THE RAT HONEY

i remember the boy was bleeding very badly.
I had wandered away awkwardy from the rest of the class, who were all collected neatly at the far end of the classroom for another rainy late afternoon spent meandering and thumb-twiddling. Ms Deesamone would fall into the routine of Rainy Day Afternoons as if it were a procedure she had learned in her own schooling --- and quite possible she had --- and the class would catch right onto it like a marlin on a deep sea hook, except we wouldnt fight back. Slowly, as 1:30 became 2, and as 2:30 became 3, the first grade boys and girls of Ms Deesamone's class would listen more and more intently to her stories, slipping gently into a place somewhere in between being asleep and being awake.
She didnt mind if we sat at our desks and drew pictures, or finished up the mornings math homework, or talked quietly in smaller groups at the otherend of the classroom. Almost always though, the whole class, including me, would sit eagerly in a sloppy semi-circle, listening intently.
The stories she told were always strange and unfamiliar, always occupying the shallow borderlands between terrifying and beautiful. Some were serene and calm, featuring characters who varnished enormous magic swords made of treebark, or winged horses who built skyscraping playhouses for their children . Some were sparse on dialogue or characters, feeling lonely and vast, with deserts and plains and marshlands and minefields that a sole protagonist had to traverse to save a faraway princess. And some were terrifying. There were wolves who waited for men to wander innocently into their trapdoors in the woods, where they would be sucked up and goggled down by machine assembly lines that would turn them into slaves for a slobbering dog goddess. There were gardens of poisonous magnolias that an evil flowershop owner would give to children to make them rapidly grow old. There were thieving horsemen, crosseyed bandits with crooked English accents, Princes from lands of silver rosepedals and ferryboat bow-and-arrow shootouts, brotherhoods of ancient ghouls ... we of course let it all fade into a single, monotone color backdrop that briefly entertained us on the occasional friday before the final school bell.
I suppose i only remember these stories because of the boys bloody body, arms swinging casually as the two women ran silently down the hallway, faces padlocked in horror. He was covered in blood. I suppose it has stayed with me so long because of that fact; the blood was dry and hardened, it wasnt dripping off of him, leaving a trail to be followed like breadcrumbs. Wherever they had found him, he had been there for at least awhile.
That day Ms Deesamone told a story about the Rat Honey. She said the rat honey was a magic trick, a secret show for kids like us, first graders who liked the rainy days to cuddle in curled-up balls on the floor during storytime. She said all kids like honey, and even when Kevin Hightower objected, saying he was allergic, Ms Deesamone's response was 'Yes but have you have ever tried it? You would like it, if you were allowed to try it.', to which Kevin couldn't say anything. Ms Deesamone said that the rat honey was what got most boys and girl - but especially boys - into trouble. 'They go looking for it,' she said.
Ms Deesamone said that the rats laid out everything you ever wanted, they laid it all out over the honey. Ms Deesamone said the rats had special horns that they blew, and that the horns called out your name, and that no one could hear it but you. Ms Deesamone said that if you were strong, you could stand at the edge of the pool of honey, staring out at everything that you wanted, and you could turn away.
'Most little children dont turn away,' she said then. 'they become greedy, and selfish. And they step onto the honey, reaching out for those things.'
We knew what happened next, and we knew that the rats had eaten many children, getting fat and plump and strong and mean on all the selfish little bastards that couldnt wait until christmas for the things they wanted. 'Sometimes the rats just bite on you a little bit,' she said. 'Just to teach you a lesson.'
And thats why i remember it, the rat honey, because that was where i stopped listening to Ms Deesamone, that dreary friday around 3oclock. I aimlessley walked, hands deep in pockets, head deep in some trivial child-thought, over to the classroom door. And leaning on the doorway, i saw the boy, dry-bloodied body and all, hands limp and swinging, head rolled back, as they ran him by.
I turned back to Ms Deesamone, the rest of the class sitting indian style at her feet, nobody moving a muscle, minds under her arrestive ability to create, and for a moment it seemed that they were worshipping some sort of shrine, they were brainwashed followers in her first-grade cult. I remember that as i looked at her, i became very afraid, as if she had wounded that boy just by speaking, as if that boy had gone off to find the Rat Honey, as if he went looking for it. I knew, even then, even in first grade, that Ms Deesamone had no power to speak life into imaginary things. It was foolish even to be afraid! I knew that, but underneath the knowing lured a tiny refusal to believe.
I leaned carefully, peering down the hallway at the women as they ran, carrying that poor boy, that poor bloody child who had been out in the rain, or under the playground, or inside the dumpster for god knows how long. And as i was just about to forget the whole thing, to smirk and shake my head and shrug it all off, one of those women cried out. She wasnt weeping; there were no eyes-full-of-tears, no choked out sob. And she wasnt afraid; there was no shrieking alarm in her voice, no shaking octaves. But when she cried out there was definately something, a single word, a statement.
It was like a warning.

It sounded like she said 'Rats'.