Kate DiCamillo - The Tale of Despereaux

“And now, Princess,” he said, “I’m afraid that the time for your truth has arrived. I will now tell you what your future holds. As you consigned me to darkness, so I consign you, too, to a life spent in this dungeon.”

Mig looked up. “Ain’t she going upstairs to be a serving maid?”

“No,” said Roscuro.

“Ain’t I going to be a princess, then?”

“No,” said Roscuro.

“But I want to be a princess.”

“No one,” said Roscuro, “cares what you want.”

As you know, reader, Miggery Sow had heard this sentiment expressed many times in her short life. But now, in the dungeon, it hit her full force: The rat was right. No one cared what she wanted. No one had ever cared. And perhaps, worst of all, no one ever would care.

“I want!” cried Mig.

“Shhhh,” said the princess.

“Shut up,” said the rat.

“I want . . .,” sobbed Mig. “I want . . . I want . . .”

“What do you want, Mig?” the princess said softly.

“Eh?” shouted Mig.

“What do you want, Miggery Sow?!” the princess shouted.

“Don’t ask her that,” said Roscuro. “Shut up. Shut up.”

But it was too late. The words had been said; the question, at last, had been asked. The world stopped spinning and all of creation held its breath, waiting to hear what it was that Miggery Sow wanted.

“I want . . .,” said Mig.

“Yes?” shouted the Pea.

“I want my ma!” cried Mig, into the silent, waiting world. “ I want my ma! ”

“Oh,” said the princess. She held out her hand to Mig.

Mig took hold of it.

“I want my mother, too,” said the princess softly. And she squeezed Mig’s hand.

“Stop it!” shouted Roscuro. “Chain her up. Chain her up.”

“Gor,” said Mig, “I ain’t going to do it. You can’t make me do it. I got the knife, don’t I?” She took the knife and held it up.

“If you have any sense at all,” said Roscuro, “and I heartily doubt that you do, you will not use that instrument on me. Without me, you will never find your way out of the dungeon, and you will starve to death here, or worse.”

“Gor,” said Mig, “then lead us out now, or I will chop you up into little rat bits.”

“No,” said Roscuro. “The princess shall stay here in the darkness. And you, Mig, will stay with her.”

“But I want to go upstairs,” said Mig.

“I’m afraid that we are stuck here, Mig,” shouted the princess, “unless the rat has a change of heart and decides to lead us out.”

“There will be no changes of heart,” said Roscuro. “None.”

“Gor,” said Mig. She lowered the knife.

And so, the rat and the princess and the serving girl sat together in the dungeon as, outside the castle, the sun rose and moved through the sky and sank to the earth again and night fell. They sat together until the candle had burned out and another one had to be lit. They sat together in the dungeon. They sat. And sat.

And, reader, truthfully, they might be sitting there still, if a mouse had not arrived.

“PRINCESS!” Despereaux shouted. “Princess, I have come to save you.”

The Princess Pea heard her name. She looked up.

“Despereaux,” she whispered.

And then she shouted it, “Despereaux!”

Reader, nothing is sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name.

Nothing.

For Despereaux, the sound was worth everything: his lost tail, his trip to the dungeon, and back out of it and back into it again.

He ran toward the princess.

But Roscuro, baring his teeth, blocked the mouse’s way.

The princess cried, “Oh no, rat, please. Don’t hurt him. He is my friend.”

Mig said, “Don’t worry, Princess. I will save the meecy.”

She took the kitchen knife. She aimed to cut off the rat’s head, but she missed her mark.

“Whoopsie,” said Miggery Sow.

“OWWWWWWWW!” screamed Roscuro.

He turned to look at where his tail had been, and as he did, Despereaux drew his needle and placed the sharp tip of it right where the rat’s heart should be.

“Don’t move,” said Despereaux. “I will kill you.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” Botticelli laughed from the sidelines. “Exactly.” He slapped his tail on the floor in approval. “Absolutely delightful. A mouse is going to kill a rat. Oh, all of this is much better than I anticipated. I love it when mice come to the dungeon.”

“Let me see,” said the other rats, pushing and shoving.

“Stand back,” Botticelli told them, still laughing. “Let the mouse do his work.”

Despereaux held the trembling needle against Roscuro’s heart. The mouse knew that as a knight, it was his duty to protect the princess. But would killing the rat really make the darkness go away?

Despereaux bowed his head ever so slightly. And as he did so, his whiskers brushed against the rat’s nose.

Roscuro sniffed.

“What . . . is that smell?” he asked.

“Mousie blood!” shouted one rat.

“Blood and bones!” shouted another.

“You’re smelling tears,” said Botticelli. “Tears and thwarted love.”

“Exactly,” said Roscuro. “And yet . . . there’s something else.”

He sniffed again.

And the smell of soup crashed through his soul like a great wave, bringing with it the memory of light, the chandelier, the music, the laughter, everything, all the things that were not, would never, could never be available to him as a rat.

“ Soup, ” moaned Roscuro.

And he began to cry.

“Booooooo!” shouted Botticelli.

“ Sssssssss, ” hissed the other rats.

“Kill me,” said Roscuro. He fell down before Despereaux. “It will never work. All I wanted was some light. That is why I brought the princess here, really, just for some beauty . . . some light of my own.”

“Please,” shouted Botticelli, “do kill him! He is a miserable excuse for a rat.”

“No, Despereaux,” said the princess. “Don’t kill him.”

Despereaux lowered his needle. He turned and looked at the Pea.

“Boooo!” shouted Botticelli again. “Kill him! Kill him. All this goodness is making me sick. I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Gor!” shouted Mig, waving her knife. “I’ll kill him.”

“No, wait,” said the princess. “Roscuro,” she said to the rat.

“What?” he said. Tears were falling out of his eyes and creeping down his whiskers and dripping onto the dungeon floor.

And then the princess took a deep breath and put a hand on her heart.

I think, reader, that she was feeling the same thing that Despereaux had felt when he was faced with his father begging him for forgiveness. That is, Pea was aware suddenly of how fragile her heart was, how much darkness was inside it, fighting, always, with the light. She did not like the rat. She would never like the rat, but she knew what she must do to save her own heart.

And so, here are the words that the princess spoke to her enemy.

She said, “Roscuro, would you like some soup?”