Greed at the End of the Rainbow: A Ginger & Klaus Tale--Chapter 3

 CHAPTER 3

Dignity Defended

 

Rain pattered against Klaus’s leather armor, and Pat began to grow soggy.  The cookie muttered and tucked himself away beneath the crag in the boulder.  It had already been ten minutes since Bahar had left them, and judging by Pat’s restless movements and occasional strained humming, it had been ten minutes too long.  Every thirty seconds or so, the cookie would peer up at the cloud-blanketed sun as if an hour had passed since his last glance.  Klaus chuckled internally but said nothing; he simply fixed his gaze on the blur of green field to the east, hoping that Bahar had interpreted his message correctly, and not expecting his friend’s return for some time.

“It’s pouring out there,” Pat remarked with a shiver.  “Wouldn’t you rather be sheltered from the rain?”

“Not particularly,” answered Klaus.  “Winter is nearly over, and this feels more like a spring rain.  It’s a bit warmer—and comforting, somehow.”

That was clearly not the answer the leprechaun cookie had been looking for.  He gestured in the direction of Klaus’s gaze.  “Your friend sure is devout.  Just how long does his meditation last, anyway?”

Klaus shrugged.  “I’ve never really kept count.  It’s not a thing that should be hurried, after all.”

“Of course, I understand.” The cookie tapped the smooth grey wall in front of him.  “But—um, Klaus? I’m a little worried that maybe the thief heard us and may have found a crevice or something to slip out of.  Do you think we can take a peek inside? I can’t bear the thought of being away from my gold for much longer.”

Klaus rolled his eyes (unseen by the cookie, of course), and turned toward the cave opening.  “Sure, let’s take a peek.  I don’t think Bahar will take much longer, anyway.”

Pat turned to the side so that Klaus could enter the pitch-black opening at the base of the boulder, and he proceeded to lead the way, the cookie’s tiny feet pit-patting behind him.  He could see nothing, but his whiskers told him that the walls were narrow on either side; it would have been difficult for two mice, or two cookies, to travel abreast.  After he had made it a few inches into the tunnel, the grass beneath him, shielded from sun and rain, became coarse and almost crunchy.  The space was very cold, its rocky frame uninsulated from the weather and retaining the extreme high or extreme low temperatures that were experienced in summer and winter.  After half a minute the tunnel curved gently to the left, and he felt a bit of trepidation stir in his heart.  What if Bahar had not understood the message? What if he would take too long? What if Klaus really would be trapped in here? Can’t be too careful, he thought.  I’m not sure this cookie could do anything to harm me, but he obviously had no intention of leading the way.  And he is being uncharacteristically quiet.  He reached back and put his claws around the handle of his sword.

As he moved further in, the tunnel widened at a nearly imperceptible rate, and the temperature seemed to rise proportionately.  Within another minute’s time he became comfortably warm, and he realized that the interior of the boulder could be livable, for a time, for any critter desperate enough to endure the spiky grass, hard earth, and unyielding walls.  The silence was biting.  His thoughts turned to Ingrid, and he winced as he imagined her reaction to his spelunking: “Klaus, my dear husband, did you forget that you had a wife to get back to, not to mention an entire kingdom that depends on you? What were you thinking?” He could always retort that the kingship had been thrust upon him, not one that he had taken up willingly—but there was no such response to the point about a wife to get back to.

The tunnel opened up into a cavern whose width Klaus could not guess, for there was now nothing to touch with his paws and whiskers, and he thought he could hear wind somehow funneling into the space and whipping against a distant wall.  It was also dark, darker than the deepest night, darker than it had been in the tunnel.  He drew his sword and held it out before him, as if a foe would take advantage of his blindness and attack—but an attack did not come.  What did come was the grating sound of a stone behind him, and as he turned his head toward it, he could just barely see Pat pushing a tall rock in front of the opening of the tunnel.  He sighed inwardly, more at the predictability than the inconvenience.

“So he really fell for it,” spoke a voice in the darkness.  “I’m a bit surprised, to be honest.  He’s always touted as a brilliant thinker and strategist.  But I guess all that goes out the window when someone is in need.”

“Aw, I didn’t find him to be all that brilliant,” Pat replied, leaning against the rock with a smug look on his face.  “Just a regular old mouse, as far as I can tell."

Klaus took a few steps back and to the right until he could feel a wall behind him.  Because he was a strategist, he knew that in a dark room, it was preferable to be pitted against a wall by an enemy than to have one’s back exposed.  He held his sword at a horizontal angle and listened for approaching footsteps, or even for an inhalation or exhalation.  There was breathing, but it was not near; it was perhaps a stone’s throw away—as the mouse throws.

“Welcome, Klaus,” the voice spoke again.  It was both familiar and new, as if he had heard it at a lower pitch from a different creature.  “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, not entirely truthfully.  “Is it because the voles hate me and despise the freedom of the Mice of Sweetfort, and wish to remove me from the map?”

The vole scoffed.  “That’s secondary.  Maybe even tertiary.  What Tanas wants matters little to me; King Chisha’s will is only slightly more important.  My will, on the other hand is what matters most.  My will, Klaus, is to kill you—the same way you killed my brothers.”

“That’s why I recognize your voice.  Volahmi.” He shook his head.  “Technically, it was a certain turkey who slew Volsaph, not I.”

“Semantics.  He acted at your command, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did,” Klaus replied.  “Can you blame me, after what your brother pulled? Challenging me to a ruse of a duel, just to draw a crowd of my loyal followers and attempt to have them consumed by starved turkeys? And Voliath was hardly any better—mocking our ways, our values, everything that we are; I had no choice but to put him to death.”

“No choice.” Klaus heard the vole spit.  “With the power and authority you wield, there’s always a choice.  You could have chosen mercy.”

“The same way your lawless bands showed mercy when they picked off our wives and our young in the countryside?” Klaus’s entire body burned at the memory.  “That kind of mercy? Or the kind of mercy King Chisha showed when he allied with Tanas the madman, resulting in scores of famished birds and the disruption of our ecosystem?”

“I’m not here to speak of the misdeeds of others, but of yours.  You’re the one on trial here, Klaus, and you’ll pay dearly for what you’ve done.  You and everyone you love!”

Klaus sighed and looked sidelong at the leprechaun cookie.  “You still have a chance to do the right thing, Pat.”

“I know what I’m doing,” said the cookie, shaking his head.  “I know what I’m promised.”

“And what is that?”

“A mountain of gold-wrapped chocolate coins from the larder of King Chisha himself.  A mountain of it, Klaus.  Can you imagine? I told you that we leprechauns can’t resist gawking at gold for long.  I must have it…you understand.”

“Although I probably feel very similarly about cheese,” Klaus told him, brandishing his blade, “honor comes first.  I’m sorry for what you’re about to see.”

“So am I,” said Volahmi, and there was the sound of a knife sliding out of its sheath.

Klaus did not leave his position but continued to hold his sword at a horizontal angle.  Try as he might to see anything past a few inches, there was nothing but the weighty blanket of darkness.  Confound it, he grumbled internally.  Is he really going to make me come to him? I can’t give in; I won’t.  There’s too much on the line.  That’s his plan, to have me totter out into the open and then come up behind me and end it.  Just the way his slimy brothers would do it.

To his surprise, his foe did not wait for him, nor did he attack from the right or the left; he appeared directly before him, holding a silver steak knife vertically.  The vole was as tall as his brothers, plump, reddish-grey, and with a face that ended abruptly at a diminutive black nose. His eyes were black, too, and were almost camouflaged in the darkness.  Ears, appearing a size too small for the rest of his body, lighter in color and furry, poked up from his head.  Around his paunch was half of the outer part of a baseball, its ends tied together on his left side with gold safety pins.  For pants he wore what appeared to be durable leather from a wallet or something similar, but his head and paws were uncovered.  His tail, brown and stunted, flicked the dry blades of grass behind him.  He looked strong, disciplined, ready.

The sword came down not as fast as lighting, as Klaus had feared, but with thunderous strength, and his own sword wavered beneath the blow.  He shifted to the right, dragging his back along the wall for a few seconds and focusing his strength into keeping his enemy’s weapon at bay.  Once he was a satisfactory distance away from Pat and had more wiggle room, he strafed quickly away from the wall and turned his right shoulder toward the center of the room.  Then he revealed the true reservoir of his physical strength, shoving his enemy’s blade so high that Volahmi staggered and almost lost balance.  That’s it.  That’s what I needed. 

He was on his foe in a second, his sword thrusting low and penetrating the exposed bottom-left paw.  A look swept across Volahmi’s face—he thought he had an opening!—and he rained his sword down toward Klaus, as if the deep bite of the paring knife were a mere pinprick.  Klaus hopped back and watched as his enemy’s blade embedded itself in the earth, and he did not waste half a second; nimbly, he scurried up the flat top of the knife, leapt over Volahmi’s head as the creature tore his weapon from the earth, and aimed a maiming strike towards his foe’s left ear.  The appendage was cleanly filleted, and it fell to the coarse grass with a plop.

As he landed, Volahmi—groaning in frustration and pain—turned to the left to face him, and Klaus aimed a thrust toward the small opening between the gold safety pins that held his armor together.  Volahmi took a step back and knocked his blade to the side with a weary but powerful swipe.  He bent his knees, planted his short tail into the earth for balance, and waited for Klaus to come to him.  Blood was soaking his fur from the left side of his face to the right, and in his eyes Klaus could see that the vole was no longer sure of himself.

There was the sound of something nearby.  Footsteps—fast, frenetic, friendly.  Volahmi seemed to hear it, too, and he began to back up toward the western side of the cavern, opposite the tunnel from which Klaus had entered.  A pile of pebbles could be seen leaning against a craggy, hole-pocked wall.  Beside it stood Pat’s pot of gold—the only part of the cookie’s story that had been true, it appeared. Volahmi wants to be over here, Klaus understood.  Why? What’s his plan?

“I thought you said you could beat him!” Pat yelled across the room, stamping a furious foot against the ground.  “I kept my end of the bargain, so if you don’t pay me, someone has to.”

“I think you have other things to be concerned about, Pat,” said Klaus.

“Huh?”

Before the leprechaun cookie could speculate, Klaus heard a bam! as the rock door before the tunnel opening fell forward and smashed against the ground.  Pat screamed—a bit too femininely, Klaus thought—and tried to scurry away.  Seeking to take advantage of the commotion, Volahmi aimed a final, wild slash at Klaus and whirled toward the rocky rubble.  Klaus was able to take off the end of his foe’s tail before the vole wriggled through a hole and disappeared—into the earth or through a secret passage in the boulder, he could not guess.  Then he turned around and headed toward the source of the commotion.

It was Molasses, obviously, who had knocked down the makeshift door Pat had erected; he was currently holding the leprechaun cookie in place, his gold whisk—a Christmas gift from Klaus—slung across his back.  Ingrid was also there, wide-eyed as she stared at what had been a battleground just moments before.  A dozen mice from Sweetfort, soldiers of his royal army, stood side by side to the right of the tunnel opening, small paring knives held points-up in their paws.  Bahar entered the room next, and last of all came a certain female gingerbread cookie with a green bow, two green gumdrop buttons, and a green frosting belt.

“Good golly!” she shouted as she ran to him.  “Klaus, what happened?”

“My dear Ginger,” he replied with a smile.  “I knew I would be dueling today, but the plan was to duel Bahar for fun, not to be put into a life-or-death situation.”

“Life or death?” growled Ingrid, stepping forward.  “Husband, what were you thinking? Who was that?”

He looked at her, his eyes grave.  “It was Volahmi.”

Ginger snickered.  “Volahmi.  Salami.”

“Volahmi,” said Molasses.  “You mean the brother of Voliath and Volsaph.”

“The very same,” answered Klaus.  He squinted into the darkness of the room.  “Come, it’s better if we talk outside, where we can see more clearly and where we are less likely to be attacked from behind—although I don’t think that is Volahmi’s way, not anymore.”

They obeyed his command, moving through the tunnel in single file until they had exited the void of the boulder and walked out into the field and dim sunlight.  Clouds were everywhere, and not a hint of blue could be seen above; but the rain had stopped, and everything was bright and damp and fresh.  Trot was there, hunting for worms until he saw the party approach him.  Although he seemed a bit miffed that his afternoon snack had been interrupted, he beamed to see Klaus in one piece.

“Thank you for your services once again, Trot,” said Klaus, bowing.  “I’m stunned that you managed not only to bring my wife and some of my fellow mice here, but also Ginger and Molasses.  How did you manage that?”

Bahar stepped forward and saluted.  “It was rather serendipitous, my king.  I perceived in your words that you wanted me to find Trot and seek out our sweet friends, but I knew not whether sweet friends referred to the cookies or the Mice of Sweetfort.  So I decided, even before I found Trot, that I would seek out both.

“Trot was actually at the edge of Mount Oniz at the time we reached the boulder earlier.  But I ran through the fields, shouting for help from any turkey who happened to be nearby.  There was a small rafter of them in the area, and I convinced them to call for Trot; their gobbles can be heard by their fellows at least a mile away, you know.”

Trot nodded.  “Yeah, one minute I’m trying to find shelter from the rain under the trees of the mountain, and the next moment I hear my brothers and sisters shrieking their wattles off about how I needed to bring Ginger, Molasses, Bahar, and a squad of mice from Sweetfort to the big boulder next to the western foothills.  A weird message, but most likely not a trap, I decided.  So I did as they asked with all the speed I could summon.”

“It was really fast,” said Ginger, her eyes glowing at the traumatic memory.  “I had three gumdrop buttons on my dress.  Now I have two.  It was chaos.”

“You did well, Bahar,” Klaus addressed the vole, placing a paw on his shoulder.  “You got the gist of my message and acted on it.  I’m grateful.”

Bahar inclined his head.  “Of course.  But…well, forgive me, my king, but why did head inside the boulder? I thought you would wait and not put yourself in danger.”

“I didn’t want Pat to suspect anything, and he was growing impatient.” He turned toward the leprechaun cookie and glowered at him.  “Plus, I felt that he needed to know who he was dealing with.  And I figured that if an enemy vole did await me within, then he, too, needed to receive the message that the Mice of Sweetfort are not to be trifled with.”

“I see,” said Bahar.  “Only—King Klaus, I wish you would be more careful.  I could not bear the thought of Sweetfort being without its beloved king.”

Klaus crossed his arms.  “You care a great deal about your king, and about his kingdom, and about the lives of those who dwell within it.  It’s refreshing to see.  I think you would be better suited to use your abilities to lead half of my royal army.”

“Half of the army?” Bahar’s fur stood on end.  “King Klaus, I am not worthy of such a position!”

“In my eyes, you are.  You fight very well, and any soldier would benefit greatly were he to learn from you.  In this way, you can spread the teachings of your mentor, Sir Meloran, to many.” He grinned.  “If it helps, see this as a command from your king.  Whether you feel worthy or not, you have been given a command, and I expect you to follow it.”

Bahar, visibly flustered, saluted once again.  “Then I will obey it as well as I can, King Klaus.  I—I thank you.”

Klaus turned toward the leprechaun cookie once again.  “Now, as for you….”

“Please don’t kill him, Klaus,” Ginger implored him, pressing the ends of her arms together.  “Remember Molasses, when he went astray?”

“Yes, how could I ever forget? But you should know, Ginger, that killing Pat didn’t even enter my mind.  There is a time for mercy.” He bent down toward the cookie, whom Molasses was still keeping restrained.  “Greed is a terrible thing, Pat, and riches are deceptive.  They whisper to you that they are enough, that by them you will be satisfied…but they can never really satisfy you.  You’ll always feel that you are in want, that you are lacking.  And there are other ways to be wealthy.” He looked around at his friends and at his wife, those who enriched his life.  “And the desire for wealth should never come before honor.  Remember that.”

The leprechaun cookie avoided his gaze and stared at the ground; he did not seem repentant, but rather appeared saddened that his plot had been foiled.  “If you’re not going to kill me, what are you going to do with me?”

Klaus pointed toward the foothills.  “You’re banished.  If you show your face again in these parts, you will be killed, under one exception—that you have changed, and that your lifestyle and words are evidence of this change.  Until or unless you have become a new cookie, I suggest that you stay in those foothills and think on your failure.”

Molasses released him, and the leprechaun cookie waddled off, grumbling to himself.  He passed by the boulder that had now become a crypt for his pot of gold, and then he struggled his way up the green slope of the nearest hill.  After another minute he was gone, lost in the vast wilderness west of Sprinklevale.

“It’s likely that he’ll be back one day, you know,” said Molasses.  “Whether that’s as a changed or unchanged cookie remains to be seen.”

Klaus nodded.  “Volahmi will be back one day, too.  He and I fought, but I spared his life—though I did leave him with a couple of wounds to remember me by.”

“You did the right thing, Klaus,” Ginger reassured him.

He smiled at her.  “I know, Ginger.”

“And now we get to have a St. Patrick’s shindig at your house, don’t we?”

He let out a hearty laugh.  “That we do, my friend.  That we do.”

They began to walk together toward Trot, who, of course, was their ride back home.  As they ambled abreast through the cold grass, Klaus put an arm around Ingrid.  She looked less angry than she had in the cave, and the anger had been replaced by a pallor that could be seen under her fur.  She swallowed loudly, as if sick, and then turned her eyes to look at him.

“Is something the matter, my love?” he asked her, immediately becoming concerned.

“I—well.” Her eyes shifted toward the cloudy eastern sky.  “I know you have certain responsibilities as a king, and I know there are times when you need to make a show of power.  It’s just—”

“What is it, my dear?”

Her eyes turned to him again.  “I need you to be more careful than ever, Klaus—especially now that you’re about to be a father.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE

END

Greed at the End of the Rainbow: A Ginger & Klaus Tale--Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Deceit Discerned

 

“I can see the end of the rainbow!” Pat announced, extending an arm toward the western foothills.  “Right where the slope meets with that boulder; do you see it?”

Klaus squinted across the bar of green grass that lay between them and the spot to which his companion was pointing.  “I can’t see a thing, frankly.  But eyesight has never been my strongest quality.”

“Nor mine,” said Bahar.  “And yet it is plain to me that the rainbow does, in fact, seem to dissipate near a grey blob on the edge of my vision.”

“That’s it!” cried Pat.  “It must be.  He must’ve tucked himself into a crag in the rock, the goon! We’ll be on him before he knows it.”

Klaus studied the leprechaun cookie for a moment and then turned his attention back to the horizon.  Their journey thus far had been uneventful, and he had found himself talking far more than he had desired.  The cookie had an inexhaustible number of questions to lob at both him and Bahar, but he offered very little in response to the questions posed to him.  Klaus did his best not to overthink it or be offended.  The cookie came off the pan just three days ago, he reminded himself.  He is still young and inexperienced, and he has had few adventures, if any.  Maybe Ginger was this curious when she first sprang to life in Mr. Theo’s kitchen.  Just give him a chance.

“Tell me, Pat,” said Bahar, “did more of your kind come to life on your bakeday? Or was it just you?”

“There were some others.  Four, to be exact.” Klaus noticed that there was a look of disdain in his eyes.  “But after a day, those fools decided that they would rather serve Tanas than their maker.  Some enemy must have found his way onto Mount Oniz or something—I’m not sure, I wasn’t around—and told them what Tanas had to offer.  It was a sad thing to come into this world with siblings and then to hear that they have chosen the wrong path twenty-four hours later.” He sighed.  “But I guess not everyone can expect to walk the path of righteousness the way we do, am I right?”

“Right,” said Klaus, weighing his guest’s words.  “And I’m sure you, were you tempted in a similar way, would have too much strength of will and innate power to give in so easily.”

The leprechaun cookie radiated with confidence.  “Why, of course,” he answered, even as his voice faltered.

Bahar stared ahead and placed a paw on the sword that was belted against his right hip.  His brown fur, unadorned other than a pair of orange leather trousers, ruffled in the wind.  “This vole who took your pot of gold—you mentioned that he was large.  How large are we talking?”

“Very.  Add another half a vole to yourself, friend, and you would be about his size.”

“There are very few voles who can boast of such length.” Bahar traded a glance with Klaus.  “The few who exist are allied with King Chisha and are perilous.”

“So I’ve heard.  Ginger told me of your Thanksgiving adventure and the deceitfulness of Volsaph.  Good riddance to him and the others who sided with him, I say.”

“That is not what I say.  Many of those who died used to be friends of mine, you know.  They went astray and paid the price for it, but it grieves me to know that they did not forsake their errant way.”

Pat did his best to emulate a shrug with his rigid cookie arms.  “I suppose, Bahar—but they chose that way, didn’t they?”

They proceeded in silence as the wind pushed the clouds from southwest to northeast, blocking the sun.  It was well into the afternoon now, and although the world had darkened beneath the clouds, the warmth felt in the Sprinklevale fields was nearly at springtime levels.  Klaus smiled at a nearby clump of yellow flowers and at the bees buzzing busily to each one; he watched, mouth open in wonder, as a flock of geese formed a “V” shape in the sky and winged their way north; he sidestepped a few aimless worms wriggling between blades of grass.  Although the danger increased for mice at this time of the year—especially during the day—with the reintroduction of newly awakened predators, the beauty of the greening land could not be understated.  Klaus laughed to himself.  Whenever Ginger droned on about how winter was the most wonderful time of the year, he remained silent; he much preferred walking beneath the lukewarm sun of early spring to huddling in his home and hoping his fur and thin clothing would be enough to keep him warm for the day.

Home.  He was surprised at how much he missed it after having spent only half a day away.  Ingrid had been feeling a bit under the weather lately—a bit queasy—and he had almost canceled his plans with Bahar in the morning to care for her.  But she had insisted that he spend some time focusing on anything other than his usual responsibilities, and something in her voice had told him that she was growing a bit tired of seeing him beholden to his routine rather than pursuing his old hobbies.  He did have to admit that putting on a regal face around town for half the day and then throwing himself into his husbandly duties for the latter half grew wearisome at times, and that getting away—even with an unexpected companion and on an unplanned, possibly treacherous adventure—was a welcome change of pace.

He lagged behind his pair of allies and studied the leprechaun cookie for a moment.  As they neared their destination, the cookie’s walking pattern changed.  Before it had been a slow waddle, natural and sure; now he favored his left foot as if he had sustained an injury, or as if he had adopted an awkward gait resulting from overthinking.  Klaus could not see any crumb out of place on the leprechaun’s leg or any other sign of an injury.  Pat looked back at him, then looked ahead, and then looked quickly back at him again and proceeded to waddle the same way as he had done earlier.  An interesting phenomenon, Klaus thought.  Where have I seen that before? It came to him right away: the newborn mice running around Sweetfort, pretending they were at war.  One pup would feign friendship with another and lead him across town to a “secret spot,” which, by its very nature, was irresistible.  The pup would lead his prey with great excitement, his gait changing from a normal walk to something more jittery, and he would look back constantly to make sure his follower had not become wise to the plot. Once the “secret spot” had been reached, the pup’s allies would ambush the deceived mouse playfully and demand that he relinquish his territory to them.  He thought about what he knew of Pat so far, reading between the lines, considering every word that the cookie had spoken, every attitude he had evoked, and every movement that he had displayed.  A lack of humility.  Unbridled avarice.  A change in gait and over-eagerness to reach his destination.  Something isn’t right with this cookie.

Klaus’s mind was still busy with this thought when they reached the boulder.  The egg-shaped stone was huge, much taller than the average man, and rested between the slope of the green, tree-mottled hill and the field.  A small hole could be seen at its base, looking out toward Sprinkleton.  Klaus glanced up and saw that the rainbow did, in fact, end right at the boulder, vanishing into its grey crest.  If there was any truth to Pat’s claim that a pot of gold lay where a rainbow ended, it was certainly inside the rock.

“Here we are,” said the leprechaun cookie.  “And as I thought, the thief tucked himself away in here.  He may be big and brutish, but he’s not stupid; this looks pretty defensible.”

“It is, indeed,” replied Bahar.  “If there is enough space inside, an army could hold out against a foe for many moons.”

“Or risk being trapped—” Klaus looked intentionally into Bahar’s eyes—“for many moons.”

“Yes, I suppose being trapped is a possibility.”

Klaus nodded at him.  “Pat, you’ll have to forgive Bahar.  If this vole is as big as you say, there might be a fight ahead, and Bahar—being a vole, himself—holds to the old religion.  You see, when a battle is ahead, it’s his tradition to trot out to a solitary place and seek Great Boris’s favor.  This meditation imbues him with strength that belies his size.  It’s with this strength that he has, on many occasions, rescued our sweet friends.  Can you spare him a few minutes?”

A flash of impatience could be seen on Pat’s face, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come.  “Yes—I mean, of course! We already know where our enemy lies; he’s not going anywhere.  We can wait.”

“Good,” said Klaus, and then he nodded again at his friend.  “Then it’s settled.  We’ll see you back here shortly, Bahar.”

The vole inclined his head.  “Indeed, sweet friends.  I will trot away now, but I will return before you know it.  Thank you for understanding.” Then he was off, dashing to the east until he had disappeared into the horizon.

Greed at the End of the Rainbow: A Ginger & Klaus Tale--Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Duel Disrupted

 

“By Great Boris’s waxen whiskers!” Bahar cried, raising his small knife just in time to deflect the incoming blow.  “You are fast, my king! Faster than any creature my eyes have beheld.”

“You do realize, Bahar,” said Klaus, “that none of us have ever actually seen Great Boris.  The idea that he had waxen whiskers is pure assumption.”

“Tell that to the painters who festooned the walls of King Chisha’s hallowed halls with portraits of the good mouse.”

“I wouldn’t say that King Chisha’s artwork is the best place to get an accurate picture of history.” Klaus laughed and took a few steps back, holding his paring knife horizontally in case his opponent decided to strike from above.  “With that said, I have to admit that you are a very talented swordsman.  It doesn’t surprise me that King Chisha entrusted you with your rank.”

“Your words are most appreciated, my king.”

Klaus beamed as brightly as the sun, which presently rested at its zenith and shone upon the green land, uninterrupted by the dark clouds that painted the western sky.  A rainbow, each of its colors shimmering richly, stretched before the clouds, a reminder of the early-morning rain.  Klaus had decided to take a rest from his kingly duties and to get some fresh air in northern Sprinklevale; Trot the turkey had been so kind as to ferry him and Bahar to the southern outskirts of Mount Oniz—a quiet place within sight of Mr. Theo’s house—and to then linger nearby in case he was needed for a ride back home.  Klaus’s purpose, when he had left Sweetfort an hour ago, was to first enjoy some much-needed exercise by sparring with his new friend and to follow with a visit to Ginger.  He was getting older now, and he spent too many mindless hours sitting on his throne and providing answers to innumerable dull questions.  He had always been a warrior at heart, and it was during duels like this, against a skilled and worthy foe, when he came alive and felt alive.  It did not hurt that winter was just days away from ending, and over the past two weeks the warmth of spring had been creeping across the land, and clusters of yellow flowers honeycombed the fields.  Everything around him seemed to glow gold and viridescent, nourished by on-and-off wintry rains.

He had removed his uncomfortable aluminum plate armor, which he had worn more often after the Thanksgiving escapade, and had returned to the traditional blue, green, and brown shoe leather armor that he had worn when he had first met Ginger.  The material was superior when speed and finesse were needed, and he had grown accustomed to the annoying creeeeeeak that his vambraces made whenever he raised his sword to block a blow.  He did not want to admit it aloud, but he believed that if he had worn his heavy armor, Bahar would have bested him already—not that the vole would do him the dishonor of defeating him.  He was far too courteous for that.

Klaus had grown in his knowledge and appreciation of Bahar the past four months, and gone were the suspicions and doubts that he had held when the vole had first joined their community.  Molasses had vouched for Bahar, of course, but everyone—even the kindest and wisest of mice and cookies—had lapses in discernment from time to time.  Within weeks of his assimilation into Sweetfort, the vole had taken it upon himself to make regular visits—accompanied by trusted soldiers of Klaus’s royal army—to Cowtown to share the news of “a better land,” wherein their kind were treated with respect, where honesty was valued and nobility of character was treasured, and where the king saw himself as a fellow citizen.  Klaus was regularly stunned by the news that Bahar relayed of King Chisha’s demeanor and practices; the vole regent had now become quite plump on the boons from Tanas’s garden, and when he was not barking senseless orders at those under his employ, he was demanding tribute of one-third of his loyalists’ monthly findings to fill the larders for his nuclear and extended family.  It also seemed that he blamed the general unhappiness of his kingdom not on his blunders in leadership, but on the turkeys who had consumed half his followers—as well as on Klaus himself.

Bahar lunged and thrust the tip of his blade toward Klaus’s shoulder, but Klaus sidestepped it and swept his sword toward his opponent’s exposed right waist.  He was less than a centimeter from his target when Bahar swung his sword behind his own head, blade pointed toward the earth; with his elbow poised toward the sky, he managed to block Klaus’s attack.  The force behind Klaus’s strike was so great that it caused both Bahar and his weapon to reverberate, and Bahar’s own sword was pressed against his waist.  Seeing his predicament, he parried Klaus’s knife away, performed a side-flip, and landed on a small rock out of reach.

“Very nice,” Klaus told him, swishing his sword through the air.  “Where did you learn that move?”

“From my mentor, Sir Meloran,” answered Bahar, out of breath.  “It is a good move, usually—but then again, most foes have not the strength of Klaus the Giantslayer.  Not even Sir Meloran could have stood claw-to-claw with my liege.”

“‘Could have’? Is your mentor no longer with us?”

Bahar displayed a helpless paw.  “He was a respectable year and a half of age when he died.  He was not slain in battle, nor did sickness take him.  We mice and voles are not known for long lifespans, King Klaus, and Sir Meloran died younger than some and older than others.”

He was younger when he died than I am now, thought Klaus with some anxiety.  “I am sorry to hear of your loss, my friend.  It sounds like you were very fond of him.”

“Indeed.  I knew neither my sire nor dam, but Sir Meloran—he took me in as his own, and he trained me in both swordplay and espionage.  I excelled in both, well beyond my peers, and King Chisha rewarded my skill by allowing me to spy on many of King Shol’s doings.  I would not have been so esteemed apart from the aid of Sir Meloran.”

“Then I owe him a great debt, because I now have this esteemed warrior fighting by my side.” Klaus buried the end of his paring knife in the dirt.  “Our backgrounds are very different.  I was raised by my father but hardly knew my mother, and my father was far too busy raising my nine siblings to teach me swordplay.  Instead, I strengthened myself by collecting nuts and fruit for my family, and I was often beset by predators much larger than myself, whom I fought with my own two paws.  It was not until I was a few months old that I picked up my first sword; it was a child’s pocketknife, heavy and awkward, and I learned to wield it by fending off enemies of the vale—voles from Cowtown who spied on our land, much like your former self, or mice who swore allegiance to no king other than their own violent tendencies.”

“What then happened to your father and your siblings, if you do not mind me asking?”

Klaus frowned.  “My father passed shortly after I was conscripted as a servant of King Shol, and my siblings went every which way.  Seven of them I have not seen since I left home, but two of them—a brother and a sister—found their way to Sweetfort, where they live now in peace.  But they have families and goals of their own, and because we had already been apart many months before I came into the kingship, we became estranged.  It’s natural, I suppose.”

Bahar swept his upper body into a quick but deep bow.  “I did not intend to upset my king; I apologize for stepping out of line.”

Klaus laughed.  “At ease, my friend! Sometimes I think you’re still scarred from your time in service to King Chisha, although you’ve already been with us almost three whole months.  Relax! Breathe in the cool, sweet air and forget your worries.  I command it.”

Bahar did as he was bidden, inhaling and taking a mighty whiff of the air.  Klaus was surprised to see the vole almost choke, and he immediately concluded that perhaps his new friend was allergic to relaxation.  Bahar shook his head, as if attempting to shake away an unpleasant scent or thought.

“That sweet smell is mingled with rosemary,” he said, putting a paw over his nose.  “I never could stand the herb, no offense to the honorable Ginger, Molasses, and the others.”

Klaus sniffed the air after him.  “You’re right.” He scanned the shade beneath the great pine trees of Mount Oniz, expecting to see Ginger come dashing out with many an overjoyed greeting.  At first he saw nothing, but he attributed that more to his poor eyesight than to the absence of an approaching cookie; then, as his blurry vision cleared, he observed that something was drawing near.  It was a small thing, smaller than Ginger, and far more colorful.  A green brimmed hat, strapped to fit with a black belt and buckle, rested on the individual’s head.  Framing a perfectly round face was a grand, healthy orange beard.  A cookie! It was a cookie shaped like a man, with black dots of frosting for eyes, slanted orange streaks for eyebrows, a red gummy candy for a smile, an unfrosted peach face, the aforementioned hat and beard, and a green suit with a black belt.  His boots had also been frosted brown, and each had its own gold buckle.  In his right hand—composed of two fingers, a large and a small—he clutched a three-leaf clover.

“Hello, stranger!” Klaus greeted him, trying to sound as unsurprised as possible.  This is a cookie I have neither seen nor met before.  Did Mr. Theo bake a fresh batch of cookies for St. Patrick’s Day?

“Afternoon, mice of the vale,” answered the cookie with a tip of his hat.  “I saw you sparring from the mountain and thought I’d introduce myself.  The name’s Pat, a Cookie of Theo.”

Klaus bowed his head.  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.  I’m Klaus, king of Sweetfort, and this here is Bahar, a well-respected vole from our town.”

“Oh! Klaus! Bahar! Your names are known to me.” The cookie grinned.  “I was baked into this world just three days ago, and the very same day, I met Ginger, Molasses, Agapa, and the other fair cookies of the mountain.  They told me all about you both.  You’ve all had a few interesting adventures, haven’t you?”

“Maybe a few too many,” Klaus said, snickering.  “But you said you’ve met Ginger.  I assume she has everything packed and ready to go for the St. Patrick’s Day dinner at my house tonight?”

“Of course she does.  You know how Ginger is about the holidays.” He rolled his black eyes.  “It’s very nice of you to invite us lowly cookies into your home.”

I sure hope there’s enough room for everyone, Klaus thought worriedly.  After the Thanksgiving fiasco and their failure to host the gathering at their house, they had decided to wait some time before inviting others to another event.  He and Ingrid had spent a quiet night together on a solitary tree south of Sprinkleton on Valentine’s Day, far away from all parties, watching the moon move through the sky and the stars flicker brightly.  Ginger had thrown an uncharacteristically conservative party up on one of Mount Oniz’s watchtowers that night, and although she had extended an unofficial invitation to him, he had gotten the sense that she hoped only cookies would partake.  Something told him that she was still ashamed of what had happened on Valentine’s Day the previous year; but maybe there was also a part of her that hoped a new cookie would show up and, undistracted by a surplus of partygoers, seek her out.  Nothing of the sort had happened, tragically—or at least she had not told him that anything of the sort had happened, and Ginger told him everything. 

Bahar smiled at the leprechaun cookie.  “So what brings you out here, Pat?”

The crisp outer edges of their guest curled inward, as if he were reluctant to share what was on his mind.  “Um—well, it’s rather embarrassing, really.”

“What do you mean? Is it anything we can help with?”

“In all honesty….” The cookie was practically blushing. “…that’s why I came to you.  When I saw you sparring, I was amazed by your skill.  Both of you.  And I thought to myself, ‘I’m sure these two brave mice could assist me with my little problem.’ You see, when Mr. Theo baked me, I was meant to be part of a kit, not alone.  Along with me he baked a cookie cauldron, one that can sit upright on a surface, and he filled it with chocolate coins.  These coins are covered with gold wrappers, see, and we leprechauns can’t resist gawking at anything gold for long.  That cauldron and my coins—my lucky charms—they’re a part of me as much as your tails or your fur are a part of you.

“Well, a few hours ago, I was right here at the edge of the mountain, gazing out at Sprinkleton and enjoying the sunshine, my cauldron of gold by my side.  Out of nowhere comes this behemoth of a mouse—or, well, a vole, I suppose, as he looks more like Bahar here than you, King Klaus—and he pries my cauldron out of my hands and starts to run away with it.  I yell and go after him, but I’m too short and portly, and I can’t match his speed; there’s also the matter of this sword that he carries on his back, which he would surely use to break me to pieces.  He headed west, and I have stuck around here since then, weighing what to do.  I was thinking of asking my fellow cookies for help, but I’m new around here, and I’m not sure how much ‘pull’ I really have.  Then you two show up, and I’m thinking that maybe the answer to my problem stands right in front of me.”

Bahar looked intently at the leprechaun cookie.  “Just a solitary vole? He traveled with no companion of any kind?”

“Just one measly little vole.” The cookie lay a hand against his frosting beard.  “Or one measly big vole, to be more accurate.  So what do you think.  Can you help me?”

Klaus hummed with thought.  “Our noses are efficient, but they’re not perfect.  How do you expect us to find your pot of gold?”

“Don’t you know the lore?” The cookie let out a condescending titter, as if he expected everyone to know…whatever lore he was speaking about, exactly.  Then he began to sing, in a loud voice and very much out of tune:

 

“At the end of the bow in the sky

A hill of gold and its pot do lie.

The lucky charms of wealth and fortune,

The pride and joy of the leprechaun.”

 

“No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard that one in my life,” replied Klaus.

“It is the same for me,” said Bahar.  “We voles are not known for our songs.  Also, we hate them.”

“But we’ll help you,” Klaus added quickly, again noticing the rainbow that stretched before the clouds to the west.  This should be an interesting diversion, to say the least.  “Lead the way, Pat!”