Free Undermajordomo Minor by Patrick deWitt Page A

yipping and knocking things over and pouncing on one another; the exhausted mother lay on the floor beside the table, stomach bagged, dead to the world. “Poor Mama,” said Memel. “She’s had just about enough.” He nudged her with his foot and she retired to one of two small back rooms, with the puppies following after. Memel removed the cauldron from the fire and set it in the center of the table to cool. Tilting back his head, he shouted, “Mewe!”
    Mewe’s muffled voice came through the wall, from his own shanty. “What?”
    â€œIs Klara with you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIs she still angry at me?”
    Lucy could hear the girl named Klara murmuring, but couldn’t decipher her words.
    â€œShe says she’s not,” Mewe called.
    â€œAnd do you believe her?”
    â€œYes, I think I do.”
    â€œAnd you? Are you still angry?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œWill you please come and eat with us, then?”
    A pause; more murmuring. “Who is ‘us’?” Mewe asked.
    â€œLucy has come to visit. The lad from the train?”
    â€œYes, he was spying on us a moment ago.”
    Memel looked at Lucy with a questioning glance. Lucy shook his head. “I was only passing by,” he whispered.
    â€œHe claims not to have been spying, Mewe.”
    â€œOh? And what would he call it, then?”
    â€œPassing by, is how he describes it.”
    Yet more murmuring. Mewe said, “Ask him for us, please, if he believes one must be in motion to be passing?”
    Lucy admitted that yes, he supposed one did have to be, and Memel restated this.
    â€œWell, then,” Mewe continued, “how does he explain the fact of his being stationary at my window?”
    Memel raised his eyebrows. “Were you stationary, Lucy?”
    â€œPerhaps I lingered for a moment.”
    â€œNow he is calling it a momentary lingering,” Memel said.
    â€œI see,” said Mewe. Murmuring. “We would like to know, then, just what is the difference between the two?”
    Lucy thought he could hear some restrained laughter coming from Klara. To Memel he said, “Spying suggests a hope to come by private information. My intentions were much simpler.”
    Memel digested, then repeated the words, which precipitated further hushed discussion between Mewe and Klara. At last the former said, “Would Lucy describe himself, then, as idly curious?”
    Lucy was now certain he could hear both Klara and Mewe stifling their amusement.
    â€œWell?” Memel asked, who was smiling.
    â€œI think that would be fair,” said Lucy.
    â€œIt would be fair, he says,” Memel said.
    For a time, Lucy could not hear any further chatter from next door. Finally it was Klara who spoke. “Give us a moment to finish our game, Father,” she said.

3
    S tew’s too hot yet, anyway,” Memel said, peering into the cauldron. He stepped away from the table and invited Lucy into his room, a drab cube with no window or furnishings save for a straw mattress on the ground and a wood crate doubling as a bedside table. The puppies lay in a heap in the corner, feeding off their mother, who regarded Memel and Lucy with a look beyond concern. Memel leaned down and stroked her with a gentle hand, his face drawn with worry. “They’re going to kill her.” Cocking his head, he asked, “Would you like a puppy, Lucy?”
    â€œOh, no, thank you.”
    â€œYou’re certain?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell,” he said, “this simply won’t do.” He picked up the puppy with white boots and left the room. An uneasy feeling visited Lucy; he followed Memel and found him standing at a water barrel beside the front door, his arm submerged to the elbow. “If the mother dies, then they all will,” he said, regarding the black water with a look of grave determination. Long moments passed, and when he slipped his arm