The saboteurs arrived via sampan and
slipped into Yangon Port under cover of darkness. Together, they carried enough
explosives to end, once and for all, the hundred-year reign of the Konbaung
dynasty.
The pink fingers of dawn hadn't yet
appeared at the corners of the sky as the men set about placing the first
charges against the foundation of the Celestial Palace. At that very moment, a
family of field mice happened to be making its way from its burrow beneath the walls of
the palace to a nearby stream in the trees below. Noticing the skulking men,
the observant Mousewife--using her loudest and most confident voice--asked
their intention.
‘We intend to kill the emperor and his
family,’ the largest of the saboteurs said.
‘Hah,’ the Mousewife exclaimed, herding
her pups away. ‘Best save a bit of that mess for whichever of you next becomes
king!’
The saboteurs eyed each other warily. While
none would admit it aloud, each one harbored fantasies of becoming the next
emperor. Once the current regime was dealt with, their unspoken reasoning went, a new
emperor would naturally arise from amongst them.
They set to work.
Once out of the men's sight, the Mousewife sent her swiftest child to the palace with a warning.
The mouse pup attempted to warn the
Commander of the Palace Guard, but found the man snoring, drunk in his bed. The
guardsmen were drunk as well, one nearly stepping on him while stumbling to
the privy. Discouraged, but not wanting to disappoint his mother, the canny
creature finally managed to enlist the aid of a lowly washing-up boy. That boy
now hung his shaggy head out a window situated directly above the toiling plotters.
‘You’d not want to live here; the privies
are icy, and the walls seep smelly green water!’ the boy shouted, hoping to dissuade
them from their mission.
The saboteurs ignored him.
‘There are mice in the walls, and bats in
the towers. The emperor has gout from bad food, and his concubines make light
of his endowment behind his back!’
The saboteurs continued to wind their
fuses.
Increasingly alarmed, the washing-up boy
ran off and told the assistant cook, who, after some convincing, came down for
a look and now hung from the selfsame window.
‘I
spit in the emperor’s soup,’ he yelled grimly. ‘We all do!’
No reply.
‘The larders are full of black mold!’ he
shouted in frustration.
The Mousewife and her family had returned
from the stream. Noticing the men still laboring at the base of the wall, she
decided a more direct intervention might be required. Using her loudest,
most confident voice, she addressed the closest of the saboteurs.
‘Pardon me. I am small, sir, but I am
quick. I’ve seen everything there is to see within the palace. I can show you
where to place your charges so that the emperor and his family will be instantly
killed by the explosion.’
The largest saboteur stroked his
mustache, narrowing his eyes.
‘Show us,’ he said.
The Mousewife led the saboteurs to a
nondescript spot on the vast wall. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘The emperor's private dining room
lies just on the other side. Conveniently, they break their fast only one hour from now. An explosion here will kill them, and the throne will be yours.’
The largest saboteur still appeared
skeptical. ‘What do you gain from helping us, little one?’
The Mousewife rose to her furry haunches.
‘Gain?’ she replied, ‘I wish only to preserve my home and the lives of my
children. What care I who sits the throne, so long as I can live below it?’
The saboteurs nodded, each in their turn,
apparently satisfied with her answer.
‘However,’ she continued. ‘I will ask one
small token for my aid. May I have one of your fine
hats? I will use the straw to line my burrow,
so that in the winter months my family stays warm and dry.’
The saboteurs smiled at such a small
request, and after some squabbling, handed over the most worn and shabby of
their hats.
All the explosive charges were soon moved
to the single spot the mouse had indicated. Anxious as they were to complete
the job thoroughly, the saboteurs had piled up every ounce of explosive in
their possession.
The explosion was deafening. A great hole
appeared in the thick wall, and through that hole rushed a raging torrent of
green water, first engulfing the saboteurs, and then drowning them in the roots
of the trees below. It seems that they, in their haste to blow up the Imperial
Family, had instead breached one of the Celestial Palace’s immense and ancient underground
river cisterns.
When the water came roaring, the Mousewife jumped
nimbly into the straw hat at her feet, and hanging on for dear life, rode out
the flood in relative safety.
For his valorous efforts in thwarting the
assassination attempt, the assistant cook now holds the title of Exalted Chef to
his Celestial Majesty. And at the base of the repaired wall, a copy of the
Celestial Palace, in miniature, has been erected on the shore of the recently
created millpond. In front of that miniature palace, pups wrestling at her
feet, a contented Mousewife sits, weaving warm straw mats for the winter.
The washing-up boy is, however,
despite being awarded a lovely set of new rags, still the washing-up boy.
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