“What do you mean what is she? She’s Wickedwing.”
“I know, but, well, she’s real, isn’t she?” asked Marcel.
“ ’Course she’s real!” hollered Scamp. “Are you thick?”
“But… well, she’s a real witch? I mean she had wings, I think….”
“Well, how else is she gonna fly?”
“She’s an OWL!” boomed a low, scratchy voice at the other side of the chamber.
Scamp screeched. Marcel popped into a ball.
There was a rustling of leaves as the voice continued. “She’s an owl, you blockheads, and you brought her right to my house!”
“I’m not a blockhead,” Marcel heard Scamp say.
“I move to the middle of a cornfield to get away from all this nonsense,” the voice went on. A clang and a creak reverberated through the chamber as a small window opened and sent in a faint shaft of sunlight. “And nonsense finds me anyway.”
Marcel’s eyes took a second to adjust, but when they did, he watched as an old gray squirrel propped a small twig under the window hatch and turned to look at them. “Eh,” said the squirrel. “You’re kids. Makes it worse. Means half the town will be here looking for you before long.”
Scamp was a mess. Her fur was caked with mud. Her grass belt was tattered, and her walnut-shell shield was askew. “You live here?” she asked the squirrel.
“No. I just wait for critters to show up so I can cook them breakfast,” snapped the squirrel. “Yes, I live here. At least I did until you two showed up. Now old owl-eyes will be all over the place.” He stomped over to a heaping pile of acorns, hickory nuts, and corn and filled his arms.
Scamp frowned. “So, you’re leaving, then?”
The squirrel paused. “What? No, I’m not leaving. I’m making breakfast!”
Blockheads. Nonsense. Kids. The squirrel certainly seemed to think little of them. It was obvious they weren’t welcome. And as Scamp mumbled to herself, her dark eyes following the squirrel’s every move, Marcel wondered how often folks made Scamp feel as small as her size. She’d already made it clear her fellow Mousekins weren’t prone to listen to her, the smallest mouse.
It was surprising, really. From Marcel’s perspective, Scamp was larger than life.
They watched as the old squirrel pried open nutshells and tossed what was inside out the window and onto a small scrap of tin warm with sun. Soon, the smell of roasting nuts filled the inside of the tractor.
The gray squirrel grumbled to himself. “Would you look at me. Serving all my hard work to a pack of hooligans. Should’ve booted ’em out and let the cornfield teach ’em a lesson.” He collected the nuts from the pan and threw servings into two acorn caps. “Here!” he barked, sliding the bowls in front of them. “Eat something.”
“Thank you,” said Marcel softly.
“You shouldn’t have,” said Scamp, a fiendish look in her eye.
“I know I shouldn’t have, but I did! And don’t expect a thing more. Got a rust bucket for a heart”—the squirrel thumped a wiry paw against his chest—“so don’t you bother me with your sob stories. I’m just feeding you so’s you leave. The sooner you get out, the better!”
“Hrmph,” said Scamp, but she polished off her nut greedily, bits and pieces speckling her face.
“And another thing,” said the squirrel, absentmindedly refilling Scamp’s bowl. “Don’t you think I’m gonna be sending anything with you when you go. You got miles of corn out there, and I spent weeks bringing these nuts here from the forest—they’re mine!” He realized then that he’d unknowingly given the mouse another helping. Just as Scamp brought the acorn to her mouth, the squirrel snatched it away and threw it in his cheek, his eyes bulging.
Scamp chomped hard on the ghost of that mouth-watering morsel, and when she realized what’d happened, she threw the old squirrel the iciest of glares.
The squirrel gave one authoritative nod. “Hrmph,” he grunted, the nut still tucked in his cheek.
They stayed like that, the two eyeballing each other, until Marcel finished his breakfast. The squirrel broke the silence. “The owl you two brought here—she’s in for the night. You can be on your way now.”
Scamp didn’t hesitate. “Come on, Marcel. Let’s get out of this tin can.” She turned on her tail and scrabbled out, swiping a few nuts as she went.
When Marcel met her outside the tractor, Scamp’s eyes were ablaze. “That old bristle-tail! Good riddance!” she said as she stuffed the stolen nuts in her sack.
Marcel gasped. “But the squirrel said he didn’t want to give us any—”
“Oh, scat what the squirrel said,” Scamp snapped. “See if I care! He’s awful. He’s got no heart! In place of a heart, he’s got a rock. A walnut shell! His heart’s just like this junk heap—an empty ol’ tin can!”
Something struck Marcel. Hard. Scamp’s words. Heart. Tin can. What was it about them that sounded so familiar?
Heart… Tin…
The Tin Man! From The Wizard of Oz! The Tin Man had gone to the Wizard in search of a heart!
How incredible this all was! Here Marcel was on a journey to get to the Emerald City (a theater, but still), first landing in Mousekinland of all places, killing the snake and meeting Oona—Oona who reminded him so much of Glinda—running from a witch named Wickedwing, and now a squirrel like the Tin Man, a squirrel lacking a heart. If only Scamp were like the Scarecrow. Then he’d really be amazed.
Wait.
Scamp was like the Scarecrow. She literally scared crows off with her slingshot.
Scamp flung her sack over her shoulder and eyed Marcel. “Well? You coming, prickle-puss?”
Marcel bit his lip.
“Don’t you worry. I know what I’m doing. I might be the smallest, but I know things,” Scamp said. She tapped her nose. “The nose knows, you know. We gotta be close now! Just need another whiff of that whizzlepop.” She dove into a patch of grass. A few seconds later, Marcel’s sack full of Fruit Gems burst out of the weeds and landed at his feet. Scamp must’ve snagged the sack during the chase last night. A few Gems toppled out.
Marcel hurriedly scooped up the loose Gems and stuffed them back inside, praying Scamp’s nose hadn’t sniffed them out. He quickly straightened and tried to look innocent.
Scamp popped back out of the grass. “Whizzlepop, here we come! Come on, Marcel! Grab your rocks!”
Marcel grabbed his sack. He paused.
In the movie, Dorothy and the Scarecrow had made it to the Emerald City in the end. But…
Marcel gulped.
It was the flying monkeys, witches, and wizards he was a little concerned about all of a sudden.
But the hens, Marcel told himself. Auntie Hen, Uncle Henrietta…
They were worth it.
Marcel adjusted his spectacles bravely. And for the first time, he noticed that the left pane of his glasses—the one that was cracked when he fell into Mousekinland—was no longer there. (This did not feel reassuring.)
In fact, it felt downright ominous.
“Where are you headed?” a voice demanded. The old squirrel scrambled out of the bones of the green and silver tractor and into the weedy clearing.
Scamp whirled around and hugged her stolen sack of acorns. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been listening to you two nincompoops and realize I’m going to have to get you to wherever it is you’re going if I want peace and quiet around here. If you go off on your own, you’ll only walk in circles and come barging your way back.” The squirrel crossed his arms stiffly. “Well? Where to?”
Standing there, statue-like, and shining silver in the sun, the squirrel looked so much like the Tin Man, Marcel at once felt certain he was meant to join them. He stumbled forward. Introductions first.
“Hello,” he said, putting out a paw. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Marcel. I’d like to thank you for sharing your breakfast.”
Introductions first. Manners second.
The squirrel
eyed Marcel’s outstretched paw. A frown crimped his brow. “Hrmph,” he said after a minute. “Ingot. The name’s Ingot.” He gave Marcel’s paw a firm shake.
Marcel dragged Scamp over. “And this is Scarlet—that’s what her father named her—but we call her Scamp. We’re trying to get to the Emerald City Theater.” He placed Scamp’s paw in Ingot’s, and the two shook. Reluctantly.
(It was a pitiful sight.)
“And this is Toto.” Marcel motioned to the cocoon.
“A cocoon?” exclaimed an angry-sounding Ingot. “Well, this day couldn’t get any weirder, now, could it? So. We got a hedgehog—with goggles, I might add—a cocoon strapped to his belly, a right scrap of a mouse, and something called the Emerald City—that’s it?” He looked to the sky. “I’ve seen it all now.”
Yes, that was it in a nutshell.
Marcel found himself smiling.
Him toting Toto. Scrappy Scamp blazing trails and scaring crows. On their way to the Emerald City. It was all so familiar.
“That’s exactly right,” said Marcel.
“It’s weird,” said Ingot.
Scamp glowered at the squirrel. “He didn’t ask you what you thought of it.”
“No, he certainly didn’t, but I’m old and I tell people what I think.” Ingot shot up an eyebrow. “And you’re young and one of the smallest things I ever did see—but what a mouth.”
Marcel wasn’t fond of arguing, and anyway, he was buoyed by the thought that maybe, just maybe, they were on the right track. He didn’t want to lose a moment’s time. He took control of the situation before things got out of hand. “What do you think, Ingot? Can you get us back to the road?” he asked.
“The road? Certainly can’t,” the squirrel answered. “The way to the road is snake territory. Don’t know quite how you made it all the way out to me, but you go that way, you meet your grave, sure enough.”
Marcel’s buoyed thoughts capsized and sank. And a wisp of worry, like a tiny bug, landed on his heart.
Scamp balked. “But we have to go that way! That’s the where the whizzlepop smell was coming from! Marcel has to get there, that’s the way, and I’m taking him!”
“You’re welcome to try it. Won’t bother me either way. I told you,” said Ingot. He thumped his chest. “Nothing but a rust bucket right here. Ticker quit working right a long time ago! Go ahead, risk it if you like. But I won’t be helping you.”
Scamp looked off in the direction of the road.
“Long way. Lots of snakes,” said Ingot. He nodded to the north. “I’ll take you as far as the forest. Road cuts through there. On the other side’s where you’ll find your city. I’ve seen it myself. You’ll make it in three days.”
“I don’t think I believe you,” Scamp told him.
Marcel and Ingot watched as the mouse ran to a tall, sturdy cornstalk, scaled it to the top, and propped herself against a wrinkled ear of corn and a drab leaf. Lacy clouds slipped by as Scamp scanned the horizon, high above the field.
At length, Scamp’s shoulders slumped. She climbed down and jumped from the last leaf to the ground. “I can’t find the road,” she said to Marcel bitterly. “He’s right about the woods. They’re off to the north—well, northwest.”
She turned to face Ingot, stomped to the spot beneath his nose, and looked up into his gray face. “You better be right about the city, squirrel.”
“I’m right,” said Ingot.
“Better be! Just look at him.” Scamp gestured to Marcel dramatically. “He’s unarmed! He needs me to help him get back to his hens! We made a deal.”
“Deal?” asked Ingot. “What deal was that?”
“None of your beeswax,” answered Scamp. “Your only concern should be helping me get this horse chestnut where he needs to go. I have to.”
Something about the way she said it made Marcel feel better. Lighter. Expectant.
Scamp cared.
And for a second, that little worry-bug on his heart grew wings and took flight.
CHAPTER 9 Nothing Breeds Melancholy Like a Marsh
AFTER MARCEL REFUSED TO GO anywhere until the others promised to try to get along, he and his companions trudged through the cornfield for the remains of the day, hiding once from a patrolling hawk and another time stopping to let Scamp dry after she traipsed into a deep puddle and disappeared.
Scamp chattered away, telling Marcel all about Mousekinland’s many moves. As a result, she was very familiar with all sorts of terrain and harsh environments.
“Settled near train tracks once—until our eyes turned yellow. Mice don’t take well to soot in their food. Then there was the stone bridge over the river. Too wet. Especially after I pulled out a pebble for my sling-shooter and the whole thing came falling down. But I don’t really see how that was my fault. Clearly, the bridge had problems. It was bound to come down anyway.” Scamp went on. “The quarry—just rocks, no food. I had my pulley system I wanted to try to set up to deliver supplies, but no one listens to the smallest mouse. And then there was the farmhouse—”
“We’ll make camp in the marsh near the edge of the forest,” interrupted Ingot. He’d led the way with nary a comment till now, a walking stick steadying his feet.
Scamp looked wary. “The marsh?”
“Sounds nice,” said Marcel.
“There’s an old gopher hole we can stay in for the night.”
“Gopher hole?” questioned Scamp. “You ever seen the teeth on those things? That doesn’t seem—”
Ingot whirled around and tapped the side of his head. “Got a brain? Use it. It’s the gopher hole or owl bait. You pick.”
Scamp’s eyes fluttered wide. She backed away.
“Sorry,” mumbled an embarrassed-looking Ingot. “That wasn’t called for. I haven’t been around folks for—for a while. I’ve gotten bad at this. Sorry.”
Scamp’s eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and scratched at her cheek. She said nothing.
It was dark by the time they reached the marsh, and their nerves were raw as they crept through the shadows. Corn sprang up like a battlement all around, the crown of the forest barely visible on one side. But here the marsh spanned wide and meandering. Tall clumps of reeds waved next to black waters reflecting a universe of stars. There was even a tree or two on a few small hillocks, spindly and stunted, holding on to their last autumn leaves. From murky islands, pickerel frogs belched. The chirps of peepers throbbed into the cooling air. A few yards away, a dozen geese, noses tucked under their wings, roosted on reedy beds by the water.
“Over here,” Ingot directed. “Been empty for as long as I’ve known of it.” He led them to a swollen patch of ground where a scraggy maple perched. Grass grew up at its base, and it took a few minutes for Ingot to clear away the entrance to the hole. “Take some grass in with you,” he told them. “It’s bound to be damp in there.”
More dank than damp it was, with just enough room for all of them to sleep comfortably apart, Marcel thought as he settled inside.
Scamp chose the far corner and went back and forth a few times with loads of grass. When she was sufficiently pleased with the size of her bed, she glanced over at Ingot and opened her mouth but quickly shut it and looked away.
Ingot, who’d been clearing a little rubble near the entrance of the hole, turned to them. His eyes shifted to one side and then the other. “I don’t imagine you’re hungry with all the corn we managed to scrape up today. But if you’re thirsty, there’s a small spring over by the tallest clump of reeds to the right. Just listen for the peepers. If they’re singing, the coast is clear. If they stop—hide.”
He scrambled out of the hole but popped his head back in before he turned and ran off. “You’ll be fine on your own for a bit. Just listen for the peepers.”
Scamp let out a long breath when he was gone. “I thought he’d never leave! Least he told us where we could find fresh water. Had us walking all day, and all I got was a swallow of mud! I don’t like him, Marcel. He’s—he’s—”
>
“Old?” offered Marcel.
Scamp gave him a queer look. “No. Mean!” She dug into her sack and pulled out a tiny rose hip, hollowed into a cup. “I’m positively parched! Let’s go find that spring!”
The water bubbled up colder and sweeter than any he’d ever tasted, and Marcel took drink after drink when they found it. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d gotten. It was like that first taste of syrupy green soda from the cup he’d found behind the theater that last long day on the streets. He’d drunk it down in one gulp…
And got a merciless stomachache.
The last thing he’d needed was a sour stomach and a hot sidewalk. You had to be nimble on the streets to avoid the footsteps, the blaring cars, the stray cats. What he wanted was cool air. A place to rest. Something plush and comfortable, like one of Dorothy’s pillow forts.
It was an air-conditioned breeze that caught his attention. And a whiff of popcorn.
The broken air shaft.
He’d followed it, and once he’d found his way inside, it was the velvet seat of 6HH that gave him comfort.
The lemon drops, lollipops, and Licorice Twists filled his belly.
The marathon of movies soothed his nerves.
He never went back to the streets.
Marcel took another drink and tried to forget.
Never would he have imagined he’d be this far from… everything.
Scamp was now perched over the spring, lapping up water, her rose-hip cup tossed aside. When she finished, her stomach gave a furious rumble. She groaned. “I think I drank too fast. My stomach hurts.”
“You should probably lie down,” Marcel told her.
The peepers were in full chorus as they tramped through the grasses, and by the time they got back to the hole, Scamp was complaining less and yawning more. (She’d also belched, which seemed to help.) They climbed inside and settled onto their grassy beds. Marcel looked over at Ingot’s. It was empty.
“Don’t you fret, Marcel,” Scamp was saying between yawns. “He’ll go back to his old rust heap and we’ll get ourselves through the forest. By tomorrow night you’ll be inches away from your city. I got a good feeling.”
The Hedgehog of Oz Page 6
