Dampra, A Tale Of Death And Revenge

• Sarah Neale, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2009

It was a calm, peaceful Autumn night in Rotflol country. Brown, crisp leaves shed from their trees and floated gently to the ground, soundlessly. The air was still and refreshing, as the odd leaf was blown lovingly, to and fro, and it was a calming scene. But all was not about to stay calm and peaceful. An old log hut was set between two oak trees, their leaves twisting and tangling in the light breeze. The log hut belonged to a mouse family. Troda and his wife, Shralle, with their two offspring, Chalum, a young maiden and Dampra, a three seasoned mouseling.
“Mmm! It smells lovely father!”
“Thankee, Chalum, it’s an old family recipe.”
“Aye, and someday we'll teach you that recipe,” Shralle said, as she bounced Dampra on her knee, he fiddling with her dress.
“Really? Oh I do love to cook! I'll cook it for you all, too. Can I teach Dampra? He'll be like… a little assistant! Would you like that, Dampra?”
The mouse babe twitched his small whiskers with delight, and clapped his pudgy paws together with joy. “Me likee, it be fun!”
Suddenly, Troda stopped cooking. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. His warrior instinct purred in his ear, telling him all was wrong.
“Troda, what’s the mater?” the mouse wife asked.
But he was only half listening. “Hm? Oh, ah, fine. I’m just gonna have a look outside.” he said, as he slipped through the door, armed with the blunt cooking knife in paw.
“Mother, what is wrong?” Chalum asked, her voice squeaky with fear.
“Nothing sweetheart.” Shralle heard a sickening thud, which made her heart break in two. She quickly handed over Dampra over to Chalum, as she said in a hurried voice, “Chalum take Dampra and hide under the table. Don’t come out and don’t make a noise. Here, take this!” She rummaged through a cupboard and handed over a sword, case and all. “Quickly now, GO!” Shralle’s normally calm, soothing voice was now shrill and panic stricken. She pushed her offspring under the table as a pure black fox slammed down the door, and waltzed in, with a curved cutlass in paw, fresh, red blood dripping of, staining the floor. He held it to her throat, as he hissed in a harsh, rasping voice,
“Where are your valuables, mouse?”
“We-we don’t have any!” Tears flooded down her cheeks uncontrollably. The black fox chuckled, swishing his fluffy tail as if it had a mind of its own.
“Well now, aren’t you a brave mousey. Deathstalker the killer likes brave mouseys, but brave mouseys get themselves killed!” He swung his deadly cutlass, only one swing was needed.
“NOOOOO!” cried Chalum, as she dashed from under the table, only realising she had forgot one important thing. But it was too late. Deathstalker whipped his cutlass on Chalum’s limp form.
“Huh, stupid mouse.” He turned and walked out the door. “All right you lot! Get what you want, but valuables and good vittles go to me, got it?”
Threescore of stoats, rats, weasels and ferrets dashed into the small hut, taking anything that came to paw. Dampra sank low into the corner, clutching the sword in tight grip. The sound of evil laughter and gloating rang through the mouse’s ears as they left. He waited a bit, then hobbled out. He clutched the sword tighter, little claw marks showed as tears sprang from his eyes, while standing over the limp form of his family. Then he stood, straight backed and dried his bluey grey eyes. Dampra slung the sword over his back, as he had seen his father do. His light hazel fur, with a slight swirl of dark, shifted in the breeze.
“I may bee wittle, but I get 'e some day Deathstalker, I square on my oath, I'll make 'e pay!”