An Alliance
The farm buildings were wreathed in a light fog, which swirled slowly around the structures, clinging low over the recently cut grass of the yard. The barn was silent, the lights in the house had gone out an hour ago and even the birds of the night seemed to sit and wait in anticipation. The narrow dirt road, that separated its buildings from the broad open fields to the east and to the north, glistened under the light of the moon and the stars, the small puddles upon its surface stood still. To the west the hills and the forest extended for miles, their leaves yellow and orange and red as the autumn grew colder by the day.
In the corner of the farm, close to the rickety old fence, sat the old potato cellar. Its wooden structures had crumbled and been worn away by the many years, but the stone steps still remained, as did the skeletal, empty crates and the cracked old glass bottles. All was not quiet, however.
Faint shafts of moonlight crept in down the stairs and through the narrow gaps on the wooden floorboards, with a central pillar of pale light forming underneath the Speakers Knothole. There, upon an old jam jar lid (raspberry, if one must know), stood Old White. Her beady red eyes scanned the gathered crowd, her withered pink tail twitching restlessly as she gazed past the flecks of dust floating in the air. Her name was as much a title as it was a description, as age had bleached the colour from her once soft and pristine fur. The soft chittering sounds of the Assembly filled the shadowy space, created by the crude angular vaults of the support beams and floorboards above, as dozens upon dozens of beady rodent eyes stared back at Old White. Teeth glimmered and clawed hands gripped bald tails, twisting nervously over and over again as hushed whispers carried over one another in conflicting waves. Only the Grey Guards, strongest of the mice, their claws sharpened and their eyes always watchful, stood still and stoic. Rumors were plentiful here on the best of nights (usually on the subject of theft, which was both condemned and also a daily occurrence), but tonight the tone of these whispers was frantic, alarmed and fearful.
Old White clutched the White Pebble in her hand, raised it to the air so that the reflecting light made it shine under the light, and struck it down against the metal edge of the jam jar lid. The harsh clang echoed around the enclosed space, and the voices fell silent at once. On the outside Old White was calm, emotionless, enveloped in wisdom and power granted to her by her many years, but on the inside she smiled as she saw her power was still respected. Not many saw such age as she did, or ruled for so long. The years had been good to her. Slowly she inhaled, feeling the stale, musty air, warm from the press of myriad bodies so close together, filling her lungs. Then she spoke, her voice clear even in its croaky, ancient tone (that she greatly enjoyed exaggerating for effect).
“Representative of the Browns, step forth.”
To her left, among two loosely formed ranks of skittering, matte-brown rodents, a single mouse stepped forward and stood up on his hind legs. No words were spoken, or needed, as the representative nodded to confirm his presence. Orderly. Organized. The Browns had outdone themselves. Old White knew this mouse well, even as she'd tried to put his name from her mind for a long time. They had been friends once. They might have been lovers (many had believed so, and suffered for spreading such rumors) if not for a harsh disagreement during that one equally harsh winter. Under his leadership the Browns had kept their chain of supply running well, the hidden passages into the two-legged-giants grain silos were producing plentiful food that fed the young and the old, and made for good trading. Old White nodded in return, then scanned the gathered crowd for the next tribe to be called.
“Representative of the Voles of the Field, step forth.”
A different crowd erupted in soft skittering that sounded much like a debate (it was). Smaller than all others in stature, thought certainly not in numbers, the voles argued (fiercely), shoved and pushed (and bit), until finally one of their kind was forced to the fore. As the rank of her companions closed up tightly behind her, the singular vole lowered her head and stepped forth (while looking rather miserable), declaring her presence with a meager squeak. The voles did not enjoy the attention. Their representative was often elected on the spot, as the previously elected one fled or refused to stand, and rarely had much to say.
“Representative of-” A scraping sound, of claw on stone, interrupted Old White. She wheeled around to face the offender, disbelief flickering in her expression, only to come face to face with the glare of red eyes and sharp half-rotted teeth. Old White clenched her jaw, the twitching of her tail the only remaining sign of her nerves as she regarded the newly arrived envoy (and struggled not to gag at the smell of that breath). “I see the Great Blacks have deemed it suitable to join, albeit late.”
The words were followed by a deep silence (several of the voles covered their eyes). Without a reply the rat bowed his head, then rose up to his full and formidable height as he reached a great clawed hand forward. As the fingers parted, a set of six severed tails fell to the edge of the jam jar lid, bloodless and dead. The silence no longer held as shocked gasps and fearful whispers rose anew (one of the voles had fainted). Old White raised the White Pebble again, and its clang on the metal lid served to mostly restore order.
“I bring to you betrayal and death!” -the rat declared, towering over Old White, addressing the gathered mice about her directly. Old White knew this one, too. Red Tooth they had called him, for his bloodlust and prowess in battle, long before his teeth rotted and he earned a less pleasant name, not to be used in polite conversation. The Great Blacks, warrior rats, defenders and keepers of order (through swift violence), as long as the council kept them well fed. “Six tails you see here before you, and for each of these three more are devoured and lost! Death and destruction have been brought to us, and the Legion of the Great Blacks demand justice!”
Old White lowered her gaze, staring at the severed tails. She'd known of the danger, of course. She'd known that something new lurked the farm at night. The Browns had lost a few. The voles spoke of many disappearances (thought these were not uncommon to begin with) and even Old White and her Grey Guards had felt the uneasiness in the air. All of this was precisely why she had called the council this night, to quell the rumors, to learn what each of the tribes knew, to assess the threat to her people, but even she had not fully understood the severity of the situation.
Not until now.
“Calm yourself, Red Tooth of the Great Blacks. We gather tonight to end such loss, not to place blame.”
Red (Brown) Tooth snarled in response, rancid spittle flying off his cracked lips as his claws stroked his fur to dislodge flecks of dried blood and dirt. “Betrayal!” -he snapped back, pointing his claw at the crowd, slowly turning left to right as if to see who among the crowd would flinch (the voles did so, collectively). Finally that pointed claw found its intended mark, a small, ragged collection of mice at the outer edge of the assembly, standing among the upturned roots of a dead plant. “The Watchers of the Wood!” -the rat snarled. “Theirs was the task of signalling us, to let us know of the danger! Such was the agreement we signed, and yet the lights remain dark and the bells have not tolled!” Red (Brown) Tooth's voice was dripping with venom, and Old White had to step back to keep his rancid saliva from dripping upon her nose. The Grey Guards stood to the side, whiskers twitching as they tried to decide if they should intervene. Caution (or fear) won the night, and Old White was left to fend for herself before such verbal onslaught. She held up her hands, the White Pebble glowing brightly in the shaft of moonlight coming from above. She demanded silence. Red (Brown) tooth, however, was not quite done: “They hide in the roots and the trees while my cohorts are thinned out and decimated! Curse them! Curse them all!”
With the last of his venomous words spoken, his defiance made clear, Red (Brown) Tooth stepped back, shaking his head in disgust. It was rare for the Great Blacks to mourn their dead (as such deaths were commonly caused by the very members of the Great Blacks), but they did make a fine show of their loss, to bargain for more food and living space. This time, however, Old White felt their anger might have been sincere and not just misdirected frustration.
“Representative of the Watchers in the Wood, step forth and answer this accusation!”
It took several moments for the answer to come. The dark-brown fur of the Watcher clan blended almost completely into the shadows among mounds of dirt, dust and ancient, cracked wood. In his hand he clutched a staff carved of wood, upon which he leaned so that he could stand alone. Old White did not recognize this one. This one was thin, almost sickly-looking, with a black pit in his head where the left eye should be. His voice shook as he spoke.
“I bring no tails to this council. Only a warning: the Watchers have failed.”
The true meaning of these words took a while to sink into the crowd. The Watchers of the Wood were tasked with trade with the outside world, with delivering messages to and fro, and with ensuring that the tribes always had safe passages prepared in case the two-legged-giants brought the fog of death on the tribes again. They were also the lookouts,tasked with keeping an eye on those that passed from the woods, under the great Fence of the Two-Legged-Giants and into the Home Realms. The one-eyed wood mouse shook his head, his tail clutched tightly in his free hand. In a fit of unexpected anger he cast aside his own tail, then continued on.
“The seven of us you see here today are all whom remain. The rest are dead, or have fled. We, too, will go as they have gone, once the moon is out. The hills are no longer safe-”
“COWARDS!” -spat Red Tooth from the corner where he'd been sulking, shaking his fist in the air. Others joined the outcry, emboldened by the anger of the black rat (even some of the voles squeaked angrily). Baring his chipped teeth the one-eyed envoy hissed back: “She has returned!”
The uproar that had enveloped the assembly died out in an instant. It was not uncommon for wild things from the woods to come and go. Often the warnings from the outlooks came in time, preventing any loss of life. But this intruder was not just any wild thing. It was Her.
“Then it is as we had feared.” The voice of Old White came through clearly in the sudden silence, as she stepped to the edge of the jam jar lid with the White Pebble under her arm. “We knew this day might come. We prepared for it! We have plans and contingencies in place...”
“She is greater than before!” -the one-eyed mouse cried in protest. “More wicked, crazed with bloodlust and vengeful! She stalks the night, rending eyes and tails and silencing lookouts! She has grown wild and feral, her hunger not for meat and blood, but for sport!”
Old White pitied the one-eyed mouse. She knew by the tone of his voice, as well as from his scarred appearance, that he had lost much already. If action was not taken swiftly, they all would.
Many had hoped that the Great Feline Deviless would never return. Two winters had gone since the two-legged-giants of old had left, leaving the Feline Deviless behind. Some say they fled her, too, for she was fierce even then. As She was left to fend for herself, hunger drove her into a frenzy as She ravaged the mouse tribes, and only after many fierce battles that had cost countless lives she had retreated into the woods, bleeding and dying, or so the tribes had thought. In time her name had become a legend, a tale told to the young to keep them from venturing too far, for in the darkest parts of the distant wood, the Feline Deviless would devour them whole.
Long She must have nursed her wounds from those battles of old, and great her hunger for retribution must be if She had scoured the woods and sent the Watchers fleeing. And now it was clear to see: She had made her first move, and was poised to enter the Home Realms proper. Not even the Great Blacks could hold her back.
The voles had disappeared during the fiery speech, leaving behind only many sets of footprints (and stinking wet spots) in the dirt. Old White cursed their fearful nature under her breath, then collected herself.
“We have an ally to call upon. An alliance was forged when the new two-legged-giants arrived in the winter. Representative of the Giants House, step forth!”
A light-grey mouse skittered forward, clutching a disc-shaped object wrapped in a pouch woven of black hair. He looked uncertain, despite his best efforts to the contrary, and repeatedly glanced over his shoulders at the gathering of his kin. Their silent support was as uncertain as he looked.
“Will he truly aid us, still? Will he even recall us?” -the spiteful Red (Brown) Tooth wondered out loud, his loud voice bringing to question the validity of this final gambit. Old White wanted to smack him over his thick skull with the White Pebble, but contained herself and instead gestured to the carrier of the Token. With a nod the grey mouse peeled off the pouch and revealed the great brass disk, a ring of glimmering metal attached to its side, and three arcane symbols carved upon its surface: R E X. Others stepped forth, dragging behind them great red-and-yellow bag of crinkling, shiny material, inside of which resided the Brown Cakes. Said to have been baked by the two-legged-giants themselves in some infernal furnace far away, their shape was that of a great, thick bone, with seven holes pressed into their surface. As the shiny material was parted, their scent poured forth, pungent and strong, and all those present felt their mouths watering. The bag looked light. Too light.
“How many have we left?” Old White's voice was tainted with worry.
“Nine remain.” -came the answer of the grey mouse, followed by a spiteful glance at the black rat. “We have cut up and traded many during the long winter months, sparing as many as we could.” Old White shook her head slowly, then raised the White Pebble above her head.
“Then nine must do.” -she intoned, releasing her grip on the White Pebble, allowing it to fall upon the metal of the jam jar lid. Its sound signalled a final decision. Her will and leadership would either save the tribes, or cast them into chaos and destruction. Her life depended on the outcome of this night.
“We must deliver the offerings, and our plea, to the Hound. We must secure His aid, lest we all be lost before that fall of first snow.”
The wheels of thought churned in Old White's rodent skull. She hadn't left the nest-homes for longer than she could comfortably recall, but knew she had but one option here.
“I will lead the delegation.” -she finally declared, to the joint murmuring of the Assembly. It was unheard of, unthinkable. But surely she would not go alone. Surely the others (except for the voles) would see the importance of this task. She took a deep breath, her clawed fingers gripping the White Pebble tightly to keep herself from shaking. She could ill afford to show fear now. “Those who would join me, step forth now!”
They all shrunk back. Even the carrier of the Token glanced over his shoulder, as if wishing he, too, could slip away from this task. Like Old White, he was trapped in the open, held in place by fear and shame. A great black hand gripped Old White's shoulder. She could smell the vile stench of the black rat's breath, and feel the tips of those razor-sharp claws underneath her fur.
“I will go!” -the rat declared, loud and boisterous. “The Blacks stand with you!”
Old White hadn't known what to expect, but the words soothed her soul. Even the stench of that breath felt tolerable all of a sudden. Another mouse stepped up to the edge of the jam jar lid, the light from the Speakers Knothole illuminating his quivering nose. It was the speaker of the Browns. Old White's heart fluttered in her chest, and she had to suppress a surprised squeak so as not to appear like the young, excitable girl she suddenly felt like inside. The rat's hand on her shoulder squeezed her (was he trying to reassure her?) and then slid off so she could stand strong by herself. Red (Brown) Tooth was grinning as if he knew something he shouldn't have.
“I shall represent the Browns, and in doing so, go with you, my Lady!”
He bowed his head to Old White, just as he'd done back then. She wanted to say something, to thank him, to speak his name, or to...
“Then I cannot stand aside.” The voice interrupted Old White's thoughts and left her blinking to see who it was that spoke. That voice belonged to the one-eyed mouse of the woods. He stepped in close with a solemn and serious air of the kind only great experience and age could grant, standing side-by-side with the Brown representative. The carrier of the Token stood up as well, and approached the light. He was smiling now, given confidence by those around him, even though his beady eyes betrayed his nerves.
“And with that...” The one-eyed mouse noted, looking around at the five rodents gathered in the light of the Speakers Knothole. “...I believe you have all the tribes (save for the voles, obviously) at your side!”
Fear turned to hope, and a great cheer echoed throughout the basement. A new Alliance had been formed that night.
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Writer's notes
I wanted to write something inspired by my childhood. I've always had a soft spot for small, furry creatures, so cutesy little rodents seemed like a solid basis for this story. At its core I felt like I was writing a children's book, with simple and likeable characters, a grand and adventurous setting, a clear and imminent danger and just enough elements of more violent and frightening themes that they would stir that excited feeling in the reader that I recall experiencing so vividly as I was subjected to the children's literature and some early cartoons as a child (I'm looking at you, Watership Down!). I wanted to write something that a child of, say, 7-10 years old could read and understand, with enough complexity to it that the tale wouldn't feel condescending to such a reader, that they might feel a little older and braver and stronger for having read the tale.
I hope you had as much fun reading this little tale as I had writing it! And who knows... perhaps I will write more some day, of how the five rodent party face challenges both great and small as they seek their ally. Thank you to everyone who helped me edit this tale and provided their feedback! Tabata, you deserve a special mention here, you mouse maniac, you!
