The Island of Destiny (8 page)

It was still dark when Whisker awoke. Cautiously, he brushed the damp foliage from his body and crawled out from his hiding place. Outside, the sky was clear and dotted with stars.

He scanned the dark landscape. Pine trees, loose rocks and small boulders surrounded him. The rain had washed away any lingering scents from the previous day, but the small muddy holes in the earth told him he had found his way back to the treasure site.

He studied the constellations in the sky to get his bearings. Locating a small cross of stars above him, he moved his finger through the axis of the cross to an imaginary point in the sky.

‘South,' he muttered to himself.

He swivelled his body to the west and saw the unmistakable shape of a saucepan. The
saucepan
was his favourite group of stars. No matter how lost or alone he felt, it reminded him that there was at least one family sharing dinner together, somewhere in the world. He knew the stars belonged to a constellation called Orion, but Whisker preferred the saucepan title.

‘A saucepan of boiled onions,' he mused. ‘That's one dinner I'm happy to have missed.'

He turned his head and looked east. The twisting constellation of Scorpio stood out against the blackness.

‘Scorpions,' he shivered. ‘Something else to avoid.'

He set off east in the direction of his least favourite constellation. He knew if he continued on the highest path between the two mountains, he could reach Mt Moochup and bypass the scorpions. In the light of day he could then wind his way south towards the Hermit's lair.

He was still staring up at the heavens when the stars overhead suddenly darkened. An instant later they twinkled back to life.

Whisker stopped and scanned the air. The stars to the north disappeared and then reappeared as if something had passed in front of them.

Clouds don't move that quickly
, he thought.
Even on windy, windy islands. Something else is up there …

Whisker realised the danger too late. With a sudden rush of air, powerful talons griped his shoulders and his legs were lifted off the ground. He squeaked in alarm, but the talons only gripped him tighter. There was nothing he could do. An owl had him.

A Nest of Fools

Whisker watched the constellations swirl around him like a kaleidoscope of diamonds. The owl flapped its wings and soared higher.

Whisker shut his eyes tight and tried to relax his wildly twitching tail. It wasn't the height that terrified him; it was the thought of being dropped from such a height. He'd been in the air many times before, with flying foxes from the circus. But flying foxes ate fruit, not rodents.

The owl seemed determined not to release its prey, nor to squeeze Whisker to death and, after a turbulent flight, Whisker felt the woven twigs of a nest beneath his feet.

The talons released their grip and Whisker slumped onto his back. He cautiously opened one eye and looked up. The sides of a large nest rose around him. Three owls perched on its uppermost edge.

In the darkness, Whisker could just make out subtle bands of white, grey and brown feathers covering their bodies. Short tufts protruded from the owl's heads like ears. Their huge yellow eyes stared inquisitively down at him.

Whisker opened his second eye.

The owls blinked.

Startled by the sudden movement, Whisker lunged for his sword but the owl in the middle shot out a powerful claw and pinned his arm to the nest.

‘Not a wise moooove,' hooted the owl to Whisker's right. He was the biggest of the three owls and puffed up his feathers to look even larger as he spoke.

‘Of course it's not a wise moooove,' shrilled the owl on the left. ‘He's a pesky rat. Whooooever heard of a rat dooooing anything wise?'

Whisker felt mildly insulted by the owl's remark, but decided it wasn't the time to start an argument about the underrated intelligence of the rat race.

The owl in the middle kept Whisker pinned down, staring hungrily at his captive.

‘Can we eat him yet, mother?' he asked excitedly. ‘I'm so hungry. I haven't eaten anything but bugs and slugs for weeks.'

Whisker gulped.

‘Ask your father, Hoooouston,' the mother owl squawked. ‘He's responsible for breakfasts. I have more than enough on my plate providing yoooou with lunches, dinners and crunchy snail snacks.'

The pupils of the biggest owl grew wide as he studied Whisker in the gloom.

‘He's a bit scrawny for a proper meal, son,' he considered. ‘How would yoooou feel if we ripped out his gizzards and mashed them intoooo entrée sized rat-balls?'

‘I'd feel absolutely terrible,' Whisker blurted out.

‘Whoooo asked yoooou?' the mother owl hooted.

‘N-n-no one,' Whisker stammered. ‘B-b-but I'd hate for you to make a big mistake, being so wise and all.'

‘Eating breakfast is never a mistake,' Houston said pompously. ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Everyone knows that.'

Whisker had no comeback. He simply stared up at the owls as a horrible realisation sank in: they were actually going to eat him and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't fight his way out and he couldn't argue for his release – not with three know-it-all owls hovering over him.

His eyes shifted from the owls to the saucepan constellation above their heads. Suddenly the thought of boiled onions didn't seem so bad.

Onions sure beat rat-balls,
he thought, his mind drifting off. He wondered what his parents and sister would be eating for breakfast, wherever they were.
Coconuts from a deserted island, perhaps?

His thoughts turned to the Pie Rats, swirling in circles on their leaky boat.
Maybe they've risen for an early breakfast?
He pictured Ruby and Horace tucking into one of Fred's scrumptious berry pies, piping hot from the oven.

Who doesn't love pies?
he thought sorrowfully. The words lingered in his mind.
Whoooo doesn't love pies …?

With a strange calming clarity, a plan began forming in his head – a fusion of memories and half-truths. It didn't involve arguing and it didn't involve fighting; it involved playing along. Whisker refocused on the three owls and tried to contain his excitement.

‘It's such a shame, really,' he began.

‘What's a shame?' the mother owl asked suspiciously.

‘It's a shame you've only got one measly rat for breakfast, when you could be feasting on a delicious rat pie,' Whisker replied.

The owls turned their heads to each other in puzzlement.

‘W-what's rat pie?' Houston asked, intrigued.

‘What indeed!' Whisker exclaimed. ‘Rat pie is the most scrumptious, mouth-watering and delicious dish you'll ever taste. It's succulent, juicy, tender and makes even the toughest of rat tails melt in your mouth.' He paused and continued with a grin, ‘But being wise and worldly owls, I expect you already knew that.'

‘Oh yes,' the father owl hooted. ‘Of course we know about rat pie. Whoooo doesn't? We adore the stuff … can't get enough …'

Whisker sighed. ‘It's a terrible shame you won't get to taste any today. As you know, rat pie is extremely easy to make, but unfortunately you're missing a key ingredient.'

The owls blinked in disappointment.

‘Which ingredient exactly?' the mother owl enquired. ‘I mean, I know them all of course, but there are so many variations toooo the recipe …'

‘Endless variations,' Whisker said, going along with her. ‘But to bring out the full flavour of the rat you'll need a juicy brown onion.'

‘An onion?' she repeated.

‘Why of course,' Whisker exclaimed. ‘You can't have rat pie without the onion. It would be an outrage!'

The father owl flapped his wings in agitation.

‘Owls doooo things according toooo tradition,' he said sternly. ‘We have a respectable reputation toooo uphold. If we need an onion, we'll get an onion.'

Whisker tried not to smile.

‘A wise decision,' he concurred. ‘Onions make all the difference. I, err … did see some growing down near the river, if you're interested, but I suspect the Hermit will pick them as soon as the sun comes up.'

‘The Hermit!' the father owl hooted in disgust. ‘We hate the Hermit.'

‘We loathe him,' Houston added.

‘We despise him!' the mother snapped. ‘Don't get me started. He's the rudest rat on the island. Whoooo does he think he is? Always running away and hiding under a rock whenever we try to catch him. Disgraceful!'

The owls glared angrily at Whisker, expecting a response.

‘Hear, hear,' Whisker muttered awkwardly. ‘He's an abomination. And he smells.'

‘That settles it,' the mother owl shrieked. ‘I'll show him whoooo owns the onions!' She beat her wings rapidly and her body rose into the air. ‘I'll be back soooon, boys,' she hooted, ‘with the biggest, tastiest onion on the island …'

Her voice drifted away in the wind. The two remaining owls stared down at Whisker.

‘A little tenderising never went astray,' Houston hooted, prodding Whisker in the stomach with his talons.

‘Speaking – of tenderising,' Whisker spluttered between prods, ‘I almost – forgot – to mention – the gravy.'

Houston removed his talon and tilted his head to one side. ‘Gravy?'

Whisker clutched his chest and took a few calming breaths.

‘Well?' the father asked impatiently.

‘Every – gourmet pie – has gravy,' Whisker gasped. ‘Rich, thick, peppery gravy. Rat rump is far too dry for distinguished owls like yourselves, but with a dash of gravy it's softer than a slug and more tender than a trout.'

‘Where does this
gravy
grow?' the father enquired.

‘Gravy doesn't grow,' Whisker said. ‘It comes in small barrels. I know for a fact there are several barrels of the scrumptious substance bobbing around in the lagoon right now. They tumbled overboard a couple of days ago. You might have seen them roll off my ship?'

‘We saw them alright,' the father hooted, ‘from a distance, mind yoooou. We refoooose to go anywhere near the lagoooon.'

‘It's those slippery fish,' Houston elaborated. ‘We hate them nearly as much as we hate that pesky Hermit. They taste far toooo salty and we always get our feathers wet trying toooo catch them.'

Whisker sighed. ‘It's for the best, you know. A tiny gravy barrel is far too heavy for any owl to lift. Besides, the barrels have probably broken on the rocks by now.' He shrugged. ‘Oh well. At least the fish will be enjoying a delicious gravy treat.'

The father owl puffed himself up again.

‘There's no way I'm sharing a drop of my gravy with those slimy sea dwellers,' he hooted. ‘I'm the lord of this island!' With a flurry of feathers he took off into the sky.

A small smile crept across Whisker's face.

Houston glared down at him, suspiciously. ‘I know what you're up toooo, little rat. I've seen your type before. You may have my parents bamboooozled but yoooou don't fooool me one bit.'

‘Up to?' Whisker gasped. ‘Me? H-how could I possibly be up to anything? I-I'm just lying here at the bottom of the nest …'

‘Exactly!' Houston snapped. ‘You're loafing around on your lazy behind while the rest of us doooo all the work. It's the height of rudeness yoooou know.' He crossed his wings and hooted in disgust. ‘Don't expect me toooo share a single crumb of my delicious rat pie with yoooou.'

‘Rat stew you mean,' Whisker corrected.

‘Steoooow?' Houston squawked.

‘Rat stew,' Whisker repeated. ‘You know, tender pieces of rat and onion in a rich gravy sauce.'

Houston was dumbfounded.

‘Rat steoooow, oooogh!' he hooted. ‘I thought we were having rat pie.'

‘Oh no,' Whisker said. ‘It's definitely rat stew. You can't have rat pie without the crisp, golden pastry.'