It is a truth universally acknowledged that all rats enjoy a good story, even if the stories are embroidered with half-truths and embellished with exaggeration. And for the Dockland Rats, there is nothing more satisfying than sitting around a fire on a cold winter’s night, roasting chestnuts and listening to tales by candlelight.
Tilbury finished his story and took a sip of blackberry wine.
‘But, Pa, you haven’t finished,’ said Tilbury’s oldest daughter, the first-born of his first litter. ‘What happened to Obsidian and Yersinia?’
‘Obsidian and Yersinia wanted that diamond so badly that they both dived down after it, clutching each other and fighting and biting and scratching as they went,’ said Tilbury to his wide-eyed ratlings. ‘Down, down, down … to the bottom of the sea. Maybe they found the diamond and maybe they didn’t. But they were never seen again. And since then, the Dockland Rats have given up their hoardings of jewels and life is much finer for it. They are kinder, too. For much wealth can bring greed, jealously and want for more.’
‘But what about your brother Elberry?’ said Tilbury’s second son from his third litter.
‘Ah, poor Elberry,’ said Tilbury. ‘The diamond still possesses his mind, such is its power. He is still out there, digging into the sand of the Diamond River, hoping to find more diamonds there. He has become a prisoner of his own making, putting value on something that has so little worth.’
‘And what about Marfaire?’ said Tilbury’s daughter from his fourth litter.
Tilbury smiled. ‘Well now, I have heard from Nimble-Quick that there are tales of a white she-rat that rides a white tiger in the high mountain kingdoms. And I have heard it said that they are the greatest of friends.’
Tilbury’s daughter from his sixth litter sighed. ‘Why didn’t Nimble-Quick stay here in the Docklands too?’
‘She has always loved adventure,’ said Tilbury. He ran his paws along the two silk scarves around his neck. ‘We did make the Silk Wing together again from Bartholomew’s original plans. We made it here in the chandlery basement. She has travelled around the world, across the seven seas, the great mountains and vast ice-sheets. I always look forward to her stories when she visits, but she is always happiest following where the winds take her.’ Tilbury helped himself to a large piece of cheese and settled back into the orange furry tummy of Marmalade Paws. ‘Whereas, like Marmalade, I never really wanted to leave the chandlery basement of Tilbury Docks. It is an emporium of wonder, containing everything I could possibly want to know. He smiled at all his children and their bright eyes looked back at him. ‘And now it contains all the riches I could possibly ever want to have.’
‘But, Pa,’ said Tilbury’s third-born from his fourth litter. ‘You told us that stories change with the teller. Would Nimble-Quick’s story about the Cursed Night be different from your own?’
‘That’s a good question,’ said Tilbury, ‘for everyone has their own version of a story to tell.’ He paused. ‘We are made of stories; they shape us and tell us who we are. But we must honour those who share our story, tell their truth and let their light shine too.’
‘Tell us about Rose,’ said Tilbury’s first-born son of his seventh litter. He looked up shyly. ‘We want to know what happened to Rose?’
Tilbury smiled. ‘You know this story,’ he said, and chuckled. ‘Why, you wouldn’t be here to listen if it hadn’t been for her. I have travelled far across the world, to learn that greed can destroy you. It will take away all that matters most.’ He pulled Rose towards him and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘The most valuable thing is often right under our noses.’
‘But, Ma,’ said their son. ‘Didn’t you want to stay with the Sand Rats in the Diamond Mines? You spent so long trying to find where you belonged.’
Rose tweaked her son’s whisker. ‘I have often wondered where home really is. Was my home in the City in the Clouds with my family there? Or was my home in the ancestral lands of the Sand Rats? I only ever felt I half belonged to either place.’ She sighed and held Tilbury’s paw. ‘I have never felt more at home than when I am with your pa. Home is not a place. Home is a feeling. It’s where the heart is.’
Tilbury’s youngest son twitched his tail and big tears filled his eyes, for this was the first time he had heard Pa tell the story of his remarkable life.
‘What is it, Barty?’ said Tilbury.
‘Oh, Pa,’ said Barty. ‘I am named after Bartholomew, but now I hear he was no hero. He was a liar and a thief. Maybe I will become like him too.’
Tilbury pulled his youngest son closer. ‘Indeed, Bartholomew was a thief, but he tried to put things right. That’s what counts. In the end, he was true to himself. And now we are telling the truth of his story.’
‘But I’m your seventh seventh-born,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and I’m afraid, for it’s said that a seventh seventh-born in want of adventure does not last very long in the world. Maybe there is a curse upon me too.’
‘There is no more a curse on a seventh seventh-born, than on the diamond that I threw into the sea,’ said Tilbury. ‘Do not be trapped by others’ fears and superstitions. Your precious life is yours and yours alone. To live, you must seek the truth and learn to tell your own story.’.
