Chapter 5. Cheese

“Cheese!” squeaked Pipsqueak, standing on his hindlegs and pointing at a blackboard with the word written on it with chalk.

“Cheese!” squeaked seven other mice of similar child-like size, sitting on stone benches in front of their stone desks and writing down the word on their own small boards.

“Squeak!” squeaked sixteen regular-sized mice chaotically from the floor, happily munching on beetles, and presumably paying attention to the lesson. They couldn’t quite speak, but seemed to understand the words well enough.

Two weeks after the ‘accident’, Quint leaned on the wall while looking proudly at the lesson taking place in the classroom he had built on the 4th floor. Rugrat sat on his shoulder, nuzzling his ear from time to time.

“Bre-ad!” squeaked Pipsqueak, pointing to another word.

“Bre-ad!” the others squeaked back, glancing at the large blackboard between each letter they wrote.

Quint was honestly quite impressed with how eager the micemen were to learn how to read, write, and talk.

It had taken Quint nearly a year and many disciplinary taps on the head with a stick to learn how to read and write once Master Woggins had taken him in.

The micemen that lived in the dungeon, dressed in crude trousers and vests fashioned from left over clothes, were learning faster than he had.

Satisfied that he had left enough classroom work for the rodents to study, Quint walked downstairs to the first floor of the tower with a pack he had prepared earlier.

Arthur had come by with the usual supplies a week ago, making inquiries about Master Woggins again and problems at the village that could only be solved by a wizard of great power. Quint had promised that he would make a trip to Hamilton proper once ‘things had settled down’ at the tower.

Of course, Quint had no idea what he could do about any of those things, but he figured it was better to go himself than having the ghost of Master Woggins show up and scaring all the villagers.

It was his favorite kind of weather outside, with plenty of clouds and an azure sky, with the sun smiling down warmly on the forest outside of his tower.

“I guess you’re coming with me, huh, Rugrat?” He asked the brown rat on his shoulder.

Squeak! affirmed the rat, stretching its neck to lick Quint’s cheek.

Quint giggled. He’d always wanted a puppy, and Rugrat just seemed like a very small dog. One with a long, wormy tail and buckteeth that fit into his pockets. A pocket puppy.

“All right then little one! Off we go.” Quint exclaimed.

He had put off making a trip to the village as long as he could, and he figured it would be important to stay on good terms with his only neighbors and source of non-bug food. He still needed to eat, after all.

Quint and Rugrat shuddered as they left the boundary of the dungeon. It was the second time he had left the area, and it still disoriented him with a sense of being less. Thankfully, he still maintained a mental connection to the core and the creatures of the dungeon, who could warn him in the case of an emergency.

Quint kept a spright pace through the trail leading to the village as Rugrat stared curiously at the trees and sniffed the air, and felt a light spring enter his steps. Suddenly becoming a dungeon master had been more stressful than he had realized,

Perhaps he had been more stressed out about his newfound responsibilities as a DUngeon Master than he had let on or processed, especially after the whole spiel that Master Woggins had given him about enemies and responsibilities. It was good to be out and about, the fresh air and scent of the forest all around him.

“I guess it’s been a while since you’ve been outside, eh boy?” Quint said, scratching the brown rat under its chin.

The boy and rat walked through the forest at an easy pace, until finally, the trees began to thin out and Hamilton came into view.

“Greetings!” Quint hailed a man who looked a bit bored on the outskirts of the village who looked surprised at his presence. He recognized him as Romaldo, who was known as a bit of a village oaf that spent all his time advertising the merits of a self-invented game called feetball with great enthusiasm.

“Hello.” Romaldo said, looking curiously at the brown rat sitting on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re the wizard’s apprentice? I thought it would be Master Woggins who would be making the round.”

“Ah, he’s been a bit busy with his experiments.” Quint nervously deflected, and quickly changed the subject. But I’m sure that I can at least give it a go at whatever needs to be helped out with by a wizard!”

Romaldo looked skeptically at Quint but eventually shrugged his shoulders.

“All right. Well, I know that the folks wanted a wizard to take a look at the communal barn. I can take you there, if you’d like.” He said.

“Yes, of course. Do you know what the problem is?” Quint asked.

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“...And that’s why you can full-contact tackle other players in the third and fourth quarters of the game. It balances the whole game, don’t you see?” Romaldo exclaimed with an intense, manic gleam in his eyes.

Quint swallowed dryly as he wondered how a fifteen minute walk across town could feel like an hour long excursion across the Red Desert. The other villagers also gave him pitying glances as they quickly distanced themselves from their path once they noticed his companion.

Even Rugrat had squeaked in disgust and abandoned his post on his shoulder to bury down in his pocket instead. Either he now knew Rugrat understood words, or being bored to death by obscure, abstract rules crossed all language barriers.

“Oh, is that the barn over there?” Quint pointed quickly to a random building that came into view.

“Hm? Oh, yes that is the barn, actually…”

“Ah, very good. It’s been a pleasure Romaldo, I would surely have gotten lost without your guidance.” Quint said, furiously shaking the man’s hand.

“Oh, not a problem at all, sir apprentice.” Romaldo beamed, showcasing brilliant white teeth.

“Come find me if you ever get a tingling urge to stretch your legs in a game!” he shouted after Quint as he walked toward the barn at a pace some might call a jog.

Thankfully, the elderly farmer with a gray beard in charge of the barn had not recently invented a complex sport, and seemed happy to see a wizard at the barn, apprentice or not.

“So… you’re saying there’s a rodent infestation?” Quint asked, just to make sure.

Greg puffed out his chest and belly, thumbs hooked on his taut overall straps.

“Yessireee! The ol’ barn cat’s been catching one o’ em every once in a while, but the old tom’s fat and lazy and the rodents this year are the most tenacious and smart little nibblers I’ve ever smelled!” He said with an affirmative, vociferous breath through his nose as if to confirm the scent.

“They may trick my ahz but they can’t trick mah nose! I know they’re in der holes over der.” He said, poking his chin threateningly at the gigantic barn wall.

“We keep losing our stores to them lil’ nibblurs! At this rate, they’ll eat into our supply of seeds and potater ears to plant in the spring! And endanger our livelihoods and the sacred potaters!” Greg roared, spittle flying furiously from his mouth as if he was hoping that the rodents would hear and shrivel to death in shame.

“I… see. Well, I’ll do what I can. I do not envy a village that does not have enough potatoes to make a sacrifice to Tuber’lawd. I’ve prayed to the god of famine and potatoes myself during my time in the slums.” Quint assured, grinning easily as if to assure the farmer that he was well aware of the one great fear of a farming town. Especially a potato farming town.

Greg sauntered off with a final assurance from Quint, and soon he had the barn to himself.

Why would this year’s batch of rodents be any different? Unless…

With a sigh, Quint found a sack of potatoes to sit on and sank into a meditative state as he mustered inner focus to cast his senses around the barn.