by Lisa Fiedler
Strangely, Hopper found this to be the first truly comforting thought he’d had in weeks.
Moments later, snuggled safely beside Ace in the sunlight, he nodded off to sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LA ROCHA’S JOURNAL—FROM the Sacred Book of the Mūs:
I have just visited the Runes, where I used a chalky stone to write a very important message, perhaps the most important yet. It is a cryptic notation intended to relay information. I can only hope it will be read by one who might know what to do with it.
To my great relief, I find Firren stirring. It has been three days since I rescued her from Atlantia. She opens her eyes, no doubt surprised to find herself recovering in a suitcase. There are a thousand words I would like to say to her. But most of them will have to wait. I keep my hood close around my face and tell her of what has occurred in Atlantia while she slept. She is by turns amazed, angered, saddened, and bewildered.
“Hopper was taken by the humans?”
“Yes.”
“And Zucker . . . do you know if Zucker is dead or alive?”
“I do not. For now I choose to call him absent.”
“But you are La Rocha.”
I nod.
“Tell me honestly, then: Do you really see more than the rest of us? Do you know things we cannot?”
“If I see more, it is because I look more deeply and with greater care. And what I know is knowable by anyone who takes genuine interest. If I have any power at all, it is the ability to contemplate. As to Zucker’s present whereabouts, I, like you, can do nothing but wait and hope.”
Firren takes a moment to think on this, then laughs her shimmering laugh. “You really are a puzzle. A riddle.”
“Yes. But aren’t we all?”
She stands up, works a kink from her neck, then reaches for her blade. “I’m going to the Mūs homeland,” she announces. “I have to find out what went on when Hopper appealed to his sister for help.”
“I would think, since he did not come back with her army marching behind him, that she was disinclined to assist him.”
“Well, maybe I can change her mind.” Firren raises her sword and spins it in a tiny circle above her head. “Maybe what that little uplander needs is some good old-fashioned girl talk.”
At this, I laugh. “Does girl talk typically require heavy weaponry?”
“Depends on the girls who are doing the talking.”
“Firren, there is much you don’t know about Pinkie,” I tell her. “Perhaps engaging with her is not in your best interests just now.”
“Is that a mystical prophecy or a lucky guess?”
“Most mystical prophecies are born of lucky guesses.”
“Then maybe you can reason with her,” Firren suggests. “The Mūs revere you, and being that she’s their leader now, I bet she’ll be willing to at least hear you out. We need the Mūs army to bring safety to the tunnels.”
There is a look of nostalgia in the warrior’s eyes.
“What is it?” I ask.
“What I just said . . .” Firren sighs. “Dodger wanted to assemble a Mūs army to bring down Atlantia. Now we need them once again to march against Felina. We’re right back where we started.”
“That is more true than you know, Firren.”
She blinks at me, not understanding.
In response I begin to push back my hood to unveil myself.
But before I can do this, there is a noise outside the Samsonite fortress. At first I think it might be the pretty rat coming back. I remove my paws from my hood just as the suitcase lid is banged opened. In the space of a second there is a dagger pressed to my throat. And it is Pinkie who holds it there.
“La Rocha,” she scoffs. “I believe you’re losing your gift for mystery. That little trip you took to the Runes just now was a big mistake. You see, when I didn’t find you in the smokestack, I knew you’d show up there at graffiti central eventually, to scrawl more of your silly predictions and platitudes upon those walls.” She laughs; the sound is cold and brittle in my ears. “You led me right back here.”
Now her eyes go to Firren, who stands poised to strike, her sword lifted, her body radiating fierceness.
“And isn’t this fortunate? I’ve managed to capture the mighty rebel Firren as well. I’m turning out to be quite the excellent leader, aren’t I?”
“Dumb luck does not make a leader, Pinkie,” Firren snarls.
“Maybe not, but it’s about to make you my captives.”
“Why?” I ask. “What need have you of captives? Your village is once again a neutral entity, secluded behind a wall, separating itself from the strife of the tunnel dwellers and those who would fight to protect them.”
“You are correct about that,” says Pinkie. “But this has nothing to do with tunnel politics or rodents’ rights. This has to do with me. My power. My plans.”
“Explain yourself,” says Firren.
Pinkie snorts. “There are Mūs who are, shall we say, reluctant to recognize me as their Chosen leader. This white circle around my eye helps, of course. They really loved that Dodger character, and I suppose the marking reminds them that I am his daughter.”
Her dagger wobbles in her grasp.
“You may be his daughter,” Firren growls, “but you are nothing like him. He was righteous and kind.”
“He was a deserter!” Pinkie shouts.
This brings Firren up short. “What are you saying? He didn’t desert the cause. He was believed dead and used that misconception to escape, to buy time, to go upland and recruit—”
“I didn’t say he deserted the cause. He deserted his family! Me, Hopper, Pup . . . our mother. He left us alone in a cage. He chose you and the refugees and those sniveling little mice who live behind that wall. He chose all of you over us. He never deserted you . . . he deserted ME.” She draws in a long, shuddering breath. “And I watched him do it.”
I feel her paw clench around the dagger, then she gives a firm tug on the back of my robe. Her eyes stay fixed on Firren, whose eyes stay locked on Pinkie.
“Don’t try to fight me,” she warns, backing toward the rim of the suitcase and pulling me with her. “I’ve got plenty of soldiers just outside. If you’re smart, and I think you are, you and the hallowed La Rocha will just come along and keep quiet.”
“But why?” Firren presses. “What is it you think we can do to help you secure your authority?”
“Most of the Mūs are willing to follow me, no questions asked, but as I said, some are still not on board with me taking control. They say they would feel a whole lot better about submitting to my reign if their beloved La Rocha would endorse me.” She spins me around, so that she is now pushing me instead of pulling. “And that’s exactly what he’s going to do.”
“You will make me your puppet?” I whisper.
“I will make you my prisoner. And you will support me, preaching only on my behalf and saying only what I command you to say.”
With that, she shoves me out of my hiding place and into the hands of her personal guard. Firren is taken roughly by the arms and dragged along behind me.
Pinkie walks ahead of us, chin up, ears back, shoulders squared.
She looks every bit the leader.
But as I had hoped to prove to Firren, had I had the chance to remove my hood, what one looks to be is not always what one is.
CHAPTER TWELVE
OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL days, Ace showed Hopper around the neighborhood. They feasted on scraps of food from places called “restaurants,” and Hopper decided that after eggplant, chimichangas were his favorite food. Not only did they taste good, but saying the word made him giggle.
Zucker would love chimichangas, he thought. Suddenly he didn’t feel like giggling anymore.
One morning Hopper awoke late after a night of horrible dreams filled with images of the grim aftermath wrought by the exterminators. He saw bloody fur and broken necks and wide, sightless eyes.
Even in his nightmare
he searched for Zucker and Firren, but always the dust rose up in choking clouds and made them impossible to find.
He awoke trembling, damp with sweat from the top of his bitten ear to the tip of his pointy tail. And yet, even in the most frightening moments of the dream, he’d still felt a deep longing for the tunnels. He missed the way the shadows fell and how the whole place shook when the trains rocketed past. What had terrified him at first had become a kind of comfort. He missed the gleaming wood of Zucker’s desk, where the prince had taught him to read and write, and he yearned for the way the tunnels made him feel like part of the earth, living deep inside it, close to the heart of the planet itself. The tunnels were not perfect, but they were home, and even in his darkest dreams that feeling of home called out to him.
“Rough night?” Ace asked, offering Hopper some scraps of Italian bread for breakfast.
“Nightmares,” said Hopper.
“Well, then,” said the cat, “I think what you need is a little distraction. Something to keep your mind off your troubles.”
Hopper smiled. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
Ace reached into a box labeled LOST AND FOUND and removed a red mitten. After making some artful changes, he gave it to Hopper, who wriggled into it.
“That should keep you warm,” said Ace.
“Thanks,” said Hopper.
Outside the sky was a blustery gray. Hopper shivered, but the cold air was exhilarating. He thought of the stale, dusky air of the subway tunnels and decided this was one aspect of upland life he could get used to.
“How about a ride?” said Ace, going down on his haunches so Hopper could climb on.
“Okay, but I don’t mind walking.”
“It’s a bit of a distance for those little legs of yours,” said Ace, not unkindly. “And we’re running late.” He gave Hopper a mysterious grin. “We don’t want to miss the game.”
Hopper didn’t know what that meant, but he obediently scrambled up onto Ace’s back.
“Won’t the humans think it’s strange when they see a cat giving a ride to a mouse?” Hopper asked.
Ace laughed. “This is New York, Hopper. They’ve seen a lot stranger. Besides, I doubt anyone will even notice. And if they do, we just might become the next YouTube sensation.”
Hopper positioned himself between Ace’s shoulder blades, and the tuxedo cat glided along the sidewalk with the mouse on his back.
“One of these days we’ll have to do some real sightseeing,” said Ace. “You would love the Botanical Garden, and Coney Island—”
“Stop!” cried Hopper. “Stop right here!”
Ace came to such an abrupt halt that Hopper almost slid off the silky fur of his back.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“This is where I used to live,” Hopper whispered, pointing to the big glass window of Keep’s shop. “This is where I was born.”
Ace lowered his head so his passenger could slip safely to the sidewalk.
For a moment Hopper just stood there, staring at the tall door—the door he and Pinkie had run for and escaped through, leaving Pup behind for dead. Hopper remembered the guilt and the grief he’d experienced, believing he’d lost his little brother forever. He remembered his fight with Pinkie just before, on the counter of the pet shop, in which she’d bitten his ear so hard she’d maimed him . . . and in a thoroughly uncharacteristic move, he’d bitten and maimed her right back.
Now he crept closer to the door and pressed his face to it for a better look. He expected to see Keep waddling around from cage to cage, feeding the small animals and grumbling to himself like always.
But the shop was deserted. Completely deserted. No Keep, no cages. Just a few empty boxes and forgotten leashes strewn about. And the broom—the broom Keep had used to swat at Hopper as he’d dashed for the door—propped in a corner. Hopper squinted harder and saw the jangly bell that used to hang on the door handle; it was still lying on the floor, right where it had landed the morning Hopper had made his escape. If he closed his eyes and imagined, he could almost hear the rusty jingling sound it used to make. But today it was silent, dented, forgotten.
“Where is everybody?” Hopper whispered. “They’re gone. All gone.” He was shocked to realize that all this time he’d been harboring a sliver of hope that at least one or two of the cagemates had survived. Pup had, after all.
But then, even if they had lived through the commotion of that morning, how long would they have lasted after that? They were feeders. Any who’d survived would have been dumped back into the crisp blanket of aspen curls to await the next skinny kid who wandered into the shop with a snake around his neck.
Nature. Not good, not bad . . .
Hopper sighed and stepped back to study the shop’s facade. He wanted to get a picture of it in his mind so he could tell Pup about it someday . . . if Pup ever spoke to him again. Hopper had never thought about how the pet shop might look from this vantage point. The night he ran away was the one time he’d been outside, and he’d certainly had no interest in looking at it then! But now his curiosity got the better of him, and he tilted his head upward, starting at the top. There he saw a rusted light fixture over the entrance and some faded numbers nailed beneath it. Only now did he notice the hand-lettered sign taped to the glass—OUT OF BUSINESS.
Just below the sign a narrow slot was cut into the glass of the door. This slot was protected by a swinging brass flap. Hopper recalled that this opening was some kind of communications portal through which a uniformed human would drop messages hidden in paper envelopes. The mail slot, Keep had called it. Hopper’s paw went to his pocket, where the note from La Rocha and the piece of Zucker’s tunic were still safely tucked. What would he give for a message now? About Zucker or Firren. Better yet, from Zucker or Firren. He shook off the thought and continued his examination.
As ever, the words BROOKLYN SMALL PET SUPPLY were painted across the big glass window. It occurred to Hopper this was the first time he wasn’t seeing them backward. Of course, back then he hadn’t known the difference. But since Zucker had taught him to read . . .
No. Don’t think about Zucker. Too sad, much too sad.
Hopper’s gaze moved down from the window to the brick half wall below it. At the bottom, where the wall met the sidewalk, was a small gap where a chunk of mortar had crumbled away. No wonder Keep’s business had gone bust; the place was falling apart.
“Well, this is depressing.” Hopper sighed. “I can’t say I miss the place, but I do have one or two fond memories from my life here.”
He remembered how it had felt to curl up beside his mother, even if she hadn’t been with them very long. And the laughter of his cagemates as they played, tumbling over one another, kicking up aspen curls.
“Sorry you had to see this,” Ace said gently. “But I think there’s an old human saying: ‘You can’t go home again.’ ”
“Who says that?”
“Old humans, I guess.” Ace dipped his shoulder in invitation, and Hopper scooted back up to his seat between the cat’s shoulders.
“Where are we going, anyway?” he asked.
“To the Barclays Center!” Ace announced. “Are you a fan of the Nets, by any chance?”
“I don’t think so,” said Hopper. “What are they?”
“Well, they’re a team of extremely agile and powerful fellas who fight together like a well-oiled machine in pursuit of victory and honor.”
“Oh!” said Hopper, remembering Firren’s highly trained rebels. “Like the Rangers!”
Ace shrugged. “I’m more of an Islanders fan myself, but yeah, just like the Rangers.”
With that, the cat quickened his pace to a canter, and Hopper held on tight.
Hopper stared up, up, up at the imposing structure, mouth open, eyes wide.
The Barclays Center. It was the color of a rusty subway rail, and also like the subway, it had a serpentine quality; the whole thing seemed to slither and writhe, circling in and out o
f itself without actually going anywhere. At the same time, it appeared to hover in the air . . . but it never left the ground. Glowing blue letters across its forehead seemed to scream out its name. And from deep within came a muffled rumble, a deafening purr that was occasionally broken by a single roar made up of ten thousand individual voices.
“What is it?” Hopper gasped. “Does it move? Can it talk? Do we ride it?”
“It’s a sports arena,” Ace explained. “We go inside and watch the Nets do their thing.”
Hopper imagined that the “fellas” who made up this band of rebel athletes called the Nets must be beyond enormous to need such a gigantic arena to showcase their talents.
“Will it just be us watching?” Hopper asked.
Ace laughed.
Hopper followed the cat toward a door propped open by a human; the human carried a broom (bigger than Keep’s) and leaned against the door from the inside. Hopper wondered if the Barclays Center had swallowed this human whole and hadn’t finished digesting him yet.
The closer they got to the open door, the louder the roar became. Hopper could see that the human’s uniform had the name MAINTENANCE embroidered over his heart. When the human spotted Ace, his face broke into a grin. “There he is! The only basketball fan I know with a tail. C’mon in, Slam Dunk!”
“Slam Dunk?” Hopper whispered.
“That’s what he calls me,” Ace whispered back.
Ace scampered inside, curling once between Maintenance’s burly legs in a friendly greeting. Then Hopper found himself in a very different kind of tunnel, filled with a thundering echo. The noise made by the Barclays Center was no longer a purr or a roar . . . it was tumult, louder than anything Hopper had ever heard before, louder even than the subway trains and the round-footed traffic monsters put together. He covered his ears, but only for a moment, because he soon realized that this noise was not dangerous or threatening; this noise was filled with happiness and excitement.