A Coljeta book Published by Coljeta Media Pty Ltd Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060 First published by Coljeta Pty Ltd 2012 Copyright © Thomas Corfield 2011 VPoA logo and Paw motif copyright © Coljeta Media Pty Ltd The moral rights of the author have been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author or Coljeta Media. National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry Corfield, Thomas, 1974- The Purging on Ruen (Velvet Paw of Asquith) ISBN 4778 1 38499 304 6 (hbk) Mystery. Adventure. Absurdism. 556.133 Cover design Mamfred Holland Internal design Samantha Hills Printed and bound by Griffin Press, South Australia

The Purging Of Ruen

1

Courage is a modesty born from fear,

and any animal who boasts of bravery,

knows the meaning of neither.

– The Loud Purr of Asquith.

1

____________________

At the top of the parapet, the old cat kicked at the door, ground

her teeth, and glared at the dog struggling up the stairs behind her.

“Door!” she hissed when he arrived.

The dog stumbled past her and fumbled with its handle,

apologising when the thing refused to co-operate in any conventional

sense. Beyond it, wind screamed through gaps to wrench the flaming

torch in his paw, which he then shoved into hers to afford better grip on

the door. Which only had him fumbling further.

The Pyjami’s impatience boiled at being forced to hold the

flames. “It’s a door!” she hissed. “It is not especially complicated!”

“I know, your Illustriousness. But it’s just a bit difficult because

it’s rusty, and my paws are all shaky—”

The Purging Of Ruen

2

“Did I ask for excuses?”

“No, but I thought it prudent—”

“You are lucky I do not remove your paws and staple them to

this thing.” And she waved the torch in irritation. “Just consider

yourself fortunate that I don’t have a stapler.”

“I know, your Amazing Pyjaminess. It’s just that after all those

stairs I’m rather puffed, you see, and this blasted door—”

“I’m not puffed.”

“No, of course you’re not,” the dog muttered, fiddling with the

handle, having no intention of reminding her that he’d been forced to

hurry across several floors of castle, while she’d just waited on one bit

lower down.

He’d been forced to hurry because the animal who was

supposed to meet the Pyjami had required a toilet urgently. Dire need of

latrine was an affliction befalling many within the castle, because the

place absolutely stank beyond remark. So dreadful was its smell, that

the castle’s latrines were the most sought after area in it—primarily

because they smelt better that the rest of the place. The castle didn’t just

smell of old, musty, dank stone, but had a stench that physically clawed.

Nor was it limited to sense of smell alone, assaulting instead all five in

a manner that can only be described as selfish. It was a reek so thick it

was akin to breathing cheese. A stink so debilitating that whiskers

shrivelled, and left those visiting the place demanding fresh air lest they

too became facially bald.

The dog scrabbling with latch was well aware of this.

But unfortunately, the only thing he currently bestowed upon the

Pyjami was irritation.

It wasn’t so much the door being stuck, as the wind beyond

ramming against it, leaving the Pyjami to suggest that if he didn’t hurry

up, she’d do something else to his paws that wouldn’t require a stapler.

With a final curse, the latch shifted and the door slammed

inwards, blasting them with cold night which almost shoved them back

down the stairwell. Sneering, the Pyjami thrust the beaten torch back

into the animal’s paws and strode outside into air she then took several

The Purging Of Ruen

3

relieved breaths of. With the texture of wet, black sand dripped as

slurry, the castle’s towers struck high at the night sky. Upon

battlements, wind surged in howl around lichen-crusted stone, gnawed

soft and porous by countless wheels of season.

When the wind fell, the Pyjami said to the dog, “Should that

wretched animal upon toilet decide to make himself available, then

return for me. But not before warning him that should he dare make

himself unavailable upon my next visit, I shall do something to him that

will render his current indisposition something he’ll aspire to.”

“Shall I tell him the stapler thing?”

“What?”

“The thing about the staples—the thing you said about my paws

and the stapler. Should I say that to him? It might hurry him up. It

certainly hurried me up.”

She turned to him and glared. “Are you showing insolence?”

The dog waved his snuffed torch to assure he wasn’t. “Not at

all! I just thought it might be helpful.”

“Helpful?”

“Yes. You know, encouraging.”

“I suggest you leave at once, dog,” she hissed, “before I tear you

apart and leave you in dire need of staples!”

With an awkward bow, the dog did so. Reversing, he then

struggled to close the door despite the fiasco in opening it. In the end he

gave up and left the thing banging, with wind delighted to scream

around a new-found orifice.

Built when Ruen’s shores were maraudered by barbarians from

across the sea, the castle had huge walls teetering a massive, jagged line

of blackened cliff, pounded at below by thundering sea. Having lain

quiet for centuries, the castle slept a reprieve well-deserved after years

of resistance. And although times of valour had long since passed, its

stance warned all it would readily awake to defend this most beautiful

edge of world should the need arise.

Compared to times past, the world was now different.

Boundaries agreed.

The Purging Of Ruen

4

Disputes few.

All knew times of quarrel were no more.

All knew, that is, except one.

Curling lips across fangs yellow with age, the Pyjami snarled,

knowing such quarrels had not resolved, so much as evolved. For an

enemy remained indeed. No longer across the sea perhaps, but within

this land itself.

Her land.

And of this, she was furious.

Her head high in distain, she pulled her grey coat tighter against

the wind. It was a beautiful night, scented with sea, carpented wood,

and freshly powdered stone. When gusts lessened, remnants of day

became apparent: grasses and cooked earth, fragrances lost when wind

again rose in howl. When the dog returned, stench battered the night air,

which had the Pyjami gag and turn from him. All animals needed to

know their place, and this dog’s place was a considerable distance

beneath her. In the dungeons, probably, with flaky bits of straw and

gruel far harder than the bowl it might reside in. The dog cleared his

throat noisily, hoiking up a volume of phlegm that left the Pyjami

cringing, and forced to swallow some of her own. Spitting his bolus off

the battlements, the dog watched its blobs sail above them. Disgusted,

the Pyjami glared at him, while he insisted the castle’s stench was

responsible. Giving his sinuses another noisy spring-clean, he readied to

expectorate a second time. But the Pyjami raised a paw in readied

strike, warning that were he to, she’d ensure he’d expectorate teeth

along with it. With a reluctant swallow, the dog refrained.

Striding past him, the Pyjami returned to the fetid warmth of

castle.

“Can we leave it open?” the dog asked, dabbing his mouth with

a napkin.

“What?”

“The door,” he said, indicating it. “Can we leave it open a bit to

let some of the stench out? And I’m not certain how easy it’s going to

be to close it again considering how strong the wind is—especially

The Purging Of Ruen

5

since its blown out most of the torches in the stairwell. Not that I mind

re-lighting them you understand, as I quite enjoy setting fire to things.”

“I think you are forgetting why you’re here,” she growled. “This

isn’t a reprieve, dog, this is punishment. Do you understand?”

The dog nodded, and battled to close the door whilst holding a

smouldering torch the Pyjami refused to. Wind screamed, furious at

being cornered, until the door was latched.

Descending the stairwell, the animals trod down narrow blocks

of stone, emerging onto a walkway high above the castle’s courtyard.

Although wind was less, the noise was far greater: hammering and

sawing, nailing and clanging reverberated in a poorly orchestrated

construction symphony’s fourth movement. When a tool fell and

clattered through scaffold, the Pyjami growled with the indignation of a

queen forced to tolerate lackeys. They laboured not through loyalty to

her, but for the promise of freedom once their work was compete. When

another tool fell, she flattened her ears, deciding to grant them nothing

of the sort. Although far from being a queen, the Pyjami remained

convinced her pedigree would suggest royalty were it traced back far

enough. Certainly blue-blood would explain her determination to rid

this land of the wretched animals rotting it.

Down another level, they strode beneath teetering scaffold

toward the castle’s keep. Inside, they descended more flagstones until

arriving at a long corridor. With a stride only marginally less obnoxious

than the cat herself, the Pyjami marched its length, the dog behind left

struggling to determine which smelt worse: the corridor’s stench of

rancid manure, or the Pyjami’s stench of pungent mothballs. In the end,

he just breathed through his mouth. This was even noisier than his

throat-clearing however, and the Pyjami turned again to glower at him.

So he stopped and let his eyes water instead.

At the corridor’s far end, a large guard dog armed with a

sharpened broom handle sat by a door. When the Pyjami approached,

he stopped digging at mortar with the pointy end and leapt to attention.

Beneath her stare, he fumbled with the door’s lock, though fared no

better than the other dog earlier. It was not wind hampering him, so

The Purging Of Ruen

6

much as the stench of manure and mothballs making his eyes water

also. Eventually he managed. Slapping the lock back, he pulled open

the door, and stood aside. With a sneer, the Pyjami strode past him,

followed by the dog with eyes now so bleary, his paws were

outstretched in feel.

The room was large, its air thick with a rotting that left those

waiting within retching. It was cold too, and the Pyjami pulled her coat

closer.

Striding toward a large granite table, the Pyjami sneered at those

behind it. “Well?” she asked one in particular. “Your reasons for

refusing to meet me upon arrival must have been considerably more

dire than my wrath at the fact?”

A small dog took a step around the table, pushing at glasses that

slid down his nose. “I fear it was rather dire, yes, your Pyjaminess,” he

said. “And I hope that you might find something resembling

forgiveness for such atrocious insult.”

“You can hope all you like dog, but you shall get nothing from

me unless you earn it.”

The dog bowed. “But of course, your Amazing Youthfulness—

and perhaps you might forgive me for suggesting as much. I can assure

you we have been working so very hard to appease you.”

“That sounds like begging to me,” she said. “You are not

begging are you, dog?”

“Not at all, your Illustrious Splendidness. I can assure you that

the only begging I’ve done recently was five minutes ago on the toilet.”

The Pyjami fixed her horrid grey eyes on his, saying, “I suggest

you cease this babbling and get on with it. I have already been kept

waiting and it seems you intend to continue have me do so.”

The small dog pushed at glasses again and glanced at the table.

It was polished to a shine so absurd, that its use as something to put

things on was almost untenable. Nevertheless, upon it resided some

drawing paper, a pencil, and set-square.

The Purging Of Ruen

7

“What you have asked of us has been done and is ready to be

tested, your Pyjaminess,” he said. “But I fear that the entirety of your

proposal is quite impossible to manifest.”

She glared at him, unimpressed.

The small dog turned to his colleagues for support—all of whom

then found the high ceiling most intriguing indeed. Left to fend for

himself, the dog pushed at glasses again, saying, “One flagstone is not

too difficult to make collapsible, your Sheer Beautifulness. But to make

the whole floor collapsible is quite impossible. There is simply no

way—”

“Do you know upon what we stand?” she hissed.

Neither the dog, nor his colleagues dared move.

“This fortress was hewn from solid rock by paw alone,” she

continued.

Still silence.

“From an age when necessity defied the impossible.”

Still nothing, other than a nervous swallow which squelched.

“Are you telling me that despite the centuries since, you are

unable to create anything similar?”

Another nervous squelch, followed by, “Your Illustrious

Coated-ness, it is not a question of competing with techniques past, but

rather a question of basic engineering principles.” The small dog

indicated the drawings upon table. “We have already discussed the

extensive studies you requested, which demonstrate the castle’s

foundations are indeed built upon a hollowed-out cliff. This, we

imagine, resulted from natural lava flows once upon a time, but this

does not mean we can set up all the flagstones of corridor floor to

collapse at the press of a button.”

The Pyjami’s mouth went thin. She wanted her flagstones to

collapse. Collapsing flagstones were not pivotal to the success of

construction banging away in the courtyard, but would be an excellent

insurance policy for it. Taking a step toward the dog, her gaze

narrowed. “And why not, pray?”

The Purging Of Ruen

8

After another swallow, he said, “Because if you collapse even

one portion of castle floor, your Unbelievably Fluffiness, the entire

structure of castle keep might be rendered unstable, the consequences of

which would be most dire for the rest of it.”

“Well here’s a suggestion, little animal: perhaps you could

arrange matters such that only part of the floor collapses?”

The little dog turned again to the others. When they shrugged,

he turned back to her. “It may be possible,” he agreed. “But only in one

room mind you. And it would be a matter of selective flagstones. Ones

that weren’t structural.”

The Pyjami leant still closer. “See? It doesn’t take a great deal of

initiative to initiate initiative, does it?”

With another squelch, he shook his head. Initiative or not, none

would dare implement any such thing without her approval first—and

only then when pretending it was her idea.

“There,” the Pyjami purred. “Now perhaps you would be good

enough to show me the one flagstone that you have managed to

destabilise?”

The small dog nodded and his colleagues gathered papers from

the table. There was hesitation then when all wondered whether the

Pyjami ought to leave first—which resulted in a hiss of frantic debate.

When the small dog stepped toward the door, the Pyjami did the same,

which had the former hesitating and the latter growling. In remedy, he

pretended to be giving way, before realising the door wasn’t even

open—which left him pleading at his colleagues to do so before his

gesture went from awkward to downright punishable. Such pantomime

left the Pyjami fuming, and marching to the door, she bashed upon it.

When it opened, she barrelled past the guard, growling obscenities

about staplers. The guard blinked after her, and then at those following,

including the bleary-eyed dog with paws again outstretched, who

gagged at him apologetically.

A few minutes later, in a hall large and imposing, the entourage

fanned out into a readiness of rehearsed display. At its centre was an

enormous table surrounded by smaller chairs. A huge fire roared in a

The Purging Of Ruen

9

hearth and bathed everything in bright bronze. Although the hall was

warm because of it, it still stank beyond measure. In the stone beside

the fireplace, a collection of levers protruded from the wall, and toward

these the small dog hurried.

“Obviously these will look far nicer when finished,” he said,

pointing at them. “I’ll organise a nice cloth to drape over their ends.

Probably patterned. And this surface will be rendered with plaster to

blend in with the colour of stone around it. I’ll try and get it stippled

too, so its looks exactly like stone. I’m thinking of using a fork.”

The Pyjami raised her whiskers indifferently.

“As instructed your Extraordinary Youthfulness,” he continued,

“you can see they already house the mechanisms for that which is under

construction outside. As well as for the collapsing floor if ever deemed

necessary.”

The Pyjami’s indifference flared into glower.

“Sorry: when indeed necessary,” he corrected.

Nodding then at a colleague who’d positioned himself beside a

large door on the hall’s far side, it was opened to reveal yet another

corridor beyond.

Gesturing at it, the small dog said, “Through there of course, is

where guests would arrive from.” And turning back the way they came,

added, “With that room becoming the kitchen if you will.”

The Pyjami rolled her eyes and growled, “Of such details dog, I

am well aware. For ‘twas afterall, my design.”

Pushing at his glasses, the small dog apologised, realising he’d

better get to the point before she stabbed him with one. Nodding again

at the animal beside the door, a boulder was rolled onto a flagstone in

the middle of the corridor, before the animal hurried back to the others.

Choosing a lever, he warned the Pyjami, “Because of the

disinfectant brewing elsewhere, might I suggest you cover your nose,

your Awfully Splendidness? Because what lies beneath—as you might

imagine—is not at all pleasant.”

The Pyjami did so, with the other animals doing the same. A

lever was thrown and a muffled clanking arose, followed by a rumble

The Purging Of Ruen

10

beneath their paws. In the corridor, dust puffed beneath the boulder as

mechanism shifted further. With a thud, the flagstone collapsed, leaving

the boulder to plummet to hidden depths. In the space afforded, a green

fog rose, billowing through the floor with tendrils searching its length.

Curious, the animals peered at it, before the flagstone clacked back into

place.

The Pyjami smiled in thrill. “Excellent,” she purred, turning to

the dog by the lever. “That is exactly what I want.”

He beamed at such approval.

About to insist he do the same with as many as possible, the

Pyjami refrained. A most dreadful expression had befallen the dog, and

he stared at the corridor as though clinically allergic to it. The green fog

crept upon the animal closest, leaving him to retch and gag and turn a

most peculiar colour indeed. Paws flew to his mouth, trying to staunch

an eruption of sick squirting between paws.

“Get out!” the small dog screamed at him—and then at those

remaining. “Get out now!”

As the fog rolled into the hall, its green lessened into a murky

hue. Those fleeing it scurried madly as sick squirted from them as well,

splattering across the floor in a dubious work of modernist art.

Unaccustomed to being given orders, the Pyjami watched their

antics curiously, particularly when they slipped through their art to

render it even more dubious. When its fumes reached her however, she

gagged also and ploughed after the others to escape the most pungent

stink of fetid cabbage and caustic manure imaginable.

The Purging Of Ruen

11

2

____________________

In the late afternoon light, the city of Ruen glittered like a

crystal chandelier of staggering proportions—not unlike the colossal

chandelier within the Palace of Par-Beguine in Arabesque, in fact. [1]

But being a city and not a light fixture, Ruen is of course, far larger.

And has more restaurants. But the analogy is appropriate, because both

are dreadfully expensive. Famous for its population of ostentatious and

wealthy retirees, Ruen lay cradled between towering black mountains

and a sea of exquisite turquoise. Although renowned for its charm,

Ruen did not owe its allure to location alone. Its character had been

nurtured from a venerable heritage by a group of elderly residents

known as the Ruling Council of Ruen. The council’s influence was

omnipotent, with a membership so exclusive that at one stage even its

councillors were uncertain if they belonged. The residents of Ruen

accepted the Ruling Council’s despotism readily. Not only because it

ensured Ruen’s traditions remained, but because it had rendered the city

to harbour no crime whatsoever.

Along Ruen’s streets rattled a taxi, within which rattled a cat.

And although Oscar Teabag-Dooven had been in numerous taxis, he’d

never been in one rattling through a city as fabled as Ruen. He stared

eagerly at all the bits he passed, most of which looked very nice indeed,

and the bits that didn’t he was certain would do during other times of

the day. Although he was thrilled to be in Ruen, he was equally thrilled

to be in a taxi, because it meant his flight from Asquith had not

inadvertently ended in a raging fireball. He loathed aeroplanes.

Especially when they were not on the ground, a state they had an

irritating habit of aspiring to. Fortunately, his flight had been relatively

straightforward. Except for the going-up and coming-down bits, which

The Purging Of Ruen

12

he could easily have done without. Mind you, he wasn’t keen on the bit

in between either. And it wasn’t just aeroplanes that left him

uncomfortable. He disliked airports too, finding them unpleasant places

of limbo—especially when it appeared every animal in the places

seemed obsessed with leaving. Certainly this did little for airports’

confidence and presumably contributed to animals’ eagerness within

them to be elsewhere. Airports had therefore, a peculiar irony in being

gateways to exotic destinations on one paw, while harbouring miserable

sods within them on the other. This was reason enough, Oscar had

decided, for airports to harbour cafeterias selling hot-fin so revolting,

that one ended up being distracted from the misery of the former by the

disgusting taste of the latter.

Slowing through a particularly beautiful part of Ruen, the taxi

negotiated narrow lanes before turning onto a boulevard running along

Ruen’s foreshore. When it pulled up outside a splendid building named

Hotel d’Ruen, Oscar found further thrill when considering the address

he’d issued to the driver upon leaving the airport.

Leaning forward, Oscar tipped him handsomely, before

alighting to retrieve his luggage.

A little dog in a waistcoat sprouting a nametag with ‘Percival S.

Minton’ scribed upon it, trotted down its steps to offer assistance. When

Oscar accepted, the little dog struggled back up them with an

assortment of suitcases, leaving Oscar to watch afternoon settle into

evening across harbour.

The air was cool and heady with sea, so he took a deep breath of

it. And because there was plenty to go around, he then took several

more. Cliff rose from the mainland and teetered with that strange

fragility dusk affords, before plunging into the sea. Upon them perched

old mansions nestled amongst groves of conifers, as though each held

the other in place. Fishing trawlers rounded the headland and chugged

into the harbour, seagulls squawking around them, apparently

demanding some sort of refund. With sun setting behind the city, the

sky’s darkening blue burnt soft pink towards the horizon, leaving Oscar

The Purging Of Ruen

13

so giddy with delight to be in the place, that he had to sit down and take

several more breathes of its splendid air.

Being in Ruen was one thing.

Knowing why was quite another.

The Loud Purr of Asquith had been uncharacteristically reticent

in assigning him here. Which left Oscar worrying this curiosa involved

dangers so ghastly, that the Catacombs did not wish to burden him with

their detail. Nevertheless, it didn’t alter the fact that for the moment at

least, he stood upon the shore of this most revered city with no

immediate need to do anything other than unpack and order a mug of no

doubt exquisitely brewed hot-fin. If the evening remained this pleasant,

he’d perhaps take a stroll and dabble in some imagist verse.

He turned to follow his luggage.

Which was closer than he’d expected.

Having been dropped, it waited at the bottom of the steps while

Percival clambered down after it. Upon retrieval, one suitcase burst,

littering its contents across the pavement until hastily repacked by

Percival in the most vague sense of the word imaginable.

The hotel was tall, grand, and old. Ornate columns supported an

equally ornate stone awning over its steps, up which Percival again

struggled with luggage. Sea and salt had the plaster upon its walls

blister and crack in a manner most appealing. Such disrepair, along with

a sort of palpable seaside contentment, softened the building’s austerity

into a genial embrace. Behind it, Ruen’s buildings climbed around

narrow lanes as though once weaved together upon a loom. With the

mountains silhouetted against the sun’s fading rays, the city sparkled

with a thousand twinkles in defiance of any earthly dictated hour—

rather like the defiance his luggage was showing to Percival, though

with less twinkling and more bursting.

Regardless of the reasons he had been sent here, Oscar was

grateful to have been. Unlike his luggage, which still refused to

cooperate in any conventional sense, and tumbled back down steps

again. Being in Ruen made a nice change from foiling dangerous

villains. His most recent curiosa had him thwarting the antics of a

The Purging Of Ruen

14

particularly villainous cat named the Tremblees, aide d’camp at the

palace of Par Beguine, [2]

and not at all the sort of animal one might

invite around for a nice mug of hot-fin and some buns. While Oscar’s

tussle with the Tremblees had been successful, it had also been

traumatic, resulting in Oscar having had both his ears torn off. Being

Oscar’s first curiosa, to return from it without ears said a great deal

about how difficult the whole thing had been, and left the Catacomb’s

feeling dreadful and insisting he have a holiday. Oscar had indeed taken

time off—albeit in his living room. With the curtains drawn and the

lights out. And it had taken some time for the Loud Purr to convince

him others would see his earlessness as evidence of courage rather than

hideous disfigurement. But Oscar remained doubtful, even when the

Loud Purr promised any animal found suggesting otherwise would have

the fact pointed out via a punch in the face.

Nevertheless, Oscar was grateful his encounter with the

Tremblees left him with enough limbs to permit arriving in Ruen at all.

And he was glad to trot up the steps of its most prestigious hotel on two

of them—though not nearly as glad as Percival when Oscar helped him

heave luggage with his remaining ones.

When they finally struggled into the hotel, Percival insisted on

dragging the suitcases across the foyer toward a reception desk, leaving

Oscar opportunity to have a jolly good gawk at the inside of the place as

well. It was as impressive as its outside, though had less cracked plaster

and more expensive wallpaper. It had a very nice shiny floor too, and

some large plants in pots, which were also surprisingly shiny. There

were some large paintings in shiny frames upon the wall, upon which

shiny lights shone, and even the patrons milling about the place did so

with the sort of shine that left Oscar keen to find a cloth and buff them.

Oscar like shiny things.

It generally meant they worked well.

And Hotel d’Ruen was very shiny indeed.

Shiny or not, it didn’t alter the fact that Oscar had no idea why

he’d been assigned here. Perhaps it was regret from the Catacombs

about his ears. Or lack of them.

The Purging Of Ruen

15

He went to the reception desk, which was even shinier than the

floor. He admired some shiny pens upon it before realising neither his

suitcases—nor indeed the animal bursting them—were anywhere to be

seen. Fortunately there was a bell upon it, and being even shinier than

the desk, Oscar pinged it enthusiastically.

From behind the desk, Percival rose in a manner suggesting he’d

been doing something dubious behind it. Frowning, Oscar peered over

the desk to see a second suitcases had burst, with the third having lost

its handle. All three had been lashed together with masses of cellotape

in a rustic attempt at rectifying the fact. Oscar blinked at them for some

time, and then at Percival, who asked whether he’d like a room. Oscar

suggested it was probably unnecessary considering he no longer had

anything resembling luggage to put in one. While Percival assured him

that cellotape was far better than silly old hinges and handles, Oscar

just sighed and reflected on the briefing he’d been given by the Loud

Purr instead.

_____________________ 1 See The World Is Badly Made

[back]

2 See The World Is Badly Made

[back]

The Purging Of Ruen

16

3

____________________

Deep in the Catacombs of Asquith, Oscar Teabag-Dooven sat in

the high room known as the Lair. Upon a plush and comfortable chair,

he waited for the most authoritative of animals, the Loud Purr. The

room was plush and red. A colour Oscar appreciated, contrasting

beautifully with his white fur. In front of him, was an authoritative desk

beneath an authoritative pile of paper, and upon which was a phone.

Two, actually: one brown and one an assertive red. Behind the desk

waited a high-backed chair, and behind this was a tall, narrow window

with velvet drapes drawn. Being the only window in the Liar, it had a

tendency to illuminated the Loud Purr’s silhouette into one ethereal.

Oscar liked the Loud Purr. The cat was big, strong, and

intimidating. Amongst Velvet Paws, respect for the animal was

absolute. He had a controversial history, too. In particular, Oscar was

intrigued by a story suggesting that when the Loud Purr had been a

Velvet Paw many years ago, he’d been marooned for several months

and had apparently grown a mane. On the few occasions Oscar had

been before the animal, he’d decided the esteemed cat would certainly

be capable.

A clack of opening door was followed by the soft, refined

padding of a battle-hardened Velvet Paw, his practised stealth marred

now by the cat’s sheer size. Oscar stood and looked straight ahead. The

Loud Purr ignored him, and walked to his high-backed chair, before

sitting authoritatively and staring at his desk in thought. Worried the

Loud Purr hadn’t noticed him, Oscar twitched his tail in a tentative

wave to hint at his presence.

Eventually, the Loud Purr gestured for Oscar to sit.

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17

He did so and waited.

Not looking up from pondering, the large cat asked, “Did you

have a nice rest, Pantaloons?”

Oscar leant forward. “I spent most of it in my living room, your

Great Loudness,” he said, curling his tail across his lap and tucking it in

beside him, a bit like a seatbelt.

The Loud Purr humphed. “Tell me Pantaloons,” he asked, still

staring at his desk, “Have you ever been to the city of Ruen?”

Oscar’s whiskers twitched. It was a place he’d heard of. Ruen

was a wealthy and exclusive city, south of Milos, renowned for having

no crime. But he’d never visited and said so.

The large cat stood. Turning, he wandered to the tall window

and moved its drapes aside to contemplate the view of Asquith below.

“Perhaps it is appropriate you do so, Pantaloons, considering you have

spent the past month indoors?”

The question was almost certainly rhetorical. The Loud Purr was

notoriously clinical in assigning Velvet Paws to curiosa. But when the

large cat whirled around and stared at Oscar, it seemed the question

required an answer after all.

So Oscar began, “Well, that is to say, I’m not entirely certain if

I—”

But the Loud Purr interrupted with a wave of paw. “Have you

gotten over that problem with your head, Pantaloons?” he asked.

Mortified, Oscar placed his paws there. Six weeks on, it still felt

wrong: all bumpy and gristly amidst his beautiful crowning fur.

“It doesn’t actually look that bad, Pantaloons.”

Oscar remained silent and removed his paws from where ears

once stood. He wouldn’t say anything, even if the Loud Purr expected

acceptance that losing them was part of curiosa.

Because it wasn’t.

He had no ears.

And how can a cat be taken seriously, if it has no ears?

Moreover, they had been his ears, for goodness’ sake. He could

accept another animal losing theirs. But when it came to his own, he

The Purging Of Ruen

18

could not. He needed them. And he missed them. Both of them. Oscar

had little vanity. But as a white cat, with thick, triple-layered fur and a

long, fluffy tail, he knew he was a beautiful animal.

Or at least had been.

“Have you been to the Catacombs Workshop, Pantaloons? They

can do quite remarkable things. Indeed, I believe Flap-Sploon has a

bionic paw now. It’s made of wood apparently, with some string and

quite a lot of cellotape. He can’t get it wet though. Or use it to touch

anything. He can’t wave with it either for that matter. Or go out when

it’s windy. And on reflection, it doesn’t even look much like a paw.”

“I haven’t, no.”

The Loud Purr humphed, suggesting it was probably just as

well.

“Fortunately, my ears still work, your Enormous Purriness,”

Oscar said. “They just look, well, smaller.”

The Loud Purr frowned and moved to get a better look. “You

can hardly tell, ” he said. “Really, your fur hides things rather well.” He

moved his paws up and down, in a descriptive manner. “Perhaps you

could sort of spike your fur over the gaps and make it look sort of…

pointy.”

It was a ridiculous suggestion, but Oscar tried a smile.

The Loud Purr left the window to sit at his desk again. “Still, we

digress,” he said. “How many Velvet Paws are there?”

Oscar shrugged. “Twenty?”

“And who has been the newest recruit, Pantaloons?”

“Well, me, I believe, your Big Loudness.”

The Loud Purr nodded in more uncharacteristic introspection.

He stood again and returned to the view. “And they are all fine Velvet

Paws,” he said. “For they have passed their training brilliantly and

perform curiosa exceptionally well. Indeed, they leave the Velvet Paws

of Asquith to be entirely revered.” He turned back to Oscar, adding,

“Although it’s covert of course. So no creature actually knows we

exist.”

“Well, quite.”

The Purging Of Ruen

19

“Though were they to, we would be revered utterly. That no

others know of us is testament to the fact, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course.”

“So the reverence to which I refer is an extrapolation most

educated.”

“Most educated indeed.”

The Loud Purr’s emphasis on his colleagues’ brilliance surely

highlighted his lack of anything similar. And criticism seemed most

unfair considering his recent curiosa had foiled the Tremblees—let

alone the bit about his ears being ripped off.

Mind you, were criticism forthcoming, Oscar would not be

surprised. It was only a question of when it might be. Even he wasn’t

certain how he’d managed to foil the Tremblees. It had something to do

with spoons, he remembered. And chandeliers. And extremely large

piles of firewood. How they might be related eluded him. Mind you,

having one’s ears ripped off was considered a very nasty knock to the

head, so lack of recollection is understandable.

Oscar didn’t know how he’d become a Velvet Paw of Asquith.

Having failed his training three times, the only bits he’d passed were

theatrical role playing, extensible sleeping skills, and interpretive paw-

painting. Indeed, Oscar considered himself a wet paw when it came to

training. He didn’t like crawling through muddy ditches, or pitching

tents in the pouring rain. He didn’t like abseiling down cliff-faces when

there was a perfectly good path enabling one to get up there in the first

place. Nor did he like paw-to-paw combat because of the risk of

becoming tangled in his own pantaloons. He didn’t like the food, or the

sleeping arrangements, and he loathed the narcissism of those vying to

prove themselves to the Catacombs. He detested the hours of packing

and unpacking his collapsible field survival tummy in the dark when it

seemed far more sensible to do so before leaving. And he loathed the

bickering between animals during Covert Night Manoeuvre training,

determined to be the one from whom instructions are dealt. Indeed, this

often left him having a nap while they sorted out leadership issues,

often violently and never definitively. What he despised most of all

The Purging Of Ruen

20

however, was sky diving, because Oscar Teabag-Dooven abhorred

height. And his dislike of airports didn’t help either.

Paws behind his back, the Loud Purr reverted to a more familiar

role of lecturer. “The Velvet Paws of Asquith are all clinicians,” he

said. “They are sharp of method, taut of whisker, and merciless in

pursuit of curiosa.” He returned to his desk. “You, Pantaloons, have

other talents. For you are a quite different animal.”

This surprised Oscar. If he had any talent to mention, it was

nothing the Catacombs would consider an asset to a Velvet Paw. His

inclination to compose imagist verse was hardly useful in thwarting the

injustices of the world—unless the world was being threatened by

particularly dangerous poets. Which was absurd. Imagist poetry was

something he often did on Covert Night Manoeuvre training if the

bickering became too loud for sleeping. And nothing could be further

from a Velvet Paw than an imagist poet. He was surprised it had taken

the Catacombs this long to realise—and then annoyed they hadn’t

before having his ears ripped off.

“Such difference has you harbouring far greater ability as a

Velvet Paw than you might imagine,” the Loud Purr continued.

These words had Oscar frowning, blinking and swallowing in

that order. “I’m sorry, you great Enormous Exuberance?”

“It is rare for the Catacombs to have the fortune of an animal

such as you in its ranks.”

It sounded like a compliment and Oscar was confused. “What,

so you’re not expelling me, your Diesel-Poweredliness?”

There was a surprised pause and the large cat looked up.

“Expelling you? Of course not! What on earth gave you that idea?”

Oscar re-tucked his tail into the chair, as its sheer fluffiness

often had it springing from wherever it was inserted. “It is true I am not

the same as the other Velvet Paws,” he said. “I fear I do not get along

with them. Frankly, I don’t like them very much. They’re quite noisy

for a start.”

“You don’t need to like them, Pantaloons. They are colleagues.

They do not have to be friends. Goodness me, this isn’t school, this is

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21

the real world, and it’s considerably more complicated than most

animals can fathom.” He shifted in his seat, adding, “To be quite

honest, Pantaloons, I personally find being friendly with animals adds

further to such complication.” Staring then, he asked, “Do you know

why you don’t get along with them, Pantaloons?”

Oscar shrugged. “Because I’m a bit wet?”

The Loud Purr shook his head. “No. It’s because, you’re not a

soldier.” He brought his paws together and leant back in his

authoritative chair to stare authoritatively. “We have enough soldiers,

Pantaloons. We have enough robots, if you will. What we need are

Velvet Paws more thoughtful in the field, Velvet Paws with a gentler

approach. Velvet Paws like you, Pantaloons. For you are intuitive rather

than logistical, and creative rather than methodical. You are innately

curious rather than simply obedient.” With a deep breath he leant

forward upon his desk. “You have talents others don’t, Pantaloons. You

have a mind that is your own and, most importantly, you have

discretion which can be exercised discretely.”

And then came words that surprised Oscar entirely.

“And that is why I need your help.”

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