The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

“Because rats mostly mark their tunnels by widdling on them.”

He was impressed at the way Malicia's expression didn't change a bit. “I can see we're all going to have to make some important mental adjustments,” she said, thoughtfully. “It was odd about Maurice, though, after my father told him there were plenty of kind old ladies in the town that'd be happy to give him a home.”

“You mean when he said that wouldn't be any fun, getting it that way?” said Keith.

“Yes. Do you know what he meant?”

“Sort of. He meant he's Maurice,” said Keith. “I think he had the time of his life, strutting up and down the table ordering everyone around. He even said the rats could keep the money! He said a little voice in his head told him it was really theirs!”

Malicia appeared to think about things for a while, and then said, as if it wasn't very important really, “And, er… you're staying, yes?”

“Clause 9, Resident Rat Piper,” said Keith. “I get an official suit that I don't have to share with anyone, a hat with a feather and a pipe allowance.”

“That will be… quite satisfactory,” said Malicia. “Er…”

“Yes?”

“When I told you that I had two sisters, er, that wasn't entirely true,” she said. “Er… it wasn't a lie, of course, but it was just… enhanced a bit.”

“Yes.”

“I mean it would be more literally true to say that I have, in fact, no sisters at all.”

“Ah,” said Keith.

“But I have millions of friends, of course,” Malicia went on. She looked, Keith thought, absolutely miserable.

“That's amazing,” he said. “Most people just have a few dozen.”

“Millions,” said Malicia. “Obviously, there's always room for another one.”

“Good,” said Keith.

“And, er, there's Clause 5,” said Malicia, still looking a bit nervous.

“Oh, yes,” said Keith. “That one puzzled everyone. ‘A slap-up tea with cream buns and a medal’, right?”

“Yes,” said Malicia. “It wouldn't be properly over, otherwise. Would you, er, join me?”

Keith nodded. He stared around at the town. It seemed a nice place. Just the right size. A man could find a future here…

“Just one question…” he said.

“Yes?” said Malicia, meekly.

“How long does it take to become mayor?”

There's a town in Uberwald where, every time the clock shows a quarter of an hour, the rats come out and strike the bells.

And people watch, and cheer, and buy the souvenir gnawed mugs and plates and spoons and clocks and other things which have no use whatsoever other than to be bought and taken home. And they go to the Rat Museum, and they eat RatBurgers (Guaranteed No Rat) and buy Rat Ears that you can wear and buy the books of Rat poetry in Rat language and say “how odd” when they see the streets signs in Rat and marvel at how the whole place seems so clean…

And once a day the town's Rat Piper, who is rather young, plays his pipes and the rats dance to the music, usually in a conga line. It's very popular (on special days a little tap-dancing rat organizes vast dancing spectaculars, with hundreds of rats in sequins, and water ballet in the fountains, and elaborate sets).

And there are lectures about the Rat Tax and how the whole system works, and how the rats have a town of their own under the human town, and get free use of the library, and even sometimes send their young rats to the school. And everyone says: How perfect, how well organized, how amazing!

And then most of them go back to their own towns and set their traps and put down their poisons, because some minds you couldn't change with a hatchet. But a few see the world as a different place.

It's not perfect, but it works. The thing about stories is that you have to pick the ones that last.

And far downstream a handsome cat, with only a few bare patches still in its fur, jumped off a barge, sauntered along the dock, and entered a large and prosperous town. It spent a few days beating up the local cats and getting the feel of the place and, most of all, in sitting and watching.

Finally, it saw what it wanted. It followed a young lad out of the city. He was carrying a stick over his back, on the end of which was a knotted handkerchief of the kind used by people in story circumstances to carry all their worldly goods. The cat grinned to himself. If you knew their dreams, you could handle people.

The cat followed the boy all the way to the first milestone along the road, where the boy stopped for a rest. And heard:

“Hey, stupid-looking kid? Wanna be Lord Mayor? Nah, down here, kid…”

Because some stories end, but old stories go on, and you gotta dance to the music if you want to stay ahead.

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I think I have read, in the past few months, more about rats than is good for me. Most of the true stuff—or, at least, the stuff that people say is true—is so unbelievable that I didn't include it in case readers thought I'd made it up.

Rats have been known to escape from a rat pit using the same method Darktan used on poor Jacko. If you don't believe it, this was witnessed by Old Alf, Jimma and Uncle Bob. I have it on the best authority.

Rat kings really exist. How they come into existence is a mystery; in this book Malicia mentions a couple of the theories. I am indebted to Dr Jack Cohen for a more modern and depressing one, which is that down the ages some cruel and inventive people have had altogether too much time on their hands.

,

1. You scrape the butter on. Then you scrape the butter off. Then you eat the bread.

2. It's hard to translate “sir' into Rat The rat word for'sir” isn't a word; it's a sort of momentary crouch, indicating that, just at the moment, the crouching rat is prepared to accept that the other rat is the boss, but that he or she shouldn't get funny about it.

3. Rat measurement. About an inch.

4. The rats had found one in the town of Quirm, which is where they'd got the Mr Clickies. They were on a shelf labelled “Kitty Toys”, along with a box of squeaky rubber rats called, with great imagination, Mr Squeaky. The rats had tried to set off traps by poking them with a rubber rat on the end of a stick, but the squeak when the trap shut upset everyone. No-one cared about what happened to a Mr Clicky.