A knot of panic climbed up his chest, settling in the back of his throat. What if they’d been discovered?
But how could he have missed that? A bear in a toy store? There would have been screaming, crying, all-around chaos. Even from upstairs he would have heard it. So where were they?
Snap! A noise from outside made him jump.
Snap! There it went again. This time, it was accompanied by another noise . . . Was that a grunt?
Bertie ran to the window and peeked out. There, squeezed behind a row of bushes, were Smalls and Wombat. Smalls was standing on his hind legs, and Wombat was resting in his front paws with a slingshot wrapped around him. As Wombat snorted a mile a minute, Smalls inched his paws left and right, almost as if he was trying to find a certain angle. Bertie raised his eyebrows. What were they doing? There was only one way to find out. Hoisting himself up on the windowsill, he jumped down into the grass.
• • •
In the small yellow cottage across the way, the gray-haired man sat hunched over his desk. “A bear and a wombat,” he murmured to himself. He was whittling away at a block of wood, sending clouds of sawdust floating to the floor. “What silly things I come up with!”
As the night waned on, the man’s knife continued to fly across the wood, sculpting and chiseling until a shape began to emerge from the block. Sleek curves and sharp lines, tiny etchings and scruffy texture. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, the man swept his knife over the wood one last time. “Finished,” he murmured.
Holding the carving up to his desk lamp, he turned it this way and that, admiring it. Where there had once been just a square of wood, there were now two tiny figures, walking side by side: a long-tongued bear and a short, stout wombat. “Yes,” he said. “Silly indeed.”
A Flying Wombat
Smalls looked down at Wombat.
Wombat looked up at Smalls.
Bertie looked over at both of them, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Smalls asked Wombat for the fifteenth time. He shifted uneasily, making the bushes around them rustle.
“I’m certain,” Wombat replied, although the slight tremble in his voice made him sound anything but.
“It could go awry,” Smalls pointed out, also for the fifteenth time. “Just like the balloon did.”
“I’m aware . . .” For a second, Wombat appeared to waver. But then his gaze flickered toward the stone turret on the other side of the grounds. Night had fallen, sweeping the house in darkness. “It doesn’t matter,” he declared. “Tilda is in there somewhere. It is my duty as the love of her life to save her. At whatever cost to my own being.” He lifted his snout above the slingshot. “Shoot me to her, Smalls!”
“Okay . . . if this is what you want.”
“It is,” Wombat said firmly. “Besides”—Wombat stuck his snout into the air—“if Alfie can defeat Grubs, then I can most certainly do this. It’s just as he said: Little can still be mighty! Or, to put it more eloquently, minuscule can still be indomitable!”
“You’re right.” Smalls tightened the slingshot around Wombat. The window in the center of the turret—the one Wombat had tried to fly up to on the hot air balloon—shone with a dim beam of light. He carefully positioned himself so Wombat was aiming right at it. “If Alfie can defeat Grubs, then you can do this,” he repeated, screwing up his courage. “We can do this.”
“Easy as a karate chop,” Wombat agreed.
Smalls nodded. But his paws were shaking as he slowly pulled back the slingshot.
Next to him, Bertie let out a yelp. “Stop it, Smalls! What are you doing? Are you actually going to shoot him? That’s crazy! He could get hurt!” He grabbed onto Smalls’s shoulder, squeezing tight.
Smalls froze, the slingshot stretched tight between his paws. “Bertie’s right, Wombat. It’s just not safe enough. We’ll have to find another way.”
Wombat ignored him. With a determined grunt, he twisted around and, grabbing the slingshot in his teeth, yanked it out of Smalls’s paws. “Easy as a karate chop!” he trilled. With a terrifying whoosh, Wombat launched into the air.
“No!” Smalls erupted.
“No!” Bertie cried.
Smalls’s fur stood on end as he watched his friend soar through the sky. He wanted to look away, hide his head, but his eyes were glued to Wombat, his breath tangled somewhere deep in his throat.
His aim, at least, appeared to have been perfect. Wombat was catapulting in a direct trajectory toward the turret’s window. Smalls dug his claws into the ground. If nothing got in his way, if no pelicans or heavy winds decided to swoop into his path, Wombat might actually have a chance at succeeding.
But once again, the animals’ plan had a small but vital glitch. For, in the inky darkness of the night, neither Wombat nor Smalls could see that Chrysanthemum’s window, which had stood wide open when Wombat rode up on the hot air balloon, had since been shut.
As Wombat vaulted toward the window, he opened one eye a crack. The wind was rushing past him, ruffling his fur and slicking back his ears. Down below, the ground grew small and fuzzy, like a photograph out of focus. “I’m flying,” Wombat breathed. Slowly, his muscles relaxed. His eyes opened. “It’s a bird . . . It’s a plane . . . It’s a flying wombat!”
Wombat was just starting to look like he was truly enjoying himself when something caught his attention. He cocked his head, studying the window. The closer he got, the clearer his view became. “Window panes?” he murmured. “Window panes mean . . .” He gasped. “Oh no!”
Wombat flailed his paws.
He wiggled his body.
He tried to steer with his snout.
But it was pointless; he couldn’t change his path.
Suddenly the window was there, right in front of him, glass and windowpanes and all. Behind it, Wombat caught a glimpse of a bedroom. Purple carpeting. A canopy bed. A curly-haired girl, holding a long-furred, snow-white rabbit.
“Tilda!” Wombat shouted.
Tilda’s ears lifted. Her eyes darted toward the window. When she saw the animal outside, she let out an ear-piercing squeak. “Wombat!”
For a split second, the two animals locked eyes. Then Wombat slammed into the glass with a booming, echoing CRACK!
“Not again,” Wombat groaned—just before he went plunging toward the ground.
Inside the stone turret, Tilda leapt out of Chrysanthemum’s arms. Pedaling her legs wildly, she made a beeline through the air, landing unsteadily on the edge of the windowsill. Ignoring Chrysanthemum’s cries of dismay, she pressed her nose up against the glass. On the other side of the window, Wombat was spinning rapidly downward. “He really did it,” Tilda said in amazement. “He came to save me.”
There was a muffled thud as Wombat crashed into a thick pile of leaves, sinking out of sight. Tilda dug her nails into the windowsill as she waited for him to emerge. “Come on, Wombat,” she urged.
Wombat’s snout appeared first, popping out through the orange and gold leaves. Next came his head, then his back, and finally all four paws. Only when he had climbed out of the pile—limping, but whole—did Tilda breathe easily again. Wombat lifted his snout, looking longingly up at her window. “My prince of a wombat,” she swooned. Rising onto her hind legs, she placed her front paws on the window, blowing Wombat a kiss.
Down on the ground, Wombat shook a few stray leaves off his back. In the darkness, he could just make out the shape of a rabbit pressed against the turret window. “My princess in waiting,” he said. He blew Tilda a kiss. “I’ll be back for you soon.”
A Newspaper Ad
Susan lay on her back in the sand, letting the waves wash over her toes. She loved the shock of the icy nighttime water, the way it sent a jolt running through her every time. Right now, she needed a jolt. It had been twenty-four hours since she’d arrived home, and still there was no sight of her parents. She fiddled with the lantern she’d brought out with her. “What am I going to do?” she mu
rmured. She’d thought about going after her parents, but of course she had no idea how she would get to Truberg. Besides, what if she did find a way there only to discover her parents had already left?
She looked over at Rigby, who was swirling his tail through the sand, looking downright elated by the wiggly lines he was leaving behind. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by their predicament. Then again, Susan knew what he didn’t. They were running out of food.
Earlier, while Rigby was out galloping in the yard, Susan had counted the cans left in the cupboard. Four. That was all. Enough for two meals each. Susan flopped over onto her stomach, reaching for the newspaper she’d been carrying around all day—the one that had told her where her parents were. She needed a distraction before she went out of her mind with worry. She knew she could get by for a day or so without food; she’d done it in the circus when they ran out of oats. But Rigby? That dog downed his meals in two seconds flat. As it was, she was worried she wasn’t feeding him enough. She couldn’t bear the thought of giving him nothing at all.
The lantern cast a dim glow on the paper as she flipped unseeingly through it. If only the crops were still in season. But the fields would be dry and barren by now. She could always go to the McLarens. They lived in the next house over, several miles up the road. But Susan knew they had enough trouble feeding their own six kids. She flipped furiously to the next page, barely glancing at the articles. Maybe she should check the fields anyway, she mused. There could be a few late bloomers left . . .
Rigby pressed his wet nose into her hand, drawing her out of her thoughts. She smiled, mussing up his fur. “Don’t worry, Rigby, I’ll figure something out.”
The dog let out a whine, nosing at the paper.
“You interested in some light reading?” Susan joked.
Rigby responded by nosing the paper again. When he lifted his head, he’d left behind a wet splotch, smack in the center of an advertisement.
Susan’s heart skipped a beat when she noticed two familiar green T’s at the top of the ad. Visit Toddle’s Toy Emporium! it read. Only 20 miles down Route 3!
Susan looked over at Rigby. “Are you trying to tell me something, Rigby?”
Rigby barked, wagging his tail against the sand.
Susan ran her finger over the ad’s smudged black ink. In the corner, there was a picture of a large, shiny egg. Toddle’s Golden Egg, the ad touted. The first of its kind! A large building rose in the background, trimmed in white.
Susan stared at the image, transfixed. If Bertie and the others had been successful, they would be in that very building right now. She glanced toward her house, where her old bike was propped up against the back stoop. She held up the lantern to get a better look. The bike was slightly rusted and had several pairs of old ballet shoes tied to its basket, but the tires looked full. Six months ago, it had been working just fine.
Susan scratched Rigby under his ears. Whether he’d meant to or not, he’d planted a seed in her head. And as she kept staring at the bike, it began to sprout, shooting up at record speed. “Twenty miles isn’t bad on a bike . . .”
Rigby barked loudly.
Susan jumped up. “You know what, Rigby? I’m thinking tomorrow might be a good day for a ride.”
A Promise
Bertie raced to the pile of leaves where Wombat had landed. He’d made Smalls stay behind in the bushes, but he suddenly found himself wishing the bear was with him to calm his nerves. He’d seen Wombat climb out of the leaves, which meant he was alive, but he’d been limping pretty badly. What if he’d broken a bone? Where would Bertie find a veterinarian in a closed-up toy store?
“Wombat!” He halted to a stop in front of the animal and dropped onto his knees. Quickly, he ran a hand over Wombat’s body, feeling for any bumps or cracks underneath his fur. Everything felt normal. Bertie blew out a sigh of relief. It looked like he was just bruised. He scooped Wombat up in his arms, petting his back. “You’re one lucky guy, you know that? I don’t know what you were thinking!” Wombat let out a snort, nudging his snout into Bertie’s wrist. “You crazy wombat,” Bertie said with a sigh. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
He was about to head back to the bushes when he noticed Wombat lift his snout sharply, his eyes focused on something in the distance. Bertie followed his gaze up to the tall stone turret of the Toddles’ house. There, pressed up against its window, was the dejected form of a long-furred rabbit. Tilda.
Suddenly it all made sense. That’s what Smalls and Wombat had been doing. They’d been trying to get to Tilda.
Bertie hurried back to the bushes, placing Wombat down next to Smalls. “We’re not giving up that easily,” he told the animals. “It’s my turn to try. But you both stay here.” He pointed at the bushes, giving Smalls his sternest look. He wanted the animals where he knew they would be safe. “Stay,” he repeated. When he was satisfied that Smalls had understood the command, he took off for the stone house. He was pumped full of energy. He’d seen Tilda with his own eyes! Now all he had to do was find a way up into that turret . . .
He was halfway across the Toddles’ rolling lawn when the door to the stone house suddenly flew open. A man stepped outside, nothing more than a vague outline in the darkness. The man turned in his direction, and for a second Bertie worried he’d been spotted. But the man just lifted his head to the sky, sinking down on the front stoop.
Bertie dove behind the closest tree, trying to make himself as small as possible—Invisible Boy, just a slip of a shadow. As long as he stayed hidden, he could sneak over to the house when the man went back inside. Maybe he’d even forget to lock the door behind him!
For what felt like hours, Bertie waited there, his back pressed up against the tree, the pounding in his ears drowning out the sounds of nature. He felt like he was in one of those games: Spot What’s Wrong with This Picture. Any minute now the man could come pluck him up for the win. But time crept by and the man didn’t move. He just sat there staring up at the sky, as if he hoped to find an answer spelled out in the stars.
The air became colder. The moon rose higher. Crickets chirped the minutes away. And still Bertie stood there, waiting. His legs grew tired. His empty stomach protested loudly. Finally, he peeked out again. The man hadn’t moved an inch. From Bertie’s vantage point, he looked like a statue, turned to stone. Bertie’s stomach groaned. It was clear the man wasn’t leaving anytime soon, and he was starving. He’d just have to try again later. Moving as stealthily as he could, Bertie snuck back to the Emporium, stealing his way from tree to tree. “Time for a dinner break,” he whispered to the animals. He lifted Wombat in through the store’s window, then he and Smalls followed behind.
Bertie went to the candy room and returned with his hands full of caramel squares and peanut brittle and a jar of honey for Smalls. Just a few days ago, he would have been ecstatic at the thought of eating a dinner of candy. But he barely tasted it now as he dropped down in the Stuffed Jungle next to Smalls, blindly popping food into his mouth. His brain was too busy racing a mile a minute, rejecting ideas for saving Tilda as fast as he could come up with them.
He could—no, that wouldn’t work.
Or maybe—no, much too dangerous.
How about—no, he’d get stuck for sure.
Next to him, Smalls and Wombat were snorting and grunting away, as if they too were brainstorming possibilities. Bertie looked over at Smalls with a sigh. “I’ve got nothing,” he told him. Clearly Smalls and Wombat didn’t have anything either, because the clock kept ticking the hours away, and they were no closer to Tilda than they’d been that morning. Bertie looked out the window. The man was still on the front stoop of the Toddles’ house, staring up at the sky. With a sigh, Bertie rested his head on Smalls’s back. There was only one way he could think of to get to Tilda at this point, a way that didn’t involve risk or danger—except to him. It was simple, really. He was going to have to knock on the Toddles’ door.
“Tomorrow,” he said to himself. After Chr
yssy helped him get back into the woodshop to see what was in that glass box, he’d march right over to the Toddles’ house and beg their daughter for Tilda back. He’d do whatever it took. Maybe Susan would even be here by then, and they could go together. The thought of seeing Susan again made him feel all jumpy inside. He had so much to tell her. “Tomorrow I’m going to fix this,” he told Smalls. “I promise.”
Smalls let out a soft grunt, almost as if he’d understood. Before long, the bear’s breathing began to deepen beneath Bertie’s head, and Wombat’s snorts faded into quiet snores. All around him, Bertie could hear the store whirring and settling. Already he recognized most of its sounds: the toy bird that chirped on the hour, the swish of hot air balloons as they swayed overhead, the floorboard that creaked each time the ever-looping train rolled over it. It made him feel like, in some strange way, the store belonged to him. Or like he belonged to it.
He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into Smalls’s soft fur. “If only we could stay here forever,” he whispered. But, of course, they couldn’t. The future was hanging over them, a big, flashing question mark. It seemed so wide and empty, the unknown. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, willing the fear away. He still had at least one more night in the Emporium, one more night with Smalls. He wrapped his arms tightly around the bear. Soon, the sounds of the store had lulled him to sleep, like the best kind of bedtime story.
Damsel in Distress
“Step sixteen, final fur fluffing.” Tilda gave herself an extra-rough fluff. With a sigh, she began the process all over again. “Step one, shake out fur.”
“I’m off!” Chrysanthemum announced in an unusually chipper voice, interrupting Tilda’s furious shaking. She pushed open the window, letting a burst of fresh morning air into the room. “There, now it’s just like being outside!”
“Sure, if outside had walls and a ceiling,” Tilda grumbled.
A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie Page 15
