On the Prowl

The Owl and the Pussy Cat was Whisker’s least favourite nursery rhyme. After narrowly escaping from owls, he was not looking forward to adding pussy cats to the mix.

The Captain was equally unimpressed.

‘Infuriating Cat Fish,’ he growled. ‘Why do they get the easy run? Fine weather, high tide and not an eel in sight.’

‘Cat Fish?’ the Hermit gasped. ‘Hermit not fond of Cat Fish.’

‘No one’s fond of Cat Fish,’ the Captain muttered. He hesitated and looked directly at the Hermit. ‘I should have mentioned this earlier, Father, but we have a particularly nasty crew of cats on our tails and they’re as eager as we are to get their paws on the treasure.’

The Hermit twitched his ears nervously. Whisker’s tail followed suit.

The Captain continued gravely, ‘It was my hope that General Thunderclaw sent Captain Sabre and his feline followers to a watery grave, following an impromptu fireworks show a few nights ago, but the evidence clearly suggests otherwise …’

‘H-hermit puts key-diving expedition on hold,’ the Hermit stammered.

‘Obviously,’ the Captain grunted. ‘Sabre won’t be leaving in a hurry. Not without the treasure.’

Whisker felt a wave of panic sweep across his body. The Cat Fish clearly knew what path to take across the lagoon.

What else do they know? he wondered. Has Sabre solved the mystery of the riddle?

‘W-what’s our next move?’ he asked in a trembling voice.

‘We watch from a distance,’ the Captain replied. ‘It shouldn’t be hard to discover what the Cat Fish are up to.’

‘But they’ll know we’re here,’ Whisker shot back. ‘They’ll see the broken boards on the beach and find the fresh holes at the treasure site.’

‘That could work in our favour,’ the Captain said thoughtfully. ‘If we stay out of sight, the Cat Fish may be fooled into believing we’ve already dug up the treasure and departed the island. With no treasure to plunder, they’ll be gone before the next high tide. This place is hardly a holiday destination.’

‘No, no,’ the Hermit said in a worried tone. ‘If Cat Fish leave, rats will be stranded on windy, windy island forever.’

The Captain shook his head. ‘My crew will come back for us. It’s only a matter of time. Mark my words.’

The Hermit looked doubtful. ‘What if Pie Rats believe Captain and Whisker are dead?’

‘That won’t stop them searching,’ the Captain said defensively. ‘They’re Pie Rats – loyal to the very end. Why is that so hard for you to see?’

The Hermit stared into the distance. ‘Hermit sees what Hermit sees. Hermit sees only silver ship. Maybe …?’

‘You can’t be serious,’ the Captain gasped. ‘There’s no way I’m begging for a lift or stowing away on that mobile seafood cannery.’

‘No, no,’ the Hermit exclaimed. ‘Hermit has better idea. Hermit and rats steal ship while cats search mountain.’

The Captain glared at the Hermit. ‘I’m not leaving the Cat Fish alone on this island – not with the treasure still out there. Who knows what terrible havoc they could wreak with it in their possession?’ He paused and then added, ‘And I’m definitely not leaving without my crew.’

The Hermit turned to Whisker for support. Whisker was torn between his loyalty to the Captain and his overpowering feeling of guilt. He knew the Hermit had waited years to escape the island. Whisker wondered if he could deny him his one shot at freedom, all for the sake of an unknown treasure they were yet to discover.

For all his noble intentions, however, Whisker knew that as soon as he left the island he would turn around and sail straight back again. He had no doubt the Captain would do the same. Neither of them could spend a life of freedom on a stolen ship, wondering what could have been.

He weighed up his options. The Captain believed the Pie Rats would return and rescue them. If he was right, the Hermit would have his freedom. If he was wrong, they still had the treasure to help them.

Whisker chose to trust his captain.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the Hermit. ‘I have a duty to the Apple Pie.’

Whisker expected the Hermit to be angry with him, or at least disappointed. But the old rat simply smiled back.

‘Hermit wishes crew of Princess Pie were as faithful as Whisker,’ he said nostalgically. ‘Loyalty before all else, even pies … Hermit forgets there is more to life than survival.’ He put one paw on Whisker’s shoulder and the other on the Captain’s arm. ‘Hermit is agreed. We all stay. Mashed potato pies will have to wait.’

The Captain laughed heartily and Whisker felt proud to be in the presence of two great captains. Both were as stubborn as oxen, but both were willing to sacrifice all they had for the greater good. Whisker hoped that one day he would be a leader like that.

The three rats crept back into the forest and began their game of cat and mouse; or, to be more precise, six cats and three invisible rats.

The Hermit led Whisker and the Captain through the trees to the lower outskirts of the western forest, where they could get a closer view of the lagoon. Silently and stealthily, the three rats climbed the upper branches of a tall pine tree overlooking the beach. From their high vantage point, they watched the small party of cats travel to shore in a heavily laden rowboat.

Captain Sabre, the black and orange Bengal, sat at the bow of the boat, his head darting from side to side, searching the dunes for signs of life.

Whisker was well camouflaged in the dense foliage of the tree, but it didn’t stop him freezing to the spot like a petrified pigeon. He’d given Sabre a boat load of reasons to want him in a cooking pot and, without wings, Whisker knew the top of a tree wasn’t the safest place to be discovered.

The boat landed near the Rock of Hope and Sabre stepped onto the sand. He was followed by Furious Fur, the wild, white Persian, and Master Meow, the glass-eyed silver tabby. All three cats carried large cheese knives, strapped to their backs with thick belts.

Sabre drew his knife and began sharpening its blade on the Rock of Hope, while the others unloaded a cargo of canvas tents, fishing lines and shovels. After two large chests were dragged onto the beach, Master Meow gave Sabre a high-pitched whistle.

Sabre tipped his orange captain’s hat to his second-in-command and continued sharpening. Meow climbed into the boat and began rowing back to the Silver Sardine.

Furious Fur approached Sabre. Although Whisker couldn’t make out the words over the rustling wind in the trees, he saw Sabre pointing to Mt Mobziw and drawing fish shapes in the sand. Sabre’s intentions were blatantly obvious: set up camp, catch half-a-lagoon of fish and then dig up the treasure.

Under Sabre’s direction, Furious Fur lugged armfuls of canvas and rope to the foot of the dunes. Using long pieces of driftwood for framework, he constructed a primitive-looking shelter. Soon after completion, the rowboat returned with two more passengers.

The ladies of the crew, Cleopatra and Siamese Sally, pranced up the beach on all fours. Cleopatra, the graceful Abyssinian, gazed straight ahead with hypnotic green eyes. Siamese Sally, bony and bored, looked even more lifeless than usual. Her huge hook-earrings weighed down her scraggly ears. Her red bandanna hung loosely from her skull-like head and a scrap of red material was tied around her scrawny left arm.

A bandage from the fireworks incident, Whisker thought. Yet another reason for the Cat Fish to have me for lunch.

He counted the cats. One, two, three, four, five –

There was still one crew member missing: Prowler, the Russian Blue and shadowy lookout of the Cat Fish.

Whisker turned his gaze to the Silver Sardine. He ran his eyes across the deck and then raised them to the broadsword-shaped masts. Something grey and furry moved in the crow’s-nest – Six.

‘I believe we’ve seen enough,’ the Captain whispered. ‘There are safer places I’d rather be when the Cat Fish venture inland.’

Without protest, the rats crept down from the tree and set off towards the Hermit’s cave on Mt Moochup. The forest thinned as the terrain grew steeper and the three companions found themselves wading through the shallow water of the mountain spring, far upstream from the Rock of Hope.

Whisker stopped and gulped down huge mouthfuls of the crystal-clear water. He hadn’t drunk anything for nearly two days, and the water was soothing on his dry throat. His mother once told him that rats could go without water for longer than camels. Whisker thought the spring water could keep him going for weeks, such was its pure taste.

‘Whisker needs to keep moving,’ the Hermit said from the opposite bank.

Whisker wiped his mouth with the back of his paw and hurried out of the stream, following the Hermit into rocky country. He kept a keen eye out for his black-shelled buddies, the scorpions, and was relieved to reach the Hermit’s lair without a repeat of the previous night’s desperate dash. If the scorpions were lurking nearby, they were in no hurry to reveal themselves in the light of day.

The Hermit stashed his small bag in its hiding spot at the back of the cave and the three companions took turns monitoring the cats from a nearby boulder-top. It had a clear view of the beach but was too high up the mountainside for the rats to see much more than a few blurs of fur without magnification. The rats took no chances and lay perfectly still on the rock on the off chance the Cat Fish were looking back up at them ­– with a telescope.

The cats devoted their entire morning to fishing. Whisker thought it a rather odd activity to choose, considering there was a mysterious treasure waiting to be discovered, but he knew it was pointless trying to fathom the logic of cats.

The afternoon brought strong winds and a fierce storm. The rats saw nothing through the pelting rain and quickly abandoned their lookout post, agreeing that the Cat Fish were unlikely to start their treasure hunt in such soggy conditions. Sitting in the corner of the warm cave, Whisker was glad he had solid rock over his head and not the flimsy roof of a canvas tent.

Throughout the wet afternoon, the Captain and the Hermit discussed life back home while Whisker re-examined the Forgotten Map. After hours of analysing, pondering and speculating, all he discovered was one trivial fact: the pine forests had expanded since the map was made.

By boiled onion time, Whisker was thoroughly convinced he could discover no more without the key. As frustrated as he felt, munching on his soggy onion, Whisker knew that Sabre’s chances of finding the treasure were even slimmer than his.

The rain continued throughout the night. When the storm finally lifted, before dawn, a thick fog had rolled in.

The rats ventured from the cave to find the entire island shrouded in white. The morning sun, hidden behind layers of dense cloud, failed to warm the cold, damp air. Hazy shapes of boulders rose from the eerie mist like cardboard cut-outs, flat and lifeless.

‘Not exactly spying weather,’ Whisker said, climbing to the top of a boulder.

‘Mist will lift by afternoon,’ the Hermit reassured him. ‘Eastern trade wind always blows mist away, whoosh, whoosh.’

Whisker extended his paw in front of him. It disappeared into a fluffy white cloud.

‘You’d need more than a bit of wind to shift this stuff,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s thicker than cotton wool.’

‘Shh,’ the Hermit hissed. ‘Voices carry through mist. Whisper only.’

‘Sorry,’ Whisker whispered.

The three rats spent the misty morning whispering. As the Hermit predicted, a stiff eastern breeze hit the island mid-afternoon, sweeping the blanket of fog out to sea. Whisker and the Captain returned to the boulder to check on the Cat Fish, while the Hermit set off to collect brown onions.

Whisker slid his body to the edge of the rock and peered down. There was no movement from the tent, no activity on the beach, and no sign of the spades the Cat Fish had brought with them.

‘They must be out treasure hunting,’ Whisker said in a hushed voice.

‘It’s a possibility …’ the Captain said, his voice trailing off. ‘But something doesn’t feel right.’

Whisker looked again. The Silver Sardine lay anchored offshore, the campsite appeared utterly deserted and the rowboat sat halfway up the beach – on the opposite side of the Rock of Hope.

‘That’s strange,’ Whisker pondered. ‘The boat was closer to their camp yesterday.’

‘Maybe they went back to the Sardine for something,’ the Captain whispered.

‘Mayb …’ Whisker began. He saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and cut himself short.

He tilted his head to get a better look and felt a jolt of terror convulse through his tail. The cats weren’t down at the beach or climbing the opposite mountain; they were directly below him.

The Captain’s eye grew wide. Whisker’s eyes grew wider.

The rats remained motionless, not daring to move as one by one, Cleopatra, Siamese Sally and Master Meow emerged from a line of bushes and made their way along the rocks.

The three cats moved swiftly and silently, sniffing the air as they went. They weren’t hunting for treasure; they were hunting for prey. Whisker cursed the onion he ate for lunch and hoped the cats had colds.

Sally stopped at the foot of the boulder and peered around suspiciously. Whisker held his breath and waited for her to look up. The howling wind was his saving grace. A mighty gust roared over the rocks, carrying the oniony scent of the rats higher up the mountain. Whisker’s nostrils were filled with the fishy aroma of the cats below.

Satisfied there was no one about, Sally followed her companions past the boulder. Whisker continued to stare down at her, afraid to even blink. The handle of Sally’s cheese knife clinked on her right earring as she walked. The red bandage on her left arm glided back and forth with every step.

From close range, Whisker could see it was more than just a scrap of material. It had a distinctive shape – a shape Whisker had seen many times before.

With a terrifying realisation, Whisker felt a stab of pain pierce his heart. He stared in disbelief, unable to look away.

Sally’s arm band was Ruby’s crimson eye patch.