The Spindlers (6 page)

Liza remembered what her father had once said:
Glasses don't just get up and walk away by themselves
. And it was true. The troglods were walking away with them. She realized, with a jolt, that everything she had mysteriously lost over the years—her sheet of butterfly stickers in second grade, her favorite crystal barrette, the locket she had inherited from her grandmother—might very well have ended up here, at the troglod market.

She realized, additionally, that she had seen a troglod before. She recognized the wrinkly brown backsides.

“There was a troglod in my yard only last week,” Liza burst out. They were nearing the end of the market, where it was a little quieter. “I thought it was a gnome.”

The rat let out a peal of laughter. She whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eyes, which were smeary with mascara. “A gnome! Bless you. What an idea.”

“So … gnomes aren't real?” Liza asked.

The rat stared. “Of course they're
real
. But who ever heard of a gnome living all the way down here? The gnomes are northern creatures. Wouldn't be caught dead beneath the eleventh parallel.”

Liza felt warmth flare in her stomach. So Anna had been right about the gnomes—they
did
like the cold.

But that meant she had probably been right about the spindlers, too. The warmth drained out of her at once. She thought about the last time she had asked Anna what on earth the spindlers needed souls for—how Anna's face had gone paper-white, how her eyes had gone blank and frightened, like someone suffering from a bad shock. How she had shaken her head sadly, without saying a word.

The rat sensed her change in mood. “Come on,” she said, and scuttled on.

Liza put a hand in her pocket and squeezed the baseball pressing into her thigh. And even though she was not Above, and was not standing with her face in the fir tree, she allowed herself to make a wish.

This one I will tell you:

Please, please, please. Let me rescue Patrick in time
.

T
hey moved into an area of dense forest. All the trees were covered in layers of thick, green moss, as though they were draped with fuzzy blankets. The air smelled like wet, new earth, and Liza saw large, jewel-colored butterflies flitting through the trees. It was clear, however, that the path was well-traveled. Above their heads, the same pale, glowing lanterns were nestled among the canopy of vine- and moss-covered branches, which reminded Liza of long fingers encased in green woolen gloves, knitted tightly together.

Every so often, the rat would stop abruptly, remove a cracked pocket mirror from her lunch box, and stare at her own reflection, while Liza danced impatiently behind her and bit back the urge to tell her to move on.

Once the rat produced a tube of lipstick, which she slathered liberally over her pink lips, whispering, “Just a little more color …” Another time she removed a small makeup compact—Liza would have sworn it was one her mother had lost only a few weeks earlier—and patted and pouffed her face until she looked as though she had gone face-first into a snowdrift.

With every minute that passed, Liza had a harder time controlling her impatience. Finally she couldn't stand it any longer. “Excuse me,” she said. “I don't mean to be rude, but—but—”

The rat blinked at her expectantly. Her black eyes looked even darker above her powder-white nose.

Liza faltered under the rat's stare. “I mean it hardly seems necessary—when we're on an urgent mission …”

“
What
hardly seems necessary?” the rat asked coldly.

“What I mean is …” Liza gestured helplessly at the rat's outfit.

“Is there something the matter,” the rat asked, her gaze growing fiercer, “with the way that I am dressed?”

“I just … well, it isn't natural, is it?” Liza sputtered.

Instantly she knew that the rat had been offended. The animal drew herself up to her full height.

“Natural!” the rat exploded, with such volume that Liza drew back, and several butterflies flitted nervously away from the path. “And what, little miss, do you know about natural? Is it natural to be forced to sneak and slither in the corners, and skulk in the shadows, and dig for your meals in Dumpsters?”

“Um …”

“And is it natural for people to hurl shoes at your head, and try to snap you in traps, and stomp on your tail?”

“I—I guess not....”

“And is it
natural
,” the rat thundered, quivering with rage, “for some to be cuddled and coddled and hugged, while others are hated and hunted and hurt, because of differences in fur, and tail, and whisker length? I ask you—is
that
natural?”

“I'm sorry,” Liza said, desperate for the rat to calm down. They needed to keep moving, and above all, she did not want the rat to abandon her. “I only meant that—you know—I've never seen a rat dressed up before.”

“Oh, yes? Is that so? And when was the last time you
looked
?” Now, alarmingly, the rat's eyes began to fill with tears. She withdrew her white handkerchief from her lunch box and began blotting her eyes. But it was no use: Globs of mascara began running down her cheeks, matting her fur and making her look even more hideous than ever. “When was the last time you actually
spoke
to a rat, instead of shrieking and jumping on a chair, or poking it with your horrible broom?” And with a final sob, the rat spun on her heel and started to move off.

“Hey,” Liza said. It was now her turn to become offended. “It's not all my fault. Rats never speak to
me
, either.”

“And why should they?” The rat whirled around to face her again. “Why should they come near you at all, when you are only going to poke them with your broom?”

“That's absolutely ridiculous,” Liza snapped, finally losing her temper. “I've never poked a rat with a broom in my whole life.”

“But you've thought about it, haven't you?” the rat pressed.

“No, I haven't.”

“Not even once?”

“No!”

“Not for a second? Just a quick bop over the head?”

“No—never—not once!” Liza dug her nails into the handle of the broom.

“Aha!” the rat crowed triumphantly. “You're thinking about it now!”

“Fine!” she burst out. “Fine, yes! I could bop you over the head; I could poke you in the eyes; but only because you're the worst, most irritating, most impossible rat I have ever met in my entire life!”

Just then, and all at once, the glowing lanterns went out, plunging them into perfect darkness.

Instantly Liza's irritation was transformed to fear. “What happened?” she cried. “What's going on?”

The rat clucked her tongue. “Dear, dear. Now you've gone and upset the lumpen.”

“The
what
?” Liza's heart thudded hard in her chest. She was not exactly afraid of the dark—but then, she had never been in dark this dark before. She couldn't make out her hand in front of her face, or even the shape of the rat, who she knew must be standing only a few feet away from her.

“The lumer-lumpen. The light-bearers. They're very sensitive—don't like a lot of mussing and fussing.” The rat sighed. “I suppose we'll have to apologize. We can't very well go on like this. Not with those useless eyes of yours—just like a pair of stones, aren't they?”

“My eyes aren't useless,” Liza protested.

“How many claws am I holding up?” the rat said. Of course Liza had no idea, so she gripped the broom and remained silent. The rat tittered. “See? I told you. All human eyes are useless. You see only what you expect to see, and nothing more; and what is the use of sight like that?”

Liza thought about saying that up until thirty seconds ago, she had been staring directly at a giant rat in a newspaper skirt, which was assuredly a sight she had
not
wished to see. But she needed the rat's help, infuriating though the animal was. And Liza was used to squashing down her feelings. So she said nothing at all.

“But it is too dark in here—far too dark, yes,” the rat continued gaily. Then she turned and called out, into the long tunnel of darkness, “Can we get some light, please?” Her strange voice echoed and rolled into the blackness. “We'll be as quiet as church mice and as grateful as gidgets!” Then the rat whispered to Liza, “Although, of course, church mice aren't really quiet at all. They're the
most
awful gossips.”

For a moment they stood there.

“Is something supposed to happen?” Liza asked after a short pause.

The rat sighed again. “Infuriating creatures—truly. Overly sensitive, if you ask me, and with no sense of the changing times. The formality they require …” Then the rat trumpeted out, “Illuminate, elucidate, bring forth the light; for friends, or strangers, and those seeking sight.” She added, in a murmur, “I always feel so silly saying that.”

Suddenly the lanterns began to glow again, and Liza exhaled. Unconsciously, she had been holding her breath.

“Better?” the rat asked, watching Liza with her black eyes narrowed.

“Much better.” Liza was immensely relieved.

The rat spoke to her once again in a whisper: “For all their airs and demands, they really are extremely useful. Yes; yes; very useful.”

“Who're they?” Liza asked. She was by this time convinced that the rat was—despite seeming friendly enough—quite deranged.

The rat blinked at her. “The keepers of the light, of course. The lumpen.” And she pointed to one of the small, glowing lanterns suspended directly above their heads.

For the first time, Liza noticed that curled at the very bottom of the glass dome was a tiny, pale, crescent-shaped thing, faintly glowing.

“Oh!” she cried out, delighted, because she saw that this tiny figure was the source of the soft, pale white light. “A glowworm!”

The lights above them flickered dangerously.

“Shhh!” the rat hissed. “The light-bearers go only by their official name—the lumer-lumpen. They're
extremely
sensitive about titles,” she added in an undertone.

“I didn't know that glo—um, lumpen were sensitive about anything.” Liza strained onto her tiptoes to get a better look. The glowworm certainly didn't look sensitive, or easy to offend. In fact, it didn't look as if it would feel much of anything at all: It was a small, pale lump, totally inert.

The rat scoffed. “That is a common misunderstanding about the lumpen. They are supposed to be very unfeeling—some would even say cold. But believe me—they are
extremely
sensitive. All geniuses are, of course.”

“Geniuses?” Liza repeated doubtfully, still staring at the whitish lump.

“Prodigies! Geniuses! Artists! The lumer-lumpen are some of the most sensitive, the most brilliant, the wisest creatures on the earth or inside of it. There is more wisdom in the head of a lumpen than you will find in all the libraries of the world.”