The Island of Destiny (9 page)

‘Pastry?' Houston exclaimed. ‘No one said anything about pastry.'

‘Really?' Whisker said in surprise. ‘I'm sure I mentioned pastry. It's practically all I think about. I love pastry so much I built the entire hull of my ship out of the stuff. It's no wonder the giant eel attacked us. Pastry is to die for! It has the flavour of buttery toast and the crunch of snail shells, without the gritty bits.'

Drool dribbled from the sides of Houston's beak.

‘I do hope my ship is alright,' Whisker continued. ‘We lost dozens of pastry sheets on the rocks. Most of them washed up on the beach. I suspect the hermit crabs will make their own seaweed pies when the sun comes up …'

‘Hermit crabs!' Houston exclaimed. ‘I hate hermit crabs more than I hate the Hermit. Those sneaky cheats are always hiding in their shells and I can never get them out.'

‘How terribly selfish of them!' Whisker cried in outrage. ‘It would be such an injustice if they got
all
the pastry. I'm more than happy to pitch in and steal a couple of sheets for you – one for the top and one for the bottom. To quote a famous pastry chef:
the provider of the pastry gets the biggest slice of pie.
'

Houston sucked up his drool.

‘I'll be the one toooo retrieve the pastry,' he said, stretching his wings. ‘That humungous slice of pie is mine.'

He released his grip on Whisker and, with a hoot, he was gone.

Without an owl in sight, Whisker clapped his paws together and stared triumphantly up at the stars.

He couldn't help but start a little victory rhyme:

Twinkle twinkle little star,

rats are wiser, yes we are!

Up above a tree so high,

owls won't put me in rat pie.

Twinkle twinkle little star,

rats are smarter, yes we are!

He finished his tune and lazily sat up.

‘Now for the escape,' he said, chuckling to himself. ‘Piece of cake … or should I say
piece of pie.'

He stuck his head out the top of the nest – and gasped. For the first time he saw exactly where he was. He wasn't at the top of a pine tree as he had thought; he was on a ledge, halfway up an enormous cliff. The huge rocks of the cliff face were as smooth as glass. There was no way up and no way down.

Whisker pounded his fists on the nest, in confounded frustration. He'd been the fool all along.

Pride comes before a …

The faint glow spread across the eastern sky. On any average day, Whisker would have marvelled at the changing hues of the heavens and stared dreamily at the orange-rimmed clouds of a world waking from its slumber. Dawn made him feel alive, invigorated. But today, the prospect of a glorious sunrise brought him no comfort. He was stuck on a cliff, about to become the main ingredient in a dish he'd foolishly orchestrated. Not even the warm rays of sunlight could thaw his icy disposition.

He crawled out of the nest and shuffled to the edge of the rocky ledge. The wind roared up the side of the cliff from the pine forest far below. Whisker knew he was too high to even consider jumping.

Accepting defeat, he retreated from the edge and gave the nest several hard kicks in anger. It was tightly woven but extremely light and slid across the rock with every kick, the wind buffeting its outer twigs as it moved closer to the edge. Whisker had a sudden urge to kick the nest straight over the side of the cliff.

Serves them right,
he thought vindictively.
They'll have to build a new nest out of rat pie.

He gave the nest several more kicks, imagining the three owls were sitting in a soggy pool of gravy while their soft nest blew away in the wind …
of course!

Whisker stopped himself mid-kick. Suddenly the nest had a whole new purpose. He grabbed the closest twigs with both paws and yanked the circular object away from the edge.

Perfect size,
he thought, examining it closely.
But it needs a slight modification.

He squatted down next to the nest and gripped its underside with his fingers. Using the strength of his legs, he slowly stood up, lifting the sides higher and higher into the air until the entire nest was standing upright.

Whisker gave it one last push and the nest dropped upside-down onto the ledge. Wasting no time, he squeezed his body into the hollow cavity at its centre. The nest arched over his head like an igloo, or, as Whisker imagined, a makeshift parachute.

After checking the map and his sword were secure in his belt, he gripped the inner sides of the nest with his paws and wrapped his tail around the twigs behind him. One step at a time, he began dragging it towards the edge.

He felt a gust of wind as the front of the nest slid over the side of the rock. His tail trembled in anticipation and his legs stopped moving as panic set in – he had to be sure he was making the right move. Once he stepped off the cliff, there was no going back.

A distant hoot gave Whisker the motivation he needed. With a jolt of panic, he took the leap of his life and threw himself over the edge.

Like a turtle tumbling through a tornado, Whisker and his shell of sticks plummeted down. The icy wind blasted his face and stung his eyes. Helplessly, he struggled to hold on as the nest flapped from side to side and began to spin. He dug his toes into the nest to steady himself, but he was dropping too fast.

Suddenly, the tops of the tallest pine trees were everywhere and the ground was rushing towards him. Pine needles brushed his tail. He saw a branch in his path and leapt free, wrapping his arms around a prickly pinecone.

The branch bent under his weight, dragging Whisker down. He held on with all his might as the branch sprang up, vibrating back and forth like the string of a harp before finally quivering to a stop.

Nervously, he loosened his grip and looked down. He was only metres from the ground. The nest lay in tatters below him.

‘Perfect landing,' he muttered. ‘One day I'll get an easy escape.'

He carefully lowered himself from branch to branch and dropped onto a thick bed of pine needles. Relieved to be on solid ground, he looked up at the monstrous cliff, towering high above him. Silhouetted against the pale blue of the dawn sky he saw three owls, flying in a line. The first carried an onion in its claws, the second clutched a small barrel of gravy and the third hauled two broken deck boards.

Crunchy onion pie for breakfast –
, Whisker mused. He stopped himself short.
I've already had my own slice of humble pie.

Sighing to himself, he tightened his belt and set off in the direction of the rising sun.

Somewhere in the middle of the dense forest, Whisker heard a croaky
‘HOOT HOOT,'
followed by the overpowering aroma of onion.

He drew his sword and crept forward. The owls had either choked on a piece of onion pie and were out for revenge or an imposter was lurking in the woods.

‘Hermit said it was Whisker,' laughed a familiar voice above him.

Whisker looked up. The Hermit and the Captain were sitting on a branch of a tree, clutching small pinecones in each paw like two cheeky children waiting to attack.

Whisker gave them a wave with his sword and the Captain lowered his pinecones.

‘You win, Hermit,' the Captain said begrudgingly. ‘It's Whisker alright. But I'm certain I smelt owls.'

The Hermit pointed to a feather sticking out of Whisker's shirt.

‘That would explain the fowl smell,' the Captain joked. ‘Fell into a pile of feathers did we?'

‘My evening wasn't exactly a hoot …' Whisker replied evasively.

‘Well, it's good to find you safe and sound,' the Captain said warmly. ‘We were beginning to get a little worried. There are all sorts of nasty creatures out here.' He glanced around warily. ‘Owls and scorpions are just the beginning … I'd hate to think what would have happened if any of them had caught you.'

‘L-lucky me, eh?' Whisker stammered, deciding to leave it at that. Being captured by scorpions and owls on one night wasn't exactly bragging material.

‘Hermit takes Whisker to his rowboat now,' the Hermit said, climbing down from the tree. ‘Vessel hidden in dunes.' He threw Whisker a ripe pinecone. ‘Whisker hungry, yes, yes?'

‘Yeah, thanks,' Whisker replied. ‘I'm famished from …err, getting lost – and stuff.'

He hurriedly picked the small nuts from the pinecone and stuffed them into his mouth. At least with his mouth full he couldn't say anything incriminating.

While the Captain collected several more pinecones for their breakfast, the Hermit casually wandered over to Whisker. He glanced at Whisker's torn shorts and grinned.

‘Whisker fell into bramble bush and pile of feathers, did he?'

Whisker stared back at him with bulging cheeks. ‘Mmm- hmm.'

The Hermit gave Whisker a sly look that said
your secret is safe with me
and gestured for Whisker to follow him through the trees. Whisker stuck to the Hermit like a piece of gum clinging to the sole of a shoe. There was no way he was losing sight of him a second time.

The three rats reached a rocky lookout on the outskirts of the forest. The wind, for once, was surprisingly calm. Whisker stood and admired the striking panorama around him. The Rock of Hope lay to the south-east, the waves gently lapping its smooth base – the tide was fully in. Beyond the sandy shore, the curving cliffs of the island surrounded the peaceful lagoon. It was a stark contrast to the Treacherous Sea Whisker had experienced two days ago. The black shapes of the rocks dotted the still, turquoise water like chess pieces on a glassy board.

Whisker caught a glimpse of something silver disappear behind a distant island.

‘Down! Now!' the Hermit hissed, pulling Whisker to the ground.

Whisker hit the earth with a hard
THUD
and the Captain dropped beside him. Even with his nose squashed into the dirt, Whisker could see enough to know what was out there. A slender ship appeared in the middle of the lagoon, its silver hull shimmering in the sunshine. Its three square sails flapped gently in the breeze, each emblazoned with a fish skeleton. The ship was too distant for Whisker to identify its crew, but he'd seen that dreaded vessel often enough to know that six of his least favourite felines were onboard.

‘Not the rescue party we were hoping for,' the Captain muttered.

Whisker didn't respond. He simply watched in growing dread as the armour-plated vessel of the Cat Fish, the
Silver Sardine,
sailed through the tight passage into the centre of the lagoon.

On the Prowl

The Owl and the Pussy Cat
was Whisker's least favourite nursery rhyme. After narrowly escaping from owls, he was not looking forward to adding pussy cats to the mix.

The Captain was equally unimpressed.

‘Infuriating Cat Fish,' he growled. ‘Why do they get the easy run? Fine weather, high tide and not an eel in sight.'