Emmy and the Rats in the Belfry

by Lynne Jonell

  Joe pushed down on the far end of the paddle, like a counterweight on a seesaw, and together they swung the rats into the canoe and safety.

  Raston, wheezing, coughing, hacking up water, sucked in great gulps of air as he sprawled on the bottom of the canoe. Della heaved herself to her knees and leaned over him, pressing his rib cage with her powerful arms. “Out goes the bad air, in comes the good!”

  Raston moaned in feeble protest.

  Joe grasped Della firmly around her substantial middle and pulled her off her son. “She took Lifesaving 101,” he muttered to Emmy, “but did she pass it?”

  “Doubtful,” said Emmy, dipping her paddle in the river and giving a strong push toward the far bank. “Let’s just get Ratty back home.”

  The Rat, wheezing, struggled to sit up. “But we—heeesp!—can’t go—heeesp!—without Sissy!” He looked accusingly at Della. “Where is she?”

  Tears mingled with river water on Della’s tragic, furry face. “Why ask me?” she cried. “I haven’t seen my little Cecilia since the day she was taken from the nest!”

  20

  SISSY WAS CRYING, too, but silently, so no one could hear her.

  It was hard not to cry. The leather straps of the harness had chafed her skin until it was red and inflamed beneath the fur. She had a hammering headache from hanging upside down. And worst of all, the skin around her mouth was peeling off in painful shreds from kissing the Sissy-patch gel hundreds of times a day.

  She knew now why the bats had harnessed her up and flown off with her into the night, and it had nothing to do with meeting her mother. Miss Barmy wanted to grow and become human once more, and she was determined to do it, no matter who got hurt in the process.

  In fact, Sissy had come to understand that Miss Barmy actually enjoyed hurting rodents—or people—or anyone at all. Which is exactly the reason Sissy refused to cry in front of her, or even show that she was in any kind of distress. She had done so once, and the twisted little smile that had played across Miss Barmy’s spotty face had made Sissy determined never again to give her the satisfaction.

  A pattering of rodent feet sounded on the lab counter, and Sissy hastily wiped her eyes.

  “Ready for another batch?” Cheswick’s voice was falsely cheerful. “I’ve turned on the video for you again!”

  Sissy gave him a glance so contemptuous that Cheswick flinched and turned his head, busying himself with the mixing of chemicals. He consulted the formula now and then—the formula stolen from the Antique Rat, written in Professor Capybara’s own hand—but he hardly needed it, after so many times. He busied himself stirring it all up in a flask and called out to Miss Barmy.

  “Oh, Jaaaaaane! We’re almost ready for you!”

  “I’m not interested in ‘almost,’ Cheswick.” Miss Barmy’s voice floated down from the roll-top desk, slightly testy. “Let me know when you’re really ready. I’m busy typing a letter about Emmaline.”

  Cheswick paused, looking troubled. “Really, Jane? You don’t think you’ve punished Emmy enough yet?”

  Miss Barmy’s sharp-nosed face appeared over the edge of the desk. “You almost sound like you’ve forgotten what she’s done to me, Cheswick.”

  “Well, no …” Cheswick stirred the amber contents of the small flask with sudden energy.

  “Besides,” said Miss Barmy, smiling a cold rat smile, “it’s terribly important that everyone understands what a bad girl Emmy really is. Then they can help her to improve, you see.”

  “Oh! So you’re not just after revenge?”

  “Of course not!” Miss Barmy waved her paw in dismissal. “I have always had Emmaline’s best interests at heart, Cheswick. The fact that she’s a vicious, nasty, evil child who never thinks of anyone but herself is completely beside the point.”

  Cheswick blinked up at Miss Barmy. “She doesn’t seem that bad. Perhaps she only needs a little lesson.”

  “Cheswick, Cheswick, Cheswick.” Miss Barmy looked down on him from the desk. “You always do believe the best about people, even when you’re horribly mistaken. It’s really very sweet, if a bit fat-headed.”

  Cheswick blushed from his ears to the tip of his tail. “Jane, darling—”

  “Unfortunately,” Miss Barmy cut in crisply, “you are mistaken about Emmaline. I’ll be doing her aunts a favor when I let them know the truth.”

  Cheswick sighed. He supposed Jane was right. She was almost always right about everything …

  He picked up a clamp, lifted the flask with a grunt, and poured the heated amber goo onto the backing paper that he had prepared. It was heavy work, and he could have used an extra pair of paws, but Miss Barmy had gone back to the typewriter. He flipped a sheet of thin clear film over the spreading goop, jumped on it, and began to roll. His body wasn’t quite as smooth as a rolling pin, but he was getting to be an expert at going around the corners without falling off.

  There. He was done. Cheswick peeled off the backing paper, flung it aside, and cranked the winch that raised Sissy up and over the quivering orange slime. “Kiss!” he ordered, moving the lever that flipped her upside down in the leather harness.

  Sissy beat back a shudder, gritted her teeth, and held her whiskers out of the way. As Cheswick moved the crank lever, the ratchet gear inched Sissy across the poured and flattened layer. At each click, he paused to allow the slender gray rodent to kiss the surface.

  Sissy’s lips felt as if they were on fire. The pain seared across her face and up into her ears. But she knew better than to refuse to kiss the gel. She had done that once before, and Miss Barmy had made Cheswick hang her up by her tail until she pleaded, sobbing, to be let down.

  But she needed something to take her mind off the pain. Sissy stared hard at the video that Cheswick had put on for her. It was the same one, over and over—there didn’t seem to be another one—and she had become used to it as nothing more than background noise. But all at once, something on the screen made sense to her.

  She went stiffly alert in the harness. Would it still make sense when she was right side up?

  The ratchet made one final click, and Sissy, startled, kissed the last square. Now at last Cheswick would bring her down and she could sit upright. She could hardly bear to wait the few seconds until he did. The blood was pooling in her head, and her ears felt swollen and tender.

  But no—she had forgotten the ultraviolet light. She flung an arm over her eyes just in the nick of time. Cheswick hadn’t supplied her with goggles, of course.

  The bright light was gone. Miss Barmy leaped from the roll-top desk and snapped off the video projector. “At last you’re done! Quick, Cheswick, get the patches together!”

  Sissy waited, nose down, the pressure in her eyes growing. She could see Miss Barmy and Cheswick, their small rodent shadows dark against the screen as they moved busily about, lit from behind by the Bunsen burner.

  She twisted in her harness, swaying slightly, but the straps were too tight for her to shift position. She felt her eyes bulging, and her vision seemed tinged with pink. Sissy arched her back and then rounded it, pumping her body as if on a swing. Back and forth she swayed, the arc greater each time. She couldn’t reach the metal crosspiece from which she hung, but she could perhaps grab the chain—she almost had it—

  There! Her claws caught and held. Curling like a caterpillar, Sissy gripped the chain that was clipped to her harness and hauled herself upright, paw by paw. The sudden change of pressure in her head brought first a slicing pain, then relief as her vision cleared and her headache eased.

  Cheswick and Miss Barmy were murmuring, their shadows close together behind the screen. Sissy caught a few words: “patches,” “roll,” “ready.” And then Miss Barmy climbed onto a little block of something—a brick? a book?—and stood poised for a breathless moment, lifting her short, furry arms.

  “Now!” cried Cheswick, and Miss Barmy leaped, rolling as she hit the floor.

  Sissy had seen it before—yesterday, in fact—but she watched again i
n spite of herself, revolted and fascinated as Jane Barmy shrieked, moaned, and grew large behind the sheet, a shadowy monster with claws changing to hands, rounded ears sliding lower on the head, tail disappearing like spaghetti sucked up from a bowl.

  All was still. The silhouette of a graceful woman stood etched against the screen.

  Sissy, hanging on to the chain with every muscle tense, waited for the moment Miss Barmy would shrink again. The patches never worked for long.

  But Miss Barmy wasn’t shrinking. And she was laughing.

  “It’s working! It’s working!” squeaked Cheswick, leaping about near Miss Barmy’s ankles. “Oh, my sweet violet, my precious little—er, my precious big—”

  “Shut up, Cheswick, and stop dancing on those extra patches! Quick, I need another one!”

  Sissy tried to make sense of what she was seeing, but the harness caught her with a painful jerk as she dropped and swayed, turning dizzily in the air. She whimpered before she could stop herself.

  “What’s that?” Miss Barmy’s voice was sharp.

  “Oh, it’s just that little kissy rat, what’s-her-name …”

  An elegant woman came around the corner of the screen, wearing an outfit of creamy silk that Sissy had last seen on a Barbie doll. On Miss Barmy’s shoulder, holding a plastic bag between his paws, was Cheswick Rat.

  “Are you feeling any symptoms yet, Jane dear?” he inquired.

  “No, not yet—wait. Is my nose twitching?”

  Cheswick peered up at her face. “Perhaps just a bit, and growing pinker, too.” He dug in the bag, pulled out a Sissy-patch, and slapped it on her neck.

  Sissy watched as Miss Barmy’s nose (which had been sniffing the air like any normal rodent’s) quieted and seemed to grow rounder and less pink at the tip.

  Miss Barmy, gazing into a hand mirror, smiled tenderly.

  Cheswick put out a hesitant paw and stroked the underside of her jaw. “Oh, my lovely Jane,” he whispered. “You’re prettier than ever.”

  A becoming dimple showed in Miss Barmy’s cheek. “I am pretty, aren’t I?” She frowned slightly. “A little older, perhaps.”

  “More mature, Jane!” cried Cheswick at once. “A ripe peach! A fragrant melon! You’re a juicy mango of a woman, my dear, and never forget it!”

  Miss Barmy ignored this. “Get me another one, and hurry. Look, whiskers.” She tapped the side of her nose.

  The glossy black rat reached for another patch, peeled off the backing, and pressed it to her skin. Rodent whiskers, which had begun to sprout on either side of her face, shrank back to nubbins and then disappeared altogether. Miss Barmy looked in the mirror and gave a satisfied nod.

  “It’s a medical condition. I can live with it, Cheswick.”

  The black rat bobbed his head. “Some people need pills, or shots—”

  “And I need patches.” Miss Barmy moved closer to Sissy and eyed the dangling rat. “A regular, never-ending supply of patches …” She put out a long forefinger and stroked the rodent’s back.

  Sissy swung back and forth helplessly, twirling on her chain.

  Miss Barmy smiled and cupped Sissy in her palm. “Do your lips hurt, my pet? Would you like to get down?”

  Sissy couldn’t help it—she nodded.

  “And are you hungry? Thirsty, perhaps?”

  At the mention of food and drink, Sissy became aware of how dry her mouth was, and her stomach rumbled in longing.

  “If you’re very good, perhaps we can get a new video for you. Something more interesting than this dull educational stuff.” Miss Barmy rubbed Sissy between the ears and spoke to Cheswick. “Now that we know it can be done, I’ll call Father to send some clothes and everything else I need. As for you—” She lowered her face over the rat in her hand. Sissy shut her eyes at the sight of the woman’s teeth, much too large and far too close.

  “We’re going to be very good friends, you and I,” whispered Miss Barmy. “From this day on, you will never leave my side.”

  Sissy turned her head away, feeling sick.

  Miss Barmy’s fingernails grew pointed and claw-like. “Chessie! Another patch!”

  Cheswick turned the bag inside out. “That’s all there is, Barmsie, dear. I’m afraid we’ll just have to make more.”

  Miss Barmy smiled at Sissy, her teeth suddenly rat-sharp, her cheeks downy with new fur. “Oh, we’ll make more patches,” she said as her claws lengthened and her tail grew. “Lots more.”

  They let Sissy rest and eat supper at last. Cheswick turned on the projector again, without the sound. Sissy was tethered to a brace on the counter, but she got as comfortable as she could and watched the video one more time. It made even more sense right side up.

  She looked at Miss Barmy, pulling her letter out of the typewriter, and at Cheswick on the desk, swinging his feet. They didn’t know, and Sissy was certainly not going to tell them, but they had done her a tremendous favor.

  The last slanting rays of the setting sun poked through a crack in the boarded-up window, shooting a straight arrow of light into the gloomy interior. Sissy gazed upward, entranced. She looked forward to this moment every day. It lasted only a minute, but for that brief time she could see that there was still a world outside this prison, and she took heart, and hoped for escape.

  The amber light was abruptly blocked as Miss Barmy stood on her haunches, holding the letter up for admiration. Behind her, Cheswick looked over her shoulder.

  From the counter, Sissy croned her neck to look up at the letter, too. She could not see it all, but the few lines she could see filled her with so much joy that she almost forgot the pain of her sores and shredded lips. It was really true! She could read at last!

  Of course Raston had given her a start by teaching her the alphabet. But it wasn’t until this video that she had learned how to put letter sounds together to make words. And though the lesson had seemed impossible to understand the first time she had seen it, somehow the repeated instruction had seeped into her brain. She could read! She could read!

  Sissy’s joy diminished as she squinted at the letter again, reading not just words, but sentences. Miss Barmy was cruel. Why was she trying so hard to make Emmy look bad? Sissy was indignant, but all at once her heart pattered faster with a new idea.

  If she could read—that meant she could write, too. And if she could write, she could send a message for help and rescue.

  The bats. Every night, some bat or other came to the gap in the siding to drop off or pick up messages. If she were very smart, and very clever, could she perhaps find some way to get a written message to her friends and brother?

  On the desk, Cheswick cleared his throat. “There’s only one s in nasty, my precious little honeybee … and ‘sneaks out of your house at night’—did she really? How do you know?”

  “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.”

  21

  EMMY 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 s
mall 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 dollhouse. “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.