THE RAT KING
The following is a true story. The year is 1690. Nestled within the town of Kiel, Germany, a man settles into a decadent armchair. The winds of winter whip outside his window. His tea is much too tepid for the weather, and so he rises. Squeak.
“An odd sound for a floorboard,” he muses.
He takes another step. Squeak. Squeak.
“What in Heavens is that? A ghost? A ghost ambling through the halls of my home? Begone, foul apparition!” he calls to the shadows and dust.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. This sound is no floorboard. It is pained; it is caught in the throat like a chicken bone. He cranes his ears earthward. The wailing emanates from beneath the floorboard, from within the dank confines of the crawl space below.
Squeak. A whistle pierces the air. Squeak. Squeak. The kettle rattles on the stove. Squeak. The wind howls. The man tiptoes into the kitchen with a feline lightness, careful not to disturb the mewling intruder, and grabs the boiling water from the fire. He locates the source of the sound – a rat hole – and releases a steaming torrent of water into it. Four shrieking rats with matted fur and burn marks lunge from the hole in a desperate bid for safety.
“That ought to have done it… the pesky rodents,” mutters the man as he rests back into his armchair. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Frenzied, the man bolts up from his chair and retrieves a crowbar. He pries up the floorboards. As he peels the third one back, his eyes fall upon a sight ghastly and grim: a gnarled bundle of 14 rats, tangled into a macabre maze of half–chewed tails and limbs. They cook in a puddle of boiling water. They erupt into a symphony of squeaks and attempt to flee, but drag themselves in all directions at once, becoming a roiling fury of fur clamoring atop itself.
With a few unceremonious swings, the man and his crowbar put the tied rats out of their misery. He carries the mass to the toilet and drops it into a soiled, watery grave. Satisfied with the newfound silence, the man returns to his armchair with his tea. Blanketed by the warmth of the fire, he drifts into a state of half-sleep, but on the cusp of dreaming, he…
Squeak.
… is rudely awoken.
At the intersection of folklore and natural curiosities, there exists a rarity known as the Rat King. Though it sounds like just one creature, it is many. A rat king forms when a group of rats are bound together by their tails. The knot is nigh-Gordian and nearly impossible to untangle. Tragically, all accounts of rat kings end in death. That many rats bound together can’t coordinate themselves and often starve.
Though there have been around 50 reports of rat kings (mostly in Germany and central Europe) over the last five centuries, this phenomenon remains shrouded in mystery and morbidity. However, there are theories of varying validity in circulation: nesting behavior, hoaxes, and chance.
The first theory is that rats deliberately knot themselves to weaker or younger rats in order to form a nest. The German word that originally describes the phenomenon is Rattenkönig. Which, aside from being an insult for the pope, specifically described the behavior of elderly rats that sat on the tails of younger and weaker rats in order to reap the benefits of their warmth and agility. The younger rat serves as the proverbial rat proletariat, catching prey and scavenging food that the senior rat would pilfer or bully from the younger rat. After enough ensnarement, the rats of the two tails become knotted and intertwined. Repeat that process and soon a tapestry of tangled rats forms. In this case, the “rat king” may refer to the singular rat at the top of the hierarchy that benefits from and commands the other rats they’ve shackled to themself. The French phrase for rat king – roi des rats – shares the German sentiment. The phrase is often used to refer to people who live off of the labor of others. However, this theory is unlikely.
The rat king may be a societal mirror. In 1857, the New York Tribune described the rat king as “so many kings, princes, and democratic officer holders, [depended] upon the laboring classes for support.” Those who abuse and depend upon workers for support and wealth find themselves in precarity when the laborers wither. After all, we are all in the same fragile, tangled web and the death of one can domino into the death of the rest. They forget that when one appendage dies, they are still connected to their rotting remains.
The second theory is that rat kings are artificial. Children and rat catchers, looking for attention or a moment of infamy, tie the tails of rats together to create a spectacle. They’ll throw the body in a pickle jar and parade it through the streets, accepting payment for the chance to see a freakish curiosity. This theory is also unlikely.
The most likely theory is that rat kings are formed by accident. With winter’s approach, rats sleep in close proximity to each other and form piles of shared warmth. However, rats aren’t well known for being hygienic. Their long, flexible tails are often coated in sticky substances like sap, honey, wax, oil, hair, and excrement. While they sleep, their tails weave into each other and through a combination of substances bonding and knotting, they become fatally stuck.
My personal favorite rat king story comes from Lindenau, Germany. In the winter of 1774, a miller’s assistant found a king of 16 rats and took them to an artist to commission a painting. The artist stole the rat king. They proceeded to create an exhibit and charged the public a viewing fee. The miller’s assistant demanded the rat king back – a request the artist denied. The two took their custody battle to court. Unfortunately, the conclusion is unknown, but I like to imagine it ends in courtroom drama and maybe a heist.
The rat king, though far from the posterity its regal name suggests, is in a way beautiful. It serves as a reminder that the dance of nature can end in contortion, twisting itself into a spectacle of the grotesque. It is the moth that finally reaches the flame. I will leave you with this poem I wrote for the rat king:
In the Sewer halls,
the Jestermouse japes.
In his chillblained paws,
a wad of nature’s tape:
of sap, and syrup,
honey, hair, and gum.
Quietly, he coats
some sleepy, furry bums.
Oh, you nasty joker!
You fuzzy regicide!
Don’t you know this knot
cannot be untied?
The Rat Court snorts
and snoozes in a pile.
They dream of pantries full
and mice in rank-and-file,
but the tails! Oh, the tails!
The tails are in a bunch!
Caught up in a knot,
the rats all scratch and punch.
They turn! turn! turn!
like a carousel.
They churn! churn! churn!
they shudder and they swell,
until they go PLOP,
deep into the drink.
A penny made to wish,
the king begins to sink.
and down, down, down…
silently, they drown,
‘til all that floats up
is a bubble and a crown.
Waiting at the top,
the Jestermouse smiles
a gnarly, cheshire grin –
hideous and vile –
and for the fallen king,
they give a eulogy:
“Goodnight, my flea-bit liege,
my Court of Cruelty,
to feel another beating heart,
the closeness can be bliss,
but tarry, do not tangle,
for Death can also kiss.”
