A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie

by Jacqueline Resnick

  Smalls yelped with excitement as he thrust his muzzle into the water. Cool and fresh, it tasted almost as good as honey. He was in the middle of a nice, long drink when the sound of Rigby’s bark made him look up. A blur of white was racing toward him, like a mop head flying through the air. At his side was a furry wombat, his short legs working overtime to keep up with Rigby’s long ones. “We heard your roar,” Wombat panted. “We came as fast as we could.”

  The animals stumbled to a stop at the water’s edge. At the sight of the river, Wombat’s eyes widened. “You found H2O,” he cheered. He dunked his head into the river and began guzzling away.

  “Well, look what I found,” Rigby said proudly. He turned to the side, and for the first time, Smalls saw the tiny spiked animal standing on his back, his paws wrapped tightly around Rigby’s long fur. “I won the game!” Rigby said gleefully.

  “No!” Smalls hollered. He leapt over to Rigby in a single stride. “That’s not food, Rigby!”

  Rigby shook out his fur, forcing the animal to hold on for dear life. “Of course it’s not food,” Rigby replied. “This is Alfie the hedgehog. I met him in the bushes.”

  “I stabbed him with my quills,” Alfie offered. He had a wispy voice and beady black eyes that studied Smalls appraisingly.

  Wombat lifted his head from the river. Water dripped down his snout, darkening his brown fur. “Yes, you’ve already informed us of that five times,” he griped. “Now can you please stop blathering on about your quills and direct us to this patch of raspberries you claim to know so much about?”

  “See?” Rigby snorted happily. “Alfie knows where we can find raspberries. Like I said: I won the game!”

  “Who cares who won?” Wombat said impatiently. “What we require is food, so we can get on our way!” As Wombat continued to snort angrily, Susan and Bertie climbed out of the river and crouched down next to Rigby to get a better look at the hedgehog on his back.

  “He’s so cute,” Susan cooed.

  “He’s like a spiky little hamster,” Bertie added.

  “Cute?” Alfie spat out. “Hamster? I carry over three hundred weapons on my back and have dueled with almost every animal in Maplehedge Woods, thank you very much.”

  “And each of your quills is hollow inside,” Wombat said, sounding exasperated. “I think that covers all we need to know about hedgehogs. Now can we please get going?”

  “A hairy-nosed wombat who knows his hedgehog facts?” Alfie looked surprised. “I’m impressed.”

  Wombat’s ears flickered appreciatively. “It is true I’m no ordinary hairy-nosed wombat,” he acknowledged. “I have an IQ of seven thousand.”

  “It’s seven thousand now?” Rigby asked. He stuck his snout into the river, jostling Alfie a little as he happily lapped up water.

  “Of course it is,” Wombat snapped. “I think I would know my own IQ. Especially considering that I know every word in the English language and most in French as well. In fact—” Suddenly he stopped short, clearing his throat. “We don’t have time for this!” he scolded. “We need to eat so we can get moving again.” He glanced up at the sky. “According to my precise metric calculations, we only have a few hours of sunlight left, and we still have no idea how to get to Hoolyloo City.”

  “You’re going to Hoolyloo City?” Alfie’s wispy voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “Why would you do that? Only the bravest of animals dare to venture into Hoolyloo.”

  Wombat whipped in Alfie’s direction. “Are you indicating that you know where Hoolyloo is?”

  “Of course I do. I’ve been to Hoolyloo.” Alfie reached for his quill sword, rolling it between his paws. “And I barely lived to tell about it.”

  A World Record

  In the highest room of the tall stone house behind Toddle’s Toy Emporium, Tilda was suffering through one of Chrysanthemum’s afternoon games. “Now remember, Carnation,” Chrysanthemum instructed. “You have to swim your fastest when I drop you in the water. I’m going to time you, and then we’re going to make the Guinness Book of World Records!” She smiled smugly. “Lauren Nicola and the other girls will have to notice me then.”

  Tilda stared in horror at the huge water-filled bathtub. “Uh uh,” she said, backing away. “Absolutely not. The only thing I like less than getting muddy is getting wet!” She shuddered. “The way my fur gets so heavy and soppy and sticks to my body, it’s . . . it’s . . . revolting, as Wombat would say!”

  “I know, Carnation,” Chrysanthemum said, nodding solemnly. “This is my best idea yet.” She picked Tilda up, holding her over the white claw-footed bathtub.

  “Let. Me. GO!” Tilda wiggled and squirmed, but Chrysanthemum held on tight. “Looks like someone’s excited,” she said cheerfully. “Okay, here we go.” She dropped Tilda into the tub, sending water splattering everywhere.

  “Ahhh!” Tilda sputtered, spitting out a stream of water. “Cold! Wet! Slimy!”

  Chrysanthemum held up a watch. “Get ready and . . . swim!” she commanded.

  Tilda eyed the other end of the bathtub, where freedom—and dryness—awaited her. “Just so you know, this is not for some record,” she grumbled. She took off swimming, her tiny paws paddling like her life depended on it. “Awful!” she screeched as she scrambled out on the other side. Her fur was wet and flattened against her back, making her look like a scrawny, bedraggled mouse. “Happy?” she spat out. “I’m going to have to groom for hours to look like myself again.”

  Chrysanthemum applauded. “That was fun!”

  Tilda glowered at her. “About as fun as being eaten by a lion.”

  “What’s that you’re squeaking about?” Chrysanthemum leaned down, petting Tilda’s matted, wet fur. “Are you saying you want to go again?” She picked Tilda up, dangling her over the bathtub. “If you insist!”

  “I do not!” Tilda squeaked. “I do not insist!”

  “On three,” Chrysanthemum continued, oblivious to the fury in Tilda’s squeaks. “And this time, even faster. One, two, three!” She dropped Tilda into the tub with another splash. “Go!” she cheered. “Beat the world record!”

  And Tilda was off, splashing angrily through the water once again.

  A Wild, Overgrown Land

  “There’s a train that slithers through the woods twice a day like a giant gray snake,” Alfie said. Around him, Susan, Bertie, and the animals were stuffing their mouths with raspberries from the patch he’d led them to. “It carries no passengers, only toys and toy parts. And it ends in Hoolyloo City. I learned to jump the train when I was just a baby hedgehog. Usually, I get off near my favorite blueberry bush, but one time I made the dire mistake of falling asleep. When I woke up, the train was pulling into Hoolyloo for the night.”

  “What did you do?” Rigby asked. He’d taken a break from eating and was now rubbing raspberry juice over his paws, admiring the way they became streaked with red.

  “I did what any brave hedgehog would do. I had my precious gem with me, so I plucked a quill from my back, and with sword in paw, I embarked into the wilderness of the city.” Alfie climbed onto a clump of raspberries, letting his tiny legs dangle off.

  Smalls looked up from the pile of berries he’d been devouring. “What was it like?”

  Alfie twirled his sword. “It was a wild, overgrown land, the kind of place that could eat a hedgehog alive.” His eyes took on a distant glaze. “The first thing I encountered were mammoth hard-backed turtles in the strangest of colors. These turtles raced faster than wolves and roared as loud as thunder. And they were ruthless. They’d run you right over and never look back.”

  “I believe you’re referring to motorcars,” Wombat interjected, sending a thin line of juice trickling down his snout.

  “No, they were definitely some kind of mutant turtle,” Alfie insisted. “And there were trees with no leaves! They grew so tall they blocked the moon.”

  “Buildings, most likely,” Wombat chimed in.

  “And,” Alfie went on, ignoring Wombat, “there
were fallen stars everywhere! They were so bright, your eyes burned if you looked right at them. But worst of all were the gangs: cruel, thieving, lawless gangs. It was to one of these gangs that I lost my rare, precious gem. But don’t fear.” He thrust his sword into a nearby raspberry with a loud hi-ya! “I have spent two years studying with the sensei of hedgehogs, and soon I shall return to the city and win back what is rightfully mine!”

  “Soon?” Wombat repeated. “How soon, precisely?”

  Alfie cocked his head, studying the sky. “The sensei said that when the moon has completed two full cycles, I shall be ready.”

  “Or,” Smalls said slowly, an idea taking shape in his head, “you could be ready now.”

  “That’s right!” Rigby chimed in. “You could lead us into the big city.”

  Alfie twirled his sword through the air. “I don’t know . . . a hedgehog in training must always listen to his sensei. It’s a law of dueling.”

  Smalls made a strangled noise, trying not to laugh. “Of course,” he said solemnly. “It’s too bad, though. Because if you went now, you could return for your gem with your own gang in tow. Including”—he bared his fangs—“a bear.”

  Alfie studied Smalls’s gleaming, razor-sharp fangs. “I suppose the moon could have completed two cycles already, without my realizing it . . .”

  “Definitely,” Smalls said.

  “Absolutely,” Wombat said.

  “Sure,” Rigby said.

  “Plus,” Wombat added, “you’d be assisting us greatly in our quest.”

  Alfie perked up instantly. “Quest? I didn’t realize this was a quest! What kind? A duel to the death? A battle of the brains? A combat between comrades?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Wombat reproached. “Our quest is an awe-inspiring, stupefying, valiant rescue!”

  “Of a princess?” Alfie exhaled. “A beautiful, long-haired princess trapped in a tall tower?”

  “Well, long-furred, to be accurate,” Wombat said thoughtfully. “And in an emporium, not a tower.”

  “Valiant rescues are my specialty,” Alfie said eagerly. “Once I rescued a baby chipmunk trapped in a tree, which everyone knows is practically the same thing as a princess in an emporium.” He leapt down from the clump of raspberries, landing steadily on his paws. “That settles it,” he declared, hoisting his sword into the air. He looked from Smalls to Wombat to Rigby. “Comrades, it’s time we cross enemy lines, into Hoolyloo City!”

  While the animals talked, Bertie and Susan lay sprawled out behind them, eating berry after berry. “I think I might explode,” Susan groaned.

  “Or turn into a raspberry,” Bertie joked. He let out a long, contented sigh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this full. He felt like a squirrel storing away nuts for the winter—and he loved it. At the circus, everything had been rationed, regulated. He’d reach the end of a cup of dry oats, and he would know it would be hours until he could eat anything else. Never in all those years had he experienced what it was like to be truly and fully stuffed. Now he knew what he’d been missing out on.

  Under his head, Bertie felt a soft rumbling in the grass. “Did you feel that?” he asked Susan.

  “Feelmmm?” Susan replied through a mouthful of raspberry.

  Bertie pressed his ear to the ground. The rumbling was still there, soft but steady. Every few seconds it grew just a little bit stronger, almost as if it were approaching them. “It feels almost like . . .” He was halfway through his sentence when he heard it, traveling through the earth until it reached his ears: the faintest sound of a steam whistle.

  Bertie bolted upright. He’d heard that sound before. “It’s a train!”

  The raspberry Susan was holding slipped from her grip, tumbling to the grass. “Where?”

  “I’m not sure.” Bertie jumped to his feet, pulling Susan with him. “But we have to try to find it.” He stuffed his pockets with berries as he spoke. “If we can get on it, it will have to take us to some sort of civilization. And then we’re sure to find somebody who knows where Hoolyloo is!”

  Over by the animals, Smalls perked up. “A train?” he murmured. He cocked his head, listening hard. Far in the distance, he could just make out the sound of a soft clanging, blowing toward them on the wind. “Bertie’s right!” he blurted out. “There really is a train coming!”

  “Of course there’s a train coming.” Alfie glowered at Smalls. “Weren’t you listening to anything I said? It’s the train to Hoolyloo!”

  Smalls ran over to Bertie, grabbing one of his suspenders in his teeth. “Well then, we better go catch it.”

  A Running Jump

  “To my left you’ll find the spot where I escaped from the clutches of a coyote using only my quills,” Alfie announced, walking backward as the group fought their way through a dense patch of woods, following the rumbling of the train. “And to my right is the bush where I had my very first duel, against a porcupine twice my size. I was triumphant, of course.”

  “How long until we reach the train tracks?” Wombat grumbled. Alfie had already showed them the tree where he had miraculously evaded a fox and the patch of dirt where he had gallantly speared a black widow spider.

  “Just another couple minutes now,” Alfie said vaguely. “Now, up ahead you’ll see the creek where I bravely swam to safety from a rival gang of hedgehogs. And around this bend we have the—oh. We have the tracks.”

  “It’s about time,” Wombat muttered.

  Smalls peered into the distance as the rumbling of the train grew louder. He’d heard all about trains before. There was a stop near their old home at Mumford’s Farm & Orchard, and he used to listen to the visiting kids gush about their train ride: the plush velvet seats and the way the conductor walked up and down the aisle, collecting tickets. But he’d never actually seen a train before, and as this one shot toward them, long and gray and sleek, his jaw dropped open and his long pink tongue unfurled in surprise.

  The train flew along the tracks, faster than any motorcar he’d ever seen. With every passing second, it seemed to grow larger. It let out a sharp whistle as a spiral of steam shot into the air. “Holy horseshoe,” he said.

  Behind Smalls, Bertie was steeling himself as he watched the train approach. Closer and closer it drew, and it wasn’t slowing down. “We’re going to have to jump on,” he declared. He glanced nervously at Susan, worried she would refuse. But she nodded.

  “Looks like it,” she said gravely. “Which means we better start running. The question is, how do we tell the animals?”

  “I’ve got that covered,” Bertie said with a smile. “Smalls,” he called out. “Run!” It was another one of the commands Bertie had used with Smalls during their circus training. Finally, it could be put to good use. Smalls’s eyes met his. In them he saw a flash of recognition—the same one he used to see before Smalls performed a trick flawlessly. Satisfied, Bertie grabbed Susan’s hand, breaking into a sprint of his own. Immediately, he could hear Smalls and the other animals following behind them.

  “We’re going to need to do what’s called a leap in ballet,” Susan called out as the clanking of the train continued to grow louder. “Run as fast as you can and then do this.” Letting go of Bertie’s hand, she jumped gracefully into the air, her legs spreading out into a perfect split. “Got it?” she asked. She landed lightly on her feet and seamlessly resumed running.

  Bertie swallowed hard. He wasn’t an acrobat or a dancer like Susan; there was no way his body was moving like that. But there was no time to second guess their plan. Because suddenly the train was there, thundering toward them, a flash of silver and black.

  Bertie looked back at Smalls, waving wildly to get his attention. “Jump!” he screamed over the hiss and roar of the train. He pointed behind them to a freight car with a broken door that hung open. “Jump on there!” He didn’t have to time to wait and see if Smalls understood. He just had to trust him. He picked up his speed, racing alongside the train next to Susan. “Jump on three,
” he told her. Behind them, Smalls was grunting loudly, the deep sound rolling out around them.

  “We need to jump on that car,” he was telling the other animals, as they ran full speed next to the train.

  “Jump?” Wombat croaked.

  “Don’t worry, it’s as easy as a karate chop,” Alfie assured him.

  “On three, like Bertie said,” Smalls called out. “One!” he began.

  “Two!” Rigby chimed in.

  “THREE!” Alfie finished, just as the broken freight car swung up next to them. All at once, everyone leapt into the air. Susan landed in the freight car first, sliding gracefully to the back. Smalls landed easily next to her, with Bertie, Alfie, and Rigby collapsing in a furry heap in front of him.

  “We did it!” Bertie cheered, peeking out from under a patch of Rigby’s fur.

  No sooner had he uttered those words than, in quick succession, several things happened. First, the train hit a bump in the tracks, making it jolt heavily forward. Wombat, who had been in midair, loudly calculating the precise angle necessary for optimum landing, was suddenly thrown off course. Instead of landing smack in the middle of the freight car, as he’d predicted, he landed right on the edge, his back legs dangling off.

  “Wombat!” Rigby howled, grabbing onto the scruff of Wombat’s neck with his teeth. Immediately, Rigby began sliding forward, Wombat’s weight dragging him out the door.

  “Rigby!” Susan grabbed the back of Rigby’s legs before he and Wombat could both tumble off the train. But she wasn’t strong enough to stop them, and she too began to slide toward the edge, her skirt snagging on a loose floorboard.

  “Susan!” Bertie reached for Susan’s arm, trying desperately to pull her backward. But the weight of a ten-year-old boy was no match for a wombat, dog, and girl. The faster the train sped down the tracks, the closer the line slid toward the edge of the freight car. “Help!” Bertie screamed as Wombat’s front paws slid off. Suddenly, Wombat was dangling in midair, connected to the train solely by Rigby’s grip.