Undergardeners by Desmond Ellis Page A

almost immediately and a pathetic wail rang out. “Save me!” Thrown away in panic, the lantern flew up into the air.
    Mouse was enjoying this dream. He rested his elbows on the windowsill and watched the light travel up, up, twirling end over end as it rose higher and higher. For one magic moment it hung suspended in mid-air before it slowly started down again, gathering speed as it fell. Down, down it came and then—an instant before it made contact—it illuminated a tiny head.
    Ouch, thought Mouse. Then he let out a gasp. In the light from the falling lantern he had seen what was causing the panic in the garden. Without hesitation, he raced out of his bedroom, down the stairs and out into the garden.

Chapter 2
    The grass felt very un-dreamlike to Mouse; it was damp and cold beneath his bare feet. And there was definitely something quite substantial about the low shrub which grabbed him by the ankle and brought him crashing to the ground. That should wake me up, he told himself. Then he thought how idiotic that was. If I’m dreaming, I haven’t really tripped; I’ve just dreamed I’ve tripped. The blood that trickled from his cut ankle looked real, though. That is, it looked black, which is how he thought blood should look in the monochromatic moonlight. But he didn’t have time to puzzle over it now.
    â€œMrs. Rochester! Beat it!” he called out to his neighbors’ cat as he picked himself up. Mrs. Rochester was towering over the tiny man who Mouse had seen being hit by the falling lantern. Pinning his jacket to the ground with a sharp claw, the cat viewed him first from one side, then the other, as the little fellow lay huddled in terror.
    â€œLeave him alone,” Mouse ordered sharply.
    â€œWhreoww?” said Mrs. Rochester.
    â€œYes, now, you big bully,” said Mouse sternly. Whimpering noises were coming from her captive, who was trying to pull himself free of the daintily placed claw that held his jacket.
    â€œShe won’t hurt you,” Mouse consoled him. To the cat he said, “That’s enough, Mrs. Rochester.” Mrs. Rochester thought about it for a moment, then unhooked her claw. The little fellow staggered backward and fell flat at Mouse’s feet. The cat swaggered off, her tail twitching imperiously in the air.
    Mouse picked up the little man’s hat, a woolen toque that could easily double as an egg-cozy. He held it out and watched the man clamber to his feet and begin to brush at himself in an attempt to remove the dirt and regain his dignity. The little fellow didn’t come much higher than Mouse’s knee. He wore dark trousers that buckled just below his knees over long stockings, and on his feet were stout leather shoes. A loose-fitting brown jacket over a dark shirt covered the upper part of his body. His large mustache with its curled-up ends was quivering rapidly, but whether from fear or indignation, Mouse couldn’t tell.
    With a rapid dart, the little man snatched his hat from Mouse’s hand and ran. Mouse could hear what sounded like other little people running too. “Don’t be afraid,” he called out. “I won’t harm you.”
    The sounds of escape stopped. Mouse heard whispering and, after a pause, the little man came back and gingerly approached him. “That was rude of me,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I forgot to thank you. And I’m not afraid, certainly not, just cautious. I have seen humans before. We don’t usually get this close, of course. And we certainly don’t let them see us. We’ve learned that humans can be unpredictable. Especially when they haven’t been properly trained. You have been, haven’t you? Trained?”
    â€œTrained?” said Mouse. “You don’t train people. Animals are sometimes trained.”
    â€œWell I think a little training might do you all a lot of good. I suspect the only thing wrong with that animal