by Lisa Fiedler
His eyes clouded when the tiniest bundle of fluff began to cough.
“And this little one,” Ebbets explained with a catch in his voice, “is Dodger. He’s not feeling too well.” The father mouse reached down to gently stroke the pup’s ears.
Titus saw that of all the pups, only Dodger had the same white marking around his eye that Ebbets did. He also saw the worry in his new friend’s face.
“Let’s eat,” he said, quickly taking the food from Cassius and doling it out. He was careful to give the best and most healthful-looking morsels to the new mother—whom Ebbets introduced as Myrtle—knowing she would pass the nutrients on to her litter when they nursed. “Myrtle’s an artist,” Ebbets boasted, beaming. “She went to school for it.”
Myrtle, who was at the moment, sketching on a scrap of paper, gave a shy laugh. “As a pup, I lived at Pratt Institute,” she clarified modestly. “I wasn’t exactly enrolled.”
“But you’re very talented,” Ebbets insisted, motioning toward her drawing. “See, Titus? She’s got a real gift for portraiture.”
Titus took the sketch and admired it. Indeed, Myrtle’s loving rendering of her sleeping litter was a thing of beauty. “It’s wonderful.”
Myrtle thanked him with a smile, took up another scrap, and quietly began a new drawing. Titus realized with a bit of self-consciousness that he was one of the subjects of it, along with Ebbets and Conselyea. The artist chose to leave Cassius (who was chewing with his mouth open) out of the portrait. Titus couldn’t say he blamed her.
Ebbets also introduced the midwife, Maimonides, whom they affectionately called Mamie, who’d once resided in the maternity ward of a Brooklyn medical center.
As the little party dined on old biscuits, apple cores, and bits of cheese, Myrtle continued to draw while Ebbets told them all about his plans for creating a peaceful, thriving village behind the distant gray wall.
“Fascinating idea,” said Titus. “Do you think it can be done?”
Ebbets nodded. “I do.”
When again baby Dodger began to wheeze, Myrtle put down her artwork and picked him up. Conselyea asked if she could hold him. With a weary smile Myrtle handed the nearly weightless puff of brownish gray to Conselyea. Titus looked on, his heart near bursting at the sight of her cradling the sweet, fragile mouse pup.
“Look,” Conselyea said. “He’s got a circle around his eye, just like his father.”
Ebbets beamed. “I know. Handsome little guy, isn’t he?”
They continued to eat, and Titus showed Ebbets the pages he’d torn from the Latin primer and The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” said Ebbets. “Great civilizations could spring up all over these subway tunnels. I’ve even heard of a place across the water, City Hall, I think they call it. It’s fallen out of use, so it would be a perfect place to colonize. It’s supposed to be beautiful, an architectural jewel in the crown of the New York subway line.”
“Personally, I like that abandoned platform. I think I’d like to build a city there,” said Titus.
“So it shall be!” cried Ebbets joyfully. “Me and my tribe behind our wall, you and yours constructing a grand metropolis at Atlantic Avenue. We’ll be the greatest of allies!”
Titus smiled. “Of course. From our friendship will come our strength!”
Ebbets frowned. “We’ll have to be careful of the trains,” he said wisely. “They will always present a danger to small creatures like us. Perhaps we would do well to impose laws forbidding our citizens to go anywhere near them.”
“Excellent suggestion.”
Ebbets nodded, his eyes shining with hope and excitement. “I know if we pull together, Titus, we will make something of these tunnels. Something lasting, something good. For all of us.”
“All?” said Conselyea. “You mean there are others down here like us?”
“Plenty,” said Ebbets. “All kinds of upland rodents who’ve been bullied out of their homes, like you and I were. There are mice and rats, and I’ve even seen a squirrel or two. There are chipmunks and—”
“Cats.” The word rippled out of the shadows like a sinister breeze. “Don’t forget the cats.”
The rodents watched as a shape of pure ghostly white slunk toward them.
“The bloodthirsty cat ghost!” breathed Cassius.
Titus and Ebbets were already on their feet, prepared to face off against the feline spirit. But as the white vision drew closer, Titus could see that while she was as ghostly pale and eerily colorless as a phantom, she was very much alive. A red, jeweled collar glittered around her neck, and her eyes—one blue, one green—had an evil gleam.
“Oh, look,” she purred. “I’m just in time for lunch.”
Myrtle’s gasp of horror at the sight of the cat startled her babies; they began to wriggle, tumbling out of the nest, whimpering as they rolled in every direction.
Ebbets and Myrtle sprung into action, scampering around frantically, trying to catch them.
Titus instantly flung himself in front of Mamie and Conselyea, who was still cradling little Dodger in her trembling arms. A quick glance at Cassius told him the general was more intent on shielding his food than the females from the hungry cat.
“Help Ebbets and Myrtle!” Titus commanded. “Gather the pups! Hurry!”
Cassius grudgingly dropped his food and attempted to help collect the pups. But the frantic efforts of the rat and the mice were nothing compared to the size and speed of the vicious cat.
She swung one dazzling white paw and scooped up all nine of the scattered pups and their mother in one fell swoop. Her mouth opened wide.
“Noooo!” Ebbets wailed, running toward her.
Without even looking, the cat swatted her tail; it collided with Ebbets like a fluffy club and sent him crashing hard into the tunnel wall.
Undaunted, he gained his feet and attacked again. This time she used the claws of her hind paw to pin him down.
“I’m beginning to understand why the humans call you rodents ‘pests,’ ” the cat murmured.
Then, to Titus’s horror, the cat raised the paw that held Ebbets’s family. One by one she dropped each of them into her mouth.
Mamie shrieked. Conselyea cried out. Even Cassius looked sickened by such a gruesome display. But not Titus . . . What Titus felt was much stronger than sadness, much deeper than disgust.
What Titus felt was fury.
A blazing knot of it, low in his belly, burning, glowing. It seemed to take hold, becoming a part of him. He’d never known he could experience such loathing. Whiskers quivering, he glowered at the beautiful cat, who dabbed daintily at the corners of her mouth.
“Mmm, tender,” she drawled. “What were they . . . two, maybe three days old? Well, that’s the thing about mice. They’re so much tastier when they’re fresh.”
Titus let out a roar. He was about to spring for her throat until he realized that this would leave the midwife, Conselyea, and baby Dodger open to attack. Gritting his teeth, he stayed where he was, shielding the three precious creatures and watching the white cat preen.
Now she removed her back paw from Ebbets and looked down at him with disdain. “Thanks for being such a gracious host,” she purred in a mocking tone. “In case you were wondering, I’m Queen Felina. And I assure you, you haven’t seen the last of me.”
The white cat gave Ebbets a hard kick and sent him rolling across the dirt to land in a bloody heap at Titus’s feet.
A moment later, Felina was gone.
Titus could see that Ebbets was bleeding badly, but still the mouse dragged himself to where Conselyea was rocking Dodger in her arms.
“He’s all right,” Conselyea assured the worried father.
“That’s my boy,” Ebbets whispered. “He’s a survivor.”
Titus examined the injuries his friend had suffered at Felina’s paws. There were four deep puncture wounds where the cat’s hind claws had pierced him, and unless Titus mi
ssed his guess, Ebbets had sustained several broken bones as well.
“What should we do?” Conselyea asked, her voice filled with terror.
“Leave him for dead,” Cassius muttered. “And get out of this hellhole.”
“No!” Titus shook his head. “No. I won’t do that. His tribe needs him. His son needs him. And . . . he’s my friend.”
“But we have to do something,” said Conselyea. “Look how badly he’s hurt. His wounds need to be cleansed and bandaged, and perhaps a bone or two will require setting.”
Titus looked to the midwife. “Mamie, are you experienced in this kind of healing?”
The midwife sighed. “I am, but with no supplies I am helpless. I would need clean water, bandages, something to use for a splint . . .”
Titus scanned the area. He could probably put some of the nest’s twigs and string to use for a splint, but the greater problem was cleaning out the bloody gashes. With no water to rinse them, it was only a matter of time before infection took hold.
“I think,” the midwife said softly, “there is one in these tunnels who could help Ebbets.”
“Who?” asked Titus. “Where will I find this rodent?”
“Not a rodent.” Mamie shook her little brown head. “A cockroach.”
“Yes, of course,” sneered Cassius, rolling his eyes. “Because when you’re looking to stave off germs and disease, who better than a filthy little cockroach?”
“This insect is different,” Mamie assured them. “He is a prophet.” She reached into the pocket of her smock and withdrew a square piece of paper. It was wrinkled and stained, but the writing on it was clear and legible.
On one side was printed NEW YORK STATE LOTTERY LUCKY NUMBERS. And on the other were scrawled the words Those who believe in La Rocha shall be healed.
“I found this as we were marching,” the midwife explained. “It seems La Rocha is a benevolent being who helps rodents in their time of need. I believe he has quite a following, or so it is written.”
“Written where?” scoffed Cassius.
“On the walls, all throughout these tunnels. Words of wisdom and comfort from the great La Rocha himself. Messages of promise, messages of hope. I saw many of these writings as we marched.”
Titus had seen them too, although he hadn’t bothered to pay much attention. He’d thought it was just like all the other graffiti he’d seen upland. Now he looked at his suffering friend. Ebbets had already lost plenty of blood, and his eyes were beginning to glaze over.
“How can we locate this La Rocha?” Titus asked.
“I found this piece of scripture back near the abandoned platform,” Mamie said. “So I think you might find him there.” She reached out and gently took the pup, who’d begun to cough again, from Conselyea. “It is much too far for this little one to travel. I will take Dodger to the beginnings of our village, where I can care for him and keep him safe. You three must deliver Ebbets to the great La Rocha to be healed. And when he is well, you can return him to his pup, who will be waiting behind the wall.”
Titus frowned. According to Ebbets, the gray wall was at least a day’s walk, and Titus didn’t like the idea of this tiny midwife mouse traveling the damp tunnels alone with a sick pup to protect. Then again, Ebbets had said his son was a survivor. Maybe he was right.
“It’s the only way,” Titus said at last. “But let’s bundle the child so he’ll be warm.”
Titus reached for the book pages he’d brought along from the library, choosing one from the Latin primer. He spread it on the ground, and his eyes fell upon the list of words printed there:
multitūdō -inis f.: multitude, number
mundus - m.: world, universe, heavens
mūnus mūneris n.: gift, offering; duty, obligation
mūrus - m.: wall
mūs: mouse
Titus felt a shiver go up his spine. How strange that these words should appear together on a single page. He supposed they were arranged by the order of their letters, just as the books in the library had been. But still, to him it seemed to suggest some cosmic purpose, some mystical design.
The midwife saw it too, and smiled. “You see? It is practically foretold. This is all meant to be.”
Titus took the pup from Mamie. He settled him on the page from the Latin book that suddenly seemed so rich with meaning. As he wrapped Ebbets’s one surviving child warmly in the clean paper, he whispered a cheerful song, a gentle litany:
“There you go now, Dodger. There you are, little Mūs. I will take good care of your father, you shall see. For this is my mūnus mūneris, my duty and my gift to you. It is the way of the world, the mundus, to be kind to those in need. And so you must be brave, little Dodger Mūs, and go off to the mūrism, to be with the multitūdō. Titus will see to the safety of your father. Titus will make everything right.”
When Dodger was snugly swaddled in the list of Latin M words, Titus handed him back to Mamie.
“Please be careful,” Conselyea said.
“Oh, I will,” the midwife promised. “And I am not afraid. La Rocha will watch over us on our journey.” She brought the pup close to Ebbets’s face so the injured mouse could place a kiss on his son’s tiny forehead. Then she crept off into the tunnel with little Dodger pressed close to her heart.
It seemed ages before they arrived back at the abandoned platform. Titus, who had carried Ebbets the whole way, could feel the blood seeping from the mouse’s deep puncture wounds into Titus’s own fur.
Blood brothers, he thought.
He placed his friend on a pile of soft rags. Ebbets’s breath was coming in shallow gasps now; it reminded the rat of little Dodger’s labored breathing.
“La Rocha!” Titus shouted, his voice ringing off the tile walls. “La Rocha, I bring you a rodent in need. Please come and assist us.”
He waited.
Nothing.
“La Rocha, please! We have an injured friend who needs you to minister to him.”
Still, nothing.
Titus’s heart sank.
“Maybe he’s not taking on any new followers at this time,” Cassius quipped sardonically.
“Shhhh,” said Conselyea. “Listen!”
Titus tilted his ear and heard a scratchy, scampering sound . . . the sound of six spiny legs making their way across the hard-packed dirt. Seconds later, the rat was looking down at an oval-shaped insect.
A cockroach.
“I am La Rocha,” said the bug. “How can I be of aid?”
Titus quickly explained about the feline attack. La Rocha instructed Conselyea to bring him a red metal box—a human leftover—that was propped against the wall. She made quick work of dragging it over to where Ebbets lay whimpering in his semiconscious state.
La Rocha opened the box, and Titus saw that it contained all manner of human medical equipment. Relief washed over him as he watched the roach use moist wipes and ointments to clean out the mouse’s wounds, and sticky bandages to bind them.
But setting the broken bones was another story.
“Is there something he can bite down upon?” La Rocha asked. “This next process will be exceptionally painful.”
Conselyea removed her golden chain and gave it to Titus, who placed one of the hard blue stones between Ebbets’s teeth.
“Bite,” the roach commanded his patient.
From deep in his twilight sleep, Ebbets must have heard the instruction, because his tiny teeth gripped the stone.
La Rocha took hold of the mouse’s limp and broken arm and, in a nearly imperceptible motion, jerked the snapped bone back into place. Ebbets squeezed his teeth against the stone and moaned in agony.
“That is all I can do for him,” said La Rocha, returning the jeweled chain to Conselyea. “I will send out good thoughts and ask for the blessings of the universe to make him well. But . . .”
“But what?” Titus prodded.
“His injuries are extensive, and your journey here was a dusty one. His wounds are already beginn
ing to fester. The human medicines can only do so much.”
La Rocha then bowed his head and crawled away.
To Titus’s surprise, Ebbets’s eyes fluttered, then opened. “Titus?” His voice was a raspy whisper.
“What is it, Ebbets?”
“Tell me about your city you’re going to build on this abandoned platform.”
Titus swallowed hard, fighting back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “Sure. What do you want to know?”
“What will you call it?”
Titus looked around and saw a sign hanging askew high on the tunnel wall: ATLANTIC AVENUE.
“How does Atlantia sound?”
Ebbets managed a little nod. “Tell me about this Atlantia.”
“It’s going to be wonderful! Just like Rome under the great emperors was. And the rodents who live here will be as safe and as lucky as the ancient Romans ever were. In fact, we’ll call the ruling family the House of Romanus. What do you think of that?”
“Sounds pretty lofty,” Ebbets choked out, “but if anyone call pull it off, Titus, you can.”
“That’s right.” Titus forced a chuckle. “And you can rechristen your tribe the ‘Mūs.’ It’s Latin, for mouse. Impressive, huh?”
“Very.”
“And here in Atlantia I’ll commission beautiful buildings . . . maybe even a palace. And there’ll be special spaces where the rodent children can learn and play.”
“Sounds nice. I’ll bring Dodger to visit.”
“He’ll always be welcome,” said Titus, then caught himself and added, “You both will.”
Titus’s planning was interrupted by a bone-chilling sound that tore out of the darkness. “Meeeooowwww.”
Conselyea blanched and Cassius dove for cover as once again, the wicked white cat appeared, hovering over them.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Felina joked in her icy way.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Titus shot back. “So why don’t you just leave us alone.”
“Because that would go against nature, silly. Believe me, I’m not particularly thrilled that the main staple of my diet happens to be mangy, flea-bitten rodents, but that’s just how I’m built. I like fish, too, but as you might imagine, salmon filets and tuna steaks are pretty hard to come by down here.”