The magnificent mahogany dining table was used solely for entertaining important guests, relatives, and close friends.  The exquisitely expensive and ornate furniture was designed to seat the bodies of fully grown adults.  For young Mataya, barely a toddler, situating herself comfortably within her large chair was difficult as her little legs had not yet sprouted and therefore insufficiently long to reach the floor.  Furthermore, the surface of the table rose above her chin.  It was a very awkward, and the stress of a formal occasion, during which she was expected to behave like an adult, made it even more so.

In order to alleviate her physical discomfort as well as the boredom of adult conversation, little Mataya enjoyed swinging her legs forward and backward in a continuous, synchronous fashion.  She timed her kicks precisely so that as her right toe was fully extended her left heel simultaneously struck the front leg of her chair. As she grew restless, the pendulum of her kick increased in both frequency and amplitude.  For her, it was rather enjoyable.  A form of dancing.  Furthermore, feeling ignored by the adults, it attracted attention and disrupted the incomprehensible adult-speak from which was so rudely excluded.  Such mind-numbing  conversations.  She understood but a few of the words as if they were speaking in a foreign tongue.  The King this. The Church that.  The fate of the empire.  She tried to keep up, but it was so dull.  The fate of modern civilization.  That again?  Blah blah blah.  Adults are way too interested in that which is so uninteresting.  Neither Father, nor Fat Rat, had spoken a word to her for quite some time.  It was as if she did not exist.  So, little Mataya decided to swing her legs even harder.

“Good lord, Child!”  Would you please refrain from kicking your feet at the dinner table?!” squeaked Fat Rat. 

Mataya did not reply with words.   Rather she responded with her very best stink-eye which she had been practicing diligently in the mirror for several weeks.  She pursed her lips, crinkled her nose, and shot a laser beam of searing contempt right between Fat Rat’s beady little eyes into her walnut-sized brain.

“Well.  I never! ”  Appalled, Fat Rat looked incredulously at Father, who, truth be told, found the situation rather amusing and refused to apologize for the behavior of his daughter which he found to be perfectly natural for a girl of her age.

Mataya had seen Far Rat scurrying about the house on several occasions,  typically during the daytime when she and Father would sit in the kitchen and share a cup of tea and brandy.   Each time she visited, Mataya found her hairstyle and clothing to be even more ridiculous than the time before.  Tonight, however, was the first time that Mataya was forced to sit at the same the table with Fat Rat and dine.  Sitting directly across from her with Father sitting at the head of the table, there was little else for Mataya to look at other than the bloated face of this repulsive rodent, whose appearance, on this occasion, was especially unpleasant to behold.  The vile vermin had really outdone herself.  Her gaudy clothing and pretentious hairstyle looked ridiculous and exceedingly unattractive.  Her grayish-brown hair had been puffed up into a frizzy knot, creating the illusion that a large bird had constructed a nest directly on the top of her head.  Her gown and jewelry, no doubt meant to look elegant, resembled that of a circus clown.  Most distracting of all was the thick goop painted across her mammoth maw.  It was a shade of red so bright that all other colors in comparison were gray and invisible.  She appeared as a disembodied pair of fat red lips.  And as the evening progressed, the sticky goop attracted a myriad of debris including brown lumps of pork gravy, bread crumbs, and thin strands of greenish-black spinach.

Unsuccessful in her appeal to Father, Fat Rat turned to Mataya and addressed her directly.  “It is most distracting and very un-ladylike.  You do wish to become a lady.  Do you not?”

To this, Father chuckled, wiped his mouth, and took a sip of wine to stifle his cough.  To this, Fat Rat became further enraged and intensified her malicious glare.  Mataya, determined not to lose the staring contest, nonetheless stopped kicking just long enough to deflect Fat Rat’s unwanted gaze.  Then, as soon as Fat Rat looked away, Mataya began kicking again.  Getting underneath her flea-bitten hide was all too easy.  Finally, Fat Rat tossed her silverware onto her plate, placed her palms on the table, and leaned over so far that for a moment it appeared she might actually reach out and slap Mataya across the face.  Instead, she sat back and squinted with incensed eyes and hissed through clenched teeth.  

After a small eternity, the mangy gopher broke off eye contact with Mataya and repositioned her hefty rear so as to address the head of the table.  The floor creaked beneath the weight of her shifting behind.  While prattling on with Father, the tone the rat’s voice transformed.  Her words slid from her tongue as sweetly and slippery as olive oil.

“I do believe that young ladies these days require a proper education.  You don’t want her turning into an beastly adolescent, now do you?  The children of today are nothing like they were in our time.  Spoiled they are.  My father never gave a second thought to the paddle.  And rightfully so.  Oh, the youth these days.  They are abhorrent.  They actually take a certain pride in demonstrating their complete lack of culture and respect for authority.  They flaunt and mock their superiors.  They have embraced a low-borne culture as if it is somehow a good thing.  Hooliganism has found its way into fashion.”  Fat Rat nodded over her shoulder at Mataya.  “If it were my daughter, why I would –“

Father subtly interrupted her, raising one hand ever so slightly.

Fat Rat lowered the pitch of her voice and spoke slowly, and softly.  “If it were my daughter, I would not tolerate such delinquent behavior.  Especially at such an impressionable age.”

Father wiped his mouth, intending to speak, but before he could, Fat Rat further interjected.

“You do want to secure a proper husband for her, don’t you?”

Father picked up his white cloth napkin, delicately wiped the corners of his mouth, and took a sip from his glass of wine.  Procrastinating, he formulated a polite yet gentlemanly response.  With his brow furrowed, he placed both his elbows on the table, something Mataya knew to be quite rude, and leaned towards Fat Rat.  Sensing the awkwardness of the moment, Mataya came to his rescue by increasing the vigor of her kicks until the entire table pulsated.  After all, who does this greasy beast think she is?  Coming into her home, offering criticism, presuming to demands and giving orders around her dinner table within her house? 

Mataya froze as both of the adults simultaneously turned their heads sharply in her direction.  “But Father!”

Father silenced Fat Rat for a moment, the turned to Mataya and lovingly held up his hand.  Little Mataya quit kicking and folded her arms in front of her chest in protest.  When Fat Rat turned her head, Mataya stuck out her tongue, but quickly sucked it back in at the very moment that Fat Rat turned towards her.  To this, the words spoken between the two adults became increasingly heated and impossible to understand.  Adult-speak was a form of secret code that Mataya had yet to decipher.  This was intentional, of course, and could mean only one thing: that they were speaking about her.

From Mataya’s seat at the table, she could see Mother’s portrait hanging on the wall directly above Father.  Mataya pondered the stark contrast between the juxtaposed images of the two women in Father’s life.  One, a smiling woman so very warm, lovely, and kind-hearted, while the other, foul, wretched, and just plain obnoxious.  

Mataya closed her eyes as her mind swam in the pastel colors of her Mother’s portrait.  Her soft cheeks painted the color of ripe peaches.  Her natural dark lips drawn the color pomegranate.  The curls of her flowing hair, golden as the leaves in autumn.  The portrait’s frame in itself was a work of art, elaborately decorated with detailed carvings, coated in a glossy coat of expensive varnish, and adorned with a door that could be opened and shut.  With the portrait’s door open, it appeared as if Mataya’s mother was sitting indoors beside an open window looking out with the glow of sunlight radiating from her face.

Father requested the door be added to the portrait’s frame as he had come to find the constant exposure to the image of his beloved late wife too painful. Most of the time, the door remained closed, hiding her likeness.  However, on holidays and special occasions, especially on Mother’s birthday, he would open it so that her presence could brighten the room and fill it with the feeling of love and warmth.  Being a proud man, Father always opened it while entertaining guests as a reminder to everyone of his wife’s unparalleled charm, grace, and beauty.  Still, the door was open so rarely that each time it was as if Mataya was discovering the image of the mother she never knew for the very first time.   This made her portrait a very special thing.

Lost in thought, Mataya stared into the colorful depths of her mother’s portrait.  Unconsciously, and without malice, she once again began to swing her legs with exuberance.  Back and forth they swung, now with a creative curvature forming complex circular patterns.  With each kick, her black shiny shoes, each tied with a single white bow, drew figure-eights in the space underneath the table with her toe pointed at the top of the rotation and her foot delicately poised at the bottom.  With each swing, her foot drifted further to the right until finally it struck the leg of the table with considerable force.

The irritable guest, fully startled, convulsed in her chair and threw up her hands with spread fingers.  At that moment, she had been delicately cradling a cup of tea with the bloated tips of her greasy paws.  The timing was less than fortuitous as the boiling contents of her teacup splashed upward and flowed down the front of her fat face and rotund abdomen.  The sting of the steaming waterfall caused her to spray the liquid contents of her mouth across the table, soiling the white table cloth and several untouched entrées including a dessert cake with swirly white frosting.  Mataya, still swimming within her waking dream, paid no notice despite her setting positioned squarely within the splash zone.  Hysterical, the fidgety vertebrate frantically groped her flabby limbs about as she blindly searched for a cloth napkin to mop up as best she could, all the while mumbling and muttering apologies to her host.  Then, Fat Rat’s inner humiliation turned outward, exploding into a tyrannical rage.  With fetid breath, the hairless rodent toweled off her bespottled neck and chest as she turned in Mataya’s direction and prepared her voracious verbal assault.   Apparently, as far as the fleabag was concerned, the time for etiquette and diplomacy had passed.  She had restrained herself long enough.

“Why!  You … you … hooligan!  You r-r-r-rascal!  Is there any humanity in you whatsoever, or are you nothing more than a feral animal?!  Where do you sleep?  Underneath a rock in the garden with your fellow snakes?!”

There was more.  Actually, there was much more.  But Mataya’s attention shifted to Father.  She sensed that this time he had no choice but to take sides against his own daughter.  With a firm voice, Father scolded Mataya.  The humiliation of public reprimand was an unbearable insult.  Fat Rat’s triumphant smirk exposed bright red goop smeared across her front teeth.  Droplets of tea and specs of mashed potato flew through the air as she spat unbridled vitriol. 

Mataya, in protest, used both arms to clear out a swath of space in front of her, toppling her plate and sending the pepper shaker tumbling across the table.  She stood up on her chair and loomed as far across the table as she could and stuck out her tongue.  Mataya’s spontaneous response may not have been clever, but it was effective.  She sat back down, glanced at Father with hurtful eyes, then buried her head in her chest and covering both her ears and her eyes.

“Oh, look.  Now the little beast is going to pout.  As if she is guilty of no-thing.  As if she is the injured party.”  Fat Rat’s flaming moustache, doused with hot tea, glistened in the light of the chandelier.  She leaned as far across the table as her physique would allow and further assailed Father, lecturing him, scolding him, setting him straight.

Mataya, unable to block out the sound of Fat Rat’s voice, covered her ears and loudly hummed a children’s rhyme, replacing the lyrics with la-la-las.  With each word spoken, Mataya responded with no less than one half-dozen las.  “La-la-la-la-la-la-la–” 

Fat Rat increased the volume of her voice, refusing to be thwarted by a child.  Her words were no longer sweet and oily.  They were sharp.  Bitter.  Harsh.  With her ears covered and eyes closed, Mataya could not help but overhear a few choice phrases, such as proper education, strict manners, and another word that she was not entirely familiar with.  Convent.  Mataya understood well enough, and that last word in particular filled her heart with fear. Fat Rat was trying to convince Father to send Mataya away to a boarding school, insisting that it was for Mataya’s own good, as well as his.

Mataya’s eyes filled with hot tears.  She licked her lips, tasting salt and pepper.  She wiped her nose on each sleeve of her dress, provoking yet another reaction from the grotesque rodent.  Mataya, her chin pressed against her chest and her ears covered, concentrated with all her might. Time warped as her Self transported itself into the quiet and peaceful cave of her mind.  It was her sanctuary.  One in which only she was allowed.  It was a gift.  Her superpower.  Acquired from long periods of solitude.  She visualized a safe place.  A fully furnished cave with a sign hanging prominently for all to see:

No Rats Allowed!

Mataya fell more deeply into her trance.  She decorated the cave of her imagination and filled it with colorful characters, adorable pets, best friends, and evil foes, an indeterminate amount of time passed to those surrounding her in the outer world.  

Mataya woke to the sound of the Fat Rat’s voice reverberating within the stone walls of the front corridor leading the main entrance, or in this case, the main exit. The echo made the voice of one rat sound like a dozen — all of which were being eaten alive by giant hungry cats.

Father, on the other hand, could barely fit a word in edgewise and had little to say other than to issue gracious words of gratitude, just what one would expect from a cultured gentleman, such as thank you for coming, please travel safely, and I look forward to continuing our discussion in the future.  As the front door shut, Fat Rat’s voice could still be heard harping, vociferating, and spoiling the otherwise peaceful sounds of the evening.  Mataya heard the metallic sound of the door’s heavy iron bolt followed by a crescendo of slow, brooding steps.

Then, the sonorous but soft voice of Father.  “All right, you little devil.  You can come out now.  She is gone.”

Mataya lifted up her head.  Her eyes were red filled with hot tears.  Her face sweaty and thick strands of hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks.  On one side of her face, the wrinkled pattern of her dress sleeves was still branded on the side of her face.  “Father!  How could you?  She is a proper frump after all!  And, such a frightful bore,”  Mataya whimpered.  “How can you … how could you ever –“

Father, seated once again at the head of the table, interrupted with a raised hand.  He finished chewing a mouthful of pork, wiped off his mouth,  then sett his napkin to the side.  Bewildered, he examined Mataya.  He stroked his bearded chin with his right hand while gripping his right elbow.  He often referred to this as his thinking triangle, a posture often he assumed while deeply puzzled.  Then, his head tilted and a warm smile bloomed across his face.  He released his thinking triangle and held both his arms up and out.  Chuckling, he pushed out his chair so that he could slap his knees with both hands.  “Why, my wonderfully wicked little witch!  Don’t you know?  Don’t you know me at all?  I would never even dream of torturing you with a stepmother.  Furthermore, the King himself could not convince me to send you away.  You are mine, and I am yours.  We shall always be together.”

Mataya slid out off of her chair and sprinted around the table so fast that she had to lean in to counter the invisible force of centripetal acceleration.  As Father had remained seated, she wasn’t able to hug him and kiss him on his face as she wanted to, and as she had grown into a little lady, jumping into his lap was no longer an option. Rather, she grabbed one of his hands, flipped it upside-down, and began kissing it all over.  The skin on the back of his hand was spotted, thin, and wrinkled, but it was as soft and smooth as silk.

“Oh, thank you, father!  Thank you.”  She kissed the back of his hand repeatedly until it was sticky with tears and saliva. “Oh, thank you, father! I love you! I love you!”  She switched from soft kisses to a loud smooch, her lips vibrating like a musical instrument.  Father chuckled.  “I love you Father, I love you so much!”

“I love you too, my wicked little witch.  My sweet little rascal.  I love you more than life itself.”

“I love you too, Father.  Do you know how much I love you?”  Mataya stretched her arms out as far as she could.  “I love you this much!  I love you, Father.  I love you.  I love you so much.  Don’t ever leave me, Father.  Don’t ever leave me.  Please!  I love you!”  

“I love you, Mataya. I will never leave you. You are my world. I love you.  I love you …”

The sound of Father’s voice faded until it vanished completely.  Mataya found herself awake with her hands tightly gripping her bedsheets.  Tears dripped onto her satin pillow, beaded up, and rolled downward through the valley created by the intersection of her pillow and face.  Light, filtered by the window curtains above her bed, stained her chamber with the color of blood.

The door to her bathing chamber was slightly ajar, and as she sat up, she could see a tiny little head bobbing up and down just inside.  On top of the small head was a feathery plume, erect with excitement.  As Mataya’s eyes adjusted to the light, she could make out the silhouette of a curved beak and a thick tongue.

“Love you too … love you too.”

Mataya laid her head back down and wept.  After some time, she arose and walked down the corridor.  “Oh, Pierre.  I must speak with you now.  I have some very important news.”