"The Tale of Despereaux" by Kate DiCamillo, Book the First

“Where are my babies?” said the exhausted mother when the ordeal was through.

I will name this mouse Despereaux, for all the sadness, for the many despairs in this place.

But his existence was cause for much speculation in the mouse community.

He did not think constantly of food. He was not intent on tracking down every crumb.

A piece of paper trembled at the end of one of her indignant whiskers. “It’s just like Pa said when you were born. Something is not right with you.”

“‘Once upon a time,'” he said aloud, relishing the sound.

In the dungeon, there were rats. Large rats. Mean rats.
Despereaux was destined to meet those rats.

Reader, you must know that an interesting fate (sometimes involving rats, sometimes not) awaits almost everyone, mouse or man, who does not conform.

Now, while Despereaux did not indulge in many of the normal behaviors of mice, he did adhere to one of the most basic and elemental of all mice rules: Do not ever, under any circumstances, reveal yourself to humans.

The song was as sweet as light shining through stained-glass windows, as captivating as the story in a book.

And, executing a classic scurry, Furlough went off to tell his father, Lester Tilling, the terrible, unbelievable news of what he had just seen.

“He must be punished. He must be brought up before the tribunal.”

He lowered it and turned his back to his wife and closed his eyes and took a deep breath and began to beat the drum slowly, one long beat with his tail, two staccato beats with his paws.

They listened in dismay and outrage and fear.

Humans cannot be trusted. We know this to be an indisputable fact.

"...A mouse who consorts with humans, a mouse who would sit right at the foot of a man, a mouse who would allow a human to touch him"—and here, the entire Mouse Council indulged in a collective shiver of disgust—"cannot be trusted..."

Fellow mice, it is my most fervent hope that Despereaux has not spoken to these humans.

He will hear of his sins; he will be given a chance to deny them. If he does not deny them, he will be allowed to renounce them so that he may go to the dun­geon with a pure heart.

At least Lester had the decency to weep at his act of perfidy.

“It is simply not done!” came the distinctive voice of Despereaux's aunt Florence.

First, we will give you a chance to defend yourself against these rumors of your egregious acts. Did you or did you not sit at the foot of the human king?

You are to be sent, as ancient castle-mouse law decrees, to the dungeon.

"Repent. Say that you are sorry you sat at the foot of the human king. Say that you are sorry you allowed the human princess to touch you. Say that you regret these actions.”

There was a bellow of collective outrage. The whole of the mouse community surged toward Despereaux.

Despereaux marveled at his own bravery.
He admired his own defiance.

Together, Lester and the drum produced an ominous sound that went something like this: Boom-boom-boom-tat. Boom-boom-boom-tat.

And as Despereaux stood before them with the red thread around his neck and the fourteen members of the Mouse Council perched on the bricks above him, two burly mice came forward.

He felt himself heading into another faint. But his mother, who had an excellent sense of dramatic timing, beat him to it; she executed a beautiful, flawless swoon, landing right at Despereaux’s feet.

That he would not be able to let the princess know what had become of him seemed suddenly unbearable to the mouse.

They stood, the three mice, two with hoods and one without, and contemplated the abyss before them.

They stood, the three mice, two with hoods and one without, and contemplated the abyss before them.

“Wearing the red thread of death” was a terrible phrase, but the mouse didn’t have long to consider its implications, because he was suddenly pushed from behind by the hooded mice.

Despereaux had never before encountered darkness so awful, so all- encompassing.

He considered fainting. He deemed it the only reasonable response to the situation in which he found himself, but then he remembered the words of the threadmaster: honor, courtesy, devotion, and bravery.

The man blew the candle out and the darkness descended and the man’s hand closed more tightly around Despereaux and Despereaux felt his beleaguered heart start up a crazy rhythm of fear.

You are talking to Gregory the jailer, who has been buried here, keeping watch over this dungeon for decades, for centuries, for eons. For eternities.

You are talking to Gregory the jailer, who, in the richest of ironies, is nothing but a prisoner here himself.

Here, in this dungeon, you are in the treacherous dark heart of the world. And if Gregory was to release you, the twistings and turnings and dead ends and false doorways of this place would swallow you for all eternity.

Gregory has seen it many times, the tragic end of a mouse.

Another match was struck; the candle was lit again, and Gregory held it up so that its flame illuminated a massive, towering, teetering pile of spoons and kettles and soup bowls.