Cricket's Epilogue: The Prophecy

[Cricket Argyll]

"Hoy, Turrin!" the rat stage whispered as he elbowed his weasel companion none-too-gently in the ribs. "Who's that?"

Turrin, annoyed at the interruption in coiling up a particularly lengthy segment of line, looked up dutifully and followed his friend's claw to a piebald rat leaning against the Queen o'Rats' wheel. She watched the activity of the deck nonchalantly as everybeast made ready to sail. Her fur was windswept and stiff, a testament to a life spent on the sea, and numerous scars indicated a seasoned warrior. Now, her debonair coat and over-sized hat, those also indicated something. "S'Cap'n Argyll, Scrimmjaw, yew idjit." The weasel snorted.

"Aww, ye don't need ter say it like that," Scrimmjaw pouted. "I on'y been on the Queen half a day!"

"Aye," Turrin focused on his coiling. "Mebbe ye'd best go say hello. Make sure ye salute an' call 'er ma'am, though. Cap'n don't take no disrespect."

"Er...okay." Scrimmjaw padded over to the wheel, but the ratess ignored him entirely, even when he sidled up next to her. "Er, er, ma'am!" He threw a salute, which caught Captain Argyll's attention. "Scrimmjaw, ma'am! Jist signed on the ship, ma'am! Yer lookin' fine terday, ma'am! If I c'n say so, ma'am!"

"Yup, ya c'n say whatever ya want, Scrawnypaw." The captain leered, as if daring him to correct her. Up close, he saw that she wore not only a fine coat and hat, but a well-made ? if well-worn ? shirt and platoons. She was a bit shorter than him, but nothing unusually small for a female rat. The tip of her tail was missing and her yellow front teeth were a bit long, though. "How d'ya like my ship, then? I got her built five seasons ago." The lady vermin stood taller and puffed up her chest. "My own coin, too! Showed Lowri. Che! Didn't need her charity no more!"

"D'ye mean..." The crewrat started. "D'ye mean Dyera Lowri? Chief Healer t'his Highness?"

Captain Argyll sniffed. "Aye! She's got a thing fer me. Chii! I'll never unnerstand that prissy marten. Ya'd think she'd stop bein' s'stupid when I paid fer the first three assassinations with the allowance she gave me."

"Oh." Everybeast in the kingdom had heard tell of the unfortunate end each and every assassin who went after Dyera Lowri met: run through after tripping onto a sword in the weapons display room, poisoned after stealing a bit of food meant to be sent to Ms. Lowri, herself, from the kitchens, trampled by a sudden exodus of guardsbeasts called out for a midnight drill, a stray arrow in the courtyard from a neighbor practicing archery. The marteness had an unholy luck about her. The king kept her close to paw.

"So," Captain Argyll probed, "what'cha think?"

"It's nice, ma'am," Scrimmjaw said quickly, bobbing his head up and down in what he hoped passed for approval. The ratess didn't look particularly impressed by the compliment. "Uh...th'best ship in th'fleet!"

"Ya reckon?" She brightened. "I like ya, Scrawnypaw. Yer a honest beast. Now, go make yerself honestly useful afore I flay yer hide fer bein' lazy." Her mismatched eyes narrowed to gleeful slits of malice. "I allus like startin' a voyage off with a good whippin' fer the new recruits t'see."

Scrimmjaw departed after throwing another hasty salute, begging the beasts closest to paw for a task he could assist with.

-----

It had taken a month and two clever navigation officers ? not two working together, mind, but one right after the other as she'd keelhauled the first for incompetence ? to locate and chart a course to the Isle of Terramort. Now, less than a fortnight out, as the gull flies, she had a moment to reflect.

Cookie would have been proud if he could see her now. She hoped Spiky, Broo-haha, Ragears, Meanystripe, and Fishface would be terrified, jealous, or angry... or all three. In fact, she hoped the same of Ashira and Silus, but that was neither here nor there with the dead and might-as-well-be-dead.

But this was about Cookie! She was now captain of the Queen o'Rats, a fine vessel if ever there was, and sailing toward a land Cricket had not seen in twenty seasons.

Ah, there was that to deal with though. Cookie might not be so proud there. Her name was still Cricket, unfortunately. She'd set out to change it over the seasons, of course, but had been thwarted at every turn. She first discarded the ridiculous moniker at 17 when she'd been promoted to boson of another ship after murdering a wildcat suspected of planning a mutiny. The captain at the time had congratulated her on her loyalty and swift action.

Really? The cat had insulted her when she'd tried to join his cause. Cutthroat Argyll. She'd liked the sound and kept it for a full season before overhearing a conversation in which the beasts kept referring to her as 'Cutey Cutty'.

Next she named herself Killer ? simple and to the point. But she'd dropped it after only a single use that had the fox she'd introduced herself to nearly choking with laughter.

She'd run the gamut of names: Foxstomper, Tailbiter, Demonfang, and Swiftdeath, to name a few. Some stuck longer than others, but she invariably returned to 'Cricket' when somebeast snorted at the name or Dyera, the rat's self-appointed caretaker shook her head and sighed, "That sounds a bit silly, don't you think?"

What did that annoying marten know anyway? Certainly, Cricket had deigned to live with her and the rest of the Lowris when they'd returned from Terramort, but that didn't mean anything. She'd been 10-seasons-old with no mother or father, and not so much as a coin to her detestable name. The only other options had been to live on the streets and struggle every day just to stay alive or run off to find Broo-haha wherever she was. The former was an unpleasant prospect and the latter wasn't even really an alternative.

Cricket shuddered to think what growing up with woodlanders would have been like. The Lowris were as close as she ever wanted to get again.

They had been good to her, admittedly. She'd never gone hungry or cold. Dyera had hugged her when she woke up screaming at night with the images of red-eyed wolves and badgers and sea monsters burning in her mind. Dr. Lowri had tried to educate her and she had minded him enough to learn her letters, numbers, and a bit of real 'polly-ticks'. Mrs. Lowri had taught her a million skills that were stupid, but useful, like sewing. Hugo had been slightly more tolerable than the rest. She was able to warp him into a spit-ball shooting, noise-making, ink-throwing little accomplice for a bit. Then he'd grown up and become boring like his father and mother and sister. Still, she sent him letters now and again about her attempts on Dyera's life, and he wrote back from his ambassadorial posting on the Isles of Eventides about what methods he would try -- most of his ideas were rubbish, but now and again there was a gem.

But she had been thinking of Cookie, right? Faces flashed into her memory, some nameless, others that had names that brought fear or scorn: a rabbit with ink-stained paws who'd always cowered so nicely from his rowing bench, a lone stoat slave among the masses of woodlanders, a vole who talked and strutted like he was a badger, a wildcat who acted strange when he sniffed some funny powder he carried about, Ashira, the lady vermin she'd tried so hard to emulate, Silus, the weasel who had never taken her seriously until the end, Tassle the Most Annoying Shrew Ever, Brooga the Most Annoying Mole Ever, Ulrick the Drip-Snouted, Bungle-Pawed, Turf-Eater, Whacky-Wakeeha, the Seer who'd finally taken out the monster, Obligo, the chief of the rats, the wolves -- she'd thought of them as 'smoosh-faced foxes', then -- and Dr. Lowri, a creature she'd grown to hate, but still respect.

Lowri was evil. In fact, the whole lot of the Lowris were evil curmudgeons, but they were the sort of evil that beasts sometimes mistook for good. Clever. Very clever.

A splash of salty seawater sprayed her face and she was roused from her musings. Smirking, Cricket pulled a canteen from her pocket and raised it to the creatures she'd known and hated, then took a long pull of the fiery grog inside.

"How then, ya googly-eyed woodpigeons," the rat sneered, wiping her mouth with the back of her paw. "Hope yer all rottin' in graves one day fer those as ain't already! Chiihiihiirrup!"

-----

Twenty days came and went with no sight of land. Cricket keelhauled her navigation officer and promoted a very nervous rat to his post. He was named Scrawnypaw or something like that and whinged about not knowing the first thing about maps. Cricket reasoned that the last two navigation officers had known everything and still there was no Terramort in her spyglass. It was time for a change. Scrawnypaw picked a direction and told them to follow the wind.

Two days later, the lookout called, "Land ho!"

-----

"Er...c'n I ask sumthin', Cap'n?" Scrawnypaw piped up as he and a weasel named Turn-it, or some such, rowed her longboat to shore.

"Like I tol' ya the first day," Cricket said, not bothering to look at him, "ya c'n say what ya want. Jist ya mind the consequences." Her lips curled into a feral smile.

"R-right, ma'am." He fell silent for several long seconds, then asked, "Why're we even 'ere? Ain't Terramort s'posed t'be a dead island? Did ye...bury some treasure 'ere 'bouts we're gettin'?"

"We're here 'cause she said I would be," the ratess answered as cryptically as possible. It was one of her great joys, acting mysterious and watching her crew fret.

"Oh."

"Good job findin' it, Scrimmjaw," she added. His appointment had been a shot in the dark, luckily she'd hit the badger right on the nose, as it were.

"Not a..." he trailed off. Distractedly, Cricket looked over at him and saw his mouth was agape and there were tears in his eyes.

The piebald rat's eyebrows knit together and she looked behind, expecting to see a monster or woodlander or apparition, but nothing greeted her sights save the Queen's barnacle-encrusted hull. "What?" She demanded when she turned back and he still wore the same expression.

"Ye...Cap'n, ye used me name!"

"No, I didn't," she denied, trying to think back if she had. Her mind had been wandering. She might have slipped up somehow. He wasn't bad to look at, this one. Maybe he needed another name beside 'Scrawnypaw'. She'd think on it.

-----

Once ashore, Cricket gathered her crew and set out for the remains of a fort she saw crumbling atop a familiar precipice. They trekked on, her crew growing ever more wary until a small spear came flying from an outcropping of rocks they had just passed. The corsairs scattered like cockroaches in a cellar, but Cricket stood firm, holding Scrimmjaw in front of her as protection, just in case.

"Oi! Ya island rats! What'cha doin' throwin' things at yer queen?" the ratess demanded. A sudden chattering of voices began to emanate from the outcropping, then one voice rose above the rest.

"How we know you Queen? Could be anybeast!" it sounded accusing.

"Che! Go'n fetch one o' yer elders, half-pint. S'me a'right. I'm comin' back twenny seasons later jist like Whacky said! Wakeeha! Ya remember her? Feathers'n'beads. Shaman. Dead. Mean time, we're goin' up t'my fort. Come on, ya useless bunch o' wet-nosed cob-swabbers."

She jerked Scrimmjaw around and pushed him forward in the lead, snarling more insults at her cowardly crew who swiftly formed up and moved out. They were all quite aware as they walked that the island natives were shadowing their every pawstep. Cricket paid no mind. She'd dealt with them before.

They reached the fort and the crew managed to force open a side gate with a bit of shouldering. Cricket stepped in and grinned. Everything was just as she remembered it. Well, maybe not everything. Time and tide and hungry island rats had disposed of the bodies in the courtyard, and many of the wooden doors were in greater disrepair than she recalled, but it was essentially the same.

The crew filtered in uncertainly, then jumped when they were followed by several fierce-looking miniature rats. The natives blocked the exit.

"Who say she Queen?" an elderly rat with cataracts completely whiting out one eye asked.

"That's me. I'm Queen Cricket Argyll!"

The islander closed his eyes and sniffed, then took a step closer and eyed her up and down. "Chirruping Rat...?"

A few of the crew snickered. Cricket grabbed the whip hanging at her waist, whirled about and flailed wildly at the lot of them for a moment. Whimpers replaced the sniggering as she turned back to the elder. He was nodding.

"Is Queen, no doubt. Queen return! We wait for long time, but know you coming soon. Wakeeha daughter sell soul to great Sea Bird for powers. She is Seer for our tribe. Say Queen need to be careful. Fortune favor Queen off island. Now she return..."

"Oh, yeah?" the captain felt herself bristling with hostility. "Well ya c'n tell her not t'use her powers on me none, 'cause I don't need the likes o' her. I make my own luck an' fortune. Have since the day I left here!"

The islander shrugged noncommittally, and then turned away. "We come back at sundown. Bring food for Queen and servants." They departed as quietly as they had come.

"Er...cap'n?" A ferret raised his claw like a moron. "What's goin' on? What is this place?"

Cricket's maw split into a terrible, gap-filled leer. "This is home, mates!" she announced. "I'm Queen o' this hunk o' rock, so we'll be usin' it as our base o'op'rations from now on. Chiihii!" She twirled, taking in her new kingdom and ignoring the confused, scared faces of her crewbeasts.

"B-but , Cap'n," Scrimmjaw began and Cricket grabbed his paws, pulling him into a spin.

"Don't worry," she told him. "We'll still go sailin'! An' I decided ya c'n be my consort, Scrimmjaw! Ev'ry queen's got a consort! Chiihiihiirrup!"

"I feel sick," was the only comment the unfortunate corsair had to offer.

It didn't matter to Queen Cricket Argyll, though. She was home in a world where everything had to happen exactly as she'd planned it. She laughed and laughed and spun and ignored everything around her, even the ominous screams and cracking of wood that filtered up from the bay where they'd made anchor.

"Chiirrup!"