The Wonderling

by Mira Bartók

  “The Lustrum?” asked Arthur. “I thought — well, at least I remember — a fire.”

  “‘Days of Light,’ High Hats likes to call it. Every five years, some a them ‘clean up’ a bit, so to speak. But it ain’t Days a Light fer groundlings, no, sir. You see — the worst a the lot, they burnt down the houses a groundlings and the houses a the people that helped ’em. Random like. My family lived at Wildered Manor — ’twas Wilfred Manor back then. This was, oh, thirty years back, I’d say. I was just a runt. The Wilfreds, they was good folk. Treated me mum an’ pa good, they did. They protected us. Refused to send us to the poorhouse for groundlings. That’s where D.O.G.C. sent our lot before they built Gloomintown. The Wilfreds ended up dyin’ — the whole lot of ’em. Along with my four brothers an’ the rest a me family.”

  Quintus took off his hat, bowed his head, and said, “Primus, Secundus, Terius, Quartus — rest in peace, mates, rest in peace.”

  Arthur remembered how Quintus had told him that numbers one through four were taken, and that he had to be Number Thirteen, because Quintus’s brothers would always be those numbers. Now he understood why.

  Quintus sniffed a little and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He put his arm around Arthur and said, “Same thing happened to you, I reckon. Yer street — Tintagel — I asked around, an’ folks say ’twas the Lustrum, ’twas. You musta been just a wee pup, poor lit’le ’un. An’ the folks who lived here — I reckon they protected you like the Wilfreds did me. Must’ve been good folks; brave too.”

  The two stood there in silence until Arthur said, “Quintus, can we walk around the back? I think that’s where my house was. I think we lived behind the family who lived in the house. I’m not certain, but . . . but I think we lived inside a tree.”

  They walked around what was left of the house’s foundation. There, covered in snow, were charred stumps of trees, including one old fallen oak.

  The two friends stood without talking.

  Arthur thought about returning in the spring, when the earth had thawed. Maybe, if he dug around a bit, he might find the music box buried below.

  But then, perhaps Belisha was right. He remembered the Night Crow’s words as they flew through the subterranean maze: You have all you need.

  She had said: Except for one thing more. And that I cannot give you.

  He knew now that the thing she spoke of was his own voice.

  Arthur said good-bye to 17 Tintagel Road, to his lost family, and to the human family that had bravely tried to protect them.

  “Can you walk me back to the bridge?” said Arthur, who was shivering now and wanted to join Trinket and all the others by the fire at Phoebe’s house. For he knew that Miss Phoebe’s was his home now, and he hoped it would be for a very long time.

  “I’ll take you all the way home, lad. Come on,” said Quintus.

  When they finally reached Phoebe’s house, Arthur again invited his friend in for tea. But Quintus was in a hurry to get back to Wildered Manor. He said he had much to do before the holiday meal. “Another time, mate. Love to pop over fer a cuppa an’ a chat.”

  Arthur asked him what he was cooking up for Christmas Eve, but he knew the answer before Quintus even spoke. What else could it be but Soup for Kings?

  “By the way, Spike — I mean Arthur — whatever happened to that big Crow?”

  “I forgot to tell you. Belisha — the Night Crow — she went back to where she’s from. She guards the graveyard in Gloomintown, you see. It took a while for her eyes to heal, but Linette says they should be almost better now.”

  “How’d she get back, then?” asked Quintus.

  “That’s the amazing part,” said Arthur. “She sang her way home! That’s how crows find their way, I guess. The sky is like an invisible map of songs. At least, that’s what she told me. We still keep in touch by using Trinket’s messenger pigeon — it works a lot better now, by the way. Belisha said that from now on, she’d try to watch out for the living too, not just the dead. There are so many groundlings down there, Quintus. I hope someday they’ll be free.”

  “Hope so,” said Quintus. “It just ain’t right.” They were silent for a moment, then Quintus said, “An’ all the lit’le ’uns from the Home? Them’s all safe an’ sound?”

  “Oh, they’re fine. Local farmers took them in. And Phoebe, she took in a few herself.”

  “All’s well that ends well, as they say,” said Quintus. “An’ I nearly forgot to tell you somethink.” Quintus chuckled. “I aim to find that orange-haired lady an’ that despicable Rat who kidnapped me mate. Settin’ up a new business, I am: Quintus an’ Company, private detective agency. Like the sound o’ that, laddie? Me first case is trackin’ down poor ol’ Squee. He’s out there somewheres, an’ I aim to find ’im an’ bring ’im back home. An’ maybe we’ll even find good ol’ Goblin, bless his heart.”

  Arthur’s face fell. He still felt terrible about Goblin.

  “Don’t be down in the dumps, laddie! We’ll find ’im, I’m sure of it. So give us a good huzzah, why don’t ya? There’s a good boy.”

  “Of course I will,” said Arthur, who was smiling now. “Next time we see each other, we shall make a proper toast. A toast to new beginnings! And truly, I think your plan is just champion, Quintus! Or should I say Detective Quintus? So huzzah to Quintus, Private Detective Extraordinaire!”

  The two embraced once more, and Arthur watched as the Rat in the top hat and tails headed back home.

  AS NIGHT FELL upon Lumentown, Arthur sat contentedly at the dining-room table with his friends, new and old: Miss Phoebe, her friend Mr. Pitch — a refined-looking man of about forty, with a dark complexion and a thin black mustache — Linette, Trinket, and Peevil — who was having an after-dinner nap in Arthur’s shirt pocket — along with Rufus, Snook, Nigel, Nesbit, Baby Tizer, and several other groundlings from the Home. It certainly was a full house, and the next day it would be even fuller, as Pinecone and his family as well as Peevil’s were coming to stay for the holidays.

  They had just finished eating, and Arthur began helping Linette clear the plates from the table. When he was done, he sat back down next to Mr. Pitch. Everything felt so safe and cozy. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the room sparkled with candles and the lights from the crystal chandelier above.

  Phoebe looked out the window and sighed. “Oh, Clemmy! My poor, poor Clementine,” said Phoebe, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “Holidays do make me so nostalgic.”

  Arthur still couldn’t get over how alike she and Miss Carbunkle looked, despite how pinched and angry Miss Carbunkle’s face had become over the years. Arthur was very grateful that Phoebe did not wear a towering orange wig too. Unlike her sister, Phoebe was not bald; her hair was naturally ginger colored, although now streaked with gray.

  Phoebe got up and went to the window. “Where is she? I fear she is dead! She didn’t even turn to look at me that day. I might never see her again! Oh, it pains me so!”

  “Ahem,” said Mr. Pitch. He folded his hands and rested them on the table, then began twirling his thumbs. He had the longest and most elegant fingers Arthur had ever seen. “Ahem,” he said again.

  She turned to face him. “What is it, Mr. Pitch? I can tell you are dying to say something. I do so dislike when you beat around the bush like this.”

  Phoebe sat back down and crossed her arms over her chest. Arthur was used to their little spats now and found them quite amusing, for Phoebe and Mr. Pitch had known each other for many years, and it was clear that they were very close friends.

  “With all due respect, my dear,” said Mr. Pitch, who was sitting across from her, “it’s just that I don’t quite understand what all this ‘poor Clemmy’ is about. I mean, your sister tortured those poor groundlings for years, and she held a grudge against you for even longer. She sent hooligans to your house to steal the thing dearest to your heart — your father’s brilliant invention, destroying all your possessions in the process — then ran off with that nefarious
Rat. What is there to sympathize with? I ask you. With all due respect, of course.”

  Phoebe uncrossed her arms, then crossed them again. Her face flushed red. “Mr. Pitch. Sometimes I simply do not understand you at all. Must I explain everything? Very well.” Phoebe shook her head and continued: “First of all, we do not know whether dear Clementine is alive or dead. She is my sister, in case you forgot! And second, don’t you see how sad it all is? It’s terribly, terribly sad!”

  “I certainly don’t. In fact, I wouldn’t be sorry if the woman got the gallows for what she did.”

  “Mr. Pitch! How could you say such a thing about my baby sister? My twin? My little Clemmy?”

  Arthur had a hard time thinking of Miss Carbunkle as anyone’s “little Clemmy,” but then he thought about it some more. She had been someone’s little Clemmy once. And to Phoebe, his guardian, she still was. He cleared his throat and said softly, “If you please, Miss Phoebe . . . may I speak?”

  Phoebe reached across the table and patted Arthur’s furry hand affectionately. “Of course, my dear. You may always speak your mind at the House of Nightingale.”

  Everyone at the table, including Trinket, who was still pecking at a bowl of seeds, turned to look at Arthur. The other groundlings offered encouraging snorts and snuffling sounds for him to go on.

  “Thank you,” said Arthur. He looked up at Mr. Pitch, who was sitting on his right, and said, “I think what Miss Phoebe means, Mr. Pitch, is that it’s important to remember that even the biggest person was, at one time, very, very small.” He saw Linette beaming at him from across the table. He smiled back at her and said slowly, “And perhaps — deep inside — Miss Carbunkle is still very, very small.”

  Phoebe’s eyes filled with tears. She jumped up from her chair, ran around the table, and threw her arms around her young ward.

  Mr. Pitch said, “You are wise for your age, Master Nightingale. Wiser than this old humbug, I daresay!”

  “A toast to young Arthur!” cried Linette.

  “Happy birthday, Arthur!” they all cheered. Then Linette hurried to the kitchen and returned carrying an enormous blackberry pie with twelve bright candles.

  “But it’s not till tomorrow,” said Arthur.

  “We don’t always follow the rules here at the House of Nightingale,” said Phoebe. “We can have holidays and birthdays whenever we want. And besides, this way, you get a birthday pie today and a cake tomorrow!”

  “You know,” said Arthur, “I just realized something. After all this time, I still haven’t eaten a pie!”

  “And it’s about time you did!” said Trinket, jumping up and down on top of the table with delight.

  And so they all sang “Happy Birthday” to Arthur — even Peevil squeaked along — and ate as much pie as their stomachs could hold.

  That night, after Arthur opened his gifts — including a music box Phoebe had purchased from Trundlebee’s Trains & Toys for Tiny Tots, the toy shop Arthur had longed to enter his first day in Lumentown — he went upstairs to his very own bedroom, complete with a big, warm feather bed.

  He thought about that night so long ago — the lilting voice that sang to him, the soft arms that held him close, the voice that said: You are the Wonderling. We have been waiting such a long, long time. And while Arthur still could not remember exactly where he came from, he remembered now that he had been loved.

  Before he fell asleep that Christmas Eve, he opened the window to breathe in the crisp night air. Then he sang a sweet and tender song. It floated out the open window, up into a sky full of stars, and sailed over the snowy streets of Lumentown.

  And this time, when he sang, he was awake — his eyes, and heart, wide open to the world.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 by Mira Bartók

  Cover and typographic design by Iacopo Bruno

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First electronic edition 2017

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending

  This book was typeset in Dante MT.

  The illustrations were done in ink, gouache, and graphite.

  Candlewick Press

  99 Dover Street

  Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

  visit us at www.candlewick.com