The rat queen, p.1
The Rat Queen, page 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Dream
Part One: Pond Tree Acres
Chapter 1: Arthur
Chapter 2: Miss Mekas
Chapter 3: Papa
Chapter 4: Kolduny
Chapter 5: The Changeling and the Girl
Chapter 6: Bad Mouth
Chapter 7: The Sin Eater
Chapter 8: Fiona
Chapter 9: Fashion Advice
Chapter 10: The Cellar
Chapter 11: Matilda
Chapter 12: Story Problems
Chapter 13: The Sisters and the Slibinas
Part Two: Zelty Maras
Chapter 14: A Carpet of Rats
Chapter 15: The Seventh Prince
Chapter 16: The Party
Chapter 17: Nailed
Chapter 18: The Culvert
Chapter 19: Zelty Maras
Chapter 20: Pest Control
Chapter 21: Rat Food
Chapter 22: Not Sick
Chapter 23: The Hospital
Chapter 24: Growth Spurt
Part Three: Ozols
Chapter 25: Rat-Bite Girl
Chapter 26: The Lass and the Three
Chapter 27: The Crow Lady
Chapter 28: Incorrigible
Chapter 29: The Princess and the Mirror
Chapter 30: Moon Bites
Chapter 31: Fudge
Chapter 32: The Zilzem
Chapter 33: Thin Ice
Chapter 34: Apologies
Chapter 35: Matas and the Rat Queen
Chapter 36: Fool’s Summer
Chapter 37: Coincidence
Chapter 38: Aukles
Chapter 39: There Is Magic Here
Chapter 40: The Argument
Chapter 41: The Golden Key
Chapter 42: The Pink Man
Chapter 43: Even Magical Creatures Die
Part Four: The Rat Queen
Chapter 44: Welcome to Litvania
Chapter 45: Little Moons
Chapter 46: Vatruka and Tea
Chapter 47: Dressing for Dinner
Chapter 48: A Royal Dinner
Chapter 49: Remembering
Chapter 50: The Low Hall
Chapter 51: The Avatus
Chapter 52: The Choice
Chapter 53: The Way of Things
Chapter 54: The Princess and the Zurka
Chapter 55: Pond Tree Acres
Author’s Note
Glossary of Litvanian Terms
Acknowledgments
The floor beneath her back felt hard and cold and gritty. She could not move, or even open her eyes.
Annie knew she was dreaming.
She had been here before. A sour, musty odor filled her nostrils. The ticking of sharp claws on concrete was closer. She could not draw a breath to call for help.
She knew she was dreaming. It had to be a dream. But the fear, the hammering of her heart, the icy dread — that was real. If only she could scream. That would break the spell.
Tiny claws tickled her leg, crept up her thighs, her hips, her belly, and settled on her chest. She sensed its eyes on her face. Tendrils of sour breath snaked into her nostrils. She heard the clack of teeth. She heard another sound as well: a feeble, terrified mewl coming from her own mouth.
Something touched her chin. A whisker. A tongue.
Raw terror shattered her paralysis. Her back arched. A ragged howl erupted from her throat.
“Mama! Mama!” Her cry broke the spell and ripped her free from the nightmare. She jerked upright, gasping, flailing her arms wildly, her heart pounding with rib-cracking ferocity.
“Mama?”
Familiar shapes appeared, faintly lit by moonlight coming in through the window: her little rolltop desk, her dolls perched on her dresser. A dim yellow stripe of hallway light spilled through the cracked door.
Her bedroom. She was in her bed.
Just a dream. The same dream.
The door opened. Papa, framed against the light. Not a dream.
“Annike? Are you all right?”
“I had a bad dream,” Annie said.
Papa wrapped her in his strong arms and rocked her.
“Like you had before?” he asked.
Annie nodded. “It was trying to get me, and I was frozen, and then I was calling for Mama.”
“What was trying to get you?”
“A scary animal. With teeth and claws.”
“It was just a dream,” he said. “We have no scary creatures here in Pond Tree Acres.”
Annie was swinging by herself when she noticed the curly-haired boy two houses down. She dragged her feet to stop the swing.
The boy was barefoot, wearing only a lime-green T-shirt and a pair of baggy yellow shorts. His right fist was pressed against his mouth. Sucking his thumb. His left hand gripped the ear of a floppy stuffed rabbit. The rabbit’s hind feet dragged along the curb as the boy’s feet slapped the asphalt, each step decisive. She couldn’t see his eyes from that distance, but she was sure he was looking right at her.
The boy veered toward the curb and looked down at the sewer grate across the street from Mr. Wendell’s house. He bent at the hips, thumb still in his mouth, bringing his face to within a few inches of the iron bars, peering into the darkness. After a few seconds he straightened, looked at Annie, and continued toward her.
As he came closer, she saw that his yellow shorts were printed with purple cartoon dinosaurs, and his hair was not exactly blond, it was more orangish. Annie had heard that color called “strawberry blond,” even though it didn’t look much like strawberries. The boy stepped up onto the curb and stomped across the grass to stand right in front of her.
“Hello,” Annie said.
The boy did not reply. He just stood there with his rabbit clutched in his fist and his thumb in his mouth, staring at her through large, pale blue eyes. Annie slid off the swing. The chains rattled.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The boy stared up at her wordlessly.
“How old are you?” she asked.
The boy eased the thumb from his mouth. It was wrinkly from being sucked on. He held out his hand, fingers spread wide.
“Five?” Annie said doubtfully.
The boy nodded. He seemed awfully small for a five-year-old.
“I’m ten,” Annie said. “I mean, I will be. Tomorrow’s my birthday.”
The boy was not impressed.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
The boy seemed about to say something, then changed his mind and stuck his thumb back in his mouth. Annie wondered if there was something wrong with him. Shouldn’t a five-year-old be able to talk?
“I bet your mommy and daddy are looking for you.” She offered him her hand. The boy looked from her face to her hand. He took his thumb out of his mouth and clasped her fingers. His wet, wrinkly thumb pressed into her palm.
“Maybe you live in the Andersons’ house,” she said, pointing across the two vacant lots at the next house over. The Andersons had moved away last month. A new family had just moved in, but Annie hadn’t met them yet. She set off down the street slowly, so the boy could keep up. He walked alongside her, gripping her hand, bare feet slapping twice for each one of her steps. She felt very grown-up, helping a lost child find his way home.
Across the street, Mr. Wendell was weeding his flower garden. His orange cat, TomTom, had found a patch of sunlight on the front step. He was licking his paw and rubbing his face over and over again.
When they reached the sewer, the boy stopped and pulled his hand free. He got down on his hands and knees and pressed his face to the iron grate.
“What are you looking at?”
“Bunnies,” the boy said. Annie bent over and looked through the grate. She saw nothing but darkness. She moved her face closer and heard something, a sound like paper rustling, and the plop, plop, plop of water dripping. It smelled like rotten leaves and dirty socks.
She took the boy’s hand again and helped him to his feet. A streak of rust ran across his cheek where it had touched the grate. Annie wiped it off with the back of her hand.
“There are no bunnies down there,” she said. “Come on.”
They were almost to the house when the front door opened. A woman came out. Her hair was the same orangish color as the boy’s but not so curly.
“Arthur!” she exclaimed, and ran toward them.
Annie let go of the boy’s hand. His mother scooped him up.
“Where have you been?” she asked him, then looked at Annie with an expression that was both suspicious and grateful. “Where did you find him?”
“He came to my house,” Annie said. She pointed at her house.
“Oh!” said the woman. “You live in the tower house?”
Annie nodded. Her house had a big brick tower set into one corner. The tower was taller than the house.
“It’s the oldest house in Pond Tree Acres,” Annie said.
“It’s a very fine house.” The woman smiled.
“My papa’s uncle’s uncle built it. He was a farmer. Mr. Wendell says it looks like a beer can stuck on a dollhouse. Mr. Wendell lives across the street.” She pointed. “He has a cat named TomTom. He’s always fixing things. If you need anything fixed, Mr. Wendell can fix it.”
“Good to know! We just moved to the neighborhood. I’m Emily Golden, Arthur’s mom. You can call me Emily.”
“My name is Annike Klimas, but you can call me Annie.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Annie,” said Emily Golden.
“Our street is named after my family. That’s why it’s called Klimas Avenue.”
“Is that a fact!”
“Papa used to own all the land around here, but when I was born he sold most of it to Lucky Key Homes so they would build houses so there would be other kids around. My best friend is Fiona. Her daddy is a doctor. They live in the gray house.” Annie pointed down the street. “But she’s up north at summer camp. Fiona is going into fifth grade. I’d be in fifth grade, too, but I’m homeschooled now, so I don’t really have a grade.”
Emily Golden laughed. “My goodness, you are a fount of information!”
“Miss Mekas says I talk a lot.”
“Miss Mekas?”
“She’s my aukle.”
“Your uncle?”
“My aukle. She’s from Litvania.”
“Litvania? Where is that?”
“On the other side of the world. Miss Mekas lives with us and takes care of me when Papa is working. My mama is dead.”
“Oh! I see. I’m sorry.”
“Do you have a cat?”
“No. Arthur would love a pet, but he keeps me busy enough all on his own.”
Arthur was squirming in his mother’s embrace. She put him down.
“Arthur told me he’s five.”
“Yes.” She looked down at her son. “Arthur is small for his age, but he’ll catch up. He likes to take his time about things.”
“He doesn’t talk much.”
“Only when he has something to say.” She rubbed the top of Arthur’s head. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
The boy had nothing to say.
“I should probably go home,” Annie said. “Miss Mekas will wonder where I am.” She started to back away. The boy tried to follow, but his mother grabbed his arm.
“It was nice to meet you, Annie. Thank you for bringing Arthur home.”
“It was nice to meet you, too,” Annie said. She couldn’t bring herself to call the woman Emily.
As she walked away, she could feel the boy’s eyes on her. She stopped at the sewer grate and looked back. Arthur and his mother were gone. She bent over the grate and wrinkled her nose at the dank odor. She peered through the slots and caught a glimpse of something — two shiny black eyes, a flash of yellow teeth, a blur of dark fur against the black nothingness — and it was gone.
Annie jumped back, her heart pounding. A creepy, itchy feeling scurried up her back and down her arms and tingled her fingers. She squeezed her hands into fists and backed away.
There was something in the sewer.
It was not a bunny.
“I’m back,” Annie announced.
Miss Mekas looked up from the ball of dough she was kneading. “You were gone?” Mekas’s features showed no more life than the dough beneath her palms. In fact, her pale, bulbous face resembled a loaf of unbaked bread with a lump of dough for a nose, two round black eyes, and a short, flat mouth. Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun.
“I saw an animal in the sewer,” Annie said. “It looked like a big rat.”
“A rat?” Mekas’s tiny eyes widened. She bit her lower lip and sucked air through her teeth. “Why you look in sewer?”
“Because Arthur was looking there.”
“Who is Arthur?”
“This new boy. He just moved in where the Andersons used to live.”
Miss Mekas nodded and continued to knead.
“What are you making?” Annie asked.
“Kolduny,” Mekas said. Kolduny was one of her Litvanian specialties, small pockets of stuffed pastry.
“With cherry filling?” Annie asked.
“No. Some other thing.”
Annie made a face. Some other thing could mean anything from mushrooms to sauerkraut to chopped kidneys — or all three at once.
“I make special. You like,” said Mekas. The mouth on her doughy face curved into a smile.
“I’m hungry right now,” Annie said. “Can I have a cookie?”
“No. You spoil appetite.”
The door to the pantry was open. Annie waited until Mekas’s back was turned and grabbed a box of vanilla wafers. She slipped out the back door. Mekas didn’t notice.
Annie went outside to the old picnic table in the side yard, brushed the leaves off the bench, and sat down. She ate her first cookie in a circle, nibbling the tiniest amount around the outside edge until she had a cookie slightly smaller than the original. She nibbled around the edge again, and again, until it was no bigger than a nickel. She set the miniature cookie on the table and admired its roundness.
Annie took a second cookie from the box and thought about how to eat it. She had just decided to make it into a square when something caught her eye.
TomTom, Mr. Wendell’s orange cat, was slinking slowly along the row of pine trees at the edge of the yard. He froze in midstep, one paw raised, tail tip twitching. Annie held her breath. She couldn’t see what he was stalking.
TomTom shifted his weight to his hind legs, wiggled his butt, and pounced. A split second later came a terrible shriek. Annie jumped to her feet. TomTom erupted from beneath the pine boughs in an explosion of pine needles and dust. He hit the lawn running. The fur along his back and shoulders was puffed up and his tail was huge. Annie had never seen an animal move so fast. In an instant he was back across the street on Mr. Wendell’s front steps, clawing at the screen door and yowling to be let in.
Annie looked at the dust settling in the pines. She moved closer, nervous and curious all at once. There could be wasps, or a wild animal.
She stopped about ten feet away from the trees and listened. She didn’t hear any buzzing or growling. After a few seconds, she stepped closer and ducked her head beneath the trees.
She could see where TomTom had landed. There was a bare spot where the pine needles had been kicked away. In the middle of the bare spot was a hole about two inches across. The entrance to a hornet nest? Maybe it was a snake hole, or maybe a weasel lived there. She had never seen a weasel, but she had heard of them.
Annie found a stick about two feet long. She approached the hole cautiously, thrust the stick in, and jumped back.
Nothing happened. Whatever had frightened TomTom was hiding deep inside, or it had run away.
She wished Fiona was home so she could tell her what had happened. Instead, she ran to tell Miss Mekas because she had to tell somebody.
Mekas was still in the kitchen, her apron covered with flour, rolling out a circle of pie dough.
“Mr. Wendell’s cat got attacked,” Annie said. “By a wild animal!”
Miss Mekas shrugged. “I have cat in Litvania when I was little girl. He fight all the time.” Mekas lifted the rolled-out crust and settled it into a pie tin. “Litvanian cats, they are strong.” She looked at Annie. “You have letter.”
A letter! Annie raced to the table by the front door where Miss Mekas always put the mail. It was all for Papa except for one postcard. The front of it showed two girls paddling a canoe under the words Odyssey Adventure Camp. The back had Annie’s name and address and was covered with Fiona’s handwriting. Annie ran the postcard up to her room.
Fiona could print smaller than anybody. The letters crowded together, often touching each other, but Annie had no problem reading it. Fiona had seen some otters playing, and she got stung by a yellow jacket, and everybody made friendship bracelets out of acorns, and she went swimming every day, and she said she missed Annie and wished she was there. Annie wished she was there, too — except for getting stung by a yellow jacket. She read the postcard three times, and thought of a hundred things to say once Fiona got home from camp.
“Annike!” Mekas was calling from the bottom of the stairs. “Best you get cleaned up. Mr. Lukas be home soon.”
Annie put on a fresh T-shirt, washed her face, brushed her thick black hair, and tied it back with a scrunchie.
“How do I look, Mama?” she asked, looking at the framed picture on her rolltop desk. The young woman in the photo smiled back at her. She was standing on a beach, wearing a white knee-length dress and a necklace of big green and yellow glass beads. The dress and her hair were blowing in the wind. Annie tried to remember her, but it was all a fuzzy blank — except for the necklace. She remembered the smooth feel of the beads, and the way they clacked together.
Next to the photograph was a seashell. Annie raised the shell to her ear and listened for the sound of the ocean. It was always the same, distant and mournful.
Annie hoped she would be as pretty as her mother when she grew up. She turned to her mirror and looked closely at the scars on her chin: two perfect arcs, no larger than fingernail parings, like new moons pointing at each other. She had a similar mark on the back of her left hand, and one on her right wrist. The scars were noticeable only in the summer, when her skin darkened from the sun and the marks remained pale.
