A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie

by Jacqueline Resnick

  Wombat was too busy scanning the back of the house to reply. “Do you see that window?” he asked excitedly. “I would venture to guess I could get in through there if you gave me a boost.”

  Smalls peeked out. “Which one—” he began, but he abruptly fell silent. Because for the first time, he saw what lay behind the Toddles’ tall stone house. A shiver ran down his spine. “Oh,” he breathed.

  It was a field. But not just any field. Poking out between the blades of grass were four-leaf clovers, hundreds of them, their petals unfolding in the sun. He took a step closer, and then another, forgetting to stay concealed, forgetting about everything except the clovers. And then he was there, close enough for them to brush his fur and tickle his paws, close enough to smell their fresh, sweet scent and see their petals swaying in the breeze. He was sure Wombat was scolding him, but he didn’t hear a word of it. As he crouched down, plucking several clovers with his teeth, he felt all the fears and worries that had been bouncing around inside him up for so long suddenly take flight, floating away like balloons.

  “Smalls!”

  Bertie’s voice reached him as if from a distance. Smalls turned around just in time to see a red-faced Bertie flinging his arms around him. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you, Smalls,” he said breathlessly. “I was worried you were locked up in a backseat somewhere, all tied in bows . . .” He squeezed Smalls tighter. “But you’re here. You’re okay.”

  Smalls tossed his head back, flinging a mouthful of four-leaf clovers into the air. They sprinkled down around them, a shower of petals, of luck, of home. He gave Bertie’s hand a lick. “I’m better than okay,” he said.

  Freedom

  Back in Toddle’s Toy Emporium, Chrysanthemum was stomping furiously along the second floor. “Everything is ruined!” she steamed, her face going beet red. “EVERYTHING!”

  It had been a very bad afternoon for Chrysanthemum Toddle. “I finally, finally find a friend who can’t choose Lauren Nicola over me, and my parents have to go and scare him away.” She pulled several boxes of board games off a shelf, watching as they crashed down in a messy heap. “You would have thought I had the plague by how fast he ran away from me.” She swept a hand over another shelf, sending a slew of jump ropes clattering to the ground. “Now I’m back to being friendless Chrysanthemum, who even Golden Eggs can’t help!” She picked up a huge rubber snake and flung it at the wall. “It’s. Not. FAIR!” With a shriek, she threw herself on top of a stack of fuzzy suitcases.

  A woman in a Toddle’s uniform shuffled nervously over. “Are y-you okay, Miss Toddle?” she stammered.

  “Leave me alone!” Chrysanthemum howled in response.

  “If you’d like,” the woman replied, stumbling over her words. She hurried off, her top lip quivering.

  Chrysanthemum lifted her head to spit out a mouthful of fuzz. “Stupid fuzzy suitcases,” she grumbled. “Who wants a suitcase with fur all over it anyway?”

  All of a sudden, she grew very quiet. She knit her eyebrows together, as if she was thinking hard about something. “Actually,” she said slowly, “maybe I do.” She jumped to her feet, bringing one of the suitcases with her. “I’m taking this,” she informed the nervous employee. Without bothering to wait for a response, she stalked off, dragging the purple fuzzy suitcase behind her. “I, Chrysanthemum Toddle,” she announced to no one in particular, “am running away.”

  • • •

  Meanwhile, in the Toddles’ house, Tilda descended the final step of the stairwell, looking victorious. “Now for part two,” she whispered. “Or, as Wombat might say, part deux.” She twitched her red-streaked tail. “And he thinks he’s the one with the high IQ!”

  Tilda took a deep breath. “This is it,” she told herself. “If this works, I’ll be free.” She cocked her head, a solemn look crossing her face.

  It was a strange word, free. To those who were, it was just four measly letters, looped together. But to those who weren’t, it was more than just letters, more than just a word. It was a feeling as strong as fireworks, a feeling that sparked and boomed, setting every nerve ablaze with hope. “Free,” Tilda repeated.

  She looked to her left. She looked to her right. No one was coming. “Here goes nothing,” she murmured. Ducking her head, she raced toward the kitchen. She was halfway there when she heard the worst possible sound a rabbit on the run could hear.

  A voice.

  A furious, shrieking, temper-tantrum-worthy voice, pouring in from the front of the house.

  “No one wants to be friends with me here? FINE! I’ll go somewhere else!”

  Tilda looked frantically around. She was in the hallway, not a single piece of furniture to conceal her. With a grunt, she dove under the oriental rug.

  Chrysanthemum came stomping into the hallway, dragging a fuzzy purple suitcase behind her. “I bet people at Millstone Academy will like me,” she muttered angrily. “If my parents won’t send me, then I’ll just have to go myself!” She clomped toward the stairwell, so caught up in her misery that she didn’t notice the Tilda-shaped lump in the carpet, even as she rolled her suitcase right over it.

  “Tilda and I will go together,” she continued. “A girl and her rabbit! It will be like my very own fairy tale.” She bumped the suitcase up the stairs, her voice growing fainter. Tilda waited several more seconds before emerging from the carpet. She had two wheel tracks running through her dirty, stained fur, but she didn’t bother shaking them out. Instead, she stared up the stairs, at the spot where Chrysanthemum had disappeared. Regret flashed through her eyes. “I’m sorry, Chrysanthemum,” she whispered. “I think I’m actually going to miss you. But I have a wombat to find.”

  With that, she took off hopping toward the kitchen. She was panting a little by the time she reached her destination. She looked up at the tall metal trash can. It had a swinging door at the top to deposit trash. Or, in the rare situation, an Angora rabbit.

  “Part two, here I come.” Closing her eyes, Tilda sprung into the air. She crashed through the door, landing on her head inside the trash can. “Victory,” she mumbled through a mouthful of paper towels. Righting herself, she settled down on a pile of orange peels. “Now, I wait.”

  Brains and Brawn

  “Pardon me, Smalls!” Wombat called out. He was crouched beneath the rhododendron bush in the Toddles’ backyard, trying to get his friend’s attention. “Could you please return to the bush now?”

  Out in the field of clovers, Smalls licked Bertie’s face, oblivious to Wombat’s calls.

  “Ahem, I require your assistance over here, Smalls!” Wombat tried again.

  Smalls pawed at a patch of four-leaf clovers, a look of pure bliss on his face.

  Wombat burrowed nervously at the ground. His gaze flickered toward the tall stone house. “I’m trying, mon amour,” he whispered.

  At that second, the back door of the house flew open. Bertie yanked Smalls behind the bush just as Petunia strode outside, a bag of garbage clutched in her hand. She wrinkled up her nose as she flung the bag into a large trash can in the driveway. “Pee yew! Those chicken pot pie leftovers are stinking up a storm! Thank goodness for trash day.” She dropped the lid on the can and hustled back inside.

  The instant she was gone, Wombat waddled over to the door as fast as his short legs could carry him. “There must be a way to nudge this door back open . . .” he murmured, nosing at it with his snout.

  “Squeak!”

  Wombat froze.

  “Squeak squeak squeak!”

  His eyes flew to the trash can, where a series of familiar-sounding squeaks were being emitted. “Do you hear that, Smalls?” Wombat asked. “It sounds almost like . . .”

  He trailed off as the lid of the trash can flew up. Out popped Tilda, a mangled scrap of garbage bag between her teeth.

  Wombat’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

  Smalls’s eyes looked like they might pop right out of his head.

  “How in the world . . . ?” Bertie m
urmured.

  Tilda hopped down to the ground. The sun illuminated her stained and tangled fur, and bits of garbage clung to her ears. But underneath it all, she was beaming.

  “Tilda,” Wombat breathed. He sailed toward her as if in a trance.

  “Wombat!” Tilda met him in the middle, and for a second they just gazed at each other.

  Wombat’s eyes filled with tears. “You are a true vision of beauty,” he said.

  “Who cares about beauty?” Tilda scoffed. “I escaped all on my own, Wombat! I was the brains and the brawn of the operation.”

  Wombat laughed. “Well, then I retract my previous statement. You are a true vision of brains and brawn.”

  Tilda nuzzled his snout. “I missed you,” she whispered.

  Wombat ignored the piece of orange peel that bounced off his paw as he nuzzled her back. “I missed you too, my love.”

  Bear in the Yard

  While Wombat and Tilda were reuniting, Susan was busy consulting her map. “We’re almost there, Rigby.” She balanced her feet on either side of her bike, her cheeks pink from the exertion of the ride. “Now the question is, is the entrance to our right or our left?” She held the map up in the air, twisting it this way and that as she studied it. “I think it’s to our left. No, our right. Ugh, it’s impossible to tell!”

  Rigby jumped out of the basket, landing steadily on the ground. Sticking his nose in the air, he took several long sniffs. “Interesting,” he murmured. He took a final sniff. Wafting toward him on the breeze were four distinctly familiar smells: a Smalls smell, a Wombat smell, a Tilda smell, and a Bertie smell.

  With an excited bark, he took off trotting in the direction they came from.

  Susan watched him go. With a shrug, she crumpled up the map and tossed it back into the basket. “Wait for me!” she called out. She kicked off, pedaling after the dog.

  A few minutes later, they came to a tall, unmarked fence. Behind it, a stone house rose into the air. Past that, a majestic green building trimmed in white soared in the distance. She recognized it immediately; it looked just like it had in the newspaper ad. Toddle’s Toy Emporium.

  Rigby pawed at the door to the fence, letting out a loud whine. Susan hopped off her bike and leaned it on the ground. Her eyes went to the green building in the distance as she walked to the door. It seemed very far away. “Is this how we get in?” she asked doubtfully. She gave the handle a little a jiggle. It was unlocked. All it would take was one pull, and the door would come swinging open. She bit down on her lip, looking nervously around. A motorcar rattled past, but otherwise the street was surprisingly quiet.

  Rigby barked again, nudging at the door.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  He let out an insistent bark, thrusting his head toward the handle.

  “Okay . . . ” she said hesitantly. Before she could lose her nerve, she grabbed the handle and pulled.

  • • •

  For as long he lived, Bertie knew he would never forget that moment. One minute he was watching Tilda and Wombat nuzzle, and the next minute the back door of the Toddles’ gate was swinging open, and Rigby was bounding inside. Susan followed behind him in blue pants and a yellow sweater, her hair lifting in the breeze. “Bertie!” she cried when she saw him.

  Bertie couldn’t move. For two days now he’d imagined running into Susan, seeing her sweep of blond hair and excited smile. So now, as he stared at her in the backyard of the Toddles’ house, he wasn’t sure he could believe his own eyes.

  “Well don’t just stand there!” she scolded. She walked over, giving him a hug. As her arms tightened around him, it finally hit him.

  “You’re real,” he said.

  Susan laughed. “Of course I’m real.” She pulled back, studying him. “Have you been spending too much time with toys?”

  “No, I just . . .” Bertie broke into a smile, the kind that crinkled up his eyes and made him feel toasty warm inside. “I’m just really glad you’re here.”

  Meanwhile, over by the trash can, Rigby was running in excited laps around his friends, his tail wagging wildly. He stopped in front of Tilda and sniffed curiously at her dirtied fur. “What happened to you?”

  Tilda lifted her head proudly. “I’m a true vision of brains and brawn,” she informed him.

  Wombat wiggled happily. “She’s precisely right.” He looked up at Rigby. “And you, my friend, are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I’ll second that.” Smalls gave Rigby such an enthusiastic nudge that he sent him tumbling backward.

  Rigby let out a gleeful bark. But as he scrambled back to his feet, an ear-piercing shriek made them all freeze in place.

  “BERTIE!”

  Chrysanthemum Toddle stood in the back doorway of her house, clutching a bulging purple suitcase. “I’m so glad you’re here, Bertie! How did you find me? I know you’re upset that I didn’t tell you I was a Toddle, but I can explain and—wait. What is Miss-Queen-of-the-School doing here?” She glared suspiciously at Susan. “I thought you were off living the glamorous circus life! And who are they?” Her eyes darted around the yard, growing larger and larger as they bounced from Rigby to Smalls to Wombat to Tilda. “And why are they with my Angora rabbit?” She screwed up her face as she took in Tilda’s tarnished state. “And what happened to my poor Tilda?” Her voice grew louder and higher with every word. “What is going on?”

  Bertie never got a chance to respond.

  Because the air was suddenly filled with a shriek more piercing and earth shattering than even Chrysanthemum’s.

  Mrs. Toddle appeared behind her daughter, her face white with fear. “Bear in the yard!” she screeched. “Someone help! There’s a wild, ferocious bear in my backyard!”

  The Truth

  In the woodshop of Toddle’s Toy Emporium, Stan was carving away, his hand a blur as it flew across the block. “The resemblance . . .” he murmured. He gave his tool a twist, sending tiny flecks of wood raining to the ground. “If I didn’t know better, I would swear . . .”

  He paused, letting the block of wood drop from his hands. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a photo. It was slightly crumpled and covered in thumbprints, as if it had been handled many times over the years. In it, a younger version of Stan had his arms wrapped around a small, freckled boy. He touched a finger to the boy’s face.

  “He’s gone, Stan,” he reminded himself. “Just like my Esme.” He stuck the photo back in his pocket, shaking his head. “Anything else is just wishful thinking.”

  But a few minutes later, he paused yet again. He drummed his fingers against the desk, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps I should go search for him,” he mused. “He does have my photo . . . and he did look quite lost earlier . . .” He placed his carving tool gently back in its box. “Yes, I really should go make sure he’s okay,” he decided. Looking resolute, he stood up and took off down the hallway where Bertie had disappeared.

  Meanwhile, in the field of clovers, Mrs. Toddle was having a conniption. “A bear!” she kept screeching, fanning herself as if at any moment she might collapse in a fainting spell right there in the grass.

  “What is going on, Bertie?” Chrysanthemum yelled in between her mom’s shrieks.

  In the field, Rigby was whimpering and Tilda was squeaking and Wombat kept repeating, “This is quite ominous, quite ominous.” The cries—animal and human—filled the air, a din of voices rising to the clouds.

  In the midst of all the chaos, Bertie stepped quietly forward. He looked from Susan to Rigby to Wombat to Tilda and, finally, to Smalls. He should have been scared; he should have wanted to scoop them all up in his arms and run away to safety. But instead, he felt strangely calm. I’m with my family, he told himself, and the thought buoyed him, made him feel as tall as a giant and as strong as a hero.

  He raised a hand in the air. “I can explain,” he said evenly.

  The animals quieted down first, then Chrysanthemum, and finally Mrs. Toddle. Bertie glanced at Susan. She gave him an
encouraging nod.

  “Tell us what’s going on, Bertie!” Chrysanthemum demanded.

  So Bertie did just that. He told them everything: about the circus, about the escape, about how he, Smalls, and Wombat had been living inside the Emporium. By the time he was finished, Chrysanthemum’s jaw was hanging open, and Mrs. Toddle kept saying, “Oh my. Oh my, my, my.”

  Throughout Bertie’s story, no one noticed the small, gray-haired man standing off in the shadows, listening intently. Only when Mrs. Toddle stopped oh-my’ing did he step into sight.“Bertie?” he said softly.

  Bertie’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of Stan. But where he had once been scared, he felt only courage. He walked over to the older man, holding out the photo he’d stolen from him. “Why do you have a picture of my mom?” he asked, his voice strong and clear.

  Stan didn’t take his eyes off Bertie as he closed the last bit of space between them. “I have a picture of her because she’s my daughter.” He put a trembling hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Bertie,” he said again, his voice filled with awe. “My grandson.”

  A Menagerie

  “Catch!” Smalls flicked his tongue, sending a four-leaf clover zooming toward Tilda. She rose onto her back paws, snatching it easily between her teeth. The Toddles had constructed a temporary fence around the field of clovers while they figured out what do about the animals, but Smalls wasn’t bothered in the least by it. As long as he could play with his friends, he’d stay inside any fence they wanted.

  “Give me a harder one than that!” Tilda insisted. “Throw one for someone with brains and brawn.”