Malachi The Messenger

“Stop,” the guard lifted his hand. His metallic voice echoed through his face mask, “We need to see some paperwork.” The carriage wheels ground to a stop, the disgruntled merchant digging around in his pocket for his trade license.

“Paperwork. Paperwork. Yes well, it should be around ‘ere somewhere.” The jolly man’s cheeks turned red, the skin on his bicep bouncing about as he dug around all of the cargo pockets on the side of his pants. His brown eyes darted between the guards, who had begun to file out of the checkpoint’s gatehouse, slowly surrounding the rust-covered cart.

“What’cha got in there?” one of them asked, knocking on the cart’s riveted hull.

“Oh ya’know, mammoth oil and such,” the merchant said, now unlatching the various pockets on his belt, jamming his sausage fingers into each one. Each time he came up empty-handed.

Malachi the Messenger Mouse, however, did not stop at the checkpoint with the Merchant. He scurried right beneath it, the canvas straps of his vest chafed against his matted exterior, the faded yellow of the buckle on the leather bag glinting as it wobbled with each stride.

He scurried along, doing his best to ignore the business of the stinky humans above him. Clink, cling, clung, clink: His clawed paws echoed against the hollow pipes, which ran the length of the bridge, stapled into the chipped stone by giant metal brackets. The terrible, twisted pipes eventually ran their course, disappearing back into the edge stone brick blocks that marked the end of the giant bridge.

Malachi tip-toed his way around the woven patchwork of pipes, shifting his weight to the ledge, one paw at a time, before contouring his body through the slits in the metal bars of the fence that ran the length of the canal.

Now came the truly dangerous part. Horse-drawn carriages tumbled through the sea of commotion. Boots clamored across the tiled stone street. Metal wheels squealed against the trolly tracks that split the road. However, none of that was the worst of it: The Emperor’s Hawks prowled across the chimney-lined rooftops, their eager eyes cutting through the lingering smog, looking for the Revolutions couriers.

Malachi shivered, his naked tail curling up to trace the scar that ran the length of his hind leg. He, of all the curries, knew just how dangerous those hawks were.

EEE-EEE! The trolly whistle sounded, signaling that it would be coming any moment. People meandered their way off the tracks, slowly creating a space in the middle of the road.

The high-pitched warning returned the courier critter’s attention to the street, his paws propelling him forwards. He dodged a boot, sliding to a stop to allow a wheel to turn its way past him. He pressed on scurrying forward again, paws splashing in the stagnant water that gathered in the corners of the uneven stonework.

The trolly was close now. Malachi could hear the sound of its metal wheels grinding on the tracks, the metallic wire that dangled above the trolly trembled as it careened the metal box corner. Malachi braced himself, cocking his hind legs, shifting his weight back onto them.

“EEEAAAArrrrrrrrr!” The red-tailed hawk on the roof screeched, spreading its wings. It launched itself from the rooftop, its beady eyes locked on Malachi. The trolly grew closer… but so did the hawk.

“EEEAAAArrrrr!” The second hawk screamed as it too burst through the layer of smokey steam that hung along the patchwork roofs. The trolly was just in front of Malachi now, and the hawks were in a mad dive, headed straight for his position, claws extended.

“Eeep!” chirped Malachi, launching himself forward, so that he landed on the back steps of the trolly. TWUNK. One of the hawks collided with the side of the trolly, bouncing off the window, and tumbling to the street. CLUNG! The other, however, had slammed into the top of the trolly.

“Stupid birds,” one of the passengers mumbled.

“They’re supposed to catch the Revolution’s couriers,” another responded, pulling her bandana up around her mouth to cough.

“Whatever,” the first one responded, coughing as he pushed to the rear of the trolly, his eyes on the ground.

Meanwhile, outside the trolly, Malachi worked his way up the rumbling steps. The hawk’s ominous razor claws scraped against the top of the trolly with each step it took. Malachi’s scar ached. The hawk let out another menacing cry, and poked its beak over the edge of the trolly, eyes darting across the steps. It let out yet another cry, this one of frustration, and took back to their air.

The hunter hawk had, of course, found nothing, as Malachi now sat securely in the shirt pocket of the mumbling passenger. “It’s okay little guy,” he whispered, cupping his hand over his mouth, “pax aut mors.”

Malachi stopped twitching about, upon hearing the words that were stitched into his little vest - just under the olive branch-wrapped skull insignia that denoted the Revolution.

The trolley came to a stop, and Malachi could feel the burly stranger’s body bounce with each step he took. The long, powerful strides continued, Malachi squeaking with each bounce.

“Excuse me, sir, paperwork please,” The metallic echo of a guard’s voice cut through the air.

“Don’t have it,” the stranger’s raspy, thick voice replied back, “just visiting for the weekend.”

“Then we’ll have to search you,” the guard’s voice droned on, “and you’ll have to come with us to get temporary papers.”

“Okay,” the stranger’s chest tensed. Light suddenly flooded Malachi’s vision, as he was pressed against the stranger’s calluses on the burly man’s hands.

“courier !” a second guard called out, drawing his baton.

“PAX AUT MORS!” cried the stranger, swinging one of his large fists into the guard’s exposed temple. Malachi was thrust back to the damp stone street. A guard’s whistle blew. A musket shot sounded. Malachi scampered down the street, paws pounding against the hard ground. Stomping boots sounded behind him. CRACK! He felt the heat of the musket ball that had just lodged into the stone tile next to him.

“STOP THAT VERMIN!” one of the guards called.

Malachi squeaked and went airborne, launching himself towards a sewer grate that lay on the side of the road. His furry body contracted as he wriggled his way through the grate. He plunged into the darkness, his vision shaking as he ricocheted against the side of the sewer line, sliding down into the chilled sewage. Malachi gasped as he paddled against the water, desperately clawing at the water to keep his snout above the rushing filth.

The cold pulled him under, and for a moment, Malachi accepted that his mission had ended. Light exploded back into his beady eyes. Water sputtered out from his mouth. Sewage continued to wash over him, flowing out from the pipe he had just escaped. Malachi staggered back to his paws, his whiskers dripping with sewage. The brave mouse meandered through the trash-covered embankment, making his way through the sludge and back to the top of the hill. Bottles clinked and trash rustled as his soaked paws made their way up the sharp slope of the bank.

Upon making it to the top of the trashy bank, Malachi squeaked with joy. By some miracle, or stroke of luck (depending on who you asked), Malachi had come out exactly where he was meant to go. The gigantic dormant smoke stack that belonged to one of Mammoth Industry’s once-revolutionary factories in the industrial district split the sky. The words, “PAX AUT MORS” had been splattered along the length of the giant smoke stack in great big dripping bubble letters, acting like a giant beacon to all those who wanted to join the Revolution.

The life returned to Malachi’s scurry as he stretched out his legs, breaking into his full stride. He wriggled his way through a hole in the patchwork metal wall that surrounded the district, chirping with joy: he was now free of the worry of those wretched guards and hawks.

He scampered through the streets that the emperor had long abandoned. Smiling faces peeked through the broken glass windows. Children ran through the streets, giggling as they took part in a great imaginary battle. In some parts of the district, the plants had even returned, poking out from under abandoned trolleys and climbing along long dormant pipes.

A withered man hobbled up to Malachi, holding out the palm of his hand, “pax aut mors,” he whispered, his words weaving their way through the tightly woven dreads that hung from his scalp. Malachi chortled in response, running in a small circle before proudly scampering into the man’s hand.

The grey-haired man’s bones groaned as he rose back to his feet, placing much of his weight on his walking stick. Rumor had it that the cloth-wrapped pipe that he used to limp along, was once used to fend off an entire company of guards.

“The courier has arrived!” The gentle voice rasped, as the old man raised Malachi up. Men with muskets slung over their backs and swords at their hips, came bustling down the street.

The one leading the pack pulled down his face cover, revealing a bushy black beard, “What does it say, sir?”

The old man who held Malachi motioned to a nearby crate. Three of the men sprinted over, heaving it up and placing it behind the well-weathered man. The old man let out a sigh of relief, sinking back into the chipped pine. Not able to use both hands, he unbuckled the leather pouch and removed the small scroll that had been tucked away.

The old man unrolled the parchment with his boney fingers, revealing the words, “auxilium advenit” in bold crimson. His ancient eyes lit up as they danced across the words, “Help has arrived,” he murmured. “HELP HAS ARRIVED!” he cried out, standing and waving the parchment above his head.

END

I hope that this story brought you joy, both feeding your imagination and nurturing your soul :) My goal with all the stories I tell is to reflect our world and to remind you of your place in our REAL story. May you be brave like Malachi, who was a small creature on a big mission. May you answer the calling you have been given with passion, despite the odds - especially when the odds are against you. And may you never be afraid of getting dirty, particularly when the mission calls for it. Happy adventuring :)

Malachi The Messenger

END

The inspiration for this short story came from a daydreaming session with my wonderful Wife. We were talking about messenger pigeons, and how the critters that carried messages in fantasy stories were always birds.

"Why not frogs or cats or - or rats!" My Wife exclaimed, exploding from the couch to snatch her sketchbook from her bag. She promptly plopped down on the couch, and began to sketch... and Malachi was the result:

I also took heavy inspiration from Dishonored, one of my favorite videogame series:

I hope that this story brought you joy, both feeding your imagination and nurturing your soul :) My goal with all the stories I tell is to reflect our world and to remind you of your place in our REAL story. May you be brave like Malachi, who was a small creature on a big mission. May you answer the calling you have been given with passion, despite the odds - especially when the odds are against you. And may you never be afraid of getting dirty, particularly when the mission calls for it. Happy adventuring :)