A fine rain accompanied us that night and although it was cold, it brought two favours: it prevented our scent from reaching dogs, and it washed the last traces of milk from my fur. I wanted to forget about that near disaster. There was not much chance of that, however, for Roger kept reminding me of my swim in the milk vat, and the tooth marks I had put in his tail. I was grateful to him for saving my life. Of course I was. But several rounds of thank you were not enough. It was a never-ending supply of gratitude he wanted, and I struggled with my irritation. When I thought of Roger crossing the lake in a picnic basket, Roger turning the tap for milk, anger flared up in me. I walked a little faster to avoid his talk, but he always caught up.
“The milk tanker comes to collect the milk,” he said. “Imagine what the driver would have said when he found a drowned rat.”
“I know, I know. If it hadn’t been for you, Roger, I’d be dead.” I tried to shorten his story.
“You might have blocked his intake pipe,” he said cheerfully.
We were nearing the outskirts of Sweet Clover Meadows, passing more trees and fewer humming-bean houses. We had chosen to travel at the edge of the road, rather than cross unknown country, for although there was traffic, we were outside the bright focus of the eyes of cars and trucks. I knew we would need to stop before we came to the Bottomless Bog. Although our night-sight was adequate, we would need full daylight to detect the dangers, whatever they were, of the swamp.
Having slept most of the day, Retsina and the ratlets had fine energy. The girls and Gamma wanted to know more about Ratenburg. I told them, “Its beauty is beyond our imagination. The nests are lined with silk and swans-down. The food barns are always full—”
“So Ratenburg has silkworms and swans,” said Delta.
“No, only rats,” I said.
“Then how do they get—”
“Delta, they may use product from other creatures, but only rats can live there. Every creature has its own natural home. Why do you think humming beans suffer from ratophobia? It’s because they’ve built their cities for humming beans and we have invaded them. Those cities don’t belong to rats. Birds have their nests in trees. Tigers have jungles in Africa. Rats have Ratenburg.”
“India,” said Delta.
“What?”
“Tigers live in India. There are no tigers in Africa.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure, Papa.”
“Well then, tigers in India. It makes no difference to the point I’m trying to make. All rats want to go to Ratenburg because it belongs to rats.”
“Not all,” said Delta. “Personally, I believe the basement of another humming-bean apartment building would suit us just as well.”
“And face more ratophobia?” I tried to see his face in the dark. “My boy, I’m tired of moving from place to place. I’m tired of fighting wars. I want to live in a place where rats can truly feel at home.”
He was silent after that, and I was likewise, remembering places where I had lived for a time. Let me tell you, dear friend, all my places of abode have been of short or very short occupancy. I have only infant memories of the wharf where I was born. Dogs and poisonous smoke guns were brought in to exterminate rats. My father fled with me and my brother, Hawser, and we went inland, taking refuge in the attic of a humming-bean house that had a fine vegetable garden. I remember eating strawberries and green peas and wondering where my mother, sisters and other brothers were. We were not at the garden house for long. The owners bought a cat. So we moved on and that became the pattern of our lives, each move made to avoid a danger.
Papa Mizzen said he would take me away on a ship, but before that happened, he and Hawser disappeared. I didn’t know what happened to them, but I desperately wanted to believe they had gone to Ratenburg. Then one day I met Retsina, the beautiful rat who lived in a drain behind the Greek restaurant. She had always lived there, but the drain was overcrowded, so together we made a nest in the old apartment building I described at the beginning of this book. We had our four ratlets and I believed I had at last found permanence. How wrong I was! How utterly wrong! As this thought overwhelmed me, I gave a sigh that must have come from the depths of my heart, because Retsina hurried to my side.
“Spinnaker dear, what’s wrong?”
Her sympathy brought moisture to my eyes. “Dearest wife, I have a confession to make. I have failed you and our ratlets. I have not been a good provider. Here we are, wandering in the dark, no food, no home, no idea of where we are going or what we will find when we get there. We’re vagabonds.”
“Not vagabonds, Spinnaker. We’re pilgrims on our way to Ratenburg.”
Her words failed to cheer me. “I have put your lives at risk,” I said. “What dedicated father does that to his family? Look at me, Retsina! I’m a failure. I have nothing to offer you.”
For a moment she rested her head on my neck. “My darling, you’re a loving husband and father, and a family can walk a long way on love.” She sniffed my face and then licked the salty wetness on my cheek. “I think you’re sad because you’re tired. We all slept, but you had a stressful day. Spinnaker, can you smell wild blackberries? Let’s stop here until the dawn comes.”
I was so full of misery that I wanted to argue with her, but she was right, and there was a thicket of wild blackberries on the other side of the road. In the dark, we sniffed out some ripe berries and then rested under the bushes in a spot untouched by rain. I knew the thorns that surrounded us would provide protection from any stray dog or cat. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, it was daylight and my back was against a nest of prickles. I moved, and the prickles moved. I rolled over and saw—a hedgehog. Oh my goodness! I had been sleeping back to back with a large brown hedgehog, who was now looking at me with kindly curiosity. “So you’re awake then?”
She had such a thick country accent that I barely understood the words. “What are you doing here?” I asked, but as soon as I said it, I realised it was a silly question. I also knew what the answer would be.
“I live here,” she said.
“This is your home?” I looked around the underside of the thorny bush. There was no sign of the family and Roger, but I could hear them on the other side, picking fruit. “I didn’t know this was your nest. I’m very sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “Plenty of room.” She turned her head towards a rustling noise. “They’re eating the thingummies on the whatchamacallit.”
“Blackberries,” I said.
“Yes, those thingummies.” She put her head on one side. “City rat?”
“No, I’m a Ship rat, but I come from the city.”
She nodded. “Taking your family to Ratenburg, eh?”
I was surprised. “How do you know?”
The hedgehog snuffled a small laugh. “Why else would you be here? Bottomless whatsit next?”
“Bog. Yes, it is. How far is it?”
“On the other side of the ghost trees. Big swamp with lots of whoflicky! You must be very careful.”
“What is the—” I tried to remember the word “—flicky thing?”
“The whoflicky? Mud. Very sucky mud. You step off the solid thingy and it pulls you down.” She shuffled closer until her eye was close to mine. “There’s solid thingy and not-solid thingy. Lumps of grass. You need to know the difference. Stick is the answer. Take a stick. Poke, poke. Solid grass, good. Floating grass, goodbye.”
“Madam, I’m so grateful for that advice. We were told the Bottomless Bog was dangerous, but no one said what that danger was. Is there anything else we need to know?”
“Whoflicky,” she said. “Just whoflicky.” That appeared to be the end of the conversation, because she turned and waddled away through the brambles, and she did not look back. She had given me valuable advice.
I could hear squeaks of pleasure as my family feasted on blackberries. What had the hedgehog called them? Thingummies! But I needed to tell the ratlets to be quiet. We were not out of dog country yet.
The morning was clear and misty, the sun not yet up and raindrops lay as silver balls in the creases of leaves. There was scarcely a ripe berry and all the ratlets, and Roger, had stained fur about their mouths. Retsina ate more delicately but her front paw pads were dark red with juice.
“We should live in the country, Papa!” Beta said. “There’s so much to eat!”
And so much to eat us, I thought. I stood on my hind legs to reach a dark blackberry that promised sweetness. “Have you heard any dogs?”
“No,” Beta said. “It might be too early.”
“Make sure they don’t hear us,” I told them. The blackberry fell with a small plop and I took it in my mouth.
Roger smiled at me. “That would go down well with a drop of milk.”
“Yes, Roger. And good morning to you, too.” I looked past him to Gamma, who was trying to stand on his front paws to flick ripe blackberries off a branch with the tip of his tail. “Gamma, I need to talk to you about the swamp.”
“Why, Papa?”
I smiled. My dear athletic son could be forgetful. “Because the Bottomless Bog is in your map memory, Gamma. And I have some more information to add to it.”
The ghost trees mentioned by the hedgehog were a cluster of poplars that had died. Bare branches reached upwards, pale grey, not a leaf in sight. At this point, the road ceased, its end marked by white-painted barriers and red signs warning cars to go no further. I was surprised that cars could read these signs, but Roger assured me that motor transport was very intelligent these days. We stopped at the barrier, aware of other signs that showed humming beans sinking in water. I knew it was not water that lay ahead, but sticky whoflicky, mud that could suck us down to bottomless depths.
“That can’t be true,” said Delta. “Nothing is bottomless.”
“This bog is,” Gamma insisted.
Delta’s whiskers curled. “If it’s bottomless then it must be a hole right through to the other side of the planet, in which case the water would drain out.”
“It’s called the Bottomless Bog.” Gamma emphasised each word.
“Names are not necessarily accurate,” Delta replied. “Everything on this earth has a bottom.”
At this, Beta and Alpha giggled. They danced and sang, “I’ve got a bottom. You’ve got a bottom. Everything’s got a bottom.”
“Girls!” said Retsina. “Hush! This is very important. Listen to Papa and Gamma. They have worked out a plan for crossing this swamp.”
I said, “We get over the bog by walking on clumps of grass. The problem is this: some of the grass is on solid ground, other clumps are floating. If we tread on the floating islands, they will sink beneath us. But all the clumps look the same.”
Beta, now frightened, asked, “So how do we get across?”
“I will go first,” I told her. “I will walk two-paw like a humming bean, and I will carry a strong stick to poke each lump of grass before I tread on it. You will follow. None of you will step onto grass I haven’t tested. Is that clear?”
They said yes, but I asked them individually to repeat my instructions. I wanted to be sure they all understood the importance of obeying orders. Only when I was certain did I lead them to the other side of the white barrier.
The bog could not have been bottomless because there were many more dead trees ahead, different kinds, some of which I recognised—willow, gum, poplar, oak. The sun shone on a surface that looked like water, but as we got closer, we realised it was black mud, gleaming like coal. Sticking out of the mud were tussocks, mostly green grass but also some small shrubs and buttercups. My stick was a thin branch of yew with the leaves torn off. I chose yew because although it is not a pleasant wood, being toxic to taste, it is strong, and I knew it would not break halfway across the swamp. I gave the family my last order: “Follow me—and stay together!”
The first five grass clumps were solid, and the way seemed easier than I had imagined; it was a simple matter to jump from one to another. But when I poked my stick at the sixth, a lump of short grass growing in a tangle of watercress, the little island wobbled and tipped sideways like a sinking boat. The dark mud around it gurgled, sending up bubbles that popped with a stagnant smell. I felt quite faint. After five solid clumps I had grown so confident that I was ready to forget about my stick. I looked back at the ratlets and tried my best to sound cheerful. “That one’s a bad egg—and it smells like it.” I turned sideways, poked another lump. Yes, it was solid. “We’ll have to make a short detour,” I said.
After that, I was very careful. There were only a few floating grasses, but it was impossible to know them by sight alone. I was so pleased I had the hedgehog’s advice. Without it, we would have been sunk. The memory of the milking shed was still fresh in my mind, and having escaped certain death in white milk I was not anxious to risk it in black mud. The prodding stick was a valuable guide, although we soon discovered we could not go in a straight line across the swamp. Sometimes, we needed to go back in order to find a different route on stable grass clumps. It was a slow and difficult journey. Some of the ratlets were impatient.
“Papa, you listened to a hedgehog,” Gamma said. “Hedgehogs are heavy. Rats are light. We could jump one at a time onto a floating island, and I’m sure it wouldn’t sink. If it did tip, I would just jump off again.”
“We won’t risk it, Gamma. If you fall in the mud, that’s it. No one can rescue you.” I poked my stick at some grass and it wobbled, sending out thick ripples. We had to go back again.
On one of the stable islands, I put a stone in my mouth. It was very small, a mere pebble. When I had the ratlets’ attention, I spat the stone at the mud. As light as it was, it hit the mud with a glop and immediately sank, leaving a small hole that closed over. I didn’t have to say anything. The lesson was obvious. They all shivered, and Retsina said severely, “Gamma, this is your map memory! I expect you to be responsible and do what is safe. Obey your father!”
Gamma laughed. “I was only thinking out loud.”
For once, Jolly Roger supported me. “Don’t be such a mouse!” he said to Gamma. “We’re not here to take risks.”
So we continued, testing each clump of grass before we jumped. The sky had clouded. It hung like a grey roof propped up by dead trees, and I thought we might have rain again. I was anxious to get across the swamp before more wetness came, for I had no idea how a downpour would affect the mud level in Bottomless Bog. But I could not hasten our journey. Dying in this foul-smelling ooze would be much worse than drowning in milk.
Dear friend, I would like to tell you that we got through the bog unscathed, but we didn’t. It was careful, practical Delta who fell in. We don’t know how it happened. The gap between the two green islands was not great. Even Beta, the smallest, jumped it with ease. I can only assume that Delta had jumped absent-mindedly. I turned when Retsina gave a horrified squeak, and saw poor Delta clutching grass with mouth and claws, while his lower half was submerged in that dark, sucking mud. I yelled at the others, “Hold him! Pull him out!”
Retsina and the other three ratlets were now with Delta but there was more panic than progress, and Delta had freed his mouth to shout, “Don’t leave me! Don’t let me sink!”
I handed my stick to Jolly Roger, “Hold this! Don’t lose it!” and went back through the weeds to Delta. He had stopped calling out, and again had his teeth fastened around grass stalks that would surely give way as the mud sucked him down. I needed to act quickly. One of us could not pull him out. We all had to do it. It would have to be a team tail tow.
I looked into Delta’s frightened eyes. “Listen carefully, my son. We’re going to get you out. We’re lining up, jaw to tail—your brother, sisters, your mother and then me. When I say the word I want you to let go of the weeds and grab my tail. See it? There’s a bump near the end. Whatever you do, don’t bite that bump. Hold onto it higher up and don’t let go. Do you understand? Don’t hold onto the broken bit!”
He nodded, and that slight movement rippled the thick mud around his hind legs.
I positioned myself so that my tail was close to his mouth, then I made sure that Retsina’s elegant tail was close to mine. “Is everyone ready? All right, Delta. Now!”
He let go of the grass and, immediately, the mud sucked him back. As a result, his jaws closed on the bump on my tail. Oh, the pain of it! I would have screamed had my jaws not been clamped to Retsina’s tail. She was holding onto Beta, Beta to Gamma and Gamma had the tail of Alpha, who was out in front. Without a word, we all pulled. We all heard the sucking sound, and smelled the foul mud, as slowly, very slowly, Delta came out onto the green island. Poor Delta. He looked as though he had been dipped in tar. He lay on the grass, gasping and shaking with fright.
I cautiously curled my tail about me to examine it. There was no feeling in the end of it, and I could see the reason why. The lump was hanging by a sliver of skin to the rest of the tail. When I licked it, it dropped off. Yes, right off! I had lost a whisker’s length of tail. It lay on the ground like a small dead worm with a lumpy head, and I knew that I would be like those rats who’ve had their tails caught in humming-bean traps.
Retsina saw it. “Oh Spinnaker,” she whispered, nuzzling my cheek. “What a great sacrifice you have made for our son.”
That made me feel better. Yes, I suppose it was a sacrifice, although to tell the truth, the end of my tail had been useless after that train guard’s boot. But I liked the thought that I had given part of myself to save Delta.
The other ratlets came back to see their brother safely out of the bog. “You smell awful!” said Alpha.
Beta comforted him. “Don’t try to lick your fur, Delta. That horrible mud could still kill you. It might be poisonous. Wait until we find a stream.”
Gamma patted Delta on the head. “Brother, we defeated the undefeatable bottomless bog.” Then he looked at me and his eyes went wide. “Papa! Your tail!”
Retsina leaned against me. “Your father’s tail has always been handsome. Now it is both handsome and brave.”
I laughed and swished my tail. “Short is very fashionable,” I said.
“Did I show you the tooth marks in my tail?” said Jolly Roger, ready to retell the story of the milk.
Alpha cut in. “Uncle Roger helped us, Papa. I held on to his tail when we pulled Delta out of the mud.”
Roger was pleased with himself. “I had to make my contribution,” he said.
I looked at him. “Where is the stick?”
“The stick?”
“Yes! The poking stick. I told you to hold it. Don’t lose it, I said.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Roger looked in the grass. “It’s here somewhere. I dropped it when I needed to rescue Gamma.” He parted some tall weeds. “It can’t have walked.”
“Maybe it flew,” I said.
“Flew?”
“Maybe you didn’t drop it. Maybe you tossed it and it landed in the mud.”
“I would never do that!” But now Roger looked uncomfortable, for clearly, the yew stick was not on the island.
I, too, was feeling great discomfort, and I am not talking about my amputated tail end. Without that yew stick we had nothing to test solid ground in the stretch of bog that remained. We were marooned.
Soon everyone realised the gravity of our situation. Roger made a series of jittery excuses. He had laid the stick carefully in the grass and someone had kicked it over the side. He had given the stick to Alpha. Or was it Gamma? The grass was wet and the stick was slippery. None of this was his fault.
Delta was standing and shaking himself, trying to get rid of the mud that coated the lower half of his body. The others helped Roger to look again in the grass. They trampled the island as flat as a tablecloth. There was no stick.
Gamma stood up on his hind paws and stretched. “At the risk of making myself unpopular, I have a suggestion.”
“Any suggestion would be welcome,” I told him.
“See that dead tree? The one with grass around it? I think I can jump that far.”
The tree he indicated was a small oak some distance away. The branches spread wide and there were a few dried leaves on some limbs almost above us. On the near side of the bottom of the trunk was an island of short grass and twigs. I said, “Gamma, of this I am certain: that island is a floater. It will tip you into the mud.”
“I’m fast,” said Gamma. “I will be up that tree in the shake of a whisker. I can chew through a branch, drop it down to you and then jump down myself.”
I could see logic in his suggestion but was afraid for him. That first jump was four rats long, a colossal leap even for an athlete like Gamma. If he did land near the trunk, it was likely he would go through the mat of weed, or else it would tip him into the bog. “I’m sorry, Gamma. It’s brave of you to offer, but I can’t allow it. We’ll wait. Maybe someone will come by to help us?”
“Who?” asked Gamma.
No one answered him.
“I would run,” said Gamma. “Like this!”
I thought he was merely demonstrating how he could run across the solid land beneath us, but then I saw that his speed was increasing.
“Gamma!” Retsina called in fright.
That reckless ratlet left the edge of our island and sailed through the air, ears flattened, tail straight behind him. Over the mud he went, like a bird. Then, nearer the tree, he brought his hind legs up under his chest. I saw what he intended. He landed feet first on the grass mat and in the same movement launched himself at the tree trunk. Just as well, for the clump of weed and twigs split in two and sank into the mud.
“Well done, Gamma!” called Alpha.
My brave, disobedient son had his claws embedded in the bark. He grinned at us, and then scuttled up the tree as though this was something he had done every day of his life. Chewing through a thin, straight branch took a little longer. He nibbled carefully, his legs and tail wrapped around a thicker branch, higher up. We watched as his sharp little teeth worked through the wood. At one stage he paused to say the wood was still damp and strong. “It won’t break when you poke the islands.”
Eventually the branch sagged, tearing some of the remaining fibres. “Step back!” Gamma yelled. We moved away as he bent over to deliver a few more bites, the last done with a toss of his head that propelled the stick our way. It fell neatly beside me and I was able to nip off some protruding twigs.
Gamma went as far as he could on the overhanging branch. “Now you’ll have to catch me!” he called.
At once, Retsina and Roger and I stood on our hind legs. We made a triangle and held our front paws together in the middle. “Jump!” I shouted.
We didn’t catch him as we intended, but we did break his fall, and he got to his feet, as sprightly as ever. I tested the stick. It was even better than the first, being a little longer. I reached out and prodded the next green mass. Yes, it was firm. We would get across the bog before the rain came.
The rest of the journey went without incident. The only tension was between my two sons who, after their perilous adventures, could only go back to their old argument as to whether the bog was bottomless or not.
When we came to the other side, the clouds released their burden and we walked some distance through thick grass that dripped with water. At one place the water had filled a small hollow. Retsina told Delta to sit in it.
“But it’s cold,” he said.
Retsina was firm. “I don’t care if the bog is bottomless or not. You are going to have a bogless bottom.”
With that, dear friend, we left the smell of that foul bog behind us.
