Bertie sat down at the desk, his eyes glued to the wooden animals. They looked so much like Smalls and Wombat, perfect, tiny clones. He couldn’t resist running a finger over the ridges of their fur, the lines of their faces. What would it take, he wondered, to make something so real? To start with a simple block of wood and bring it to life? Bertie glanced at an untouched chunk of wood on the other side of the desk. Next to it, a small whittling tool rested in its case.
Without stopping to think, Bertie lifted the tool. The heft of it felt good in his hand, and suddenly he was reaching for the wood too, tracing his thumb over its rough, flat surface. He couldn’t resist drawing the tool to the wood, just to see how it would feel. He dug it in a little, imagining how the wood would drop away, dusting to the ground as a figure took shape before his eyes.
He’d been carving for several seconds before he even realized he was doing it. But once he’d started, he couldn’t make himself stop. His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own as they flew over the block. He had no idea what he was doing, but in some strange way, he could feel it: where the crest of the head should be, how deep to carve for the tail, the way to twist his wrist to make curls of fur. Nothing had ever come so naturally to him before.
Soon he was completely absorbed in it, the rest of the world slinking away until only his hand and the wood existed. He stopped hearing the tick of the clock. He stopped feeling the chair beneath him. He wasn’t Bertie anymore, but a carver, pure and simple. And slowly, shapes began to emerge from the wood. Thick clouds of fur. A long, narrow snout. Four padded paws. Bertie didn’t stop until the block was gone, shapes and curves and lines in its place.
He held the freshly carved figure up in front of him. It was rough around the edges and there were several chunky areas that looked more like leaves than fur, but there was no mistaking what it was: a shaggy, mop-like Komondor dog. Bertie touched the dog’s fur, wondering how to make it as smooth and even as the bear’s. “Maybe if I etch little lines . . .” he muttered.
He reached out to turn the desk lamp on for a better view. But he was paying more attention to the dog than the lamp, and his hand bumped clumsily into it, sending it toppling over. The noise shook him out of his reverie. The rest of the world came rushing back in. The seat underneath him. The ceiling above him. The clock ticking away on the wall.
The clock. His eyes flew to it. Two fifteen. Bertie gasped. More time had passed than he’d realized. Stan could be back any minute. Quickly, he righted the lamp. It was heavy, made of iron, and its fall had jostled open a thin drawer underneath the desk. The drawer had no handle, so Bertie hadn’t even known it was there. He stood up as he went to close it. He had to get out of there before Stan returned. But as his hand landed on the drawer, a photograph inside caught his eye. In it, a woman was bent over a table, carving a block of wood. Her long, red hair tumbled over her shoulders and a smattering of freckles shone on her smiling cheeks.
Something hummed deep inside his bones. He’d recovered very few memories since his accident, but almost every one had revolved around that woman. His mom.
Bertie grabbed the photo, his hands trembling. A thousand thoughts slammed into each other at once, making his head spin.
Stan, Toddle’s resident woodcarver, had a photo of his mom.
His mom had been a woodcarver.
Stan must have known his mom.
“Are you lost?”
At the sound of a man’s voice, Bertie looked up with a yelp. Standing in the doorway was the small, gray-haired man. Stan. A deep wrinkle settled between Stan’s eyebrows as he stared at Bertie. “This is a restricted area of the store, son,” he said gently. “Do your parents know where you are?”
Bertie opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Hey, what are you doing with that?” Stan asked as he spotted the photo Bertie was holding.
Bertie snapped his mouth shut, looking down at the photo. In his head, he saw two flashing, neon paths. In one, he was talking. In the other, he was running.
“Son?” Stan said, his voice rising. “I don’t want to have to call security.”
Bertie gulped. His heart was pounding so hard it felt as though there was a herd of elephants in his chest. He opened his mouth once more, but still no words came out. He had a million questions to ask, but that word—security—had rendered him more speechless than ever. So he did what any sensible, terrified boy would do. He clutched the photo to his chest and he ran.
“Stop!” Stan called after him. “Bring back my photo!”
Bertie just ran faster, ignoring Stan’s shouts as they rang out behind him.
More Questions Than Answers
Stanley Candor stood in the doorway of his woodshop, looking completely and utterly bewildered. “That boy . . .” He stared down the hallway at the spot where Bertie had disappeared around a bend. Clutched in Stan’s hand was a wooden figurine with a broken arm, and he held it up now, staring at its bright red hair and freckled nose. “It’s uncanny,” he whispered. “The resemblance . . . it’s almost as if . . .” He shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
With a sigh, Stan brought the wooden boy over to his desk to fix him up. But when he saw the dog Bertie had carved, the figure slipped from his grip. “So that’s what he was doing in here,” he said, plucking the dog off his desk. He turned the carving this way and that, examining every inch of it. Slowly, his eyebrows lifted and his cheeks took on a reddish sheen.
“Well, now,” he murmured, admiring the arc of the dog’s tail. “I haven’t seen talent like this since Esme.”
• • •
Meanwhile, twenty miles away, a note was pinned to the door of a small farmhouse, flapping lightly in the breeze.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Please don’t worry. I’m all right. I left the circus and found my way home. I have some business to take care of at Toddle’s Toy Emporium, so I’m riding my bike there. But I’ll be back, I promise. I never plan on leaving again!
Love always and forever, your daughter,
Susan
P.S. The color of my room is perfect! It’s like sleeping in the middle of the ocean. I hope you don’t mind the new touch. My friend Rigby added it.
“I wonder if they’ve found my note by now,” Susan panted. She wiped a stray bead of sweat off her forehead as she pedaled furiously on her bike. Rigby looked up at her from the bike’s basket, two black eyes peeking out from a bundle of fur. An old, beat-up map poked out next to him.
“Grrr?” he barked.
“And I wonder if we’ll find Bertie,” she went on. “And I wonder if he’s found Tilda . . .” She sighed. “Having more questions than answers is never a good thing, is it, Rigby?”
“Grrr,” Rigby barked again, shaking the fur out of his face.
“Well, we should get some answers soon.” Susan’s legs were starting to ache, but she just pedaled harder. “Only a few more miles till we’re there.”
“Grrr!” This time Rigby’s bark was unmistakably excited.
“I know, Rigby,” she said softly. “I miss them too.”
A Toddle
The photograph felt hot in Bertie’s sweaty hands, as if it might combust at any moment. All he knew was he needed to be alone; he needed a place to think. He zigzagged through the store, making his way toward the wooden tree. When he was alone on the top landing, he would figure out what to do. He would figure out what this meant. He allowed himself another glance at the photo. His mom had a distant smile on her face, as if she were lost in her carving.
“Wait!” A hand grabbed Bertie’s arm from behind, squeezing tight. For a second Bertie’s heart stopped. Stan had found him. He was going to kick him out, and then he’d never see Smalls or Wombat or any of the others again. He whirled around, ready to wrench his arm out of Stan’s death grip and run.
Chryssy stared back at him. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” She pouted. “I told you not to go far! I got worried you’d left! But it’s okay, I for
give you.” She said it all in one breath, and she finally paused to suck in air. “Anyway,” she went on, oblivious to Bertie’s silence, “at least you’re here now. So what should we play first?”
Before Bertie could muster up a reply, a stern voice rang out through the air. “Young lady! Where do you think you’re going? You told us you were doing your homework!” A pair of parents strode toward them: a bald man with deep frown lines and a fancy silk bowtie, and a skinny woman with a pale face and watery eyes.
Immediately, Chryssy’s face reddened several shades. “Mom! Dad!” she croaked. “I, uh, I am! I’m . . . writing an essay about the store!” She flashed them a bright smile.
“Then why don’t you have a notepad with you? You know, I’ve just about had it up to here with your shenanigans lately.” Chryssy’s dad held a hand up to his forehead, demonstrating where, exactly, he’d had it up to. His lips tightened as he glowered down at his daughter. “Your mother might give in to your incessant shrieking, but I’m the man of the household and I . . .” He trailed off as he noticed a woman in a Toddle’s uniform flagging him down. “What is it, Marie?” he asked, turning away from his daughter.
Marie rushed over, bowing her head. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr. and Mrs. Toddle, but we seem to have a slight problem with the inventory.”
Bertie stumbled backward. Did she say Mr. and Mrs. Toddle?
He stared dumbly at them. That would make them the owners of Toddle’s Toy Emporium. Which would make Chryssy . . . the daughter of the owners of Toddle’s Toy Emporium. Piece by piece, it all came together: how much she knew about the store, how well she knew her way around, how she could get into locked rooms. He looked at Chryssy, who suddenly seemed fascinated by her sparkly black shoes. “You’re her,” he said wonderingly. The girl who had Tilda.
“A life-sized sun bear?” Mr. Toddle suddenly roared. “But I never placed an order for any life-sized sun bears!”
Bertie’s heart thudded as he jerked his head toward Mr. Toddle.
“Life-sized lions, yes,” he continued with a frown. “And I believe we once carried a life-sized polar bear. But that would have been white . . .”
“No, no, a life-sized black sun bear, with a marking of a yellow horseshoe on its chest,” Marie recited. “The client was very specific. She said her son saw the bear here yesterday, and now he wants it for his birthday.”
Bertie gulped loudly. Any other thoughts flew out of his mind. All he could think about was Smalls. Someone wanted to buy him.
He had to get to him. He had to help him.
“I have to go,” he mumbled to Chryssy. Then once again he took off, hoping against hope that Smalls was somewhere safely out of sight.
A Sloppy, Gummy, Sticky Mess
Tilda stood on the floor, facing the bowl Chrysanthemum had abandoned there. It had once held the contents of a supersized ice cream sundae, but the ice cream was long gone, and all that was left now was a sloppy, gummy, sticky mess. Bright red cherry juice dribbled over chunky bits of chocolate that swirled into thick, gooey caramel and melted with dark, syrupy fudge. For a rabbit who would choose cleanliness over carrots, that bowl contained everything that was wrong with this world.
“Revolting,” Tilda muttered. For a second she looked pleased by her use of one of Wombat’s favorite words. But when she glanced back into the bowl, her expression turned to a grimace. She let out a loud sigh. “This is for you, Wombat,” she said.
She jumped into the bowl.
A few minutes later, Petunia bustled into the room, pushing a cart with her. Usually, that cart was Tilda’s cue to dive under the bed, where she could stay out of sight until Petunia was safely gone. But today, Tilda positioned herself right in the middle of Chrysanthemum’s pile of toys. “It’s time,” she whispered. Breathing as softly as possible, she held very, very still.
“Oh my!” Petunia exclaimed, crouching in front of Tilda. “What did Chrysanthemum do to this poor stuffed animal?”
Tilda stared up at her, unblinking. At first glance, she was almost unrecognizable. Where her fur had once been glossy and smooth, it was now sticky and matted with caramel and fudge. Where it had once been white as snow, it was now streaked red with cherry juice. And where there had once not been a single burr or speck of dirt, there were now chunks of chocolate peeking out between tangles. “This one’s definitely coming with me.” She picked Tilda up and dropped her into the cart. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me today.”
Tilda sat very quietly in the cart, assuming her best toy-like pose. Only when Petunia bent down to gather up more toys did she allow herself a single excited tail twitch.
Her plan had worked.
• • •
Smalls wasn’t among the furry toys in the Stuffed Jungle. He wasn’t hiding behind the honey display in the candy room or jammed in between the life-sized lions that lined the stairwells. He wasn’t, as far as Bertie could tell, in the store at all. And neither, for that matter, was Wombat.
Bertie’s palms started to sweat. Had Smalls been found already? What if, at this very moment, he was in the backseat of someone’s motorcar, all gift-wrapped and tied in bows? Bertie’s eyes fell on the window he’d climbed out of yesterday. It was wide open. Maybe Smalls had sensed danger and fled on his own! It would explain why Wombat had gone missing too.
Clinging to that hope, Bertie raced to the door. The regular exit was jammed up with a family arguing over who got to ride their new rocking horse first, so he cut through the pool of colorful balls, wading past a pigtailed swimmer and ducking under a game of catch to get to the exit on the other side. It was the door that he, Smalls, and Wombat had snuck in through on their very first night at the Emporium. He couldn’t believe that was only two nights ago. It was funny how you could live someplace for five years and never feel at home, and somewhere else it took only a few days to feel like you’d always been there.
Bertie scrambled out the door, emerging into the sunlight. “Smalls?” he called out quietly, creeping along the perimeter of the store. “Wombat?” A Toddle’s employee walked past, and Bertie quickly lowered his head, pretending to be searching for something. “Where is that quarter?” he asked loudly.
He might never have noticed the footprints if he hadn’t been pretending so intently to look for the fake missing coin. But there they were: the faintest imprint of two paws in the grass, one small, one large. “Bingo,” Bertie said.
He looked out across the vast expanse of lawn, his eyes following the trail of paws. To an untrained eye, those footprints could have belonged to a whole spectrum of animals: a rabbit and a large raccoon or a squirrel and an even larger badger. But there was no doubt in Bertie’s mind. They’d been left behind by a sun bear and a hairy-nosed wombat. And he was going to follow them.
Four-Leaf Clovers
Petunia hummed under her breath as she rolled the cart of toys into the bathroom. “One day I’m going to make that girl clean up after herself,” she muttered. She turned the bathtub on, mixing bubbly soap into the water. “We’ll see how dirty she gets her toys after that!”
Tilda’s eyes flickered left and right as Petunia poured more soap into the tub, her back to the cart. “It’s time,” Tilda said under her breath. She crouched down low, screwing up her face in determination. “I did this at the circus,” she reminded herself. Sprinting forward, she took a flying hop out of the cart.
Her ears flew back as she soared through the air, executing a flawless flip–double axel–flip that landed her smack in the middle of the hallway, a solid three feet outside the bathroom. She shook out her sticky, stained fur. “I still got it,” she said smugly. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she took off for the stairwell at her speediest hop. “I’m coming for you, Wombat!” she whispered.
Inside the bathroom, Petunia whirled around to face the cart. “Okay, little bunny,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “I’m ready for you.” She paused, frowning. Inside the cart sat a filthy dollhouse, a tarni
shed tiara, a splotchy paint set, a grubby I-Pee-Like-You doll, and a grimy pony. But there was no sticky, stained rabbit.
“Now, what did I do with that bunny?” Petunia scratched her head. “I could swear I put it in the cart. Sometimes I think this house is making me lose my mind.” She turned on her heels. “I must have left it in the bedroom.” Sighing, she headed back to Chrysanthemum’s room.
Tilda, who had made it halfway down the stairwell, froze mid-hop, flattening herself against the wall. Only when Petunia had safely disappeared into Chrysanthemum’s bedroom did she resume her hopping. “Only two and a half more flights to go,” she said. “Then I’m free as a bird. Or,” she corrected herself, “a rabbit.”
• • •
“Remember to keep your head low, Smalls,” Wombat preached. “A discovered sun bear is not a helpful sun bear.”
Smalls resisted a groan. He knew Wombat was hurting—and not just from his bruised leg. A few minutes ago, Smalls had caught him gazing longingly up at the turret window, a glimmer of tears in his eyes.
“There must be an open entryway somewhere in the vicinity,” Wombat continued. They were crouched under a bush near the Toddles’ house, hunting for a way for Wombat to get inside.
“Maybe around back,” Smalls suggested.
Wombat eyed a rhododendron bush near the back of the house. “We’ll make a dash for it,” he announced. “But we must proceed with the utmost caution.”
“I know,” Smalls said wearily. He lifted his voice in an imitation of Wombat. “A discovered sun bear is not a helpful sun bear.”
“Precisely.” Wombat nodded curtly. “On three. Un, deux, go!”
The two animals sprinted toward the rhododendron bush, ears flapping and tails wiggling. Smalls dove under first, several branches snagging at his fur. Only when he’d managed to pull all four paws out of sight did his pulse slow. “I’ll be happy when we don’t have to hide anymore,” he said as Wombat crawled in next to him.
A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie Page 17
