The Wonderling

by Mira Bartók

But no one dared barter for songs. That was way too dangerous.

  Miss Carbunkle had a very important meeting with a mysterious high-ranking personage in Lumentown and had left Sneezy in charge. He had wanted to be home with his mother, dining on Christmas goose and pudding. But that was clearly not going to happen, and Mr. Sneezeweed was quite upset.

  Despite his peevish and often threatening demeanor in front of the groundlings, Mr. Sneezeweed was actually terrified of them, not to mention repulsed. He didn’t like policing “those filthy creatures” any more than he liked smelling them, or eating in the same room with them. My word, the way they slurp their food! Absolutely no etiquette! What are they, anyway? Half this, half that? Vermin, that’s what they are! And who has to deal with them day in and day out — even on Christmas? Mortimer Sneezeweed, that’s who!

  Mr. Sneezeweed took a quick survey of the yard and slipped back inside. He found a nice warm spot away from the cold, drafty door and pulled up a rickety old chair. The door was at the end of the hall, right next to his private chamber, and oftentimes, when Miss Carbunkle was away, he would sneak into his room for a few minutes to retrieve a book or put on a dab of Professor Mifflebaum’s Miracle Mustache Pomade.

  How much trouble could they cause in one hour? he asked himself, ignoring the wild antics percolating in the yard. He blew his nose, tucked his dainty white handkerchief back inside the cuff of his crisply starched sleeve, cracked open a thick volume titled The Secret Lives of Accountants, and began to read.

  Meanwhile, Number Thirteen was pretending to be a mouse. How he longed to play with someone! But he stayed in his corner. He was a mouse, after all. He finished off the last of his cheese and nervously patted his ear, as if by doing that, he could push it down and make it less noticeable — not that anyone could see him behind the veil of water.

  What he noticed, however, when he peeked out of his hiding place, was that, in front of what used to be one of the exits and was now the ghost image of a walled-up door, Mug, Orlick, and the Rat were tossing something back and forth and laughing loudly. It looked like a small brown ball, about the size of Baby Tizer, which is to say, about the size of a hedgehog, or, if you will, a small cabbage. Number Thirteen wondered how they had acquired this ball — from some kind benefactor? Did such kind benefactors exist? Or had some child beyond the Wall accidentally kicked it into the yard?

  Strange, he thought. I’ve heard of kickballs but never fuzzy ones, but then, there are many things I’ve never heard of. He remembered something about cats, though, how they spat up a terrible mess called a hair ball, and he pondered what sort of cat could be so large as to spit up a hair ball bigger than its own head. Then he pondered why he had never seen a cat groundling before and came to the conclusion that maybe there were very few of them around. For wasn’t he the one and only fox groundling at Miss Carbunkle’s Home?

  The laughter in Mug’s group began to grow louder.

  The Rat nodded to Mug, who kept tossing the ball higher and higher. Every time he tossed the ball up, it squeaked. It must be a squeaky ball, thought Number Thirteen. I’m sure they must make all kinds on the Outside.

  “Toss it here!” cried Orlick, glancing at the Rat for approval. The ball flew back and forth and back again, and each time it did, the groundlings looked up at the Rat, their newly appointed leader.

  Whenever the ball flew into the air and someone caught it, Number Thirteen heard the sound. He decided it was more of a peep than a squeak. Yes, definitely a peep.

  The game went on for several minutes until the Rat stepped into the center of the circle. He made a swift gesture with his hand, as if he were about to conduct an orchestra. The group abruptly stopped, each groundling frozen in place. They looked up at him expectantly. There was something elegant — and chilling — in the way he moved his gray bristly hands when he spoke.

  “Which one of you lot thinks he can toss her over the Wall, hmmm? Who wants to try? A prize to the first to do it. A very large piece of — wait for it, my friends — fresh cheese.”

  The group cheered wildly.

  “Let me try!”

  “No, me!”

  “Me!”

  “I was first!”

  Everyone wanted to have a go at it, but Mug pulled rank. “Back off, you clodpoles! I found her. She’s mine.”

  The Rat concurred.

  In a flash, Number Thirteen understood — the little fuzz ball was not a ball at all, or the hair ball from a giant cat with indigestion. It was some poor creature, rolled into itself like a terrified hedgehog. But it wasn’t a hedgehog — he could see that now. It was something, or rather someone, else. Someone with a tin number around her neck, just like him.

  Number Thirteen poked his head out and scanned the yard for help. Sneezeweed was nowhere to be found, and no other groundlings seemed to be paying attention. For once, Number Thirteen wished Miss Carbunkle were there, for she would certainly put a stop to their cruel game, if only to restore order.

  He placed one foot forward, through the gap in the waterfall, but quickly drew it back. What could someone like him do, anyway?

  Orlick passed the balled-up creature to Mug, who held her high in the air, ready to toss or kick her or who knows what.

  Number Thirteen watched in horror as Mug threw the poor thing as high as he could. But Mug failed to throw her over the Wall and so caught her once again in his grubby mitts. The Rat ordered him to pass the furry ball to Orlick, who was next in line. Mug growled at Orlick, who grabbed the creature and lifted her up for the big toss.

  “St-st-” Number Thirteen stammered. “S-stop!” But no one heard him through the waterfall, the peals of laughter, and the rain.

  Orlick threw the creature up in the air, but he couldn’t throw her high enough either.

  Finally, Number Thirteen stuck his head out in full view and shouted at the top of his lungs: “S-STOP! Let her g-go!”

  He had never screamed before.

  Screaming felt good.

  The Rat turned around and held a hand up in the air. The laughter immediately stopped. Uh-oh, thought Number Thirteen. He quickly slipped back into his hiding place.

  “Who speaks?” sneered the Rat. “Who dares to challenge the Wire?”

  Number Thirteen quivered in the shadows. Now, of all things, he had to pee too. “Please don’t find me please don’t find me please don’t find me,” he muttered to himself.

  “Speak up,” said Wire, and added nonchalantly, “or I shall eat you.” His face was as unreadable and hard as stone.

  Number Thirteen’s heart pounded in his chest. Could this creature be related to the rats he had overheard behind the walls? The ones who ate their own friends? He shuddered. Then he thought of the poor little creature. If they threw her over the Wall, it would break all the bones in her body. You can do it. Come on. He took a deep breath, stepped sideways through the gap, and pulled himself up as tall as he could. He walked forward a few steps and said, “You p-put her d-down! Right now!”

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Number Thirteen.” Wire came closer. “The little twit can talk! What do they call you around here, anyway — Plonker, is it? What’s your real name, whelp? Or did your mummy and daddy just number all their freaky little runts before they left you to die by the side of the road?”

  The group burst into hysterics.

  Number Thirteen said nothing. What could he say? That his name really was just a number — the unluckiest one of all? And that he had never known his parents, and maybe they did just number him and leave him behind?

  Wire sighed. “I’m getting so bored. Let’s finish this.” He snapped his fingers and nodded to Orlick, who was still holding the trembling rolled-up creature. “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Let’s give her a little kick, shall we?”

  Orlick threw the creature to Wire, who caught her in midair.

  “St-stop!” cried Number Thirteen. “Or I-I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  “Or you’ll what?”
Wire’s pebble eyes gleamed. “Go on. We want to hear what you have to say. Really, we do.”

  “J-just . . . just let her go! You’re hurting her.”

  “We have ourselves a hero!” The Rat turned to the others. “I think we should give him a hand, don’t you?” The groundlings clapped slowly in unison, thumping their feet and tails on the muddy ground. They began to walk toward him, and Number Thirteen stepped back.

  “P-please let her go,” he begged. “P-p-please.”

  “What a polite little whelp!” Wire smiled coolly. “Did your mummy teach you that?” He made a tsking sound and rolled his eyes. “Oh, I forgot! She left you in the street. Well, I’m sorry to say I have other plans for this” — he examined the small animal in his hands — “this disgusting hair ball of a thing.” He placed his long leg back and readied himself for a big kick.

  “Kick it! Kick it! Kick it!” the group chanted.

  Suddenly, Number Thirteen heard the most beautiful sound in the world: the Home’s loud clanking bell, telling the groundlings they had only a few minutes left and they had better start queuing up. Mr. Sneezeweed was back in the courtyard and was now peering in their direction, motioning them to hurry.

  Wire looked with disgust at the poor fuzz ball and dropped her on the ground. She landed with a soft plop in the mud. He turned to Number Thirteen. “I have a new name for you, Plonker! We’re going to call you Puddlehead. Because that’s just where you belong.”

  Wire nodded to his two minions, and Mug and Orlick shoved Number Thirteen facedown into a mud puddle.

  “By the way,” said Wire. “I’ve got my eye on you, Puddlehead. Everywhere you go, I’ll be there. Got that, mate?”

  He turned and walked back across the courtyard, Mug and Orlick trailing after him like sheep.

  NUMBER THIRTEEN pulled himself up and patted his ear. Thank goodness no one had bitten it off — at least not today.

  He carefully lifted the small creature out of the mud. It was impossible to tell where her head was or if she had a tail. She let out a sharp peep, unfurled her body, and went limp, belly up. But she was still alive. Number Thirteen could hear her tiny heart racing.

  He gently touched her head. She wasn’t covered in fur at all but in dark-brown, mud-soaked feathers. She was a Bird — a bird with no wings, just two feathery appendages sticking out from her sides, and no tail feathers either. One of her winglets was bleeding, though not too badly, considering how she had been batted about. At the end of each of her mustard-yellow feet were three long toes. Her beak was long, slender, and curved.

  The bird groundling’s eyes fluttered, then opened. She looked up at the one-eared creature, who, in turn, looked down at her. In that fleeting moment, Number Thirteen felt something pass between them, although he wasn’t sure what.It was a lovely feeling, however — warm, mysterious, and grand. “It’s — it’s okay now,” he whispered. “They’re gone.”

  The bell rang again, signaling that their time was up. “Shall I c-carry you?” asked Number Thirteen. The Bird shook her head no. He placed her back on the ground. One leg seemed a bit wobbly, but otherwise she looked surprisingly fine.

  Number Thirteen knelt down beside her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine, really.”

  “I wish I c-could have done more.”

  “Oh, no,” said the Bird. “You were so brave! My name’s Trinket, by the way. What’s yours?”

  “I d-don’t really have a name. P-people just call me Number Th-Thirteen or . . .” He winced. “I suppose they’ll all call me P-Puddlehead now. Did you just arrive? I haven’t seen you at roll call.”

  “Well, it’s easy to miss me. I am pretty small.”

  “Oh, yes, you are; I mean . . . in a g-good way,” said Number Thirteen. “Shouldn’t we g-get you to the infirmary?”

  “No, don’t bother. Nothing a little hop and skip can’t cure,” said Trinket.

  The last bell rang, which meant “Queue up or else!” Most of the orphans, including Wire and his gang, were already at the door. Mr. Sneezeweed was waving his paddle, rounding up stragglers.

  “We have to go right now!” said Number Thirteen.

  “Well, I certainly can’t call you Puddlehead or some silly number, now can I? Let’s see . . .” Trinket went on, as if they had all the time in the world.

  “We have t-to hurry! We —”

  “What did your family call you, then?” interrupted Trinket.

  “I — I don’t really know. I never knew my family, b-but we can talk about this another time because —”

  “I’m so sorry! I lost my family too, about five years ago. This is the third orphanage I’ve been to since then. Well, never mind. You do need a name that suits you. Let’s see. I shall call you . . . I know! I shall call you Arthur! That’s it!” Trinket flapped her winglets up and down, she was so excited. Had they been full-fledged wings, she would have been up in the air.

  “B-be careful!”

  “It only hurts a little,” said Trinket. “Anyway, now you have a name! Do you like it? I think it’s perfect! But you have to like it too.”

  “Arthur? Why Arthur?”

  “He was only the greatest and bravest of all the kings!”

  “He was?”

  “Of course! Don’t you know the story?”

  “What story?”

  “About King Arthur and Guinevere and Merlyn the magician, and Camelot, and Lancelot and the brave Knights of the Round Table, Excalibur, and the Quest for the Holy Grail and — it’s, well, it’s a long story — many stories, actually. There’s not really one way to tell it.”

  Number Thirteen was completely bewildered. “W-what’s a q-quest?”

  Mr. Sneezeweed was screaming at them from across the courtyard and pointing at the door.

  “I better tell you some other time,” said Trinket. “But for now, I’m going to call you Arthur!” They started walking toward the door.

  “I don’t think you should c-call me that, really. I mean, I’m not a k-king and I’m not brave and why don’t we just stick with Puddlehead? It’s not such a bad name.”

  “Because you are no puddlehead.” She went on breathlessly, “You stood up to those hooligans! And so you are a king among men — or rather, among creatures.”

  Number Thirteen shrugged. “Well, I suppose one name is as good as another.”

  “One name is not as good as another. So it’s decided. I shall call you Arthur, and that’s that.”

  Despite the fact that Mr. Sneezeweed was now waving his paddle wildly above his head, Trinket stopped in her tracks and hopped in front of Number Thirteen. “If you had a sword and armor, Arthur, I would have taken you for a knight,” she said, bowing low.

  Number Thirteen, embarrassed but secretly pleased, was also quite exhausted, for he had never had such a long conversation with anyone in his entire life. “W-we’d b-better go!”

  And the two bruised and battered creatures — one small and one very much smaller — hobbled back together in the thrumming rain.

  IT WAS WIDELY RUMORED among the orphans at Miss Carbunkle’s Home for Wayward and Misbegotten Creatures that Miss Carbunkle had no hair. Her foot-and-a-half-high helmet of a wig (nearly as tall as many of the orphans in her charge) was beset with rows of sausage-like curls on either side and was the color of a freshly plucked clementine (which happened to be Miss Carbunkle’s first name, though no one was allowed to say it out loud lest they suffer the consequences). Perhaps the only good thing one could say about her wig was that its color, as hideous as it was, was a flash of brightness in a dim gray world.

  Sometimes, when the mood struck her, she wore a small white hat made of rabbit fur, with a brown-and-black hawk feather poking out from the side. (Needless to say, the rabbit groundlings felt rather nauseated at the sight of it.)

  When Miss Carbunkle moved a bit too vigorously at the blackboard, the wig, that great orange monstrosity, and its companion, the tiny hat, slid slightly to one side. The orphans wer
e thrilled to no end when it did, and basked in a rare moment of joy, hoping that one glorious day in the future, the Wig would slide off altogether and reveal what they imagined to be lurking underneath: Miss Carbunkle’s shiny pink globe.

  The orphans sometimes even called Miss Carbunkle “the Wig” behind her back, as if she were that horrendous thing itself. It was her armor going into battle, along with the large brass whistle she wore around her neck, her hawk-headed cane, the telescopic goggles she used for spying on groundlings, and her small leather purse full of chalk — her chalk and no one else’s, as she frequently liked to point out. Heaven forbid any of her charges dared to draw a picture or write something else on the board with it instead of their daily calculations or rote copying from The Essential Manual for the Vocational Training of Errant Groundlings, the Home’s “bible,” which Miss Carbunkle had penned herself.

  Miss Carbunkle believed that every creature had a purpose. In the case of her bedraggled wards, who relied on her for food, shelter, and schooling, she believed that, given their lowly status as groundlings, they should be prepared for a life of suffering and toil. And toiling, without questioning or complaint, was what Miss Carbunkle aimed to teach them.

  It was a Wednesday morning near the beginning of February. The headmistress — aka the Wig — stood in front of her giant steel-plated desk, scowling down at her wards. (Her previous desk had been made of wood, but someone had set it on fire the year before.) Her desk now sat bolted to the floor in front of a long narrow blackboard covering most of the wall. Like the rest of the Home, everything in the cold, cavernous room was gunmetal gray. There were several leaks in the ceiling, and, as it was raining yet again, there was a steady drip drip drip upon the desks.

  The headmistress pounded the floor three times with her cane, signaling the class to sit down, which everyone did, with military precision.

  The Wig delighted in military precision.

  Arthur sank down in his seat along with the others and obediently folded his red furry hands. Unfortunately, his desk was smack in the center of the front row, but such was life. His only consolation was the fact that he now had a friend in the room. Trinket was right behind him, perched on someone else’s desk, for she was too small to justify having her own.