The Feast of Apples
"The Stoddard farm is a paradise because I make it so," declared Tyce—a field mouse—to the glowering West Ender in front of him. "That affords me leeway where the rules are concerned. It entitles me to a thicker slice of the apple."
The West Ender to whom Tyce said this—a short-snouted mouse with blotchy fur—continued to carve the dried apple with a sliver of glass. He didn’t flinch, or blink, or wiggle a whisker. In fact, it seemed he’d shorted Tyce his portion to provoke the East Ender in just this way.
“So, he’s entitled, is he?” The West Enders behind the apple-slicer squeaked with laughter. “Last I knew, East Enders have no part with West Enders. Except, that is, for these friendly nights of casting twigs. But you’re not acting friendly, Mr. Tyce.”
Rules regarding the casting of twigs, and the Feast of Apples that followed it, clearly stated that only twig-casters were entitled to fruit. Tyce knew this. He was the Keeper of the Ledger and recorder of all the rules on the farm. His place in the event, however, was to seal and settle wagers between the bettors. So, technically, the West Ender was in the right.
But Tyce was having none of it. He was hungry. He raised the ledger above his head. “Have you forgotten the Larder Rules?”
The squeaking West Enders faded into silence. The East Enders, who up to this point had been hesitant to join the fray, tittered at the brilliance of Tyce. Love him or hate him, he was one of their own.
“I have not,” said the West Ender, “but I swear by the Black Swan you won’t wield it as a bludgeon on me.”
An uneasy murmur rippled through the crowd.
“It’s funny how these things work, isn’t it?” Tyce spoke with confidence, but his eyes betrayed him. They were scanning for a gap through the West Enders in case he needed to run for it. “You cross me like this and I’ll cross you off the list.”
“Down with you!” The West Ender charged Tyce, bowling him into the hay and raising the sliver of glass in the air.
“Enough!” A booming voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. The West Enders and East Enders alike pressed close to the walls, like castaways swimming for the safety of shore.
A mammoth rat lumbered out of the shadows, fixing Tyce’s attacker with satin black eyes.
“What business do you have with Mr. Tyce?”
The West Ender carefully stepped off Tyce and backpedaled to the far wall. “None, sir. None at all. Just being on my way!”
“Then be on it—faster!”
The West Enders scrabbled over each other for any exit they could find.
When the dust settled, Tyce stood to shake the hay from his body.
“That was a close one, Anvil. I owe you.”
“Six raids this time,” said the rat. “If there’s a next time, it’ll cost you seven.”
“As you say,” said Tyce, skipping to a knot hole in the wall of the shed. “Six raids this time, seven the next. See you in a moon!”
