Emmy and the Rats in the Belfry (13 page)

“Bats are not just for carrying letters, you know. Manlio operates a little business on the side. BatSpy, he calls it. I've arranged to have the old aunts' house watched and Emmaline followed.”

Sissy felt all her fur rise on end. She had hoped that Manlio didn't really know he had delivered her into captivity. She had tried to believe he was just an innocent postal bat doing a job, but now there seemed to be no doubt. He was on Miss Barmy's side. And if Sissy did manage to get a letter to one of Manlio's postal bats, she doubted that it would ever be delivered.

Sissy sighed deeply.

Miss Barmy poked her nose over the edge of the desk, her ears alert. “Cheswick, that rodent has rested enough. Let's get her back to kissing patches. I want at least a thousand.”

E
MMY SANK DOWN
on the second-floor landing, exhausted. She had just made her twenty-third trip upstairs, this time to deliver Aunt Gussie's supper tray. It was three days since they had found Della in The Surly Rat, and it had not been an easy three days.

For one thing, taking care of two elderly ladies, a big house, and a yard was a lot of work for three children—especially when they were searching a whole city for one small rat.

They had canoed back to the island and questioned all the rodents they could find, but no one had heard of any new rats in town. Emmy and Joe had hung around the train station often enough that the stationmaster had suggested they find something else to do, but they hadn't seen a single bat. And though Raston roamed the streets every night in search of clues, so far he hadn't found one.

To make things worse, Ratty and his mother were having trouble getting along. Emmy looked through the banister posts to the hallway below, where Aunt Melly's antique dollhouse sat atop the bookcase. From its open windows came the sound of squeaking voices raised in argument.

“I'm not your little ratling anymore, Mom! And if I go out at night, I might pick up Sissy's scent. She's the one in danger!
She's
the one you should be worried about!”

“So I'll help you find her,” cried Ratmom, hiccuping. “Tonight, as soon as it gets dark.”

“No! You're too fat and slow—there are
cats
out there!”

“Too fat?
too fat
?” Della hiccuped again. “I am
not
fat. I'm just … well padded. And as for slow—”

The back door slammed. Emmy heard the creak of the refrigerator door, the sudden spurting hiss that meant a can of soda was being opened, and then Joe's footsteps in the hall.

“Is that ginger beer?” Ratmom called.

Emmy watched as Joe stopped at the antique doll-house. “Root beer.”

“Close enough.” Ratmom's light gray paw poked a bottlecap out of an upper window. “Fill 'er up!”

“Again?” came Raston's voice. “Don't you think you're overdoing it?”

“So I take a little drink now and then. I've been through a lot of heartache!”

“You'd feel better if you'd stop drinking and start exercising with this book,
Get Flabulous
. You've got to get in shape if you want to find Sissy!”

Emmy leaned her head against the banister as Joe mounted the stairs. She was beginning to wonder if they ever
would
find Sissy. Nothing they were doing was working.

Joe dropped a second can of soda into Emmy's lap. Notes from the piano drifted upward, making a tinkling and hesitant music.

“Is that Ana?” Joe cocked his head, listening. “She's getting better.”

“She took lessons for a couple of years, before Miss Barmy. I think it's coming back to her.”

“Good,” said Joe. “She needs
some
fun while she's stuck inside.” He dug in his back pocket and pulled out a small book.

Emmy winced. Although he didn't complain, Joe looked at his Scout handbook every chance he got. He would rather be at home, earning his badges, Emmy knew.

As for herself, she hardly knew where she wanted to be. It was hard labor at the house on Cucumber Alley. But she didn't want to go home, not as long as the great-aunts needed her. And not until she had found Sissy.

“Kick! Kick! Higher!” Raston urged from below.

Emmy looked down. The rats had moved to the terrace on top of the dollhouse, where there was more room to move around.

Ratmom grunted, her eyes bulging. “I
am
kicking!” she whimpered. “This is as high as my legs go!”

“Feel the power in your spine, press your sacrum to the ground—”

“Press my
what
?”

“—and chant ‘I am feeling flabulous! I am feeling flabulous!'”

“I am feeling
pain
!”

“That's not pain, that's the feeling of flab leaving your body,” said the Rat earnestly.

Emmy and Joe snorted at the exact same time and got root beer up their noses. By the time they had calmed down and found tissues, Ratmom was crying again, slobbery and loud.

“We're going to have to hide the root beer,” Joe murmured. “And the ginger ale, just to be safe. She's always weepy when she's guzzling.”

“Who knew it could affect rats like that?” Emmy rubbed at her nose, which still felt fizzy. “Or some rats, anyway. Maybe only rats of power that live on the island.”

“Speaking of rat powers …” Joe shut his Scout handbook and tucked it away. “I've been wondering about that thing Ratmom does with the plant. It seems pretty useless—”

“No kidding!”

“But I wonder if there's more to it than just making a plant curl up and die.”

“What do you mean?” Emmy shrugged. “She dropped a tear on a fern, and it shrank down into the dirt. That's all.”

Joe frowned slightly. “Still, it might be a dangerous power, don't you think? I mean, what if her tears could kill something besides a plant?”

Emmy watched as Raston prodded at his mother, who had wiped her eyes and was on her back attempting to do leg lifts. “She doesn't look like a killer.”

There was a heavy thump as Ratmom's legs gave out and hit the floor. In the next instant she was wailing. “I'm a failure … a total failure …”

“Well, not
total
,” said the Rat.

“It was my fault that I lost you!” she cried. “I left the nest for a minute to visit the next burrow for a new recipe—fried grubs, very tasty—and when I came back, you were gone! Oh, let me hold you—let me pretend you're still my little ratbunny …”

“Oh, all
right
,” said Raston testily. “But I'm not wearing a baby bonnet.” He lay his head in his mother's lap and crossed his arms over his chest.

Ratmom burst into a flood of tears, rocking him back and forth. “Oh, Rasty, my little Rasty-Roo …”

“Do you have to blubber all over me?” demanded the Rat. “You're getting my fur wet!”

“Hey!” Joe moved suddenly on the stairs. “Stop crying, it's
dangerous
! Your tears could kill him, just like they killed that fern!”

Raston looked up, his mouth open.

Ratmom shook her head. “My tears never kill the plant. They just make it curl right up again and go back to being—” She blinked.

“A seed?” demanded Joe.

“A spore,” whispered Ratmom, moving a moment too late to catch the single tear that rolled off her cheek and straight into Raston's open mouth. And then, as quickly as the fern had gone back to being a spore, Raston curled up, grew small, and—

“Waaah! Waaah! Waaaaaaaah!” cried baby Rasty.

Emmy and Joe dashed down the stairs. Ana left the piano. For one long, speechless moment, they all stared at the squalling, squirming, furry infant in Della's arms.

Joe stuck his hands in his pockets. “No offense, but I'm not changing his diapers.”

Ratmom's shocked expression changed to dismay. “Oh, Rasty! I didn't mean to do it!”

“Don't drop any more tears in his mouth, whatever you do!” Emmy snatched baby Raston up and cradled him in her palm, safely away from the blubbering Della.

“Waaaaaaah! Wah wah wah wah waaaaaaaaaah!” howled Ratty, kicking her thumb.

“Put him
down
, Emmy,” said Joe. “What if he bites you?”

Hurriedly Emmy searched the dollhouse for a cradle and tucked Ratty in with a bit of blanket. “Keep Ratmom away from him,” she ordered. “I'll be right back.”

She rummaged in the kitchen cupboards until she found what she needed: a tiny glass bottle. She rinsed it out and brought it back, drying it on her shirt.

She presented the bottle to Della. “Listen. Your tears are
dangerous.
So anytime you cry, collect them in this bottle. And don't forget to put the cap back on—tight!”

Della, sobbing even harder, dipped her head so the tears slid down her nose. The clear, shining drops fell in the bottle.

Raston was still screaming. It was a piercing sound, shrill and surprisingly loud. Upstairs, Aunt Melly appeared at the landing. “What on earth is that noise? Gussie needs quiet.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Oh, she's suffering so!”

Ana went quickly up the stairs. “I'll help, Aunt Melly.” She whispered over her shoulder, “Keep him
quiet
!”

Emmy and Joe tried. They rocked him in the cradle. Emmy sang to him, and Joe made funny faces, but baby Ratty only screamed harder.

“Food!” said Emmy. “Maybe he's hungry!”

“But what do we feed a baby rat?” Joe shifted his weight uneasily.

“Milk,” said Ratmom, sniffling in a corner of the dollhouse terrace. “Two percent.”

But a drop of milk, aimed directly into his open mouth, only made him sputter and spit it out. And when Emmy, in desperation, gave him a crumb of a peanut-butter cup, he choked.

“Oh, my baby, my baby!” wept Ratmom, lumbering toward the cradle.

“Hey! Don't touch him while you're crying!” Joe blocked Ratmom's progress with a doll's dresser. “Crikey, I wish they'd all just dry up. Here, Ratty, I'll give you a horsey ride.”

Baby Raston was screaming so hard his tail was stiff and his ears were bright red. Joe tipped the cradle and the Rat came out in a tangle of blankets and kicking feet, his tiny mouth wide open like a steam whistle.

“I need some earplugs,” said Joe, balancing the Rat on his forefinger and moving it up and down. “Here, Ratty, this is the way the horsey goes, walk, walk, walk!” He moved his finger a little faster, and said, “This is the way the horsey goes, trot, trot, trot!” Then faster still: “This is the way the horsey goes, gallop, gallop, gallop!”

Joe tipped up his finger, tumbling the ratling into his waiting palm. Baby Raston gave one last sob, hiccuped, and lifted his tiny head. “Mo!”

Joe looked down at him. “What?”

“MO!”

“I think he means ‘more,'” said Emmy, grinning. “Looks like you have the magic touch.”

“Yeah, but I don't want to keep bouncing him all day
long
—”

“MO MO MO MO MO!” demanded the baby rat, scrunching up his furry face.

“Okay, okay!” Joe hastily put the Rat back on his fingertip and began to bounce. “This is the way the horsey goes … Listen, Della, how long until he goes back to normal? This is going to wear off, right?”

“Don't ask me,” said Ratmom, capturing a final tear in the bottle. “Maybe it doesn't wear off.”

“Oh, great,” said Joe. “
Just
what I wanted to hear.”

“Twot!” shouted baby Raston.

Joe gave Emmy a haggard look.

“I think he means ‘trot,'” said Emmy. “And weren't you the one who said I shouldn't hold him in my hand? You'd better get Aunt Melly to lend you a glove.”

“Oh, yeah, right!” Joe hurriedly set Ratty in the cradle. The ratling, after one incredulous look, squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth, and began to wail—heartbroken, piercing sobs that brought Ana to the top of the stairs once again. “Aunt Gussie's trying to rest. Can't you stop that noise?”

“Oh, sure,” said Joe, “if I smothered him. Why don't
you
come down and keep him quiet, if you think it's so easy?”

Emmy, rummaging in the closet, came up with a lady's leather glove. Joe yanked it on and began to horsey-ride the Rat once more.

Ana came down the stairs with a tray in her hands and glanced at Ratmom. “I've been thinking. The fern didn't become a
baby
fern—it went all the way back to being a spore, right?”

Ratmom wiped her nose with her paw and then nodded.

“But Ratty only went back to being a baby. And he didn't go all the way back to newborn, either, because newborn rats don't have any fur.”

“Hey, that's right!” Joe looked at Ratmom. “Does a teardrop just take off a certain number of years, then?”

Della shrugged. “Maybe.”

“How many?” Emmy asked at once. “In human years, I mean, not rat years.”

Ratmom brightened. “Let's see …” She began to calculate on her paws. “Four point three times seven, to the nth power, divided by x squared, plus or minus the gradient of the coefficient in the vector analysis in base eight …” Her voice trailed away in confusion.

“I'd say ten years or so,” said Ana firmly. “In human years, Ratty was about your age or a little older. Take ten years from your ages and you get a baby. It stands to reason.”

“But how do you know he was our age?” Joe asked, still gently bouncing the Rat up and down.

“He couldn't have been
much
older. He wasn't interested in getting all mushy with girl rats yet.”

Joe grinned. “Good point.” He glanced down at the small rat on his finger. “Hey, I rocked him to sleep! About time!” He laid baby Raston carefully down, and Ana covered him with a doll's blanket.

“I hope he sleeps the night through,” Ana whispered. “Don't you, Emmy?”

Emmy did not answer. She was staring at the bottle between Ratmom's paws.
Ten years
… She looked up the stairway to the second-floor landing, where a thin sliver of Aunt Gussie's bedroom door could be seen. “I wonder if a teardrop would work on a human?”

Ana's hand flew to her mouth.

“There's only one way to find out,” said Joe.

 

“
No
,” said Ana. “What if something goes wrong?” She poured Aunt Gussie's medicine into a small plastic cup and filled a glass of water at the kitchen faucet.

“Just
one
drop can't hurt,” Emmy argued. “If she was ten years younger, she wouldn't be sick anymore.”