A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie

by Jacqueline Resnick

  Mrs. Toddle leaned forward in her chair, her watery eyes flitting from Chrysanthemum to the vegetables. “Just eat five, Chrysanthemum. Then you can be excused.”

  “Tell her we’ll buy her a Sprouting Tree,” Mr. Toddle yelled.

  Mrs. Toddle looked over at her husband. “Why would she want a stinging bee?” she yelled back.

  “I said a tree, not a knee!”

  “A key?” Mrs. Toddle looked confused. “A key to what?”

  “She’s a nut? That’s not a very nice thing to say about our daughter!”

  Mrs. Toddle turned back to her daughter’s place at the table, ready to insist that she’d said no such thing. But when her eyes fell upon Chrysanthemum’s seat, her jaw fell slack instead. “Um, dear,” Mrs. Toddle said slowly. “Where did all her brussels sprouts go?”

  Mr. Toddle followed his wife’s gaze. Chrysanthemum’s chair was empty, and sitting on her placemat was a gold-rimmed plate that had once held eight brussels sprouts.

  “She ate them,” Mrs. Toddle said in amazement.

  “She didn’t ask for a toy,” Mr. Toddle said in wonderment.

  They stared at each other across the long table. “Do you think she’s sick?” Mrs. Toddle asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Toddle agreed. “That was very quick.”

  A Pair of Pelicans

  Smalls sat back on his haunches, panting lightly. For the past several hours, he and Wombat had been hiding behind the bushes, out of earshot of the store’s customers, as they struggled to put together the hot air balloon toy. Without a single opposable thumb between them, nothing had gone as planned. Smalls had hoped to open the box carefully, delicately, so they could return the toy to the store when they were done. But after almost an hour of tugging at it with his clunky paws, he had finally lost his patience and gone at it with his teeth. He’d gotten the toy out all right, but now the box lay in tattered pieces at his paws. Smalls had felt terrible, but Wombat had been too wound up by the prospect of seeing Tilda to be bothered.

  “How many animals does it take to open a box?” he’d asked, his voice unusually high-pitched. “One—as long as it’s a bear!” He’d then let out a very un-Wombat-like titter as Smalls dumped the contents of the box onto the ground.

  Smalls had expected the toy to pop out in one spiffy piece, but much to his dismay, fifteen different parts had tumbled out, looking more like a motorcar collision than any type of balloon. Smalls had thought about finding Bertie to help them, but the boy was somewhere inside the store and Smalls knew he couldn’t risk going back in there to look. So instead, he and Wombat had tackled it together. It had taken them an hour and a half of studying the instruction diagram and tinkering with every single part, but finally it had begun to resemble a hot air balloon.

  Smalls blew out a sigh of relief as Wombat clicked the last part into place. “The moment of truth arrives,” Wombat said. He pulled at a string with his teeth, and the balloon inflated instantly, a bright pink sphere the color of bubblegum bursting into the air. Smalls placed a paw on the balloon’s basket, tethering it to the ground.

  “Now, how many hairy-nosed wombats does it take to put together a toy?” Wombat asked gleefully. “One—as long as he has an IQ of twenty thousand!”

  “It’s up to twenty thousand now?” Smalls asked.

  “You’re right,” Wombat said thoughtfully. “That’s probably not accurate. It’s closer to twenty-one thousand.”

  Smalls forced himself to keep his muzzle shut. “Why don’t you climb in?” he suggested, nodding toward the basket. Behind it, the sun was just beginning to set in the sky, casting shadows across the long yard that stretched between the Emporium and the Toddles’ house.

  “Right. Climb in.” Wombat eyed the basket cautiously. It was more than large enough for a stuffed animal or a doll, but a hairy-nosed wombat was going to be a tight fit. Wombat bounced a little on his paws. “I’m a knight in shining fur,” he murmured to himself. Squeezing his eyes shut, he leapt into the basket.

  “Do you remember our plan?” Smalls asked. He found himself wishing that Rigby were there to crack a calming joke, but he forced the thought to the back of his mind. Hopefully, Susan and Rigby would show up soon. Until then, he needed to focus on saving Tilda.

  “Of course,” Wombat replied huffily. “Some might say I have a photographic memory.” He paused, burrowing lightly against the floor of the basket.

  “DST,” Smalls reminded him anyway, dropping several pebbles into the basket.

  “It’s called an acronym,” Wombat informed him. “And as I said, I remember it.” He pointed his snout in the air. “There’s a reason Tilda calls me a hairy-nosed genius.”

  Smalls took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” he said. He let go of the basket, sending it spiraling upward.

  “I’m a wombat charming,” Wombat whispered frantically as the balloon picked up speed. He peered down, his snout trembling at the sight of the ground becoming smaller and smaller. “Now what was that acronym? DRV? No, that can’t be it. LSQ? No, not that either. DST!” A look of relief crossed his face. “It’s just like I said: I have a photographic memory. Now, let’s see . . . D. Duck in the basket.”

  Quickly, Wombat ducked beneath the rim, so no one could see the wombat riding in a hot air balloon. “S. Stay close to the wall.” Using the tiny lever inside the basket, he steered the balloon toward the tall house, until he was only inches from the stone wall. “T. Toss pebbles through Tilda’s window.” Carefully, he gathered the pebbles up in his mouth.

  The rest of the plan was simple. Wombat was to stay out of sight while floating up to the window of the turret, which was presently wide open. He would then use the pebbles to catch Tilda’s attention. Once she saw him, she would immediately hop up onto the windowsill and leap into Wombat’s waiting paws, at which point they would fly away together into the sunset.

  It was a good plan, a solid plan. “As Alfie would say, as easy as a karate chop,” Wombat assured himself. And it would have been. If the plan didn’t have one tiny, little glitch. With his head tucked underneath the rim, Wombat couldn’t see a thing that was happening outside the basket.

  “Don’t fear, my fair maiden,” he whispered. “Your furry knight is on his way!”

  Wombat was correct; he was on his way. But so, unfortunately, was someone else. Two someone elses, to be exact. Several yards away, a pair of pelicans were flying straight toward his balloon, too caught up in their conversation to notice.

  “And then he said that I was the prettiest pelican he’d ever seen!” the bird on the left was saying.

  “He didn’t!” the bird on the right squealed.

  “He did. And then he said that maybe we should, you know, go for a swoop together sometime.”

  “I’m dying here, Roberta! Dying!”

  “And I’m not even done, Sally. Are you ready for this?”

  Sally nodded her beak eagerly.

  “Then he said, ‘What about next Saturday?’”

  They both let out loud shrieks of joy.

  In his basket, Wombat cocked an ear. “Did someone just perish?” he muttered. He shook his head. “No distractions, Wombat,” he lectured himself. “You have a quest to focus on!”

  Meanwhile, the pelicans continued to fly closer and closer, still not noticing the balloon lifting directly into their path.

  “You have a real date!” Sally squealed.

  “I think he might take me to Pelican Point,” Roberta said, snapping her long orange beak.

  “Ooh la la!” Sally screeched.

  “I’ll have to fluff my feathers,” Roberta said breathlessly.

  “And buff your beak,” Sally added eagerly.

  “And—” But Roberta never got a chance to finish that thought.

  Because suddenly the hot air balloon was right in front of them.

  “Ahhh!” Roberta shrieked as her long, sharp beak punctured one side of the balloon.

  “Oh my!” Sally shrieked as her long, sharp beak pu
nctured the other side of the balloon.

  “Holy horseshoe!” Wombat shrieked, spitting the pebbles out of his mouth as air leaked from both sides of the balloon. He began to spiral downward at an alarmingly fast speed. Wombat’s eyes widened with fear. “I am formally requesting a rescue!” he squeaked, his voice high-pitched and strangled. But the balloon continued to plummet down, swooping left and right and upside down, like a dandelion puff tossed on the wind. Wombat dug his claws into the basket, hanging on for dear life.

  “Is there a mouse in that basket?” Roberta asked incredulously.

  “Is there a piglet in that basket?” Sally asked wonderingly.

  “I’m a hairy-nosed wombat!” Wombat choked out.

  Those were the last words he uttered before he hit the ground with a resounding, earth-quaking thud.

  Two Blurry Shapes

  Tilda’s ears twitched. “What was that?” she murmured as a faint thud reverberated outside Chrysanthemum’s bedroom window. She hopped closer. Outside, two pelicans were squawking frantically, their words a jumbled garble of Oh my! and Did you! and Was that?

  “Was what?” Tilda muttered. “I can’t see anything from this room!” She narrowed her eyes at Chrysanthemum, who was busy brushing black paint onto a large white T-shirt. “It’s—it’s abominable!” Tilda dropped her head, looking crestfallen. “Abominable . . . Wombat loves that word.”

  “Don’t look so glum, sugar plum.” At the sound of Kay’s chirp, Tilda looked up with a start. The bird had landed on the windowsill, her clawed feet dangling off the edge. “Do I have news for you,” she went on. “Boy oh boy, honey, you’re going to love this.”

  From the other side of the room, Chrysanthemum let out a groan. “Why are there so many birds out tonight? It’s throwing off my painting rhythm!” She went over to the window, waving a hand at Kay. “Shoo, little birdie. Go on!”

  “What is it, Kay?” Tilda asked hurriedly. “What am I going to love?”

  But Chrysanthemum had already nudged Kay off the windowsill. She slammed the window shut, nodding in satisfaction at the silence that followed. On the other side of the window, Kay fluttered in the air, her beak opening and closing. She was saying something—something that looked important—but inside her silent, sealed room, Tilda couldn’t hear a word.

  • • •

  Smalls turned in a nervous circle behind the bushes. He couldn’t see anything from this hiding spot! Just a minute ago, he’d watched as two sharp-beaked pelicans rammed right into Wombat’s hot air balloon, sending him crashing to the ground. There had been a thud—and then nothing. Smalls strained his neck, trying to peer through the bushes. But they were too thick; it was useless. He touched a paw nervously to his four-leaf clover. If he went out to find Wombat, he risked being spotted. But if he didn’t . . . He shivered. He had no choice. He had to make sure Wombat was okay.

  He tried to stay in the shadows as he edged his way across the Toddles’ vast, rolling lawn. The pelicans had flown off, leaving a heavy silence in the air. Smalls was careful not to utter a single grunt, but his heart was thudding so loudly he was sure it could be heard for miles. All he wanted was to be with his friends again, the four of them together, the way it was supposed to be. But with every passing day, that task seemed to grow more and more impossible. It reminded Smalls of the first time he’d juggled fire sticks. No matter how hard he’d chased after them, he knew eventually one was going to drop.

  A few yards off, Smalls spotted a swatch of bright pink fabric lying in a mangled heap on the ground. His breath caught in his throat. Forgetting about the shadows, he galloped toward it. It was the hot air balloon. Its basket had splintered, scattering pieces everywhere. Lying in the center of them was the limp, punctured form of the deflated balloon—with a distinctly Wombat-shaped lump protruding beneath it.

  “Wombat?” Smalls breathed.

  From underneath the balloon came a low groan.

  “Wombat!” Smalls lifted the fabric in his teeth, revealing a pile of leaves and a very dirty, very buried Wombat.

  “I’m alive!” Wombat sobbed, dragging himself to his paws. He shook the dirt off his fur. “Breathing! Standing! In one piece!” He threw himself at Smalls.

  Smalls gathered him in his front paws, giving him a long, tight squeeze. “I was so worried,” he whispered.

  Wombat let out a strangled cough. “I can’t breathe, Smalls!”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Smalls placed his friend back on the ground.

  Wombat shook out his fur, clearing his throat. “Now,” he said briskly. “As I was going to say before you got all melodramatic on us—”

  “I got melodramatic?” Smalls cut in.

  “You did.” Wombat gave him a stern look. “But I forgive you,” he said grandly. “Because we’re going to need your list-making skills. It’s time to construct Plan B. And this time, there’s no Alfie to do it for us.”

  A twig snapped in the distance, making Smalls jump. “First, we need to get out of sight,” he said quietly. Giving Wombat a nudge, he began to tiptoe his way back to the bushes.

  Nearby, in the yellow cottage on the edge of the Toddles’ fenced-in compound, a small, gray-haired man stood in the window. He held a steaming mug of tea between his hands and was sipping from it as he stared out into the rapidly growing darkness. In the distance, two blurry shapes moved through the shadows, one big and hulking, the other small and stout. The man frowned as he watched them. “If I didn’t know better, I would say that was a bear,” he said slowly. “And possibly a wombat.”

  The blurry shapes disappeared behind a line of bushes. “A bear at Toddle’s,” the man said, shaking his head. He laughed, a deep, jolly laugh that seemed as if it should come from someone much larger than him. “What will I dream up next?” Still laughing, he drew the curtains and disappeared into the cottage.

  Silly Indeed

  Bertie huddled inside the landing of the Emporium’s wooden tree, breathing fast as butterflies touched down around him. He couldn’t believe how careless he’d been! After the near miss in the woodshop, Bertie had returned to the Fine Woods room, eager to comb through the wooden houses again. Without Chryssy there to pester him, he’d lost track of time as he admired the tiny homes and families—and the red-haired boy that was in every one. It wasn’t just the houses that featured the boy, either. He was sitting in every motorcar too, and walking the aisles of a wooden passenger train, and riding atop a brightly painted carousel. He was a part of every single carving.

  As the boy’s sky blue eyes stared back at Bertie again and again, he’d felt a twitch in the back of his mind, like something—he couldn’t say what—was fighting to break free. He’d been so focused on it that he hadn’t realized what time it was until he caught a glimpse of a passerby’s watch. The store was going to close in six minutes!

  What if the train had dropped Susan and Rigby off at the store while he was busy studying the wooden houses? They could be here, and he had less than six minutes to find them. Abandoning the wooden figurines, he’d raced through the store, calling out Susan’s name as he sprinted from room to room, his eyes peeled for blond hair and white fur.

  Once, he’d sworn he spotted Rigby, but it had just turned out to be a pile of toy mops. When the bell rang announcing the store’s closing, Bertie had had no choice but to dive inside the tree to hide. There hadn’t even been time to check on Smalls and Wombat first. He could only hope they were safely out of sight in the Stuffed Jungle. As the last of the shoppers had streamed through the store’s exit, Bertie had allowed himself one quick peek. There hadn’t been a blond-haired acrobat or a shaggy-furred dog among them.

  Now, as Bertie squeezed his eyes shut, pleading silently not to be discovered, he heard a person clomp over to the tree, stopping dangerously close to it. “Maybe the missing hot air balloon was left in here, Margaret,” the person called out in a gravelly voice. Bertie’s heart took flight in his chest, flapping furiously. If a Toddle’s employee looked inside the tree, it wo
uld be over: He would be caught.

  But then another voice—this one higher and punctuated with a yawn—called back. “Eh, it’s probably just a miscalculation. Miles did inventory today, and you know how he always makes mistakes.”

  “You’re right,” the gravelly voice replied. “We’ll just blame it on Miles.”

  Bertie stayed frozen in place as he waited for the man to move on. Only when he heard his shoes thumping across the rubber floor did he dare move again. He sagged against the tree, his whole body tense with worry. It was nighttime, the store had closed, and Susan and Rigby still weren’t there. A litany of possibilities ran through his head, one more awful than the next. Lost, hurt, trapped . . . Claude.

  No! He couldn’t let himself think like that. Harry had said it could take a few days for the train to arrive. Susan and Rigby would show up tomorrow; he had to believe that. He took a deep breath, counting slowly to ten like he used to when Claude made him angry.

  By the time the employees left and he climbed out of the tree, he was feeling a little calmer. He stretched his arms over his head. The lights in the store had all been turned off, but thanks to a big solar system replica dangling from the ceiling—stars and planets and a bright, full moon—a soft glow filled the whole room. It was officially after hours; if there was ever a time to get to Tilda, it was now.

  “Smalls?” he called out. “Wombat?” He walked over to the Stuffed Jungle, but no bear or wombat climbed out from the rows of stuffed animals. “Smalls?” he tried again. “Wombat?” Still nothing.

  Picking up his pace, he jogged through the store, looking behind shelves and under piles. By the time he’d made his way through the whole first floor, he was positive: Smalls and Wombat weren’t there. Bertie thought back to the last time he’d seen them. It had been in the Stuffed Jungle . . . but it had been several hours ago, before he went off with Chryssy.