Undergardeners

The
Undergardeners

Desmond Anthony Ellis

O
RCA
B
OOK
P
UBLISHERS

Copyright © 2006 Desmond Anthony Ellis

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and
retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in
writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Ellis, Desmond Anthony, 1944-
The undergardeners / Desmond Anthony Ellis.

(Orca young readers)
ISBN 1-55143-410-5

I. Title. II. Series.

PS8609.L56U64 2006        jC813'.6        C2006-901020-X

First Published in the United States: 2006
Library of Congress Control Number:
2006922292

Summary:
A boy called Mouse discovers
an incredible community beneath his backyard.

Free teachers' guide available.
www.orcabook.com

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support
for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:
the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry
Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts,
and the British Columbia Arts Council.

Typesetting and cover design by Lynn O'Rourke
Cover and interior illustrations by Esme Nichola Shilletto

09 08 07 06 • 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed and bound in Canada
Printed on 100% recycled paper.
Processed chlorine-free using vegetable based inks.

To Karen…

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Acknowledgments

I am inordinately grateful to Maggie de Vries, who first read the story at Orca and went to bat for it. I would also like to thank Sarah Harvey for her considerate and considerable help in editing, polishing and generally improving the whole thing.

Chapter 1

Mouse lay in his bed wondering what had woken him up. His room was bright but colorless, the jealous moon having replaced the colors of the daylight world with many shades of gray. The dark hands of the white-faced clock on the table beside his shadowy bed pointed out that it was past midnight and time he was asleep, which he had been until something woke him. The model airplanes that dangled from the ceiling circled slowly in the breeze from the open window as though waiting for clearance to land.

He was a bit sore from helping his father put up a new fence around the back garden; he knew it was his own fault for trying to prove—as he always did when he got the chance—that being small wasn't the same as being weak. Because of his size, he was called Mouse by just about everyone except his mother, and even she sometimes forgot to call him by the name she had given him. His size meant he was sometimes made fun of at school, but he'd learned to take it in good humor; the teasing only got worse if he looked upset. So what if he was small for his age? He was only nine and he wasn't finished growing yet. But maybe he'd take it a little easier with the fence-building tomorrow.

There was only one fencepost left to put up. Four had been positioned eight feet apart, and his father had been digging the fifth hole when the post-hole digger struck the rock. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't shift that rock, and his father had finally given up. He had measured off six feet from the last post, driven a stick into the ground to mark the spot, mussed up Mouse's hair and said, “Let's call it a day.”

Mouse closed his eyes, held his breath and listened to the darkness. There wasn't even a creak from the house, as though it too was holding its breath. He felt himself drifting off to sleep again. The bed felt soft and warm and…There it was again! He jackknifed upright. A voice! That's what had woken him—a voice. And it was coming from the garden.

“All clear. They've gone to six.” The voice was crisp with authority and carried clearly on the still night air. Mouse reached the open window in two bounds—and gasped in surprise at what he saw. Tiny lights were gathered around the last hole he and his father had tried to dig. Maybe it was a trick of the moonlight, but the rock they hadn't been able to move now looked as though it was standing on its end. There was a faint glow from the hole below. Feeling a little uneasy, he wondered for a second if he should call his parents.

One of the tiny lights now began to arc through the air, each arc accompanied by a strange voice. “Hun. Hoo. Hee. Hoar. Hive. Hix.”

The crisp voice he had heard first asked, “Are you sure?”

The strange voice grunted in reply, “Hov hoarse h'yme shure.” What on earth…? All thoughts of calling for his parents disappeared.

“Double-check the distance, please,” the crisp voice said. “We have to be certain it won't interfere with the air-shaft. Now hop to it.”

The light began its bounding flight back in the direction from which it had come, making the same strange sounds as before, but in reverse order this time. “Hix, hive, hoar, hee, hoo, hun.” Mouse stared; the lights clustered around the hole were tiny lanterns carried by several small creatures. And whatever was making the strange sounds was hopping along on all fours with one of the lanterns between its teeth. I'm dreaming, he thought. That's it. I'm still asleep and I'm dreaming about weird goings-on in my garden.

Just then there was a horrified scream.“Look out!”

The lanterns scattered in all directions, making streaks of light through the darkness as they went. One lantern hesitated, did a rapid zigzag back to its starting place, hesitated again and shot off in another direction. It halted 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.

“Mrs. 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.

“Leave him alone,” Mouse ordered sharply.

“Whreoww?” said Mrs. Rochester.

“Yes, 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.

“She 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?”

“Trained?” said Mouse. “You don't train people. Animals are sometimes trained.”

“Well I think a little training might do you all a lot of good. I suspect the only thing wrong with that animal who attacked me is that it picked up some bad habits from humans.”

“Mrs. Rochester wouldn't have harmed you,” said Mouse. “At least, I don't think so. I think she was just being curious.”

“I'll bet she was curious.” The little man jammed his toque back on his head. “Curious as to what I tasted like. And if slashing at me with those razor-sharp hooks isn't an attack, I don't know what is. But I forget my manners. Thank you very much for saving my life. My name is Qwolsh. Sole!”

The little man fell backward, only it wasn't so much a fall as a leap onto his hands, which he'd stretched out behind him. He kicked his feet in Mouse's direction, first one and then the other, before springing upright again. Mouse watched openmouthed. It was like watching a very energetic Russian folk dance. He could sense the other lantern bearers coming closer, but couldn't take his eyes off the little man called Qwolsh, who was standing again, hands on hips, gazing up at him. Mouse continued to stare. “Wh…wh…wh…what did you just do?” He managed to get the words out at last, his voice rising at the end of the sentence in astonishment.

“I thanked you for saving my life,” replied Qwolsh. “And now we must be off. Just forget you ever saw us. Which won't be difficult because you'll never see us again. Farewell.” Qwolsh saluted and he and the others began to move away, but Mouse took a step after them. This was his dream, after all, and he was going to keep control of it.

“Wait, wait,” he said. “Why did you wave your feet in the air like that?”