The noise was jarring. No doubt, it would rattle the skulls of many folk out there. It would cause the strongest and fiercest to quiver and yelp, or the cleverest to frantically seek out its source. Most impressively, however, it was enough to rouse Captain Whiskers from his sleep. And, as anyone would tell you, this is no easy task.

'Eh?' Whiskers muttered, wiping the drool from his chin. He looked about to his left and right as he tried to regain his bearings. He was aboard his ship, as he thought he should be, but in a position he didn't recall being in. He was at the wheel, in fact: a place that he knew was not at all appropriate for sleep.

He rubbed his eyes briefly, before lumbering over towards the bow of the Dread Lock. The bow, incidentally, is the front, and an area that Whiskers is most familiar with, due to his tendency to crash into things.

Peering over the edge, he discovered that he had careened right into a dock. Chunks of wood floated about the water, but the ship had not sunk, which led him to assume it was not Dread Lock wood. Captain Whiskers nodded to himself. He would have to call that a success.

'I cannot believe this!'

Whiskers turned to see the distressed First Mate Latimer emerging from his quarters, pulling on his overcoat. He had rather hoped that Latimer wouldn't have noticed this small collision, but apparently today was not his day. Latimer's light brown fur (a colour Whiskers had affectionately dubbed as 'dirt-like') had flecks of white appearing in it as he got older, particularly around his face. With his black and white striped shirt and bandanna atop his head, Latimer looked every bit the pirate. Particularly at this moment, since he had a very mean and angry look on his face.

'You've crashed again, haven't you?' Latimer barked, furious. 'You fell asleep, I'm guessing?'

'Hold your tongue, sailor,' Whiskers replied sharply. 'A good captain never falls asleep at the wheel.'

'And you, sir, are certainly not a good captain!' Latimer shot back. He shoved his way past Whiskers, inspecting the damage himself. He groaned as he clambered down a ladder dangling over the deck, making sure there was no serious structural harm to the bow.

'You're in luck, my boy,' Latimer shouted from below. 'The Lock is holding up rather well.'

'Exactly what I had intended, then,' Whiskers said with satisfaction, more to himself than to anyone else. He reached out his hand to pull Latimer back up, nearly tumbling over when the old dog grabbed hold.

The day was just about to dawn, and the first traces of light began to appear over the horizon. Latimer would have been waking up at around this time—if only they could have crashed into the dock five minutes later, Whiskers could have had some extra shut-eye. He grabbed his telescope, and observed the township they had arrived at so briskly.

Despite this large ship having rudely landed upon their fragmented dock, the townspeople hardly seemed to notice. Already, they were busily going back and forth, many carrying large scaffolding and items for sale. It was unusual to see folks setting up shop this early, particularly with so little to sell nowadays.

'This place looks boring!' Whiskers scoffed, riddled with disappointment. 'Just a silly little merchant town. Where in the blazes are we, anyway?'

'Would if I could tell you,' Latimer replied matter-of-factly. 'Our course didn't have us heading anywhere near a township of this size.'

He pointed at the map. They were supposed to have travelled open waters all the way to their destination, a bustling city called Lefour.

'We've either drifted several leagues off-course, or this place isn't even on the map.'

Whiskers glanced at the map. It was very, very old, daresay older than Latimer himself. Its accuracy was dubious, at best.

'Well, in any event, it's really not a place for us to be, I think,' Whiskers continued. 'Prepare to hit the sea, sailor!'

'That won't be happening, captain,' said Latimer, shaking his head. 'The Lock will need a bit of patching up before she's ready to set sail. Besides, it's probably a good idea to figure out where we are, before aimlessly darting off.'

Captain Whiskers sighed in resignation, poking the ground with his foot. 'Aye, I too figured as much. We will pinpoint our location, and fill our heads with the knowledge of the townspeople.'

A large protest in the form of his burbling stomach roared out. 'And fill our bellies, while we're at it!'

*

Whiskers and Latimer headed towards the town centre, people chatting noisily as they passed by. Children were laughing and playing, and chasing each other with sticks. Whiskers couldn't help but feel jovial.

'I haven't seen such a fuss in months,' Whiskers said, impressed. 'It's vaguely infectious!'

Out of the corner of his eye, Latimer noted several small rats scurrying into an alleyway.

'It's likely not the only thing that's infectious,' he warned. 'Watch out for lower creatures.'

Lower creatures were quite prevalent around these areas: animals who hadn't evolved as rapidly as those who were talking and building things and singing songs, and the like. They were harmless, mostly, though the rats were known to spread sickness. In fact, even evolved rats were generally unpopular folk, as they too tended to scrounge around in the filth.

As they walked, they could hear sounds of music filling the air. They turned a corner, and to their astonishment, they had arrived at a festival. There were shopkeepers setting up stalls, performers putting on puppet shows for the children, and even some kind of game that involved a large hammer. It looked violent, Whiskers was excited to try it.

'A faire,' Whiskers gasped, his eyes darting about as he tried to take it all in. 'In this day and age!'

'I'd call it frivolity,' Latimer said bitterly.

'Oh? I was told it was pronounced faire...' Whiskers said, embarrassed.

'No, I mean, where do they get off, slacking about and having fun like this?' Latimer growled, gesturing towards the stalls. 'Look at the rubbish they're selling! That wouldn't be worth a single ruffee back home.'

Indeed, the wares could be generously described as lacking. But Whiskers wouldn't let this affect him.

'At ease, sailor. We're not here to buy.'

He sauntered towards the nearest stall, where the merchant, a lanky rabbit, had just finished setting up.

'Hail, traveller,' the merchant said warmly. 'Welcome to the Festival of the First Rain! You're truly blessed to have arrived here on this magical day. What might I interest you in?'

Whiskers pulled the baubles he had found last night from his pocket, and held them out to the merchant. Latimer's eyes widened when he saw them.

'Wh-where did you get those?!' Latimer stammered.

'I'm here to sell, my good man,' Whiskers said with a flourish. 'I've the finest of items to add to your collection.'

The merchant took one of the baubles. It slipped about in his paw, moist from the oily residue of the meals it had been amongst.

'These are indeed fine trinkets...' the merchant said slowly. 'But I would hardly call them the finest. They're in questionable condition, it would be difficult for me to sell them.' He sighed. 'However, today is a day where miracles are commonplace. I will give you twelve barams for the lot.'

'Sold!' Whiskers declared, handing over the baubles and walking away with his money.

'Have you gone mad?' Latimer shouted, enraged. 'Those would have been worth eighty ruffees!'

'You heard the man,' Whiskers replied, fumbling with the money, which was now also greasy. 'It was filthy, and practically worthless.'

'They could have been cleaned,' Latimer said back. 'You've just been swindled!'

'Attention! Attention!'

An authoritative voice broke through all of the rabble, and Whiskers turned to see a heron standing atop a podium. She was wearing a most exquisite hat, so she was obviously very important. Whiskers ran through the crowd to make sure he was as close as possible, elbowing a few children who challenged his position.

'It is absolutely wonderful to see such an incredible turnout for this momentous occasion,' the heron announced to the suddenly hushed crowd. 'We have long awaited this day, and I thank you all for staying patient and faithful. Times were hard, but now, we are privileged to mark the beginning of change... with the Festival of the First Rain!'

The crowd broke out in an uproarious cheer. Some of the people had tears in their eyes, fighting hard to hold back their emotion.

'The celebration will run throughout the day, and tonight, we will meet the champion of the new cloud.'

More excited whispers amongst the people.

'But let's not get ahead of ourselves here. There are gaggles of latecomers yet to arrive. For now, let us kick up our feet, let our hair down, and be merry! As mayor of Terocca, I welcome you, one and all, to this day. Your day! At long last!'

Another cheer erupted, and the heron waved as she strode off the stage. People went back to the fun, but now there was an audible buzz.

'The first rain?' Latimer said, puzzled. 'Since when, I wonder?'

'We went weeks without rain back home,' Whiskers replied. 'I guess it's been a few weeks?'

For the first time, Latimer began to notice that the townspeople were much thinner than average. Their eyes were sunken and bloodshot, their bodies frail.

'It looks as though this area has seen the worst of the drought,' he said warily. 'Be sure not to appear too spritely. We don't want to alert people to our supplies.'

He turned towards Whiskers. The captain was pouring a flask of water to clear the mud from his boots.

'Aye,' Whiskers replied. 'We wouldn't want to look suspicious.'

Latimer snatched the flask from Whiskers' hand and jammed it in his pocket, looking about worriedly. 'Let's just figure out where we are, and find someone to mend the Lock, shall we, captain?'

'A splendid idea, first mate,' Whiskers said, grinning. 'I was just about to suggest something to that effect.'

They broke away from the festival grounds, where more and more people were arriving as the day went on, and happened upon a tavern. Tavern keepers were often valuable sources of information: in their dealings with the many thirsty travellers of the world, they were sometimes better educated than the scholars of a town.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Pushing the door open, they entered the venue. It was dusty, and eerily quiet. Unlike the town centre, it appeared abandoned. Cobwebs lined the corners, and a musty smell was in the air. It looked as though it had been forgotten for some time.

'Hello?' Whiskers called out, knocking on a table as he passed by it.

An old goat emerged from behind the bar, groggy and bewildered. He fiddled with the glasses perched upon his nose, and he strained to rise to his feet. As he moved, a layer of dust was shaken from his fur.

'Customers?' he grumbled to himself. His voice sounded like it hadn't been used in years. 'Fancy that. Looking for a bed, are you?'

'No, no, not for today,' Whiskers replied. 'A flagon of mead will suffice. Or some rum, if you have it?'

'Mead?' the goat said, a sneer crossing his face. 'Rum?!'

He chortled loudly for a few moments before a coughing fit erupted, saliva spraying Whiskers in the face.

'That's some sense of humour you've got there,' the goat said finally, regaining his composure. 'If you're after a drink, I've got green or brown.'

Whiskers and Latimer shot each other a look. Latimer gave a small nod, a reminder that they wanted to stay low-key.

'Green, please,' Latimer said.

'Your finest brown for me!' Whiskers added, licking his lips.

The goat shuddered as he poured the beverages.

'Can't say I'm fond of the brown, but to each their own.'

He placed the drinks upon the bar, and Whiskers held out a few barams. The goat took one, and gave Whiskers a meew in return. Whiskers looked at the tiny coin in shock. He hadn't seen a denomination that low in all his life, he didn't even think they still existed. Sensing Latimer's glare, he hastily shoved the coins in his pocket.

They sat down at the table closest to the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Whiskers saw the goat disappear back down behind the bar. He then turned his attention to the mug in his hand. There was a pungent aroma coming from the drink—if one could call it a drink—that filled his nostrils. He could feel his face contorting in disgust, and looked up at Latimer for visual cues.

The bulldog was sitting there, stone-faced. He took a swig of his drink, and said nothing. That was a good sign, surely. Whiskers took a great big gulp of his own drink. It tasted like muck, and had roughly the thickness to match. He could almost swear he swallowed a rock.

'Let's... let's trade drinks,' Whiskers coughed, shifting the mugs between himself and Latimer. He gazed down at the new concoction. Its consistency was cloudy and troubling. He figured if he poured it out, it would eat a hole right through the floor. Still, Latimer had guzzled it without a word, so Whiskers took a sip.

The moment it hit his lips, he felt ill. It smelt like some sort of dreadful dead thing, and it tasted worse still—as though someone had thrown all of their old rubbish into a vat, stirred it about, and then fermented it for a hundred years. He felt himself retching, but Latimer's piercing stare deterred him.

'Delicious!' Whiskers shouted, tears welling in his eyes. 'So delicious, I could go for three more.'

The goat emerged, and began eagerly pouring another batch. Whiskers' mouth twitched at the sight of the toxic green ooze sloshing about in each mug.

'But I shan't,' he continued, laughing nervously. 'We'd best not have too much to drink on the day of the New Rain Festival, should we?'

The goat scoffed.

'You folks really believe in that kind of superstition?' he brayed from behind the bar. 'It's a jolly good sentiment, no doubt, but I've seen my share of days, boys, and I can tell you that no amount of rain is going to save this town. With or without their magical champion of the clouds, or whatever blarney they're calling it.'

'Could you elaborate on this cloud whatnot?' Whiskers asked, overwhelmed by curiosity.

'I figured you chaps weren't from anywhere nearby,' the goat said, squinting to get a better look at the duo. 'I've never seen a spotted grey cat of your size, for one thing. You're a rare sort of breed, aren't you?'

Whiskers was indeed larger than the average cat, and had been teased growing up as a result. He looked down into his drink quietly for a moment.

'The only, I'm led to believe.'

'Well, I won't bore you with too many details,' the goat said, spitting into a mug and then wiping it clean with a rag. 'The townsfolk believe that last night's rain is supposed to bring about a new era of cloudy skies and other such humbug. Can't say I blame them for their excitement. After all, before last night it hadn't rained a single drop around here for two years.'

'No rainfall in two years?' Whiskers gasped.

The goat shook his head sadly.

'Not a one.'

'I didn't realise the drought had gotten this bad around this neck of the woods,' Latimer said quietly, out of earshot of the goat. 'It's been pretty slim pickings back home this year, but two whole years without any rain?'

He pressed his hands together, with a solemn look in his eye.

'I remember when I was a pup, my nan used to tell me that when she was a wee one, there were parts of the globe that didn't see rainfall for five years. She said it was like the whole world was dying off... I didn't believe her at the time, but I guess it is possible, after all.'

'We ought to count our lucky stars that there was at least a healthy lot of rain back in autumn,' Whiskers said, shuddering to himself. 'I think it was... six days, or something to that effect? More than I can count on one paw, anyhow.'

'You know, we should really keep a close eye on our cargo, my lad,' Latimer warned. 'All of that fruit we've got to deliver to Lefour? It's worth a princely sum as it is, I couldn't imagine how valuable it would be to these poor folk.'

'Aye,' Whiskers said, tapping the table thoughtfully. 'The bananas and the apples, and especially those ruddy mangosteens.'

'Mangosteens?' the goat gasped. He was suddenly standing right next to them. 'Good gracious, did you say mangosteens? I haven't seen those delightful things since I was but knee high! Tell me what you know of mangosteens—tell me, please!'

Whiskers was now quite panic-stricken by how passionate the goat was about mangosteens. The captain scarcely knew what they even were, but he understood they were the most important part of the shipment. When he tried to think of what to say, his words betrayed his tongue, hiding in fear down in his throat.

'Mangosteens?' Latimer scoffed, finishing off his drink in one enormous gulp. 'Never heard of them. He didn't mention anything of the sort, actually, he was just saying that we'd like another round of green, please.'

Disappointed, the goat shuffled back to the bar to fetch the drinks. Latimer gave Whiskers a look that was even dirtier than their beverages, and Whiskers could only shrug in response. That goat was a stealthy sort: that much was sure.

Latimer leant forward, making sure that only Whiskers could hear him.

'After this, I say we head back to the dock and focus on getting the Lock patched up. We may have to skip the directions and judge our course by the position of the sun. It's not perfect, but we should be able to get a rough idea of which way to head.'

Whiskers nodded warily. He was suddenly quite aware of how serious the situation could be if their fruit cargo was made common knowledge. When the goat cheerily placed two more mugs of green before him, his heart sank. Things were getting more serious by the second.

*

With renewed concentration and a belly full of green, Captain Whiskers and First Mate Latimer ambled back towards the dock. When they saw the Dread Lock, they were stricken with, most appropriately, a feeling of dread. The ship was tilted frightfully in one direction! It was quite the ludicrous sight, and it seemed ready to submerge at any moment. Strangely, however, it wasn't sinking around the bow where they had crashed, but rather, backwards, and a bit towards port, the ship's left.

Latimer dived into the water and swam to see the source of the leak. Whiskers waited nervously, pulling out his telescope to watch his first mate power through the waves. The old sea dog was a strong swimmer, and it didn't take him long to find the problem. When he saw it, he responded with a shout. He made his way back to the dock, and clambered onto dry land.

'Captain! There's been a puncture near the stern! It's a small one, but it's taking on a lot of water. It almost looks like we've hit a rock or something?'

Whiskers started sweating with guilt. Fortunately, it was well hidden on his furry hide.

'I suppose... the impact at the bow isn't such a concern then, is it?' he offered, trying to make the best of a bad situation.

'Captain, the damage looks to have occurred right around the cargo hold,' Latimer said gravely.

'Oh... oh no!' Whiskers gasped, fumbling his way up onto the deck. He dashed clumsily down the stairs of the ship. There was a thin layer of water lapping around his ankles as he ran down the hall, and the severity of the swaying now seemed worse than it had before. Whiskers threw open the door of the cargo hold. When he saw what it looked like inside, he turned pale.

The hold had been flooded. There was water sloshing back and forth, and worse still, soggy, smashed and ruined fruits floating about everywhere. There was a small hole that was shooting water into the ship. As Latimer had said, the damage wasn't great, but it was enough to have caused this disaster.

'Bilge!' Whiskers moaned miserably. 'I hate bilge!'

He grabbed a bucket, and began shovelling the water. He looked about frantically, unsure of where to send it. In his haste, he flung the water back out the doorway. Latimer was standing there, and was now drenched, and even more dour than usual.

'This plan is rather flawed, captain,' he muttered.

'If you have a better solution, I'd certainly like to hear it, first mate! Pithy retorts won't fix this mess.'

Taking off his coat, Latimer wedged it into the hole. He then knelt up next to it as close as he could. A few tiny streams of water shot through, but the leak had been reduced immensely.

'Capital thinking, first mate!' Whiskers declared with glee. 'And with that, let us set sail!'

'Actually, captain, I don't intend to hit the open seas while acting as a cork,' Latimer said dryly. 'I'll clear out the bilge, but I suggest you head back into town and find a caulker, as quickly as you can.'

'A caulker!' Whiskers repeated. 'Yes, too right. A caulker. I always enjoy the company of a good caulker. Too few of them in this day and age.'

Captain Whiskers turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He bumbled back and forth uneasily, his mind racing.

What in good heavens is a caulker?

Whiskers hadn't the faintest clue what his first mate was talking about. Had he perhaps meant cockatoo? They weren't likely to find one around this part of the world.

Regardless, he scurried back onto the dock, searching for whomever was around, anyone at all who may be particularly adept at caulking.

Alas, there wasn't a single dockhand to be found. He made his way into the town centre, certain that he was bound to find someone there. When he returned to the festival, his head was spinning. He crashed right into the puppet show, tripping over the hapless puppeteers below. Captain Whiskers got back on his feet, appearing in centre stage with a tattered puppet draped over his head.

'Do you children know the caulker?' he shouted towards the youths below. They each shrieked in terror, scattering about in multiple directions.

Annoyed, Whiskers emerged from the makeshift theatre, and ran towards the fellow in charge of the strange hammer game, a tree frog with a great big belly.

'Pray tell, my good man,' Whiskers said desperately. 'Could you show me to the local caulker?'

'Why, that's no trouble at all,' the frog replied merrily. 'I can show you the way right now.'

He held the hammer in his hands as he spoke. 'But first of all, wouldn't you like to test your strength for only three barams?'

Whiskers stood there for a moment in disbelief.

'...Three barams, you say?'

*

Captain Whiskers was led to the town hall. It was a rather dilapidated-looking building, which was of great concern—if they couldn't maintain their town hall, what good would they be at fixing his ship? The frog pushed the door open gingerly, as though he feared it would collapse under too much pressure.

'Mayor Flinders!' he called. 'We're in need of the town's best caulker!'

The heron with the stellar hat looked up from her desk. A small smile appeared on her face, not particularly something that beaks were known to manage.

'Well, that's an atypical request, Mr. Billups,' she replied in amusement. 'And who is it that requires such a service?'

'Captain Whiskers, my distinguished friend,' Whiskers said enthusiastically, gesturing in a grand fashion. Water poured from his pockets as he bowed.

'My ship has sprung a leak, and she's taking on water! If you could show me to your cougher—errr, that is to say, caulker, it would be much obliged!'

'Look no further,' the mayor replied with pride. 'They're right here before you!'

Whiskers scowled at the frog furiously.

'You, Mr. Billups? If that was the case, you needn't take me on such an excursion!'

Mayor Flinders rose from her desk.

'Yes, yes, a most amusing little jest. But we best not waste time. Mr. Billups, if you could fetch my gear, we will attend to the captain's ship at once.'

The frog hopped to it—in a literal way that Whiskers found rather hilarious—and the three headed back to the dock. Mayor Flinders and Mr. Billups climbed aboard the ship at an impressive speed, and glided down into its lower decks with an unspeakable grace. When they entered the cargo hold, the mayor locked eyes with Latimer for a moment, almost as though she had uncovered something deep within him. Seeing this, Whiskers also looked into Latimer's eyes.

...They were amber! Heavens, he had never realised.

With fantastic ease, Flinders mended the hole. Whiskers could scarcely tell what she had done, but it seemed to involve some kind of putty substance. Flinders took a step back, observing the room. There wasn't any fruit floating about—Latimer must have hidden it.

'What is it that we're transporting, gentlemen?' the mayor asked, bending over to examine a broken crate.

'Rocks, I suppose?' Whiskers said in an instant.

'You suppose?' Flinders asked, puzzled.

'I... umm... yes, I suppose...' Whiskers mumbled nervously. He would have been better off waiting for Latimer to offer up something more believable.

'I mean, no, I'm certain of it! Rocks of all shapes and sizes. A most rocky cargo, indeed.'

'And where are these rocks now?' the mayor asked, her long neck leaning forward towards Whiskers.

'I'm afraid I can't say,' Whiskers said in a mysterious tone. 'For they've been strategically placed all about the ship in an effort to keep things balanced. Can't have a room full of boulders, now can we?'

'This place reeks of fruit!' Mr. Billups blurted suddenly, taking in a great big whiff of air.

'No, no, no...' Captain Whiskers denied. 'No fruits on this ship! ...Not even lime stones!' Whiskers laughed and laughed. But nobody else found it funny.

'That'd be the acetone, I suppose,' Latimer said abruptly.

'Acetone?' Billups said, turning to look at Latimer.

'Aye,' the bulldog said, calmly nodding. 'We use it to keep the rocks clean. Can't deliver a subpar product to our customers, after all.'

'I've never heard of this acetone nonsense...' Billups said, his face wrinkling with distrust.

'Probably not big around these parts,' Latimer said with a shrug. 'The captain and I have been using it for so long, we hardly even detect it anymore, but we've been told it does smell a bit like fruit.'

'That solves that, then,' Whiskers said, rubbing his hands together. 'Must be the acid-tone. Shall we go, then?'

Captain Whiskers merrily led the way from the cargo hold, having very narrowly avoided a potentially messy confrontation. It's a good thing he came up with the clever idea of rocks. At the rear, Mayor Flinders slowly followed behind them. As the ship swayed with the waves, she noticed something roll up against her foot.

She looked down, and spotted an apple that Latimer must have missed. She kept her cool, bending down to swiftly pluck it from the floor and place it in her pocket.

'Acetone, indeed,' she muttered to herself.