The Wonderling

by Mira Bartók

  He was so tired and hungry, he didn’t know what to do. Let them catch me. I can’t take another step. He slumped down next to a lamppost, buried his face in his sticky, berry-stained jacket, and began to cry.

  And then a kind voice. “Poor little duck; poor, poor little duck.” A short rosy-cheeked woman wearing a baker’s hat and apron leaned over and gently touched his arm. She placed a warm roll in his lap. She was standing beside a cart piled high with rolls and loaves of bread. He looked up and tried to thank her, but the words got stuck behind the old rock in his throat.

  “There, there, my lovey. Eat up. Soon you’ll be right as rain, you will.” His heart lightened a little when she said this.

  She watched as he tore the roll in half, put one portion in his pocket for later (an old habit from Cheese Sunday at the Home), and gobbled up the other.

  “Poor little lamb. Here’s one for the road.”

  “Th-thank you,” he said. He was so grateful, he was afraid he would cry again. “Do you — do you know where Tintagel Road might be? My family used to live there.”

  “Don’t rightly know, my lamb. But head to the river. There you’ll find your way.”

  He forced a smile, bade her farewell, and got up to go.

  She caught his arm and bent down close. She told him to watch out for something called the “Dog-sea.” He imagined an ocean of barking dogs like the drooling mastiffs at Miss Carbunkle’s Home. “If you see ’em, run as fast as you can. Promise me you’ll do that?”

  He had no idea what she was talking about, but he promised her just the same.

  “There’s a good lamb,” she said. “Now, hurry on your way. Follow that street just ahead.” She pointed to a narrow street off the square. “Good luck. And remember what I said — don’t forget to run.”

  Arthur followed the street away from that chaotic and captivating place full of peddlers, thieves — and dangerous pies.

  Arthur wandered for hours, taking this street and that, sometimes going in circles until he realized that any street going down led to the river, and any street going up led to the white towers at the top of the hill. He tried asking directions to Tintagel Road, but every time he did, the person either ignored him, pushed him away, or told him to “go back to the other side where you belong.” By the end of the day, his feet were so blistered and bruised from walking on hard cobblestones that he was desperate to find shelter.

  The sky paled in the east, and a clammy mist crept into the city. Arthur put on his jacket, buttoned it up, and forged ahead. As he passed cozy homes warmly lit by candlelight, he could hear piano music from parlors wafting through the air, parents calling “Good night, good night” to children saying their sleepy prayers. What would it be like, he wondered, to be so comfortable, so cozy, safe, and warm?

  Throughout the city, lamplighters lit gaslights in rich and poor neighborhoods alike. Arthur crept in shadows like a thief, afraid of the mysterious Dog-sea. Which way now? he wondered, and just kept moving down, down, down.

  HE HEARD THE RIVER before he saw it.

  He smelled it too.

  It stank like wet cloth on Wash Day at the Home; it reeked of dead fish and all manner of other disgusting things. It was dirty brown and glistening with oil, rubbish, and sewage floating on its waves.

  Was this the glorious river that Trinket had told him about, the one with wooden boats with bright-colored sails?

  Along the riverbank, small groups of men, women, and children gathered around fires they had made from paper, kindling, and broken lumps of coal. The ghostly flames rose up, illuminating their sad, gaunt faces.

  As night fell, they huddled together in shadowy corners, or over manhole covers where steam rose from deep below, or against abandoned boats along the shore. These were the lost souls of the city, with no place to go, no work, no family, no home — only the warmth of one another to keep them alive through the cold, damp nights.

  Arthur searched for a place to bed down for the night. No cover now — just his jacket and his baby-blanket scrap and gold key hidden in his shirt pocket against his heart. He spied a rotting skiff someone had begun to rip apart for kindling and plopped down next to it on the damp ground.

  He took out the other half of the roll the kind baker had given him and made swift work of it. He was about to devour the second roll when he noticed a group of people piled up together near an abandoned boat. From where he was sitting, they looked like the shadow of a large lumpy beast, with a dozen pairs of eyes flashing yellow beneath the gaslight streaming in the wind.

  One of them, a man with crooked teeth, stared at Arthur and held out his hand. Arthur tentatively approached the group. He offered the roll to the man, who snatched it and immediately tore it into six small pieces, one for each person.

  “Thanky, thanky,” the man mumbled. “Bless yer heart.”

  Arthur nodded to the man and returned to his spot. He could hear one of the group — an elderly woman in rags — talking in a faraway voice: “Hearts? World ’tain’t made for people with hearts no more.” She muttered to herself for a while until she finally fell asleep. Then all was quiet.

  Arthur pulled his dirty jacket tight around him and lay down on the ground, pressing his back against the old skiff.

  He watched shadows of ships in the night, dark shapes upon the water, bobbing up and down. One boat went back and forth across the river a couple times, a gloomy red light glowing from the bow. He could make out figures disembarking from it and searching for something along the shore; for what, he did not know. He wondered if they were lonely too, and why they weren’t home with their families. He thought of Pinecone, tucked up in bed in his cozy tree, and of Trinket, safe and sound in a house by the sea with her uncle. What kind of house was it? he wondered. And was she happy there? He hoped he would hear from her soon. And the orphans at the Home, he thought of them as well, and for one brief moment, he wished he were back there, back in that terrible place of cruelty and clocks. At least there he had had a bed, a blanket, and a bowl of cold porridge to count on.

  He lay still, listening to the rhythmic lapping of the waves, like the beating of his unsettled heart. He had never seen a river before, and he thought, despite its stink and sad neglect, it had a kind of grandeur about it. When the wind shifted, Arthur could even smell the sea beyond the City. The place where Trinket must be by now, he thought. It was a fresh, salty smell — the scent of hope and adventure. Of other lands and ships and seabirds and stories and dolphins flying through blue-green waves.

  Somewhere across the river, a woman began singing a lullaby to a child: “Sleep, my baby, sleep. / Dream your magic dreams and sleep. . . .” Her voice was sweet and clear. Arthur lay still, listening in wonder, swept away by the beauty of her song. How amazing, he thought, that here in the City, a person could sing right out in the open and not get punished for it. The idea was astounding to him.

  He thought of his own lullaby from long ago and wished he could remember the words. When the song ended, Arthur gazed at the light dancing on the surface of the water and tried to lull himself to sleep. He looked up, and there, high above the City, was the moon, his old friend that had comforted him on so many nights. Where his star was, the glow from a thousand gaslights made it impossible to tell — but no matter. He closed his eyes and thought of that magical night with Trinket, when he had wished upon a star. And as he drifted off to sleep, the moon, the song, and the memory of his friend were simply enough.

  “WELL, WELL! What do we have here? Dead or alive? I wonder, I wonder. . . .”

  The Rat — a groundling in a greasy red velveteen hat and tails — leaned over the sleeping creature and nudged him with his large brown toe. Arthur made a whimpering sound, rolled over onto his back, and began to snore.

  “Sleepin’ like a baby,” murmured the Rat. “I loves it when they sleeps like that.”

  The Rat was very tall for a groundling, nearly five feet, and had leathery winglike fins that stuck out from two slits in the bac
k of his coat. They rippled a little when the wind picked up over the river.

  The Rat sniffed the air: coal smoke, fried fish, and coffee. The world was waking up.

  Down the street, the Knocker-Uppers were tap-tap-tapping their long poles on windowpanes, rousing the sleeping Drudgers, Fishmongers, and anyone else who couldn’t afford a clock or a watch. The Rat checked his own pocket watch, a shiny brass thing engraved with the words To Lulu, my blushing bride, Forever yours, Farnsworth, which he had tried to remove without much success. He held the watch to his ear. It had stopped an hour before. He glanced up at the clock tower behind him, then turned a small knob on the watch’s side, and the gears clicked into motion.

  “Time waits for no one, Quintus ol’ boy. Let’s get on with it.”

  He rubbed his bristly mitts together in greedy anticipation and got down to work.

  He pulled out a small sack from the inside of his coat, which was full of hidden pockets, odd little tools, and an ivory-handled jackknife. He bent down closer to the sleeping creature, his eyes suddenly fixed on the hat. “What’s this, what’s this? Oh, Quintus, how you do love a fine red cap!” He started reaching for the hat but stopped himself. “You knows the Rules, Quintus! Wrote ’em yerself, ya did.”

  And so he sang a little song while he pilfered Arthur’s pockets.

  Pockets an’ pennies an’ pretty things first;

  Fill yer sack till it’s ready to burst.

  High hats an’ trilbies, them’s next to be nicked.

  Bonnets an’ bowlers — ripe fruit to be picked!

  Then off to the pub for mutton an’ ale

  Till it’s back on the street in top hat an’ tails.

  First, the Rat felt around in Arthur’s left jacket pocket. Nothing. Next, he checked the right one. “What have we here?” he whispered to himself. He carefully extracted the contents: one crushed lilac, three small stones, a tiny piece of lichen — nothing of use to him, so he tossed them on the ground. But wedged in the bottom of the pocket was a prize — a little piece of paper wrapped around — What luck, what luck, Quintus! — a solid-gold coin. “Bright as a button, this,” he muttered excitedly, biting the edge of the coin, then pocketing it. He pulled an eyepiece from his waistcoat and scanned the note from Nurse Linette. The Rat’s eyes brightened.

  “’Tis yer lucky day, Quintus. Yes, indeed! Yer lucky day.”

  He tucked the note into his waistcoat and continued his search.

  Arthur woke up just as the Rat was reaching for his shirt pocket, where his small blue bundle was hidden. He let out a garbled cry and covered his face with his hands. “P-please don’t eat me! Please, I beg of you!”

  “Eat you? What you goin’ on about?” said the Rat. “I mean no harm! Came to help ya, like, honest.” He cleared his throat and said, puffing up his chest, “Saw a thief goin’ through yer pockets a whiles back. Chased him away, I did.”

  Arthur peeked at the Rat through his hands. It was a Rat, but it wasn’t Wire.

  “Come on, now,” said the Rat. “No need to be a-feared. Here, let me help you up; there’s a good lad.”

  Arthur let the Rat help him up. He felt a bit woozy and ached all over. He brushed himself off and took a step back. “You’re — you’re a rat g-groundling . . . with . . . with wings?”

  The Rat let out a laugh, which did not seem unkind. “First of all, thems are fins, not wings, and second — yer a funny little fox person with no tail. What of it? Ain’t we all the same, really? Now, come, come, m’ boy, I’m only trying to help you. An’ you look like you can use a mate in this town. ’Specially with them thieves running about.”

  “I didn’t have anything to steal anyway,” said Arthur, shrugging. He remembered the pie he had stolen the day before and felt a wave of shame.

  The Rat raised one eyebrow. “Hmmm . . . Nothin’ to steal, you say? Not even a brass farthin’?”

  “I wouldn’t know one if I saw it,” said Arthur.

  “Well, well,” said the Rat. “Nothin’ lost, nothin’ gained. But look at you! Half starvin’, an’ me talkin’ about thieves.” He took a stale crust of bread and a small piece of cheese from one of his pockets and handed them to Arthur. “Got a nice morsel for ya. There’s a good lad — tuck in.”

  Arthur gobbled up the food in seconds.

  “Th-thank you,” he said, embarrassed. “I — I was quite hungry.”

  “I can see that,” said the Rat. “Hmmm.” He scratched a spot below his brown bristly snout. “Now, whatchu about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s a nice young pup such as yerself doin’ in this great big city all by yer lonesome?”

  “I’m looking for a place. It’s called Tintagel Road. Do you know it?”

  “Tintagel, is it? Got family there, do ya?”

  “N-not exactly,” said Arthur. “I mean, I don’t th-think I do anymore. B-but I’d like to find it just the same.”

  “Well, I don’t exactly know it, but I can help ya find it — if ya like.”

  “You can?” Arthur’s eyes lit up. “Please, sir, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d be much obliged.”

  The Rat looked thoughtful and pulled on one of his whiskers. “I do believe that there street — iffen it’s the one I’m thinkin’ of — ’tis rather hard to find. An’ in a dangerous place, mind you. Can’t go alone, that’s fer sure. Need a guide. Ya see, m’ boy, ’tain’t easy gettin’ ’round the City on yer own. There’s lots fer you to learn afore you go ramblin’ ’bout the place.”

  Arthur’s face fell.

  The Rat said, “Cheer up, lad! I’ll help ya! But first things first. You need a hot plate an’ a fine mug — that’s what you need. Then we can figure out what to do with you. Might take a while to find that place a-yours, an’ I bet ya’d like a nice bed for the night. Wouldn’t that be grand, now? Feather bed an’ pillow, fit for a king?”

  Arthur’s eyes grew wide.

  “Listen, lad,” continued the Rat. “These are devilish times, these are, devilish times. Best to have a friend in tow, if you know what I mean.”

  Arthur stared up at the Rat, uncertain, hopeful, and still very hungry.

  “Why, where’s me manners?” exclaimed the Rat. He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. “Quintus is the name; tradin’ is the game. And what might your name be, young sir?”

  Arthur wasn’t sure what to say. His name could be anything in this city of strangers. He could even make up a new name for himself if he wanted. But he didn’t want to. In his mind’s eye, he saw Trinket’s bright face and sapphire eyes. He stammered out, “M-my name is Arthur.” He hesitantly took off his hat, bowed, and put his hat back on.

  The Rat raised one eyebrow when he saw Arthur’s ear but said nothing about it. “AR-thur,” he said slowly, as if it were a foreign word, and one he found a little unpleasant. “Arthur, Arthur . . . Not much of a name, is it? Well, what’s in a name, anyway? Let’s get you a proper breakfast, Arty m’ boy. I know just the place. This a-way, follow me.”

  Arthur wasn’t sure. Should he trust this Rat? What would Trinket do? Be brave, she’d say; he knew that much. This Rat had said he’d help him find Tintagel Road. Maybe this Rat was part of his destiny. How, he couldn’t imagine. But stranger things had happened to him.

  Then the Rat said the magic words. “Listen, Arty — have you ever had yerself a cheese toastie?”

  Arthur’s ear perked up. “No, sir! I haven’t!” he said. “B-but if you please, sir, I’d like that very much!”

  “All right, then, a cheese toastie you shall have! An’ Quintus always keeps his word!”

  Arthur turned toward the street, but Quintus grabbed his arm.

  “Not that a-way,” he whispered. “Want to cross Stinkbottom Bridge, we do. Follow me an’ do as I say; there’s a good lad.” He linked Arthur’s arm in his. “City’s a dicey place, mind, if you don’t have a friend. Oh, by the way,” he added, “best to hold yer nose till we gets to the other side.”

  At th
e entrance to the bridge was a big boxy police officer, a billy club hanging from his belt. Quintus tipped his hat to the man and winked. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, Constable Floop,” said Quintus as he slipped a coin into the man’s palm.

  The officer nodded, tapped his finger on the side of his nose, and said under his breath, “Word a-caution, mate. Winds of change a-blowin’. Watch yer back.”

  “Right, then,” said Quintus, raising his eyebrow ever so slightly. He tipped his hat once more, and he and Arthur went on.

  THE SUN ROSE over the city as Arthur and the Rat made their way across the bridge. All along the railing were flocks of wood pigeons and crows, fighting over bits of dead fish. It was a sad, neglected bridge, with the same soot-blackened statue on either side — a creature with a woman’s face and the body and wings of a swan.

  “Thirteen bridges, m’ boy, thirteen, but this here one’s the only one groundlinks can cross; don’t forget that. Consequences would be quite nasty.”

  “All right,” said Arthur, who couldn’t help feeling there was some connection to his own destiny in the fact that there were thirteen bridges. Was it good luck or bad?

  Quintus told him that farther upstream, the water was fresh and clear. But the water that flowed below Stinkbottom Bridge was the color of mud, and at that moment, smelled like it had the night before — a fetid odor of dead things, garbage, and grease.

  The smell reminded Arthur of Wire’s breath, but he pushed the thought away.

  “Qu-Quintus, sir,” said Arthur, “what’s the river called?”

  Quintus let out a laugh. “Same as this ol’ bridge: Stinkbottom River. ’Twasn’t always called that, though. Don’t rightly know what the old name was. Lost its name long ago. But the bridge, I remember it’s old name. Years ago, ’twas called the Golden Swan Bridge. See them swan ladies? Underneath all the muck, that’s solid gold, that is!”