Return to the Willows

by Jacqueline Kelly

  Right, then. Faint heart never won fair rat.

  He raised a trembling paw to the brass knocker and froze. It suddenly occurred to him that he knew almost nothing about her. What if she didn’t like messing about in boats? Egads! What if she didn’t like his friends? Horrors! It was all too awful to contemplate. His brain swirled with dizzying thoughts, and he began to turn away.

  At that very moment, a breeze rippled through the reeds along the bank, and from them came a faint murmuring song, at first almost inaudible, but gradually growing in volume. A feeling came over the Rat that he knew the song and he knew the singers; that the invisible chorus was made up of his long-gone ancestors, eons of forefathers and foremothers, untold generations of water rats before him, stretching back, back, all the way back to the misty dawn of time. The multitude of voices twined in a chanting roundelay, and the Rat could now make out these words: “You must,” the voices sang. “You will,” the voices sang.

  The Rat heard their song in wonder, and realized that he was in the grip of an irresistible force, an elemental rhythm that pulsed in his blood. You must … you will.… There was no turning back. He again raised his paw, but before he could knock, the door swung open, and there stood Matilda Rat in all her rodential glory. And although they had not been properly introduced, and although no word had ever passed between them, a feeling of great warmth and light spread throughout his being. He was suffused with the inevitable, the inescapable fact that she was his destiny and that he’d spent his whole life waiting—in truth, all of Nature had been waiting—for this exact moment. He took her paw in his.

  He said simply, “I am the Water Rat.”

  “I am Matilda,” she replied in dulcet tones.

  And then a voice came from the dark hallway behind her. A deep voice, rough around the edges. “And I am Gunnar, the Norwegian Sea Rat. We’re just sitting down to tea. What’s the meaning of this interruption?”

  Ratty dropped Matilda’s paw and gaped at the silhouette looming in the passage.

  The voice said irritably, “If you’re selling something, go away.”

  And with these few words, the hand of fate crumpled up the Rat’s dream of happiness and cast it aside like an old scrap of newspaper. Gone were the ancestral voices, drowned out by the surging of the Rat’s racing pulse, which thrummed in his ears: “You fool … you fool.…”

  The Water Rat—a creature who had never retreated in the heat of battle—stammered, “So sorry,” then turned tail.

  “No, wait!” Matilda cried.

  But it was too late. That intrepid creature—he of the stoutest of stout hearts—had cut and run.

  * * *

  The Mole spent a large part of his time shoring up the disconsolate Rat, murmuring such phrases as, “Buck up, old man, you couldn’t have known she had a suitor,” and “P’raps it’s all for the best, you know,” and “I’m sure there’ll be another lady rat in your future, every bit as nice as the last one.” Mole understood that the Rat was mourning the loss of a different existence, an alternate life, one with another set of rat’s toes warming on the hearth next to his and perhaps a litter of baby rats rushing to greet their father when he came home at the end of the day. A life with a wife and children, a family of his own. But all the might-have-beens had vanished. Only the cold comfort of the never-to-bes remained.

  So the Mole reminded himself to be understanding, and this was all fine and good, for that is what friends do for their friends. They stick by them when the going gets rough; they lift up their spirits when they are low; they are a prop and a stay, one to the other. However, Ratty’s moping went on for so long that even the kindly Mole grew positively sick of it. And just when the Mole couldn’t take it anymore, the Rat woke up early to a glorious sunrise, threw back the covers, stretched, and peered out his window. There he saw, as if for the first time, the morning sun sparkling on the running water. He sniffed the dank, marshy, inviting smells of the shallows. He heard the exultant song of the skylark. All of these things conspired within him to stir a renewed sense of life. He got dressed without prodding and wandered into the kitchen in search of sustenance. There he found the Mole frying rashers of streaky bacon.

  “Oh, Moly,” he said, “no rat ever had a truer friend. How tiresome I have been, I see that now. But today is a new day, and as of this moment, I am a new rat. Why, look at the calendar; it’s the Queen’s Birthday! Let us celebrate the day with a picnic. And tonight let us celebrate Her Majesty’s Birthday with a feast. And fireworks! And Champagne! We shall raise our glasses high and toast the Queen and empire!”

  “Ratty,” said the solemn Mole, “I am so glad to have you back.” They shook each other’s paw and clapped each other on the back and declared their undying friendship. Each turned away for a moment to discreetly wipe away a tear.

  Then they plundered the larder and emptied its contents into a large wicker luncheon-basket, and loaded it into the rowboat. They drifted lazily downstream until they found a likely spot, spread out the checkered cloth, and set to work on their provisions. They ate until they thought their skins would burst like overcooked sausages. Ratty, whose appetite had been stunted for many days, acquitted himself like a trencherman.18 Afterward, drowsy and replete, they dozed in the dappled green-and-gold shade, and diligently digested their luncheon as the sun moved overhead.

  The Mole gave silent thanks that his comrade had survived his near brush with Love, for it was the one force the Mole could not compete with, the one force that might take his friend away from him.

  And what would a Mole be without his Rat?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Swordplay

  In which Toad has a grand adventure in his very own home and receives an unexpected visitor.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a toad in possession of a fortune must be in want of adventure. That is to say, a bored toad is a dangerous toad.

  This particular bored toad sat alone in the great hall under doctor’s orders to stay inside for a full week, nursing a sprained tonsil (he had been singing in the tub when he had inadvisedly reached for a high C on the final chorus of “A Bicycle Built for Two”). He picked dolefully at the threads of his dressing gown. He contemplated his priceless tapestries, his costly furnishings, his oil portraits of stuffy ancestors. He surveyed his many glinting goblets, his gleaming platters, his burnished silver. Toad regarded all of this and sighed. For what was the use of all these things if there wasn’t a farthing’s-worth of action in them?19

  “Oh, bother, Toady,” he spoke aloud. “Face it, you’re bored.”

  After all, was he not an Animal of Action? Who lived for The Life Adventurous? Who thrived on the cut-and-thrust of Hazardous Exploits, whose meat and drink was Plucky Adventure, who laughed in the Face of Danger, who scoffed at The Unknown, who … who …

  “If only I had my balloon back. Now, there was adventure. It’s too bad no one’s found it.” He sighed over the loss of his airship and studied the crest above the fireplace: a quartered silver and blue shield, a steering wheel in the first quarter representing his love of Speed, a golden mirror in the fourth quarter representing his love of, well, Self. The symbol of a dashing, daring, valiant toad, a toad of verve and brio. Should a toad such as he not be running with the bulls, feeling the hot breath of danger on his neck? Should he not be breaking trail over the frigid ice to the distant Pole, reduced to boiling his boots for tea? (Although, come to think of it, that might be going too far.) Should he not be thundering across the plains in a sea of buffalo, the reins between his teeth, his bow and arrow drawn, the ground shaking beneath him from the pounding of a million hooves?

  Of course he should. That was only right and proper for a toad such as he, a true swashbuckler who could buckle swashes with the best of them. But here he sat in his dressing gown, shut up inside under doctor’s orders, staring at his things.

  “Shame,” he sighed. “Shame that the weasels and stoats are all behaving so nicely. If only they’d step out o
f line, if only they’d play up just a bit, then I’d have a good excuse to pummel ’em! Instead, here I sit under house arrest. Silly old doctor. Silly old Leech.20 What does he know about a toad’s metabolism? Especially a toad such as I, a creature made of superior stuff. Just look at me. I’m fit as a fiddle. Why, fitter! I can thrash any man or beast that comes my way.”

  He grabbed the long toasting fork from the fireplace and swished it through the air—once, twice, thrice—and with that, the walls of Toad Hall disappeared in a flash and were replaced by a sleek man-o’-war, HMS Amphibia, under attack by a brig flying the dreaded skull and crossbones. The Toad stood on the burning deck and, ignoring doctor’s orders, shouted at his men to fire the twelve-pounders: “Fire away, lads, fire away! We’ll show those blighters what Jack Tar is made of!” The cannons and pistol fire were deafening; the air was thick with smoke. All around him, crewmen quailed and fainted as the pirates landed their grappling hooks and swung through the air into the Amphibia’s rigging. Flames licked greedily at the mast, and Toad cried out, “Dowse the mainsel! Trim the jabberwock! Hoist the petard!”21 At that very second, the pirate captain—the Imaginary Fiend—swung aboard, clenching a dagger between his teeth and brandishing a cutlass of glittering steel. Never had the world seen such a Fiend, with a black patch over one eye, an interesting scar seaming his brow, and, most intriguing, a wooden peg leg, which impeded his agility not at all.

  “Aaar,” snarled the Fiend in tones that would have frozen the marrow of a lesser being. “So it’s Admiral Toad, is it? We meet at last. Haar!”

  “You scurvy dog!” cried Toad. “I yield to no man, and the Union Jack yields to no flag, least of all the Jolly Roger. I’ll have your guts for garters, sir! En garde!” He lunged forward and executed a perfect balestra, followed by an attaque au fer, before he was beaten back by the Fiend’s whistling flurry of coups de taille.22

  “You devil!” Toad shouted. “Your sword shall not taste this toad’s blood!” He slashed the air furiously with his fork. “Take that, you villain! And that! Zounds, sir, I’ll serve you up a meal of cold steel, I will.” (He paused for a moment and murmured, “Ooh, that’s quite good. I’ve got to remember that one.”) He whirled back into action, a dervish of a toad, and was about to skewer his foe when the Imaginary Fiend’s companion, the Imaginary Parrot, appeared from nowhere. Shrieking blood-curdling oaths, it flew straight into Toad’s face, causing him to flinch and drop his fork on the deck with a clatter.

  “Oh, I say,” he said indignantly, “that’s most unsporting.”

  “Gaar,” growled the Fiend, “I’ve got you now. On your knees and beg for mercy. Which I might or might not grant, ’cos I might or might not be in the mood. It all depends.”

  Stoutly, Toad declared, “Admiral Toad does not beg for mercy, especially from the likes of you. You, sir, are a veritable parasite of the seas. You’re nothing better than a … a”—here he struggled to come up with the most scathing insult he could think of—“a tapeworm!”

  The crowd of sailors and pirates, up until that moment engaged in desperate hand-to-hand combat, gasped and froze in place. The guns fell silent. The wind died away. The sudden silence pulsed in Toad’s brain. He glanced uneasily at the circle of shocked faces. He looked at the Fiend and saw a tear glinting in his one good eye.

  An abashed Toad murmured, “Awfully sorry, old chap. I didn’t really mean it. It just slipped out in the heat of battle. Come along, now, you’re not really a tapeworm. Why, you’re the very best—I mean the worst—fiend on the seven seas.”

  “I am?” sniffed the Fiend.

  “’Course you are. Everybody says so,” said Toad soothingly.

  “They do?” sniffed the Fiend.

  “’Course they do. Everyone agrees you’re the worst, most hideous brigand that ever flew the pirate flag. Now, chin up—there’s a good fellow.” Toad picked up his fork. “Come on, away we go.”

  The two saluted each other per regulation and resumed their swordplay. They lunged and parried, leapt and thrust, and the mighty Toad managed to beat the fearsome buccaneer back to the cabin door, from whence, oddly enough, an insistent knocking issued.

  “What’s that?” cried Toad. “What’s that noise?”

  It was someone knocking on the door of the great hall, and the Fiend, along with his parrot, the Amphibia, and the rest of the British fleet, evaporated in the wink of an eye.

  “Drat,” said Toad. “Just when I was about to skewer him.” He opened the door to a diminutive figure, a tiny toad wearing thick spectacles and a schoolboy’s uniform and cap.

  “Why, hullo, Humphrey,” said Toad in surprise.

  “Hullo, Uncle Toad,” said the small creature, peering up through his specs.

  Toad shook his nephew’s paw, saying, “What are you doing here?”

  “Mummy sent me. Didn’t you get her letter?”

  “I’ve been much too busy with important business to look at the morning’s post,” said Toad. “Do come in.” He caught sight of the many trunks piled behind his nephew and said, “What a lot of luggage, Humphrey. How long are you stopping?”

  “Mummy’s off to Italy,” said Humphrey. “I’m to spend the summer with you.”

  “She is?” said Toad. “You are? Oh, well then, jolly good. Always glad to have you. Come along inside. Actually, I was just making mincemeat of a Pirate Fiend.23 There’s a Parrot Fiend, too. You’re welcome to join me in the fray.”

  “I don’t play pirates anymore, Uncle Toad,” said Humphrey. “I’ve outgrown them.”

  “Outgrown pirates?” exclaimed Toad in bafflement. “Don’t be silly, boy. Nobody outgrows pirates.”

  Humphrey said, “Now I do inventions.”

  “Inventions, eh? What sort of inventions?”

  “All sorts,” said Humphrey. “Those trunks are full of things I’m working on. I couldn’t just leave them at home.” He glanced around nervously and beckoned to Toad to bend down and receive a secret. “Don’t tell Mummy,” he whispered, “but I’m making some special fireworks for the Queen’s Birthday.”

  “That’s nice,” said Toad, and patted him on the head.

  “Mummy gets upset if she knows I’m making fireworks.”

  “Why should she?” said Toad absently. “Perfectly good hobby for a nephew to have.”

  “It’s because of the gunpowder.”

  “Hmm?” said Toad. “What was that? Thought you said gunpowder. I really must get my hearing checked.”

  “Yes,” said Humphrey, “gunpowder.”

  “You have gunpowder?”

  “I do. But it’s awfully dangerous stuff, you know.”

  Toad gazed into the middle distance, eyes agleam. “Oh, my,” he breathed. “Gunpowder.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Toad. And Fireworks.

  (Need I say more?)

  Toad and Humphrey unpacked the trunks and set up a laboratory in Humphrey’s room. Toad exclaimed over each intriguing beaker and flask as they pulled them from the straw.

  “Oh, my! Oh, my! So this is how you make fireworks, with all these odds and ends? How very interesting.”

  “Please be careful, Uncle,” said Humphrey, finally extracting a tightly sealed tin box, labeled in big red letters: CAUTION—BEWARE—GUNPOWDER—EXPLOSIVE—KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE AND FLAME—DO NOT HANDLE IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING—THIS MEANS YOU. (TRULY, IT DOES.)

  “Is that it?” whispered Toad. “Is that the stuff?”

  “Yes,” said Humphrey. “That’s the stuff.”

  Toad said in remote tones, “Is it the same stuff that one uses to build—oh, I don’t know, just for an example—a mortar, say? Or a cannon shell?”

  “The same stuff. But, Uncle, you must make me a solemn promise that you won’t go near it when I’m not here.”

  “Mmm?” said Toad, as if in a trance, unable to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing box.

  “You do promise, don’t you?” Humphrey eyed his uncle with growing concern and tugge
d at his sleeve to jolt him from his reverie.

  “What was that?” said Toad, coming round. “Oh, yes. Absolutely.” He placed his paw over his heart and said, “Toad’s word is Toad’s bond. Gilt-edged, you know. Take it to the bank and all that. Am I not the most responsible of animals?”

  “Um, well…,” began Humphrey, no doubt remembering previous episodes when his uncle had come to grief.

  “Am I not the most reliable of animals?” huffed Toad.

  “Well…”

  Toad looked hurt. “Humphrey, my boy, you cut me to the quick. Oh, I admit there might have been a time or two in the distant past when my enthusiasm carried me away the tiniest bit, and perhaps I was not always the most accountable of creatures, but those days are long gone. You see before you a brand-new Toad. A prudent Toad. A trustworthy Toad. Now, show me how one makes fireworks, there’s a good fellow.”

  A reluctant Humphrey gave his uncle careful instruction, and they set to the delicate craft of pyrotechnics. Naturally, they took all the proper precautions, for one simply doesn’t mess about with such a dangerous item without wearing safety apparel, et cetera.24 And since an open flame is absolutely forbidden around gunpowder, they worked without benefit of lanterns or candles, with only the light shining through the fine Tudor window.

  At last, after they had what Humphrey deemed a goodly store of Roman candles, Catherine wheels, and cherry bombs, they went down to afternoon tea on the terrace. Then it was time to check with the butler that everything was ready for the celebration later that evening. Finding all in order, Toad said, “I think I’ll just go to my room and put my feet up for a while.” He stretched theatrically and patted away a feigned yawn. “My goodness, I am quite fatigued. I believe a short nap is in order. It’s always good to be refreshed when guests arrive.” He giggled nervously and went on. “Yes, that’s the ticket. Tee-hee. Humphrey, would you like to go to the boathouse and amuse yourself? Or perhaps we could roust some of the local squirrels for a game of tennis. Wouldn’t that be fun? Tee-hee.”