Rat Race (Cricket Argyll)

[Substitute Author]

Who do you blame when your kid is a brat
Pampered and spoiled like a Siamese cat
Blaming the kid is a lie and a shame
You know exactly who's to blame
The mother and the father

-----

?Ya look awful thirsty, Broo-haha,? Cricket observed as she brought the flask of water to her mouth and drank slowly, mismatched eyes never leaving the young female mole. The woodlander was chained with the rest of the slaves along the wall opposite the main door where no less than four of the former crew of the Black Brine were stationed to keep guard. ?Ah! S?good! Ya want some, Broo-haha?? Sympathetic eyes and a crooked smile. Those?ll throw the stupid dirt-digger off!

The smirking ratmaid held out her flask to Brooga, the new target of her boredom as the otter she regularly picked on had failed to live up to the standards of his species when it came to swimming. Of course, the fact that his oar had gone straight through his gut when trying to escape the dearly departed vessel had very little to do with his swimming abilities. Or so Cricket had been told by a few of the more graphic slaves to have survived.

?Here ya go, Broo-haha?Oops!? As the rodent was stretching out her paw toward the slave and the mole was raising her arm warily, the flask dropped and spilled the remainder of its contents on the stone floor. The precious water found its way readily into the cracks between the rocks and all but disappeared, leaving what could not even be called a puddle behind, but Cricket?s gaze never strayed from Brooga as she waited for the mole?s temper to flare.

?Burr, rotten likkle choild,? the molemaid grumbled, but did not rise to the bait. ?Yurr ma an? pa ought t?tan yurr tail the way ?ee be actin?.?

Cricket?s amusement flashed to anger as she narrowed her eyes and reached beneath her shirt to retrieve the one thing she had managed to salvage from the ship: her knotted rope. ?I ain?t got no ?ma? or ?pa?,? the rat sneered, as she unwound the rope from her midsection and began twirling one end with three particularly nasty-looking knots in one paw and holding the slack firmly in the other. ?An? ya ain?t gonna be a ma either, Clumsypaw Broo-haha, ?cause ain?t no mole gonna like the look o?ya when I?m done no matter how stupid he be!?

Releasing the rope like a rock from a sling, she hit the mole?s shoulder and began making a peculiar chirruping cackle. The first attack encouraging her, she used the knotted rope like a whip, lashing the defenseless beast?s body over and over. ?Gonna talk ?bout my parents anymore, Broo-haha?!? Cricket screeched as the mole tried to use her broad digging claws to shield her face and chest from the worst of the blows. ?Are y-agh!? There was a strong pressure on the child?s back and she found herself sprawled on the ground at Brooga?s feet. Scrambling back a safe distance from the mole?s reach, she turned to face her attacker. Crouched down, weapon still in paw, she gave the elder vermin a look that could only be described as pure bile.

?Quit botherin? the slaves, ye brat,? Tornear, a muscular male ferret, commanded. ?We need ?em in decent shape fer any work we hafta do an? ye have ah annoyin? laugh. Hell?s Teeth! First the Cap?n an? Sableclaw, an? now this! Go wake up that lazy cook if?n ye want t?be botherin? somebeastie. He?s s?posed t?be findin? better fair fer us t?eat round here or we?ll have t?go back t?offin? the slaves.? He turned away, still complaining about the unfairness of life, and Cricket considered whacking him with her rope, then thought better of it as her sense of self-preservation screamed at her not to be completely stupid.

Maybe finding Cookie wasn?t such a bad idea after all. At least he?s not as ugly as the rest o? the crew, the child thought petulantly, sticking her tongue out at Tornear?s retreating form and winding her weapon back around her waist.

Now that she had been properly interrupted, the mole held little interest for the distractible 11-season-old. Still, one last parting shot, ?I?ll be back t?play with ya later Broo-haha an? this time I?ll bring Cookie an? he?ll put ya in his soup!? Cricket stuck out her tongue at Brooga, but instead of a growl of resentment, there was a chuckle of amusement from the slave. It was a common response -- her prominent incisors did force her to stick her tongue out to the side rather comically -- but no less infuriating for the mean-spirited child. Snarling something that she had learned from some very angry, very drunken corsairs during her time aboard the Black Brine, the ratmaid stomped out of the room.

-----

Having helped out in the galley before her mother?s death and well aware of the sleeping and drinking habits of the ship?s cook, Cricket sought out the kitchen where Cookie had taken up residence apart from the other vermin. A few of the island rats watched her curiously as she stalked by and she felt her mood lighten as she met their stares, pleased that, for the first time in many months, she was actually in better condition than somebeast outside the slaves. Even the bucketbeasts received kinder treatment than the ?useless? ratmaid and that was decidedly irritating after having benefited from the protection of her mother, however unwittingly.

Nearly removing the poorly constructed door from its hinges and wondering how Cookie managed with the door given his size and strength, Cricket entered the kitchen without preamble and squinted into the darkness. There were no windows here and the torch brackets were empty even if she had thought to keep flint and steel on her person. Leaving the door cracked open and allowing her eyes to adjust while her nose led her to a shelf with rather nice-smelling contents, the rat reached above for the source of the nice-smelling stuff and succeeded in knocking whatever it was down onto her head.

?Agh! Achoo! It hurts!? She sneezed violently as the spices clogged her sensitive nose and burned her wide eyes. ?Gawkin? gulls! It hurts! Achoo!? Tears trickled down her face as she danced in widening circles and pawed at the stuff, trying to remove it.

Curiously, there was no response to this display until Cricket?s hop-skip toward nowhere in particular was halted by a wall of fur. The rat stopped, rubbing at her watery eyes and holding in what was sure to be a deafening sneeze, as a yellowish-green orb flickered in the darkness and set on her. However, she need not have worried as there was no consciousness in the gaze and the cook?s eye shut as he rolled over and began to snore loudly. Not daring to release her sneeze around the sleeping cat, however safe it seemed, as he was likely to throw her in his soup after ruining whatever had been on the shelf, the rodent turned, standing on her tip-paws, to sneak out when something else caught her eye.

She had not noticed the shiny object before as it had been hidden by Cookie?s bulk, but now?Now. He can?t make soup without his ladle, Cricket reasoned. What a way to disarm Cookie for good! But can I?? She faltered as the feline?s ferocious snores filled the room with primal snarling. I can! Hah! He?ll think twice afore tryin? t?tell me off now!

Still wanting to sneeze, but holding it back as she gulped, the rat grabbed hold of the ladle held in Cookie?s loose grasp, settled her nerves with another gulp and removed the cooking utensil in one smooth pull. If the wildcat noticed, he was certainly playing ignorance well as he went on snoozing.

?I?I got Cookie?s ladle,? Cricket whispered to herself, sneezed and bolted out of the room.

-----   

?I?ll stay here fer awhile,? the rat said loudly as much to affirm this fact as to comfort herself with some sound. Cricket had managed to find her way into the basements in her mad dash to distance herself from Cookie and his future ire. It was dark, like in the kitchen, and wet, but her eyes had adjusted for the most part and weak sunlight filtered in from a few dusty windows set above her head.

She was now in an open corridor leading off from the main room she had descended into, but she was reluctant to go much farther. Something about the dimly lit passage set her fur on edge, especially combined with the fact she had to broken a lock on the make-shift trapdoor the island rats had put in to get down here. Cricket knew there were often reasons for locked doors, however much she disliked them, and perhaps there had been a good one for this. The crazy island rat?s words from when they had first arrived were still etched in her memory, perhaps sensationalized by her vivid imagination.

?Here!? the word echoed briefly as she turned away from the corridor and went to investigate a few dusty boxes she had spied earlier. Cookie?s ladle was clutched in her paw rather like a short sword and it gave her a small sense of comfort. Then it was used as a crowbar and brought her large sense of satisfaction as she pried open one of the crates -- He won?t notice if I bend it a li'tle? -- and discovered a modest stockpile of food rations.

?Chah! No more quarter-portions fer you, Ms. Argyll!? the child chirruped. ?It?s mine. All mine.?