What Happened to McFookit Peak?

By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble
Dusty Gulch Gazette

It was midnight when the Sixth Cat yowled.

Poor Mayor Dusty McFookit was itching. Again. He had no idea why. And his dreams were strange. Instead of just the Feline 5, there was a Sixth Cat.  And a Mountain. What could it mean? 

He dozed in the early hours and pondered. He tried to put his mind to rest but something was calling him.  The Five Felines were uneasy. 

Mrs McFookit's legendary rolling pin glimmered in the dark: something was about to happen..... it was time for me, Roderick ( Whiskers) McNibble to leap into action... 

And so it was that I found myself drawn into a tale so extraordinary, that I would not believe it had I not been there to witness it.

That night, back at the Dusty Gulch Gazette I sat pondering. What to write? What story would inspire me to my next Pawlitzer Prize for journalistic brilliance? It was late at night. My cheese supplies were low. 

What would come to inspire me to yet more journalstic superiority to defy the main stream media? 

Then, suddenly, a sound crossed the dust like a cracked bell.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, and I was pulling on my coat.

In Dusty Gulch, you do not ignore a noise that has never been used before.

And there he sat. 

The Sixth Cat. 

At last, I had my lead. My latest and most glorious story of all. 

So far. 

Tonight would be a night for expert sleuthing. Something at which, fortunately, I am very adept. 

Tony waited in the yard. Tony is my emu. A good fellow and trusted steed. 

“West,” I said. He did not ask why. He trusted my rat cunning instincts, having assisted me on many clandestine assignments.

Three kilometres out, Tony stopped and lifted his foot.

Puncture.

I swore.

On the road to a vanished hill, a lame emu is not an inconvenience.

It is a problem.

Trevor came out of the saltbush. We all know Trevor. A wallaby. Not just A Wallaby. Our Wallaby. 

Titanium in both knees, due to an earlier mishap involving interspecies equality policies and the confiscation of his original knees to ensure echidnas were not a  species disadvantaged.

He had obtained the titanium replacements on the black market.

He has improved by leaps and bounds ever since.

Trevor looked at Tony's foot.

Then at me.

“Oh,” he said. “He's got a puncture, mate. We don't have a spare. Best you hop on and don't waste moonlight.”

I climbed aboard.

Tony followed, limping but at least mobile on the injured foot.

He was too proud to be left behind.

We reached Never Be Buggered Never Land.

A place I had never been before.

The air changed.

We headed into an unknown place. Far from Dusty Gulch and far from everything we knew and held dear. This was a mission that led us to danger or redemption.  We had no idea. 

But we knew we had to keep going. For the sake of Dusty Gulch. 

Tony's foot seemed healed, but the infection had spread to his leg... 

Heat came up through the dust and seemed to bounce back and hit us a second time. 

Suddenly, Trevor hopped into nothing and bounced off it.

I put out a hand.

Stone that was not stone.

A wall you could see the stars through until you couldn't. What sorcery was this? 

Suddenly, there he was.

The Sixth Cat. Again. Like a guiding light. 

Legend had it that he was the Guardian of McFookit Peak, an ancient monolith that disappeared one night not long after the arrival of Prentis Penjani and his Honklanders.

One night, McFookit Peak stood tall and proud.

The next morning, it was gone.

Since then, the Sixth Cat could sometimes be seen on moonlit nights, sitting on a nearby anthill and surveying all land within his realm.

I looked at the wall that was not a wall.

Then at the Sixth Cat.

The air shivered.

In a single moment, the wall went.

The hill came back.

McFookit Peak.

I had seen the latest survey maps in the Gulch Town Hall.

McFookit Peak wasn't on any of them.

The Sixth Cat beckoned us to follow.

A door appeared in the side of the citadel.

A faint glow surrounded it.

The door opened.

Trevor, Tony and I took a deep breath.

Then Trevor and I went inside. Tony stayed outside, keeping watch.... 

What we saw would have left the legendary adventurer Jeremiah H. Lasseter, Esq., the inspiration for a series of novels and films about some human named Indiana McFookit, whispering in quiet awe:

“Fook it. What do we have here?”

The first chamber was gold.

Not jewellery gold.

Gold.

Gold in the walls.

Gold in the floor.

Gold stacked in rooms.

The second chamber held black gold.

Then uranium.

Then minerals I couldn't identify.

I stopped counting. I could not believe what I saw before me. 

An old Emu and an older Cassowary sat beside a stone table.

“Who owns it?” I asked.

Silence.

“Why is it hidden?”

The Cassowary looked at the Sixth Cat.

“Prentis.”

That was enough.

Prentis Penjani had been trying to get his hands on anything worth having.

His latest laws were about to pass through the Gulch Parliament.

They would disable all whiskers. Whiskers Dynamic Propulsion was about to be banned and instead, Chinese Whispers and strange magic known as Rama Dama Ding Dong would become the source of power. 

I looked at the machinery running through the walls.

The Sixth Cat let out another yowl.

The entire mountain was a gigantic network of a primitive -  yes, primitive -  version of Whiskers Dynamic Propulsion. Without it? The wealth of Dusty Gulch would be open for plunder. 

That was what kept McFookit Peak invisible.

The Sixth Cat was responsible for keeping it running.

It was about to fail.

That explained the yowl.

I looked around again.

The mountain hadn't disappeared.

It had been hidden.

The mountain was like Fort Knox. Only with gold. 

“I see,” I said, nodding earnestly.

Then it dawned on me.

Somehow, I was meant to be here.

But why?

Why summon a rat journalist from the Dusty Gulch Gazette?

The old Emu and the old Cassowary levelled their beady eyes at me.

Finally, the Emu spoke.

“Roderick. We need something from you.”

“Of course,” I replied. “Anything. You need only say what it is.”

The Cassowary eyed me intently.

“We need your whiskers.”

I almost choked.

Now, dear reader, you know that a rat's whiskers are very important.

Much like a cat's whiskers.

They are part of us.

The Cassowary continued. " Your whiskers are pure whiskers. They are immune to Maurice Educk and Lord Squawk Squawk. They cannot be detected by Prentis Penjani's surveillance. Only yours will save the wealth of Dusty Gulch from Chinese Whispers and Ram Ram Ding Dong taking over. " 

Trevor looked at me.

Then he spoke quietly.

“Roderick, I lost my knees. Look at me now.”

He paused.

“For the sake of Dusty Gulch... please?”

I looked at the Sixth Cat.

Then at the machinery.

Then I considered my whiskers.

I had the distinct feeling this was not going to end well for my face.

We left before dawn.

I promised the old Emu I would never tell anyone how we got in.

Trevor promised too.

Tony was waiting where we had left him before entering the mountain.

His puncture had been repaired via a quick order from the Emporium. Delivered by Ratty Airways bi planes of course and a tub of Mavis Thomson's marvellous comfrey and marmalade healing ointment. 

Our journey home was one of pride and wonder. 

At the creek I looked in the water.

I had a gold tooth.

I did not have it when we left. And I had cleverly crafted prosthetic whiskers. 

Trevor's titanium knees were now gold-plated.

Official position:

I saw nothing.

I knew nothing.

I had never been there.

I shall not tell you where McFookit Peak is.

If Prentis asks about Whiskers Dynamic Propulsion, I shall say I know nothing.

He should believe that.

Knowing nothing is his trademark.

The gold tooth is a coincidence.

Trevor's knees are a coincidence.

The county clerk is very good at omitting things.

He is less good at omitting what they leave in your mouth.

But one thing you can be certain of:

Even though I lost my whiskers, and cannot be as great as I was until they grow back, everyone knows there is nothing as flash as a rat with a gold tooth.

This is Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble signing off.

You stay twitchy out there.

And I will stay itchy.