The Island of Destiny (7 page)

‘We're missing something,' Whisker remarked for the seventeenth time that afternoon.

‘Clearly,' the Captain said in frustration.

The Hermit put down his sharpened stick and clambered out of the hole he'd been digging. He wandered over to where the map lay spread on the ground, its edges weighed down by four small stones.

Staring at the map for some time, he read the last two lines of the riddle aloud.

Expectantly, the Hermit looked across at Whisker for an interpretation.

Whisker brushed the wind-swept fur out of his eyes and searched his memory.

‘We already know what the last line means,' he said. ‘It led us to the missing key. Well, one of them, anyway.'

The Hermit looked confused.

Whisker tried to explain. ‘We found two keys in the jungle citadel. The first key, the false key, was made of gold and symbolised wealth. The second key, the King's Key, was cast from brass and represented wisdom. We uncovered the King's Key while we were searching
in the shadows behind
the citadel. It was hanging around the neck of an overly annoyed three-horned chameleon …'

‘No, no,' the Hermit said in alarm.

‘We made it out alive,' the Captain reassured him. ‘But it was an explosive experience to say the least – our master gunner, Horace, blew up half the cliff top trying to escape.'

The Hermit nodded in amusement and Whisker looked back at the riddle, pondering.

‘We never did work out what
enlighten your mind
meant …' His voice drifted off and there was a long pause.

‘Perhaps we need the King's Key after all,' the Captain said, with a tinge of regret. ‘I dare say there's a detail on its painted surface we somehow overlooked.'

Whisker knew the Captain wasn't laying blame, but it didn't stop a feeling of guilt overwhelming him. He thought it best he kept his mouth shut and wandered off to find another hole to dig.

He'd only scooped out a few pawfuls of dirt when he heard the Hermit approaching.

‘Hermit wonders where key was lost in lagoon?' the Hermit asked eagerly.

Whisker had no desire to relive the experience, but decided an honest reply would be the quickest way to end the discussion once and for all.

‘I lost the key to the north-west of the last rock,' he admitted. ‘It happened when the eel dragged our bow under the water. I should have been more careful, I know.'

The Hermit patted Whisker on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile.

‘Giant eel no friendly goldfish,' he laughed. ‘Not to worry. Lagoon has rocky bottom. Key waits for rats. Rats dive for key, yes, yes?'

‘Err, sure,' Whisker said, not wanting to dampen the Hermit's enthusiasm. ‘But what about the eel?'

‘Eel not coming back, no, no,' the Hermit chuckled. ‘Pie Rats took care of eel.'

Whisker was somewhat reassured by the Hermit's response, but his tail still shivered at the thought of swimming across the lagoon. Experience had taught him that even the vilest of creatures could have a mate – or a family.

The Hermit continued excitedly, ‘Hermit has small rowboat, yes, yes. Driftwood hull. Seaweed camouflage. Not ocean-ready like raft but sturdy enough for lagoon. Hermit takes rats to beach.'

‘Tomorrow, perhaps,' the Captain said, joining the conversation. ‘It seems we've been on this mountain longer than any of us have realised.'

Whisker looked west to where the sun hung low in the sky. Clouds gathered overhead, swirling in the gusty winds.

The Hermit took one look at the brewing storm and nodded in agreement. ‘Key fishing tomorrow. Boiled onions tonight.'

Treasureless, the three rats packed up their belongings and hurriedly set off towards the Hermit's lair.

Constellations

Whisker made a concerted effort to look out for wild fruits and berry bushes on his trek down the mountainside. The unpleasant aftertaste of onions still lingered from the night before and boiled anything was hardly a meal to look forward to.

Before long, the thick clouds had blanketed the entire sky and darkness crept in. Whisker reached a large boulder near the mountain spring and spotted a scraggly bush growing from a crevice. In the fading light, he could just see what looked like clumps of red berries dangling from its branches.

‘This looks promising,' he muttered to himself.

He skipped over to investigate. The dark, spiky-tipped leaves were an instant giveaway. It was a holly bush. His heart sank in disappointment. He didn't need to be the son of a fruit and vegetable seller to know that a bellyful of holly berries would give him much more than just bad breath.

Discouraged, he stepped away from the bush and turned to go; suddenly realising he was all alone. He looked ahead but saw no one. Beginning to panic, he looked right, glanced left and peered up and down the mountain – still no one.

With a mixture of fear and annoyance, he wondered how long he'd been walking on his own, distracted by his hungry thoughts.

He shouted the names of the Hermit and the Captain, but the roar of the wind and the gushing of the stream drowned his voice. Above him, the sky looked ominous, the dark clouds a clear warning that rain could fall at any moment. Whisker had no choice but to sprint blindly along the boulders, hoping he was headed in the right direction.

Without the sun or the stars to guide him, he was forced to rely on familiar landmarks to get his bearings. It didn't help that all the boulders looked identically unfamiliar to him.

After running aimlessly for what seemed like hours, Whisker accepted the fact he was hopelessly lost. He sniffed the air, hoping to catch a whiff of the Hermit's onion odour, but the wind carried nothing but the salty scent of the sea.

‘If only I had the Hermit's compass,' he mumbled.

There was a faint tapping sound from behind a rock. Whisker spun around, half expecting to see the Hermit sneaking up on him. What he saw was far less comforting.

The shiny black shape of a scorpion crept from the shadows. Its long, segmented tail curved high above its body, ready to strike. Its two claws stretched forward, pincers open. Eight red-tinged legs moved stealthily over the ground. Its beady eyes showed no sign of expression as it moved into striking range.

Whisker had no doubts about its intentions. It had come to fight, not to offer directions. Realising this wasn't a moment for heroics, he turned on his heel and ran.

The scuttling of legs echoed around him. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed two scorpions advancing on his left. Two more appeared to his right. In front of him, flanked by two boulders, were a dozen waiting scorpions. Whisker's escape route was blocked.

Common sense told him to stop and assess his options, but fear kept his legs moving. He drew his scissor sword and tried to recall the defensive guards Ruby had taught him.

Roof Guard,
he told himself, raising his sword above his head.

The first attack came from his left. With a downwards thrust of its tail, a scorpion stabbed at Whisker's chest. Whisker swung his sword through the air in a powerful arc. His blade collided with the thick exoskeleton of the scorpion, battering the sting away.

He recovered from the impact just in time to see a second sting flashing towards him. He jerked his sword upwards and in the same motion threw his body forward. His sword deflected the blow and his body rolled clear under the scorpion's tail.

The scorpion swivelled itself around and made a lunge for Whisker with its claw. Whisker grabbed the scorpion's nearest leg and pulled himself to his feet as the claw snapped shut. With a violent tug on his shorts, Whisker knew the scorpion had him.

He tried to wrench himself free. The leg of his canvas shorts tore away and he broke from the pincer's grip. Three stumbling steps later and he was up and racing again.

Whisker had the advantage of speed. But speed wasn't much good if he was paralysed by a sting. One wrong step and it would all be over.

He drew closer to the barricade of scorpions. Two large scorpions scuttled out to intercept him. Whisker hacked at the first scorpion's legs before it had time to strike. Its legs bent beneath it and its abdomen collapsed onto the ground.

The next scorpion was ready and raised its tail in anticipation. Whisker sidestepped to the right as its sting rocketed down.

It thrust again, but this time, Whisker swung his blade through the air in a wide arc, hoping to make contact. His sword missed its mark and his body continued to spin. He felt the scorpion's tail brush past his arm, narrowly missing him with its poisonous barb.

Whisker let the movement take over. He spun a complete three hundred and sixty degrees and slashed at the tail with his next pass. This time his sword made contact and with a sharp
CRACK
he severed the poisonous tip off the sting.

The scorpion flicked its tail in fury and beat the ground wildly with its claws. Whisker darted past the enraged creature while he still had the chance.

He could hear the swarm of scorpions advancing behind him and saw the barricade only metres away. More scorpions had gathered to block the narrow space. Whisker knew that even if he reached them, he could never fight his way through.

Run or fight?
he asked himself.

Before Whisker could decide which way he was going to perish, he remembered the advice of his great-grandfather, Anso – advice that had saved him more than once before:
Always look for the third option.

Whisker scanned his surroundings and, with a rush of adrenalin, seized his escape plan. It lay directly in front of him, as clear as a boulder on a mountainside.

He whipped his tail over his shoulder and wrapped it around the handle of his sword, freeing up both paws. Arching his sword over his head like the sting of a scorpion, he charged at the outermost guard. He knew he only had one shot to get it right. Imagining he was an acrobatic possum from the circus, he prepared his routine.

It's all in the timing,
he told himself.

The scorpion raised its tail and Whisker increased his speed. He was three steps from the scorpion when he altered his pace, taking several short hops instead of his running strides.

Misjudging Whisker's timing, the scorpion struck too soon. It thrust its tail downwards, crashing its sting into the ground.

Whisker took his final step and leapt onto the arch of the scorpion's bent tail. The scorpion flicked its tail upwards, catapulting him into the air.

Whisker soared over the barricade of scorpions with a double somersault and landed on a rocky ledge, halfway up the side of a rough boulder. Before the scorpions realised where he had gone, Whisker had scrambled to the top of the boulder and was racing along its upper edge.

He reached the next boulder, stuck his sword in his belt and continued climbing upwards. The army of scorpions scuttled after him, but the furious snaps of their claws only spurred him on. With a newfound strength, he leapt over narrow ravines and sprinted up slopes with a pace that would rival even the Hermit.

The sounds of his pursuers grew fainter and fainter as he continued, but Whisker didn't stop moving until he was high up the mountainside and all he could hear was the roar of the wind.

As the first fat raindrops exploded around him, Whisker found shelter in a rocky crevice, covering himself with leaves and sticks to conceal his location. Thunder rumbled overhead and the heavens opened, sending an icy cocktail of rain and hail pelting down.

Whisker shuffled to the very back of the crevice to the only dry spot he could find. He tried to remain alert but his eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. The low rumble of thunder and the steady trickle of water running over the rocks finally lulled him to sleep.