The Hedgehog of Oz

by Cory Leonardo

  “Tuffy!” Marcel whispered. “Tuffy, wake up!”

  The young raccoon stirred again, and his eyes blinked open. He rubbed them and sat up.

  “Tuffy,” Marcel said before the raccoon had time to faint away again. “We need your help. You need to chew through this string here. You need to help get us free!”

  The raccoon’s eyes were the size of Chocolate Buttons, but he nodded and did what he was told.

  Mayor Mousekin was still thundering from below. “You’ll be held accountable for your crimes—you and every one of your associates! How dare you take the witch’s side!”

  “I’ve taken her side because that’s the side that benefits me! Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same if you were in my fur.” Whizzer began to walk the lower bridge again. His tail curled, and he took leisurely strides toward the stairwell. Nothing about him or the rats that followed appeared bothered in the least.

  Tuffy finished gnawing at Scamp’s bindings, and as soon as Scamp was loose, she whipped her sling-shooter from her pack, grabbed the single kernel of corn that had been wedged into her mouth, and flew to the edge of the railing.

  “I’ve chosen my side,” Whizzer was saying. “And you’d do well to do likewise. You will leave Oz’s Emporium one way or another. I suggest you do it alive!”

  “However we leave, it won’t be as traitors!” Mayor Mousekin bellowed back.

  The rats were now bunched together in the middle of the lower bridge. Marcel spotted the corn pipe dangling directly above them.

  Next to him, Scamp was taking careful aim. She slowed her breathing. She steadied her shaking paws. The blowing snow swirled about her, but she was fixed on one thing, one single thing alone.

  The green button.

  “You’re outnumbered!” Whizzer shouted into the wind. “The owl will be sick of mouse flesh by the time she’s done with you!”

  Scamp narrowed her eyes, made a final adjustment, and waited for a second’s break in the wind. When it came, there was no hesitation.

  She let the kernel fly.

  Zing!

  Pink!

  It was such a small sound. Barely louder than the cry of a kitten.

  But what came next was a roar.

  Rat chins and noses rose at the sound as tens and hundreds and thousands of pounds of corn rained from the spout over their heads. The force of the corn ripped the bridge from its bolts. The metal, bent and crushed, teetered before letting go. Corn continued to pour, stopping only when the silo went dry.

  When the last kernels fell, like drops in an ocean, there stood a twenty-foot mountain of corn.

  Not a rat remained.

  Scattered and sore, the broken lot of them were chasing after their king.

  As away above the treetops flew a Whizzer and a witch.

  CHAPTER 20 The Mouse’s Goodbye

  THE MICE OF MOUSEKINLAND AND the travelers welcomed one another with open arms. But not before Scamp was reunited with her father.

  “Papa!” she yelled, running into the mayor’s arms.

  “Scarlet. Oh, my Scarlet.”

  Scamp buried her face in his fur. “How did you find me?” she asked, as the rest of Mousekinland, now up in the warm and dusty storeroom above the factory, brought in a feast of corn and set to work building carts and bins and beds for the little ones.

  The mayor’s eyes were wet as he looked at his daughter. “We followed your trail, of course,” he said, to Scamp’s surprise. “It must have been shortly after you left—you and the hedgehog. We were ransacked by crows. The milk snake, as you know, may have hunted us, but we found out she kept prowlers away too. We were defenseless against the crows. They took everything, everything.” The mayor blew his nose on a tiny leaf handkerchief. “I thought you’d been taken by them.” He covered his face, and his whole body trembled. “It was the darkest moment of my life.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m so sorry,” Scamp said, wiping away tears.

  Mice all around began to pull nuts, bolts, washers, and wood chips up to a long, thin board they’d fashioned into a traditional Mousekin table. The largest of them was pounding thumbtacks into the floorboards, which made pretty good stools to sit at. The mayor nodded at him.

  “Barley Fitchsnout sniffed you out. Found your trail. Pieces of those weird fruits you left behind on the road and beyond. When he came back with the news, the whole town was in agreement. Every one of us would come looking for you.”

  Scamp took a seat on an old iron cog next to Marcel and frowned as a few mouselings chased one another around a box stuffed with tools. “But what trail?” she said. “I didn’t leave a trail.”

  “I did,” said Marcel, breaking off a small piece of the lime candy he’d been offering the mouselings. “I left a Fruit Gem trail. For you to get back. Just in case.”

  Scamp narrowed her eyes at him. “That was highly dangerous, Spike. I thought I told you to throw those away.”

  “You did. But being lost is dangerous too,” Marcel said quietly.

  Scamp turned back to her father. “But why would you risk it? Why follow me? I led you all into danger. The one thing we hide from!”

  “Scarlet,” said Mayor Mousekin. He pulled over a spool of wire and sat. “You’re part of us. Without any one of us, we’re no longer Mousekinland. You were missing, and there was only one thing to do. There’s not a rock we would’ve left unturned to find you.”

  “But I ran away—I mean, I had some pretty good reasons, and the hedgehog needed me. But I still ran away from home! Through cornfields and marshes and woods—I don’t even remember half the places we went to!” Scamp was scratching ferociously at that old spot on her cheek. As the truth dawned on her, her hand froze midscratch. “I really never would’ve found my way back,” she whispered.

  She looked straight at Marcel, and her eyes grew misty again. She looked down at the floor and said a shy, “Thanks.”

  “You left home, so home leaves everything to come find you. It’s the Mousekin way,” said the mayor. “Trails are good too.”

  Something broke in Scamp then. She threw back her head and began to wail. Truth be told, it was not a pretty sight. She was loud, and red, and snotty. “But everyone hates me!” she cried. “Everyone thinks I’m foolhardy! I don’t think; I just do. Stupid me—I’m the reason we left the farmhouse in the first place. Plus, I burned down the field! And the bridge! Now we’re homeless again because of me!”

  Mayor Mousekin looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “So much fuss and fire. Listen.” He pulled his daughter close. “You were wrong to leave. You were rash, and you are right—you didn’t think. But you are not stupid.”

  He tapped her forehead. “This head is filled with ideas. Stupidity is going into battle not thinking there’s an enemy. Stupid is putting your feet to the fire and not expecting to get burned. I can’t say I’m happy about it, but you knew the risks and you took them anyway. And you did it for the noblest reason of them all—you did it for a friend.”

  Mayor Mousekin looked over at Marcel and then back to Scamp. “I spoke with the squirrel. And, well…” The mayor looked a little sheepish. “He helped me see some things. Wisdom is more than facts. I see that now. To face your fears, to put your faith in something bigger, to be willing to sacrifice for another—these are the least stupid things of all. I’m sorry I made it out to be different.”

  Scamp was hiccuping now. Every sixth hiccup was punctuated by a burp.

  From behind a stack of wooden crates, a tiny mouse with big ears crept over to Scamp with a large kernel of corn in his hands. Four more faces peeked out from behind the crates. The mouse blinked at Scamp and held out the kernel.

  Sniffling, Scamp took it, and the little mouse skipped back to the group of mouselings. “She touched my hand! She touched my hand! I’m never gonna wash it ever again!”

  “What’s the difference? You never washed it anyway!” said his friend.

  “We love you, Scarlet. Me the most,” said Mayor Mous
ekin. “I know I haven’t said yes to a lot of things. I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t want to see you hurt. I wanted a whole life for you. I’m not sure I wasn’t stealing some of it in the process. I should’ve given you some freedom, let you practice dreaming a bit. To live is a risk. I told myself that by hovering over you I could control you, control everything.” He shook his head. “I think I held on too hard.”

  Scamp stopped sniffling, and she seemed to be considering all that her father had to say. As she did, her face began to brighten. There was a smile on her lips by the time she answered. “Does this mean I can get a sword?”

  The mayor threw up his hands in dismay. “What will I do with you, girl?” he cried, but he was laughing as he grabbed her hand and turned to survey the brand-new bustling mouse town in the old workshop high above the factory. “Just look at it,” he said proudly. “Look what you’ve done.”

  Before them, little houses were being built out of pipe fittings, wicker baskets, an old leather boot. Newly fashioned carts, made of faded screw boxes and rusty bolts, toted corn. A hundred sling-shooters hung in a line.

  With the rats gone, Mousekinland was being remade. Here.

  The mayor’s face became serious. “Scarlet. You have a choice to make, now. You’ll have to choose whether or not to go on with your friends or stay. As you’ve come so far, I know now that I cannot make that choice for you; I cannot make you stay. Does the journey continue, or have you come to the end? Where does the next road lead, and where is your place now? Away? Or here with all this…?” He extended his hand.

  The table was spread. A hundred seats on either side filled with mice. Old Mrs. Sniffers danced on her chair. Barley Fitchsnout balanced precariously on the edge of his thumbtack seat before the needle broke and not just he, but the mice on either side of him tumbled to the ground.

  A kernel at each place, and at every place a smile, a laugh, a word of thanks.

  Just then, a group of young mouselings rounded the corner at a run, pulling Tuffy and Ingot behind them. A huge smile was plastered to the raccoon’s face. He was wearing a moth-eaten glove for a hat.

  Ingot was another story. The mouselings had dressed him in a skirt made of a crinkly piece of foil they’d found. His cheeks had been colored with a bit of red paint, and the bristly top of a paintbrush was broken off and placed bristles-down on his head. “Never should’ve left the tractor,” Ingot grumbled.

  “Attention everyone! Attention!”

  A trio of fiddlers, tuning their instruments, silenced their strings. Voices hushed.

  The mayor of Mousekinland climbed atop a box and looked down upon the rows of mice seated at the table. Marcel, Tuffy, and Ingot sat too.

  “We have much to celebrate today!” announced the mayor. “Lost things have been found. Those searching have made homes. We have new friends with us, and food. Let us partake of this feast with thankful hearts. To Mousekinland!”

  “To Mousekinland!” all replied.

  The band struck up; the meal was shared. Merrymakers laughed and joked and told tales of their adventures into the night. Mothers and fathers tucked mouselings into bed. Even the dust motes seemed happy to take a turn on the dance floor.

  When quiet came and the only light was a slice of moonlight on the floorboards, the four friends (plus a cocoon) found one another on a windowsill overlooking the snow-covered fields and forest beyond.

  Tuffy smiled sleepily. Marcel fiddled with his glasses, taking them on and off, trying to buff away the scratches on his one remaining lens. Ingot remained silent.

  Scamp was scratching. At her cheek, behind her ear, the back of her knee, and everyplace in between.

  “Good heavens, put something on that, would you?” grumbled Ingot.

  Scamp clawed at her cheek. “I can’t put anything on it! It’s a botheration breakout!”

  Marcel crawled around Ingot to sit next to the overwrought mouse. Tuffy grabbed one of Scamp’s paws and watched the snow drift into the fields. After a minute, Marcel felt a tiny mouse hand slip into his.

  “What will you do?” Marcel whispered.

  “She knows what she needs to do. That’s why she’s scratching,” said Ingot.

  Tuffy’s eyes were sleepy, but he looked at Scamp tenderly. “You’re staying here, huh, Scamp?”

  The little mouse blinked, her mouth slightly open. “I… I…”

  “You are,” said Ingot. “We know it. You know it. It’s the end of the line.”

  Marcel squeezed Scamp’s hand gently. “It’s okay, you know. You belong here. With your father. Mousekinland wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  Scamp tore her hand away. “I can’t leave you, prickle-head! You need me! How are you gonna get home without me? And you, too, Tuffy! Who’s gonna look after you?” She turned her exasperated face to Ingot then. “Who’s going to tell you you’re entirely wrong about everything, you old, awful bristle-tail?”

  “Ha! I’m not sure there’s another living thing that could take your job,” answered Ingot, but there was a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You know what you need to do, mouse. You’ve had your journey. You’ve made your rescues. You’ve proved your merit and mettle. Maybe it’s time to know what it’s like to be at peace for a change. Life’s more than just a battle.”

  Scamp sat there wiping her nose on her cape and taking it all in. She scratched again, but a little less and lesser still, until finally she looked up at the squirrel.

  “I can still get a sword, right?”

  Ingot laughed heartily. “I fear for whoever—or whatever—tries to stop you.”

  That night, the four travelers—the hedgehog, the mouse, the old gray squirrel, and the raccoon—sat at the windowsill long into the night. Not sleeping. Not talking. Letting the hours stretch as wide and long and slow as hours do.

  Because when morning brings a goodbye…

  Every second with a friend isn’t nearly enough.

  CHAPTER 21 Stowaways

  AT THE FOREMAN’S WHISTLE, THE rumble of motors and the chugging of factory machines began.

  “You can’t go by foot, that’s certain.”

  “The owl’s got a bone to pick. She’ll get you before you make it to the trees.”

  “I’d stick to what’s safe if I were you. Don’t leave.”

  Scamp and her father, Marcel, Ingot, and a few of the Mousekinland elders were sitting in a circle, trading ideas about the next leg of the journey. Tuffy, having gotten bored with the conversation after only a minute, blew hot air onto a far window and was having quite a fine time drawing… well, it wasn’t apparent exactly what he was drawing.

  “Wings is what you need. Not sure how you get there otherwise,” said a tall mouse.

  “How do you feel about waiting till spring?” asked a short one. “I got a cousin that makes a river trip to the city every spring. Carved a boat out of a gourd. Not sure that’d be big enough, though…”

  They were getting nowhere, and no one was as frustrated as Ingot, Marcel, and Scamp.

  “We aren’t making any progress here,” said Ingot. “We don’t have wings, and nobody’s building any boats. There hasn’t been one reasonable suggestion yet. Anybody else got any bright ideas?”

  There was murmuring among them, but they sat the next few minutes in silence.

  Tuffy had his nose pressed against the window. “There’s honkers out there,” Marcel heard him say to himself. “Lots of honkers.”

  “What’s he talking about?” yelled a very old, hard-of-hearing mouse.

  “Honkers!” the mouse next to him yelled back.

  Marcel remembered Tuffy talking about honkers when they first met him. Something about honkers squashing things up. He’d left the city in one. What were they again?

  “Wait a second,” Marcel said to the group. He crawled up the workbench and pulled himself onto the sill.

  Behind the factory, on a sea of black pavement, parked a long line of trucks. They butted up against a loading dock
in different shapes and sizes, some more like box trucks, others hauling freight cars. Their sides blazoned with advertisements like SLAPPY SAL’S DELIVERY LINES, THRIFT MART, FARNSWOLD FREIGHT AND SHIPPING.

  “That’s it!” cried Marcel. “You’ve figured it out, Tuffy!” He pointed out the window and looked to the group. “We hitch a ride. That’s how we get back to Shirley River.”

  The rest of them crowded around.

  “How d’you know they aren’t mouse-trapped?” questioned the tall mouse.

  “Ludicrous! No way you’ll make it!” protested another.

  “My cousin hitched a ride on a truck once. Wound up in a city. Met his wife there and came back with ninety-six kids,” said the short mouse. “What a lady.”

  Ingot sounded cross. “What makes you think it’ll work? What in tarnation do those trucks have to do with your theater?”

  Marcel pushed up his glasses and grinned. “Popcorn.”

  Marcel told them about the Emerald City Theater’s concession stand. He’d never actually seen a delivery truck, mind you, but he’d heard them. Every Thursday before the weekend rush, a truck, coughing and spluttering, pulled up to the green-tiled entrance and dropped several plain, cardboard boxes filled with sacks of corn for the popping. Marcel had rummaged through those boxes in the past, hunting for stray kernels. If they could just get on the right truck, maybe, just maybe, he’d be delivered right to the theater’s front doors.

  “Well,” said the mayor. “It’s the best idea we’ve heard yet.”

  “Humans don’t take kindly to hitchhikers,” said Ingot. “Especially those with fur.”

  “My cousin hitched a ride on a truck once,” said the short mouse, peering down at the trucks and nibbling at a patchy spot of fur. “Humans don’t fret over what they don’t see.”

  “And neither do I!” said the mayor.

  Scamp shot a tiny finger in the air. “That’s not true!” She quickly slipped it back down when her father gave her a stern look. “I mean that’s not always true… sir.”

  The mayor softened. “Yes. Well. You’ve got a point. But I do think if we can keep them out of sight, they’ve at least got some chance.” He scratched his chin. “I think we can find a way.”