The Tale of Despereaux (17 page)

“Ho-hee. Because a mouse is not a king’s man here to punish me for making soup. That is why. Because a mouse is not a king’s man here to take me to the dungeon for owning a spoon. Ho-hee. A mouse. I, Cook, am glad to see a mouse.”

Cook’s face was red and her stomach was shaking. “Ho-hee,” she said again. “And not just any mouse. A mouse with a needle tied around his waist, a mouse with no tail. Ain’t it lovely? Ho-hee.” She shook her head and wiped at her eyes. “Look, mouse, these are extraordinary times. And because of that, we must have some peace between us. I will not ask what you are doing in my kitchen. And you, in return, will tell no one what I am cooking.”

She turned then and went back to the stove and set down the candle and picked up the spoon and again put it in the pot of soup and took it back out and tasted the soup, smacking her lips together.

“Not right,” she said, “not quite right. Missing something, still.”

Despereaux did not move. He could not move. He was paralyzed by fear. He sat on the kitchen floor. One small tear fell out of his left eye. He had expected Cook to kill him.

Instead, reader, she had laughed at him.

And he was surprised how much her laughter hurt.

COOK STIRRED THE SOUP and then put the spoon down and held up the candle and looked over at Despereaux.

“What are you waiting for?” she said. “Go, go, go. There will never be another opportunity for a mouse to escape from my kitchen unharmed.”

The smell of soup again wafted in Despereaux’s direction. He put his nose up in the air. His whiskers trembled.

“Yes,” said Cook. “That is soup that you are smelling. The princess, not that you would know or care, is missing, bless her goodhearted self. And times are terrible. And when times are terrible, soup is the answer. Don’t it smell like the answer?”

“Yes,” said Despereaux. He nodded.

Cook turned away from him. She put the candle down and picked up her spoon and started to stir. “Oh,” she said, “these are dark days.” She shook her head. “And I’m kidding myself. There ain’t no point in making soup unless others eat it. Soup needs another mouth to taste it, another heart to be warmed by it.”

She stopped stirring. She turned and looked at Despereaux.

“Mouse,” said Cook, “would you like some soup?” And then, without waiting for an answer, she took a saucer and spooned some soup into it and set it on the kitchen floor.

“Come closer,” she said. “I don’t aim to hurt you. I promise.”

Despereaux sniffed. The soup smelled wonderful, incredible. Keeping one eye on Cook, he stepped out from behind the spool of thread and crept closer.

“Go on,” said Cook, “taste it.”

Despereaux stepped onto the saucer. Soup covered his paws. He bent his head to the hot broth. He sipped. Oh, it was lovely. Garlic and chicken and watercress, the same soup that Cook had made the day the queen died.

“How is it?” asked Cook anxiously.

“Wonderful,” said Despereaux.

“Too much garlic?” said Cook, wringing her fat hands.

“No,” said Despereaux. “It’s perfect.”

Cook smiled. “See?” she said. “There ain’t a body, be it mouse or man, that ain’t made better by a little soup.”

Despereaux bent his head and sipped again, and Cook stood over him and smiled, saying, “It don’t need a thing, then? Is that what you’re saying? It’s just right?”

Despereaux nodded.

He drank the soup in big, noisy gulps. And when he stepped out of the saucer, his paws were damp and his whiskers were dripping and his stomach was full.

Cook said to him, “Not done already, are you? Surely you ain’t done. You must want more.”

“I can’t,” said Despereaux. “I don’t have time. I’m on my way to the dungeon to save the princess.”

“Ho-hee.” Cook laughed. “You, a mouse, are going to save the princess?”

“Yes,” said Despereaux, “I’m on a quest.”

“Well, don’t let me stand in your way.”

And so it was that Cook held open the door to the dungeon while Despereaux rolled the spool of thread through it. “Good luck,” she said to him. “Ho-hee, good luck saving the princess.”

She closed the door behind her and then leaned against it and shook her head. “And if that ain’t an indicator of what strange days these are,” she said to herself, “then I don’t know what is. Me. Cook. Feeding a mouse soup and then wishing him good luck in saving the princess. Oh my. Strange days, indeed.”

DESPEREAUX STOOD at the top of the dungeon stairs and peered into the darkness that waited for him below.

“Oh,” he said, “oh my.”

He had forgotten how dark the dark of the dungeon could be. And he had forgotten, too, its terrible smell, the stench of rats, the odor of suffering.

But his heart was full of love for the princess and his stomach was full of Cook’s soup and Despereaux felt brave and strong. And so he began, immediately and without despair, the hard work of maneuvering the spool of thread down the narrow dungeon steps.

Down, down, down went Despereaux Tilling and the spool of thread. Slowly, oh so slowly, they went. And the passage was dark, dark, dark.

“I will tell myself a story,” said Despereaux. “I will make some light. Let’s see. It will begin this way: Once upon a time. Yes. Once upon a time, there was a mouse who was very, very small. Exceptionally small. And there was a beautiful human princess whose name was Pea. And it so happened that this mouse was the one who was selected by fate to serve the princess, to honor her, and to save her from the darkness of a terrible dungeon.”

This story cheered up Despereaux considerably. His eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and he moved down the stairs more quickly, more surely, whispering to himself the tale of a devious rat and a fat serving girl and a beautiful princess and a brave mouse and some soup and a spool of red thread. It was a story, in fact, very similar to the one you are reading right now, and the telling of it gave Despereaux strength.

He pushed the spool of thread with a great deal of gusto. And the thread, eager, perhaps, to begin its honorable task of aiding in the saving of a princess, leapt forward and away from the mouse and went down the dungeon stairs ahead of him, without him.

“No,” cried Despereaux, “no, no, no!” He broke into a trot, chasing the thread through the darkness.

But the spool had a head start. And it was faster. It flew down the dungeon stairs, leaving Despereaux far behind. When it came to the end of the stairs, it rolled and rolled, until finally, lazily, it came to a stop right at the gnarled paw of a rat.

“What have we here?” said the one-eared rat to the spool of thread.

“I will tell you what we have,” said Botticelli Remorso, answering his own question. “We have red thread. How delightful. Red thread means one thing to a rat.”

He put his nose up in the air. He sniffed. He sniffed again. “I smell . . . could it be? Yes, most definitely it is. Soup. How strange.” He sniffed some more. “And I smell tears. Human tears. Delightful. And I also detect the smell” — he put his nose high into the air and took a big whiff — “of flour and oil. Oh my, what a cornucopia of scents. But below it all, what do I smell? The blood of a mouse. Unmistakably, mouse blood, yes. Ha-ha-ha! Exactly! Mouse.”

Botticelli looked down at the spool of thread and smiled. He gave it a gentle push with one paw.

“Red thread. Yes. Exactly. Just when you think that life in the dungeon cannot get any better, a mouse arrives.”

DESPEREAUX STOOD TREMBLING on the steps. The thread was most definitely gone. He could not hear it. He could not see it. He should have tied it to himself when he had the chance. But it was too late now.

Despereaux’s dire situation suddenly became quite clear to him. He was a two-ounce mouse alone in a dark, twisting dungeon full of rats. He had nothing but a sewing needle with which to defend himself. He had to find a princess. And he had to save her once he found her.

“It’s impossible,” he said to the darkness. “I can’t do it.”

He stood very still. “I’ll go back,” he said. But he didn’t move. “I have to go back.” He took a step backward. “But I can’t go back. I don’t have a choice. I have no choice.”

He took one step forward. And then another.

“No choice,” his heart beat out to him as he went down the stairs, “no choice, no choice, no choice.”

At the bottom of the stairs, the rat Botticelli sat waiting, and when Despereaux stepped from the last stair onto the dungeon floor, Botticelli called out to him as if he were a long-lost friend. “Ah,” said Botticelli, “there you are. Exactly. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Despereaux saw the dark shape of a rat, that thing that he had feared and dreaded for so long, finally step out of the gloom and come to greet him.

“Welcome, welcome,” said Botticelli.

Despereaux put his paw on the needle.

“Ah,” said Botticelli, “you are armed. How charming.” He put his paws up in the air. “I surrender. Oh, yes, certainly, exactly, I surrender!”

“I . . .,” said Despereaux.

“Yes,” said Botticelli. “You.” He took the locket from around his neck. He began to swing it back and forth. “Please, go on.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Despereaux. “I just need to get by you. I . . . I am on a quest.”

“Really?” said Botticelli. “How extraordinary. A mouse on a quest.” Back and forth, back and forth went the locket. “A quest for what?”

“A quest to save the princess.”

“The princess,” said Botticelli, “the princess, the princess. Everything seems to be about the princess these days. The king’s men were down here searching for her, you know. They didn’t find her. That goes without saying. But now a mouse has arrived. And he is on a quest to save the princess.”

“Yes,” said Despereaux. He took a step to the left of Botticelli.

“How inspiring,” said Botticelli. He lazily took a step to his right, blocking Despereaux’s way. “Why the hurry, little friend?”

“Because,” said Despereaux, “I have to —”

“Yes. Yes. You have to save the princess. Exactly. But before you save her, you must find her. Correct?”

“Yes,” said Despereaux.

“What if,” said Botticelli, “what if I told you that I know exactly where the princess is? What if I told you that I could take you right directly to her?”