The Spindlers (7 page)

Liza refrained from pointing out that from what she could tell, the glowworm did not even
have
a head. Its head and bottom appeared to be entirely indistinguishable. She wondered whether this would affect the quality of its thoughts—if, in fact, it had any.

“If they could only speak,” the rat continued, and Liza was alarmed to see that tears welled up in her eyes again, “the secrets they might disclose to us! The wisdom they might impart! The stories they might convey! That is the source of their light, you know. Excess brainpower.” The rat shook her head wonderingly.

Liza's head was spinning; she did not know what to believe. On the one hand it seemed incredible that such a tiny, ugly, bulgy little grub could possess any power of thought or feeling; on the other hand, she was standing in a dark tunnel with a rat wearing a skirt and lipstick, so she supposed that really, anything was possible.

She advanced several paces down the tunnel, craning her neck so that she could stare up at the glass domes nestled in the canopy of mossy green branches above them. In each of them, she now saw, was nestled another tiny glowworm, a crescent no bigger than a fingernail clipping, glowing and pulsing with light.

“How many are there?” Liza asked. “How far do they go?”

“Oh dear. Dear me. There are ever so many lumpen, thousands and thousands. You can always count on them to light the way, remember that. These tunnels are full of twists and turns, and it is easy to get lost. But the lumer-lumpen always light the path. They know all the ins and outs. Yes, thousands of them. In fact, they go almost all the way.”

“Almost all the way
where
?” Liza said. She was having trouble keeping up with the rat's excited babble.

“To the spindlers' nests, of course,” the rat said, dropping her voice reverentially on the word
spindlers
. For a moment, as she passed directly underneath one of the lumpen's lanterns, her eyes glittered a brilliant violet color. “Hip-hop and top-tip and look smart about it. We've still a very long way to go. And I expect we'll want to be in and out before the Feast begins, won't we?”

Liza's heart stopped. “The … the Feast?” she repeated.

The rat looked nervously from side to side. “The Feast of the Souls. Surely, you've heard …?”

Liza was filled suddenly with a coldness that froze her voice completely. She could only shake her head.

The rat lowered her voice to a whisper. “Well, they need to eat, don't they? Hungry, that's what they are. They want control—power over everything Below.”

“But—” Liza found her voice. “But that's terrible. We have to stop them.”

“Ah.” Once again, the rat's eyes flashed momentarily violet, and for a second a look of sadness passed across her face. “But there will be no stopping them once they feast, my dear. No stopping them at all. All the world Below—everything you see—will be theirs for the taking.”

Now she understood why Anna had always been so terrified when Liza asked her about the spindlers and what they did with the souls of the children they took.

They feasted. They grew fat and powerful.

Liza's fear turned to resolve. “Don't you know any shortcuts?” she asked desperately.

The rat paused, seeming to consider it. “I suppose we could cut through the palace grounds.... Although the nids won't like it.... It's nearly time for the nightly ball, and these days it's invitation only.”

“The nids?” Liza repeated uncertainly. She was not at all sure she wanted to meet any more underground creatures.

“
Silly
creatures, if you ask me.” The rat sniffed. “Still, I suppose they have a right to their fun.” Then she paused, cocked her head to one side, and listened. “What did I tell you? Just on time! You can hear the music now.”

It was true: Suddenly Liza
could
hear music. Faintly, delicately, like the sound of bells and wind through the grass and distant flutes, all woven together. It seemed to be coming from somewhere on their right, and before Liza could protest, the rat had plunged into the mossy forest and started toward it.

A
s they pushed farther into the dense forest, Liza had more and more trouble keeping up. The vines seemed to snake around her feet, and the branches to snatch greedily at her vest. She tried to use the broom to clear a path, but even so she found herself stumbling, and whiplashed by thorny bushes.

The rat chanted, “Slowpoke, slowpoke,” over her shoulder, for the fifteenth time in two minutes.

Finally Liza couldn't stand it anymore, especially since she was moving as fast as she could. “Excuse me,” she said as she dodged a low-hanging branch, which was encased in a thick green shag of mildew. “I have a name, you know, and it isn't
slowpoke
.” Her courage faltered somewhat as the rat turned around and stared at her beadily. “You can call me Liza.”

The rat stopped walking. “Oh, pardon me,
Miss
Liza. I didn't mean to offend,” the rodent cooed, giving a quick curtsy. “And I suppose it has never occurred to you to ask me for my name, even though here I am, scuttling around to lead you to where you are going?”

“I—I—I—” Liza stuttered.

“I suppose you didn't even think I might
have
a name?” the rat huffed.

“Well, I—I mean—” The truth was that it had
not
occurred to her that the rat would have a name.

“Hmph. I thought so.” The rat regathered her tail around one dainty wrist before flouncing off.

“I'm sorry,” Liza said. The rat only sniffed. She was scampering more quickly than ever; Liza had to jog to keep up. “I'd like to know your name. Really, truly,” Liza said. “Cross my heart and hope to die and stick a needle in my eye.” She made a little X over her heart, and felt a small pulse of pain as she thought of Patrick.

She remembered how he had once said to her, after a bad nightmare,
You won't let the spindlers get me, will you, Liza?
And she had said,
Cross my heart …

The rat abruptly stopped walking. Liza stopped too, panting a bit.

“Mirabella,” the rat said, in her throaty, squeaky way. “My name is Mirabella.”

“That's a beautiful name,” Liza said grandly, even though she thought it was a very odd name for an overgrown rat in a straggly skirt, wearing a grubby wig on her head.

The rat leaned in a little closer. Her breath smelled of wetness and dirt, and Liza tried not to wince. “I came up with it myself. I had to; the other rats don't believe in names. Everything is so
uncivilized
down here.”

Liza curtsied deeply, staking the handle of the broom in the ground to balance herself. “Very pleased to meet you, Mirabella,” she said. “Liza Flavia Elston, at your service.”

The rat looked almost ecstatic. She pinched two strips of newspaper carefully between two long, yellowed claws and mimicked Liza's gesture. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Liza.”

“There.” Liza straightened up, laughing. “That's all right, then. You don't have to call me ‘miss,' though. No one ever does Above.”

“Above …” A look of deep longing came over Mirabella's face. She leaned forward, until her whiskers were nearly poking into Liza's cheeks. “Tell me,” she said. “What is it like to live Above?”

Liza was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“The sun,” Mirabella said, clenching and unclenching her paws. “What is it like to bathe for hours in the sun?”

“Um …” Liza had never really thought about this before. “I'm not really sure how to describe …”

“Is it as hot as the space between a wall and a furnace?” Mirabella asked. In her excitement, her tail had once again become unraveled from her arm and lashed wildly against the ground. “As steamy as a sulfur pit? As warm as a slop pot?”

“Um …” Liza struggled for words. It was funny, she realized, how she had never thought about it before. “It's like being wrapped in a nice blanket,” she finally said.

“Ahhh, a blanket,” Mirabella said wistfully. “I once had a blanket—found it in the Dumpster behind St. Mary's School. It was very nice, almost like new, except for the big burn hole in its center and the smell of sardines. Yes—a very good blanket. I lost it, though, in a bet with a badger.” Mirabella frowned. “You mustn't think I'm a gambler, of course, not regularly. But sometimes when the worm races are on … And I suppose your mother tucks you up all nice and neat every night when you go to sleep, doesn't she?”

Liza was having trouble following the dizzying twists and turns of the rat's conversation. “I—well—I mean, not really. She used to. She doesn't so much anymore.” Liza remembered that when she was very little, her mother had liked to sit on her bed at night and tell her stories, and even sing her little songs. That was Before: Before the exclamation point made its permanent home between her eyebrows, Before she had become so tired all the time, Before the stacks and stacks of bills. Liza was not sure what had changed, but something had, and she thought it was very unfair.

People were not supposed to become different. Things were supposed to stay As They Were.

Mirabella leaned forward once more and whispered conspiratorially, “I have always dreamed of having a mother.”

“But surely you have a mother,” Liza said, extremely surprised. “Everybody does.”

The rat rocked back on her heels and waved a paw. “Oh, yes, in
name
I have a mother, of course. Rat 2,037. That's what they call her, among the Tribe. But with seventy sisters and brothers, you can hardly expect that she'd have time for me, oh no. Besides, the thirty-seventh is her favorite; all because he was born with a perfect nose for sniffing out rare steak.”

“Seventy!” Liza exclaimed. She didn't know what she would do if she had seventy sisters and brothers. She had difficulty enough just looking after Patrick.

“My mother is very busy,” Mirabella said. “I have seen her only once or twice since I have been grown. No, no. I mean a real mother: a mother to cuddle you and hold you and kiss you when you have fallen down.” The rat was growing more and more agitated. “A mother to smother you with kisses! And coddle you with care! And squeeze and squinch and squelch you in hugs!”

“Yes—um—I guess I see what you mean,” Liza said. She found it slightly alarming when the rat grew so energetic, partially because she did not want Mirabella's long nude tail whipping around in her direction.

“Can I tell you a secret, Miss Liza?” Mirabella asked.

“Of course,” Liza said.

Mirabella cupped her paw to Liza's ear, and Liza tried as hard as she could not to pull away, though in truth the feel of the animal's matted fur—and hot breath—disgusted her. “I have never been hugged.”

Mirabella drew back, looking ashamed, as though she had just confessed to killing someone.

“Never?” Liza couldn't help but feel sorry for the rat.

Mirabella shook her head, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly. Liza prayed she would not begin to cry. “Never ever,” Mirabella said, in a wail. “And I have dreamed … but who would want to hug a rat? Who would cuddle and coddle me, and tickle my ears? Rats are
dirty
, and
filthy
, and
diseased
; they're
garbage diggers
and
bad-luck bringers
.” It was obvious, from the way Mirabella spat out the words, that she had heard these insults many, many times.