Kate DiCamillo - The Tale of Despereaux

Even with the love and purpose in his heart, Despereaux was very, very tired when he reached the door to the castle kitchen at midnight. His paws were shaking and his muscles were jumping and the place where his tail should be was throbbing. And he still had a very, very long way to go, into the kitchen and down the many stairs of the dungeon, and then, through, somehow, someway, through the rat-filled darkness of the dungeon itself, not knowing where he was going . . . and oh, reader, when he stopped to consider what lay ahead of him, Despereaux was filled with an icky feeling of despair.

He leaned his head against the spool of thread, and he smelled celery there and he thought of Hovis and how Hovis seemed to believe in him and his quest. So the mouse raised his head and squared his shoulders and pushed the spool of thread forward again, into the kitchen, where he saw, too late, that there was a light burning.

Despereaux froze.

Cook was in the kitchen. She was bent over the stove. She was stirring something.

Was it a sauce? No.

Was it a stew? No.

What Cook was stirring was . . . soup. Soup, reader! In the king’s own castle, against the king’s law, right under the king’s very nose, Cook was making soup!

As the mouse looked on, Cook put her face into the steam rising from the pot and took a deep breath. She smiled a beatific smile, and the steam rose around her and caught the light of the candle and made a halo over her head.

Despereaux knew how Cook felt about mice in her kitchen. He remembered quite clearly her instructions to Mig regarding himself: Kill him. The only good mouse is a dead mouse.

But he had to go through Cook’s kitchen to get to the dungeon door. And he had no time to waste. Soon daylight would dawn and the whole castle would be awake and a mouse would have no chance at all of pushing a spool of thread across the floor without attracting a great deal of attention. He would have to sneak past the mouse-hating Cook now.

And so, screwing his courage to the sticking place, Despereaux leaned against the spool of thread and set it rolling across the floor.

Cook turned from the stove, a dripping spoon in her hand and a frightened look on her face, and shouted, “Who’s there?”

“WHO’S THERE?” shouted Cook again.

Despereaux, wisely, said nothing.

The kitchen was silent.

“Hmmmmph,” said Cook. “Nothing. It’s nothing at all. Just my nervous Nellie ears playing tricks on me. You’re an old fool,” she said to herself as she turned back to the stove. “You’re just an old fool afraid of being caught making soup.”

Despereaux slumped against the spool of thread. And as he leaned there, his heart pounding, his paws shaking, a small wonderful something occurred. A midnight breeze entered the kitchen and danced over to the stove and picked up the scent of the soup and then swirled across the floor and delivered the smell right directly to the mouse’s nose.

Despereaux put his head up in the air. He sniffed. He sniffed some more. He had never in his life smelled anything so lovely, so inspiring. With each sniff he took, he felt himself growing stronger, braver.

Cook leaned in close to the kettle and put the spoon in and took the spoon out and blew upon the spoon and then brought it to her lips and sipped and swallowed.

“Hmmmmm,” she said. “Huh.” She took another sip. “Missing something,” she said. “More salt maybe.” She put the spoon down and took up an enormous saltshaker and sprinkled salt into the kettle.

And Despereaux, feeling emboldened by the smell of soup, again set to work pushing the spool of thread.

“Quickly,” he said to himself, rolling the spool across the floor, “do it quickly. Do not think. Just push.”

Cook whirled, the saltshaker in her hand, and shouted, “Who goes there?”

Despereaux stopped pushing. He hid behind the spool of thread as Cook took the candle from the stove and held it up high.

“Hmmmmmph,” she said.

The candlelight came closer, closer.

“What’s this?”

The light came to rest directly on Despereaux’s big ears sticking up from behind the spool of thread.

“Ho,” said Cook, “whose ears are those?”

And the light from the candle then shone full in Despereaux’s face.

“A mouse,” said Cook, “a mouse in my kitchen.”

Despereaux closed his eyes. He prepared for his death.

He waited, reader. And waited. And then he heard the sound of laughter.

He opened his eyes and looked at Cook.

“Ho,” said Cook. “Ho-hee. For the first time in my life, I am glad to see a mouse in my kitchen.

“Why,” she asked, “why am I glad?

“Ho-hee. Because a mouse is not a king’s man here to punish me for making soup. That is why. Because a mouse is not a king’s man here to take me to the dungeon for owning a spoon. Ho-hee. A mouse. I, Cook, am glad to see a mouse.”

Cook’s face was red and her stomach was shaking. “Ho-hee,” she said again. “And not just any mouse. A mouse with a needle tied around his waist, a mouse with no tail. Ain’t it lovely? Ho-hee.” She shook her head and wiped at her eyes. “Look, mouse, these are extraordinary times. And because of that, we must have some peace between us. I will not ask what you are doing in my kitchen. And you, in return, will tell no one what I am cooking.”

She turned then and went back to the stove and set down the candle and picked up the spoon and again put it in the pot of soup and took it back out and tasted the soup, smacking her lips together.

“Not right,” she said, “not quite right. Missing something, still.”

Despereaux did not move. He could not move. He was paralyzed by fear. He sat on the kitchen floor. One small tear fell out of his left eye. He had expected Cook to kill him.

Instead, reader, she had laughed at him.

And he was surprised how much her laughter hurt.

COOK STIRRED THE SOUP and then put the spoon down and held up the candle and looked over at Despereaux.

“What are you waiting for?” she said. “Go, go, go. There will never be another opportunity for a mouse to escape from my kitchen unharmed.”

The smell of soup again wafted in Despereaux’s direction. He put his nose up in the air. His whiskers trembled.

“Yes,” said Cook. “That is soup that you are smelling. The princess, not that you would know or care, is missing, bless her goodhearted self. And times are terrible. And when times are terrible, soup is the answer. Don’t it smell like the answer?”

“Yes,” said Despereaux. He nodded.

Cook turned away from him. She put the candle down and picked up her spoon and started to stir. “Oh,” she said, “these are dark days.” She shook her head. “And I’m kidding myself. There ain’t no point in making soup unless others eat it. Soup needs another mouth to taste it, another heart to be warmed by it.”

She stopped stirring. She turned and looked at Despereaux.

“Mouse,” said Cook, “would you like some soup?” And then, without waiting for an answer, she took a saucer and spooned some soup into it and set it on the kitchen floor.

“Come closer,” she said. “I don’t aim to hurt you. I promise.”

Despereaux sniffed. The soup smelled wonderful, incredible. Keeping one eye on Cook, he stepped out from behind the spool of thread and crept closer.

“Go on,” said Cook, “taste it.”