The Tale of Despereaux - Kate DiCamillo [42]
The princess cried, “Oh no, rat, please. Don’t hurt him. He is my friend.”
Mig said, “Don’t worry, Princess. I will save the meecy.”
She took the kitchen knife. She aimed to cut off the rat’s head, but she missed her mark.
“Whoopsie,” said Miggery Sow.
“OWWWWWWWW!” screamed Roscuro.
He turned to look at where his tail had been, and as he did, Despereaux drew his needle and placed the sharp tip of it right where the rat’s heart should be.
“Don’t move,” said Despereaux. “I will kill you.”
“Ha-ha-ha!” Botticelli laughed from the sidelines. “Exactly.” He slapped his tail on the floor in approval. “Absolutely delightful. A mouse is going to kill a rat. Oh, all of this is much better than I anticipated. I love it when mice come to the dungeon.”
“Let me see,” said the other rats, pushing and shoving.
“Stand back,” Botticelli told them, still laughing. “Let the mouse do his work.”
Despereaux held the trembling needle against Roscuro’s heart. The mouse knew that as a knight, it was his duty to protect the princess. But would killing the rat really make the darkness go away?
Despereaux bowed his head ever so slightly. And as he did so, his whiskers brushed against the rat’s nose.
Roscuro sniffed.
“What . . . is that smell?” he asked.
“Mousie blood!” shouted one rat.
“Blood and bones!” shouted another.
“You’re smelling tears,” said Botticelli. “Tears and thwarted love.”
“Exactly,” said Roscuro. “And yet . . . there’s something else.”
He sniffed again.
And the smell of soup crashed through his soul like a great wave, bringing with it the memory of light, the chandelier, the music, the laughter, everything, all the things that were not, would never, could never be available to him as a rat.
“Soup,” moaned Roscuro.
And he began to cry.
“Booooooo!” shouted Botticelli.
“Sssssssss,” hissed the other rats.
“Kill me,” said Roscuro. He fell down before Despereaux. “It will never work. All I wanted was some light. That is why I brought the princess here, really, just for some beauty . . . some light of my own.”
“Please,” shouted Botticelli, “do kill him! He is a miserable excuse for a rat.”
“No, Despereaux,” said the princess. “Don’t kill him.”
Despereaux lowered his needle. He turned and looked at the Pea.
“Boooo!” shouted Botticelli again. “Kill him! Kill him. All this goodness is making me sick. I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Gor!” shouted Mig, waving her knife. “I’ll kill him.”
“No, wait,” said the princess. “Roscuro,” she said to the rat.
“What?” he said. Tears were falling out of his eyes and creeping down his whiskers and dripping onto the dungeon floor.
And then the princess took a deep breath and put a hand on her heart.
I think, reader, that she was feeling the same thing that Despereaux had felt when he was faced with his father begging him for forgiveness. That is, Pea was aware suddenly of how fragile her heart was, how much darkness was inside it, fighting, always, with the light. She did not like the rat. She would never like the rat, but she knew what she must do to save her own heart.
And so, here are the words that the princess spoke to her enemy.
She said, “Roscuro, would you like some soup?”
The rat sniffed. “Don’t torment me,” he said.
“I promise you,” said the princess, “that if you lead us out of here, I will get Cook to make you some soup. And you can eat it in the banquet hall.”
“Speaking of eating,” shouted one of the rats, “give us the mousie!”
“Yeah,” shouted another, “hand over the mouse!”
“Who would want him now?” said Botticelli. “The flavor of him will be ruined. All that forgiveness and goodness. Blech. I, for one, am leaving.”
“Soup in the banquet hall?” Roscuro asked the princess.
“Yes,” said the Pea.
“Really?”
“Truly. I promise.”
“Gor!” shouted Mig. “Soup is illegal.”
“But soup is good,” said Despereaux.
“Yes,” said the Pea. “Isn’t it?”
The princess bent down before the mouse. “You are my knight,” she said to him, “with a shining needle. And I am so glad that you found me. Let’s go upstairs. Let’s eat some soup.”
And, reader, they did.
BUT THE QUESTION