The Tale of Ciel Phantomhive
"You brought this completely upon yourself, Young Master." Sebastian Michaelis looked down smugly upon the twelve-year-old boy whom he'd just put to bed. "I warned you against having a third slice of devils' food cake so close to your bedtime. Now, not only is it bound to keep you awake for at least an hour or two, but when you do go to sleep, it's liable to give you nightmares."
"That's just an old wives' tale," scoffed Ciel Phantomhive. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked skeptically at his butler.
Ciel Phantomhive wasn't just any twelve-year-old boy. So far as he knew, he was the youngest in his family ever to inherit the title of Earl Phantomhive. He was also the owner and chief executive officer of the Funtom Companies, that manufacturer of toys and sweets known to practically every child in Great Britain, and many more on the Continent besides. Nor was Sebastian Michaelis just any butler. In fact, Sebastian was a demon – one with whom Ciel had entered into a bargain. In return for devouring Ciel's soul eventually, Sebastian had meantime placed himself under Ciel's orders, carrying them out as only a demon could. As Sebastian liked to put it, "I am simply one hell of a butler."
"Old wives' tale or not," countered Sebastian, "it is rather a pity you chose to gorge yourself tonight. You may recall you have a meeting tomorrow with that children's author and her solicitor."
"Thank you, Sebastian." The earl's voice dripped sarcasm. "I hadn't forgotten. If I'm having trouble sleeping, it's because of that meeting." Actually, he felt quite ill from all that cake. But it was so rich and moist, who couldn't have resisted having a third slice?
"Who ever would have thought," mused Sebastian, "that so much trouble could potentially arise over the image of a rabbit?"
"A mere bunny book," Ciel muttered.
The children's author had written over two-dozen books featuring a great array of characters or animals rendered in beautiful watercolor illustrations. None of her stories, however, were so well known or well loved among her young readers as her very first one, "bunny book" or not, about a rabbit whose greed proved his undoing. Of late, the author's solicitor had written several letters to the Funtom Company regarding its most famous of creations, the Bitter Rabbit plush toy. Her solicitor had pointed out uncomfortable resemblances between the two that might lead to a showdown in court over copyright infringement, one that would necessarily involve not only solicitors, but barristers as well.
"The whole thing is ridiculous," Ciel declared, lying back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. "If she had a leg to stand on, why'd she sit on her rights all this time?" Funtom's own solicitors had droned on and on earlier in the day about different legal theories concerning equitable estoppel and collateral estoppel that could be used in defense. That conference had almost put Ciel to sleep,
"Well, you can always hope she'll accept your settlement proposal," answered Sebastian. He was referring to a plan Ciel had presented to Funtom executives and solicitors to develop and market plush-toy versions of the author's characters: Beatrix Bunny, Mr. Todd the Toad, Jemima Waddleduck and others. Such an arrangement would be to both the author's and the Funtom Companies' mutual benefit. At least, Ciel hoped the author – and, more importantly, her solicitor – would see it that way.
"Sebastian?" Ciel's voice stopped the butler in mid-move. "Don't put out the light just yet."
"Oh, I see. My Young Master requires a night light?"
"Don't be cheeky. I just thought I'd read for a while, that's all." Ciel picked up a leather bound book from the night table.
Sebastian glanced at the book's cover. "The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Hmm. Hardly a good choice for bedtime reading, especially after three slices of devils' food cake. Are you sure you're not deliberately attempting to induce a nightmare, my lord?"
"Yes, I'm quite sure, Sebastian." Ciel gazed down at the volume, but did not open it. Instead, he lay on his elbow, deep in thought. "Of course, if you think you could tell a better story, why don't you?"
"You wish for me to tell you a bedtime story, my lord?"
"Exactly. You know, 'once upon a time,' et cetera, et cetera. If you think you could."
"If I couldn't tell one hell of a bedtime story for my Young Master, well, what kind of butler would I be?"
With that, Sebastian Michaelis pulled up a chair, sat down, thought a few moments, then muttered a quiet "Aha," and began his story.
[POV - Sebastian]
Once upon a time, there were four little bunnies, and their names were: Finny, Mey-Rin, Baldo –
"Oy, Sebastian! What's the idea o' stickin' me in a bleedin' bunny suit like this?"
"Because, Baldroy, there was no one else available for the role, and, for all your incompetence as servants, you do make a rather nice threesome."
"I think these costumes look cute, yes I do!"
"Mey-Rin! Whose side are you on, 'ere? I haven't been so HEMbarrassed since that madwoman Elizabeth came 'round and dressed us all up like loony-ticks! I'm supposed to a chef, y'know!"
"First, Lady Elizabeth happens to be my Young Master's betrothed. Second, as far as your being a chef is concerned, we'll discuss that when and if you ever actually manage to cook something."
Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, there were four little rabbits, and the fourth rabbit's name was Peter.
They lived with their butler – I mean, their Mother in a, well, perhaps not a mansion, but it was a hell of a sandbank underneath a big fir tree.
"Now, gather round and pay attention, all of you," said old Mother Rabbit one morning. "You're all right to go into the fields or down the lane, and pick blackberries for tonight's supper; but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor." She nodded toward a corner of the mansion – er, the sandbank where Father Rabbit sat, contentedly drinking Japanese green tea.
"Ho, ho, ho."
"Tanaka looks pretty well for some bloke what's been put in a pie, don't he?"
"One more interruption from you, Baldroy, and I'm liable to bake you into my next pie."
"Now run along, and please try not to get into mischief. I am going out."
Old Mother Rabbit knew she was probably asking too much of all of them (Peter especially), but nonetheless, she took a basket and her umbrella, and went through the wood to the baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread, and five currant buns.
Meanwhile, Finny, Mey-Rin and Baldo, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries. But Peter, who was very naughty (not to mention quite spoiled and greedy, not unlike a certain Young Master of mine), ran straight away to Mr. McGregor's garden, and squeezed under the gate!
First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes and carrots. (Actually, given my Young Master's propensity for sweets, eating more vegetables wouldn't have been such a bad thing in and of itself. However, issues of theft notwithstanding, his greed knew no bounds.) And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.
But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should meet but Mr. McGregor!
"Ooh, Bassy, you're so kind, including me in your story! I KNEW you couldn't bear having me away for long!"
"Don't flatter yourself so, Grell; it disgusts me."
At any rate, Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving his death-scythe – erm, his rake – and calling out, "Stop thief!"
Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of this shoes among the cabbages, and the other amongst the potatoes. He felt awfully sad over losing his shoes, particularly since he had no real idea how to lace and tie them back up. He'd always relied on his butler – ahem, his mother – for that.
"Terrible, losing my shoes like that!" thought he. "For, once something is truly lost, one can never get it back again!"
After losing his shoes, he ran on all four legs and went faster, so that he might have got away altogether. Of course, if he had got away altogether, we wouldn't have much of a story, now would we? In any event, he ran straight into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.
"I can't lose this as well! We'll have to call Nina Hopkins in again, and she's almost more trouble than she's worth!"
Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears.
"Why doesn't somebody come and save me? I'm hurting, I'm dirty, I want to go home! Why doesn't somebody come? I don't much care who!"
His appeals were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself. (If you think about it, that is quite original advice for someone like my Young Master, especially after doing what he does best – letting himself be captured.)
Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon Peter, but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind.
"Forget him, Bassy! How about you and I go out to the barn together, and we can have a splendid roll in the hay! What do you say, hmm, Bassy?"
"Grell, I don't enjoy being kicked, but when it comes to kicking you in the face, well, that's another matter entirely."
Peter rushed into the toolshed, and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful hiding place, if it had not had so much water in it.
"Ugh, oh no! This can't be any good for my asthma!"
Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the tool-shed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each.
Presently, Peter sneezed. "Kertyschoo!" Mr. McGregor was after him in no time, and tried to put his foot upon Peter. But Peter jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants.
"Bassy, you've kicked me in the face! You've damaged my lovely features and smudged my mascara – all over some spoiled brat!"
"Spoiled brat or not, he IS still my Young Master."
The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.
"Now, how about that roll in the – oh, no, Bassy, not in my face again!"
Hmm, my shoes could use some blacking. Oh, well, I shall have to attend to it later – if Mey-Rin hasn't used up all the shoe polish on the banister. Now, where were we? Oh, yes.
Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp from sitting in that can.
"Ah – ah – achoo! I have to get moving. I can't just sit here, I'll catch a cold."
After a time, he began to wander about, not very fast, and looking all round.
"Here's a door in the wall! Bloody hell, it's locked!"
Yes, indeed the door was locked, and there was no room for a spoiled Young Master – I mean a little rabbit – to squeeze underneath.
A mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep carrying peas and beans to the wood.
"Oy!" Peter called to him. "Can you tell me the way to the gate?"
"Can you pay my price?" answered the mouse, after removing the pea. "Do you think you can undertake it? No? Well, sorry, then, I can't help you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back for another pea! Get it, ha, ha, another pea!"
Peter tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A black cat was staring at some goldfish. She sat very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive.
"Damn it, that's just what I need! I'm allergic to cats!" Peter moaned. He thought it best to go away quietly. Allergies aside, he had heard about cats from his cousin, little Lizzie Bunny.
He went back towards the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a death-scythe – scr-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow, and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor, hoeing onions. His back was turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate.
"Here's my chance!" thought he. Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black currant bushes.
Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care.
"I'm almost home!" thought he. "If I can just squeeze under the gate…"
But alas, even without his jacket, Peter had eaten so much that he became wedged in place, no matter how hard or frantically he struggled.
"This isn't supposed to happen!" thought he.
Well, it wouldn't be happening at all, now would it, had he paid more heed to his mother – or should I say, his butler. He stared in horror at Mr. McGregor, coming at him with the death-scythe, but something moved him to glance backward over his shoulder. He saw a circle of fire with a sacrificial cult symbol silhouetted against it – and an upraised knife, its blade flashing in the flame.
A sick feeling rose within him. "That's it. I'm done for. No one can help me now, not poor little Peter Rabbit."
But then, somehow, as soon as he saw Mr. McGregor's death-scythe on one side, and the knife's blade on the other, he knew in that instant who he really was! He knew who he was, and what must be said.
"Sebastian! This is an order! Come save me NOW!"
"Yes, my lord."
[Int. Ciel's bedroom, night-time]
"I am sorry the tea is not to your liking, Young Master; however, considering the circumstances, it is a good remedy."
Ciel grimaced at the cup of camomile tea that Sebastian had poured for him. "It's terribly weak."
"Well, there is always castor oil, if you prefer something stronger."
"No, no, I'll stay with the tea," Ciel quickly replied. According to the clock by the bed, it was close to one-thirty in the morning. He drank another cup of camomile tea, then settled down under the covers, still spooked from the nightmare from which he'd wakened not a half-hour before. "Sebastian? Don't leave the room. Stay with me. Until I fall asleep again."
"Yes, my young lord. You need never fear. As long as the contract remains in effect, I shall stay forever by your side, until the end. Until the very end."
[POV - Sebastian]
My Young Master, I'm sorry to say, felt quite ill during the following day. He remained in bed, subsisting on broth soup and camomile tea – one cup to be taken before mealtimes, and just before bedtime. His stomach, it seemed, was in no mood for dinner, much less sweets. But it seemed a shame to let all the butler's efforts to the day's meal go entirely to waste. So, even though they scarcely deserved it, Finny, Mey-Rin, and Baldo enjoyed bread, milk, currant buns and blackberries for supper – not to mention one hell of a devils' food cake!
A/N: Beatrix Potter did not publish her famous "bunny book" through Frederick Warne & Co. until 1902, some fifteen years after the events in "Black Butler," but what's that time to a demon? At any rate, if you liked the OVA "Ciel in Wonderland," perhaps you might like this. The tales and characters of Miss Potter - Squirrel Nutkin, Mrs. Tiggywinkle, Jemima Puddleduck, et al. - entertained and inspired many a young reader who might otherwise have not been interested in reading at all - not unlike the creator of a certain MISTER Potter.