The Tale of Castle Cottage (29 page)

Since the evening’s crowd is a large one, we won’t bother to take attendance. If we did, we might have counted a trio of rabbits who had stopped in to get out of the wet (rabbits detest wet paws); a clutch of chattering voles; a pair of bouncy red squirrels, friends of Hyacinth’s and frequent guests to tea; a fox with a badly torn ear (not the same fox who seduced Jemima Puddle-duck—nobody knew where that fox had gone or what he was doing these days); several hedgehogs (it’s difficult to count hedgehogs because they keep changing places and they all look alike); and Bailey Badger and Thackeray, his guinea pig friend. Last (but never least, of course) there was Fritz the Ferret, who had come over from his den in the west bank of Wilfin Beck to sketch Bosworth. Fritz, an accomplished artist, was painting the old badger’s portrait, which would join the other badger family portraits hanging on the walls in The Brockery’s library.

Oh, and there were as well eight or nine stoats and weasels, insalubrious creatures who gave off a bouquet of unsavory odors and muttered amongst themselves in their unintelligible tongue. This crew was assigned to the far end of the table, nearest the dragon—a good place to put them, because they were wary of Thorvaald and behaved with a little more civility when he was near enough to scorch them. Stoats and weasels always go everywhere fully armed (they like to carry large sticks, slingshots, and pockets full of stones), but Hyacinth had required them to leave their weapons out on Holly How, beside The Brockery’s front door. But weapons or not, they have hair-trigger tempers, and fights occasionally break out.

Now, this may seem to you like an odd and unlikely congregation of animals, especially since many of them would (under other circumstances) prefer to have one another for supper or a snack, rather than sit in neighborly companionship around the dining table. But when animals stop in at The Brockery for a meal and a night’s lodging, they are expected to set aside their culinary preferences and abide by the Badger Rule of Thumb that states that every guest deserves a place at the table where he or she can eat undisturbed and unafraid. This is why a rabbit can sit between a fox and a ferret and eat and laugh and tell stories without the slightest apprehension. (I for one am of the opinion that life with our fellow man might be a great deal more peaceable if the badgers’ rules were extended to the world as a whole.)

And all are welcome, friends and natural enemies alike, to share their stories. In fact, it is widely agreed among badgers that animals are story-making creatures and live by their tales and the tales they have learnt from the generations that preceded them. Everybody knows that an animal’s story is one of the most important things about him or her, and it is appallingly rude to criticize it, no matter how wanting in art it might be. Indeed, it is one of the Badger Rules of Thumb (the eighth, I believe) that one’s stories are as vitally important to one’s self-esteem as the state of one’s fur or the length of one’s whiskers and ought to be admired in much the same way. So the dining hall was buzzing with the companionable sound of animals sharing stories whilst they shared their evening meal.

The badgers and their guests were on their second bowls of soup (the weasels might even have been enjoying their third—weasels have no table manners) when the front doorbell rang. Parsley got up to fetch another bowl, and Flotsam (one of the twin rabbits who work at The Brockery) went to answer the bell. She was back in a moment with Rascal.

“Why, hullo, Rascal !”
Bosworth boomed happily, delighted to see his friend for the second time that day. He was always of the opinion that the more animals there were around the supper table, the more stories would be shared and the more interesting the evening would be.
“I hope you haven’t eaten your supper yet. Sit down and have a bowl of Parsley’s potato soup.”
To the other twin rabbit, he added,
“Jetsam, be a good girl and get our Rascal a chair from the library.”

Rascal, who had run all the way from the village to the top of Holly How, was very much out of breath and still rather damp, even though he had given himself a good shake in the hallway. But he managed to wheeze,
“Don’t mind if I do, thank you very much,”
and accepted the chair that Jetsam placed between Bosworth and Hyacinth.

When he was seated, Rascal glanced around the table, doing a quick mental inventory of the guests. He was surprised—and then very pleased—when he saw the weasels and stoats, who were growling and grumbling amongst themselves.

“Looks like you have quite the crowd this evening, Bozzy,”
he said.

“It’s the wet,”
Bosworth remarked, genially overlooking Rascal’s use of his nickname.
“Most of our friends were looking for a dry place to spend the night.”

“Might be the chill, too,”
Hyacinth added politely.
“Surprising, for July, don’t you think?”
She paused.
“Is it raining very hard, Rascal? Down here, you know, it’s hard to keep track.”

Bosworth smiled happily. The great advantage to living underground was that the climate was always the same: comfortable and dry. It might be snowing, sleeting, raining, or blowing a gale around the top of Holly How, but none of that perturbed The Brockery’s weather. As far as the badger was concerned, it was the very best climate in the whole wide world.

“Raining just hard enough to get one thoroughly wet,”
Rascal replied with a crooked grin. But he hadn’t come to trade pleasantries about the weather. He thanked Parsley for the bowl of creamy soup and the hot bun that she set in front of him, although he didn’t begin eating right away. Instead, he leaned toward Bosworth and spoke urgently, in a low voice.

“I’m sure it is important, dear boy,”
Bosworth replied,
“and of course you may tell us all about it. But you must eat your soup and hot bun now. You can share your story while we are eating our dessert.”

The old badger was following the family tradition that bad news always tastes better if it is served along with dessert. Bosworth guessed, and rightly, that Rascal’s news was not likely to be good.

Rascal knew this, of course, and understood that when he was at The Brockery, he ought to play by the badgers’ rules. So he ate his soup and his hot bun—both were very good—and waited as patiently as he could.

Finally the soup was gone. The ginger and treacle pudding made its appearance and was handed round. Bosworth picked up his spoon and took the first bite. Then he rapped his spoon upon his glass.

“Please listen, everyone.”
He spoke in a voice that carried to the foot of the table.
“Our friend Rascal has come up to Holly How on this rainy night to bring us an urgent message from the village. Lend him your ears, please.”

At Bosworth’s words, all the other animals stopped talking and looked up with interest—all, that is, except the two squirrels, whose noses were deep in their puddings, and the smallest hedgehog, who was licking butter off a scrap of bun he had found on the floor.

“It’s rats,”
Rascal said tersely.
“A horrid gang of them. They’ve moved into the village, and they’re threatening to take it over.”
He looked around the table, trying to catch everyone’s eye.
“We need to boot them out just as quickly as we can, before they settle in and rob the villagers blind. That’s why I’m here. Crumpet and I need your help.”

The largest hedgehog looked up, his eyes wide with alarm, his teeth chattering.
“D-d-did you say r-r-r-rats?”
It is well known that hedgehogs are very much afraid of rats—but then, hedgehogs are terribly timid. They are afraid of almost everything, including their shadows, which is one reason why you will rarely see them out-of-doors on a sunny day.

“Rats, eh?”
The fox—who called himself simply Foxy—leaned forward, his amber eyes narrowed.
“I’ve just come over the fells from Ravenglass. The town was invaded last month by a plague of rats that came by ship from London. You don’t happen to know the name of your rat gang, do you?”

“It’s not
my
gang,”
Rascal replied.
“It’s Rooker Rat’s gang.”

“Rooker!”
Hyacinth exclaimed.
“That filthy old rat! He had a meal and lodging here and helped himself to Parsley’s birthday cake and three silver spoons, which of course we didn’t know, or we wouldn’t have let him go.”
She scowled fiercely.
“If I get my paws on that wretched beast, I’ll wring his scrawny neck—I swear I will. I want those spoons back!”

“Now, dear,”
her mother said in a soothing voice.
“Let’s not get excited. I’m sure we can manage without those spoons. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Rooker Rat.”
Foxy shook his head.
“Well, you’ve got a jolly hard job cut out for you, I must say. That’s the gang that took over Ravenglass. They’re a rough lot, one and all.”

“Perhapszs there iszs sszomething I can do.”
At the end of the table, the dragon spoke up hopefully.
“A little szmoke? Szsome sziszzsle?”
The steam was beginning to hiss out of his nostrils and curl around his head like blue smoke, the way it always did when he was excited. The dragon had not had a good fight since that stormy night when he and the Professor had tackled the Water Bird. He was obviously eager for another and already stoking up his fires.

Parsley put down her spoon, looking worried.
“But the rats should be the cats’ problem, Rascal. Why can’t Crumpet and the other cats handle it? And this is really a village matter, isn’t it? Why have you come to us?”

“The Brockery is connected to the village, don’t you think, Parsley?”
Bosworth asked, gently but pointedly.
“We visit the village gardens often enough. The potatoes in your soup were from Mrs. Crook’s potato patch, weren’t they? In time of need, it seems to me that we ought to be good citizens and do our part.”
Of course, the old badger was remembering the Third Rule of Thumb, also known as the Aiding and Abetting Rule:
One must always be as helpful as one can, for one never knows when one will require help oneself.

“That’s all very true, I suppose,”
Parsley said reluctantly, although you could tell from the look on her face that she didn’t much care for the idea of doing her part.
“But I still don’t understand why the cats can’t do it.”

Rascal sighed.
“It’s a most awfully awkward situation, I’m afraid. With the exception of Crumpet, the village cats are either too old, too fat, too dainty, or they’re nursing kittens. They just aren’t up to the job.”

“Nor were the Ravenglass cats,”
Foxy said in an ominous tone.
“Overpowered in one night, they were. Three or four killed in an awf’lly bloody fight. Ordinary village cats are simply no match for that beastly lot.”

An apprehensive murmur ran around the table. One of the voles fell into a coughing fit and had to be thumped on the back. The smallest hedgehog burst into noisy tears and was comforted by his brother.

“Anyway,”
Rascal went on,
“I told Crumpet that I’d try to round up a few volunteers who could help us find out where the rats are holed up and then . . . And then do whatever we have to do, I guess.”
He looked around the table.
“We don’t need very many animals—six or seven ought to do the trick. Of course,”
he added hastily,
“if more want to come, that would be capital.”

“If I know those rats, you’re going to need more than six or seven.”
The fox cleared his throat.
“However, you can count on me.”

“And on me,”
Hyacinth announced.

“Oh, no, dear,”
Primrose said urgently, her paw going to her mouth.
“This will be much too dangerous. Rats aren’t as large as badgers, of course, but—”

“These are,”
the fox put in.
“Well, not quite as big as badgers, maybe, but they’re the biggest rats I’ve ever seen. Bigger than some cats. And fierce.”
He rolled his eyes.
“My aunt, but they are fierce!”

“You see, dear?”
Primrose said to Hyacinth.
“These rats are big and fierce and they bite terribly, and their bites can cause terrible infections. Let the males do this job. You don’t need to—”

“But
I
wear the Badge of Authority, Mother,”
Hyacinth reminded her in a quiet but firm voice.
“I am responsible for ensuring the safety and comfort of The Brockery’s residents. Rooker and his crew may be content to stay in the village now, but there’s nothing to keep them from coming here. If we don’t fight them now, we may have to fight them later—on our own home ground. And besides,”
she added grimly,
“I want those spoons!”

Bosworth put a gentle paw over Primrose’s.
“She’s right, you know,”
he said.
“It’s her job. You have to let her go.”
He glanced at Rascal.
“Who else might you find helpful, Rascal?”

Rascal looked down the table, his glance going from one animal to the next.
“Well, in addition to Hyacinth, there’s the fox, Thorvaald, the Professor—”

“Whooo did yooou say?”
the owl inquired, looking down his beak.
“I?”

“Yes, sir,”
Rascal said. He always spoke deferentially to the owl.
“I know how fast you are when you swoop down out of the sky to catch voles and squirrels and—”

There was a chorus of high-pitched squeals, as the two squirrels and several voles abandoned their chairs and dove under the table.

“Sorry to alarm,”
Rascal said apologetically.
“But if you could come with us, Professor, I’d be personally grateful. And you stoats and weasels—”

The group of animals at the end of the table stopped muttering amongst themselves and stared at him with narrowed eyes.
“What-t-t’s that-t-?”
asked the weasel-in-charge, in his clicking, chattery voice.
“You’re ask-k-king us t-t-to volunt-t-teer to rout-t-t out-t-t rat-t-ts?”