On which we all spin at a vash-bash pace.
Here, know, that no skander-winged puck, shall live
Apart from the holy call to—
With stealth of a kind that Leonard could never match, the captive spider slid behind Fat, gazing at Leonard over Fat’s shoulder with the most beautiful green eyes Leonard had ever seen. Here was not a male spider, as Leonard had supposed. No, here was an Aphrodite.
Leonard was tongue-tied.
Unaware that his former captive stood a breath behind him, Fat tapped his brow with the knife. “How about convive? No, that doesn’t quite work, does it.” He scrunched his mouth and studied the ceiling. “Apart from the holy call to … active?”
The other spider, whose name was Priscilla Mae, tapped Fat on the shoulder.
Fat spun around, but Priscilla Mae sidestepped behind him. She had snuck out the door, into the night, before Fat had time to register the empty corner of the room.
“Unbelievable!” shouted Fat, turning back to Leonard. “You spiders sure stick together, don’t you? One spouts god-awful poetry while the other breaks free.”
Leonard was pleased beyond measure by the turns of events. He smiled uncontrollably.
Fat moved quickly, brandishing the knife. “You owe me blood, arachnid.” He drove the blade deep into Leonard’s front right leg.
Leonard staggered back from pain, crumpling to the floor.
Fat fetched a beaker and set it beneath the wound, patting down Leonard’s leg hairs so they wouldn’t disrupt the flow.
“Very good,” Fat murmured after some time. “A most excellent burgundy. Really excellent. And not a bad consistency, either.”
Leonard began to feel lightheaded. “Excellent.”
“That’s what I said,” said Fat.
“Excellent.”
“Stop repeating what I say.”
“Stop repeating what I say,” said Leonard. He had forgotten where he was.
Fat raised the knife. “Do you want me to give that wound a twin?”
“Excellent.”
Fat peered across Leonard’s eight eyes. “Hmm,” he said, “I might have drawn too much.” He shrugged.
Higher in the tree, several limbs above, the kettle shrieked inside Leonard’s hole.
“My kettle,” whispered Leonard.
Fat kicked aside the broken sunglasses on his way to his worktable. He poured Leonard’s blood into the Bluebell Blindness Inducer potion and swirled the mixture.
The kettle’s scream cut through the night.
“Where can a fellow go for a little peace and quiet?” Fat shouted, banging the potion on the table.
“Kettle,” whispered Leonard.
After fanning his wings and stomping his feet, Fat realized that if he did not want the tree to burn down, he’d have to take the kettle off the fire himself. He glared at Leonard, slumped in the corner. The spider had ruined the evening.
And yet …
The spider was also his neighbor. Did rules about helping a neighbor in need still apply in this day and age? Fat sighed and threw the knife onto the worktable.
“I am ever one for sacrifices,” he said and pulled out a clean white cloth from the cupboard. He fluttered over to Leonard and placed the cloth upon the spider’s wounded leg, staunching the flow.
“You sit tight,” said Fat, straightening Leonard’s stocking cap. “I will return shortly.”
While Fat flew out to tend to the kettle, Leonard slowly regained consciousness. He could hardly move his legs, but his eyes cleared a little. By the time Fat returned, kettle in hand, Leonard had dragged himself to the middle of the room and propped himself against a chair.
“You’re recovering well,” Fat said. “That’s quite a constitution you have.” He held up the kettle. “I saved the tree from burning. Shall we share a cup to celebrate? I think I have an herbal variety around here somewhere.”
Leonard did not want tea. He did not want to stay and chat.
However, being unable to move, he had no choice but to curl a leg around the teacup Fat set on the floor.
Tea made Fat convivial. “Tell me, neighbor, how did you come by your love of poetry? You see, when I was young, I kept a journal of verse. I was no master of the form, you understand, but I came up with one or two pretty turns of phrase.”
Fat droned on. To hear the fairy talk, a listener would think he had been the one starved for conversation.
But Leonard didn’t hear or care. Weak though he was, he smiled.
Before Priscilla Mae had slipped into the night, she had whispered to him, “Find me under the eaves. Poetry moves me.”
A single whiff of love had swept Leonard free of gloom.
“What a day, eh, neighbor?” said Fat. He looked around his hole with a satisfied grin. “Incidentally, how did that other spider escape?” He chuckled. “Now she was a sneaky one.”
In the deep, dark night, unpopular but necessary creatures emerge from their hiding places and undertake unpopular but necessary activities. When dawn shoves the night away, no one speaks of these things, including me. But dawn has not arrived.
Priscilla Mae crept back into the night, away from the fat fairy’s tree.
From a distance, she heard singing.
She paused, dangling in the cool night air.
A thousand voices rose, as clear as the stars above.
Priscilla Mae listened carefully, eagerly, to discern the words of the song.
Dead man, dead man, once a beast,
Now a splendid midnight feast,
Newly dead, your blood still fresh,
Best of all’s the softest flesh,
Dead man, dead man, once a beast,
Now a splendid midnight feast.
Maggots—she should have known. Not a pretty sight, seeing maggots do their work, but they did their job awfully well. And anyway, it wasn’t as if that old farmer deserved better. He really had been a beast.
Famished, Priscilla Mae carried on her way, the song stuck in her head.
Mrs. Bald lies on the floor weeping. Her heart is breaking. My own pain is salved somewhat by the happy plan of revenge inside my brain. But it’s not quite time for revenge—it’s time for love. Not to worry, this is not a love story with singing cherubs and heart-shaped chocolates. This is a love story with a wicked turn.
Alice. Oh, Alice.
From dawn until dusk, Jimmy thought of her. At night, he dreamt of her. His head, his heart, filled with the abiding love of which poets write.
That is a whole lot of love for so small a mouse.
Alice, meanwhile, was the biggest mouse on the farm.
Not that Jimmy cared a whit whether Alice was as large as an orange or as small as a walnut. He loved her, and that was that.
When his father said, “Still pining after that Alice, Jimmy, my boy?” Jimmy would say, “You betcha.”
When his brothers teased him and said, “You gonna marry that big mouse and let her boss you around?” Jimmy would say, “You betcha.”
When his mother said, “Jimmy, are you going to actually talk to Alice one day?” Jimmy would say, “You betcha.”
But one major obstacle had prevented Jimmy from talking to Alice. He dreamt and loved from a distance, for an ocean of kitchen floor lay between them. And that floor was ruled by the very large, very unpredictable cat.
On some occasions, the cat would permit the house’s mice to travel across the floor unbothered. He was even rumored to have once said pleasantly, “Good afternoon, mousie-pie.” On other occasions, he would rest on his side, tail flipping nonchalantly, then spring up and crush a mouse between his teeth.
A mouse never knew what to expect from the cat. Not even Jimmy wanted to risk such fickleness, even to speak with his beloved Alice.
One day, however, Jimmy overheard Smitty talking to Buster.
“Alice,” said Smitty.
“Lordy, you aim high,” said Buster.
“She’s the one for me,” said Smitty.
“When will you ask her?”
“Tonight.”
“The cat?”
“I’m not afraid.”
Jimmy did not need to hear any more of the conversation. Smitty was a handsome mouse, arguably the handsomest on the farm. A fire started in Jimmy’s heart. It traveled up into his head and down to the tip of his tail. He knew he could waste no more time.
At dusk, after finishing his chores, Jimmy made plans to cross the kitchen floor. If he lost his life in the pursuit of Alice, then so be it. Many mice had perished for less noble a cause than love.
“Don’t do anything stupid, dear,” said Jimmy’s mother.
“Give that Alice the kiss of her life,” said Jimmy’s brothers.
“Come back in one piece, now, you hear?” said Jimmy’s father.
“You betcha,” said Jimmy.
Leaving behind his family’s cautions, Jimmy stepped out into the darkness and stood against the baseboard of the second-floor hallway, straining to see out over the kitchen. He took note of every small movement. His ears stood straight out, picking up every sound.
The farmhouse seemed quieter than usual.
Night had fallen fast.
To Jimmy’s right, stairs led down to the kitchen. He scurried to them and jumped from one to the next, stopping to listen for some sign of danger.
Nothing.
He jumped to the next step.
Still nothing.
He jumped down a few more.
Jimmy inhaled deeply—it was now or never—and then took the remaining steps in consecutive leaps, skidding to a halt at the bottom.
The kitchen was dark except for a thin beam of moonlight shining through the curtained windows. Something shiny and reflective covered the floor. Jimmy stretched out his foot and pulled back in shock.
Water.
Jimmy had no way of knowing how deep the water was, and he did not wish to jump in, both because he didn’t know how to swim and because before he left, he had licked his coat until it appeared as smooth as velvet. If he got wet, he would look like a ragamuffin and stand no chance of competing with that Smitty.
Oh, that cursed Smitty. That handsome, cursed Smitty. Smitty would not let a wet floor stop him. Perhaps Smitty was on the other side of the kitchen already, whispering plans about a dream nest into Alice’s ear. Perhaps he was tickling her big, beautiful paws and telling her what he intended to name their many children.
Jimmy ground his teeth.
Think, Jimmy. Think.
He needed a boat.
With some effort, he jumped back up the stairs, panting when he reached the top. He ran back into the bright family nest and threw the scraps of cloth out of the measuring cup that served as his bed. Then he grabbed a metal souvenir spoon with a windmill on the handle and lugged it inside the cup.
“Everything all right, Jimmy?” said his mother, coming out of her bedroom in her nightcap.
“You betcha,” said Jimmy.
He hauled the measuring cup out of the nest, into the hallway, and carefully dropped it down each step until once again he stood at the bottom, water in front of him and Alice somewhere far away to the left.
Every second he lost was a second Smitty gained, so he jumped into the measuring cup, dipped the spoon into the water, and began paddling vigorously.
Left, right. Left, right. Left, right.
He used his tail as a rudder, directing himself across the floor. He paddled for he didn’t know how long. He stopped, just for a second, just to let his weary shoulders relax, when he heard a low wheezing sound.
The cat!
Back he sprang, brandishing the spoon like a sword.
Wheeze.
Jimmy’s heart raced, his mind raced, his blood raced, and he wished he were racing right back up the stairs.
He would have, too, had it not been for the lingering vision of that Smitty tickling Alice’s feet. Smitty would not have let the cat stop him. In fact, Smitty was probably with Alice right that moment.
Right that moment!
Wheeze.
The measuring cup came to an abrupt stop. Instinctively, Jimmy ducked. He cowered on the floor of his small craft, imagining a giant paw swinging down from above, crushing him completely.
And still, he thought of Alice.
He cautiously stood up and then lifted one paw out of the measuring cup, feeling around for whatever he had bumped into.
His toes brushed against something—a little mushy, yes, and damp, but relatively firm. Not cat but land!
He jumped out of the measuring cup, still holding onto the spoon.
Wheeze.
The sound came from below his feet.
Jimmy kneeled down. A thin line of something grasslike lifted slowly before him, revealing an enormous weeping eye.
Wheeze.
The eye blinked.
Sniff.
A sniff of a different pitch entirely.
Jimmy whirled around, and his nose bumped into something furry.
“Hello, mousie-pie.”
Jimmy’s life flashed before his eyes. Or, rather, the life he would never live. He saw Alice, he saw their nest, he saw their children—he saw all that would never be. He saw his life given away to that Smitty.
“Going someplace?” said the cat.
“You-you-betcha,” said Jimmy. He took a step backward and landed on the eye.
“Get off her eye, rodent!” hissed the cat.
Jimmy stumbled. He saw now that there was a second eye on the floor. Both blinked. Both wept.
Jimmy turned to hop into the measuring cup and paddle for freedom, but a paw on his tail held him back.
“Where are you running off to, mousie-pie?”
Jimmy was too terrified to answer.
The cat stuck his nose in Jimmy’s face. “I’d like to get your thoughts on this,” said the cat. “Can I count on you to give me your honest opinion?”
Jimmy had no choice but to nod.
“Good.” The cat slumped his shoulders and then swerved to show Jimmy his rear end. A shaft of moonlight revealed the cat’s mangled tail. “Do you think it will grow back?” he said.
The fur was clotted with blood. Jimmy could see the bone. The tail did not look like it would grow back, but Jimmy said, “You betcha.”
The cat sniffed. “Really?”
“You betcha.”
“Oh, I always knew you mice were a decent sort of creature,” said the cat. “Beyond decent tasting, I mean. You’re a sensitive lot.”
Wheeze.
The cat shifted on his haunches. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said. “She just won’t stop crying.” He licked the tears from the weeping eyes.
A large nose south of the eyes discharged another wet, wheezing noise.
Jimmy backed up against the edge of the cup. The spoon banged against the glass.
“Where are you going, mousie-pie?” The moon shone on the cat’s face, on his narrowed green eyes, on his pink protruding tongue, on his white teeth.
Jimmy didn’t answer. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t want to stick around on that wheezing, weeping flat face any longer. He jumped into the measuring cup and took off, working the spoon left, right, left, right, as if his life depended on it. Which it did.
The cat’s rising paw blocked out the moonbeam. Jimmy ducked, feeling the wind above his head.
The cat’s hisses sent waves across the water, driving the measuring cup forward, threatening to capsize it.
Soon darkness overtook the kitchen.
Jimmy heard, wheeze, sniff—then, “Oh mousie-pie, oh mousie-pie, sweet little mousie-pie.” But from a distance now. The voice grew faint.
Exhausted, Jimmy collapsed at the bottom of the measuring cup. For the first time in his life, he wished he were bigger, stronger, hairier, and more threatening. He should have shoved the souvenir spoon into the cat’s gaping wound.
He should have … he should have …
Cold, alone, and miserable, Jimmy realize
d that the reason he had never spoken to Alice was because he had done so little in his life. And thus he had nothing to say.
Nothing but “you betcha.”
And what girl wanted to hear that all the time? Those were not the words of love. Those were the words of a small mouse. An insignificant mouse. A mouse that—
“Ahoy there!”
Jimmy’s head shot up. He had reached the other side of the kitchen, but not in time.
In the shadowy darkness, Smitty stood on top of the stove. And next to him, big, beautiful Alice.
Oh, that cursed Smitty! That handsome, cursed Smitty!
Jimmy sprang to his feet. He threw his fists into the air. He opened his mouth to finally curse Smitty to his face when the measuring cup flipped over, throwing Jimmy out into the open water.
He surfaced just in time to see Smitty leap off the stove and perform a flawless swan dive.
Smitty threw his arm around Jimmy’s neck and dragged him to the side of the stove, where a cupboard door stood open.
Alice stood in the cupboard doorway, reaching out her hand.
“Got him?” said Smitty.
“I sure do!” said Alice, hauling Jimmy inside with ease.
Bedraggled and half drowned, Jimmy stared at the two faces studying him.
“His name’s Jimmy,” said Smitty.
“Yes, I know,” said Alice.
She knew his name. Her voice was rich and deep. It sent shivers through him.
“He’s cold,” said Alice. “Smitty, go fetch him a blanket.”
“Right away,” said Smitty.
“Oh, you poor dear,” said Alice, shaking Jimmy’s whiskers free of water.
Jimmy gazed upon his beloved and opened his mouth.
This was his chance. It was now or never. Smitty was gone. And Jimmy was alone with Alice.
He had seen the weeping eyes, fled the capricious cat, and had braved the kitchen floor for this very opportunity. He must speak. He must tell her how much he loved her. He practically worshipped her. He wanted to marry her. He wanted to ask her if she’d be all right naming their first son Jimmy Jr. He’d always wanted to have a son named after him.
Fat & Bones Page 3
