Mouseheart

by Lisa Fiedler

  “Huh?”

  But she would say no more.

  They waited only long enough for her to wipe the feline blood from her sword. Then they set out.

  “Where are we going?” Hopper asked.

  “To commune with the Mūs,” Firren answered.

  “Will they welcome us?” he asked nervously.

  A little grin tugged at the corner of Firren’s mouth as she once again eyed the tuft of white fur on Hopper’s face. “Something tells me they might.”

  Paws bound and heart aching, Hopper fell into step with his captors.

  Away from Atlantia, away from his brother, and into the dusky unknown.

  chapter fifteen

  THE JOURNEY TO THE homeland of the Mūs was long and grueling.

  Back in the pet shop Hopper had been able to note the movement of the sun beyond the big glass. It had been reliable and constant, and he realized now that he’d never really appreciated what a simple comfort it was to see a new day dawn, then burn itself out and fade into the next.

  Here in the belly of the earth there was no way at all to gauge the passage of time.

  For all Hopper knew, they had been walking for days in search of the Mūs. Maybe even weeks.

  The little party rarely stopped to eat, because they had almost no food to speak of. On those occasions when they did break for a meal, Firren made sure that the Rangers shared their meager rations with Hopper. And fairly. Once or twice Hopper thought she took less for herself, giving up most of her own share so that he could be fed.

  And when they camped for the night, Firren never forgot to gently loosen Hopper’s bindings so that he could rest more comfortably; then she’d sit up all night to make sure he did not run off into the darkness.

  He would have too. And he told her so.

  “That’s why I stay awake,” she replied.

  “Because you want to keep me as a hostage!”

  “No, because I want to keep you from fleeing into the tunnels, where you would be certain to endure a slow and painful death.”

  She sounded so sincere that Hopper almost believed her. But he’d heard what Zucker had said—Firren was malevolent and misguided. She could not be trusted.

  And yet she shared her food and loosened his ropes for comfort.

  Still, he was a prisoner.

  It was all too confusing, and he would fall asleep attempting to reconcile the heartless creature Zucker had described with this kind and gentle rat who watched over him while he slept. Try as he might, though, he just couldn’t make sense of it, and eventually he would doze off to the lulling, far-off sounds of the crickets chirping.

  Once they saw one of the musical bugs go hopping past. The Rangers seemed disquieted by its peculiar appearance—those strange antennae and the bent, craggy legs.

  “They’re crickets,” Hopper explained.

  “We know what they are,” one of the Rangers snapped. “We just don’t see them around much, and they’re awfully odd-looking.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Hopper informed them. “Zucker says crickets are harmless. Except when they swarm.”

  Firren chuckled. “That Zucker is just a wealth of knowledge, isn’t he?”

  “He taught me to read,” Hopper said defensively.

  Firren’s ears perked up, and she nodded her head. “He did, did he? Well, I’ll admit, I’m impressed.” Then she called to her Rangers, and the group decided to make camp for the night.

  As the Rangers began setting up their gear, Hopper gathered his courage to ask Firren the question that had been nagging at him: “Why do you want to destroy the Atlantian refugee camps?”

  Firren took a moment to think before answering. She helped herself to a piece of crusty bread from her knapsack and brushed off a few mold spores before tasting it. Then she turned to Hopper and replied carefully, “Because I believe those rodents would be better off liberated.”

  “Liberated?” Hopper scoffed. “They’d starve to death. They’d be at the mercy of those screaming metal serpents.”

  “What is he talking about?” one of the Rangers asked, biting into the stem of a wild mushroom. “What serpents?”

  “I think he means the trains,” Firren said. “Otherwise known as the subway.” She broke off a piece from the scrap of moldy bread and handed it to Hopper.

  “Thanks,” he said. “So if they aren’t serpents, what are they? What is a train for?”

  “It’s how the humans move around,” Firren explained. “They stole the idea from the earthworms, actually. Long ago the humans burrowed into the earth and created a whole labyrinth of tunnels. These tunnels go from the places where the humans are to the places they need to reach. Those monsters you speak of are the carriers—they ingest the humans, transport them at a truly mind-boggling velocity through their man-made warren of tunnels, and then spit them out at their destinations.”

  “That’s amazing,” said Hopper. “But why do the trains need to go so fast?”

  “Because.” Firren tossed off a delicate shrug. “Humans are by far the most impatient species there is.”

  “And how do they know where one or another train will take them?”

  “That’s the mystery,” the Ranger with the mushroom said. “We suspect they have some sort of homing instinct that tells them which train arrives at which place, but that is merely speculation.”

  “Right,” said the other. “And besides, as long as they leave us alone, we don’t care where they go or how they get there.”

  Hopper couldn’t argue with that logic. Still, he couldn’t help wondering about those speeding trains and their comings and goings.

  As he polished off the paltry shred of crust Firren had shared, he closed his eyes and tried to pull into focus that sign from the Great Beyond, with its cryptic circles and colors and letters. There was some connection there, if only he could puzzle it out.

  But at the moment he was too tired and hungry and cold to do it.

  When the Rangers packed up their sacks and turned in for some much-needed rest, Hopper put his head down in the dirt to shiver himself to sleep. Sometime during the night his slumber was interrupted when he felt something brush over him; in his dreams it was the silvery wing of a giant butterfly gently encircling him to keep him safe, keep him warm.

  Hopper’s eyelids fluttered, and in his half-wakeful state he saw Firren, sitting vigil beside him.

  As he snuggled into the warmth of the butterfly’s wings and drifted back to sleep, he wondered what had become of her cape.

  They had arrived at the end of the world.

  Or so it seemed to Hopper. An enormous gray wall stood before them, putting an end to their travel.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “We go through,” Firren replied simply.

  “Through?” Hopper repeated in disbelief. “How?”

  Firren smiled and rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you know we have a battering ram in one of our packs?”

  It was a moment before he realized she was teasing him.

  One of the Rangers stepped forward and was about to knock on the gray expanse of concrete.

  “Wait!” cried Hopper. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Firren’s mouth twitched into a tiny grin. “Pretty sure.”

  “But you’re wrong about Titus. Look at all he’s done for the lost rodents. He’s given them a safe haven, a civilized place where they can live out their lives in peace and comfort. He’s the most unselfish monarch to ever sit upon a throne.”

  The rebel shook her head. Her voice was filled with sadness. “You’re wrong on all counts. There is no one more selfish than the emperor Titus. He has turned your head with his propaganda and his lies.”

  “B-but . . . ,” Hopper stammered.

  “Take my advice.” Firren’s voice was tender and wise. “You’d do well to pay better attention to your instincts. If you have a feeling in your gut, trust it.”

  Her hand went to the hilt of her swor
d as she nodded for the Ranger with the red armband to go ahead and knock. “Stay back,” she told Hopper.

  He was perfectly fine with that.

  “And keep your head down.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it,” she said firmly. “And keep it lowered until I say otherwise. Much depends on it.” She gave his arm a gentle pat. “And please, do not let anything we say trouble you. You will understand in time, I promise.”

  Then she nodded to the Ranger to rap on the wall. A scant second later a small wooden door slid open. Hopper couldn’t get over it. The door had been virtually invisible, completely camouflaged in the gray expanse.

  “Who goes there?” came a voice from the other side.

  “Allies,” Firren said stoutly. “That is, if you will allow us to be.”

  A sentry mouse poked his head out of the door and studied the small traveling party. At the same time, from where he waited in the gloom, Hopper was able to study the sentry with his downcast eyes; a strange sense of familiarity washed over him.

  The mouse did not share Hopper’s white marking but he was brownish in hue, with the same oval ears as Hopper and the same chubby little form. His tail was exactly like Hopper’s, as were his paws.

  In fact, the only discernible differences between Hopper and this Mūs sentry were the glint of fierceness in the sentry’s eyes and the powerful aura of strength and purpose that emanated from him.

  Hopper had to admit, those were pretty big differences.

  “You are the one they call Firren?”

  “I am. And I am here to humbly request a meeting with your Tribunal Council.”

  The Mūs sentinel looked taken aback. “That would be highly unusual.”

  “True. But these times in which we live might also be considered unusual.”

  The guard hesitated, then nodded.

  “So you will send word that we have come in peace for the purpose of forming an alliance.”

  The sentry turned over his shoulder and shouted for one of his fellow soldiers to relay Firren’s request to the council leader.

  “May we wait inside?” Firren asked. “We have traveled far and would be grateful for clean water, perhaps a meal?”

  The sentry looked dubious. “I am not sure that would be wise. Even here in the depths of Mūs territory, we have heard stories of your hostile nature.”

  “I am only hostile toward those who are deserving of my hostility,” Firren countered. “We have ventured here with only the best intentions. To urge you once again to form an alliance of good, as Dodger once advised. Remember, many Mūs have suffered at Titus’s hands.”

  The sentry did not deny it. “I will need a promise that your motives are genuine, that once inside this wall, you will not attack us. I will need proof.”

  “All right.” Firren reached into her sheath and, with a whoosh, removed her sword. Her Rangers did the same. They all placed their swords gently at the feet of the sentry.

  “How’s that for proof?” she asked.

  The sentry opened the gate.

  Hopper had thought the tunnel was mystifying. He had believed the city of Atlantia the most spectacular place in the whole wide world, and he’d been certain Titus’s royal palace was the most dazzling thing he would ever lay eyes upon, an incomparable feat of imagination and luxury.

  But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for what he found on the opposite side of that big gray wall.

  Even Firren seemed a bit waylaid by the sight of the black behemoth that lay before them. The Rangers came up short, halting their single-file march so abruptly that they crashed into one another and toppled comically to the ground, dumbfounded by the appearance of the massive and alien thing that lay before them.

  “The humans used to call it a locomotive,” the sentry explained. “It’s been abandoned and buried here for decades.”

  “Is it alive?” Hopper asked. He sincerely hoped the answer would be “no.”

  On further inspection it was clear that it was not. This gargantuan object was made of steel, polished to a brilliant sheen. Its body was angular in places, rounded in others. It had wheels and a smokestack and glass windows, and made Titus’s palace look not only stunted but shabby—inferior in every conceivable way.

  “It’s incredible,” breathed Hopper.

  “It’s home,” said the sentry.

  Around the enormous object on the floor of the tunnel was a sturdy village of brick, mud, and stone. The party made their way through the little town as they headed for the black structure.

  Hopper kept his head down as instructed, but he was able to watch the Mūs going about their daily tasks—filling pails from their pipelike water source; mending walls made of snugly piled pebbles; children playing in the streets, happily wielding swords fashioned from twigs. Even in these most simple and menial of chores, the Mūs gave off an air of power and purpose. And something else: unity.

  These were the ones his mother had begged him to seek. And now he was here, among them. It was as thrilling as it was frightening.

  Savages, Titus had called them.

  Here they were acting anything but.

  As Hopper, Firren, and the Rangers wound their way through the tidy lanes and courtyards, Hopper began to notice the delicious smells that wafted from the windows of the cozy cottages.

  The sentry pointed to a quaint nest on the corner. “You can stop here for food.”

  Hopper’s stomach growled appreciatively.

  Inside, an elderly Mūs couple led the travelers to a small space where the group circled around a platter full of bread.

  The meal was different from the fancy fare Hopper had grown used to as a guest in the palace, but it was no less tasty and just as filling. He obediently kept his head down the whole time he was eating.

  When they were finished, Firren offered their hostess a warm smile. “Our deepest gratitude for a delicious meal. Thank you for your kindness. We shall not forget it.”

  The old mouse smiled back and gave the Rangers a loaf of bread to take with them.

  Certainly nothing savage about that.

  “Head down,” Firren reminded him softly.

  Then the cottage door swung open, and they were once again following the sentry through the village toward the gleaming locomotive.

  chapter sixteen

  THINGS WERE DECIDEDLY LESS cozy inside the locomotive.

  They climbed a metal ladder and found themselves in a cavernous space, a steel fortress. On one end of it was a veritable mountain of mechanicals, a tall tangle of metal cords, dials, springs, meters, and cranks.

  “What is this place?” Hopper asked.

  “Another human leftover,” Firren observed. “Bigger than most.”

  “Very true,” came a voice from the shadows.

  Hopper turned away from the guts of the locomotive to see another Mūs. At the same moment two of Firren’s Rangers very purposefully stepped in front of Hopper, effectively shielding him from the Mūs’s view. Hopper had to peer through the tiny gap between their bodies to see what was happening.

  This Mūs was not dressed in military attire like the sentry, nor did he wear the plain serviceable clothing worn by the elderly couple with whom Hopper and the Rangers had just dined.

  This Mūs was draped in a long, hooded robe—gold, with colorful needlework around the wide cuffs and hemline. The hood, which hid most of his face, was also embellished with bright embroidered trim.

  He continued, “We believe this engine, as our research tells us it was called, is the ancestor of the sleeker modern ones that zip through the tunnels above us.”

  “I think you’re probably correct,” said Firren. “In any case, it is a suitable place for such an exalted tribunal as yours to convene. And for La Rocha to dwell.”

  “I agree,” he said. “Although we never see La Rocha. Being mortal, we are not fit to lay eyes on such greatness. He comes and goes under the cover of darkness, and we speak to him from a distance only, and t
hen only rarely. Most of his prophecies and commands are communicated to us in the written word.”

  “I thought La Rocha was a mystical being,” Hopper whispered to the Rangers.

  “That’s one theory,” one whispered back. “Others believe that La Rocha is just an earthly creature blessed with plain, old-fashioned wisdom and good sense. Still others think that he—or perhaps she—is some fantastical combination of both. His lengthy lifespan lead most to believe he is at least part cockroach. Mixed with dragon, perhaps.”

  Now the Mūs pushed his hood back, and again Hopper felt that same sense of recognition wash over him. Same brown fur, same gently pointed snout.

  The robed Mūs introduced himself. “I am Elder Sage, of the Tribunal Council. We have heard of your recent escapades and know that you are—how shall I say it?—rattus non grata within the walls of Atlantia. I am no fan of the Atlantian emperor, but I fear it is not in our best interests to form an alliance with you at this time.”

  “At this time?” Firren repeated, struggling to remain calm. “With all due respect, sir, this may be the only time!” She took a deep breath. “Dodger and I began a quest to end Titus’s reign.” Firren’s pretty face tightened with anger and sadness. “We had a third associate, who was equally committed to our cause. Or so we thought. But when we lost Dodger and it became clear that we could not win the fight alone, this traitor shifted his allegiance. He is now staunchly aligned with the Romanus.” She lowered her eyes to murmur, “Perhaps he always was.”

  Sage let out a long sigh. “Dodger had set out from us so bravely. But then he was gone for so long. We told ourselves it was because he was accomplishing his goals, but eventually word reached us that he’d met a tragic end. Then not long after we learned of Dodger’s demise, La Rocha’s greatest prediction was revealed. A prophecy of a Chosen One who would come to follow in Dodger’s footsteps, and most importantly that this Chosen One would be Dodger’s progeny. But Dodger left no mate behind when he set out on his mission. For this reason the prophecy has perplexed us. Until—” Sage seemed to catch himself, as though he’d said too much.