The Wonderling

by Mira Bartók

  By nightfall, thanks to Pinecone’s map, he had found the entrance to the great forest. He curled up at the base of a tree, burrowed beneath his blanket, and listened. Alone in the darkling wood, he felt the songs of night were like an outpouring of longing: toads and mice rustling in the leaves, moles scrabbling below the earth, bats swooping in the air, woodchucks, hedgehogs, and voles — all of them seemed to be calling their loved ones to come home, come home, come home.

  He traveled two more days in the Wild Wood, wondering if he would ever get out, for the path Pinecone had shown him on the old map must have disappeared over time. But on the third day, he saw, to his relief, sunlight pouring through an opening in the forest. Through the opening was a tree in a sunlit field. He had seen a tree like this only once before, that time in the infirmary. In the picture, it had been heavy with the weight of apples. This one was thick with pink blossoms.

  He made his way out of the dark wood through the orchard to the road, and at midday, Arthur, mud-spattered and weary, arrived at the Great White City of Lumentown.

  THE CITY sat high on a hill.

  From a distance, it shimmered in the sun — a vision of gleaming white towers and spires. In ancient times, the City had been built from lumenstone — a stone so pure that people believed it had been born of light. The stone was thought to be indestructible, and it seemed to glow from within.

  Arthur stood before the massive white arch — the gateway to the City — and stared up at the words inscribed at the top:

  The words carved below the name of the City made no sense to him. He had never learned Latin at the Home, only “useful” things like how to wash a shirt in cold, dirty water and make it come out clean, or how to count beetle widgets really fast, or how to spell important words like servitude, silence, and obey. Maybe someone would explain these words to him. Maybe somewhere in this strange new place he would find a friend.

  He stood beneath the arch, one foot inside and one foot outside the city gate, unsure of what to do next.

  Before him, about a hundred feet away, was an open square; in the center of it stood a soaring white obelisk so tall that its pointed top disappeared in a cloud. Carved into its base was a circle of hunched-over creatures, animals and groundlings alike, who looked as if they were struggling to hold the column up on their collective backs. On either side of the obelisk was a fountain with a statue in the middle. To Arthur’s left it showed a man slaying a dragon; to his right, a man shooting an arrow into a griffin’s heart.

  Arthur couldn’t tell which was more frightening — the stone men or the monsters. He also wondered if he had completely lost his mind by coming here. He moved off to the side of the arch so he could observe things first before venturing forth.

  Across the square was a grand boulevard, the main artery of Lumentown. The boulevard and streets branching out from it had also been built from white stone and sparkled in the afternoon sun. The dazzling effect was almost too much to bear, and Arthur had to shield his eyes with his hand in order to see.

  Rising from both sides of the boulevard were magnificent white buildings with soaring spires. Some had hanging gardens, their bright-red flowers spilling over balconies, blossoms falling like drops of blood on the white stone streets below.

  The buildings had friezes carved on them, narrative scenes from a mythic time of battles between humans and animal gods. There were gargoyles too, grimacing from above. Arthur thought of the sad, neglected gargoyles at the Home, tears of rain dripping from their mournful eyes. But the shining white gargoyles of Lumentown looked both terrifying and beautiful to the young orphan, who stood transfixed, penniless, and alone.

  People milled about in the square and streets, but no groundlings walked among them. Ladies wore bejeweled snoods and large complicated bonnets adorned with flowers. They held parasols or pushed prams with chubby babies inside, or walked arm in arm with their husbands or friends. Arthur noticed that some of the women wore elaborate wigs beneath their hats. He thought of Miss Carbunkle and shuddered.

  The men wore tall white hats and fancy cream-colored coats, and strolled along smoking long ivory pipes. Perched at the top of each man’s hat was a little white dove, one leg attached to the brim with a thin golden chain. From where he was standing, Arthur couldn’t tell if the birds were real or not. He immediately thought of Trinket and wished she were there too.

  Some of the people were walking sleek white cats on diamond-studded leashes. The cats, regal and aloof, pranced in tandem with their human companions. Arthur tried to imagine what kinds of conversations the cats had in private. Perhaps someday, he thought, he might be able to understand them, as he could the mice and rats. He might even be able to talk to them and other animals. He had no idea what his gift meant or how it would change over time — only that it seemed to be part of his destiny to find out.

  All of a sudden, a man passed right by him, riding the most curious thing. It was a bicycle — a phenomenon Arthur had never witnessed before. It was an odd contraption, with one enormous wheel in front and a very small one in back, and it seemed to Arthur to be terribly strange and fast. Then, just a few feet away, he saw another man with an even stranger machine. His bike had a steam-powered engine in back, and when he pulled on a lever attached to the handlebars, the bicycle lifted into the air. Arthur watched in awe as the man ascended, flying high above the promenade of lords and ladies below, a cloud of steam trailing after him.

  Arthur took a deep breath and patted his ear. He remembered Pinecone’s words of advice. He pulled out his new red cap and placed it on his head. It was warm out, but better to be hot and uncomfortable than to run into trouble, for he was sure he would find enough trouble without flaunting that red furry ear of his. He was used to far worse things than wearing a wool cap on a hot day in May.

  He took off his jacket, rolled it up, and stuck it inside his bindle. Where he would go after he walked through that gate, he had no idea. But he could hear Trinket’s reassuring, bell-like voice in his head, telling him to be brave.

  Arthur came out of his hiding place, pulled up his collar, and, keeping his head down, walked straight through the gate, into the Great White City of Lumentown.

  Somewhere, hidden in this powerful city of light, was his destiny. He hoped that he would find it — and be right as rain.

  ARTHUR CUT ACROSS THE SQUARE and headed north, toward the heart of the City. He was nervous at first, but oddly enough, no one seemed to notice him. It was as if, after all those years of pretending he was invisible, he finally was. The gentlemen and ladies appeared lost in thought or polite conversation, while the children, all of them quiet and well behaved, busied themselves with balloons or kites, or giant lollipops larger than their heads. Everyone’s face had a contented, dreamy look as they strolled along the gleaming promenade.

  The only creature that paid Arthur any mind was a cat. When she and her master passed him on the street, the cat narrowed her eyes at him and hissed. Although he couldn’t understand the language of cats, at least not yet, he knew from the sound she made that a hiss did not mean “Hullo, nice to meet you!” and so he moved on.

  From the boulevard, he followed a peaceful side street lined with fragrant trees. Except for a rumbling sound a few streets away and a faint thud thud thud from somewhere below, all was quiet. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

  The road was lined with great pillared mansions built of pink and white marble. Each yard was enclosed by a wrought-iron gate as fine as filigree. In front of each house was a manicured lawn with tidy flower beds and topiaries trimmed into the shape of cats. Why cats? he wondered.

  He paused in front of a rose-colored house and peeked through the gate. It was the most beautiful house on the street, with scalloped turrets, stained-glass windows, carved cantilevers, and balconies overflowing with flowers. On each balcony sat a large golden cage filled with songbirds. Arthur stood motionless, mesmerized by the chorus of birds.

  Suddenly, the rumbling he’d heard before
grew louder. He turned to see a great horse-drawn carriage thundering toward him. When the driver saw Arthur, he pulled hard on the reins and came to an abrupt halt.

  “Oi!” the coachman shouted. “Whot ya up to, snoopin’ ’round these parts?”

  “I — I’m looking for a house, sir,” Arthur blurted out. “17 Tin . . . Tintagel Road. D-do you — ?”

  “Better have a tag on ye, groundlink, or yer in trouble,” interrupted the driver.

  “If you p-please, sir,” said Arthur. “I d-don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t know what I mean, do ya?” replied the coachman. “Very funny! Now, you listen up good. You’re on the wrong side of the City, you are! So g’won with ya, afore you get caught!”

  Arthur opened his mouth to ask what side of the city he should be on, but the coach was already racing around the corner, and in a flash, it was gone.

  Marble streets gave way to cobblestone roads and tall stone buildings, then redbrick houses four stories high with fancy shops in front offering things Arthur had never even known existed. One store sold only automatons, large and small, each fashioned for a specific task: thistle trimmer, trophy polisher, mustache waxer, cat groomer, corset tightener, and so on.

  One shop in particular caught his eye. The sign above read TRUNDLEBEE’S TRAINS & TOYS FOR TINY TOTS.

  He stretched up as tall as he could and peered into the window. Before him was a wonderland of dolls and dollhouses, stuffed animals of all kinds, jack-in-the-boxes, marionettes and miniature theaters, train sets, board games, music boxes, rocking horses, and china rabbits dressed in lace petticoats. Arthur had no idea what most of these toys were, but they were so enchanting that if the shopkeeper hadn’t chased after him with a broom, he could have stayed, peering into that window forever.

  He ducked into an alley and came out in a different kind of street altogether — a bit shabbier but more lively. There was something about the enormous green building across the street that drew him to it. He made his way to the other side, dodging carriages, carts, and bicycles. In front of the building were three majestic arched entrances with massive pillars. Above the middle one was large sign that read THE ROYAL MUSIC HALL. He remembered Trinket telling him about music halls once, but he hadn’t quite been able to believe what she’d said at the time, for it had seemed so fanciful, the idea that people would flock to a place to hear someone sing, an act so forbidden at the Home.

  The building was plastered with playbills announcing upcoming shows featuring opera singers, popular song-and-dance acts, magicians, mentalists, contortionists, acrobats, and so on. Arthur didn’t know what most of these things were, but the place intrigued him. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and tried one of the doors. It was locked. He looked up at the sign again and vowed that he’d come back some other time.

  Next to the music hall was a spirited place called the Dancing Crow Saloon; a sign sticking out above the door was painted with a black crow with a top hat and cane. Next to that was a pub called the Pig & Pickle; next to that, one called the Brass Carp.

  A man stumbled out of the last place and looked as if he was going to be sick. Arthur cautiously approached him. “Ex-excuse me, sir . . . I . . . I’m looking for a place called T-Tintagel Road. Have you heard of it?”

  The man grabbed Arthur’s arm. “Whot? Whot you doin’ here?” he said in a slurred voice not unlike Mr. Bonegrubber’s. He cocked his head to the right. “Tha’ away, groundlink, that-a-away! Thish ain’t the place for yoush. G’won, git!” The man gave Arthur a little shove and went back inside.

  Arthur walked in the direction the man had pushed him — deeper into the heart of the city. The air was ripe with horse dung and coal smoke billowing from tall chimneys on every roof. A carriage sped by, and then another, splattering a smelly mess all over Arthur’s face and clothes. He wiped his face off as best he could and kept going.

  Everywhere he looked, he saw clocks. Clocks over every entrance, clock towers on every corner. Clocks were even strapped to people’s wrists, or pulled out from men’s pockets, or dangling from gold chains. No dandelion or flower clocks here, thought Arthur, thinking of Trinket.

  The noise, smell, and commotion grew more intense. There were so many cabmen, drawing horse and carriages, calling out for passengers, and cracking whips; and steam-powered omnibuses packed full of people; farmers leading herds of animals to market; chimney sweeps and shoe-shiners singsonging a penny for this, a penny for that; street sweepers weaving in and out of traffic; men with makeshift tables, gambling or performing magic tricks; pushcart peddlers hawking wares; clowns on stilts, juggling oranges; flower girls selling violets and daisies; and men selling ha’penny songs printed on long scrolls of parchment.

  Oh, how the world exploded with sound! Arthur’s red cap barely muffled the noise of it all. He pressed his hand over his ear to help block it out. Standing on every corner and along the street were musicians playing all sorts of instruments: flutes and fiddles, harps and harmoniums, bagpipes, accordions, whistles, horns, and drums. There were children singing for pennies, and organ-grinders with monkeys, sometimes three in a row, each playing a different song in a different key. It was so chaotic that Arthur couldn’t even hear that they were actually playing music, the most heinous crime of all, at least to Miss Carbunkle. And below this raucous symphony was the ceaseless click clack clack of hooves on cobblestone streets. Above it all, the din of a hundred church bells ringing on the hour, their chiming sounds carried on the wind.

  It was perilous to walk at times, especially crossing the street. Arthur had to dart among carts and carriages, farm animals, and the double-deck omnibuses that rattled down the road. He saw very few groundlings, except for ones hauling huge baskets of rocks and bricks on their backs or on top of their heads, their faces tired and grim. Where were all the others?

  He had no idea which way to go. But at that moment, he cared more about finding something to eat than finding the house he was born in. When a delicious scent drifted by, he followed his nose. He rounded a corner, and there, between two enormous pillars, was Lumentown Market.

  Arthur breathed it all in: the fresh-baked crumpets, scones, and buns; the almond cakes, gooseberry pies, cherry tarts, roasted apples, gingerbread, and strawberry cream; the rich, tasty cheeses, roasted meats, and every other eatable and drinkable thing you could imagine. There were fruits and vegetables as far as the eye could see: mountains of turnips, greens, cabbages, and beans; and piles of chestnuts, apples, oranges, and bundles of leeks.

  A man pulling an enormous cart loaded to the hilt with bright-orange fingers of carrots passed by, chanting, “Car-rots an’ peas, car-rots an’ peas! A penny a bunch, my car-rots an’ peas!”

  Oh, if only I could have a carrot right now! Or bread. Oh, Nurse Linette’s bread and butter! Oh, if only I could taste a pie!

  Then he saw the cart.

  It was bright red and yellow. And the sign on it said only one word: PIES.

  A stout blond woman with a grease-stained apron was pulling her pie cart through the throng of people, heading right in his direction. “Puddin’ an’ pies, puddin’ an’ pies, come ’n’ taste me puddin’ an’ pies!” she belted out over the crowd. “Mince, quince, apple, an’ berry. Savory, sweet, an’ tart as a cherry!”

  Arthur couldn’t believe his luck! A mountain of pies, steam rising from the tops, surrounded by a circle of tasty fruit puddings, like a castle surrounded by a moat. He hurried over to her cart. “Ex-excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “If-if you p-please.”

  The woman ignored him and kept singing her wares, every now and then cranking the handle on the pie steamer to keep it going. A customer came and went. Arthur tugged at her skirt and tried again. “If you p-please, ma’am.”

  “What the — ?” She looked down and saw the groundling in muddy clothes and cap staring up at her. The woman tried to yank her skirt away, but Arthur held on.

  “P-please,” he said. “I just want —”

&nb
sp; “Let go a me! Don’t give handouts to beggars, do I?”

  “S-sorry,” he said, releasing her skirt. He made an awkward bow. “I’m not a b-beggar. I’d like to make a trade, fair and square. P-please.”

  She cocked her head and put her hands on her hips. “Let’s see, then. An’ ’urry up. Don’t have all day.”

  He hastily untied his ragged bundle and placed the blanket on the ground with Merlyn, Trinket’s clockwork mouse, along with Pinecone’s map and a cluster of colorful stones he had found along his journey. He held up his jacket so the pie lady could examine it. “M-my jacket for a p-pie. It’s — it’s all I have and I’m so hungry.”

  She grabbed him by the collar and shook her fist in his face. “That filthy scrap for one a’ my pies? What cheek! Good as gold, my pies! Do I look like a filthy-clothes monger? Now, g’won with ye or I’ll call the constable, I will!”

  From out of nowhere, a ragamuffin of a boy appeared, his face and clothes black with coal dust. In one swift movement, he scooped up the blanket and its contents from the ground. In a moment he was swallowed by the crowd.

  “Hmmmf!” the woman snorted. “Justice!” And she gave Arthur a sharp kick in his shin, causing him to tumble into her cart, jarring the steamer below the pies.

  The great pyramid of pies shuddered.

  It rumbled and shook.

  And then it exploded into the air.

  It was a cascade of pies, a Vesuvian eruption of pies, an annihilation of fillings and buttery crusts and puddings, splattering all over the ground and anyone within five feet, including the pie lady, who began screaming at the top of her lungs for the police.

  At that moment, Arthur did something contrary to his untarnished heart. He grabbed an unbroken pie from the ground, threw his jacket over it, and fled.

  He tore through the crowded market, crawling under carts and pushing past throngs of people and animals, darting between the stilts of juggling clowns. But just as he reached the other side of the square, he tripped over a carrot and fell, smashing the pie into oblivion.