The Hedgehog of Oz

by Cory Leonardo

  Ingot let out an exasperated sigh. “You still haven’t answered the most important question.” He pointed out the window. “Which truck?”

  Ten pairs of eyes stared through the glass at a line of several dozen trucks.

  “It’s a Thursday,” whispered Marcel, spotting a blinking sign below them. “Thursday, December 3rd, 9:02 a.m. It has to be down there.”

  Everyone looked to the mayor. He nodded.

  “Then, we begin.”

  * * *

  It took Mousekinland all of twenty minutes to have a lightweight crate cobbled out of an assortment of pine boards, complete with air holes and a crudely fashioned shipping label that read:

  SHIPING ADRES:

  THE EMERALD CITY MOVIE THEATER, SHERLY RIVER

  RETERN ADRES:

  OZYMANDIUS POTT’S POPCORN EMPORIUM

  (VERY IMPORTINT.) FRAJIL.

  “It’s perfect,” said Scamp.

  “It’s a shot in the dark,” grumbled Ingot.

  Scamp looked over at Marcel and smiled. “It’s your ticket home.”

  Whatever it was, it was certain to be a terrible hassle to get down four stories to the dock.

  “Not so!” shouted Scamp. “See, I came up with this invention. I call it… a pulley.”

  A group of mouse scouts were sent to spy out possible points of entry. Another group set about fashioning Scamp’s pulley system out of rope and a large, empty cable reel. The bravest were chosen for the last leg of the journey: getting the crate to the right spot on the dock and nailing the travelers in. Scamp was the first chosen.

  While the mayor and elders finalized plans, Marcel, Ingot, Tuffy, and Scamp stood huddled together, trying to think up words to say. Tuffy sat in a lump looking very sad. Scamp was snuffling, snotty, and bleary-eyed.

  “You sure you don’t need me? I mean, I could go with you and try to get back. How will you ever make it without me?”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Ingot. “I made it into old age without your assistance. I’m pretty sure I can get by.”

  Marcel smiled weakly at Scamp. “What Ingot means is he’ll miss you. Very much.”

  Scamp shoved packages wrapped in paper and string into their paws and looked away. “These are for you.”

  They thanked her and opened them in turn. Tuffy’s gift was Scamp’s cape, now boasting an extra-long string to tie around his neck. He hurriedly slipped it over his head. The cape was far too small, but it gave him a very noble look.

  “Wearing a cape makes you look braver, even if you don’t feel it,” Scamp said to him.

  Ingot’s gift was Scamp’s walnut-shell shield. “Your head and your heart. Those are the two most important places to protect,” Scamp said.

  Next it was Marcel’s turn. Inside the paper lay Scamp’s old sling-shooter.

  “I got more,” Scamp said briskly. “You’ll need to keep watch and fight anything that comes after you. You won’t have me to help you, but you can borrow my special star. Shoot straight. And don’t miss.”

  Gifts and food for the journey were packed into Mousekinland leaf sacks. When it was time to leave, Scamp wailed as she clung to Tuffy and Marcel in the largest of mouse hugs. When it was Ingot’s turn, she looked up at him, frowning, and said, “I’m not gonna miss you at all, you bushy old geezer.” But she clung to him the longest, and never once did Ingot try to let go.

  “Trucks are being loaded,” interrupted the mayor. “It’s time to go.”

  It took every one of the travelers and a group of twenty Mousekins to lower the crate over one of the metal bridges to the open floor of the factory, and a group of the bravest volunteers to position it. They hugged the walls as they pushed it toward the loading doors. Every time a bootstep was heard or a voice was near, the group scattered to hide behind boxes, bins, and machinery.

  At length, a voice crackled over a speaker.

  “Attention! Attention! There will be a brief meeting for all employees and drivers in the Pott’s Cafeter-ium. Remember your clipboards; shipping lists will be handed out. Thank you and have a poptastic day.”

  “Jackpot!” whispered one of the mice.

  Footsteps shuffled by. Voices grew fainter. A door clanged shut.

  “Now!” shouted the mayor.

  Every mouse assigned to the crate flew into position.

  Marcel, Ingot, Tuffy, and Scamp ran down the dock, passing trucks with their backs open and piled ceiling high with boxes, searching for the one that might bring the travelers home.

  Truck after truck didn’t feel right to Marcel. He ruled out the largest of them straightaway. He checked license plates. Not California. Not Missouri. Definitely not Alaska. He read the peeling words on the sides of the remaining trucks.

  HOG APPLE FARMS: PORK PRODUCER. And in small letters (We’ll haul your slop. Our pigs eat anything.) No.

  PIXIE’S CARNIVAL SUPPLY: OUR COTTON CANDY, CORNDOGS, AND CARAMEL POPCORN ARE MAGIC! Nope.

  CEREAL SOURCE: GRAINS ARE US. Doubtful.

  They were coming to the final truck, a small white box truck.

  “End of the line, kid,” said Ingot.

  Marcel closed his eyes and prayed this truck would be the one.

  There was no big sign on the box of the truck; there was nothing at all. But stuck to the driver’s door was a small green logo with a picture. Marcel saw the picture before he could read the words.

  It was a hot air balloon.

  The words formed and became readable. FLYING BALLOON FREIGHT, it said simply. Marcel stopped.

  It was a sign. This was the flying balloon the Wizard of Oz had assured Dorothy could get her back to Kansas—back home. This was their truck. He knew it in his heart.

  He was as sure as he’d ever been of anything.

  “This is it,” he told them as the mice trailed behind, pushing and pulling the crate. “This one goes to the theater.”

  “You’re certain?” asked Ingot.

  “Without a doubt,” answered Marcel.

  The whistle blew overhead.

  “Hurry,” shouted the mayor as they pushed the crate to the edge of the dock. “Get inside!”

  Tuffy, Ingot, and Marcel, with Toto strapped to his chest, climbed into the box, just as the door on the other side of the factory squealed open and footsteps and voices shuffled in. There was no time for lingering goodbyes.

  The mice hefted the wooden top onto the crate and nailed the travelers in. Scamp whispered through the cracks in the wood, “Either you’re gonna find home or home’s gonna find you. Either way, you’re gonna get there. I know it.”

  Through a small hole, Marcel saw the shadow of her tiny paw resting against the wood as the last nail went in. “I love you,” she whispered.

  And then she was gone.

  CHAPTER 22 The Emerald City

  BOOTS CLUMPED PAST, AND A door creaked open.

  “Come on, Terry! Get moving! We’re already behind.”

  Another set of boots came running. “Coming! Had to stop to tie my boot!”

  “Is that the driver?” Marcel whispered to Ingot, who was peering out one of the holes.

  “He’s getting in,” Ingot answered.

  The sound of the rolling door on the back of the truck made the travelers jump. Tuffy clutched the string of his cape and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Make sure you lock it this time!” they heard the driver call. “We almost lost a few boxes on the last run.”

  “They’re leaving, Ingot!” Marcel’s stomach flip-flopped. He felt sick.

  The other man finished setting the lock. “I got it. I got it. Start ’er up!”

  The truck roared to life, and Ingot frowned darkly. “Nothing we can do.”

  “Scamp!” Marcel shouted through the cracks of the crate. If there was anything that could be done, she was just the mouse to do it.

  Just then, they heard a zing.

  “Yeeeeow!”

  Marcel looked to Ingot. Ingot looked to Tuffy. Tuffy opened his eyes and squeezed them
shut again. They held their breath, Scamp and her trusty sling-shooter on every one of their minds.

  Their hearts, too.

  “Something bit me!” shouted the man at the back of the truck.

  “Aw, quit your bellyaching, Terry. There’s no bugs in the middle of winter.”

  “No really! Something bit me! I’m not kid—” Something clattered off the side of the crate. “Hey, what’s that?”

  They listened as the man read off the shipping label. “This is weird,” he called over to the driver. “I never seen any label looking like this. Looks like some kid wrote it.”

  “They probably couldn’t fit it in one of the big boxes. Just hurry up and throw it in.”

  Ingot, Marcel, and Tuffy let out a collective sigh of relief as they felt the crate being lifted and heard the lock open and the door slide up. “Weirdest box I’ve ever seen,” the man muttered to himself. He pitched the crate inside.

  The travelers went tumbling over and under and around each other. Ingot and Tuffy tried hard not to complain about Marcel’s spines. And again Marcel found himself trying to protect Toto. Just like at the beginning.

  The door slammed shut and the truck jerked to life.

  Before they knew it, they were hurtling down the road at top speed.

  Marcel looked to the others. “I wasn’t sure we could pull it off.”

  “It remains to be seen,” said Ingot.

  “Tuffy’s going home,” said the little raccoon, his eyes bright in the small blazing lights of the back of the truck.

  Ingot grimaced, but he nodded. “Yes, kid. You’re going home.”

  The ride was bumpy, the smell of exhaust was thick in the crate, and turning corners was a particular trial. (Someone always ended up with a spine in their side.)

  But Marcel felt a flutter in his chest.

  Soon.

  Soon he’d be back under his warm popcorn bucket with the hens on each side. He wondered where he’d find them. Waiting in the air shaft? Back in the balcony? Had they hidden behind the stage or in some forgotten corner? Wherever he found them, there was one thing he knew: They’d celebrate the end of this long, harrowing ordeal with a trip to the slush machine.

  Ah, the slush machine. Marcel wouldn’t normally be so intrepid. He’d always been content to scrounge the floors and topple into wastebaskets for every meal. And though he’d taken his fair share from the soda dispensers, they were constantly leaking anyway. It seemed a far cry from thievery.

  Somehow the slush machine felt different, though—special. He’d choose the Passionfruit Punch flavor. He couldn’t help but think his return would be something like a romantic celebration.

  Scratch that. He wanted the Blaster-Berry.

  Once, just once, he’d fill an extra-large cup to the top with that beautiful blue slush. It would be a celebration indeed. If only it were a Saturday.

  He would have loved to arrive just in time for the twelve o’clock matinee.

  The truck began to make stops, the drivers calling them out as they went. The Picture Palace. Morty’s Movie Madness. Little by little the back of the truck began to empty as theater after theater received box after box after box of popcorn kernels.

  At one point, Tuffy snoozed. He was clutching Scamp’s cape, sucking his thumb, and dreaming about something adventurous Marcel guessed from the constant movement of his legs.

  Marcel moved over to Ingot. As he did, he noticed the old squirrel’s leg was still bleeding under a fresh bandage. The wound had looked angry before, but now it was positively frightful. “Ingot?”

  Ingot sat against the side of the crate, his eyes closed. “What is it, hedgehog?”

  Marcel looked at the bandage. “After we get to Shirley River—to the theater, I mean—what will you do next? Will you try to get home?”

  “That’s for me to worry about,” said Ingot.

  “Well,” said Marcel, “I guess I just wanted you to know that if you wanted to stay at the theater with me and the hens, you’d be welcome. For however long you’d like to stay. Even forever.”

  Ingot’s eyes remained closed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  The day wore on. The Films de France Theatre. Hal’s Hollywood Heaven.

  When it seemed like they would travel in the back of the Flying Balloon delivery truck for the rest of time, they came to a halt and heard one of the men say, “This is it. Emerald City Theater.”

  “We’re here!” Marcel cried. “We made it!” Tuffy rubbed his sleepy eyes, and Ingot braced himself in a corner, waiting for the box to be pitched out.

  “This can’t be it,” they heard the driver scoff. “You must’ve read the address wrong.”

  “I didn’t, Morris! I swear I didn’t. Look, it says right here on the list. 204 Peachtree Street.”

  Morris grumbled. “You sure that’s a four and not a nine?”

  “Yep.”

  “And there’s no stop on the order? Nothing like that?”

  “Nope. Think they made a mistake?”

  Marcel was confused. How on earth could you miss it? The gleaming ticket booth. The enormous marquee. You don’t see so obvious and beautiful a theater every day. And why on earth would Gomer Dupree stop ordering popcorn? What was a theater without popcorn?

  “I don’t know why they gotta switch up our routes every week. How’s it my problem somebody got it wrong?” the driver blustered.

  “Well, it says right here—three boxes to 204. This is the place.”

  Morris smacked the steering wheel. “If this is it, this is it! Just leave it there. Not our problem!”

  The door to the cab opened. “Whatever you say, boss!”

  “Well, that didn’t sound promising,” said Ingot as the men walked to the back of the truck and opened the rolling door.

  Cold air rushed into the cracks and holes of the crate. A few boxes were slid out and dropped on what Marcel guessed was the sidewalk.

  “Don’t leave it there,” corrected Morris. “Put it over… Just put it over there.”

  The travelers listened as the boxes were transported a little distance away.

  “Don’t forget this extra one,” said Terry, and he pulled the wooden crate from the back of the truck.

  “Yeesh. You weren’t kidding. Strangest delivery box I’ve ever seen.”

  The crate was bouncing, and it was difficult to catch sight of anything through the small cracks. The crate thunked on top of a box, and the world went still.

  “That’s it!” called Terry.

  “On to the next!”

  The back door clanged shut. The cab doors opened and closed. The engine started up with a crack, and soon the truck was chugging down the street.

  “I can’t see anything. You see anything?” Marcel tried to get a look outside, but the boxes were blocking him.

  “I got a good view of a hubcap,” said Ingot. “And a gum wrapper.”

  Tuffy took a big sniff. “Tuffy’s smelling home!” he said excitedly. “Tuffy’s smelling eat-boxes!”

  Marcel took in the nailed-in walls of the crate and his eyebrows furrowed. “I guess we didn’t think about how we’d get out of here.”

  “Bunch of geniuses,” growled the old squirrel. He thought a minute. “Only option is breaking out. If we all run for one side, maybe we can topple it. It’s worth a try anyway.”

  Ingot, Tuffy, and Marcel (with Toto) stepped to one side. On the count of three they rushed to the opposite side, throwing shoulders, sides, and hips into the box.

  It moved a hair.

  “Again!” shouted Ingot.

  They repeated this again and again, each time moving the crate little by little.

  Ingot’s leg began to bleed through his bandage. “Again!” he shouted. “Again, again!”

  They slammed their weight into the crate one final time. It teetered on the edge of the box and pitched. Box, squirrel, hedgehog, raccoon, and cocoon went tumbling over.

  The crate crashed onto the street and split open. The travelers
flopped out into the slush. Marcel grabbed his glasses from the slop of the wet snow and scrambled to his feet. He threw his spectacles on his nose and rushed around the boxes to lay eyes on his and the hens’ home at last.

  Only he couldn’t see anything. Snow covered his lens.

  He rubbed his glasses against his fur. The snow smeared, but it was better. He threw them back on his face, ready to gaze upon the great and gleaming Emerald City Theater.

  It was not there.

  CHAPTER 23 A Billion Pinpricks of Light

  THE EMERALD CITY THEATER LAY in a pile of brick and plaster, broken beams, and smashed tile. Glass glinted from the rubble like diamonds. The velvet seats, a great heap of crimson, looked like half-melted Cinnamon Snaps lumped together. The great movie screen lay torn in two, and the pointed ends of broken pipes and cracked lumber pierced it in a thousand places.

  “Well, that explains it,” said Ingot.

  “Auntie Hen! Uncle Henrietta!” Marcel cried. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”

  Only the wind answered, howling and swirling the snow. Traffic hooted and hollered behind them. Buses and delivery trucks coughed by.

  “We’re gonna need to find cover before someone spots us and sends the raccoon right back,” said Ingot.

  Marcel heard him but was fixed to the sidewalk.

  Ingot stepped in front of him. “Marcel, they aren’t here. They probably got out. Either way, we’re in a dangerous spot.” Ingot’s eyes were soft. “We’re going to have to find a place to hole up. Need to get off the street. You think there’s somewhere safe in there we can get to, out of the cold?”

  Marcel stared off at the ruins of his theater. From under the screen, the heavy velvet stage curtain peeked out. Marcel pointed to it. “It’ll be warm there,” he said dully.

  They picked through the bricks and glass carefully. And what a sight they must seem, Marcel thought bitterly. A bone-tired hedgehog with a broken pair of spectacles and a tiny cocoon. The raccoon, with his miniature cape and his hair in fourteen different directions, jumping at every dark corner and needing a good dose of coaxing from Ingot.