Flash Fiction - The Company of Rats

 Dear Reader,

This is a short story I wrote for a fiction class last year. This piece is near and dear to my heart because, as I was writing this, my now girlfriend was in the room with me and I realized then that I was in love with her. 

~H.J. Buck

A lone rat climbed on the brick outline of a firepit. He scratched and gnawed at his hide, seeking to alleviate the pestering of an itch. He was not a rare sight in that old castle; for months his kind had run rampant throughout the keep. But, at this moment, he was alone.

A man sat opposite the rat, in the main hall of his keep. He held his head low, but his tired eyes stared out at his companion upon the firepit. Where once was a roaring hearth before him, a centerpoint of merriment and joy, now held only quiet embers. The smoke no longer rose, the fire’s heat no longer warmed joyful faces. In recent days, were the fire to die, the housekeepers would refuel it with wood or oil. But they were gone now, just like everyone else, so the fire did not last. As he sat there, athrone in his keep of Innse Gall, Lord John Mac Domnaill’s only company was a rat. 

In the distance, the crashing of ocean waves echoed; resounding louder than the steady patter of rain. The lands were off the western coast of Scotland. Often called “The Isles,” Innse Gall was often bombarded with water either from the seas or sky. But the rain was the least of its worries. For the last few months, a breath of death they called “The Plague” had swept through their world and had taken countless souls as it went. In villages and cities, the smell of rotting corpses had become commonplace. The familiar sight of a cartful of straw or grain had been replaced by a cart of dead bodies. The inevitability of the plague had cast a shadow over the people of the world. 

The rat sniffed at an unknown scent in the air. Meanwhile, Lord John continued to stare at the creature. The silence in the room was deafening, an ever present reminder that it was not always this way. Merely a few months prior, the house was filled with people. Not just the servants and courtiers or knights and councilors, but the family of Clan Mac Domnaill. John tried never to think of them; remember the laughter of his daughters, dream of his wife’s smiling face. However, the more he pushed their memory away, the deeper the wrent in his heart became. 

The last member of the household had died a week passed, a servant who’s name John did not know, but time felt like a blur. John’s days had been lived out in the same fashion since it happened. He got up, he ate a meager meal, on occasion, and then he sat in his hall by his lonesome. He sat each day, wallowing in his own misery. But now, he was not alone. The rat before him remained. The people he loved were born and died far too soon, but the rats remained. 

He could not help but seek for the meaning in all of this pain, but he could find none. However, the question still stood: why was he allowed to live? Why could his daughters not live to see adulthood, and why would his bride not grow old by his side? He realized that, as he was sitting there, he broke his rule; do not think about them. It was too late now, his throat had knotted and his heart began to ache. He turned his gaze downward and a tear fell. It was the first he had shed. When he looked up, the rat was gone. It must have scurried back to its pack of infernal kin. 

John was alone again. As he looked at the firepit, he would remember how its flames would roar. In his haze of hurt, he realized that it would be up to him to keep it alight. That night, the fire burned as if there were nothing but its glow.