Chermpf

By William S. Russell III

Everyone should have a name; with that thought Gracie Fisher steps into her backyard on a moonlit summer night. Leaving her sleeping parents behind, following her nervous cat Roscoe and a kitten harboring an ancient secret, she embarks on an adventure leading far beyond her father's vegetable garden, to a domed forest-city tethered to the Moon. There, she faces a terrible danger from the prehistoric past and a grave threat to all humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990737513

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ART I

HAPTER 1

Tarantulas, Tulips and Tabbies

F SPIDERS HAD WINGS , it would probably be best to just stay inside , she thought. Her clear eyes narrowed in concentration as she prepared to resume work on a meticulously detailed drawing of a winged tarantula. The Fisher family was gradually wrapping up breakfast, and Gracie, the youngest member, was sitting at the kitchen table amidst her crayons and various spider-drawing reference materials. Surveying the artwork, she was trying to decide if the spider’s chelicerae were perhaps a tad too long (no need to shock if one was already putting wings on the things) when she heard Grandpa Sal zoom into the driveway. Grandpa Sal drove a Corvette, and no matter where she was, Gracie always recognized the throaty sound of a Corvette, especially when Grandpa Sal blipped the throttle after he pulled into the driveway at race car speeds.

A Corvette has a 6.2 liter, LS3 V8 engine, Grandpa, Gracie would announce whenever she saw him.

Does it really? I thought for sure it was at least 6.3! Grandpa Sal would respond in feigned incredulity.

Gracie was not sure what 6.2 liters of anything looked like exactly, but she had seen the word on the orange juice container at the breakfast table each morning, and having a keen interest in measurement (among other things), she had tried to picture six of the cartons stacked together. 6.2 liters sure is a lot of orange juice, she thought.

Arachnid fangs and wings momentarily forgotten, Gracie put down her crayon and distractedly brushed a strand of pale blond hair out of eyes bluer than an autumn sky. She wriggled out of her chair to run outside and meet her grandfather. Gracie’s mother was finishing the after-breakfast cleanup, and as Gracie raced to the door she heard her call out, Grace, put on your urshes before you go outside. Urshes was what Grandpa Sal called shoes, and no one was exactly sure why. The word fit as far as Gracie was concerned, so she had never bothered to ask after its origin.

Gracie almost had her second ursh on when Grandpa Sal made his entrance. He was carrying a big, worn cardboard box that read Antique Brass 1 Doz. on the side. He had a big smile on his face, as he always did.

Hi, Gracie! he bellowed loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

Grandpa! cried Gracie, jumping up and down, one shoe off and one shoe on.

What happened to your urshes? asked Grandpa Sal.

I was putting them on so I could come outside to see you, Grandpa, and I didn’t finish! What’s in the box?

Oh, someone I want you to meet. Grandpa Sal smiled, and he gingerly stepped around Gracie. He carried the box into the kitchen, setting it on the table next to Gracie’s tarantula picture.

Hi, Dad, said Gracie’s mother, Ann, as she spooned leftover scrambled eggs into a dish. Grace, clean up that mess—we need to get ready for day camp soon. What’s in the box, Dad? she asked with the scrunchy half-wince, half-scowl on her face that she got whenever Grandpa Sal brought mysterious boxes into the house. Such boxes appeared with what was, for Ann, an almost alarming regularity.

What’s this, a picture of a tulip? said Grandpa Sal, picking up Gracie’s tarantula picture.

No! cried Gracie. It’s a tarantula! Dad, asked Ann, what’s in the box? Yes! What’s in the box, Grandpa?! echoed Gracie at twice the volume.

It looks more like a tulip than a tarantula, said Grandpa Sal. Squinting, he turned the picture upside down as if the new perspective would somehow resolve the developing tulip–tarantula controversy.

"IT’S A TARANTULA, otherwise known as Lycosa tarantula!" howled an exasperated Gracie.

Dad … Ann’s voice betrayed her growing anxiety. She was not overly fond of surprises, especially when they came in the form of battered old boxes better left on the dusty floor of her father’s workshop.

Tulips aren’t black and brown, Gracie stated flatly, expecting to rest her case on this indisputable fact.

Neither are all tarantulas, especially the ones with wings, countered Grandpa Sal. Now can I show you what I have in the box?

"YES! the Fishers responded in chorus. Okay!" said Grandpa Sal, knowing that he had played his hand out as long as his audience would allow.

Gracie clambered up a kitchen chair so she could see over the edge of the box as Grandpa Sal pulled open the dusty and weathered top.

"Ta-DA!" said Grandpa Sal as he opened the box with a flourish. Gracie’s remaining shoe fell to the tiled floor as she leaned forward in order to see inside. The box interior was dark, and it smelled a little funny, a combination of earthiness and puddles long since dried up, reminding Gracie of the old couch the Fishers had gotten from Aunt Susan and Uncle William.

As her eyes scanned briefly for the box contents, Gracie got a strange feeling—a feeling that she would learn to call a premonition when she grew older—a sense that this box heralded change, that once she looked inside there would be no going back. The feeling grew so intense that Gracie almost averted her eyes. She had an urge to jump down from the chair and run out of the room to avoid beholding the contents. Then she made eye contact with Grandpa Sal. He smiled reassuringly down at her. The feeling passed, and she made the choice to look. She sucked in a small gasp, and vaguely, somewhere behind her, she heard her mother say, Oh, no. A small tabby kitten, white with brown stripes and a small pink nose, sat in the middle of the box looking up at Gracie with big, bright, blue eyes.

He was carrying a big, worn cardboard box that read Antique Brass 1 Doz. on the side.

For a moment the kitten made no move, sitting absolutely still, and Gracie thought it might just be a very, very realistic toy. But then the kitten yawned. It was a big, wide, gaping yawn for such a little kitten, and in the yawn’s greatness the kitten squeezed both of its eyes closed. As its mouth opened to release the yawn, its curled little pink tongue nestled between two rows of tiny but sharp white teeth. Gracie was marveling at the yawn’s magnitude when she thought, just for a second, she saw something bright sparkle and flash in the back of the kitten’s mouth. It was a surprising thing to see, and before Gracie could look closely, the little animal closed its mouth. Yawn complete, the kitten opened its eyes again, contemplated Gracie and, with some effort, uttered a quiet and strange little noise. The noise that Gracie heard the kitten make was not a meow or mew or even a meep. It was a noise unlike any Gracie had ever heard a cat make.

The noise the little tabby kitten made sounded like chermpf.

HAPTER 2

Chermpf

ID YOU HEAR THAT, Mom? The kitten said, ‘Chermpf’!" Gracie approximated the sound as best she could.

Gracie’s mother did not answer. Instead she set the eggy spoon down on the edge of the sink, and put her hands on her hips. She glowered at her father.

Dad, we already have a cat. We can’t keep another. Roscoe has enough litter box issues as it is. Are you going to come over and clean things up if he decides to stage a protest?

Ann’s father was not listening. He pushed Gracie’s chair closer to the kitchen table so that his granddaughter could reach into the box.

Go on, honey, he said to Gracie. See if she will let you pet her.

How do you know it’s a girl kitten? asked Gracie.

I know because she told me, said Grandpa Sal, matter-of-factly.

"DAD." Ann stood firmly, with her hands on her hips, her eyes growing wide with exasperation. Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Grandpa Sal turned to his daughter with a dramatic look of shock and concern, but he gave away the tiniest hint of the smile he was trying to conceal, as well.

She was abandoned at the shop, Annie! Grandpa Sal gestured dramatically at the box. None of the guys could take her home! She’s the runt of the litter! You don’t have any cats!

"Dad, we already have a cat, and his name is Roscoe. You know that."

Great! he yelled triumphantly, as if the decision were a fait accompli. They can be friends. She can teach this new little one the ropes! She’ll show her how to catch mice!

"Dad, Roscoe is a he not a she, we do not have mice, and I think Roscoe would really prefer to be an only cat. He’s very nervous." Ann took off her apron. It was yellow and had pictures of chili peppers and the words Hot Stuff written on it. It was Gracie’s favorite, especially because she occasionally wore it as a cape. Ann set the apron on the counter and pressed the start button on the dishwasher.

Everybody needs a friend, said Grandpa Sal, winking at Gracie.

Gracie reached very slowly into the box and held out her index finger so the kitten could sniff her.

Gracie knew that animals needed to feel comfortable and safe with you before you could pet them. Some animals did not like to be touched at all, like the Mako shark—or Gracie’s father when he was sleeping on the couch, especially if you touched him with hands that had been holding a cold and sticky ice pop. Gracie had learned about handling animals she did not know when she held a corn snake on a field trip to the aquarium with her school class. The reptile was surprisingly warm to the touch, and as she felt it breathing in her hand, Gracie considered walking right out of the aquarium and taking it to the nearest field and setting it free. Then she thought about all of the kids who screamed when they held snakes and she thought it might be better for snakes in general if screaming kids had a chance to learn about them. Snakes have a real public relations problem, thought Gracie. Before she could make up her mind, the college student from the reptile exhibit had taken the snake out of her hands and hustled her out of the exhibit.

Well, maybe William and Susan can keep it, said Gracie’s mother just as Gracie was coming out of her corn snake reverie. They love cats. Let me go call Susan now. I don’t think she has left for work yet. Where did I put the phone?

Did the tomatoes come in yet? asked Grandpa Sal, following his daughter out of the room and happily changing the subject. He knew that the battle was won and the kitten had become a permanent member of the family, but no visit to his daughter’s home would be complete without a thorough inspection of the garden.

Gracie was still patiently holding out her finger for the kitten to inspect. The kitten looked up at Gracie, and Gracie wiggled her finger. Suspicious, the kitten narrowed her eyes and leaned closer to Gracie’s hand. Her pink nose was wiggling and her white whiskers were twitching as she sniffed. Gracie wondered if the kitten could smell the maple syrup from breakfast on her fingers or the new air freshener she had poked while in the bathroom earlier that morning. The kitten touched the tip of Gracie’s finger with her nose for a second, and then she licked Gracie’s finger. The kitten’s rough tongue tickled Gracie, and she laughed. When she did, the sound startled the kitten and she gave the tip of Gracie’s finger a quick nip, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough for Gracie to know that those little white teeth were quite sharp.

Hey! Gracie pulled her finger back. Cut that out! That’s not very polite! Maybe we should call you Bitey McPhee!

The kitten turned her head to one side, her striped ears twitching, as though she were intently listening to Gracie’s admonishment.

Chermpf.

That’s not what a kitten is supposed to say, said Gracie, pointing her nipped index finger straight up in the air, like the big foam finger her father had that said Cleveland Browns Number One!

Kittens are supposed to say meow!

M-m-chermpf! the kitten said loudly.

"That’s a little better." Gracie stood upright in the chair and folded her arms.

Chermpf! the tabby kitten said again.

Undaunted, Gracie once more held her finger out for the kitten. Again the kitten tilted her head inquisitively, narrowing her eyes, but this time she also twitched her tail as she looked at Gracie’s finger. Gracie thought maybe the kitten wanted to play but did not know how. If she had been taken away from her litter too soon, she may not have been socialized properly. Gracie believed that several of the children at her day camp must have been removed from their litters too soon as well, given their lack of social skills. Cautiously, the kitten put her mouth on Gracie’s finger, but she did not bite. She just looked at Gracie as though to say, "I could bite you, but just right now I choose not to."

In the background, Gracie could hear her mother talking on the phone to Aunt Susan, and Grandpa Sal coming in from the garden, commenting on how the tomatoes were huge this year. The tabby kitten was still gripping Gracie’s fingertip in her tiny teeth. Slowly Gracie started pulling her finger away. The kitten yawned and released her finger.

Maybe Chermpf is your cat name, Gracie said to the kitten. Uncle William says that all cats have real cat names no matter what people call them. Is Chermpf your cat name? The kitten sat staring at Gracie, not making a sound, her blue eyes matching Gracie’s own. Then, conceding the staring contest to the little girl, the kitten began to lick one of her paws and rub it behind her ear. Aunt Susan said that when a cat did that it meant it was going to rain. Aunt Susan and Uncle William said a lot of strange things, thought Gracie, as she climbed down from the kitchen chair. When her socks touched the floor, she could no longer see the kitten. Average height for a seven-year-old was a topic frequently investigated by Gracie. She only barely made the number in her mother’s worn copy of Dr. Walter H. Vacuum’s Angular Momentum–Free Child Rearing for the Mildly Nauseous when she was wearing new sneakers, but she frequently told her parents to expect a growth spurt any time now.

We will have to give you a proper people catname, said Gracie, but first I’ll get you some milk. You must be terribly hungry from being in that box.

HAPTER 3

Roscoe

RACIE THUMPED TO THE floor and scrambled under the kitchen table to retrieve her errant shoe. While she was under the table, she found her goldenrod crayon, which had fallen from the tabletop and rolled there while she was working on her tarantula drawing. Goldenrod is a splendid color, Gracie thought, but not as splendid as black. Black was an essential color for drawings of tarantulas and the rings on the tails of ring-tailed lemurs.

What’s in the box? asked a familiar voice.

Sitting at the kitchen threshold was Roscoe, the family pet. Roscoe was a large tomcat, and he had long, gray hair that was a little wild, especially when it was damp (Gracie’s mother said he needed a good conditioner), and he had white markings on his paws that the less imaginative might call mittens. Roscoe had a cordial disposition, but he was nervous around strangers and was given to hiding in the laundry basket whenever the Fishers had company. Gracie had never heard Roscoe speak to anyone else, although he did occasionally—and only when they were sleeping—whisper in Gracie’s parents’ ears the flavors of cat food that he wanted them to purchase. When Gracie asked him about it, Roscoe mumbled something about subliminal conditioning and said, Keep it to yourself if you want me to keep the secret of where you hide the vegetables you don’t eat during dinner. Only half interested in Grandpa Sal’s present, Roscoe yawned. He had just