A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie

by Jacqueline Resnick

  Smalls had been watching the scene unfold, frozen with fear. But that single word—a plea from Bertie—thawed him, and he leapt into motion. With a rip-roaring growl, he grabbed the back of Bertie’s suspenders in his teeth and pulled with every ounce of bear strength he possessed.

  Instantly, Bertie snapped backward, bringing Susan with him. Rigby came next, and finally, with a disgruntled snort, Wombat flew into the car, landing in a heap on top of Rigby. For a moment, everyone was silent, breathing heavily.

  Then Alfie, who’d been quivering quietly in the corner the whole time, leapt to his feet. “See?” he chirped, slashing his sword through the air. “As easy as a karate chop.”

  The Forgotten Car

  Everywhere Smalls looked, there were broken toys. They were heaped into every corner and crevice of the freight car: torn stuffed animals stacked on top of limbless dolls, draped haphazardly over a pile of cracked trampolines. There were battered board games and splintered building blocks and torn Halloween costumes and a tall pyramid built entirely out of toy cans of food, all dented and bruised. Smalls pressed closer to Bertie. The whole thing gave him the eeriest feeling, like he was sitting in a graveyard of toys.

  “The other freight cars carry new toys and unused toy parts,” Alfie informed the animals. “But this one . . .” He paused, his gaze trailing from an eyeless rocking horse to a tin man who had lost both his hands. “This one is the Forgotten Car.”

  “The what?” Rigby asked. He trembled a little as he climbed into Susan’s lap.

  “It’s where all the rejected, broken toys are tossed,” Alfie explained.

  “And apparently,” Wombat added softly, “the rejected, forgotten animals.”

  “No,” Smalls said forcefully. “We are neither of those things, not if we’re all together. And when this train takes us to Tilda, we will be.”

  Wombat glanced out the broken door, where the sun was setting rapidly outside. “I wonder if my Tilda’s thinking of me right now,” he said sadly.

  “I’m sure she is,” Smalls replied. His eyes landed on a stuffed ladybug lying on the ground across from Wombat. One of its legs was torn, but it had seven perfect black dots on its back. At Mumford’s they called all seven-spotted ladybugs Lady Luck. Smalls used to find them almost as often as he found four-leaf clovers. He touched a paw to the single clover behind his ear, making a silent wish on the toy. Please return my luck to me, Lady Luck. Let it bring us to Tilda.

  Next to Smalls, Bertie leaned back against a broken dollhouse, listening to the soft grunts of the animals. “They seem uneasy,” he said to Susan. He patted Smalls’s back, watching as Wombat buried his snout under his paws.

  “I wonder why,” Susan said wryly. She lifted a mangled toy butterfly between her fingers. “This place doesn’t feel like a haunted house at all.”

  Bertie laughed. “I just hope it helps us get to Hoolyloo.” A huge yawn wracked through him, and it hit him suddenly how tired he was. “And then to your home,” he added with another yawn. He tried not to think about what would happen after that. His future felt blank, like a book with no words. But Susan’s wasn’t; that’s what he had to focus on.

  Susan cuddled into a pile of stuffed animals and dolls, with Rigby curled up in her lap. “I keep thinking about what it will be like,” she said sleepily. “To be there again, to see my parents.”

  Bertie grabbed a stuffed penguin to use as a pillow. “Tell me more about it,” he said, lying down on Smalls’s back. Smalls twisted around to lick his cheek.

  Susan closed her eyes. “We have space,” she told him dreamily. “So much space. Our house is small, but it doesn’t matter, because we have the ocean and the sand and the fields of crops. So many places to play and dance . . .” She trailed off, and for a second, Bertie thought she’d fallen asleep. But finally she spoke again. “It used to make me feel like there was a little slice of the world where I would always belong.”

  On the other side of the freight car, Wombat let out a sigh. “That’s how Tilda made me feel too.”

  Soon, Susan’s breathing began to deepen and slow, and before long Bertie could hear the sound of sleep all around him: Susan’s long breaths and Rigby’s soft pants and Wombat’s snores and the hedgehog’s whistle and of course Smalls’s steady, even breathing, his chest rising and falling against him. Bertie snuggled deeper into the warmth of Smalls’s fur, his thoughts growing fuzzy. He was just drifting off when a single thought rose in his mind, bright as a star. I want that, he thought. Then he fell fast asleep.

  • • •

  Bertie was dreaming of the wooden boy again. But in his dream, he wasn’t wooden. He was a real, live boy: a walking, talking version of a young Bertie. “We’re the same,” the boy was saying. “I’m you and you’re me. We’re one and the same.”

  Bertie jolted awake, breathing hard. He blinked several times, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was clear he’d slept into the night. The sunlight that had filtered into the train earlier was long gone, replaced by a thick, oily blackness. Slowly, shapes began to emerge from the darkness. Smalls, pressed up against him. Susan and Rigby, curled up together in a pile of toys. Wombat, with his head tucked beneath his paws. And the hedgehog, standing on top of a broken toy motorcar, watching him with beady eyes.

  “You look like you’re keeping watch.” Bertie laughed under his breath. He was about to say something else, when he was interrupted by a strange noise. It was a soft jangling, coming from somewhere in the distance. Alfie grabbed his sword, wielding it in front of him. Bertie didn’t notice; he was too busy holding his breath as he strained to hear more. The jangling rang out again, a little closer this time. It sounded almost like . . .

  “Keys,” Alfie whispered.

  And mixed in, unmistakable: “Footsteps,” Bertie gasped.

  Someone was coming.

  An Intruder

  As the jangling of keys grew louder, Bertie piled several torn kites on top of himself and Smalls, trying to mask their hulking shapes. Smalls lifted his head. “What’s going on?” he murmured groggily.

  “Intruder,” Alfie hissed, leaping down from atop the motorcar.

  Wombat’s eyes flew open. “Tilda?” he exclaimed. He looked from Bertie to Smalls to Alfie. “Oh,” he said, his voice laced with disappointment.

  The keys jangled again. This time, the sound was coming from right outside their freight car.

  “Hide!” Bertie whispered. As Wombat leapt snout-first into a box of doll limbs and Bertie pulled a frayed peacock mask over his face, Susan and Rigby slept on in the pile of dolls and stuffed animals, blissfully unaware of the danger approaching.

  Bertie heard the person before he saw her. A lilting, female voice, lifted in song. “Just me and the toys, just me and the toys, all day loooong. Nothing but toys, nothing but toys, to listen to my soooong.”

  The door to the train car flew open. In stomped a tall woman with a thick mass of black hair. She was wearing a pair of worn, blue overalls and had a cluster of keys hooked onto one of her belt loops. In one of her hands she held a small lantern. She slowed her pace as she crossed through the freight car. “My favorite car,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t have to take inventory here!” A beam from her lantern swung upward, illuminating her nametag. I’m MARTHA, Bertie read, peeking out from under a kite. A Toddle’s train conductor!

  Bertie blinked several times, sure he’d seen wrong. But as he squinted back up at the nametag, it remained the same—seven red block letters spelling out that magical word: Toddle’s. As Bertie’s eyes darted around the toy-strewn train car, an incredible thought dawned on him. If Martha was a Toddle’s train conductor . . . then this train wasn’t going to just any city; it was going to Hoolyloo! It must be delivering toys to Toddle’s Toy Emporium!

  Next to Bertie, Smalls looked up, the whites of his eyes glowing. Bertie silently begged him not to move. If they went unnoticed, they could ride this train straight to Tilda. But if Martha discovered them . . . Bertie shudder
ed as he imagined being hand-delivered back to Claude. He held his breath, not moving a single muscle. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the freight car, Susan and Rigby continued to slumber on. It had been a long day, and wrapped cozily in their pile of abandoned toys, they slept the kind of deep, sound sleep that isn’t easily disrupted. Tucked between a torn stuffed hippo and a stained Raggedy Anne doll, Susan smiled peacefully.

  Next to Susan, Rigby looked just as content, his paws twitching under several stuffed animals. He could have been dreaming about anything—playing fetch, or chasing a squirrel, or bathing in a pool of rainbow paint—but whatever the dream was, it must have good, because his tail suddenly gave a single, strong thump. If Rigby had been just an inch or two further into the pile of toys, his tail might have landed soundlessly on the furry head of a teddy bear. But instead, it smacked right into the pyramid of canned food.

  All at once, the pyramid shattered, dented toy cans of artichokes and peas raining to the ground. “Heavens me!” Martha shrieked as the cans scattered at her feet. Her hand flew to her chest as she whipped around, taking in the mess. Cans were everywhere: on top of toys and piled on the floor and caught in the cracks of the broken dollhouse. “How did that happen?” Her eyes followed a can of spaghetti. It was rolling steadily along the floor—right toward Rigby, who was still sleeping soundly despite the ruckus he’d caused. Bertie felt every muscle in Smalls’s body tense up as Martha’s eyes traveled closer and closer to Rigby . . .

  “No!” Wombat whispered. Lifting a can with his teeth, he flung it at Martha with all his might. As it bounced heavily against her ankles, Wombat dove back down in his box, trying to hide.

  “Ouch!” Martha spun around, lifting her lantern as she scanned the boxcar. “Who did that?” But instead of spotting Wombat, her gaze landed on Alfie, whose beady black eyes were peeking out from underneath a pile of deflated bath toys. “RODENT!” Martha hollered with an ear-piercing shriek.

  Alfie leapt out in front of Martha, wielding his sword. “I am no such thing! I’m a sword-fighting hedgehog, and I command you to leave this instant. Or . . . or I will challenge you to a duel!”

  Martha cringed at the sound of Alfie’s wispy twitters. “RODENT!” she screamed again. Grabbing a can, she chucked it at Alfie. It smacked right into him, bowling him over.

  “That’s it!” Alfie yelled as he went skidding across the floor. “You and me! A duel to the death!”

  “Out, out, out!” Martha screamed, ignoring Alfie’s twitters. Breathing heavily, she chased after him. “Off my train!” she yelled. With a look of determination on her face, she lifted her foot into a powerful kick.

  “No!” Before Bertie even knew what he was doing, he had burst out of his hiding place, diving for the hedgehog. But it was too late. At that very second, Martha’s foot connected with Alfie and he was tossed into the air.

  “Help!” Alfie sliced his sword desperately through the air, but it did nothing to stop his upward arc. He went soaring straight out the freight car’s broken door. “Heeelllppp!” he yelled again, his voice fading into the distance. A second later, there was a soft plop, and then nothing.

  Bertie let out a strangled scream, making Martha whirl around to face him. She put a hand on her hip, marching over to him. “And you! A stowaway? No way. No how. Not on my train.”

  “But we’re just trying to get to—” Bertie began.

  “You could be trying to get to the other side of the rainbow, for all I care.” She grabbed onto Bertie’s suspenders, glowering at him. “You’re not doing it on MY TRAIN!”

  Bertie wriggled desperately, fighting and kicking with all his strength. All he could think about was Smalls: the way he talked to him with a single glance, the wetness of his tongue against his cheek. Tears sprung to Bertie’s eyes as he scratched frantically at Martha’s arms. He’d lost his family once; he couldn’t let it happen again. “Smalls!” he called out, a tear sliding down to his chin.

  Martha scowled at Bertie. “That’s right, you are small, you little runt. A small, measly criminal.” Holding tightly to his suspenders, she began dragging him toward the door.

  “Bertie!” With a roar, Smalls leapt out from his hiding spot under the kites, knocking a cardboard box over in his haste. Mangled doll limbs spilled everywhere, sending Wombat tumbling out with them. “Take your hands off him,” Smalls growled. He bounded toward Martha, baring his long, white fangs.

  “HOLY CANNOLI!” Martha screamed. All the color drained from her face. “THERE’S A BEAR ON MY TRAIN!”

  Smalls pounced on top of her, knocking Bertie out of her grip. “I think you mean holy horseshoe.”

  Bertie’s suspenders snapped against his chest as he went staggering sideways. He reached out blindly for something to steady himself. His hand had just made contact with the eyeless rocking horse when, out of nowhere, a toy can of brussels sprouts rolled under his foot. Bertie wobbled. He teetered. He flailed his arms through the air. “No!” he cried. But there was nothing he could do. Like a churning windmill, he went spinning out the door.

  Smalls didn’t stop to think. He didn’t stop to plan. It was deep, guttural instinct that made him kick his paws up and, with a wild leap, follow Bertie off the train.

  Martha collapsed on a mostly beanless beanbag chair, breathing hard. “Well, I never . . .” she said shakily. Her teeth were chattering as she lifted her lantern, making the beam of light swing haphazardly through the train car. As luck would have it, a trembling Wombat had chosen that moment to tiptoe toward Rigby and Susan, who were still sleeping away in the pile of toys, oblivious to the tumult. The beam swung over him, illuminating every strand of fur on his body. “Another rodent!” Martha jumped to her feet, screaming once more. “A HUGE, GROSS RODENT!”

  “Gross?” Wombat sputtered. “Grossly intelligent, perhaps.”

  Still screaming, Martha strode over to Wombat and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. “Get out with the rest of them, you . . . you riffraff!” Then Wombat too was sent flying through the air—calling for Rigby as he went tumbling out the door.

  And all along, Susan and Rigby slept on, completely unnoticed.

  Gone

  Bertie stared at the empty tracks, where the train had roared out of sight, taking Susan and Rigby with it. All around him, the animals were pulling themselves up, but Bertie heard none of their groans and moans; he barely felt the bruise blooming on his own shoulder. All he could think about was Susan and Rigby, sleeping peacefully away in an empty freight car. He should have called for them, woken them, done something. But it had all happened so fast. And now they were gone.

  Susan was gone.

  Those three little words stabbed at him like daggers. He sunk blindly into the grass. For most of his life, he’d managed just fine without a friend. But now that he had one—a real one—he couldn’t imagine being without her.

  A wet nose pressed against Bertie’s bare ankle, where his pant leg didn’t quite meet his shoe. Bertie looked over to find Smalls sitting next to him. He patted the bear on his head. “Do you think they’ll be okay, Smalls?”

  Smalls leaned against Bertie’s knee, making several leaves crunch beneath him. “They have to be,” he replied.

  Of course, all Bertie heard was a soft whine. “They have to be,” he said to himself.

  Lying next to Bertie, Smalls’s heart felt heavy. He thought of Rigby waking up to find them all gone. Would he think they’d abandoned him? Would he be scared? Those questions had been looping through Smalls’s head since the moment he’d followed Bertie off that train. At least Susan and Rigby were together, he reminded himself.

  Smalls looked over at Bertie, who was blinking away tears. He wanted so badly to make him feel better, but he felt that barrier rising between them—a barrier that could only be broken down by words.

  No, Smalls thought stubbornly. There had to be another way. Determined, he pawed at Bertie’s pocket, the one he’d seen Bertie tuck that woo
den boy into. At first Bertie didn’t notice, but again and again Smalls pawed at it, until finally Bertie dumped its contents onto the ground: the wooden boy, a crumpled check, and a few leftover raspberries. “What is it, Smalls?” Bertie asked. “Do you want some raspberries?”

  Smalls ignored the berries. Instead, he picked the wooden boy up in his mouth. Lifting his head, he stuck the boy’s feet right in front of Bertie.

  Bertie swatted at the feet of the wooden boy, which Smalls was sticking in his face. “I’m not in the mood to play right now,” he told the bear with a sigh. But Smalls kept shoving the feet at him—so close that he was staring right at the two green T’s stamped on them. TT. TT. TT. Bertie blinked. Suddenly a thought dawned on him, a thought so glaringly obvious, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it immediately.

  “If Martha doesn’t find Susan and Rigby, then they’ll be delivered to Toddle’s Toy Emporium with the toys,” he said slowly. A tiny seed of hope began to blossom inside him. “Which means we have to get to Hoolyloo City. With or without that train.”

  Smalls let out a pleased grunt. “My thoughts exactly.”

  • • •

  Meanwhile, on the train to Hoolyloo, Susan and Rigby were still fast asleep. In Susan’s dream, she was swimming in the ocean outside her parents’ house, the waves tickling at her nose. She took a break from swimming to scratch it, but the tickling sensation just grew stronger and stronger and—“Achoo!”

  Susan woke with a sneeze. Rigby was lying on top of her, his fur tickling her nose. She untangled herself from him, fighting back another sneeze. As she did, it all came rushing back to her. Jumping onto the train. Curling up in a pile of toys with Rigby. Talking sleepily with Bertie. And then . . . nothing. She must have fallen asleep.