The Twyning by Terence Blacker Page B

Leave this place.
    She sniffed the air. Her eyes seemed to understand everything that was happening to me, that I was lost, that I needed to return to my kingdom to bring news from the world above, that I felt more alone than ever in my life. Her revelation was stronger now.
    — Cross the highway of humans. There is an entrance to the world below, half hidden beside where the water gathers. You will find the touch-path there.
    But it felt wrong to leave these rats. My instinct was to help. Even a fragile in the world above deserved help.
    — Go.
    She seemed to reveal with her last remaining strength.
    — What is your name? — I asked.
    — Malaika.
    — I shall see you again, Malaika.
    A scent of sadness reached me as I drew back.
    There was silence from the pit. I breathed deep of the early morning air.
    Never look back. It is a rule of the kingdom.
    I crossed the yard, squeezed my way through the hole I had made in the fence.
    — Follow me.
    They did, Floke staying close to me, Fang limping after us.
    We crossed the human highway.
    We searched and soon found the tells of rats from the kingdom, leading to the touch-path that would take us back.
    One name echoed in my mind as I led Floke and Fang downward into the welcome damp and darkness of the earth.
    Malaika.

. . . about all that has happened to me while I have been on this earth.
    I see children playing on the street, or walking with their mothers or nannies. I pass a school playground.
    The memories return, and just for a few moments, I wonder.
    So it is, the day after the doctor’s speech to the institute.
    I am walking to the rat-catcher, Bill Grubstaff. I need money for food, and today is a pit day.
    I like my work with Bill, especially on days like this. It is not just the noise and warmth at the tavern on pit days, and the money. It is watching Bill, his shyness falling away from him as dogs and rats are about to do battle in the bar of the Cock Inn.
    When I arrive for work, Bill is there in his moleskin waistcoat, a bucket of scraps in his hand. Unlike other rat-catchers, he likes to feed the beasts on the day of their death.
    He nods in the direction of the fence nearby.
    “Visitors last night, Dogboy,” he says.
    I walk over to the fence. There is a spot of blood on the wire where it has been gnawed.
    “Rats,” I say. “One was hurt.”
    “He’ll be more than hurt if I catch him.” Bill gives a little laugh. “They even tried to get into the well, bloomin’ varmints.”
    He walks to the trapdoor over a disused well where he likes to keep the beasts, and puts a finger over the wood where tooth marks can be seen. “They were curious, I suppose.”
    He lifts the wood and throws in some scraps from his bucket.
    The rats squeal as they fight for food.
    “Must be a fair few in there,” he says. “It’s going to be a good day for us, Dogboy.”
    He looks at the beasts, and a little smile is on his big, weather-beaten face. He could be a farmer looking at his prize pigs.
    He passes me a sack. “In you go, then, boy.”
    I take the ladder that is leaning against the fence and slowly lower it into the well.
    Carefully, I descend. On the last step, I feel the warmth of scurrying feet and tiny claws around my ankles.
    I reach down and my fingers close around a tail. In a quick movement, I pick it up and drop it into the sack.
    One after the other, I take them, counting them aloud as I go. Bill is not good at figures.
    I have been counting for several minutes when I lift a beast who is smaller and lighter than the rest.
    To my surprise, I see it is a pet rat, of the type that has become all the rage among the gentry.
    “A fancy,” I say to Bill.
    Bill glances at it. “That’ll be from Barnaby Smiles,” he says. “He gives me the beasts he can’t sell in the market.”
    “Bit small for the pit,” I say, feeling a touch sorry for the little thing.
    He laughs. “You’re going soft, Dogboy,” he says. “A rat’s a rat. She’ll do.”
    I lower