Bertie groaned. Worrying wasn’t going to help anyone. He had to trust that Susan and Rigby would take care of each other. He pulled the wooden boy out of his pocket, trying to distract himself. He’d dreamed about it again while he was asleep, and he replayed the scene in his head now, letting it push back his fears. In the dream, he was a little boy again, eating breakfast with his parents as the smell of ripe bananas wafted up from his bowl.
“He wants a bowl too,” he’d announced, pointing at the wooden boy propped up on the table next to him. “He likes bananas in his oatmeal, just like I do.”
His parents had traded a knowing smile. “Well, of course he does,” his mom had said.
Bertie closed his eyes, replaying the scene one more time. It felt like the dream he’d had under the willow tree, real somehow, like a memory digging its way up from his past . . .
GRRRR!
The sound of a growl from Smalls made Bertie’s eyes snap back open. He pushed several leaves aside, peering out worriedly. But when he saw what was happening on the ground, he had to choke back a laugh. Smalls, Wombat, and the hedgehog were all lined up side by side, one acting stranger than the next. The hedgehog had one of his quills clutched in his tiny paws and was waving it through the air as he twittered wildly. Next to him, Wombat was standing guard over a pile of rocks, rolling his snout in circles, almost as if he were stretching it out. And then there was Smalls. He was extending and retracting his claws as he lifted his paws into the air one at time, like some kind of weird bear aerobics. “What are they doing?” Bertie wondered out loud.
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. As the herd of animals pounded closer, even Bertie’s weak human ears could soon hear the approaching sounds.
Smalls grunted once, twice, three times. All at once, the animals surged forward—the hedgehog swinging his quill, Wombat batting rocks with his snout, and Smalls flashing his fangs.
A battle.
The words popped into Bertie’s mind. That was it! The animals were preparing for a battle.
He pushed several more leaves aside, trying to get a better look. The hedgehog was so small that a bunny could squash him, and Wombat looked about as scary as a kitten. Only Smalls was the least bit menacing. Bertie was suddenly clutched by a terrible fear. What if that wasn’t enough to win against their incoming foe, whoever it was? Smalls was a bear, but like his name suggested, he was a small bear—not much taller than Bertie himself.
Bertie pulled himself up, balancing precariously on the branch. He knew Smalls had been trying to protect him by depositing him in the tree, but he refused to just sit by while the animals risked their lives! His eyes landed on a clump of acorns dangling from a nearby tree branch. Quickly he began to collect them. If he aimed well, he might be able hold back some of the approaching animals, or at the very least slow them down. Winding up his arm, Bertie took a practice shot, aiming for a tree trunk a few yards up. Not bad, he thought, as the acorn bounced sharply off his target. He rolled the acorns between his palms. He could do this.
Down below, the animals continued their advance. “Charge!” Alfie bellowed.
“No one ambushes the Misfits!” Wombat added.
“This is for Tilda and Rigby!” Smalls chimed in.
“They’re coming,” Bertie breathed.
High in the tree, standing tall above the world, he was the first to see the herd as they rounded the bend. A cloud of dirt rose into the air around them, but through it Bertie could make out three animals: a striped zebra and two lions, one sleek and tawny, the other huge and wild-maned. “It can’t be,” he murmured. But as they pounded closer, there was no doubt in his mind: it was.
Bertie leaned forward, forgetting all about heights and fears as he projected his voice down to the others. “Stop!” he screamed. “Those are no enemies. They’re the Lifers!”
Dropping In
“Hold your fire!” Smalls skidded to a stop, nearly toppling over in the process. Lifers, Bertie had said. Smalls peered into the distance. From his vantage point, all he could make out was a cloud of billowing dirt—the kind that came from a huge, thundering herd. Next to him, Wombat stopped short, making Alfie ram headfirst into his backside.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Alfie was panting heavily, his words tumbling out on gusts of air. “If you’re thinking of backing down, Smalls, don’t. We can take them. Little can still be mighty!” He slashed his sword through the air in big, fancy loops as if to demonstrate.
Smalls barely noticed. Because through the cloud of dirt, three faces suddenly emerged. A large lion, a smaller lioness, and a striped zebra. A warm, sticky feeling spread through Smalls’s stomach, as if he’d just gulped down mouthfuls of honey. “Hamlet!” he called out. “Juliet! Buck!”
Juliet recognized them first. Instantly, her nostrils flared. Her huge, yellow eyes widened. Kicking up her massive paws, she began to run even faster, heading straight toward them. She opened her mouth—to say hi, perhaps—but all Alfie saw were her wet, gleaming fangs.
“Oh no you don’t!” he bellowed, his wispy voice nearly drowned out by the pounding of Juliet’s paws. “This is war!” He leapt into action, his tiny legs spinning wildly as he ran at full speed toward Juliet. “Hiii-ya!” he screamed with a jab of his sword. “Don’t worry, Smalls. I’ll stop this lion with my famous swipe-jab-uppercut move!”
“Who is this creature, Smalls?” Juliet asked, eying Alfie disdainfully. She slid to a stop, sending dirt flying into the air. Most of it landed on top of Alfie, burying him up to his ears.
“That’s Alfie,” Wombat offered, coming over to join them. “Or, it was,” he added, eying the pile of dirt where Alfie used to be.
“Is, thank you very much.” Alfie shook the dirt off his quills as Hamlet and Buck came up behind Juliet. “Another lion?” Alfie gasped. “And a zebra? I . . . I . . .” He trailed off, his spiky jaw coming unhinged.
“Well, if it isn’t our favorite Misfits,” Hamlet said. His muzzle furrowed as he looked down at Alfie. “And . . . ?”
“Alfie,” Alfie filled in. He snapped his jaw shut and straightened up to his full height of three and a quarter inches. “The sword-wielding, commander-in-chief, sensei-trained hedgehog.”
Buck rolled his eyes. “Who brought the shrimp?” Ignoring Alfie’s furious retorts, he turned to Wombat. “Looking good, Wombat.” He ruffled his short striped mane. “Of course, not as good as me. I’ve been fending off the ladies left and right in these woods. Speaking of which . . .” He glanced around, as if expecting someone to pop out from behind the bushes at any moment. “Any luck finding your furrylicious bunny love?”
“We’re working on it,” Wombat replied. “We’re on something of a quest.”
“That’s right,” Alfie confirmed. He tossed his sword into the air, catching it behind his back. “We’re going to rescue that princess—or, erm, rabbit.”
“And the others?” Juliet asked.
Smalls grimaced. “We got separated from Susan and Rigby. But we’re hoping they find their way to Tilda. And Bertie is up in that tree.” He nodded toward the tall tree where the soles of Bertie’s mismatched shoes were just barely visible. “I carried him up there because, well . . . we sort of thought you were an angry herd,” he said sheepishly.
He expected them to burst out laughing, but instead Juliet nodded. “That was our plan.”
“See?” Alfie spat out. “They are an angry herd.” He hoisted his sword into the air. “Ready your weapons, comrades!”
“We’re not actually an angry herd,” Juliet explained in exasperation. “We were just pretending to be. To stay safe.”
“We’ve learned that no animal in his right mind will dare approach an angry herd,” Buck said. He glanced at Alfie, who was now pressing his sword against his chest like a shield. “Unless, apparently, they’re a hedgehog.”
As the animals continued to talk, Bertie fidgeted up in the tree. He could hear a commotion down below—grunts and roars and the bray of a z
ebra—but no matter what direction he shifted on the branch, he couldn’t seem to get a good look. “Smalls?” he called out. But his voice got lost amid the chaos of the animals’ reunion.
Bertie looked down to the ground. It seemed very, very far away, the blades of grass just specks in the distance. He thought of Susan again. She could climb down this tree easily. “And so can Fearless Boy,” he decided.
But Susan, unlike Bertie, was both an acrobat and a ballet dancer. She had calloused palms and flexible limbs. Bertie had neither of these, and as he began the long descent down, his hands slid and his legs cramped. “I’m Fearless Boy,” he chanted. But he was struggling to hold on. And when his hand hit a slippery patch of moss, suddenly Fearless Boy was falling.
Down below, Juliet’s eyes widened in horror as she watched the small boy come plummeting through the air, his limbs flailing. “Bertie!” she yelled.
Immediately, Smalls whipped around. He was running before he even laid eyes on Bertie. All he knew was he had to get to him. He made it to the tree in record time, the others on his heels.
“Heeelllppp!” Bertie yelled as he came crashing toward the ground. His baseball cap slipped off his head, tumbling down beside him.
“A bed!” Smalls dropped frantically to the ground and spread out his paws. “We need to make a bed for him to land on!”
Juliet flung herself onto the ground next to Smalls. Seconds later, Buck, Hamlet, and Wombat joined the pack, squishing in close until, from a distance, they looked like a furry patchwork quilt. It wasn’t a moment too soon. With a muffled thud, Bertie landed sprawled out on top of them, one leg on Buck, another on Juliet, his stomach on Smalls, an arm on Wombat, and his head buried deep in Hamlet’s mane.
Buck, who had squeezed his eyes shut in fear, opened them one at a time. Slowly, he looked from Bertie’s head all the way down to his feet. “Well,” he said, grunting under Bertie’s weight. “How nice of you to drop in.”
• • •
Susan worried the hem of her skirt between her hands. She’d searched the freight car high and low, but there was no sign of Bertie and the others. All she’d found were several strands of Smalls’s black fur, snagged on the broken door. Susan leaned against Rigby, watching as the morning sunlight streaked the sky pink outside the train. There was no doubt in her mind: Bertie and the others would have never left them intentionally. Which meant that something must have happened. Susan shook her head in frustration. Her mom used to joke that she could sleep through a train crash. Maybe she finally had.
Next to her, Rigby let out a soft whine, and she reached over automatically to pet him. She had to believe the others were okay. Bertie would find some other way to lead them all to Toddle’s. Then she and Rigby could meet them there.
Outside, the scenery was morphing from woods into towns. Susan couldn’t help but feel a tiny dart of excitement as she watched the world spin past. Before joining the circus, she’d never left the limits of her tiny beachfront hometown. With the circus, she’d traveled nonstop, but during those countless hours of driving, she’d been trapped in a windowless cubby. As the caravans trundled along, she used to dream up names for the towns and cities she was sure they were passing. Dancing Toe Village and Arabesque City and Pirouette Heights.
But here on this train, she didn’t have to make up names. Because through the broken door, she had a perfect view of every station they passed. Her eyes soaked up the tiny wooden platforms with signs for towns like Kinwood and Holly Vines, towns with bustling centers and sprawling fields and houses that reminded Susan of her own. She was starting to grow tired again, sleep making her eyelids heavy, but she fought to keep them open, not wanting to miss a single one. For that reason, it was through tired, heavy eyes that she first saw it.
It was a sign, hanging above another train station platform up ahead. It was just like the others: old, faded, dangling from rusted chains. But this one was different. Because the town name painted onto it was one Susan knew very, very well.
She inhaled sharply, squinting to make sure her tired eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. But there it hung, the town’s name clear as day. Mulberry.
Susan’s hand went automatically to the letter tucked into the waistband of her skirt, the one with the return address she’d first memorized when she was three years old.
Three Honeysuckle Lane, in the town of Mulberry.
Susan leapt to her feet, sending Rigby skidding across the floor.
They were about to pass her hometown.
Proper Dining
In the center of the Toddle family mansion was a vast dining room so gilded and ornate, it could have belonged in a castle. It had gold-trimmed windows and a marble-tiled floor and not one, but thirteen crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. In the center of the room sat a huge silver table, polished to a gleam. This table held thirty-four chairs—which the Toddles loved to boast was four more than the mayor himself had at his dining table.
Whenever the Toddle family sat down for a meal together, Mr. Toddle would sit at one end, frowning as always; Mrs. Toddle would sit at the other end, her eyes as watery as ever; and Chrysanthemum would sit smack in the middle, in chair number seventeen. (The chairs were all numbered, of course, so guests never had to fear getting lost among them.)
The table was so large that Mr. and Mrs. Toddle had to yell to be heard from one end to the other. On this particular morning, they were attempting to catch up over a plate of fried eggs and broccoli. Mr. Toddle was wearing his favorite silk bowtie, and his bald head shone under the light of the thirteen chandeliers. The lights reflected off Mrs. Toddle’s green taffeta dress as well and made her narrow face seem even paler than usual. “How was your night, dear?” Mrs. Toddle shouted across the table between bites.
“You’re taking a flight?” Mr. Toddle shouted back. “But to where, dear?”
“You’d like a pear? But we’re having eggs!”
In the middle of the table, Chrysanthemum rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you just sit closer together?” she yelled to her mom.
Her mom pressed a hand against her chest, looking aghast. “I’ve told you, Chrysanthemum. Parents always sit at the end of the table. It’s what’s proper!”
Chrysanthemum turned to her dad. “Maybe it’s time we get a new table,” she yelled over to him.
Her dad stroked his chin, his frown deepening. “But our dining table is the pride of the town, Chrysanthemum. Larger than even the mayor’s table! And nicer, if I do say so myself . . . No, no, I refuse to get a new table!”
“What’s that dear? You hear a moo in the stable?” Mrs. Toddle furrowed her brow. “But we don’t have a stable.”
“We won’t be able?” Mr. Toddle yelled back, looking befuddled. “Won’t be able to what, dear?”
As her parents continued to shout, Chrysanthemum returned to her plate. “Parents,” she muttered, picking around the broccoli as she ate her eggs. Soon, all that was left on her gold-rimmed plate were nine green, prickly stalks of broccoli.
“Chrysanthemum, honey,” Mrs. Toddle called out. “What is it going to take for you to eat your vegetables this morning?”
Chrysanthemum fixed her mom with a piercing stare. “I want one Golden Egg for each piece of broccoli I eat,” she announced. Golden Eggs were the newest toy invented by Toddle’s Toy Emporium. They were made of pure eighteen-karat gold, and when exposed to heat, they hatched to reveal a piece of one-of-a-kind jewelry.
Mrs. Toddle’s eyes widened. “Golden Eggs are our priciest toys, Chrysanthemum! We can’t very well give you”—she paused, glancing at Chrysanthemum’s plate—“nine of them!”
Chrysanthemum dropped her fork on the table with a loud clatter. “No Golden Eggs, no broccoli,” she said, her voice rising shrilly with every word. “Do you want me to shriek, Mother?” She opened her mouth wide, clenching her hands into fists.
“No!” Mrs. Toddle burst out. “Please, Chrysanthemum, no shrieking. You can have your Golden Eggs.”
> Chrysanthemum snapped her mouth shut. She unclenched her fists. Looking pleased, she popped two broccoli spears into her mouth at once. “That’s two Golden Eggs,” she said smugly, sending bits of green tumbling down her chin.
On the other end of the table, Mr. Toddle’s frown deepened even more. According to local lore, it had been seven full years since Mr. Toddle had so much as attempted a smile. “You can’t just give in to her all the time, dear,” he yelled to his wife.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Toddle yelled back. “You’re living in your prime? Yes, well, I suppose you are.”
In chair number seventeen, Chrysanthemum chomped down on several more stalks of broccoli, swallowing loudly. “That’s five,” she counted. “Let’s see how popular Lauren Nicola is after I give all the girls in our class Golden Eggs,” she muttered to herself. She picked up four more pieces of broccoli and shoved them all into her mouth at once.
Mulberry
“You did precisely what?” Wombat asked. The remaining Misfits and Lifers were all gathered around a small pond, eating acorns and drinking up the cool water. None of them seemed able to sit still after the excitement of Bertie’s near-disastrous fall. Only Smalls remained motionless, letting Bertie rest against him. The boy had an embarrassed pink flush on his cheeks, but otherwise he seemed to have made it through the fall unscathed.
“We went back to the circus,” Juliet repeated. “We had to. It was the only way to find out if Lord Jest was okay.”
Smalls’s stomach lurched uneasily. Ever since they’d escaped the circus, he’d been trying to stay focused on the future—saving Tilda and now reuniting with Susan and Rigby. But at the sound of Lord Jest’s name, he was sent zooming back to the past. He could see those last few minutes of their escape so clearly: Claude driving his motorcar straight toward him and Bertie, and Lord Jest leaping in front of it—twelve tons of elephant stopping the car in its tracks. “How is he?” he asked, his throat raw.
A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie Page 6