Tark and Zyra wheeled their treasure trolley through the ankle-deep, foul smelling sludge. The darkness of the sewage tunnels was oppressive, but not complete. The rounded walls were dripping in phosphorescent green slime. Rats scurried about in the sludge and sat on stone ledges that dotted the walls.
Tark and Zyra walked for ages in silence — around bends, down ladders, through narrow connecting tunnels. Always Zyra leading the way, the Oracle's map burned into her brain.
‘I don't likes this place,’ said Tark.
‘Me neither,’ agreed Zyra.
‘I don't likes the way the Oracle tolds us,’ continued Tark.
‘Me neither.’
‘I don't likes the stink.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I don't likes the way them rats is watching us.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Ya noticed some is different. The way their eyes is glowing?’
‘Yep.’
‘Same green glow as the slime on them walls.’
‘Yep.’
‘Ya thinks maybe — ’
‘Shuts up!’ yelled Zyra, her voice echoing along the tunnels. ‘Let's just gets to the door. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ Tark kicked at one of the rats in frustration.
As his foot connected with the animal, an eerie howl echoed through the tunnels. Tark looked at Zyra, but said nothing.
They proceeded in silence for a while.
‘Ya knows,’ said Tark, breaking the silence again. ‘The further we go, the more rats there are.’
Zyra glared at him.
They continued for another few minutes before Tark spoke again. ‘I don't likes rats.’
‘They're not all that fond of you either,’ said a mysterious, squeaky voice out of nowhere.
Tark and Zyra stopped and scanned the tunnel. The rat horde stared back at them, some with phosphorescent slime reflected in their dark eyes, others with a glowing greenness all their own.
‘Don't says nothin’,’ said Zyra, holding up her hand to stop Tark.
Tark nodded and they kept walking along the tunnel. But Tark couldn't go for long without saying what was on his mind.
‘Ya don't thinks the rats can talk, do ya?’
Zyra glared at him.
‘It wuz a squeaky kinda rat-likes voice.’
Zyra didn't respond.
Under the watchful gaze of the rats, they finally came to a fork in the tunnels.
‘Which ways?’ asked Tark.
Zyra indicated the left-hand tunnel.
‘But the other way is much more interesting,’ said the mysterious, squeaky, rat-like voice, echoing around the sewer.
Ignoring the voice, Zyra headed down the left-hand tunnel, Tark following.
‘Not willing to take advice,’ said the voice. ‘No matter! This is my domain. And all tunnels lead to … me!’
‘Are ya sure we is goin’ the rights way?’ asked Tark.
‘Yes!’ hissed Zyra.
Suddenly the rats were scurrying forward. No, not scurrying, thought Tark, running forward, as if trying to escape something.
Tark glanced nervously over his shoulder, hoping that there wasn't anything chasing the rats — and them.
But there was.
Tark yelled loud enough to make Zyra stop in her tracks and turn around to see a wall of fire whooshing down the tunnel towards them.
‘Run!’ she yelled, grabbing Tark with one hand and the trolley with the other.
As they ran, the sludge at their feet seemed to become thicker and stickier, slowing their progress. Tark chanced another glance over his shoulder. The fire was almost on top of them. In his fear and panic, he never stopped to ponder the fact that they could feel no heat. As the fire bore down on them, Tark pushed Zyra to the tunnel floor and threw himself on top of her.
After a few seconds, Tark realised that he was not being roasted alive. He warily raised his head. His eyes widened with surprise.
‘Woulds ya get off a me,’ gurgled Zyra through a mouthful of sludge.
Tark rolled off and sat up.
Zyra got to her feet, wiping green slime from her beloved coat, ready to yell at Tark. But then she looked around.
They were in a cavernous space, a juncture where a dozen tunnels met. And they were surrounded by rats, thousands of them. The rodents were glaring at them and gnashing their pointy little teeth. Some were even foaming at the mouth as they scuttled about in a frenzy.
‘Why is they hangin’ back like that?’ wondered Zyra.
Tark shrugged.
Then some of the rats started to walk forward. They didn't run or scurry or make any type of rat-like movement. They walked, on their hind legs — slowly, determinedly and with purpose. There were thirteen in total, and they were big. They stopped in front of Tark and Zyra and arranged themselves like a team of acrobats on each other's shoulders. Three along the bottom, then another three on top, then three rows of two, and the final one perched on top.
Tark scrambled to his feet and stood beside Zyra, eye-level with the top rat.
The rat smiled at them.
‘Welcome,’ it said in the mysterious squeaky voice that had been following them through the tunnels.
‘I tolds ya it wuz a rat,’ said Tark.
The talking rat's eyes glowed brighter and brighter. The acrobatic rats seemed to melt into one another, until there was only one rat — a very large rat; an almost human-looking rat.
‘I am the rat-mage of the sewers,’ it said. ‘And I am here to tempt you away from Designers Paradise.’ And then it spat a large glob of green phlegm.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Zyra. ‘That's real temptin’.’
The rat-mage smiled. ‘Things are not always as they appear.’ It waved a paw, and suddenly Tark and Zyra were standing in a field of poppies, the blood-red flowers wafting in a gentle breeze.
As Zyra reached out for a flower, the scene dissolved into a no-man's-land of mud, razor wire and dead bodies. Rats gnawed on the corpses. Rats flooded out from the trenches, engulfing the landscape. And then Tark and Zyra were in the sewer again, facing the rat-mage.
‘The tunnels are my domain,’ said the rat-mage. ‘In the world above, I am vermin. But here below, I am master. I can give you anything your hearts desire. So long as you stay within the boundaries of my domain.’
The rat-mage waved a paw, and silver platters laden with food, were brought before them on the backs of scurrying rats. Fruit, cakes, puddings, even ice-cream.
Tark's eyes widened.
‘Wot's this all abouts,’ demanded Zyra, barely even looking at the food. ‘Who in the name of the Designers are ya?’
‘I am the discarded child of the Designers,’ said the rat-mage, voice harsh with hatred, eyes blazing. It spat another glob of phlegm at the very thought of the Designers. ‘A mistake. A failed experiment. Banished down here, away from those who quest for Paradise.’ It drew a long, deep breath and calmed itself. ‘But down here, I am in control, away from the prying eyes of the Designers.’ It spat again. ‘Down here you may do as you will. Without them knowing. Without repercussion. The only rules that matter down here are mine.’
‘But the Designers see all,’ said Tark, as if reciting a well-known passage from a much-read book.
‘Not down here,’ assured the rat-mage. ‘And I know what it is that you want. Your heart's most intimate desire.’
The rat-mage waved a paw, and the sea of rats parted to reveal a bed. A luxurious, four-poster bed with sheets of silk, posts of carved mahogany and drapes of the finest embroidered fabric trimmed in gold.
‘Oh yes,’ intoned the rat-mage, its irritatingly squeaky voice becoming silky and smooth and seductive. ‘I know about the rules. Those unfair rules that prevent people of your station from acting on your feelings.’
The fingertips of Tark's hand brushed Zyra's.
‘Oh yes. Those with higher station may do as they will. May even pay for the likes of you, if they so desire. But you may not.’
Tark and Zyra gazed at each other. Their surroundings melted away. The rats were gone. The sludge and the tunnels were gone. Only the bed and the food remained. All else was an indistinct blur. And then there were flowers.
Zyra picked a flower and held it out to Tark. He smiled. His hand found hers and clasped it tightly. His heart quickened. His eyes closed. He breathed deeply as he leaned towards her. He felt exhilarated. He felt foggy. He felt as if he were about to be lost in a dream.
The flower Zyra held out brushed against his cheek.
Tark's eyes snapped open.
‘It has no smell,’ he said. ‘The flower.’
Zyra looked confused.
‘The fire,’ he remembered. ‘No heat. It ain't real. It's all fake.’
He snatched the flower from Zyra's hand and held it up for her to see. It was a brittle, dead twig. He scooped up a handful of ice-cream.
‘Smell it,’ he demanded, holding it up under Zyra's nose.
Zyra took a sniff and gagged at the stench. Tark had a handful of green sludge.
All around them, the food was revealed as rotting and decayed scraps on discarded pieces of wood. The bed turned into a cage. And then the rats were back.
‘Oh dear,’ said the rat-mage, its voice an irritating squeak again. ‘You could have stayed here and been oh-so happy. But now you will stay and be oh-so miserable.’
The rats parted to form a path to the cage.
‘In you get,’ said the rat-mage, conjuring up a ball of fire in its outstretched paw.
Zyra drew her knives and struck a fighting pose.
‘I could force you in,’ said the rat-mage.
‘No ya can'ts,’ said Tark. Then he added to Zyra: ‘It's illusion. Just like the princelings use, to fools the thievers. None of it's real. He ain't gots no real power. His fire ain't gots no heat.’
The rats all started squeaking and scurrying about.
‘My powers may be that of illusion,’ said the rat-mage. ‘But my rats are very real and they have sharp, sharp teeth, eager to tear flesh from bone.’
The rats began to slowly advance towards them.
‘Give up now,’ said the rat-mage, smiling, ‘and they won't hurt you.’
Tark drew his sword and skewered the nearest rat. The rat-mage screamed in pain and staggered back. The rats stopped advancing.
‘How dare you?’ screeched the rat-mage, recovering from the shock.
The rats regained their purpose and again started to advance on Tark and Zyra. The two closest leapt at Zyra. She slashed both with her knives.
Again the rat-mage screamed in pain, this time doubling over, and the swarm of rats lost their sense of purpose.
‘They is nuthin’ without him controllin’ ’em,’ shouted Zyra triumphantly.
Then with a quick nod to each other, Tark and Zyra went on the attack, slashing, stabbing and skewering rodents.
‘Stop,’ screamed the rat-mage. ‘You're killing me.’
‘That's fine by us,’ said Tark, as he slashed three rats with one downward sweep of his sword.
‘Let's get out of ’ere,’ said Zyra.
Tark nodded. He grabbed the cart and pulled it behind himself as he cut a path through the rats with the sword. Zyra followed, stabbing and slashing as many rats as she could.
Without the rat-mage's control, the rodents scattered, disoriented, offering little resistance to Tark and Zyra as they hacked and cleaved, rat innards splattering everywhere. The tunnels echoed with the dying squeals of rats, and the green sludge was soon tainted red. The rat-mage collapsed into the sludge, flailing about helplessly.
‘Which way?’ asked Tark.
Zyra indicated a tunnel that was free from rats. With a cacophony of squealing ringing in their ears, she led the way at a jog. Even though they saw no sign of the rat-mage or its minions, the thought that they might be in pursuit was enough to speed them on. Although Zyra did insist on a brief stop when they came across a pipe gushing relatively clean water. She washed her face and hands, and did her best to clean the muck off her travelling coat. Tark considered cleaning his boots, but since they were still ankle-deep in sludge, it seemed pointless to him.
They made good time on the rest of their journey through the sewers, until finally they reached a dead end — a seamless wall of stone.
Zyra put her hand onto the stone surface. Nothing happened. She nodded to Tark, who placed his hand on the stone as well, one of his fingertips gently touching hers. The stone wall immediately lit up. They pulled back their hands and watched as the wall shimmered and then dissolved to reveal a large metal door. It was twice their height and wide enough for them and their cart to enter side by side. Despite being in a sewage tunnel, it gleamed with untarnished beauty. In its surface they saw all their hopes and dreams as untouchable reflections.
Zyra dug the keys from her coat. She handed one to Tark, and held on to the other. Then in perfect unison, they held up their keys and chanted.
‘Praise be to the Designers.’
The door swung open.