Well over four hours later, just when I started to question my memory as well as my sanity, hardly able to believe that the whole situation was real, I felt a tugging on my mind. Finally, here it comes. Duke Redaldt is an alright chap, this should be amusing, if not fun! My den, my nest, and my belongings faded as quickly as the other world appeared.

After fully materializing, I was met with the imposing visage of the duke. There we go, duke! What have you planned for today, might I ask? I finished my appearance with a deep, courtly bow, my imaginary hat held out wide and my head tipped low.

Something felt off when he greeted, “Well met, Master Rat, it is good that you can join us.!”

Us? I don’t see anyone. . .

And that is when I was introduced to Larraldo Hannigus Thormere Cartounan Vegarsus Redaldt the Second of his name. Loathe am I to think about my time with Larry, as his father was wont to call him. This is when everything started to turn to shit.

Maybe my first clue was that a boy of his age probably should have been smarter than to pick up someone by their ear, which, by the way, for those of you who have not had the pleasure of experiencing it for yourself, is quite breathtaking. There really isn’t anything quite like the pain of one overly sensitive rat-ear supporting your entire body weight. Yes, this sadistic child, it turns out, was my new master. His father had gifted me to him for his thirteenth birthday.

“Ooh! A rat! Can I keep him, daddy?” he pleaded with exuberant over-the-top energy. “I promise I will feed him and everything this time!”

“Yes, my son, you may keep him. He is, after all, for you, my little man! But know this, he is no ordinary rat, not for the son of a duke! This rat is special; he is a magic rat. That figurine you are holding is where he comes from, and he will do whatever you say for four hours a day.”

Larry’s eyes almost popped out of his head, so excited was he. “Magic. . . rat? What can he do? What is his name?”

“Well, he is far cleverer than a normal rat by half, which are already known for their intelligence. And for a name, I suppose you will have to give him one.”

With this suggestion, Larry thought for a long moment. “Since rats carry the plague like in the stories, I should call him Miss Plaguey.”

“Well, my son, he is a he, not a she after all, and I don’t think that is such a good name.”

“No worries, father! I shall name him Mr. Plaguey!” he exclaimed with no small amount dramatic flair.

“Now Larry, I don’t think that is a good. . . “

Now before the good duke could even finish his sentence, the most terrifying noise issued forth from that demon-child’s gaping maw. It was unlike anything I had ever heard before and unto this day it still haunts my dreams.

“But Daaaaaaaaaaaaadddddy! It is my rat and I shall name him whatever I want!”

“Now Larry. . . “

“No! No no no no no! He is Mr. Plaguey and he is mine mine mine mine mine!”

I harbor no ill feelings for Duke Redaldt, for who is to say what horrors this child has visited upon him in the past, but it was painfully obvious that even though the battle of wills had just started, the damn kid had already won.

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

“Alright, my sweet boy, he shall be named Mr. Plaguey. I will make it a ducal decree if you only stop whining!”

“Yes father. I’m going to play with Mr. Plaguey outside now, bye!” and he ran off, still holding me by the ears. Thus began my time as Mr. Plaguey.

I, for your sake, shall not bore you with the details of abuse, torture and humiliation I suffered at the hands, feet, and other body parts of that misguided, evil lad. But I will say this; it was start of a long string of masters that cared nothing for my well-being. Every single one of them viewed me as an object, something they could test, break, and otherwise order me around, according to their selfish whims. I was a magic item and no more.

As a result of my unfortunate circumstances, one day was the same as another, one year depressing as the next. With no sight in end, my existence was miserable, and I actively looked forward to the returns home so much that I revealed myself as alive to the warren and actively worked to make my quotas. Over time, I became quite good at collecting items for the warren due to my natural intelligence and the fact that the figurine had one other surprise for me – an unnaturally long life. With all of the time in the world on my hands, I wouldn’t have even needed to be smart to begin excelling at my foraging efforts. With time, I became the single-most productive forager in the warren and gained the respect of my peers as a whole.

I was a bit of a celebrity at home during those days. I tried to keep to myself and my inventions but that was easier said than done. My newfound fame was as much of a curse as it was a boon; it changed the way I behaved and how I thought. With all of the social attention thrust upon me I became adept at working smoothly through social matters as well developing a talent for getting in and out of situations without notice. Even with all of the personal growth, my real world was now the fantasy escape from the life of a doomed and tortured rat. I did everything I could to keep my mind off of the frequent summoning, but the dread of them remained a constant presence in the back of my mind.

It was after a few months of living as Larry’s servant that I found out death wasn’t even an option for escape. On one fairly standard egg raid of a local starling’s nest, I found that out the hard way. While creeping up the side of a large oak tree, I had finally crawled to the target of my hunt, a pair of pale-blue delicious looking eggs. Everything was going according to plan until the mother returned from doing whatever birds do in their spare time to sit upon the nest.

Normally, this would be a standard abort followed by a hasty retreat, but the damn bird managed to surprise me. Startled, I jumped back and lost my footing, starting my thirty-foot date with gravity. With all of the other branches to grab on the way down, rarely did a fall from a tree cause me any sort of injury. Apparently, the blur that was a diving falcon didn’t get this particular memo. She caught me smartly in her talons and despite my best efforts to squirm away from the painful grasp, her grip held fast. I had a minute or so of fostering the illusion of having time to plan my escape before I realized she had ascended quite high above a clearing in the forest. I had only a moment to ponder my situation before I was given a few more moments to ponder it in freefall. The ground came out of nowhere, I swear, constable!

I awoke the next day confused and without signs of injury. It appeared that I could now survive otherwise deadly incidents in both planes of existence. This wasn’t as big of a relief as one might at first assume. Sure, I could die without consequence, but if there’s one thing that the dead never tell you, it is that dying really bloody hurts! It would be an understatement to say that this undermined my will to, well, do anything. After this incident my life became one great big slog spent between miserable experiences and the long, depressing break in between.

After that one day, month, year, blended into the next. With each passing of the figurine over the years came the fleeting hope that this time, the master would be good. This time the master would be somehow better. Alas, as Diller would say, if hope grew on trees, I would suggest you get another, less shitty tree. Over time, I had many masters, all different shades of cruel and bad. I couldn’t even give up, as the magic compelled me to act though my spirit was not willing and each summoning my flesh was most decidedly not weak. I just existed, if you could call what I did existing.

Long after I decided that I must have been cursed somehow, fortune smiled upon me in the most unlikely of saviors; it took the form of one enthusiastic, loveable, if not simple-minded man – Jack.