How to Save Your Tail (2 page)

Jack was harmless enough, but let’s face it—he did
not
possess a quick mind, a strong will, or any sense of adventure whatsoever. In fact, Jack never thought to wake up, get dressed, or eat breakfast until his mother suggested it.

Once, while lurking below the cottage floor, Sherman heard the widow talking to her son.

“Now, listen, Jack. The cupboards are bare and we’re out of grocery money. Our clothes have holes and we’re out of mending thread. We have a rat—I think—and we’re out of poison. There is only one thing to do.”

“Eat the rat?”

Sherman shivered.

“No, you numbnoggin,” scolded the widow. “You must take the cow to market and sell her. Oh, and on the way, stop at your auntie Lou’s house and give her this bread. She’s feeling poorly.”

“But I thought we were out of food,” said Jack.

“Don’t worry,” said the widow. “It’s moldy.”

Moldy bread?
Sherman’s ears pricked up. Green, fuzzy, moldy bread was his absolute favorite—except for cookies.

Sherman scrabbled up through a hole in the floor and into the bread basket. Jack did not notice, and neither did his mother. They were both busy fussing with Jack’s little red cape.

“Now, remember, Jack, stay on the path and
never wander off it even an inch—for that way lie bad, scary, awful, terrible, nasty things.”

Jack promised to obey. He took up the basket, tied a rope to the cow, and started on his way.

Sherman bounced along in the basket, nibbling at the moldy loaf, and thanked his lucky fleas for the chance of adventure, which he loved more than anything—except cookies.

They had not gone far when Jack, steadfast on the path, bumped into something. He fell down, dropped his basket, and lost his cow.

Sherman tumbled out into the grass, looked up, and blinked. Above him towered an enormous, stupendous, humongous, very tall beanstalk. His nose quivered. Coming from somewhere, Sherman was not sure where, was the smell of … cookies. Fresh, warm, just-out-of-the-oven cookies.
Hot chocolaty-chips!
thought Sherman.

“Gosh,” said Jack, for he too noticed the beanstalk. Then he gathered up the bread and basket and started back on his path, looking for his cow.

Sherman was stunned.

“Jack!”
he cried.
“How can you …? Why don’t we …? Don’t you want to …?”

But Jack trudged on, calling his cow.

Sherman, on the other paw, jumped onto the closest beanstalk leaf and started climbing. In the first place, as you will remember, there was nothing he loved more than adventure—except cookies, of course. In the second place, as you have probably guessed, he was now 100 percent sure the cookie smell was coming from the top of the beanstalk.

It was a long climb, but there were yummy bean blossoms along the way, not to mention a spectacular view. At last, he reached the tip-top of the beanstalk, stepped onto an oh-so-cushy cloud, and saw an immense castle. The smell of cookies was everywhere.

An oven timer pinged.

Sherman made a beeline for the castle and climbed in through a window. He pointed his nose in the direction of the cookie smell and dashed toward it, down a long, shiny hall, past the parlor, and into the kitchen.

There they were, in giant jars, on ponderous plates, and cooling on colossal cookie racks—hundreds and hundreds of monstrous, magnificent, mouthwatering cookies. Sherman looked everywhere, beneath chairs, atop counters, inside cupboards, and behind the door. He saw no one. Not a single soul. So he dove into the nearest platter to fill his belly with chocolate chips and crispy crumbs.

He was still stuffing his cheeks when the cook came in with a wild look on her round, red face.

“There you are!” she bellowed.

The jig is up
, thought Sherman.
I’m rat-meat
. He squeezed behind the breadbox.

But the cook wasn’t talking to Sherman. She reached, instead, for a spoon.

“Spoon!” she said, placing it in a bowl,

Then, in a blink of an eye and a twitch of a tail, the spoon measured, mixed, and baked a batch of giant cookies out of
nothing at all
.

Sherman went dizzy with wonder.

The smell of a new batch brought something dreadful to the kitchen—something no rat should ever see, not even in his worst nightmare. The thing stood on its hulking hind legs in the middle of the room. It was covered with coarse black fur, and a jagged scar marked its cheek from one ragged ear to its grizzled snout-whiskers. A bad overbite revealed sharp, greenish, unbrushed fangs, and it was as big
as a whale. It was a giant, yes. But worse, it was a cat … in boots.

The frightful feline scooped up a pawful of cookies with his claws, shoved them into his mouth, and sniffed the air.

Before Sherman could wiggle a whisker, the overgrown cat reached behind the breadbox and snatched him by the tail.

“He’ll make a tasty tidbit, don’t you think, Cook?”

“Ah, yes. We’ll skin him, roast him, and set him atop your parsnips with a sprig of parsley.”

The giant drooled and dropped Sherman into the cook’s hands. Then he grabbed another dozen cookies and stomped out of the kitchen.

The cook opened the pantry door and plunked Sherman into a roomful of darkness. The door slammed, and the rat was alone.

Or so he thought.

“G-g-greetings.”

“Who’s there?” asked Sherman.

“Just me, Justine.”

“Well, Justine,” said Sherman, “nice to meet you. Name’s Sherman. Is he going to eat you too?”

“I th-th-think so,” sniffled Justine. Then she grunted. “Oh dear. Not an-n-n-nother one!”

Suddenly, something shone in the darkness. Something golden.

Sherman blinked. It looked like an egg. He scrabbled over to it.

“Wow!”

“P-please don’t tell anyone,” begged Justine.

Sherman looked at her in the glow of the egg. Justine was a goose.

“Why not?” he asked.

“It’s not a p-p-proper egg, is it?”

“But it’s made of gold!” said Sherman.

“Solid gold!” wailed Justine. “Nothing ever hatches! And they’re heavy. I can’t do a thing with them.”

“Them?”

Justine waddled over to a heap of empty flour sacks. She took a corner of one in her bill and waddled backward. The sack slid off something glimmery. She continued to pull sack after sack away, uncovering a huge pile of golden eggs. Then she wagged her head and gaggled forth a flood of tears.

“I’m so emb-b-barrassed!”

“Don’t worry,” soothed Sherman. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Too late. The door creaked open and the cook came in with her axe.

Sherman and Justine froze.

So did the cook—dropping the axe on her own toe. And though her toe was chopped off and her best shoes were ruined, she stood stone still, dazzled silly by the golden eggs.

“Go!”
said Sherman, and they did. With skittering feet and flapping wings, the rat and the goose gave the cook the slip.

But just at the kitchen door, Sherman remembered something.

“Stop!”
he shouted, and they did. Then Sherman climbed the table leg and came back down with the spoon in his mouth. It was three times bigger than Sherman, but a rat can do amazing things for the right reason.

Off they raced again—out of the kitchen, past the parlor, and down the hall.

BAM! BAM! BAM!
The cat giant pounded out of the parlor door. He snorted and roared and hissed and before you could say “Fee fi,” he was at Sherman’s heels.

“Lay an egg!”
said Sherman, through clenched teeth and magic spoon, and Justine did.

The egg dropped to the ground, rolled under the giant’s massive boots, and sent him crashing to the floor.

Justine flew low, and Sherman jumped on her back. They flapped out the window and made a gooseline for the beanstalk. Sherman showed Justine the way down. They could just begin to see the path below when they heard the giant smash through the castle door.

Sherman dropped the spoon and cried,
“Jump!”
And they did.

With the rat hanging tight to Justine’s neck, they flapped and plummeted and landed on a haystack.

When Sherman looked up, he could see the mammoth cat climbing down through the clouds.

Sherman thought fast. Then he chewed—right through the beanstalk.

BOOM!
The giant fell to the earth, dead as dirt.

At that moment, Jack trudged out of the woods, head down, eyes on the path.

“Why so sad?” asked Sherman.

“Lost my cow,” said Jack.

“Here,” said Sherman. “Have a goose.” He winked at Justine and whispered, “Don’t worry. Jack won’t mind about the eggs.”

Then Sherman scurried off to find his magic spoon.

And the cow.

After all, what good are cookies without milk?

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