The Wonderling

by Mira Bartók

  “Bravo!” said Quintus. “Take a bow, Spike old boy, take a bow!”

  Arthur looked around for the creature named Spike, but not a single one bowed. Quintus gave him a little push forward. “Go ahead, Spike. Do us the honors.”

  Then he knew.

  Sorry, Trinket, he thought. Arthur took a deep breath and bowed before Quintus and the others, bidding farewell to his beautiful name — born of legend, camaraderie, and love.

  ON THE ROAD TO LUMENTOWN, inside the heart of an ancient tree, sits a large round table made of oak. There are deep marks carved all around the edge. They are from a language no one speaks anymore, a language known only to trees. A family dressed in patchwork green has just finished their evening meal and are sitting at the table, talking. One of the children, the smallest, is so tired from his day at play in the woods, he falls asleep in his chair. The boy dreams of adventure, of two brave friends he hopes to meet once again: a fox groundling and a wingless bird.

  To the north, across a great winding river, is a house exhaling forgetfulness and dust. In a room as wild as a forest sits another table, built of mahogany, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Long ago, the table held lavish feasts on silver platters; it held cups and saucers made of gold. For generations a family gathered there, their faces lit beneath a crystal chandelier. They sat around the table, dining on quail eggs and caviar and peacock pie, entertained by magicians and musicians from faraway lands. But now the table is scratched with claw marks and covered with grease and mold, and plays host to slyboots, hornswogglers, and thieves.

  To the west, in a quiet town by the sea, sits another table. The table is small and sturdy, round as a nest, built from driftwood, sea glass, metal scraps, and shells. Around its edge runs a perching place for birds. It sits in a tree house full of gears and pulleys and all manner of bird-size tinkering things. It’s the only tree for miles along a windswept coast.

  Night has fallen. In a room lit by fireflies and glowworms, two small feathered creatures tell stories as they hammer and forge a new invention into being with agile beaks and feet. The younger one hops up and down with excitement when she comes to the part in her story where she and her friend — the one she misses with all her heart — sail over a giant stone wall to freedom. She has told the story to her uncle many times, but each time she adds a new embellishment or twist to her tale. “Soon as we’re done with this,” she reminds her uncle, “I’ll find him. You’ll see.”

  The last table is shiny steel and brass, and cold to the touch. Its edges are so sharp they could cut you. The table rests in the center of a sterile room; etched onto the top is the silhouette of a hawk. A tall woman in an orange wig spreads a map across it. She and her two companions lean in to get a closer look. One, a pale, twitchy man in an ill-fitting suit, finally releases the sneeze he has been trying desperately to hold back. A single droplet from his nose splashes silently onto the map, smearing the ink. When the woman knuckles him sharply on the top of his head, the rat groundling squatting on a stool next to her flashes a secret, triumphant smile at the man. The Rat, who once emitted a fetid odor, smells like a sickly sweet bouquet of lilies now. Around his neck, a yellow silk scarf, a gift from his new patron with the bright-orange hair.

  “There,” says the woman, tapping a spot on the map. “Find it and bring it back. And bring the plans too. Without the plans, it’s useless.”

  “But . . . if I may have a word, ma’am,” says the man with the runny nose. “How will we know where she hid it?”

  “That is your job, you twit, not mine. Just be quick and don’t be seen.” She raises one eyebrow, her nostrils flaring. “And destroy whatever — or whoever — gets in your way. Understand?”

  Before the man can answer, the Rat bows his head to the woman and says, “I understand perfectly well, my lady. It is the greatest honor to serve you. I shall do my very best.”

  When he says this, the sniffling man glares at him, while the eyes of the hawk’s head on top of the woman’s cane blink, then glow a ghostly green.

  ARTHUR WAS SITTING with the others in the common room at Wildered Manor, finishing up his breakfast of the hot cross buns Goblin had “procured” from the market that morning. Quintus had cut away all the vines from the upstairs windows — a never-ending task in summer, apparently — and the early-June sun poured into the room that had looked so nightmarish the day before. Arthur could see now that the once elegant mansion was knee-deep in filth. Nothing a little cleaning can’t fix, he thought. If he had learned anything at all at the Home, it was how to scrub, dust, and sweep. It was the least he could do for Quintus.

  Just a week before, he had been trapped inside the Home. Now he had a place to live, food to eat, and new friends. And someone to teach him the ways of the world. The only thing missing was Trinket. Soon, he told himself. She’ll send word, and then we’ll make a plan.

  Quintus had told Arthur that there was a world of adventures to be had in the City, but it was dangerous, and Arthur wasn’t ready to go exploring just yet. Besides, as Quintus said, “If yer wantin’ a place to stay, an’ yer wantin’ to find that street yer lookin’ for, you need to be trained up proper first. An’ most of all, you need to earn yer keep like everyone else.”

  Arthur was very eager to learn from his mentor, and was itching to explore the City and not be afraid. But most of all, he wanted to find out how to get to Tintagel Road.

  “It’s like a game, see?” said Quintus. Arthur and the others watched as Quintus set several objects on the table: his pocket watch and ivory jackknife, an apple, a silk handkerchief, a pair of brass candlesticks, and a leather wallet.

  “Now, listen up, you lot,” said Quintus. “Spike wants to become a contributing member of society. You’d like to learn an honest trade, right, m’ boy?” He winked at Arthur. “Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d . . . I’d be much obliged to learn a trade.”

  Goblin smirked. “Wants to learn a trade, does he? Well, what can he do? Nothin’. Just look at the bloke. An’ he’s too young, to boot.”

  Bone, the anteater groundling, smacked Goblin on the head with her tail, knocking his hat off onto the floor. “He’s green, you moron. You were green once; remember when you were green? I certainly do.”

  The others burst out laughing. Goblin let out an indignant harrumph and picked up his hat. He glared at Bone. “No one touches the trilby,” he said, putting his hat back on. “No one.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” said Quintus. “Come on, you two! Let’s not bicker. One fer all, all fer one, as the sayin’ goes. Show ’im how it’s done, everyone. Come on. Let the games begin!”

  The group waited in the room while Quintus hid one of the objects from the table somewhere in the house. When he returned, the race was on. The first object he hid was the apple, and they all scattered as fast as they could to find it. While they were gone, Quintus removed a small crumpled piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. He put on his eyepiece and read the words twice. He let out a contented sigh. Ever since he had discovered the note in the foundling’s pocket, he had taken such pleasure in folding and unfolding it, smoothing out its wrinkles, reading it again and again, and stashing his little secret away. My ace in the hole, this is, he’d say to himself. The words the woman named Linette had written were of course not meant for him. But how often did an opportunity such as this come across his lap? ’Twas meant to be, he told himself. Meant to be.

  Thorn, the Mole-Porcupine, brought back the apple, and Quintus, shoving the note back into his pocket, banged on a big black pot to call the others.

  The game continued. Arthur couldn’t find a thing until the very last object, the watch. Quintus had hidden it in a place nearly impossible to find — two stories below, beneath a loose floorboard. But Arthur heard its soft ticking sound immediately, along with the insects scurrying over and around it. He brought it back so fast, his mentor barely had time to tuck the note back into his pocket.

  Quintus eyed him suspiciously. “Did you see m
e hide that watch? Did you, lad? Don’t lie to me, boy!” He grabbed Arthur by his shoulders and shook him. Arthur flinched, afraid he was going to be beaten. Quintus looked into Arthur’s frightened and innocent eyes and let go. “Sorry, Spike. I didn’t mean . . . Just tell Quintus the truth. I won’t get mad. I promise. Just ’fess up.”

  “I d-didn’t see you, sir,” said Arthur. “I swear I didn’t. It’s just . . . sometimes I can hear things with my, you know . . .” He pointed to his ear and shrugged.

  “Oh, I see,” said Quintus, rubbing his snout thoughtfully. “Very interesting, this. . . . I knew you were the right lad for somethink, a special job, mind. Very special.” His voice was kind now, and before he banged on the pot to let the others know the watch had been found, he gave Arthur a coin as a prize. “Shhhh. Mum’s the word,” he said, and patted the foundling’s head.

  When the rest of them returned empty-handed and saw Arthur holding Quintus’s watch, they slapped him on the back and punched his shoulder like he’d always been part of the gang. Except for Goblin, who appeared to be completely unimpressed.

  The second game they played was hilarious, and it was all for Arthur’s enjoyment, or so it seemed. He had no idea what any of this had to do with his learning a trade, but he decided that since he knew so little of the world, he must trust his new friends to know what was best for him.

  Quintus pretended to be a High Hat gentleman strolling in the park, smoking an imaginary pipe and walking a cat on a leash. Meanwhile, each creature demonstrated his or her special talent by taking something from the Rat without him knowing. Bone snatched his wallet by lassoing it with her long snaky tongue. Thorn and Throttle worked as a team. Thorn, who was nearly blind, sniffed out the apple and motioned to Throttle, who skillfully removed it from Quintus’s coat with his dexterous paws while Thorn distracted Quintus by striking up a conversation. Arthur couldn’t stop laughing.

  After lunch, they continued Arthur’s “training” outside. June wildflowers were in bloom — foxglove, honeysuckle, dog rose, and poppy — and the vines blanketing Wildered Manor were covered with bright-red blossoms. There were bouquets of hummingbirds everywhere. It was hard for Arthur not to be distracted by the music of their rapid-fire sip sip sips and the lightning thrum of their wings.

  The abandoned landscape surrounding the house was the perfect obstacle course: mounds of brick rubble, broken glass, gorse bushes, weeds, tree stumps, and remnants of old stone walls. The group lined up in front of the house and waited for Quintus to start them off running. He used his pocket watch to clock their time.

  The first game involved taking turns being “it” and dashing as quickly as possible away from the others, then finding a good place to hide. Whoever could hide the longest without being found won. Another game, which Quintus called “blending,” took a bit more skill. On the count of ten, the groundlings had to find a wall, a patch of grass, anything that resembled the color or pattern of his or her skin or fur. The point was to camouflage themselves against the surface as best they could and keep perfectly still. Arthur removed his shirt and pressed against what was left of a brick wall, which was the exact color of his rust-colored fur. His gray pants blended in with the pile of rubble by his legs and feet. “Well done!” said Quintus when he found him. “Well done indeed!”

  Another game involved climbing in and out of windows as quickly and quietly as possible. They even had to scale up and down walls — at least the ones with paws or hands good for clambering up a drainpipe, vine, or rough-hewn stone. They played racing games of one kind or another until dinner. Even Goblin seemed to have fun. And he didn’t say a nasty thing to Arthur once.

  Later, the groundlings went to bed, each in his or her own corner on a soft nest of rags, curled up as their ancestors had long ago, in burrows or warrens or caves. Some, like Thorn and Throttle, shared a room; others preferred solitude. There were no feather beds fit for kings, as Quintus had promised; most of the furniture had been used for kindling long ago. But Arthur’s corner was cozy, and Quintus had even given him a patchwork quilt and a real pillow, which did have feathers and made him feel as though he were sleeping on a cloud.

  Arthur had chosen a corner in a small room on the second floor, down the hall from the common room. He chose the room for the wallpaper, or what remained of it, for one could see faded images of a running fox and dozens of dogs and men on horseback chasing after it. He thought the fox looked very clever and fast.

  Arthur was burrowed under his quilt when Quintus came in, carrying a glowing turnip. “Might I have a word, Spike?”

  “Yes, sir, of course,” said Arthur, and sat up.

  The flickering candle lit up the foxhunting scene on the wall. Quintus glanced at it and said, raising an eyebrow, “Interesting choice, this ah . . . room.”

  Arthur grinned. “Thanks to you, Quintus, I understand the picture now. They’re p-playing a game, you see. And it looks like the fox is winning! See, he’s in front, and, well, he probably wins a prize in the end, like I won the coin! But the rest of the picture is missing.”

  “Yes, well,” said Quintus hesitantly. “That it is.”

  “You wanted t-to speak with me, Quintus?”

  “Yes, Spike, I did. Ya done good today, m’ boy. You’ve got talents, rare talents, I can tell. Soon you’ll be ready to get down to work. An’ learn yer way around the City like — find that place yer lookin’ fer to boot. You’d like that, now, wouldn’t ya?”

  “Very much so!”

  “An’ you’ll be a good lad an’ do as I say?”

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

  “That settles it, then,” said Quintus. He ruffled the fur on the top of Arthur’s head. “Good night, Spike. Sweet dreams.”

  As he was leaving, Arthur said, “Qu-Quintus.”

  “Yes, m’ boy?”

  “I . . . I just wanted to thank you. For being so k-kind and all. I’m ever so grateful.”

  Quintus cleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, “I . . . ah . . . well . . . yes. Good night, m’ boy. Good night.”

  IN A DISMAL ORPHANAGE far from city or town, two old friends have just finished playing an ancient board game called Latrunculi, the Game of Thieves. The glass board is “the city”; the two opponents, “twins.” It is a game of strategy, deceit, and war. The goal is to conquer the other twin’s land and men, whatever it takes.

  The woman had been the victor that night.

  The winged creature had let her be the victor, just as he had every night for the past thirty years.

  Rain pattered against the roof and eaves as they spoke in hushed tones. “You played quite well tonight, Mistress,” said the creature crouched on the table. “As usual,” he added, and grinned, revealing two rows of tiny sharp teeth. He flicked his long black tongue several times, as if tasting the air. He helped the woman put the pieces back in the box, then hopped down and scuttled over to the bed.

  “Thank you, Mardox,” said the woman, yawning, for it was late. In a few hours’ time, she would have to stand in the pelting rain, rattling off the names of all the vile groundlings on her list. It was getting harder and harder to keep track of them, for while more arrived each day, just as many disappeared. But she knew where they were, for she had sent them there herself. Someone had to complete her work — her noble, brilliant, visionary work.

  “When will the Rat acquire it?” asked her companion, who was now perched at the foot of her bed.

  “Soon,” said the headmistress. “Just a few more pieces to put in place, my pet. Then we’ll be ready.”

  “Very good, Mistress. I know how much this means to you.”

  “You have no idea, Mardox. It means everything.”

  The woman put out the light and got into bed.

  “Mistress?”

  “What is it, Mardox? I really must get to sleep.”

  “Are you sure you can trust the Rat?”

  The woman reached over to the creature and stroked its face. It made a guttural purri
ng sound and stretched out across her feet. “Oh, Mardox, you know you’re the only one I can really trust. How could you think otherwise? But we make do, don’t we, my pet? We must, in order to succeed. Besides, if anything goes wrong, I won’t be blamed. The Rat will. What could be better than that? We’ll be safe, my love. We’ll always be safe.”

  QUINTUS COOKED every night, and “Soup for Kings” was his specialty. In fact, it was the only thing he cooked.

  Everyone was bustling around the common room at Wildered Manor, getting the table ready while Thorn and Throttle, red-eyed and sniffling, chopped onions.

  “Isn’t it ready yet?” asked Squee, who was rubbing his paws together in greedy anticipation. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “Yeah, Quintus. When’s it gonna be ready?” asked Houndstitch.

  “Yeah, Quintus, when?” demanded the others.

  Quintus ignored them and crushed a sprig of rosemary in his paw, held it up to his nose, and closed his eyes. “Ahhh,” he said. He tossed it into the pot and stirred. He added a stale crust of bread, half a cabbage, a piece of suet Goblin had found in the trash, an old potato, a turnip that had been a candlestick for the last month, and a long black thing that looked suspiciously like a shoelace. The soup tasted different every night, for it depended on what they had left in their larder and what Goblin had acquired at the market that day. “Borrowing” food at market was his special job.

  Bone held out her paws to Quintus. They were cupped closed over something that was trying to crawl out. “Mightn’t we add these?” she asked.

  “What is it, then?” asked Quintus.

  “Spiders,” said Bone. “Lovely texture. Delicate crunch. There’s a termite in there too. Good protein, that.”

  “Sorry, Bone. Not with rosemary. ’Tisn’t right. For spiders, it’s basil you need, an’ basil we ain’t got.”