The Twyning (31 page)

“That’s good.” Bill tries to smile, but his face can only manage a sort of scowl. “Friends are good in this world.”

“She’s been kidnapped.”

“How d’you mean ‘kidnapped’? What you talkin’ about, boy?”

Haltingly, as we both stare into the fire, I recount the story of Caz. The only
part I
fail to mention is the help I received from the rats. In the version I tell Bill, it was one of the girls who told me where he lived.

“You want to get her back?”

“Yes. Of course. How could you ask that?”

“Maybe she’s better off where she is. Ever thought of that?”

“That’s what everyone says.” I close my eyes and see Caz’s face as she danced. “She’s not better off. I just know.”

“Well, then.” Bill sniffs deeply. “We need to start thinking about how to free her, then, don’t we?”

I nod, unable to speak, ashamed that there are tears in my eyes.

. . . as she sat on his leg, looking up at him. He was eating, and now and then gave her food, making noises all the while in low, crooning tones.

It was time to return to the kingdom. The moment for revelations about the human, about being together in the world above, was past. My duty as a hearer, as a citizen, was calling me. It had been a strange adventure with Malaika, but it was over.

My mind empty of the past, I turned from them and made my way out of the mountain. I followed the hedges and pipes and touch-paths that led me to the river.

It was a cold, moonlit night by the time I reached the field where so many citizens had been killed.

As I passed the building from where I had seen it all, I sensed that the place had changed since I had last been here. There was no more fence around the field, and the ground no longer smelled of death. The earth had drawn life from the flesh of citizens. I was coming home.

With a last glance at the moonlit world above, I descended into the kingdom.

Something strange. Now that I was in the world below, following the familiar runs and touch-paths downward, I heard less. The sounds within me, the faint voices calling me back, seemed to fade. I was in a world without revelation.

The kingdom had changed. As I passed the hollowed trunk of an ancient tree, I heard the squeak of citizens in conflict. There were five young rats scrapping over a piece of food.

I was about to continue when I saw for the first time the food over which they were biting and squeaking. It was the body of a young ratling, barely a week old.

I made my way toward the Great Hollow. Around one corner, I encountered a doe with four young. When she saw me, she seemed overcome with terror. She issued a shrill alarm call and scurried away, followed by her young.

The hollow was deserted. The Rock of State was a slab of stone. Now and then, from nearby, I heard a hurried scrabbling. Once I found myself looking into a pair of dark eyes. Then they were gone.

The kingdom, as I knew it, was no more.

I followed a touch-path past where the Tasting Court used to be. Alpa, I knew, was dead, but what of the others?

One hope remained. I took the path back toward a chamber where there had once lived the one group of citizens who would not have fled the kingdom, whatever had happened.

As I approached, the smell of death that hung faintly in the air wherever I went in the world below grew stronger. The entrance to the chamber was usually guarded by two warriors, but not tonight.

I hesitated for a moment, fearful of what might await me, then made my way into the chamber of the Twyning.

What I saw was against all nature. Citizens who were part of a twyning were sacred. Their round of life is the very soul of the kingdom. When one of their number dies, it is quickly removed. The health of the group, its survival until the very last death, is what matters to the kingdom.

Yet here the Twyning of life was now a Twyning of death. It was a tangle of rotting flesh through which worms and maggots writhed. Some of the rats had died more recently, their dull eyes staring upward, their mouths open. I glanced at the shape of one body and began to understand what had happened.

The Twyning had been abandoned by the kingdom. Its members had died from thirst and hunger.

— The kingdom is no more.

The revelation came from within me and seemed to hang in the foul, dark air around me. I turned slowly to leave, and as I did so, I was aware of the faintest tickle of revelation within me.

— No.

I waited. Was it my imagination?

— No.

The revelation was there again, stronger this time.

I moved forward, into the darkness. The stench was stronger, and the remains of the Twyning almost filled the space of the chamber.

It was on the far side of the circle of bodies that I discovered that there was life there.

A rat, bigger and stronger than the rest, lay helplessly on his back. His eyes flickered as I approached. His jaw, wide open, closed and opened. I revealed to him.

— You’re alive. The Twyning lives.

The rat gazed at me. I tried to reach him again.

— Stay still. I shall release you.

There was a flicker of alarm, perhaps anger, in his eyes.

— Too late.

Tradition is part of a twyning. None of its members has a name. They are more sacred than other citizens, including those who are in the Court of Governance. Above all, it is believed that they should only be released from the Twyning when there is no longer breath in their bodies.

Now, though, was no time for tradition. The rat’s tail entered the tangled center of the Twyning about halfway down its length. I began to gnaw at it and found to my surprise that it was hard and brittle, and that the blood it contained was dark, like that of a corpse.

He remained silent while I worked, giving only the quietest squeak when his body, for the first time since he was a ratling, broke free from that of his brothers and sisters.

He scrabbled feebly until no part of him touched the dead Twyning.

— Are you all right, citizen?

The rat looked at me, his eyes conveying neither gratitude nor anger.

— I am dying.

— I shall get you food and water.

The rat twitched again. Now I saw the problem. Because he had not moved throughout his life, there were no muscles in his legs. He was unable to stand, let alone walk.

— Listen, ratling.

His revelation was more urgent now. I swallowed the temptation to remind him that I was Efren, a citizen who was trying to save him.

— The kingdom . . .

— What of the kingdom?

— It shall live. The true kingdom will return.

The revelation reached me, but I did not believe it. There was no point in contradiction: the last survivor of the Twyning had no interest in what I revealed. Breathing heavily, he continued.

— Every rat is a king.

— I shall get you water.

— No. Attend. This is important.

I backed toward the opening, sensing that unless I could bring him water, the rat would soon fade from life.

— I shall return. You will get stronger. — I hurried to the river, took a mouthful of water, and returned.

When I entered the chamber, stillness was everywhere. I leaned over the rat, put my mouth to his, let the water pour.

It spilled through his teeth, onto the earth below. The light in his eyes had gone. His flesh, when I touched it with my nose, was cooling.

The last member of the Twyning was dead. At that moment I felt more alone, more lost, than ever before in my young life.

Suddenly, in the silence, I was hearing.

It was not a memory, and it was not an echo. It was the last great truth, uttered by a sacred twyning, and it would remain in my heart until the day I, too, would die.

Every rat is a king.

Every rat is a king.

Every rat is a king.

. . . but still Mr. Petheridge MP is not entirely happy. He visits the doctor a few days after the great hunt by the river. As the two men make their way through the hall, the MP asks the question that seems to have been on his mind.

“How many of the beasts do we have now?”

“More than twenty-five hundred,” the doctor replies. “Mr. Woodcock is beginning to complain of the cost. It seems that our friends in the ratting community have taken to bringing in beasts from other boroughs.”

“Bad show.” Mr. Petheridge purses his thin lips. “This is my campaign. I’m not paying good public money for the tails of rats from other MPs’ constituencies.”

I follow the men into the library.

Why am I there? It is two days after I have found Caz, and I know that I must keep working for them. Without their money, and maybe without their power, I shall be truly lost. The moment when I dared ask for their help was not mentioned by the doctor when I appeared on his doorstep. As usual, the MP ignores me.

“We need to persuade the public,” he is saying. “Convince them that if we don’t act against this terrible scourge, their little ones will be eaten alive in their cribs. There is to be a public meeting at the town hall the day after tomorrow. We’ll need him”— he nods his head in my direction — “to help out.”

“Are you available, Mr. Smith?” The hint of mockery in the doctor’s voice is unmistakable.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“Make the public afraid, and they’ll soon vote for you.” The MP sits down and holds his bony hands up to the fire. “We need to put on a show for them. The press will be there. We must have something newsworthy to give them.”

The two men sit in silence for a moment. Then the doctor glances in my direction.

“We’ll need Grubstaff, ” he says.

I shake my head. “Mr. Grubstaff isn’t happy,” I murmur.

Mr. Petheridge gazes at me. His look is not friendly.

“Mr. Grubstaff lives in the park, does he not, Mr. Smith?”

I nod.

“It is council land, I believe. Grubstaff has been allowed to live in his shed until now, but of course that can always change.” He smiles nastily. “A word in the right ear and your friend will be without a home.”

“There must be a health risk, having a rat man in a public park,” says the doctor.

Both men are now staring at me. Bill, I know in my heart, will be no match for these men and their power.

“I’ll tell him,” I mutter.

“Tell him we want a show.” Mr. Petheridge stabs a finger in my direction. “Something that will play well in the newspapers.”

“People need to hate the beasts.” He turns to the doctor. “Once rats are truly the enemy, our war can begin in earnest.”

That night, after work, I visit the park to see Bill Grubstaff. Before I break the news to him that he is going to be forced to fight in the great war on rats whether he likes it or not, I have more important matters on my mind.

“When, Bill?”

He sits, shoulders hunched, gazing at the bonfire in that sad, distant way of his.

“When what?”

“When are we to rescue Caz?”

A low, complaining mumble, like that of an old bull being annoyed by a calf, comes from him.

“I can lead you to where she is,” I say. “The house is not far from here.”

He pokes the fire. “Need a plan,” he says. “Can’t just go and knock on a gentleman’s door like that.”

“He’s not a gentleman. He captured Caz. She’s his prisoner.”

He looks at me. “Maybe, maybe not. No one’s going to believe us. They don’t even see us most of the time.”

In my heart, I have always believed that Bill’s world begins and ends with beasts — finding them, catching them, preparing them for the pit, getting paid for them. Now I see an anger in his eyes that I have never seen before.

“We have to do it ourselves,” he says quietly. “But maybe we’re not alone.”

Between us, we work out a plan. It is desperate and risky, but it is better than nothing at all.

I leave him long after darkness has fallen. I walk quickly to the street where Knightley, Champagne Charlie, lives.

As I do every night, I stand on the dark street, looking up at the single light on the top floor. The piano is being played softly tonight, its sounds floating over the rooftops of the city.

“I’ll be there soon,” I whisper. “Hold on, Caz.”