Return of the Forgotten

by Lisa Fiedler

  He could see that Firren, too, recognized the similarity. After all, she herself was responsible for most of the artwork depicted there. The last message La Rocha (a.k.a. Dodger) had left there had directed Firren to the grasslands of the daylight world, where she’d found Hopper and talked him into returning to the tunnels.

  But the runes were far from here, deep in the outskirts of the Great Beyond. This piece of writing was much closer to Atlantia, located just below a crudely dug hole in the ceiling. And this hole was not just some random crumbling gap between the wall’s upper edge and the arched ceiling. Hopper knew this small chasm was a portal that led directly to the functioning Atlantic Avenue/Barclays Center subway platform above them. He’d used it himself, on more than one occasion, but he’d never noticed a message on the wall before. It couldn’t be a coincidence that words had been recently inscribed directly beneath the hole that led to the upland world.

  He hurried toward it for a closer look, with the others close at his heels.

  What they saw was an inscription written in childish script.

  “Do you think La Ro—I mean, Marcy wrote this?” Hopper asked.

  Dodger studied the words and shook his head. “I don’t think so. She would have left us a message—if she had one—at the original runes, not here, where she had no reason to expect us to look.”

  Suddenly Firren’s paw flew to her mouth; her eyes were big and round. “I know that script!” she said.

  Zucker recognized it too. “Hope!”

  Firren nodded and read the inscription aloud:

  “We lived in a cage that was cozy and clean

  But then Mama was taken and Pinkie was mean

  Just when we thought we’d had all we could take

  We were forced to escape from the jaws of a snake

  I took quite a fall, but I went right on livin’

  Now I want to come home . . . please say all is forgiven.”

  Hopper swayed on his feet; the short verse told an enormous story.

  “Hope may have inscribed it,” he said. “But surely Pup was the one to compose it! It’s practically his autobiography! And look! It says he wants to be forgiven.”

  “Does he, now?” Zucker growled. “Well, it’s gonna take a heck of a lot more than a catchy little nursery rhyme to get me to forgive that maniac for taking my child!”

  “But that’s just it,” said Hopper. “I don’t think he took her. Pup can’t read or write.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . if he were taking Hope against her will, he would have had to force her to write this for him. He would have dictated it to her, but Hope is a clever girl. She easily could have included something like ‘help’ or ‘save me’ to let us know she was in danger. Even if Pup were holding her at”—Hopper gulped—“at swordpoint, she still could have improvised and he would have never known the difference.”

  Dodger frowned. “So you think Hope and Pup are working as allies? You think she went willingly?”

  “I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

  “But Dev said Pup took her,” said Firren. “Could he have misunderstood the situation that completely?”

  Hopper shrugged. “He was injured. Distracted. Maybe what he thought was a kidnapping was actually something else entirely. That’s what my gut is telling me.”

  “An alliance would imply that they have a common enemy,” Firren pointed out. “Which doesn’t make sense. Pup may despise us, but Hope would never think of her family as the enemy, no matter how much her brothers and sisters teased her.”

  “I agree,” said Hopper. “Which is why the enemy must be someone else. I think Hope was upset and decided to run away. That’s what she was doing when I saw her alone in the city. Somehow she met up with Pup out here in the tunnels, where they encountered someone who presented a threat to both of them.”

  “That’s not a bad theory,” observed Dodger, stroking his whiskers thoughtfully.

  “But who could this enemy be? A rogue feral?”

  Hopper nodded. “Possibly.”

  The dreary tunnel fell silent as they all struggled to think of anyone who might have been frightening enough to both Hope and Pup to cause them to join forces. Zucker began to pace, stomping up clouds of dust. Dodger continued to smooth his whiskers, and Firren stuffed her paws into the pockets of the found cloak.

  “Could it have been another team of exterminators?” Hopper wondered.

  “Not likely,” said Zucker.

  Hopper took some comfort in this; he hated to imagine Hope and Pup facing two giant humans in coveralls like the ones who’d coming bearing traps on a mission to destroy Atlantia. He closed his eyes to begin thinking in earnest, but opened them again when he heard the familiar sound of crinkling paper. He turned to Firren and saw that she was reading a note. She must have found it in the pocket of La Rocha’s cape.

  “It wasn’t a feral or a human . . . ,” she said through gritted teeth, holding out the scrap of paper. “It was a traitor.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I FEAR I HAVE MADE a horrible mistake.

  This place that the soldier Devon is taking us to is a much greater distance than I expected, and the trek has been an arduous one. The heirs are terrified. And I’m beginning to feel the same.

  As we walk, flashes of memory explode in my mind. An old suitcase; words scrawled at the runes; my own paw placing a note in an unfamiliar one belonging to someone I cannot see. I don’t know why I feel so connected to these images, but they mean something . . . I know it. Sadly, I cannot stop to dwell on them now. Dev will not allow us to stop and rest, even for a moment.

  First, he marched us a long way through the tunnels. I felt my first inkling of suspicion when we spied one of the search parties in the distance and Raz, budding little general that he is, suggested we chase them down and tell them of our plan. But Dev had forbidden it, rather vehemently. Again, he used the excuse of Pup employing torture to learn of our whereabouts. It had made some sense to me earlier, back in the palace when I imagined a poor, frightened cook giving in under such pressure. But soldiers? Surely they are trained to hold their tongues in such circumstances. And besides, they would have had Pup severely outnumbered, so what threat was there of torture?

  I made to argue, but Dev’s paw went to his sword.

  So onward we went, the children in a steady line with Dev, armed and alert, at the front and me bringing up the rear.

  “Where are we going?” Fiske asks now, after we’ve walked for what feels like miles.

  “To City Hall,” says Devon.

  “Where’s that?” asks Brighton.

  Dev says, “You’ll see.”

  “Is it a safe place for us to hide?” asks Go-go.

  Dev does not reply.

  “Look,” cries Brighton. She stops so suddenly that her glasses slide down her nose and the siblings behind her collide with one another, nearly toppling over. This has Fiske laughing, but Dev silences him with a harsh look.

  “What is it, Brighton?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain calm, although I am growing more worried by the moment.

  She bends down and picks up a piece of paper that at first I think might be a page from the Sacred Book, the one the Mūs elders have compiled over time, and by which they govern most of their actions. It was the Sacred Book that told of Hopper’s eventual arrival in the tunnels. I am plagued with the feeling that I actually know more about this than I think, as though I am privy to some secret regarding the book and its esteemed author, the prophet La Rocha. But right now I just can’t recall what that is. I suppose this is due to my relentless headache, not to mention my concerns about Dev’s motives.

  “It’s the prettiest paper I’ve ever seen,” says Brighton, running her paws reverently over the once-glossy page. She hands it to me and I examine it. It has seen better days, to be sure. . . . It is wrinkled and dusty and the corners are beginning to curl. One edge is rough, as though it has been torn out of a bound volume.


  “It’s a page from a human book,” I tell the princess, pointing to the title printed in the top right corner. “A book called The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.”

  Now Go-go has huddled close and her curious eyes pore over the page. “I see a word I recognize,” she says. “ ‘Titus.’ That was our grandfather’s name!”

  “Here’s another one,” cries Verrazano, using his wooden sword to push aside a few stones and pebbles covering a second glossy page in the dirt. “And there’s a name on this one too: Cassius.”

  “I remember him from our history lessons,” says Brighton. “He was Grandfather Titus’s best soldier.”

  “Worst soldier, you mean,” Raz corrects. “He killed Uncle Dodger. Or tried to, at least.”

  Fiske, who’s been kicking at a pile of rubble, produces several more pages and hands them over to Verrazano.

  “These are all about the Roman emperors,” he says, “whoever they are. And how they rose to power.”

  “Emperors like Daddy?” asks Brighton.

  “Sort of,” says Raz. “Except these were human.”

  “It must have been a lovely book,” says Go-go, taking a page from her brother and eyeing the colorful illustrations. “Well, I mean, for a story about dumb old politics.”

  “Enough dillydallying,” barks Dev. “You are right, little princess, there is nothing lovely about politics. Power corrupts. And your family is the perfect example.”

  Raz narrows his eyes, taking offense. “Hey!”

  “Quiet!” snaps Devon. “Now all of you, back in line. And march.” His face contorts into a sinister smile. “We have a train to catch.”

  My heart is in my throat for the entire ride.

  The marking on the forehead of the serpentine beast identified it as the 5 train. Dev allowed three other trains to pass before choosing this one, which we boarded just minutes ago. Getting the four heirs safely onto the narrow step at the rear of the last car was a complicated feat. Brighton was petrified; Fiske kept shouting, “Look, no hands!”; and Go-go worried the whole time that the rushing wind would leave tangles in her fur.

  My only consolation is that, for the moment at least, they do not suspect that Dev might be out to cause them harm.

  Raz is the only one who is beginning to wonder.

  As we disembark, I try to pull him aside, to share my concerns with him. He is only a child, I know, but he already displays the makings of a great military leader. Perhaps if we put our heads together, we can come up with a plan to escape Dev.

  If only Raz’s sword were made of steel and not wood. If only . . .

  “Come along,” Dev commands as we scamper across the cement floor of (according to the words printed on the wall) the Brooklyn Bridge stop. “We change trains here. But this ride will be much less grueling.”

  The children are in awe at the sight of so many humans being expelled from the belly of the train. Something tells me that these are not the first humans I have ever seen; a word circles in my brain: exterminators. But at this anxious moment, I can’t seem to pull the whole of the recollection into focus. All I know is that I feel compelled to pull the children close to me and do my best to keep us from being noticed.

  When the last human has exited the beast—whose name, I see from its markings, is 6—Dev gives Raz a shove and orders, “Inside!”

  “You’re kidding,” I blurt out. “You want us to feed ourselves to this serpent?”

  “Inside,” Dev repeats, entering the train easily with a powerful jump.

  For one crazy instant, I consider bolting, taking the children and running away. I know the jaws of the train will close on Dev any second now, trapping him inside. If we flee, we will be free of him and whatever nefarious plan he has for us in this place called City Hall.

  But Raz has just leaped into the belly of the beast beside Dev. I can’t leave him behind. And besides, there is still a chance that I am only imagining Dev to be a villain. Perhaps his gruffness and agitation is due to his own stress over having to travel such a great distance with such precious charges in his care.

  I ask La Rocha for guidance. But the only voice that returns to me in my heart is my own.

  “You must follow,” it says.

  And so I do.

  With a gentle nudge I urge the other children toward the gaping mouth of the monster, the interior of which glows with a sickly, green-yellow light.

  Go-go and Fiske scuttle in, leaping over the narrow divide. Brighton’s the last one and her hind paws just barely make it, slipping and scratching. Her brothers reach out and grab her before she falls backward. Her glasses fly off, skidding across the floor of the train.

  But she is safe. Alive. I heave a sigh of relief as Raz gallantly returns her spectacles to her.

  “Now you,” says Dev, pointing to me.

  I am about to leap aboard when the train gurgles ominously, then belches; suddenly the yawning mouth begins to slide closed.

  “Marcy, jump!” cries Raz.

  I do exactly that, hurling myself toward the swiftly narrowing space between the monster’s jaws. I feel my hind paws connect with metal, and scrabble to gain purchase on the slick, flat surface of the train’s innards.

  But the mouth bites closed, catching my tail. I muffle the scream of agony that wants to rip from my throat. The hold is viselike, the pain indescribable.

  Raz lunges toward me, taking my paws in his and pulling with every ounce of might in his body. Brighton, Fiske, and Go-go join him; they huff and grunt and tug, struggling to rescue me. Dev just stands there, watching, offering no aid, lending none of his strength to their efforts.

  I feel a searing pain shoot through my tail, just before I jolt forward, breaking away from the grip of the train to be released into the collective arms of the children. Every one of us is crying.

  Go-go examines the severe crimp in my tail but pronounces that there is no blood. It has not been shorn off, or snapped in two.

  That is good news. But it hurts to the point of making me dizzy.

  Of course, I refuse to let them know this. So I smile.

  “Thank you, my darlings,” I breathe. “Thank you for saving me.”

  We do not disentangle ourselves from the knot of comfort we have formed. In fact, the only move I make is to lift my head and slide a glance at Dev.

  His eyes are dark, his face hard. He does not rejoice in the slightest for my rescue.

  And it is at this moment that I understand with absolute certainty . . .

  . . . he is our enemy.

  It is a short ride, made interminable by the violent sting in my tail.

  The train slows, but there is something in the rumble, the squeal of the metal wheels on the track, that tells me it is not going to stop. Dev confirms this.

  “The train is about to turn around,” he explains in a clipped tone. “It makes a loop but does not come to a halt. We are going to have to jump while it is still in motion.”

  “We’ll be killed!” squeaks Go-go.

  “Oh, please. I’ve done it plenty of times,” Dev assures her coolly.

  “But you’re bigger than we are,” Raz reminds him.

  Dev glares, then gestures for us to follow him. Again, I position myself at the end of the line of children, who are now exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I am glad to come behind, where they cannot see how difficult it is for me to walk. The crimp in my tail, not to mention the shimmying and lurching of the train, makes it nearly impossible for me to maintain my balance.

  Dev leads us to a door at the very end of the subway car. It is a human door, therefore enormous, and it leads outside into rushing nothingness. He enlists all of us to assist him in opening it, ordering Verrazano to pry it with his toy sword. The noise and wind that enter through the sliver of space we manage to create is deafening. Terrified, we file through and find ourselves on a platform, though this one is far less roomy than the first on which we rode. This one juts out like a flattened tooth, or fang, and I can only a
ssume that it is the joint by which other cars might latch on to this one.

  Dev says nothing, just places his paws on Raz’s shoulders and shoves.

  The unsuspecting prince drops over the edge. I let out a shriek, which joins with the screams and shouts of the others.

  Next Dev tosses Fiske. I watch in horror as he bounces and rolls away from us along the rusty track.

  “Now you girls,” Dev snarls. “Hurry up.”

  I take Brighton by the paw and offer my other one to Go-go. Without giving them a chance to think about what we are doing, I tighten my grip and leap.

  We hit the track hard. As we tumble, I catch a glimpse of Dev flinging himself from the hitch. We roll a ways, finally skidding to a stop in the gravel and rust. By some miracle, I am able to stand. We are scraped and filthy, but we are whole. I take a quick accounting of scratches and bruises, but no bones appear to be broken. Brighton’s glasses, however, are bent and one of the lenses is cracked.

  Now that we are out in the open, I wonder . . . can we escape? Can we run from this devil, who has brought us so far from home under such a false pretense?

  But my question is answered when I feel Dev’s hot breath on the fur of my back; I know we would not get far. Even if we scattered, even if he could only catch one of these beloved children, it would be one too many. We are (as we have been without knowing it from the start) trapped. He withdraws his sword and points to a ladder fashioned of old rope dangling over the edge of the platform.

  “Up,” he commands.

  The heirs do as they are told, their tails swishing as they climb the makeshift ladder, and assemble on the cement expanse of the station floor.

  And then they merely stare.

  Upward and around they look, gasping, widening their eyes, allowing their mouths to drop open in awe.

  I am the last one up the ladder. I am the last one to see.

  And when I do, I know why they are all so flabbergasted.

  I feel as if I have just entered a work of art. For City Hall is nothing short of sensational, with its tinted glass and tile and iron work, boasting graceful arches and varying levels.