Mouseheart

by Lisa Fiedler

  Home sweet home, he thought bitterly.

  When an objectionable odor wafted from some far-off corner, Hopper knew instantly that he was not the only living creature to inhabit this dungeonlike place.

  Wonderful.

  He tamped down his worry and continued to peer into the darkness.

  Just beyond the puddle he was able to make out a miniscule pile of twiglike objects; bleached and brittle-looking, they appeared to be of varying lengths, angles, and curvatures.

  Could those be . . . ? Were they . . . ?

  Bones! An entire skeleton, in fact.

  Hopper’s stomach turned. Something had died here.

  It just was too much for the mouse to bear. Crushed by a wave of despair, he covered his face with his paws and wept. His sadness was utter and complete; so devoid of hope was Hopper that he thought he might just sit there and cry like this forever.

  And then he heard it. A rumble—mild at first; a distant thrumming that grew louder and closer with every twitch of his whiskers.

  The ground beneath him began to quake as the rumble grew to a roar. From nowhere a sparkling light sliced through the bleakness! It looked almost like the sun, but even a sheltered rodent like Hopper knew that the sun did not shine underground.

  And the sun did not come barreling toward you in a shrieking, grinding blur. The metal rail beneath his paws was vibrating fiercely now, and Hopper was bouncing right along with it.

  Once again, terror immobilized him, just as it had when he’d witnessed poor Pup suffer that fateful free fall.

  The shrieking thing was charging right for Hopper. The ground shook violently as the great beast bore down on him; its screeches ricocheted off the walls as the light swelled, drawing nearer, nearer.

  Hopper squeezed his eyes shut, awaiting impact. . . .

  Then something slammed into him hard, knocking him off his feet and propelling him sideways into the atmosphere, away from the jaws of the ravenous metal monster. Hopper could not get a visual on his attacker, but he could feel that whatever—or whoever—had collided with him was large and muscular, agile and fast.

  And . . . furry?

  They landed in a tangled heap, a good yard clear of the rumbling rail.

  “Keep your head down, kid!” the stranger shouted in a gravelly voice.

  Obediently Hopper ducked just as the speeding metallic serpent rocketed past. It came and went in a deafening explosion of sound and a dazzling shower of sparks, bombing right over the spot where Hopper had sat shivering just seconds before. Even its echo was earsplitting; the light left nothing but shadows in its wake.

  But thanks to the hefty ball of fur and sinew that had come out of nowhere and tackled him, Hopper was safe. Unharmed.

  Alive.

  It was a few seconds before Hopper realized the mysterious stranger was still pinning him to the ground.

  “Get off!” Hopper squeaked, then immediately wished he’d said something more valiant—anything to make him sound a bit more threatening.

  “Easy there, kid,” said the voice. “In case you didn’t notice, I just saved your life.”

  The assailant released his hold and stood. Then he reached down and offered Hopper a paw.

  But all Hopper could do was stare in absolute shock.

  The heroic stranger had a face similar to Hopper’s own but narrower, with a much longer snout and (in Hopper’s estimation) a lot less sweetness. His body had the same teardrop shape as Hopper’s, but the stranger was a great deal larger and bulkier all around. In fact, compared to Hopper, this creature was enormous, with sharp claws and a bald, ropelike tail. He was scarred in several places, but powerful muscles rippled under his matted fur. He had a rugged way about him, but there was wisdom behind his glittering onyx eyes.

  Hopper knew exactly what this animal was—Keep had occasionally complained about these shifty, bedraggled, unwelcome sorts who roamed the city through the gutters and sewers and alleyways, calling them filthy, disease-ridden, and vile.

  This was a rat.

  The rat brushed off his dirty pelt. “I’d ask if the cat’s got your tongue, but around here we don’t like to joke about stuff like that.” He chuckled amiably, and the sound rolled away into the shadows. “The name’s Zucker, kid. Zucker of the Romanus. Now, are you going to get up, or should I just scuttle off on my merry way and leave you here to rot?”

  He extended his paw again, and this time, having no other choice, Hopper took it.

  Zucker gave Hopper a firm, upward yank. “Now listen to me, and listen good. If you never learn anything else about these tunnels, you better learn this: Stay! Off! The Tracks!” Zucker accentuated his words with strong pokes to Hopper’s chest. “Those screamers can come along anytime, and if you’re not paying attention, you can wind up like”—he turned and motioned with his long nose in the direction of the bone pile—“well, like that guy.”

  Hopper thought he might be sick.

  How had it come to pass that he was here, enveloped in this musty, unfamiliar darkness, taking life lessons from a rat?

  And yet there didn’t appear to be anything wicked or sinister about this particular rat. He was not only courageous but also friendly and funny, and he gave off an aura of bold, swaggering confidence.

  Unfortunately he also gave off a nasty, swamplike stink.

  Hopper wrinkled his nose and coughed.

  “What now?” said Zucker. “Do I offend?”

  The rat made a show of lifting his arm and sniffing beneath it. Then he gave Hopper a grin that showed his pointy teeth. “I live in a subway tunnel. It’s not exactly the Botanical Gardens. But don’t worry. You get used to it.”

  “I don’t want to get used it,” Hopper said. He much preferred the clean animal scents of the pet shop; sewer gas and rat sweat did not appeal to him at all.

  And what on earth—or, more accurately, under it—was a subway tunnel?

  Zucker ruffled the fur between Hopper’s ears. “No need to treat me like I’m bubonic.” He laughed again, but his laughter soon trailed off as he looked around. “Are there more of you?”

  Hopper’s throat tightened into a lump, and he looked away from Zucker’s scrutinizing stare. There were, he wanted to say. There were Mother and Pup, and the cagemates. There was Pinkie. But not anymore. He managed to reply with a sad shake of his head.

  “Ah.” Zucker nodded as though he understood. “Well, then I guess you and me are gonna have to team up. For survival, I mean. Yours.” He let out a loud burst of laughter. “I’m probably the only chance you’ve got down here.”

  Down. It was suddenly the most awful word Hopper had ever heard. He wanted to be up again; up was where the world was, with its pet shops and sunrises and harmless cagemates who didn’t reek of stagnant water and perspiration.

  “So tell me, kid, how’d you end up down here anyway?”

  But before Hopper could utter a word, Zucker grabbed him, tucking the bewildered mouse behind his back. The rat’s eyes darted anxiously around the dark cave.

  “You hear something?”

  Hopper shook his head and finally found his voice. “No, but I want to ask—”

  “Shhhh!”

  Hopper could feel the big rat’s whole body tense in anticipation. Zucker sniffed the air, his whiskers quivering, his ears pricked up; he didn’t seem afraid, but he was clearly on full alert.

  They stood there, perfectly silent and perfectly still. Finally Zucker relaxed. Whatever intruder he thought he’d heard must have gone on its way.

  With a sigh of relief he nudged Hopper out from behind him. “We better get moving, little one,” he said. “And fast. The sooner we get you behind the gate, the better.”

  Hopper was aware of the concern in Zucker’s voice. “Wait,” he pleaded, tugging desperately on the ragged hem of Zucker’s leathery tunic. “Where are you taking me? I want to know.”

  “More walkin’, less talkin’,” Zucker admonished, glancing around once more for good measure. Then he gave
Hopper another gentle shove toward the gaping mouth of the dreary tunnel. “Follow me.”

  With that, Zucker of the Romanus took off at a sprint, away from the puddle and the rails and the decaying bone fragments.

  What else could Hopper do?

  He followed him.

  chapter eight

  THEY RAN.

  For miles they ran through the dank, twisting tunnel. Under rusting pipes, over fallen beams, through clouds of hanging smoke, and across dirty rivulets of slow-moving water. The ground was rough beneath Hopper’s tender paws, and the air was almost too thick to breathe. He galloped along behind Zucker, operating on pure, blind trust—he had no idea where this stranger was leading him or what he’d find when they got there. Still, Zucker seemed to be the lesser of all the possible evils that might be encountered in this grim subterranean world.

  So Hopper ran.

  He struggled to keep up with his new companion for as long as he could, but at last his legs gave way to exhaustion. He collapsed in a panting heap. Zucker, immediately aware that Hopper was no longer behind him, doubled back to join him.

  “You okay, kid?”

  “Not really,” Hopper said between gasps. “How much farther?”

  “Not far now,” Zucker promised. “There’s a safe haven around that bend there.”

  “Can we rest? Just for a minute?”

  Zucker threw an uneasy glance over his shoulder in the direction from which they’d come. He didn’t look entirely thrilled about stopping, but he nodded. “Not too long, though. This place is crawling with things that are hazardous to your health.”

  Hopper closed his eyes.

  “Hey, look at this!” Zucker’s tone was a mixture of surprise and delight. “A cricket! You don’t see these fellas around much on account of they’re pretty good at blendin’ in. But legend has it they’re good luck.”

  Hopper opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with the most peculiar creature he’d ever seen. He let out a little yelp.

  “He won’t hurt you. He’s just a bug.”

  Hopper cocked his head, further shocked when the cricket began to rub his legs together and suddenly the tunnel was filled with a cheerful, chirpy melody.

  Zucker laughed. “I guess you could say that crickets are the fiddlers of the bug world.”

  “What’s a bug?”

  “You know . . . an insect.”

  That was a word Hopper did know. Back at the pet shop “insect” was another name for reptile food. But he’d never known that insects were so musically inclined. If he had, he might have felt worse about Keep feeding them to the lizards.

  “The good thing about bugs,” Zucker explained, “is they mostly keep to themselves. But if a whole bunch of ’em decide to get together, then you’ve got yourself a problem. You got what ya call a ‘swarm,’ which can be a pretty powerful force.”

  Hopper eyed the cricket, with his skinny, angular legs (six of them!) and flimsy antenna, and failed to see anything even remotely powerful about him. On the contrary, the metered twitter of his song was quite calming, and the cricket seemed happy to perform for them. He chirped contentedly while Hopper caught his breath and enjoyed the show.

  But Zucker’s apprehension soon got the better of him. “Look, kid, much as I hate to walk out on a free concert, we really need to cover some more ground.”

  The cricket stopped chirping so abruptly that for a moment Hopper thought the insect had taken umbrage at the thought of them leaving in the middle of his musical performance. But when Hopper saw the cricket dive beneath a nearby stone, he knew the bug’s reaction had nothing to do with artistic ego.

  Hopper felt Zucker’s grip around his waist; before the mouse knew what was happening, the rat had them ensconced within a crumbling crevice in the old stone wall; the gap was just big enough to conceal them.

  From what, Hopper had no idea.

  But the alarm in Zucker’s eyes was so great that when the rat pressed one slender claw to his mouth, warning Hopper to keep quiet, Hopper obeyed.

  The voices seemed to erupt from nowhere—they were so shrill and unearthly, it was as though they were coming out of a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  “Aye, aye, aye!” The frenzied warbling pierced the murky silence in an unmistakable call to arms. It was half song, half battle cry, and it sent chills from the tip of Hopper’s tail to the top of his ears.

  “Aye, aye, aye! Aye, aye, aye!” This time the high-pitched cry was followed by the clattering noise of metal scraping stone.

  “Weapons,” Zucker mouthed. “Sharp ones.”

  Hopper nearly fainted.

  He was aware of the sound of marching paws, treading just above where he and Zucker were hiding. They were close . . . so very close. Hopper might have moaned out loud if Zucker hadn’t clapped a paw over his mouth.

  “Not a sound.” The words were a baritone whisper against Hopper’s ear.

  Hopper held his breath and willed his body to quit trembling for fear the unseen villains might hear the rattling of his bones. And then . . .

  “Stop, brothers!” trilled a voice from above. “We’ve found him.”

  The march came to an immediate halt, and the voice spoke again, decisive and sure. A girl’s voice!

  “He’s near,” she proclaimed. “Zucker is close by.”

  Hopper’s eyes flew open wide.

  Zucker replied with a shrug and a sheepish grin.

  “Are you sure, Firren?” asked a deeper voice.

  “She can sense him,” said another.

  “No,” the girl, Firren, corrected. “I can smell him.”

  Hopper shot Zucker a look that said, I told you so. But this was not the time to argue over personal hygiene, and Hopper knew it.

  The weapon-wielding hunters were on the move again. There was the shuffle of running paws above Hopper’s head, and then one of Firren’s soldiers leaped down from the ledge. He landed adroitly on his hind legs just inches from where the mouse and rat were hidden.

  Hopper bit back the scream of fear that threatened to rip from his throat as Zucker quickly wriggled them farther into the space inside the rock.

  But not so far that Hopper couldn’t see the enemy.

  The one that had jumped down was kicking over stones in search of Zucker. His brothers-in-arms scampered down from the ledge and joined him in his quest.

  Hopper was stunned—not because of the ferocity with which they approached their task, and not because of the deadly-looking blades they carried, slung across their backs.

  But because they were rats.

  Why would rats hunt one of their own kind?

  There were three of them, all large and brown, but none quite so big as Zucker. Clearly, these rodents were soldiers. Two had scarlet bands encircling their right arms; the third’s armband was a royal blue color but with a white stripe emblazoned on it.

  “I don’t see him!” said the one with the blue band on his arm.

  “Keep looking!”

  They moved like the warriors they were—fearlessly, nimbly. Nearer and nearer they came to the shadowy nook where Zucker and Hopper hid.

  Hopper knew they had to do something to throw them off the trail!

  Now!

  But what?

  Slowly Zucker bent down and picked up a small pebble from the dirt. Carefully, quietly, he cocked his arm, then lobbed it toward the stone beneath which the cricket had taken cover. When the pebble hit the dirt beside the stone, the startled insect sprung out from under it, hopping madly into the darkness and kicking up a thick cloud of dust as he went.

  “Zucker!” cried one of the soldier rats.

  “There he goes,” hollered another. “East!”

  Blades shimmering, the rats dashed off after the cricket they believed was Zucker.

  Hopper turned to his protector in amazement.

  Zucker was actually grinning. “That was almost too easy,” he whispered.

  “But what about the girl—”
<
br />   “Sh!”

  Firren was in view now. Hopper could see her clearly on the far side of the tunnel. She was frowning, as though she knew that her brother warriors had made an enormous error in judgment.

  Hopper studied her. To his surprise, she was exceptionally petite for a rat. He thought of Pup, and how much smaller he was than the rest of the family. However, this Firren was no runt. She was exquisitely formed, with a glossy gray-brown coat, a pert little nose, and lovely black eyes that were as big and as deep as the midnight sky. But there was something more, something strong and powerful that seemed to radiate from deep within. Intelligence. Guts.

  Even from this distance Hopper could feel the fierceness of her.

  Like her cohorts, she, too, carried a weapon—a lethal-looking sword with a long, elegant blade and a glittering handle. A delicate, shimmering cape of silver cloth floated behind her as she walked. Beneath that she wore a blousy white tunic—the big red-and-blue stripes centered on the front of it were a clear sign that she was in charge. There was no doubt that she was a skilled warrior, but along with her unmistakable valor she also exuded a distinct poise; Hopper thought she moved like a springtime breeze.

  Firren. Brave and beautiful.

  And fierce.

  Hopper couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Neither could Zucker.

  They watched from their lair in the broken rock as she poked at a clump of dirt with the pointy tip of her sword. The scowl on her face was evidence of her frustration, her disappointment with the failed mission. Her soldiers were gone—heading east as fast as their legs could carry them.

  In pursuit of a cricket.

  Now Firren lifted her chin in a gesture that was at once graceful and intrepid. With a sigh she sheathed her sword and set off on her eastward trek.

  And then she halted.

  Hopper’s blood froze in his veins.

  Firren sniffed the air.

  She sniffed it again.