‘A rat!’ shrieked Myles Honeywort, with a falsetto that he would be later embarrassed by. Myles had recently been employed as chef of the Copperpot inn and had also just as recently retired from a low-class career of being a high-class highwayman,
The rat, a neatly brushed, white and brown accountant by the name of Nine-bottles, looked up at the frightened human and noted a sad familiarity to the man’s frightened expression. It was an old look, a look that rats had long suffered since the first bags of grain were packed and then subsequently gnawed through. Yes, the new employee was seconds away from his flight or fight choice, which wen equated to rodents would more accurately be described as a stand on chair or stand on rat choice.
‘A human,’ he squeaked neutrally while feigning surprise. It was important to Nine-bottles in this moment that they should talk to the human within the same boundaries as their available cognitive capacity, which was why they assumed that humans would default to the who’s a good boy voice when talking to excited puppies.
‘You can put down the meat cleaver, sir, you’ll only lose a toe if you swing from that angle.’
Sitting down in an exhausted huff, the small rat smiled at Myles and hoped that they gave off an impression of suitable fairy-tale friendliness.
‘Rats have looked after Mr Errol Grangly’s finances for three generations,’ he continued, ‘and as you are a new employee, there are a few matters to discuss with you. Fun things! Like overtime-payment, and standard lodging rates.’
‘I’m not paying a rat.’ Myles said, taking a step back onto a chair and discreetly jabbing a fingernail into his thumb to ensure that he wasn’t hallucinating–most things seemed like a hallucination to the ex-highwayman these days.
‘Well, I’m happy to say that we will be the ones paying you. And it would be better to think of me as a chartered accountant before my being a rodent.’ Nine-bottles added in the hope that a longer word would make the new chef relax in confusion.
‘Accountant?’ said Myles, as the word’s magic miraculously managed to take effect, ‘You mean you do the Inn’s finances?’
‘And the blacksmith’s down the road; he’s a simple fellow but is cursedly complex when playing chess,’ the rat squeaked, pausing for a brief moment to remember a distant memory of his great-grandfather, ‘anyway, you’ll receive a payslip each Wednesday, of which your room and meals will be removed. Each September the duke will send round a tax-collector, so if you don’t trust yourself to be lawfully charitable then I can remove that portion too. Any loss or neglected damage to Copperpot property will be paid out of pocket and any incurred expenses will have to be backed up by a receipt. Tips are none of my business but if you’re thinking of stealing from the till, I’d tell Errol ahead of time. He’s not that patient when it comes to thieves.’ Nine-bottles added, allowing Myles time to reflect on a failed robbery and successful job interview.
‘I do hope you’ll enjoy it here though; the kitchen has always been so empty without a chef. And, if you have any knack for making cheese wheels, I’m sure we can come to some…amendments to your, ahem, contract.’
Hopping back to its paws, the accountant dusted at his side and scratched its whiskers while waiting to see if the open-mouthed employee could manage any questions. Humans always had questions, it was part of the reason that they needed so many accountants–or at least why taxation had to be kept complex. You wouldn’t want just anyone to work out how finances worked would you.
‘But why can you speak?’ Myles asked, now relaxing into the knowledge that something formal like a contract had been established. Humans enjoyed contracts, they were physical things, neatly typed things that had been put to words and written down on an important looking piece of paper.
‘I thought rats were stupid,’ he said, coming to realise that a small creature who proclaimed itself to be an accountant was not very likely to run up his trouser leg. Myles took a tentative step off the butter-churning stool and stooped down at a distance that he felt was still just out of scampering range.
‘Dumb may have been the word that you were reaching for,’ Nine-bottles tactfully corrected, ‘As in, unable to talk, but don’t worry I do know you that weren’t trying to be insulting. Every rat can speak, we’ve been telling humans that we can for years.’
A small barb of hurt was heard in the accountant’s voice, but he carried himself as if it were more tiring than anything else.
‘There was a time where we would hide in the walls and work unseen, but regrettably Errol believes in openness to his patrons and his employees, so you can at least repay him by being open in return. But don’t worry, an accountancy rat has no reason to be untrustful, but if you ever need a good lawyer, I know an owl who lives in the Daleford’s barn.’
Not knowing if that was a joke at his expense or not, Myles breathed slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He had been an apprentice highwayman of sensibly discreet renown; his rich, but emotionally bankrupt, parents had kept him away from the tribulations of life and moved him to another city in the hope that he would not become a tribulation himself.
He had never truly been successful in his vocation, he floated along robbing stagecoaches and winking at maidens; but they were always the same coaches, and Emelise of the Tuesday theft was starting to ask about marriage. How had he become a chef? Was the routine of country life the simplicity that he always dreamt of? Sure, there were more talking rats than he expected, but nothing said that it had to be perfect, and now that he had time to think, it might have been the fact that rats couldn’t talk which was frightening him in the first place.
‘Where do I sign?’ he said with smile, drying his hands on a neatly pressed dishtowel.
There was a realisation dawning upon him in this moment, a warmness that was something more than just oven’s low embers and it filled the dim kitchen with a sanguine-hued glow.
Something had been off about these last few days that Myles couldn’t identify. There was an unease at the back of his mind that he had only now rectified as he saw his name drying upon the contract. He was finally here, he was exactly where he wanted to be, and, for the very first time, he was happy.
J. McCray
2022
Sunday Short Stories 