The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie
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The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie
RAZORBILL
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
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Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Copyright © 2012 Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
ISBN 978-1-101-59075-1
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Misfit Menagerie Melts Hearts!
Chapter One: Battle of the Clover
Chapter Two: Invisible Boy
Chapter Three: A Dandelion Puff
Chapter Four: Honey, Honey, Honey
Chapter Five: Bajumba
Chapter Six: It’s Loyd, Not Lloyd
Chapter Seven: A Bush, a Tree, and a Pile of Dirt
Chapter Eight: A Deal’s a Deal
Chapter Nine: A Game for Everything
Chapter Ten: A Gilded Caravan
Chapter Eleven: No Clouds Here
Chapter Twelve: A Lord in Chains
Chapter Thirteen: A New Act
Chapter Fourteen: The Fairy Tale’s Over
Chapter Fifteen: A Thumping Tail
Chapter Sixteen: A Very, Very, Very Large Number
Chapter Seventeen: Wiped Clean
Chapter Eighteen: Rabbits Don’t Wear Bows
Chapter Nineteen: Fire Sticks
Chapter Twenty: A Sultry Wink
Chapter Twenty-one: Claude’s Little Friend Is Your Worst Enemy
Chapter Twenty-two: The Finale of the Millennium
Chapter Twenty-three: A Sun Bear with a Useless Tongue
Chapter Twenty-four: Bear Boy
Chapter Twenty-five: A Hug
Chapter Twenty-six: In Your Dreams
Chapter Twenty-seven: Holy Horseshoe
Chapter Twenty-eight: What’s Black and White and Red All Over?
Chapter Twenty-nine: Let the Show Begin
Chapter Thirty: A Finale to Remember
Chapter Thirty-one: How ’Bout the Elephant?
Chapter Thirty-two: A Covert Op
Chapter Thirty-three: Buck Is at Your Service
Chapter Thirty-four: Better Than Fuchsia Ice Cream
Chapter Thirty-five: A Bronze Key
Chapter Thirty-six: The Most Miserable Traveling Circus
Chapter Thirty-seven: A New Purse for Chrysanthemum
Chapter Thirty-eight: Better Than Spoons or Jewelry
Chapter Thirty-nine: A Buffoonish Wombat
Chapter Forty: Worthless
Chapter Forty-one: A Wooden Boy
Chapter Forty-two: Brighter Than the North Star
Chapter Forty-three: Better Than a Squirrel
Chapter Forty-four: A Call from the King
Chapter Forty-five: Eat Fingernails
Chapter Forty-six: Toddle’s Toys
Chapter Forty-seven: Something’s Fishy and It’s Not Tuna
Chapter Forty-eight: The Moment of Truth
Chapter Forty-nine: Worth the Trouble
Chapter Fifty: The Last Act
Acknowledgments
Excerpt
They say it takes a village to raise a child, but for me, it took a village to make a writer. I dedicate this book to my village: Fred, Susan, and Lauren Greenberg, and Nathan Resnick.
Misfit Menagerie Melts Hearts!
* * *
At Mumford’s Farm & Orchard, apples aren’t the only treats for kids. A field of oak trees conceals a different kind of find altogether: a menagerie of animals that could melt the hardest of hearts. The menagerie belongs to Thaddeus Mumford, the farm’s owner. “I didn’t set about to collect a menagerie,” Mumford stated. “It just sort of happened.”
Take Tilda the Angora rabbit, for example. Mumford was about to buy dinner at a local fair when he noticed a commotion over by the carousel. A rabbit—so white and fluffy she could be mistaken for a cloud—was being raffled off. “Before I knew it, I was using my dinner money to buy a raffle ticket,” Mumford explained. “That night I took Tilda home with me.” Now Tilda, a favorite of little girls, spends her days hopping around Mumford’s farm.
Mumford acquired his hairy-nosed wombat, aptly named Wombat, at the city train station. “I was planning to get a ticket to visit my brother,” he told the Daily Journal, shaking his head. “But outside the station, a man was selling animals from a shut-down zoo.” Mumford observed as the man sold animal after animal until the only one left was a small, brown creature that resembled a piglet. “I didn’t even know what kind of animal it was,” he recounted with a laugh. “But before I knew it, I was using my train money to bring him home.” Now Wombat passes his days expertly burrowing his way through throngs of admirers at Mumford’s farm.
Rigby, a one-year-old Komondor dog, was the first of the menagerie to be born on the farm. His mother was a lost dog who happened to wander onto Mumford’s property. “I spent a whole day thinking I’d left a mop head in my yard,” Mumford told the Daily Journal. “Finally I realized it was a dog!” Eventually he identified the dog’s owner, but by that time, she had already given birth to a litter. “When the dog’s owner offered me a puppy as a thank-you, I just couldn’t refuse,” Mumford said. Now Rigby—who like all Komondor dogs is covered entirely in long, white ropes of fur—delights children at Mumford’s farm with his penchant for what the crowds have affectionately dubbed “playing mop.”
Of the menagerie, there’s one animal that is clearly the star attraction: the bear with the never-ending tongue. That’s how kids refer to Smalls the sun bear. Sun bears are the smallest member of the bear family—around the same height as a ten-year-old boy—and are distinguished by a yellow marking on their chest in the shape of a horseshoe and a slender, pink tongue that stretches to over twice the length of a human one. Like many sun bears, Smalls was born in Asia, but at six months old he was shipped to America to be auctioned off. As
luck would have it, Mumford was present at that auction.
“I was looking to buy some chickens for my farm,” Mumford explained. “But then Smalls got up onstage.” At that moment, a fly buzzed past and Mumford witnessed Smalls “light up like a kid on his birthday.” Instantly, Smalls bounded after the fly. Just when it appeared that the fly might get away, Smalls extended his extraordinarily long tongue and used it to snatch the fly right out of the air. “Before I knew it, I was bidding on a sun bear,” Mumford said.
Mumford may never have gotten his chickens, but he argues that he got something much more valuable. Thanks to the yellow horseshoe on Smalls’s chest and his uncanny ability to find four-leaf clovers, Mumford has deemed him his “lucky charm.” Today, kids clamor to watch that lucky bear at Mumford’s farm bound up trees and perform endless tricks with his long, graceful tongue.
With each passing year, the fame of Mumford’s menagerie continues to grow as people pass along news of this unique group of animals to friends and neighbors. The animals have even earned themselves a popular nickname: the Misfit Menagerie. If you’re interested in giving Smalls, Rigby, Wombat, and Tilda a gander for yourself, just be warned: their crowd of fans becomes larger every day.
* * *
Chapter One
Battle of the Clover
Smalls the sun bear stood in the crook of his favorite oak tree, surveying the land below. It was a typical fall Saturday at Mumford’s Farm & Orchard. Sprigs of orange and gold wove through the bushes, the smell of ripe apples dusted the air, and leaves fluttered to the ground like handfuls of confetti.
Over by the rosebushes, Tilda the Angora rabbit was at step three of her sixteen-step grooming process, picking apart strands of fur that had dared to clump together overnight. Next to the creek, Rigby the Komondor dog was admiring a fallen leaf between his paws, and under the shade of an oak tree, Wombat the hairy-nosed wombat was snoozing away in the hole he’d just finished burrowing.
Everyone was relaxed and idle, and Smalls didn’t like it one bit. He knew exactly what came after idleness: boredom. There will be no boredom on my farm, Smalls thought. Clearing his throat, he called out, “Attention!”
Down on the ground, Tilda continued on to step four of her daily grooming process, fastidiously straightening the red bow she wore on the top of her head. Meanwhile, Rigby moved on to another leaf, and Wombat let out a rumbling snore.
“Holy horseshoe,” Smalls grunted, rubbing lightly at the yellow marking of a horseshoe on his chest. Silently, he began making a list. How to Liven Things Up, he called it. Smalls was a master list maker. Rarely a day passed by where he didn’t make some sort of list. Lists of games he wanted to play, lists of Rigby’s favorite colors, lists of ways to get Mumford to bring him more honey. No list was too short or too long for Smalls. He was, he liked to think, a list connoisseur.
How to Liven Things Up
1. Announce (loudly) that it’s game time.
2. Introduce everyone to my newest, most exciting game yet.
3. PLAY!
Smalls nodded to himself. It was a good, solid plan, especially number three. In Smalls’s opinion, playing could solve most anything. Rising onto his hind legs, Smalls pounded his thick black paws against the trunk of the oak tree. “Animals of Mumford’s Farm & Orchard,” he announced, his deep voice rolling through the farm. “I am pleased to tell you that it’s officially game time!”
It worked. Rigby dropped his leaf. Tilda looked up from her grooming. And Wombat opened one eye, peering drowsily up at Smalls.
“Are we playing Mud Pile Dodge?” Tilda squeaked excitedly, fluffing out her fur.
“No, Speed Fetch,” Rigby panted. “It’s my . . . my . . .” He trailed off as a bird flew overhead. “Persimmon,” he murmured, studying the bird’s wings. “And magenta. Ooh, and a hint of aqua too!”
“This is a new game,” Smalls told them. “I call it Battle of the Clover.” He reached behind his ear, where he liked to tuck away the four-leaf clovers he was always stumbling upon. “I have in my paw a perfect four-leaf clover,” he announced, holding it up for everyone to admire. Its green leaves glistened in the sun, still damp with morning dew. “Whichever team is the first to capture this clover and swim it to the end of the creek wins the game!” He bounded down to the ground, placing the clover on top of an old tree stump.
“I would like to formally request Tilda as my partner,” Wombat jumped in, giving Tilda a loving tap with his snout.
Smalls nodded. “Then the teams are formed.” He cleared his throat. “On your mark. Get set. Play!” Instantly, all four animals took off for the tree stump. Wombat, with his strong burrower’s legs, got there first. But before he could grab the clover, Rigby took a flying leap forward, snatching it right up from under his snout.
“Bring it to me, Rigby!” Smalls called out. Holding the clover between his teeth, Rigby raced toward Smalls. But halfway there, an interesting cloud passed overhead.
Rigby looked up. “A squirrel,” he whispered through his clenched teeth, studying the shape of the cloud. “No, a bone!”
Rigby was so focused on the cloud that he didn’t notice the rock rising from the ground in front of him. “Watch out, Rigby!” Smalls shouted. Rigby let out a surprised bark as his eyes landed on the rock. At the very last second, he leapt up, narrowly avoiding it. But as he did, the clover slipped out of his teeth, flying wildly into the air.
Tilda broke into her fastest hop, her red bow flapping on her head. “I’m coming for you, clover!” she yelled. For a small rabbit, she could move surprisingly fast. But Smalls knew it didn’t matter. Because he had a secret weapon.
Bounding next to her, he rose onto his hind legs and unfurled his long, slender tongue. As he used it to snatch the clover out of the air, several cheers erupted behind him. Smalls’s fur bristled with excitement. Cheers could only mean one thing. The crowd had begun to arrive.
Chapter Two
Invisible Boy
The motorcar gave a sudden jerk, sending Bertrand Magnificence tumbling across the backseat. He clenched his teeth as he straightened back up. His uncle Claude rarely drove the motorcar himself, and now Bertie—as he preferred to be called—understood why. He could probably drive it better, and he was ten. He pressed his nose against the window, watching the farms tumble past outside, barns and corn fields and houses falling away like dominoes. He tried to remember what state they were in today, but he never could keep track. Pennsylvania? Massachusetts? North Carolina? He gave up. It didn’t matter much anyway; in a few days, they’d be somewhere else.
Bertie pushed a strand of shaggy red hair out of his eyes. Ever since his uncle had shoved him into the backseat earlier, he’d been wondering where they were going. Of course, he did know where they weren’t going—and that was to visit his mom. Sometimes, when they stopped in a new city or a new town, it would hit Bertie that this could be it: the place where she lived. But anytime he worked up the nerve to ask his uncle, Claude would just laugh or spit a chewed-up fingernail in his face. “Keep your mind on your job, boy,” he’d sneer.
Bertie took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Where are we going, Uncle?” he asked cautiously, careful to banish any speck of curiosity from his voice. Curious was the third-worst thing a boy could be, according to his uncle, firmly behind talkative and the worst crime of all, happy.
“I have an errand to run,” Claude said vaguely, reaching up to stroke his long, white beard. “It’s of no importance to you, boy, so keep quiet! You’re just here to watch the motorcar while I attend to my business. You never know what vagrants and thieves are lurking around these parts.”
Bertie leaned back in his seat, frustrated. In all the years he’d lived with Claude, Claude had never once taken him to the hospital where his mom was cared for. Bertie knew next to nothing about the hospital—only that Claude called it the loony bin. “Afte
r your dad died in the accident, your mom lost her marbles,” he’d told Bertie once. “This loony bin was the only place that would take her.” Bertie stifled a groan. He wished he could just grab the wheel and steer them straight to the hospital himself. But of course, he couldn’t. Because he had no idea where it was. Like always, the thought left him feeling sour, as if he’d swallowed a whole lemon and it had gotten stuck somewhere between his throat and his heart.
The motorcar jerked again, sending Bertie flying headfirst into the front seat. “What is wrong with you, boy?” Claude seethed. He pushed Bertie away, one of his jagged fingernails catching on his cheek. Bertie cried out as the nail sliced his skin, drawing blood. “Get back to your seat!” Claude demanded.
As Bertie scrambled away from his uncle, he knocked a stray piece of paper to the floor. Quickly, he bent down to retrieve it. It was an article, torn out of a newspaper. Misfit Menagerie, he began to read, but before he could get any further, Claude reached back, snatching it out of his hands. “Stop reading,” he snapped.
Bertie dug a nail into his palm, making tiny half-moons on its surface. “Yes, Uncle,” he said dully.
“You know how I feel about children and reading,” Claude continued. He chewed on a fingernail, spitting it out on the ground. “Now, pretend you’re invisible and let me drive in peace!”
Bertie dug another half-moon into his palm as he shrank into the backseat. Invisible Boy, he thought. He liked that one. He’d be a hero who had the power to turn invisible with just the blink of an eye. Bertie was always dreaming up hero counterparts for himself. He liked to imagine that if he tore off his too-short pants and torn-up shirt and old suspenders, he’d become someone else altogether, someone who could stop time or lift houses or, best of all, sprout wings and fly away.
Being invisible could be very useful, he decided. He could sneak into Claude’s room and drink up his entire urn of hot cocoa. He could eat huge meals—hot, succulent, delicious meals—and no one would be able to stop him. Maybe he could even find a way to befriend the new girl, Susan, without Claude punishing him. Bertie blinked once, twice, three times. But when he held his hand out in front of him, it was still there: five fingers, one freckle, completely visible.