‌Real Numbers

“I hope you won’t let the cat out of the bag about this,” a steady voice said.

The words reached our friends across the complete dark. Fred’s plan had worked; they had arrived right on time. But arrived where? They could see neither hand nor foot nor paw. There was no breeze or scent of pine. The darkness was so disorienting that Fred wondered if the voice was coming from inside her head.

“Why would someone put a cat in a bag?” Fred asked aloud to the darkness.

They heard a dry laugh. “I don’t have to mean what I say. Not here. There’s no real cat, and no real bag. Just little old me. And a very boring secret that I hope you won’t tell.” The voice coughed.

“We’re not here to give away anyone’s secrets, we promise,” Fred said, with a quiver in her voice. “We’re here to see the Rat.”

No response.

“The Ratty-Rat-Rat of Rationality and Reason and Raisins and Rockets,” Fred clarified.

“Interesting,” said the voice.

“The Rat who helped my friend Downer, the elephant in the room. The Rat who will pay this mongoose mother of seventeen for her work freeing us from the dungeon. The Rat who will help me find my mom.”

“You sound very convinced,” said the voice. “That’s sweet. That you have such hopes for the Rat Queen.”

There was a click, a reading lamp was lit, and a furriness in a rocking chair was illuminated. The furriness was gnawing on an old crushed aluminum can. The furriness was, Fred noticed, surrounded by piles of… garbage. Old orange peels, crumpled-up paper bags, coffee grounds. And yet Fred could also distinctly make out the scent of chocolate croissants. And peanut butter. And pickles. What she wouldn’t give for a peanut butter and pickle sandwich right about now.

“Nice slippers,” the furry creature said. “Does that mean you are a Child? Children are the Best Thing in the World.”

“Um, thanks,” said Fred, looking down at her feet. Again she had forgotten she was in her pajamas. “They’re from when—” Fred stopped speaking as she noticed that the creature was wearing a red-and-white check robe, one that looked like her tablecloth, and like the skirt she had seen her mother in. “I like your robe…. Excuse me, but: Are you the Rat Queen?”

The creature took another bite of aluminum can.

Fred looked at Gogo, who looked at Downer, who looked back at Fred.

The garbage-eating creature set down her snack. “I suppose I owe all of you an apology,” she said.

The travelers didn’t say anything. But Fred, again, started to nervously bite at her nails. Then she noticed she was biting at her nails, and stopped biting them.

The Rat—as Fred suspected, this garbage-gnawing creature was the Rat—then said, “Did you hear me? I said I owe all of you an apology. Now one of you say: If you say so.”

Neither Fred, nor Downer, nor Gogo knew what to say. Even though they had just been told what to say.

The Rat Queen said again, louder: “You say: If you say so. And then I say: Yes, I say so.”

Our friends remained silent.

“Come on,” the Rat said. “Please. I used to do this with Hart all the time. Hart loved our back-and-forth. Oh, Hart. Dear, dear Hart. Hart also was The Best Thing in the World. Hart also was once a child. Maybe Go ahead: say If you say so.”

“Heart?” Fred asked. “Who’s Heart?”

Gogo shrugged; she looked downcast.

Downer, however, did speak up. For once, he didn’t look downcast; he looked mad. “Pardon me, Ratty-Rat of Rhubarb Jam and Rudders. But I’m not going to say, If you say so.”

“There: you said it,” the Rat said. “Thank you. As a reward, I will tell you my story.”