about her past, as does the Captain.’
‘The Captain,’ Whisker gasped. ‘What do you know about the Captain?’
Horace looked hesitant.
‘Come on,’ Whisker pleaded. ‘I can keep another secret.’
Horace sighed. ‘I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but Black Rat’s father used to be
a Pie Rat captain. Rumour has it he deserted his crew one evening, along with all the ship’s treasure, and was never seen again. Black Rat hates his father for what he did, and if you ask me, I think he’s trying to make amends. He may have a wild temper at times but he’s fair. He puts the crew first and his entire portion of treasure always goes to his mother.’
‘Listen,’ Horace said quietly, ‘you and I both have families that care about us. Ruby never knew her family and the Captain hates his father … Do you see where I’m headed?’
Whisker nodded. ‘Don’t mention families.’
‘Good lad.’
‘What about Fred and Pete?’ Whisker asked.
‘Well,’ Horace began, ‘Pete is from a big family of eleven or twelve brothers and sisters. They lived in Elderhorne, delivering newspapers. I think that’s how he became so interested in reading. Pete joined the crew before my time and his leg was bitten off by a fish during a fight with the Sea Dogs. He’s been afraid of the water ever since.’
‘Is that why he’s always so serious?’ Whisker ventured.
‘No. That’s just his personality. He does have a sense of humour, though. Take a look at some of the messages he leaves lying around with his pencil leg.’
Horace pointed to a line of scratchy red graffiti at the base of the mainmast: The sail is mightier than the sword. Whisker stands triumphant.
‘Nice,’ Whisker grinned. ‘But what’s the star supposed to mean?’ He gestured to a large black star on the bulwark.
‘That’s for Fred,’ Horace explained. ‘The star stands for starboard. We all love Fred, don’t get me wrong, but the finer points of sailing aren’t his strong point. He was raised by a gang of sewer rats under the streets of Port Abalilly. One day, the gang made him swim after a biscuit tin that floated down the sewer. He followed it out to the ocean and when he lost sight of it, continued swimming. The Captain picked him up a few miles from shore and gave him the choice to join the crew or swim back to the sewer. Fred once told me the Pie Rats were the only real family he ever had.’
Horace picked up a scrubbing brush. ‘And that covers everyone – apart from Smudge, but he just showed up one day and hasn’t left. I don’t know if flies have families …’
The Forgotten Map Page 5
