The Spindlers (5 page)

“These are Patrick's socks!” she cried out, extracting the socks that had been the source of all her trouble: the blue ones, embroidered with turtles. “And my missing math homework! And Patrick's baseball!” She wrapped her father's glasses in the socks and tucked the bundle carefully into the right pocket of the vest she was wearing over her long-sleeved shirt. The baseball went in the left pocket of her pajama pants; she heard a small rip in the fabric as she wedged it down and against her leg. The homework she left in the lunch box. She doubted very much that Mr. Toddle would accept as an excuse that a rat had stolen it. She didn't recognize the other things—several more socks, a rusted key, a saltshaker, and a purple hair scrunchie—but she bet that they, too, had been taken from the world above. “You stole them.”

The rat bent down and jerked the lunch box away from Liza. She snapped and latched it closed, and then straightened up again. Liza stood as well, so the rat would not tower over her.

“I did no such thing!” the rat replied in a tone of deep indignation. “I bought them fair and square from the troglods.”

“The
what
?” Liza said.

“The troglods.” The rat paused and peered at Liza. “Don't tell me you've never heard of the troglod market.”

Liza shook her head.

“My dear child!” the rat exclaimed. “Where
have
you been? It's just around the corner. It's late, but with any luck we might still snatch a sight or two. Come along. Follow me.”

The rat was already bustling off.

“No!” Liza burst out, more loudly than she intended. The rat stopped and looked at her quizzically. “I—I don't have time.” She closed her eyes and imagined Patrick's face, smudgy with chocolate—his grass-stained knees and the gap between his bottom teeth.

The rat scurried closer again. She seemed to notice Liza's sudden change of mood. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Liza confessed. “Something is very wrong. You see, I'm looking for my brother. That is … I'm looking for my brother's soul. I mean to say …” She sucked in a deep breath. She found it difficult to speak the words, particularly since she was speaking them to an overgrown rat in a wig and paper hat, but she didn't see what other choice she had. “I mean to say that I am looking for the spindlers' nests.”

The rat let out a tremendous yelp, jumped forward, and clapped a furry paw over Liza's mouth. “Shhh,” she hissed. “You must be very careful. Very careful about saying their name Below.”

Liza jerked away, spitting out the taste of dirty fur, which reminded her, unpleasantly, of her aunt Virginia's mixed-meat pie.

“So you know of the spindlers?” she said.

The rat worried her tail anxiously between two paws. Her large black eyes darted nervously back and forth. “Of course I know of them. Everybody knows of them.” She scrutinized Liza for a moment and then, seeming to come to a decision, leaned closer, so she and Liza were practically whiskers to nose. “It is very difficult,” the rat resumed, in an anxious voice, still watching Liza intently. “Very hard to know nowadays—sides and spies. Spies and spindlers—everywhere, everywhere.”

Liza felt a chill. “Please,” she said. “Do you know where the spindlers make their nests?”

The rat gave another yelp when Liza said the word
spindlers
. Then she shook her head. Then she nodded. Then she shook her head again, a motion that transformed slowly into another nod.

“Well, which is it?” Liza cried. Even now, she could feel seconds pooling and running away from them. “Yes or no?”

The rat started to speak, and then clamped her mouth shut. Then her eyes bulged, and her cheeks filled with air, as though a word was ballooning behind them. Finally she burst out, “Yes! I know, I know!” Instantly, in a flurry of agitation, she whipped out a small compact and began furiously dusting her face with powder. “Stupid rat,” she muttered. “Stupid, stupid. Always muddling and messing.” She shook her head. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” By now a cloud of powder was swirling all around them, like a faint snow.

“Please,” Liza said desperately. “I'll do anything!”

The rat stopped. She looked at Liza warily. For a moment Liza saw something flashing behind her eyes—a look of need, or greed. “Do you mean it?” the rat asked, watching Liza closely. “Anything?”

Fear made Liza's throat swell closed, so instead of speaking, she drew an X over her heart, as she and Patrick always did when they were vowing to each other.

The rat stared at Liza for a second longer. Finally she said, “All right. I will take you there.” Then, in a flash, the rat whirled around and scurried off.

L
iza had not yet had time to remark on the strangeness of the world she had fallen into. The stone beneath her feet had, she saw, been deliberately carved into a wide, even path, and painted with various instructional signs.

THIS WAY TO THE MARKET!!!
was written several times, in large, urgent cursive. Liza had the feeling that the words were shouting at her, an impression only furthered by the addition of several enormous arrows pointing the way.

Other painted messages cluttered the path.
BROWSERS ON LEFT; BUYERS ON RIGHT
was one, as was
NO BITING, KICKING, BARGAINING, OR STINGING
. Another one, this time painted in ominous black, read:
THIEVES, SHOPLIFTERS, NITPICKERS, AND MISCREANTS MUST APPEAR BEFORE THE JUDGE IN THE COURT OF STONES
.

“This is the way to the spindlers' nests, isn't it?” Liza asked anxiously, hurrying to catch up to the rat.

“Shhh.” The rat whirled around, nearly whipping Liza in the face with her tail. “What did I tell you about speaking their name?”

“I'm sorry.” Liza took a step backward, alarmed by the intensity of the rat's expression. “I just want to make certain that—”

“No way to the nests but through the market,” the rat cut her off, and then turned and once again scampered ahead.

All around them were clusters of the strangest houses Liza had ever seen. She knew they were houses because they were fitted with doors and chimneys. But not a single home was taller than her shoulder blade, and all the buildings were assembled of a motley collection of random materials: birdcages and soup pots, bread baskets and cookie tins, all twisted and reassembled and patched back together.

She was touched by the care with which the homes were kept; in front of one house was a well-swept welcome mat; in front of another was a flowerpot half the size of the front door, in which an enormous purple flower was growing. Many of the houses were decorated with curling wisps of colored paper, giving the impression that they were all sprouting multicolored skins.

“Who lives here?” she asked the rat wonderingly.

“Who do you think? The troglods, of course. Ah, here we are now, see? The troglod market. Most of the best finds will have been snatched up by now. Still, there might be a few goodies and goodlies left.”

They had turned a corner and arrived, suddenly, at a large square. Looking at it, Liza's first feeling was a dizzying sense of free fall.

The vaulted stone ceiling soared upward, like the massive arched top of a cathedral; distantly, lanterns winked among the covering of glossy purple ivy like faraway stars, filling the square with soft white light.

In the center of the plaza was a fountain carved from stone. Liza was not sure what the statue was supposed to represent: It looked like a series of animals grappling with one another, although it was hard to tell, because over the years the stone had begun to wear and chip away in places. But she definitely made out the head of a beaver; and underneath it, she thought she saw the head of a rat. At the very top of the fountain, a carved creature that looked like a cross between a bird and a butterfly was posed, mouth open, expelling a light spray of water that fell in a graceful arch into the fountain's large stone basin.

All around the market square, different booths had been assembled, again from a hodgepodge of materials, like the houses Liza had just seen, and these, too, were covered with various strips of colored paper.

But that was not what made Liza dizzy.

The vast market square was full of rocks, and all the rocks were
moving
.

Liza blinked. No—not rocks. They were small, round, rock-shaped creatures, with cracked brown-and-gray hides, nubby arms and legs, large, winking black eyes, and drooped noses that looked like very wrinkled baked potatoes. There were hundreds of them, many carrying wire baskets, or burlap sacks, or lunch boxes nearly half their size, which they were using as makeshift grocery carts.

They pushed and jostled and called to one another. The square was filled with a swell of different voices: some as low as a growl, some like the sound of a fluted high note. The din was tremendous; it made Liza's head pound.

“Troglods,” she said.

The rat adjusted her crushed paper hat and nodded. “Very smart, the troglods,” she said sagely. “You know what they say: Never try to cheat a troglod! It's like trying to outsniff a sningle. Now follow me, follow me. This way, please, this way.”

As Liza and the rat began pushing their way into the market square, Liza saw that the cloth rags papering the booths were actually signs.
SOCKS FOR FIVE PURPLES!
said one.
NEW PEN CAPS, THREE FOR A YELLOW!
said another. Liza could hear, too, snatches of individual conversations.

“Outrageous! Last week it was one green for a key, and now they're trying to charge me a blue!”

“Tin cans for a bargain! Two reds gets you two cans!”

“Don't you try to tell me this sock doesn't have a hole in the heel! Do you take me for a dingle-bat?”

“What's all the colored paper for?” Liza said. Despite her anxiety, she couldn't help but be curious. Everywhere, troglods were exchanging small slips of colored paper: reds, blues, greens, and purples. Some of them looked to have been cut away from cardboard cereal boxes or greeting cards; others looked like scraps of wrapping paper.

The rat stared at her in amazement. “You didn't think the market was
free
, did you?” The rat shook her head. “Personally,” she continued, “I've never understood why the world Above is so crazy for green. Absolutely mad for it!” The rat dropped her voice again. “I've always been a fan of pink. Very rare, of course … very hard to come by … extremely valuable … the troglods would give up their houses for a half-dozen pinks....”

“But—” Liza was going to point out that in her world people used real money, not just worthless slips of paper, but it occurred to her that she wasn't actually certain of the difference, and so she said nothing.

“Get your bottle caps! Get your bottle caps! Two reds and a bargain at that!”

“Batteries! Used batteries, right here! Best in the market!”

As they moved through the market, a few troglods shot her a curious look, but most of them continued bustling on their way, squabbling and bargaining, picking over the booths—which were, Liza saw, filled with all the little nips and bops that always seemed to get lost: stray socks and old keys; lipstick tubes and sunglasses; used Post-it Notes and packs of gum.