Chapter 15 Doctor Dolittle's Zoo by Hugh Lofting
THE VOLCANO RAT
The adventure related by the Hotel Rat reminded various members of things of interest in their own lives—as is often the case with stories told to a large audience. And as soon as it was ended a buzz of general conversation and comment began.
“You know,” said the Doctor to the white mouse, “you rats and mice really lead much more thrilling and exciting lives than we humans do.”
“Yes, I suppose that's true,” said the white mouse. “Almost every one of the members here has had adventures of his own. The Volcano Rat, for instance, has a very unusual story which he told me a week or so ago.”
“I'd like to hear some more of these anecdotes of rat and mouse life,” said the Doctor. “But I suppose we ought to be getting home now. It's pretty late.”
“Why don't you drop in again some other night—soon?” said the white mouse. “There's always quite a crowd here in the evenings. I've been thinking it would be nice if you or Tommy would write out a few of these life-stories of the members and make them into a book for us, a collection. We'd call it, say, 'Tales of The Rat and Mouse Club.'”
At this suggestion quite a number of rats and mice who had been listening to our conversation joined in with remarks. They were all anxious for the honor of having their own stories included in the club's book of adventures. And before we left that night it was agreed that we should return the following evening to hear the tale of the Volcano Rat. I knew it would be no easy matter for me to take down the stories word for word. But the white mouse said he would see that they were told slowly and distinctly; and with the Doctor's assistance (his knowledge of rat and mouse language was of course greatly superior to mine) I thought I might be able to manage it. I was most anxious to, for we both realized that by this means we would add a book of great distinction to Animal Literature.
Considerable excitement and rejoicing were shown when it became known that we had consented to the plan. It was at once arranged that a notice should be put up on the club bulletin-board, in the room called the Lounge, showing which member was slated to tell his story for each night in the week. And as we carefully rose from our seats and made our difficult way down the tunnel into the open air, we heard rats and mice all around us assuring one another they would be sure to come to-morrow night.
When he arose amid a storm of applause the following evening to address the large audience gathered to hear his story, the Volcano Rat struck me at once by his distinctly foreign appearance. He was the same color as most rats, neither larger nor smaller; but there was something Continental about him—almost Italian, one might say. He had sparkling eyes and very smooth movements, yet clearly he was no longer young. His manner was a rather curious mixture of gaiety and extreme worldliness.
“Our president,” he began with a graceful bow towards the white mouse, “was speaking last night of the high state of civilization to which, through Doctor John Dolittle and our club, this community has reached. To-night I would like to tell you of another occasion—perhaps the only other occasion in history—when our race rose to great heights of culture and refinement.
“Many years ago I lived on the side of a volcano. For all we knew, it was a dead volcano. On its slopes there were two or three villages and one town. I knew every inch of the whole mountain well. Once or twice I had explored the crater at the top—a great mysterious basin of sponge-like rock, with enormous cracks in it running way down into the heart of the earth. In these, if you listened carefully, you could hear strange rumbling noises deep, deep down.
“The third occasion when I went up to the crater I was trying to get away from some farm dogs who had been following my scent through the vineyards and olive groves of the lower slopes. I stayed up there a whole night. The funny noises sort of worried me; they sounded so exactly like people groaning and crying. But in the morning I met an old, old rat who, it seemed, lived there regularly. He was a nice old chap and we got to chatting. He took me all round the crater and showed me the sights—grottoes, steaming underground lakes and lots of queer things. He lived in these cracks in the mountain.
“'How do you manage for food?' I asked.
“'Acorns,' he replied. 'There are oak-trees a little way down the slope. And I lay in a good big store each Autumn. And then for water there's a brook or two. I manage all right.'
“'Why, you live the same as a squirrel!' I said—'storing up your nuts over the Winter. What made you choose this place for a home?'
“'Well, you see,' said he, 'truth is, I'm getting old and feeble. Can't run the way I used. Any cat or dog could catch me in the towns. But they never come up here to the crater. Superstitious. They're afraid of the rumbling voices. They believe there are demons here.'
“Well, I lived with the old Hermit Rat for two days. It was a nice change after the noisy bustling life of the town. It was a great place just to sit and think, that crater. In the evenings we would squat on the edge of it, looking down at the twinkling lights of the town way, way below—and the sea, a misty horizon in blue-black, far out beyond.
“I asked the old rat if he didn't often get lonely, living up there all alone.
“'Oh, sometimes,' said he. 'But to make up for the loneliness, I have peace. I could never get that down there.'
“Every once in a while, when the rumbling voices coming out of the heart of the mountain got louder, he'd go down a crack and listen. And I asked him what it was he expected to hear. At first he wouldn't tell me and seemed afraid that I might laugh at him or something. But at last he told me.
“'I'm listening for an eruption,' says he.
“'What on earth is that?' I asked.
“'That's when a volcano blows up,' says he. 'This one has been quiet a long time, many years. But I've listened to those voices so long, I've got so I can understand 'em.—Yes, you needn't laugh,' he added, noticing I was beginning to grin. 'I tell you I've an idea I shall know—for sure—when this mountain is going to blow up. The voices will tell me.'
“Well, of course I thought he was crazy. And after I had grown tired of the lonely life myself, I bade him good-by and came back to live in the town.
“It was not long after that that the citizens imported a whole lot of cats of a new kind. Us rats had got sort of plentiful and the townsfolk had made up their minds to drive us out. Well, they did. These cats were awful hunters. They never let up; went after us day and night. And as there were thousands of them, life for us became pretty nearly impossible.
“After a good many of our people had been killed some of the leaders of the colonies got together in an old cellar one night to discuss what we should do about it. And after several had made suggestions which weren't worth much, I got to thinking of my old friend the hermit and the peaceful life of his crater-home. And I suggested to the meeting that I lead them all up there where we could live undisturbed by cats or dogs. Some didn't like the idea much. But beggars can't be choosers. And it was finally decided that word should be passed round to all the rats in the town that at dawn the next day I would lead them forth beyond the walls and guide them to a new home.”