Mad Caterpillar Disease

Preface: A Race in the Dark

"Bruiser?" he said uncertainly. Relief gushed through my arteries and veins.

"Yeah. What are you doing down here?" I asked.

"Just relaxing," he replied. "I'm a skeleton; I feel at peace underground. It also alleviates my joint pain. How'd you find me?"

"I saw the tunnel entrance in the spider hole--"

"It didn't bite you?" he asked.

"No, but it looks like it got you good! It left nothing but bones!"

Rodrick huffed in exasperation. "Very funny."

"I'm just ribbing you, man. Don't let me get under your skin." I was on the verge of asking him if his funny bone was broken-- just to see him roll his eyes-- but then I remembered that he had no eyes, so I held my tongue.

"So, what are you up to this evening, Bruiser?"

"I was just heading home after swimming."

With mild disappointment, I realized that it was probably too late to hear Grandpa's story of the week. Oh, well. At least I had discovered something.

"I think I'm going to head home, too," said Rodrick.

"Let's go," I said. I turned around and walked back whence I had come, using my hands to grope in the dark. Upon reaching the spider pit, I saw my eight-legged host crouched on the far side. I saluted him, but he just stared at me resentfully with his array of eight funereal eyes.

Once I was back on the ground, I turned around and looked into the pit, but Rodrick wasn't there. "What's taking him so long?" I wondered. I sighed, then made to go look for him, but just then, he emerged into view.

"Oh-- I forgot that you said-- never mind," he hemmed and hawed.

"Did you go the wrong way? Where else does the tunnel go?" I asked eagerly.

"Nowhere," he answered brusquely.

Rodrick wasn't usually secretive with me. The other end of the tunnel must be pretty important, I thought. "Alright. Let's go home, then," I told him, crossing the Rambling Road and continuing along the trail.

By now, it was twilight. Crickets' ceaseless ostinato had replaced the diurnal cicadas' chorus. Other bugs accompanied them: Shadow Beetles sprinkled in a syncopated tenor line, while Goliath Ants glugged out a steady bass line. If I listened closely, I could pick out other voices, whose owners I could not identify.

Not everyone welcomed the music, though. A crow cawed irritably, then flew off to find a quieter patch of scrubland to sleep in. Now and then, a bug would issue a brief shushing sound, as if to say, "Keep the noise down!"

Rodrick followed me toward the village. The moon was not up yet, but the Glowbean bushes, which were scattered a stone's throw apart, were in their bioluminescent phase. (Well, a stone's throw for someone with a weak arm.) The bushes' beans emitted a soft yellow glow that allowed us to see the outlines of obstacles. We picked our way along the trail. Small animals rustled unseen among the vegetation.

I felt something hard and smooth under my bare foot. I looked down and saw a cluster of bones, which belonged to an opposum-sized animal. I picked up a few bones and turned around to face Rodrick. "Are these your...droppings?" I asked him with a chortle.

"Yeah, and they still have more meat on them than you do," he retorted, pinching my arm.

We proceeded along the path. The thorny mesquite trees, Glowbean bushes, and honey locust trees gave way to oak trees. My stomach was grumbling, urging me to get home soon.

"Race you home!" I yelled. I tore off, ducking under branches. By the time I heard Rodrick shout back, "Ok!", I was already 25 feet ahead of him. He could plow through vines and bushes with impunity, so I had to get a head start. He was particularly advantaged at night, when I had trouble seeing the tree branches I needed to dodge.

I dashed through a mott of celery trees. My mouth filled with saliva, for the celery's pungent smell reminded me of the stuffing that filled the baked grouse we ate every year during Gravygiving. I sprinted through a grove of pine trees, then leapt over a puddle of quicksand. I came up a little short, landing with both feet in the quicksand, but I leaned forward and quickly pulled myself out by a tree root. There was more than one way to get home, so I didn't know if Rodrick was ahead of me or not. I skidded to a halt just before crashing through a patch of poison lacegrass, barely visible in the dark. I turned right, ran toward the spinning rock (it blocks the path and spins like a merry-go-round), then jumped onto it. I rested on it for a few rotations, then timed my jump to continue along the path, taking care not to land in the writhing, venomous cactus on the sides. I raced down the path toward home, trying not to remember the time my buddy Quimby had landed in the cactus-- his horrified countenance, his flailing arms, spit flying from his mouth, as he screamed desperately for help, while the brainless peril subjugated him. I shuddered.

Four of five minutes later, I made it to the last straightaway, which ended at the crest of a steep hill overlooking the village. As I barrelled down the straightaway, a rattle of bones up ahead joined the sound of my pounding footsteps, like the rattle of maracas joining the sound of timbales. (Actually, my footsteps sounded nothing like timbales.) I slowed down to a jog, mildly disappointed. Rodrick had beaten me again.

Rodrick bounded out of the bushes and onto the pathway, about 30 yards ahead of me. He stopped and waited for me, then we walked together, gasping for breath, to the top of the hill overlooking the village of Cottonwing Falls.

Since it was nighttime, we decided to have a little bit of fun getting down into the village. We skirted our way atop the escarpment rising over that side of the village, until we were standing over Mr. Skunkudder's homestead. Laughter started to bubble its way up from my diaphragm and up through my trachea, but I held it down with my epiglottis. Far below us, covered by a tarp, lay a cheesemaking vat. It looked like a giant's bed. Rodrick and I inched out onto a rock that projected from the limestone cliff.

Mr. Skunkudder didn't sell much cheese, yet this vat was huge; his family's diet must consist of at least 80% cheese!

"Three...two...one," I said quietly, with an insuppressible grin. "Jump!" We launched ourselves out from the precipice. We landed on the tarp. The clips fastening it to the side of the vat came loose, and we sank into the soft cheese. I crawled to the edge of the tarp and grabbed a handful of cheese. Rodrick looked at me inquiringly, and I nodded at him with satisfaction, my mouth full. I laid on that cheese chaise longue, that dairy divan, for a few minutes. I dearly wanted to sleep in that vat of cheese, but I was thirsty from all of that running. I reluctantly crawled to the edge and started to climb out.

Just then, the baying of hounds rang out from Mr. Skunkudder's barn. I dropped a morsel of cheese in surprise. "See you later," Rodrick and I told each other. I took a few steps, dashed back for a cheese refill, then ran off again, not stopping until I got home. I got a drink and went to bed.