The Tale of Despereaux - Kate DiCamillo [37]
“Hmmmmmph,” she said.
The candlelight came closer, closer.
“What’s this?”
The light came to rest directly on Despereaux’s big ears sticking up from behind the spool of thread.
“Ho,” said Cook, “whose ears are those?”
And the light from the candle then shone full in Despereaux’s face.
“A mouse,” said Cook, “a mouse in my kitchen.”
Despereaux closed his eyes. He prepared for his death.
He waited, reader. And waited. And then he heard the sound of laughter.
He opened his eyes and looked at Cook.
“Ho,” said Cook. “Ho-hee. For the first time in my life, I am glad to see a mouse in my kitchen.
“Why,” she asked, “why am I glad?
“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