The Trophy of Champions (32 page)

The sudden release of tension on the rope of the Eagle sail catapulted him upwards. All he could do was hold on as his body was jerked high into the air and then began curving down in a sweeping arc towards the trophy room
.

The wind howled in his ears. The salty air stung his eyes. In the blur that surrounded him, he glimpsed the awakening figure of the Captain staring through a cabin window, he saw the rabbits raise their bewildered faces to the sky, and he felt the rope shake violently in his paws as the Eagle lost control in the wind.

Unable to maintain his grip, he began to fall.

For a moment he was bathed in a sea of purple light. Then he was tumbling through the open roof of the trophy room, clawing at crimson curtains and crashing onto a velvet covered pedestal.

With his head spinning and his eyes clouded with tears, he blindly threw himself forward, stretching out his rope-burned paws as six rifle-carrying rabbits stormed into the room.

They took one look at him, lying in the centre of the room and trained their sights on his twisted torso.

Not daring to breathe, Whisker waited for the purple projectiles to pepper his body, but the rabbits merely stared at him with bemused interest.

Exhaling in relief, Whisker looked down to see his fingers resting on a line of jewels at the base of an enormous gold trophy. The metal was warm, the jewels smooth under his grazed skin.

‘Nice touch,' said one of the rabbits, lowering his rifle. ‘It's yours for the keeping, you know. That little stunt just won you the championship.'

Whisker wiped his eyes with the back of his paw and looked up at the glittering object. Violet flames danced over the sides of its ornate rim, each tongue of fire reflected in the edges of two crossed torches and an engraved skull.

It was truly magnificent. It was breathtaking. And, best of all, it was his.

Deep down inside, he knew what the future held for the coveted cup, but right now, all he wanted to do was bask in its glory. It was a trophy made for champions and he was a champion. He had outwitted the rabbits and conquered the cats. And he had done it in true Pie Rat style – he had won by a whisker.

Through the open door of the trophy room, Whisker could see the orange glow of a signal flare rising into the dusk sky. The Cat Fish had reached the beach first but there could only be one winner
.

They can have their Sea Race,
he told himself,
I've got the Trophy of Champions.

The Trophy of Champions

The next thirty minutes of Whisker's life were nothing short of surreal.

The flaming trophy was carried onto the
Apple Pie,
where Horace smothered it in wet, slobbery kisses. Fred began a celebratory rendition of the Pie Rats' battle cry:
‘We are the dreaded Pie Rats and we are the cham-pie-ons,'
while Smudge buzzed along with his wings.

As promised, Pete awarded Whisker a pass on his sailing test (although the word
unconventional
was used repeatedly in the announcement).

In the midst of the excitement, Ruby helped the dazed Captain onto the deck and tried to explain
what in Ratbeard's name was going on.

The rabbits, heartbroken to learn their beautiful bunnies were simply dolled-up billboards in expensive clothing, used a lantern to signal the news of the Stealth Raid to the island.

Whisker wished he could have seen the look on Sabre's face the moment the message arrived, but by the time the Pie Rats pulled their rowboat onto the sandy beach, the Cat Fish had finished any protesting and were nowhere in sight.

It seemed that every other animal on the island wanted to join in the victory celebrations, and the entire shore was teeming with Sea-Dog-turned-Cat-Fish-turned-Pie-Rat supporters, cheering and clapping and stomping their feet.

‘Well done,
Whisker,'
Granny Rat applauded, using his real name for the first time. ‘My husband was right. You're not such a spineless worm after all.'

‘Yes, yes,' the Hermit gabbled. ‘No worms here.'

‘Thanks, Coach,' Whisker said, smiling politely as his tail writhed like a worm behind him.

Papa Niko and Mama Kolina began offering their congratulations, but were cut short by a loud squawk from Chatterbeak, calling everyone to attention. When the crowd was silent, Baron Gustave commenced his official closing speech. After a few token words, he presented the Pie Rats with three chests of gold and six gold medals engraved with the words
25
th
Pirate Cup Champions.

‘Argh me pastries, these things are heavy!' Horace exclaimed as Gustave placed the medal around his neck.

‘What did you expect?' Hera muttered from the crowd. ‘They're made from gold, not sea sponges …'

‘That's true,' Athena added, tipping her glasses for a better look. ‘Although sea sponges can be extremely heavy when they're holding water.'

‘Put a sock in it, Miss Science,' Aphrodite snorted. ‘Whoever heard of anyone wearing a wet sea sponge? They're so unflattering!'

‘Here we go again,' Horace groaned to Whisker. ‘Even world champions have to deal with annoying family members. Next they'll be wanting to wear our medals.'

‘Oh, yeah, sure …' Whisker responded half-heartedly.

At the mention of the word
family
, his attention had shifted from the ceremony to the daunting task that still lay ahead. His medal could have been made out of tin and worn by every member of the Cat Fish crew for all he cared. All that mattered was finding his family. But that required the trophy, and smuggling the priceless object off the island seemed almost as hard as winning it in the first place.

The moment Chatterbeak extinguished the trophy's purple flames, a swarm of star-struck spectators flocked to have their portraits drawn with it. Some held the trophy aloft like they were the champions. Others (like Horace's sisters) wrapped their arms around the glorious object and refused to let go.

Whisker watched patiently from the shadows – a thief in the night, his eyes never leaving the trophy.

As darkness set in, small campfires were lit around the island. Most were quickly abandoned in favour of the roaring bonfire in the centre of a jungle clearing.

In contrast to Whisker's pensive mood, the Pie Rats were the happiest they had been in a long, long time. Pete danced with Athena around the fire, twirling on his pencil leg, while Granny Rat and the Hermit skipped youthfully behind them. Horace, Papa Niko and Fred relived their Death Ball victory with the help of a small coconut and two palm trees. The Captain swapped tales with his fellow captains King Marvownion, Baron Gustave and the entire penguin crew (who all claimed to be captain of the
Arctic Wind
). Athena and Hera wore Horace's and Fred's medals and posed for a sketch artist, while Mama Kolina stirred a large pot of soup in the coals of the fire. Above her, Smudge perched on the tip of a palm frond, taking in the glorious spectacle.

Further from the clearing, Whisker heard the rambling chorus of a sea shanty as Rat Bait rolled a large barrel through the bushes.

That left Ruby.

Whisker didn't have to wait long to find out where she was.

‘Howdy, stranger,' came an abrupt voice from behind him.

Taken by surprise, Whisker spun around to see Ruby standing a few feet away.

‘H-hi,' he squeaked.

‘Everything alright?' she asked suspiciously.

‘Oh – yeah,' Whisker gabbled. ‘Everything's … fine.'

Ruby took a step towards him, clearly unconvinced.

‘Look, Whisker,' she began, ‘I don't know what's been going on lately, but you said you had something important to tell me on the ship. If you still want to talk, I'm all ears.'

Whisker's bottom lip quivered. Of course he wanted to talk. He wanted to free himself from the lie and tell Ruby everything: his encounter with the fox; the secret deal; his plan to steal the trophy.

But he couldn't.

Not now. Not with the trophy in his possession, not with his family's life at stake. And definitely not with two dozen furry ears listening to every word he said. As a member of the winning team, he was bound to attract some form of attention, but he couldn't shake the sick feeling that any one of the weasels, ferrets or meerkats skulking around the bonfire could be spying for the fox.

It was a risk he wasn't prepared to take. The fox had demanded secrecy and Whisker knew he had to hold his tongue.

He stood there like a statue without uttering a word.

‘So we're back to the silent treatment, are we?' Ruby asked after a long, awkward pause.

Fighting hard to avoid Ruby's piercing stare, Whisker pretended to be distracted by Rat Bait. The jolly sailor was pushing his barrel into the clearing and singing loudly:

A barrel full of berry juice, sour as a plum.

Yo ho, ho and the night be young!

A toast from the trophy be my idea o' fun.

Yo ho, ho and the night be young!

When Rat Bait reached the foot of the enormous cup, he turned the barrel on its end and clambered up.

‘Well I'll be a chimney sweep!' he exclaimed, peering over the broad rim of the trophy. ‘There's more ash in this wee vessel than a blacksmith's fireplace!' He held up a soot-covered finger. ‘I don't suppose anyone's got a scrubbin' brush?'

Whisker's tail twinged. This was the invitation he'd been waiting for.

Without hesitation, he leapt out of the shadows.

‘I'll clean it for you, Rat Bait,' he piped. Then not wanting to sound overly enthusiastic in front of Ruby, he added, ‘I mean, it wouldn't be right to have an ash-tainted victory toast.'

‘That be mighty kind o' you, Master Whisker,' Rat Bait said. ‘But no one expects the tournament champion to be gettin' his paws dirty on celebration night.'

‘It's fine, honestly,' Whisker said, scrambling over to the trophy. ‘I'm not really much of a celebrator.' He could feel Ruby's eye boring a hole in his back, but resisted the urge to turn around and explain himself. As much as it pained him to leave things on a sour note, he knew there was no other option. Ruby could see straight through him. A single word would give his intentions away.

He heard a frustrated ‘Hmph' as Ruby finally ran out of patience and stomped off to join the Death Ball re-enactment.

Whisker climbed up beside Rat Bait.

‘If you ask me,' he said, peering at the blackened insides of the cup, ‘a dash of salt water is the key. The beach isn't far from here and I can use the sand as an abrasive cleaner.'

Rat Bait looked hesitant.

‘Don't worry,' Whisker reassured him, ‘I've had plenty of experience scrubbing pots in the galley, and I'll have the trophy back to you before you've even popped the cork.'

‘Oh, all right,' Rat Bait conceded, climbing down from the barrel. ‘Yer a trustworthy lad an' charcoal-flavoured berry juice is hardly me drink o' choice.'