Millhouse

by Natale Ghent

  10

  Mice or Men

  Millhouse waited for word from the underground, but no mice appeared. He began to fret and search for something to occupy his mind. He fluffed the cedar shavings in his cage. He trimmed the nails on his paws and feet. He fluffed his shavings again, and then a third time for good measure. He combed his beard and touched his toes several times. And just when he finally broke down and allowed himself to agonize over the situation, a breathless mouse appeared over the edge of the table and scrambled up to his cage.

  “We had a situation, sir,” the mouse reported. He gave the guinea a quick salute.

  “Sweet Shakespeare, no!” Milly exclaimed.

  “One of the mice tried to commune with a cat and nearly lost his life.”

  “Commune with a cat?” Milly gasped. “Why in the world would he do that?”

  “He overheard your poem, sir—about the cat with the electric tail.” The mouse stood at attention, his own tail held straight in the air.

  “Oh, how awful! Is he all right?”

  “Just a little shaken, sir.” The mouse saluted again.

  “Well, please inform your comrades that ‘communing’ with cats is not to be attempted by anyone,” Millhouse instructed. “It’s a fine sentiment under extraordinary circumstances, but not the sort of thing a mouse does every day.”

  Milly was about to launch into a grand lecture about ideals and good intentions when the mouse was called away with a loud squeak.

  “Wait!” the pig yelled as the private streaked away. “Don’t go! I want to come with you!”

  The mouse skidded to a halt. A dozen pairs of eyes appeared at the hole in the wall.

  “Sir?” the mouse said, turning slowly around.

  “I want to come with you,” Millhouse said again. “I want to see Sir Peter Ustinov.”

  The mouse raised his eyebrows, then rushed to where the other mice were waiting. They huddled in a group, squeaking and pointing over at Milly, who smiled brightly, hoping they would agree to take him along. The guinea craned toward the mice to hear their conversation, but he could make out very little.

  “Out of the question,” the mouse said at last, giving Milly another salute. “With all due respect, sir, you are not qualified for such a mission.”

  “Qualified?”

  “You don’t have the proper clearance,” the mouse said. “It will take months for that to happen—unless you have a chaperone.”

  “A chaperone?”

  “A qualified guide,” the mouse explained. “Someone who will take responsibility for you if something goes wrong. Standard procedure, sir.”

  “Where am I going to find a chaperone?” Milly muttered.

  The mouse shrugged, then turned to go.

  “Oh, please don’t leave!” Milly begged. “Can’t we break the rules—just this once? I promise I’ll be careful.”

  The mouse didn’t answer but simply clicked his heels together and disappeared into the hole.

  Milly scrambled from his cage and down the pet food boxes. “Don’t leave me!” he cried.

  He skidded over to the hole in the wall. “Oh, please!” he implored, losing his composure and shamelessly grabbing one of the mice around the leg. The mouse struggled to free himself, but the guinea only gripped him tighter, until mouse and pig were wrestling awkwardly on the floor.

  “Pull yourself together!” a loud voice barked.

  Millhouse looked up to see Elliot standing at attention inside his cage. The rat wore the silver thimble on his head like a military cap and was decorated with a copper penny tied with a piece of string over one shoulder. His white cloth hung at his side like a bedroll. His paw snapped to the thimble in salute. “Elliot P. Rat at your service. I shall escort this civilian.”

  The mice seemed to recognize the rat’s rank and quickly jumped to attention. The pig blinked in confusion.

  “Psst!” Elliot whispered to Millhouse. “Quit looking so flubberbusted and see if you can spring me.” He motioned toward his cage door.

  Milly dashed over and began feverishly working the lock. He pulled and yanked on the door, but it wouldn’t open.

  “Blasted thing!” he cussed. “Seems to be rusted shut.”

  Elliot motioned for him to be quiet. “Don’t know why I stick my neck out,” he grumbled, slipping the guinea a paper clip. “Try this.”

  Milly straightened the paper clip and stabbed at the lock until it gave way with a clunk and the door creaked open.

  The rat poked his head out and sniffed the air, his whiskers twitching. “Been a while, been a while,” he whistled, looking around the room. Then he jumped to attention and marched to where the mice were standing. They saluted him.

  Milly scurried after the rat. “I had no idea you were in the service,” he said.

  Elliot silenced him with a wink and fell in line among the ranks of mice. Milly did the same.

  The commander mouse stepped forward. His fur was black, and he was quite a bit bigger than the rest of the mice in the troop. Holding a small stick in one paw, he walked along the line of soldiers, pursing his lips as though he were sucking on a very sour candy.

  “That’s Sergeant Squeak,” Elliot whispered to Milly. “Tough as nails.”

  “Put a muzzle on it!” Sergeant Squeak barked. He stopped in front of Millhouse, glaring fiercely into the guinea pig’s face. “Listen here, you ragtag rodent,” he said. “When I say jump, you jump. When I say stop, you stop. When I say drop, you drop like a ton of bricks, or you’ll regret the day you were born! Do you hear me, Pinky?” He shoved the stick into the guinea’s chest.

  “Ow!” Milly yelped.

  “Do you HEAR me?” Sergeant Squeak yelled.

  “Y-yes, sir,” Milly said.

  “Good!” the sergeant growled. “Either you keep up, or we leave you behind, Cupcake. I won’t have my mice endangered by the likes of some lily-livered pig.”

  “I beg your pardon—” Millhouse began to protest, but the rat elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Yes, sir,” Milly mumbled.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “Yes, sir!” Milly blurted out.

  “All right, then!” Sergeant Squeak stepped back and looked at his troops. “Are we mice?” he hollered. “Or are we men?”

  “Mice, sir!” the mice yelled.

  “That’s right!” Sergeant Squeak yelled back. “Okay, mice! Let’s show ’em what we’re made of. Fall out!”

  The mice jumped into action, running through the hole in the wall.

  Milly gulped. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea after all,” he said to the rat.

  “Too late for that now,” Elliot said, shoving Millhouse into the hole.

  11

  A Perilous Journey

  Millhouse followed the mice through the wall. The rat scurried behind him, his thimble perched on his head at a jaunty angle, his penny medal flashing. But as they scuttled after the mice, the pig and the rat failed to notice the sinister figure following them. It slunk through the wall, its eyes glinting from the shadows as it slithered beneath tangles of electrical wire.

  The tunnel was a tight fit for the pig, who was much larger and clumsier than the mice. To make matters worse, it was very dark inside the walls, and there were loud noises from people thumping around on the other side. Someone was hammering, too, causing big chunks of plaster to smash loose and explode when they hit the ground.

  “This is dreadful!” the guinea moaned.

  Sergeant Squeak scowled and motioned at the pig to be quiet. But with every boom and crash, Millhouse became more frantic. He was just about to turn around and run back to the pet shop when one of the mice gave a loud shout and the troops threw themselves to the ground.

  “Fire in the hole!” the rat cried and leapt on top of Millhouse, flattening the pig. A large bomb of plaster exploded over their heads.

  “Get off me!” Milly said, shoving Elliot to one side.

  “You wanted to come,” the rat reminded him. �
��And I’m responsible for your safety.”

  Another plaster bomb exploded.

  “Oh, for the comfort of my humble cage!” Milly wailed. “The world is mad! Completely mad!”

  The troops carried on, scurrying through the walls. They spoke in head nods, whistles and gestures. Moving forward in quick bursts, they suddenly swung to the left and disappeared inside a broken old pipe.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Milly said, gliding easily down the pipe as it descended through the walls toward the sewer below the street. But then he dropped with a loud splash into a river of sludge. The pig thrashed around, arms flailing. “I can’t swiiimmmm!” he yelled as the river swept him away.

  “Man overboard!” Elliot hollered, and he dove into the sewage. The mice dove in after him. And then the sinister figure slithered in behind, snaking through the filthy water.

  Elliot snagged a branch floating past and swam with all his might toward the floundering pig. “Grab hold of this!” he said.

  Milly grabbed the branch, his face a sickly green.

  “Hold on!” Elliot said, and he and several mice pushed the pig to shore.

  Millhouse struggled to dry ground, shivering with fright. He sniffed his smelly wet skin, wrinkled his nose with disgust and shook himself off. “This is the most horrible experience of my entire life,” he moaned. “I’ll never make it to the theater!”

  The mice rushed past him.

  “Move,” Sergeant Squeak ordered.

  The pig sat on his haunches and folded his arms. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’ve had enough.” He was prepared to stay there the entire night, but all at once he heard a sound. Not plaster bombs exploding. Not Sergeant Squeak shouting or his own frightened cries. It was a wondrous, thunderous sound. It was the sound of hundreds of people talking!

  “That’s the theater!” Elliot said. “Come on!”

  Milly followed the mice toward the wall, where a stone was missing. A scout scurried through the hole while the others waited, listening. There was a sharp whistle, and Sergeant Squeak motioned for the troops to move forward.

  Milly sucked in his stomach and squeezed through the opening. He struggled over stones, pushing and pulling himself through the tunnel. He huffed and heaved, kicking his pink feet. And then the tunnel grew wider, and the pig stumbled into a dazzling white light. He was backstage at the theater!

  “How glorious!” he cried.

  “Move, move, move!” Sergeant Squeak barked.

  The mice dashed behind a heavy curtain. The pig and the rat followed, the shadowy figure skulking closely behind. They hugged the wall, barely avoiding the rushing feet of dozens of busy stagehands.

  “Hit the rope!” Sergeant Squeak ordered, and the mice leapt, two by two, onto a thick rope that snaked from the stage floor to a catwalk far above.

  Millhouse squealed and shrieked, dodging the feet pounding around him. He waited for the sergeant’s signal, then leapt with a frightened cry onto the rope. Elliot jumped after him. The rope twisted and bucked. The pig froze. Sergeant Squeak raged, forcing the guinea to climb upward, his eyes pinched shut as the stage grew smaller and smaller below him. He reached the top and was just about to congratulate himself on his courage when he slipped.

  “Ahhhhh yi yi yi!” he screeched, the rope burning through his paws until he collided—rump to snout—with the rat.

  “Hey!” Elliot cussed. “Get yer tail out of my sniffer!” He shoved the pig rudely back up the rope.

  “It was an accident!” Milly said as he heaved himself up on the catwalk.

  Elliot huffed along after him, complaining bitterly as he went.

  “How embarrassing,” Milly groaned, his face as red as a pomegranate. But when at last he paused to look around, his heart nearly burst with joy. He could see the entire theater from the catwalk! “I can’t believe my eyes!” he said as he gazed at all the beautiful people chattering happily in their seats.

  There were women in fancy hats and men in tailored suits beside them. Children in matching coats and shiny black shoes. Ushers escorting new arrivals to their seats. Crystal chandeliers twinkling and the sweet scent of perfume and powder mingling in the air. Ropes and scenery drapes behind the curtain. And everywhere, stagehands and actors rushing around, preparing for the great event.

  “Look! There’s Sir Peter!” Milly exclaimed, pointing to an actor who was fussing and preening in the stage wing. “This is so wonderful!” he gushed, completely forgetting about the smelly sewer and the plaster bombs. “I think I’m going to cry.”

  The rat nodded in agreement, using his small white cloth to dab the guinea’s eyes.

  A pleasant bell began to ding, ding, ding, signaling that the production was about to begin. The lights dimmed and a hush descended over the crowd. It was so quiet that Milly could hear himself breathe. He watched as the actors assumed their positions and the curtain was solemnly drawn.

  Within moments, the players cast their spell. The pig and the rat and all the mice were enchanted by the play—so much so that no one, not even Sergeant Squeak, noticed the devilish figure crawling up the rope. The dark thing slipped like a shadow onto the catwalk. It trained its eyes on Millhouse, savoring the moment, its wicked lips grinning over its sharp little teeth.

  If Milly hadn’t been so enthralled by the sight of Sir Peter—if he hadn’t been so taken by the beautiful people and the chandeliers and the lights—he may have seen the villainous creature crouching on the edge of the catwalk, gathering itself to lunge.

  But he did not.

  The beast leapt with a terrifying screech at the helpless guinea.

  “Merciful heavens!” Milly cried as the evil creature set upon him.

  “It’s curtains for you, Millhouse,” the devil hissed, its face looming into view. It was the Pepper Brown!

  “Sweet Bard, save me!” the pig squealed, kicking and fighting with all his might.

  “No one can save you now!” the ferret snarled, wrestling savagely with the pig.

  “Come not between the dragon and his wrath!” King Lear raged on the stage below, just as the ferret and the guinea tumbled over the edge of the catwalk with a bloodcurdling shriek … and landed on Sir Peter’s back. Bouncing onto the stage floor, they rolled into the spotlight before the disbelieving eyes of the audience.

  “Incoming!” Sergeant Squeak roared, and several hundred mice suddenly appeared, armed with straws and popcorn kernels. They rappelled down ropes, charged out from behind curtains and props and leapt onto the stage from the wings.

  Millhouse fainted. A woman screamed. Then people in the audience were shouting and standing on their seats.

  The mice flooded the stage, pelting the ferret with a barrage of popcorn fire. The actors howled and fled—all except for Sir Peter, who grabbed a prop sword and slashed and stabbed at the mice until his wig flew from his scalp.

  Two emergency mice charged through the battle, carrying a small stretcher made of twigs and a piece of cotton cloth. They loaded the stunned guinea onto the stretcher and ran back across the stage.

  “Move, move, move!” Sergeant Squeak yelled over the battle roar.

  Millhouse came to, bouncing along on the stretcher, the mice running with all their might. “What’s happening?” he squealed.

  Through the hail of popcorn kernels, the ferret spied the pig. He sprang through several sets of moving legs to reach him.

  At the edge of the stage, the mice dropped the stretcher with a thump and pushed the terrified pig to his feet, dragging him toward the hole in the wall.

  “Sticky bombs!” Sergeant Squeak hollered as the ferret closed in on the guinea.

  A shower of gooey gumdrops flew through the air, hitting the ferret and sticking all over his body. The Pepper Brown roared, shaking and tearing the gumdrops from his feet.

  In the midst of the battle, the rat was seen scurrying down the rope and running frantically across the stage, his penny medal missing, his thimble rattling on his head like a boiling te
akettle. He stopped only to rescue a discarded candy wrapper, then ran to the safety of the hole in the wall, squeezed through and was gone.

  Milly was just about to escape through the hole when the ferret sprang in front, blocking his exit.

  “Now I have you!” the Pepper Brown growled, licking his needle-sharp teeth. He leapt through the air toward Milly, claws and teeth flashing.

  The poor pig collapsed to his knees, preparing to meet his maker.

  All at once there was a blood-curdling screech, and the ferret was blasted to the floor in a brilliant orange flash.

  “Theater cat!” Sergeant Squeak bellowed. “Fall back! Fall back!”

  Mice scattered in every direction. The Pepper Brown screamed as the claws of a giant ginger tabby found their mark on his belly. Ferret and cat fought in a shrieking tangle of teeth and nails.

  “Oh, how horrible!” Milly cried.

  “Move!” the emergency mice shouted, pushing the pig through the hole in the wall.

  When Milly and the troops reached the shore of the sewage river, both Elliot and the branch were gone.

  “Take it topside!” Sergeant Squeak ordered, and immediately the mice began pushing the traumatized pig along the shore. They ran several hundred feet, then stopped and formed a living pyramid. “Start climbing!” the sergeant barked at the guinea.

  Millhouse knew enough not to argue. He scurried up the backs of the mice and out through a sewer grate, barely missing the speeding tires of a moving car. “Merciful heavens!” the pig howled, stumbling back against the curb.

  The mice poured from the grate and surrounded the guinea. They moved as a single unit, pushing the pig forward, stopping to let a car zip past, then surging forward again, until Milly was certain they would all be squashed.

  “I’ll never ask to see the theater again!” Millhouse wailed as the mice shoved him forward and backward, forward and backward, the lights of the cars glaring angrily as they whizzed past.

  When Milly finally reached the other side of the street, the mice pushed him over the curb and across the sidewalk. They ran along the walls of several buildings until the pet shop came into view. They hustled Milly toward a small hole at the foot of the window, realized he was too big to fit, then proceeded to thump and bump the poor guinea all the way up the stairs of the fire escape. At the top, the mice motioned for him to stop while Sergeant Squeak surveyed the shattered glass of the attic window. He gave a thumbs-up and motioned for his troops to carry on through.