The Hedgehog of Oz

by Cory Leonardo

  The seagull narrowed his eyes and grinned. “You won’t be going anywhere, my pointy friend—at least not without assistance.”

  Marcel gulped. Tuffy’s eyes were wide, his hair mussed. He whimpered.

  Marcel tried another approach. He shifted his leaf sack and lifted a tiny hedgehog claw. “You know, if you’re hungry, I have a few candies here—”

  “Did I ask you to speak?” snapped the seagull. He turned to his comrades. “Did I say he could speak?”

  A chorus of nos, negatives, and I-don’t-think-sos erupted from the field.

  Marcel wrung his paws. Tuffy looked as if he might faint.

  “Enough,” said the seagull. “Bring the squirrel here.”

  At the lift of his wing, three gulls rose from the orchard carrying familiar cargo beneath them. One on each arm and another gull with Ingot’s bushy tail clutched in its claws, they flew across the field and dropped the squirrel between the two sides with a thump.

  A sheepish and unsteady Ingot stood, brushed himself off, and with a bit of a limp, plodded over to Marcel and Tuffy. “Seems I’m not as limber as I thought.”

  Ingot looked thin and small to Marcel. Older by at least a decade. Whether it was the nights of poor sleep or his recent clash with the gulls, had he looked this way a few minutes ago, Marcel would never have agreed to let him go in the first place. He was, Marcel saw now, patently ancient.

  “That’s right,” said the seagull in an oily voice. “Go ahead and join your little friends.”

  Ingot turned on him. “You’re a long way from the river, Monk!” he shouted, and the sound of him, barbarous and strong, made up for any deficit of appearance. “What do you want with us? And since when is it a crime to cross this field?”

  “Since we’ve instituted a price—a price you haven’t paid,” snapped the gull.

  It was clear this wasn’t the first time the two had met.

  Ingot laughed bitterly. “I’ve crossed this field more times than you can count. This here’s open ground since the farmer left. Mice, moles, chipmunks, rabbits, squirrels—all have gotten on just fine living here, crossing here, without any price to pay.”

  “Things change,” Monk answered. “Besides, you haven’t been around in… what? How many years now?”

  Ingot’s eyes went dark. “That’s none of your business,” he growled.

  “It is when you try to cross my field,” said the seagull.

  The graying sky turned bleaker, and a chilly wind blew across the meadow, kicking up leaves. A few spun into the wide, gaping sky, and the seagull army puffed out their feathers and hunched against the cold.

  Monk and Ingot were locked in an icy glare until the seagull’s eyes melted at the corners and he smiled a wicked smile. “I remember, you know. A seagull doesn’t forget,” he said. “I remember what you lost. A wife. A boy and girl—”

  Marcel sucked in his breath.

  “Enough!” shouted Ingot.

  “Touchy, aren’t we, Governor?”

  Governor! The whispers in the forest. So Marcel had heard right!

  The seagull strode up to Ingot, inches from his nose. “Come now, old friend. You and me—we can make a deal. We could use you around these parts again. I’ll even see to it your companions here are safe. You don’t want to lose anything more to the witch.”

  Marcel sucked in his breath. He didn’t like the look in the seagull’s eyes. He didn’t like the way Ingot’s shoulders slumped when Monk mentioned a wife. A boy and girl. Had Ingot lost them to… the witch? To Wickedwing?

  The frost sounded like broken glass under his feet as Marcel took a timid step forward. He stammered. “M—my friends and I, we’re happy to pay a fair price, if this is your field, sir. We’ve got a few acorns left over, and we can get mushrooms—”

  Ingot pushed him away. “Ignore the hedgehog. We pay nothing. You will let us cross.”

  At this, the sea of birds lifted their heads and began to screech and caw, their wings flapping in quick, excited movements.

  Monk stepped closer and smiled menacingly at the threesome, but it was to Ingot he spoke. “I know it’s hard to understand, as it’s been a while since you’ve graced this part of the forest with your presence, Governor. But you gave up any voice you might have had a long time ago. Don’t blame you. You did lose a lot. What reason was there to stay? But there’s an understanding now. Between me, the witch, and Whizzer.”

  Marcel noticed a look of confusion cross Ingot’s face. He wondered if it had to do with whoever this Whizzer was.

  “The boundary lines have been set,” said the seagull. “She’s got a few rules. Whizzer’s got his stores. The fields? They’re mine.” The words came out biting. “Trespassers will pay. If you’re incredibly lucky, maybe more than one of you will be spared. But you will pay.”

  “What happened to the animals in these parts?” demanded Ingot. The fur at the back of his neck stood up. “What did you do to them?”

  At the mention of missing animals, Marcel scanned the field for any sign of Scamp.

  The mouse had disappeared into thin air.

  “Animals?” The gull gave his attempt at a confused look. He turned to his comrades. “Anybody remember any animals ’round these parts?”

  The contingent of birds threw up another round of raucous squalls.

  “You’ve got bigger things to worry about than a bunch of mice and moles.” Monk took a step closer, and every gull in the field followed suit. “How about we take little trip to see Whizzer.”

  Zing.

  Something small shot past the gull’s face and sank into the ground.

  “What in the—”

  Zing! Zing! Zing!

  Three more bullets rained down into the flock of agitated birds. Their wings poked up. The field was astir, the seagulls’ cries growing with every shot.

  “What’s going on? Where’s it coming from?” shouted Monk, spinning around and scanning the field, the trees behind him.

  Zing! Snap!

  A pained cry went up from a gull near the back. Four gulls nearby flew into the air and began to head over the treetops.

  “The farmer!” squawked one.

  “His shotgun!”

  “He’s come back!”

  “My wing—oh, my wing!” shouted the gull near the rear. “I’ve been hit!”

  The screaming of the gulls grew so loud, Marcel, Ingot, and Tuffy were forced to cover their ears.

  Three more gulls took off over the trees. The remaining birds were in chaos.

  “Where are you going?” screeched Monk. His neck was thrust out, his wings up, and his cold, yellow eyes were wide with fury. “Get back here!”

  Zing! Zing! Zing! Snap!

  A bullet hit its mark. It struck with such force, the leader of the gulls fell to the grass.

  The gulls screamed their terrible screams. First ten, then twenty, then fifty took to the air in search of safety.

  Monk rose to his feet. A few feathers on one side bore a trickle of blood. He stumbled. Twenty more gulls disappeared over the dark forest.

  “You,” snarled the seagull. “You will pay.” After a last poisonous look, he took a step toward the trees, and then another. A disordered run followed, and soon he lifted off and into the wind. The rest of the pack—what was left of it—followed, and in moments Marcel and the others couldn’t tell gray sky from gull as the last of them hastened over the treetops.

  Quickly, Ingot limped over the frosty grass and grabbed Tuffy’s arm. “To the trees now! Quick as you can! They’ll be back as soon as they figure out it wasn’t the farmer!”

  Marcel stole a glance at the wide-eyed Tuffy, but he was relieved to see him obey, his fear of scream-birds seemingly greater than that of the forest.

  “I’ll bring up the rear!” shouted Ingot. “You two fly! Make for the trees! Keep your eyes to the ground—I’ll watch the sky! Now go!”

  They flew across the open field and into the thicket at the forest’s edge. A maze of wild
blackberry, ivy, and thorns tugged at them as they went. Deeper. Deeper still.

  Ingot was puffing when he finally caught up. “We stick to this bramble where we can, so they can’t see us. Not sure they’d venture in anyway, with all that talk of boundaries…”

  Tuffy tugged at Ingot’s hand and wiggled his ears, a worn-out but relieved look in his eye.

  “Yes, yes,” Ingot said to him, and gave him a pat. “You did fine. You did just fine.”

  Tuffy smiled a little smile and adjusted his mushroom medal. “I did just fine,” he whispered to himself.

  The threesome stopped to catch their breath in a bit of bramble at the bottom of a large tree. Ingot flopped on his back, sprawled out and wheezing, as Tuffy curled up next to him.

  “Just need to get my bearings,” Ingot was saying. “It’s been a while. Seems a lot has grown up in this part of the forest. Need a jog to the memory, that’s all.”

  “What about Scamp?”

  They’d made it past the seagulls, but Marcel still hadn’t breathed. Scamp was still out there, and if anything had happened to her, he’d never be able to forgive himself. “We’ve got to go back to the farmhouse! What if the seagulls find Scamp?” he said, pausing to pluck a thorn from his fur.

  “I wouldn’t worry your prickly little head about a thing like that,” said Ingot.

  “We can’t just leave her—she’s our friend. She’s the Scarecrow!” Marcel blurted out.

  “Scarecrow? Don’t know what the hayseed you’re talking about,” said Ingot. “But she’s fine.”

  “How do you know?” demanded Marcel.

  The squirrel shot him a disinterested look. “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  Zing! Thwap! A single pebble lodged in the crumbling bark of the tree.

  “Because that.” Not taking his eyes off Marcel, Ingot pointed a claw directly above them.

  Marcel lifted his eyes.

  Scamp, balancing on a branch a hundred feet in the air, dangled her sling-shooter from a paw.

  Of course. How silly of him.

  The little mouse tipped back her head and crowed.

  “Scarlet ‘Scamp’ Mousekin, at your service!”

  CHAPTER 15 Lost, Lost, All Is Lost

  FOUR (AND A COCOON) ONCE more, they traveled into the woods, single file. Ingot led, and as she was the only one with a weapon, Scamp insisted she was the natural choice for rear guard.

  Marcel trudged along, deep in thought.

  The fact they hadn’t again come across the popcorn scent concerned him. How many days was it since he’d left the hens in the theater?

  Five. Five days.

  Marcel felt queasy.

  But the right path would show itself, wouldn’t it?

  Worry began to eat at his nerves.

  He worried about Auntie Hen and Uncle Henrietta.

  He worried about Scamp. They were farther from Mousekinland than ever. How on earth would she get back on her own safely?

  Ingot too. He was hurt. And as he limped along, Marcel realized there was now Monk’s story to consider. It seemed Ingot had every reason not to join them on this journey.

  And then there was all that talk of boundaries and witches and Whizzers.

  It was the hens and Tuffy’s need to get back to the city that kept him going. There was no point in splitting up the gang now. They were safer together.

  He’d figure out how to do right by Scamp and Ingot later.

  The going was slow. The forest twisted and turned at will. Several times Ingot had to stop to run up a tree and take stock of his surroundings, but the clouds hung low and he couldn’t see past more than a few treetops. Once, they were forced to turn around when they came to a ravine too steep to climb. The four ducked under the low-hanging branches of every spiny and thorn-riddled tree and scrambled over roots thick as jungle snakes. They slogged around murky swamps rimmed in the blackest mud, swamps that looked ready to catch some weary traveler by a foot and pull them under for the rest of time.

  After they’d tramped around their fourth such swamp, Scamp gave a startled cry from the rear.

  “Look!” She pointed an accusing finger at the muck beneath her. “Oh, scat in my hat, you’ve led us the wrong way, Ingot! Our footprints are right there! We’ve already gone around this swamp!”

  Sure enough, four sets of footprints oozed out of the mud.

  “I—I was sure it was a left at the knotty pine,” said Ingot. He scratched his head. His eyebrows knit themselves together. “It’s been a while. But I was sure—”

  “We are lost!” wailed Scamp. She threw down her sling-shooter into the mud. “Lost, lost, all is lost!”

  Ingot frowned deeper. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic.”

  The little mouse stomped up to the squirrel, fists clenched into tiny knots, and glared at him. “You said you knew the way. I followed you because you said you knew how to get me and Marcel to the Emerald City Theater!”

  Ingot squared his shoulders. “I did no such thing, missy. You were the one with all the promises. I said I’d help get you through the forest—that’s it. And that’s what I’m doing.”

  Scamp turned on her heel. “Could’ve fooled me,” she snapped.

  Scamp snatched up her sling-shooter and stomped into the trees. After a moment, she came back, eyebrows up and a look of annoyance on her face. “Well? You coming?”

  Tuffy’s eyes drifted from the mouse to Ingot and back to Scamp.

  “Come on, Tuffy. Let’s go,” Scamp ordered.

  Tuffy gave Ingot a sorrowful look and stepped toward Scamp. “I am coming.”

  “Marcel?” Scamp tapped her foot impatiently.

  Marcel shifted. He bit his lip. He felt sorry for Ingot.

  But the old squirrel seemed to understand. “It’s okay, kid. We’ll follow her for a bit. It’ll give me time to figure things out. Just don’t know how I got so mixed up. The old sniffer doesn’t work the way it used to, I guess.”

  They trudged on. Scamp, now in the lead, was explaining to Tuffy her particular skills in sensing direction and avoiding ravines. “I knew it! I knew we were lost! But nobody thinks to ask the smallest mouse!”

  She prattled on and on about mouse noses and noggins and her need of a sword. She was becoming, well, to be honest?

  Insufferable.

  Tuffy covered his ears.

  Marcel hummed show tunes to drown out the sound of her voice.

  Ingot stuffed a mushroom in each ear and looked almost blissful a second later.

  “Just needed to use the old mouse-sense. It never lies!” Scamp was saying. “Your Emerald City is on the other side of these woods here, Marcel. I’d bet my sling-shooter on it.”

  Scamp was pretty fond of her sling-shooter, so the odds, Marcel felt, might be in their favor.

  Marcel hung toward the back and the limping squirrel. He saw Ingot pop the mushrooms out of his ears and heard them disappear into the mud with a burp.

  “I’ve never wished for the loss of hearing more,” Ingot grumbled. “I just can’t figure out how I got so turned around!”

  Marcel tried to be reassuring. “I think anyone could lose their way in these woods. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many vines. Every tree looks exactly the same.”

  “Hrmph,” said Ingot. “It would. When was the last time you been in a forest?”

  Marcel frowned. “Well, nothing ever this big, but—”

  “That’s the thing about the woods,” Ingot interrupted. “You think you’re on the right path, but the trees have their way with you. Too often it’s not until you find your way out that you realize the path was right enough.”

  The right path. Marcel hopped over a patch of moss that squished under his feet and stopped on the other side to wipe them off on a few dried leaves. Hadn’t he just told himself the right path would show itself?

  But no.

  The problem with that, he now realized, was that there could be a million paths, a million wandering streets,
and sometimes…

  You have a little too much trouble finding your way back, thought Marcel.

  And that’s why he’d taken precautions. That’s why he’d made sure there was a path back for Scamp and Ingot. Yes. At least there was that.

  Ingot stopped and stretched his back, and Marcel noticed him wince.

  “I’m sorry,” Marcel said. “For all of this. I’m sorry I dragged you here.”

  Ingot shook his head. “Sometimes a good dragging’s what you need to get beyond your four walls.”

  “Was it Wickedwing?” Marcel blurted. “Was it the owl that did this to you?”

  “Sheer bad luck did this to me,” Ingot said, rubbing at his eyes. “Life did this to me. Life gives you things and takes them away. That’s how it goes.”

  Up ahead, Scamp was going on about her uncanny ability to see pictures in the stars.

  “I’ll show you, Tuffy. There’s a swan up there, and a duck with a tiny head. There’s also two of my sling-shooters, a big one and a little one.” She stopped and looked up past the pines, where the sky was still a thick blanket of cloud. “If the sun ever comes out again, I’ll show you my favorite star. Maybe I’ll even find you in the sky, Tuffy.”

  They’d trekked only a few seconds more before Scamp froze. “Oh no.”

  “What’s that?” grunted Ingot.

  Scamp’s back was turned to them, and Marcel went to her. Scamp’s eyes were fixed to the ground in front of her.

  Four sets of tracks were pressed into the dirt. One mouse, one raccoon, one squirrel, and one hedgehog.

  “It was Tuffy!” she explained. “I was distracted! I’m—I’m not lost. I just wasn’t paying attention is all!”

  Ingot hobbled to the front, and the four travelers stood in a small circle, staring down at the tracks.

  “What now?” asked Marcel.

  “But we were headed north,” said Scamp. “I know we were going nor—”

  “Haven’t been headed north for some time,” interrupted Ingot. “Look at the trees. The lichen—it grows on the northern side.” He pointed to a nearby trunk with an icy-green coat. It mocked Scamp, and she swallowed hard.

  Ingot sighed and shook his head. “We’re taking a break,” he said. “There’s no sense going on if we can’t make heads or tails of the way.”