The King's Key Read online

  The monkey leapt clear as Whisker tumbled down, scratching helplessly at passing vegetation. As the ground raced towards him, he threw his paws forward to cushion the impact. Instead of the rough sting of quicksand, he felt the tightly woven strands of a net. It flexed under his weight, tightened, and then catapulted him into the air.

  He somersaulted, twisted sideways and landed on his back. Dizzy and dazed, Whisker stared up at the treetops and thanked his lucky stars for safety nets.

  Marvellous Marmosets

  Whisker’s safety was short-lived. Above him, the bodies of the Pie Rats dropped from the sky like meteors.

  He rolled to his left as the Captain landed beside him, he rolled to his right as Mr Tribble and Eaton sprawled into the net. Finally, Ruby and Horace tumbled down together in a tangle of vines.

  The net stopped bouncing.

  ‘Rotten Pies to marmosets,’ Horace groaned, untangling himself from Ruby. ‘Life in the trees is so overrated.’

  Smudge landed next to the Captain, waving his arms in frantic circles.

  ‘It’s time to depart,’ the Captain said earnestly. ‘Smudge says we’re at the end of the quicksand.’ The Captain clambered to his feet and promptly fell over again. The net was moving.

  Whisker looked up. Long ropes stretched from the four corners of the net to the tops of the trees. Monkeys heaved on the ropes and the sides of the net moved upwards and inwards.

  ‘Climb!’ Ruby hissed, leaping up the side of the net.

  Whisker clambered after her. The monkeys heaved harder. Ruby was almost at the top when the four corners of the net closed in above her, blocking the forest light. In frustration, she kicked the net with her foot.

  ‘Try your scissor swords,’ Mr Tribble croaked from the gloom below.

  Whisker reached for his sword. It wasn’t there.

  Ruby snarled, Horace gasped and the Captain groaned. Their scissor swords were gone. Despondently, Whisker and Ruby lowered themselves down.

  ‘Take a look outside, Smudge,’ the Captain whispered, ‘and see what they’re up to.’

  Smudge squeezed through a small gap in the net. There was a BUZZ of wings, a dull CLINK and then silence.

  ‘What was that?’ Horace asked, confused.

  ‘Judging by the echo, the lid of a pottery jar,’ Mr Tribble guessed. ‘At least it’s not air tight.’

  ‘There go our weapons and our spy,’ Ruby muttered in annoyance.

  ‘They haven’t taken our matches,’ Horace said, rifling through his backpack.

  Ruby let out a long gasp of air. ‘Don’t even think about it, Horace. We need an escape plan, not a recipe for barbequed rat …’ She stopped. The net was lowering to the ground.

  ‘Hold tight,’ the Captain said. ‘We may have a chance to negotiate our release. Monkeys are far friendlier enemies than cats.’

  There was no other choice. The Pie Rats grasped the sides of the net as it collapsed on the forest floor. With a jerk, the net slid forward, scraping through the dirt and gathering momentum. It was soon bumping over logs, rustling through dry leaves and snaking around rocks. After what seemed like an eternity of battering and bruising, it finally came to a stop.

  The dazed prisoners were dragged from their moving cell and tied against trees surrounding a small, grassy clearing. A tribe of marmosets stood in front of them, pointing and murmuring. Several metres from the prisoners, a small clay pot was placed on the ground and the Pie Rat’s calico backpacks were piled nearby.

  The monkey in the rusty helmet clapped his paws three times and the tribe of watching monkeys parted. Whisker heard the familiar jingle of bells as the monkey in the jester’s hat skipped through the crowd, chanting, ‘Manama badabba. Manama badabba.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Horace whispered.

  ‘Gibberish,’ Mr Tribble muttered, ‘It’s not a language I’m familiar with.’

  The jester continued, ‘Koo-char koo-ching. Koo-char koo-ching.’

  There was an excited roar from the crowd. The jester leapt to one side and four monkeys pranced towards the prisoners. The leader of the line wore a ridiculously large crown, sagging to one side. His shoulders were draped in a flowing purple cloak. The three monkeys following him wore royal headwear of lesser proportions.

  ‘Manama yeee yuppa!’ the jester cried.

  The crowd gave an enthusiastic round of applause and the King in the oversized crown waved to the crowd before turning to face the prisoners.

  ‘Great gallons of grape juice!’ he exclaimed. ‘Isn’t this a splendid catch: Four rascally rats, two miniscule mice and a blowfly in a brown jar. We haven’t had a haul like this since the echidna expedition of ’88.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a wondrous time,’ giggled a monkey in a gold tiara. ‘All those spiny little critters scampering around while we stuffed them into the net.’ She giggled again.

  ‘I hated it, mother,’ mumbled a monkey in a small crown. ‘My paw got pricked and I couldn’t peel a banana for three days …’

  ‘Poor prince party pooper,’ teased a monkey in a silver tiara. ‘You’re the only heir in the world who needs a nurse to feed you fruit salad.’

  ‘Shut it, sister!’ he snapped. ‘At least I’m not a pathetic little puppet. It’s always yes daddy dearest, no daddy dearest with you.’

  The monkey in the gold tiara nudged the King. ‘Our children say such silly things when we have prisoners. Anyone would think they had to share a tree or line up to use the waterhole like common marmosets.’

  ‘What, what?’ the King muttered. Who’s in the waterhole? Speak up, my dear Queen. I can’t hear a thing.’ He stuck his finger in his ear. ‘Blasted tree sap. It’s near impossible to get it out … Wait a minute! I’ve just had a brainwave. Echidna spines – brilliant! It’s a revolution in ear cleaning. Sir Mecks, where are you?’

  The monkey in the rusty helmet knelt before the King.

  ‘Here, Majesty,’ he said in a short, sharp voice.

  ‘Sir Mecks,’ the King said excitedly. ‘You are to pluck every echidna spine from the prisoners and bring them to my royal tree at once.’

  Sir Mecks glanced at the prisoners.

  ‘Majesty,’ he said. ‘Prisoners – are – rodents.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ the King cried. ‘You’re absolutely, positively right. There’s not an echidna in sight. I certainly won’t be sticking rats’ tails in my ears. Carry on with the punishment as planned.’

  ‘Punishment?’ Whisker gasped.

  The King jumped.

  ‘It-it speaks,’ he gabbled, clutching his crown in both paws.

  ‘Of course he can speak,’ Horace fired back. ‘We all can. And what’s more important, we’re all innocent.’

  ‘Guilty,’ Sir Mecks said in his metallic voice. ‘Caught – trespassing.’

  ‘Trespassing?’ the Captain echoed. ‘We didn’t see any trespassing signs.’

  ‘Great golden galoshes!’ the King exclaimed. ‘Of course you didn’t see any signs. There weren’t any. No one reads or writes in the Kingdom of Marvellous Marmosets.’

  He turned to the crowd, raised his arms like a conductor and began to lead a chant:

  Break all your pencils, tear up your maps.

  Books are for grandmas who take morning naps.

  Swing from a creeper, bask in the sun,

  reading is banned in the kingdom of fun!’

  There was a cheer from the crowd as the verse came to an end. Whisker shot a nervous glance at the pile of backpacks and whispered to Horace, ‘We’ve got to get out of here before they get their map-tearing paws on you-know-what.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Horace replied, without lowering his voice. ‘That clown in the crown will forget we’re even here before he finishes his next sentence.’

  The King glanced sideways and straightened his crown.

  ‘Clown?’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  Horace looked blank.

  ‘Great grannies in ghettos!’ the King gasped. �
�I’m an international superstar. I’m King Marvownion, the third, exalted ruler of the Kingdom of Marvellous Marmosets.’

  ‘All – kneel,’ Sir Mecks droned.

  ‘We can’t kneel, you metal-headed mushroom!’ Ruby snapped. ‘We’re tied to trees.’

  The Queen broke into a fit of hysterical giggling.

  King Marvownion shooed Sir Mecks into the crowd and resumed his introductions.

  ‘Miserable maggots of the forest floor, I present to you the royal family: Queen Marmalade, Prince Marcabio and Princess Mayenya.’

  The crowd cheered. The Queen gave the prisoners a royal wave with her paw and the children pulled ridiculous faces.

  King Marvownion moved to the crowd. ‘From our royal court, may I introduce Sir Mecks of the toadstool table and the unfathomable Jester Mimp.’

  Mimp jiggled his bells and hopped on one foot singing, ‘Mimp bimp tinkerty dink.’

  Sir Mecks shut the metal visor on his helmet and did his best to ignore everyone.

  The King proceeded to introduce the rest of the tribe: ‘This is Mary, Mackie, Maggie, Maddie, Mandy, Mindy, Maisie, Manny, Marvin, Martin, Michael …’

  ‘That will do, my dear,’ Queen Marmalade interrupted. ‘You can’t expect our prisoners to remember everyone’s names. Why don’t you skip to the execution bit?’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ the King said, rubbing his paws together. ‘What shall it be today? Hmm … how about a … beheading.’

  ‘A BEHEADING!’ gasped the Pie Rats.

  ‘Boo,’ chorused the crowd.

  ‘Boring,’ muttered the Prince.

  The King’s crown sagged further over his face.

  ‘Don’t take it personally, my dear,’ the Queen said, gently patting his shoulder. ‘We had a beheading last week. What about some variety? I’m partial to a hanging myself. It takes twice as long and the squirming is so entertaining.’

  ‘A HANGING!’ cheered the monkeys. ‘We want a hanging!’

  ‘FREEDOM,’ pleaded the Pie Rats. ‘Please let us go.’

  The Prince and Princess both folded their arms and frowned.

  ‘No one ever asks what I want,’ Prince Marcabio complained.

  ‘Me neither,’ Princess Mayenya added.

  ‘So what do you want?’ Horace shouted over the noise, ‘A royal pardon?’

  ‘I want what daddy dearest wants,’ the Princess replied, grinning angelically at her father.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Horace groaned. ‘We’re back to the beheading …’

  ‘Due-Esda!’ Marcabio cried.

  The cheering stopped. The entire tribe froze. Only Mimp’s tiny bells rang through the silent forest. Whisker held his breath and stared expectantly at the Prince, hoping Due-Esda was Mimp’s gibberish for a swift release.

  ‘Great gardens of garlic!’ the King exclaimed. ‘What a smashingly stupendous idea.’

  ‘Due-Esda!’ cheered the ecstatic crowd. ‘Due-Esda! Due-Esda!’

  ‘Err, what is Due-Esda?’ Whisker whispered to the Captain.

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea,’ the Captain said, dumbfounded.

  Ruby shrugged. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It sounds sinister,’ Horace moaned.

  ‘Ask M-M-Mr Tribble?’ Eaton stuttered.

  The captives’ eyes turned to Mr Tribble.

  ‘Ooh my!’ he gasped. ‘I’m not sure you want to hear this, but Due-Esda is an ancient ball game played by two teams of five players. It uses a hard rubber ball and is commonly known by a different name …’

  Whisker’s tail went icy cold. He knew the sport. He knew the name. They all did. It was the most brutal, barbaric and bloodthirsty ball game ever invented.

  ‘Fellow prisoners,’ Mr Tribble gulped, ‘are you ready for a match of Death Ball?’

  Death Ball

  Death Ball, as its name suggests, involves death and a ball. In its modern form, the losing team receives a certificate of participation and a box of bandages. In its ancient form, losers were beheaded, burnt at the stake or exterminated using any method in vogue at the time.

  ‘Pathetic prisoners,’ the King cried excitedly. ‘I hereby challenge you to a match of Due-Esda, the ancient game of death.’

  ‘Death Ball, Death Ball, Death Ball to the death!’ chanted the crowd.

  The King continued, ‘If you are victorious, you will be released into the wild jungle. If you are defeated, you will be hanged and beheaded.’

  ‘A double execution!’ roared the crowd. ‘Our King is a genius!’

  The Pie Rats looked at each other with a mixture of dread and bewilderment.

  ‘We’re in with a chance,’ Horace said optimistically. ‘Death Ball is a popular Pie Rat pastime, not a jungle sport.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Horace,’ Mr Tribble said gravely. ‘The rubber ball is made from latex sap from the Castilla elastica tree – a tree found in this very jungle. Historians believe that monkeys invented Death Ball. They’ve played it for centuries.’

  Horace turned pale.

  ‘Ah, excuse me, your royal hind leg,’ he piped, trying to grab the King’s attention, ‘but what if we refuse your challenge?’

  ‘What, what?’ The King spluttered, sticking his finger in his ear. ‘Did somebody say something? Goodness gracious. Speak up, whoever you are.’

  Horace repeated himself in a loud voice. ‘I SAID, WHAT IF WE REFUSE YOUR CHALLENGE?’

  The crowd gasped. Queen Marmalade giggled awkwardly. ‘What a silly little rat. No one refuses the King.’

  King Marvownion strode over to Horace and pointed a sap-covered finger at him.

  ‘Listen up, rude little rat. If you refuse my challenge, I’ll skip the ball part of the game and jump straight to the death.’

  ‘Th-that won’t be necessary,’ Horace squeaked. ‘I-I was just checking …’

  ‘We accept your challenge,’ the Captain said, before Horace could make things worse.

  The crowd cheered and threw their paws in the air like their team had already won.

  ‘Gobsmackingly good news,’ the King said, licking his lips. ‘Cut them down, Sir Mecks – but keep their pickpocketing paws tied behind their backs.’

  The Pie Rats were roughly released from the trees and staggered into the centre of the clearing. The monkeys formed a tight circle around the perimeter to prevent them escaping. Long sticks were suspended between two trees at either end of the clearing to form goals and a hard rubber ball was brought forward and placed in a circle of dirt.

  ‘So, who’s played before?’ the Captain whispered to his crew.

  Horace and Ruby nodded. Mr Tribble and Eaton shook their heads.

  ‘Death Ball is not an approved school sport,’ Mr Tribble clarified.

  ‘What about you, Whisker?’ the Captain asked. ‘Did the circus have an amateur team?’

  ‘We, err … played a couple of times in the big top,’ Whisker replied hesitantly. ‘But it was touch, not tackle.’

  ‘Touch Ball!’ Horace exclaimed. ‘That disgraceful game should be outlawed. You’re playing in the big league now. It’s rough and tumble with the big boys.’

  ‘And girls!’ Ruby snapped. ‘Just because your precious sisters never played …’

  ‘Ruby, please,’ the Captain broke in. ‘We’re on the same team, remember? Save your aggression for the game – preferably for tackling the opposition.’

  Ruby scowled. ‘I hope that spoilt little Princess is playing. She won’t stop staring at my eye patch.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ the Captain smiled. ‘A couple of good grapple tackles should rattle their game plan.’

  Whisker felt ill. He’d escaped plenty of fights before, but it appeared he was stepping into the middle of a full-blown brawl. His tail began to tremble.

  ‘First game jitters,’ Horace whispered. ‘We all get them. Don’t worry, with a few matches under your belt, you’ll be a pro. Death Ball is a Pirate Cup sport, so consider this game a training run for the big event.’
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  Whisker thought playing for his life was the big event.

  ‘What about positions?’ the Captain asked. ‘We need a striker, a goal keeper, a centre, two wingers and a reserve. I believe our most dynamic player is Ruby. So I nominate her for centre.’

  Ruby nodded. No one protested.

  The Captain continued, ‘On the wing, we require speed and agility, but not necessarily size. Horace and Eaton would be ideal candidates.’

  Horace nodded his acceptance. Eaton rolled into a ball and let out a pained squeak.

  ‘Eaton’s not the sporty type,’ Mr Tribble confessed. ‘And neither am I, for that matter. Perhaps we could interchange as required?’

  The Captain let out a long sigh. ‘Very well. But we still need a striker and a goal keeper.’

  ‘You’re the best striker in the crew, Uncle,’ Ruby pointed out, ‘and seeing as Fred’s not here, Whisker would make an effective keeper with his, err … active tail.’

  Whisker knew Ruby was paying him a compliment, so he responded with a half-smile.

  ‘All agreed,’ the Captain said. ‘We have a team.’

  ‘What about Smudge?’ Horace gasped. ‘We’ve totally forgotten about Smudge. He must still be in the pot.’

  Horace rushed over to the pottery pot and tried to remove the lid with his toes. In the process, he knocked the vessel over and it shattered on the ground. Smudge clambered out of the rubble in a terrible rage and flew straight at Horace’s shirt.

  ‘Ouch! Aarh!’ Horace cried. ‘It hurts! It tickles! Stop it, Smudge. It wasn’t me. The monkeys did it.’

  Smudge leapt out of Horace’s shirt and zoomed towards the nearest monkey.

  ‘Smudge, no!’ the Captain bellowed. ‘Come back here before you’re squashed like a slug.’

  Reluctantly, Smudge flew back to the Pie Rats and angrily perched on the rubber ball.

  ‘Listen, Smudge,’ Horace whispered. ‘Are you strong enough to lift this ball?’

  Smudge gripped the ball with six limbs and furiously beat his wings. The ball didn’t budge. The buzz of wings grew louder as Smudge tried harder but the ball remained motionless. Monkeys began to point and laugh.