DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
Appearances were everything. So said Ratty, who was rearranging his furniture, just like every Christmas, as he was expected to host the annual party, since he had the tallest tree, while the rest of the vermin dwelt in underground hovels. They always showed up in mobs, scurrying about, tracking in snow and mud and who knew what else.
Ratty brushed his hands together and coughed on the dust. He surveyed the space and its dozen or more chairs, tables set with food, the roaring fire, and hot chocolate steaming on the stove.
“Why do I do it?” he asked himself, because no one else was there. Just as he liked it.
“Why do we do it?” Finn called to Mottle, who had taken the lead, better abled to navigate this blizzard than Finn.
“What was that?” Mottle asked over his shoulder.
“Nothing.”
“Well, come on then. We’ll be late.”
Finn rested on a knot of root that hadn’t been covered in snow. He breathed hot air into his hands before stuffing them back into his pockets. “It’s not too late to turn back. I hear Remmy’s expanded her place. Four fireplaces. Set in a circle. No matter where you are, you’re nice and warm.”
Mottle tucked his gift bag under his arm so he could warm his hands, too. “We’ve been doing this for the last ten seasons. What would he think if no one showed up?”
Finn held up his hands.
“Go back, then,” Mottle said.
Not a bad idea. Finn imagined the heat from those four fireplaces, standing in the center of the room, getting hit at all angles. He’d turn slowly in place like a louse on a spit, cooking himself slow and nice.
But he couldn’t leave Mottle behind to deal with Ratty all alone. Ratty. What a name. Finn pictured his snooty face against his will, with that unnatural posture as if he didn’t have a joint in his body, simply made of one elongated bone.
Ratty’s back was killing him, in the same spot it always did. His spine had never been the same after the fall from installing that second window on the third floor. He’d only done it because it was the window the rest of them could see from the valley, so if it was off, they’d know not to bother him. He always kept it off. But not tonight.
The minnows were skinned, hot flesh fogging up the silver platters they lay upon. The hot chocolate was just right: a little too hot now, but the perfect temperature when the mischief arrived.
“Mischief,” Ratty said, rubbing his hunched back.
Mottle waited for Finn to catch up. That third window was visible now, through the iced branches and blistering wind.
“I thought you were going back,” Mottle said.
“I’m a glutton for–”
“Hot chocolate and pretzels?”
“For–”
“Chestnuts and butter cream sauce?”
“By the mercy of the forest folk, will you let me finish?”
Mottle gave a slight bow.
“Never mind,” Finn said and pushed by Mottle.
The clock must be wrong. Ratty got on his toes and knocked on its face. It wobbled, settled, and ticked just like it should. He used the fireplace poker as a cane, because he’d lost his days ago. All this work had muddled his thoughts. Placing everything just right. Timing everything just right. The tables near the fire, just so to keep the meat warm. The tables arranged in such a way to facilitate conversation but leaving enough space to partake in the hors d’oeuvres without seeming rude.
Ratty checked the time again. “Rude,” he said.
He sat down by the fire, hoping the heat would loosen up his back muscles. Then he was worried he might not be able to make it to his feet when the guests arrived, and they would be arriving any minute, he was sure of it. So, he stood before he got too stiff, then realized the poker had made a charcoal scribble on the floor. He could almost cry if he were capable. On his hands and knees he scrubbed. Twisted back or not, he couldn’t let them see his place like this. The messes were for them to make, not him. He never made messes.
Finn leaned into a fallen branch he’d been using as a walking stick. “Does this hill ever end?”
Mottle patted his back. “It hasn’t ever, dear friend. It’s your turn to carry the bag.”
“I can’t believe you got him a gift.”
“We got him a gift.”
“I don’t want any part of it.”
“Well, the least you could do is take it partly up this hill. Don’t worry, I will make sure he doesn’t see you with it. I know you have a reputation to maintain.”
Finn shook his head and took the bag. Of course it was something heavy. “I hope you brought him rocks.”
Near Ratty’s front door at the bottom of the twisted oak, Mottle retrieved the gift bag from Finn and approached the tree.
Finn remained behind, allowing Mottle to have the honors. Finn thought he might bash Ratty over the head with his walking stick if he saw his face right now.
The crunch of snow brought Ratty to the door. He stook up straight, painfully so, gritting through the pain, holding his head high. He grabbed the freshest mug of hot chocolate, and opened the door.
It was Mottle, holding a bag in his knobby hand. A gift.
“Merry Christmas,” Mottle said.
“Merry Christmas,” Ratty said.
“Where are the others?”
“There.”
“Just one?”
Finn saw he’d been spotted and waved his hand. He wanted nothing more than to stuff his head into snow.
But he didn’t, instead joining the two at the doorstep.
“What a pleasant gift,” Ratty said.
Mottle beamed until he realized Ratty was referring to Finn’s walking stick.
Finn shrugged and handed it over.
Ratty grabbed another mug. “I’m so happy you two could make it.”
“So are we,” Finn said.
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