The Forgotten Map. Cameron Stelzer
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train it to fight with a sword, you’ll be unstoppable.’
Whisker sighed. His embarrassing secret was out.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for sword practice,’ the Captain said. ‘There’s a lot Whisker can learn from Ruby.’
Whisker doubted if Ruby would be willing to teach him anything. He just hoped she wouldn’t hold a grudge for too long.
He thought about the story his father had told him.
The third option, he said to himself. I could have picked surrender.
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