Читать книгу The Forgotten Map - Cameron Stelzer - Страница 14

KABOOM!

As Whisker soon discovered, Ruby held grudges. The sword fight was one of the rare times she’d been beaten and she wasn’t about to let it go. She spent hours on the deck in the following days, practicing her technique and fighting invisible foes. Whisker considered challenging her to another fight, but feared too much for his safety. He doubted he could block even one of her slashing moves.

On the morning of the cannon class, Whisker saw her up before dawn, creeping like a shadow from one end of the deck to the other, slicing through the crisp morning air with her swords. More than once she nervously glanced up at the sails.

‘She’s preparing a counter attack,’ Horace whispered as they secretly watched from behind the ship’s wheel.

In silhouette against the dawn sky, Ruby spun on one foot like a ballerina, while waving two swords around her head. The spinning got quicker and quicker until suddenly Ruby released one of the swords and it shot through the air towards them. Horace and Whisker leapt back as the sword struck the wheel with a TWANG.

Whisker gasped as he realised the sword was protruding from the centre of the wheel only millimetres from his tail.

Ruby stopped spinning.

‘I thought I smelt a filthy spy,’ she hissed.

‘We are neither filthy, nor are we spies,’ Horace replied indignantly. ‘We were merely watching.’

‘Watching, spying, it’s all the same to me,’ Ruby huffed, striding up the stairs to the helm.

She stopped in front of the wheel and stared at her sword. It was still vibrating from the impact.

‘Bull’s Eye,’ Whisker said, trying to cover his fright with friendly conversation.

Ruby glared at Whisker. ‘I wasn’t aiming at the wheel.’

With a nervous twitch of his tail, Whisker decided the conversation was over.

‘What are you doing here, Horace?’ Ruby asked, ignoring Whisker. ‘You never get up this early.’

‘We are preparing for cannon classes,’ Horace replied.

‘The cannons are below deck, not up here,’ Ruby sneered.

‘True,’ Horace considered, ‘but it’s too cramped below for a proper demonstration. Besides, look at the sky. It’s going to be a beautiful day. What else could you wish for? A romantic sunrise and the booming sound of cannons – magnificent!’

Whisker stared out at the horizon. The sky was turning a rich shade of pink and the distant clouds were rimmed with the golden light of the approaching sun.

It does look stunning, he thought. He chanced a look at Ruby. For a moment, in the soft light he saw a different Ruby; a girl with a serene and peaceful face and a gentle smile. She reminded him of his mother on the summer morning they first launched their boat. He could almost picture Ruby holding his sleeping sister, Anna, as their boat sailed from the flooded inlet into the vast, sparkling ocean.

Ruby, suddenly aware she was being watched, shot a glance at Whisker. Whisker dropped his eyes awkwardly and awaited the harsh remark that would certainly follow. It never came.

He looked up and his eyes made contact with hers. She looked at him crossly, but without all of the venom he had come to expect. Their gaze was broken by a loud thudding noise from below the deck.

‘Right on time,’ Horace said, rubbing his hook.

‘On time for what?’ Ruby muttered. ‘Waking up the rest of the crew?’

The noise grew louder and Whisker saw a large body poke up from the stairwell, followed by an even larger cylindrical shape, thudding on every step.

‘Fred has arrived with our cannon!’ Horace cried excitedly.

When Whisker turned back to Ruby she was already pulling her sword from the wheel.

‘Make sure the boy doesn’t hit anyone,’ she said sternly as she left the deck.

Welcome back, Ruby, Whisker sighed.

As the morning sun rose over the horizon, Whisker helped Horace and Smudge assemble the cannon. Fred made several trips down the stairs, each time returning with a stack of stale pies and a terrible stench.

‘Oooh, yuck!’ Whisker gagged. ‘Your pies are disgusting, Fred. Some are close to putrid.’

Horace laughed. ‘Putrid is preferred.’

‘But what are they for?’ Whisker asked. ‘Target practice?’

Smudge twitched his wings to get Whisker’s attention. Excitedly, he pointed to a pile of pies with one arm and the cannon with another. With two more arms he made an explosion gesture. Whisker immediately understood.

‘They’re cannonballs!’ he exclaimed.

‘Exactly,’ Horace said with a wide grin. ‘They don’t call us Pie Rats for nothing.’ He beckoned for Whisker to follow him to the nearest pile of pies. ‘We have two categories of pie projectiles, long range and close range. You are currently looking at the long range variety. They are triple-baked by Fred and left in the sun until the pastry is harder than an armadillo in armour. They won’t disintegrate in the air over long distances and can tear a hole through a sail.’

He walked over to the second pile of pies. ‘Over here, we have everyone’s favourite, the Close Range Chaos.’

Whisker took a step towards the pies and caught a whiff of something truly disgusting. He decided not to venture any closer.

‘Close range pies,’ Horace continued, ‘are child-friendly projectiles that disintegrate in the air, showering our enemies in a stinky, sticky slop.’

‘Child-friendly?’ Whisker scoffed. ‘You’d have to be a skunk with a blocked nose to find that friendly.’

‘It stinks, but it’s safe,’ Horace said. ‘As Pie Rats, we can handle a few drops of putrid pie filling on our sleeves, but to our enemies, it’s utter chaos. Some victims think they’ve been sprayed with acid. Some think their gizzards have been blasted out of their stomachs. Others think we’ve used our cannons as toilets. But whatever they believe, it’s the quickest way to send them jumping overboard for a much-needed bath.’

Horace chuckled and tapped the side of a pie with his hook. It effortlessly broke through the soft, green pastry.

‘Don’t you just love mould?’ he mused. ‘I keep these pies in the bottom of the ship where it’s damp and dark.’

As he removed his hook, a slow stream of grey-green slime oozed out. Whisker screwed up his mouth and groaned, ‘What on earth is that?’

Fred leant down and took a big sniff. He paused and considered, ‘It’s seven months old.’

‘Good vintage,’ Horace chimed in.

Fred sniffed again and frowned miserably. ‘Triple garlic with Brussels sprouts and blue-vein cheese. Two dozen pies and no one wanted any.’

‘Cheer up,’ Horace said, patting Fred on the back. ‘If all your pies were perfect, we’d have no ammunition. Your worst pie is our best weapon.’

Fred’s face lit up with a beaming smile. Horace poured a small amount of gunpowder into the barrel of the cannon and packed it down with a ramrod.

‘We’ll start with the long range practice,’ he said. ‘I’m not one for rules, but it’s essential that you look before you fire. You never know what could be in your path.’ He wedged a pie into the cannon, inserted a fuse and adjusted the angle. ‘You also have to consider the wind direction and the distance to your target. Pete has a formula for it, but I rely on experience.’

Looking ahead, he yelled, ‘All clear. Ready, Smudge … FIRE!’

Smudge bobbed up with a flaming match and lit the fuse.

Horace counted down as the fuse sizzled, ‘Three … two … one …’ KABOOM! The cannon exploded.

The pie shot into the air, veered to its left and then splashed into a wave a short distance away.

‘Rotten pies to crash landings,’ Horace said in dismay. ‘I got the angle all wrong … Oh well, let’s see what you can do.’

To Horace’s surprise, Whisker was a natural. His first shot soared in a graceful arc through the sky before wobbling into the ocean twice as far away as Horace’s attempt.

‘Where in the blazing britches did you learn to do that?’ Horace exclaimed.

‘The circus, of course,’ Whisker replied. ‘I was friends with the Armadillo Cannonballs. I sometimes got to fire their cannon during performances.’ He squinted out to sea to where his pie had landed. ‘With a few adjustments, it could go even further …’

Fred shook his head. ‘No one shoots better than that. Not even Pete with his fancy maths.’

‘The angle of the cannon isn’t the problem,’ Whisker said. ‘It’s the pie – and don’t worry, Fred, it’s nothing to do with your cooking. Did you see how my pie wobbled off course before it crashed?’

‘Yes,’ Horace replied. ‘All the long shots do that.’

‘Well, that’s the problem,’ Whisker said. ‘In the circus, the armadillos would often sway in one direction or the other.’

‘And what did they do?’ Horace enquired.

‘They used something a pie doesn’t have,’ Whisker said, pointing behind his back.

‘A tail!’ Fred cried. ‘Are we going to make pies with tails?’

Whisker pondered, ‘A tail only works if you can move it from side to side … We need something that doesn’t require movement.’

‘You’re starting to sound like Pete,’ Fred groaned.

‘Sorry, Fred,’ Whisker apologised. ‘I’ll try to give you an example to make it clear.’

Whisker’s eyes darted out to the horizon for any signs of sea birds. There was no activity against the morning sky. He lowered his gaze to the ocean as a pair of dolphins splashed gracefully from the surf.

‘There,’ he said pointing with his paw.

‘A dolphin’s tail!’ Fred exclaimed.

‘Not a tail,’ Whisker clarified, ‘a fin. Look at their dorsal fins.’

‘We’re not going to catch one, are we?’ Fred asked in horror.

‘Of course not,’ Whisker laughed. ‘We can make the fins out of pastry.’

‘How many do we need?’ Horace asked excitedly. ‘Fred can start baking this afternoon.’

‘Dolphins have three fins,’ Whisker observed, ‘so maybe three fins per pie …’

‘Wow!’ Fred gasped. ‘You are as smart as Pete.’

‘He’s smarter,’ Horace whispered. ‘Pete gets his answers from books. Whisker uses his head.’

Whisker blushed. ‘The dolphins deserve most of the credit.’

The rest of the long range practice ran smoothly, despite having nothing at which to aim. There were no small islands or rocks in sight, and Whisker wasn’t about to start aiming at dolphins.

Pete, Ruby and the Captain emerged from the navigation room to check on Whisker’s progress, but soon lost interest in the demonstration and wandered off to other parts of the deck. Fred returned to the galley to prepare lunch and bake fins.

‘This is the messy part,’ Horace said, placing a large black cut-out against the bulwark.

‘It’s a bear,’ Whisker remarked, staring at the shape.

‘It’s not a bear!’ Horace exclaimed. ‘Why does everyone think it’s a bear? Can’t you see it’s a cat?’

‘It’s a really fat cat,’ Whisker laughed.

‘If it wasn’t this fat,’ Horace huffed, ‘most of the crew would never hit it.’ He pointed the cannon at the fat cat. ‘There are two important things to remember when shooting close range pies. Always turn away when you’re firing, to protect your eyes, and, most importantly, handle the pies gently. If you break one, the stink is on you. Treat each pie like a beautiful rat. Hold her delicately, tenderly and slowly dance with her towards the cannon …’

Whisker watched in amusement as Horace picked up the top pie and held it in a lover’s embrace. Like a performer in a pantomime, he spun the pie in a circle and gently placed it in the cannon.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, bowing to the pie.

Ruby laughed from one of the masts. Not only did Horace look ridiculous with his new lover, but the pie he’d picked up was the one he’d poked a hole in earlier, and left a disgusting line of sludge down his shirt.

‘BLAST!’ Horace yelled, looking down at his soiled clothing.

Smudge struck a match and moved to the fuse.

‘Wait, wait,’ Horace cried, pushing the match away. ‘I said blast, not fire.’

Ignoring Ruby’s laughter, Horace checked that everything was in order and ducked behind the cannon.

‘Now, Smudge. FIRE!’

The pie exploded in a wave of sticky grey muck, showering the target. It was a horrible sight and even Horace winced at the stench.

‘No second date then?’ Ruby hollered down to him.

Horace brushed the comment aside with a wave of his hook and turned to Whisker. ‘Come on. It’s your turn to dance.’

Whisker cleaned out the cannon, poured in the gunpowder and selected his pie. He double checked to make sure there were no cracks or holes and carefully placed the slippery object in the cannon. He glanced up to see Ruby and Pete watching him, but caught no sight of the Captain. Brushing the green mould from his paws, he hurriedly prepared the fuse.

Let’s get this over with, he said to himself. His nose ached, his tail twitched nervously and there was an annoying ring in his ears from all the blasts. He half-glanced over his shoulder towards the target and, seeing the black shape in the corner of his eye, placed his paws over his ears and turned to Smudge.

‘FIRE!’

Smudge held the burning match in his arms but did nothing.

‘FIRE!’ Whisker yelled again.

Smudge still didn’t move.

‘FIRE! BLAST! THREE TWO ONE GO! JUST GET ON WITH IT!’

Still no response.

Running out of patience, Whisker grabbed the match and lit the fuse himself. As he blew out the match, he glanced up to see a horrified look on Ruby’s face. Puzzled, he turned around – and froze. The black shape he had seen was not the target. It was the Captain wandering across the deck with a telescope to his eye.

Whisker tried to scream but the cannon beat him to it. It roared into action with a mighty KABOOM, throwing the Captain backwards in a torrent of sticky grey sludge. His body tumbled over the bulwark and with a startled cry, he plunged into the ocean. There was a splash. And then there was silence.

‘RAT OVERBOARD,’ Pete yelled. ‘MAKE HASTE!’

Horace grabbed a rope and ran to the edge of the deck. Whisker followed after him in shock and fear.

‘There he is,’ Horace cried, as the Captain’s body bobbed up in a cocktail of slime and seawater.

‘THROW ME THE ROPE, YOU FOOL,’ the Captain spluttered.

Whisker was relieved the Captain was alive, but his relief was soon overcome by a terrifying feeling of dread – this was entirely his fault.

Horace threw the Captain the rope and, with Whisker and Pete’s assistance, dragged him onto the deck.

Ruby clambered down from the mast and rushed over to give her uncle a hug. She stopped in her tracks before she reached him and uttered, ‘Eeeyeeew!’

Whisker could see why. The Captain looked like he had been dragged from a sewer. His velvet coat and vest were smeared with a greasy grey residue. His fur was speckled with chunks of mouldy pie crust. His soggy hat drooped over his face. But the worst part was the terrible smell.

‘We should have left him in the water a bit longer,’ Horace whispered. ‘He’d be much calmer and less smelly.’

The Captain looked down at his ruined clothes and scraped a chunk of garlic from his vest.

‘What in the name of Ratbeard’s breakfast is this repulsive muck?’ he exclaimed.

Whisker looked at Horace and Horace pointed to the lumbering figure of Fred emerging from the stairs.

‘Look, here comes Fred to explain everything,’ Horace babbled. ‘We’ll be over here if you need us …’

‘YOU TWO AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE!’ the Captain roared, grabbing Horace and Whisker by their collars.

Whisker turned his head and tried not to breathe in the putrid vapours.

‘Oh dear, oh double dear,’ Fred said, joining the group. ‘What a nasty accident.’

‘It’s more like a catastrophe,’ Ruby snapped. ‘The boy forgot to look before he fired.’

‘Is this true?’ the Captain asked angrily.

Whisker felt like saying it was partly the Captain’s fault for wandering around in a daze during cannon training, but simply squeaked, ‘Yes.’

‘And who was supervising?’ the Captain barked.

‘That would be me,’ Horace gulped.

The Captain took a deep breath and turned to Pete. ‘What is the mandatory punishment for shooting one’s Captain?’

Pete looked grave. ‘I’m afraid to say … the punishment is death.’