by Cara Hoffman
Then he spotted them—slinking along, bellies and hips pushed out, noses in the air, hats pulled down over their eyes. Two members of the Pork Pie Gang were walking along snickering to each other, mocking the flowers and rolling their eyes. Bernard watched as they snapped the neck of a daisy, her head falling to the side, unable to move. The other hacked through an entire family of poppies, their delicate petals scattering to the sidewalk, their heads left bare and gray.
Without thinking, Bernard leapt in front of the weasels.
“Stop,” he said.
They looked down at him with blank eyes and then laughed, showing their straight teeth.
“Who’s going to stop us?” they asked. And to make her point, one of the weasels plucked a violet from its stem and popped it into her mouth. Bernard heard the violet’s last gasp, a ragged tearful cry, as the weasel bit down on it and its blood stained her teeth purple.
“I will!” said Bernard.
“Look around, little creature,” said the weasel with the blood of the flower on her teeth. “Do you see anyone who cares to stop us? Do you see anyone who can? Certainly not you.”
Bernard knew the weasels expected him to be afraid—but the truth was, he was too angry to be afraid. He knew the weasel thought he was weak. But he had been fighting against the Hatter for his whole life—fighting against a madman—and that was far more difficult and dangerous than fighting a member of the Pork Pie Gang.
She pulled out her knife and pointed it at Bernard’s chin, but he turned quick as a flash and, looping his tail around her feet, spun round, tripping her to the pavement. The other weasel watched the whole thing with a pickle sticking out of his mouth. He didn’t lift a finger to help her. But Bernard’s friends leapt to his side. Glub and Ivy stood ready for the weasel to attack. The mice who had been watching from inside their shops came to stand beside him too.
Suddenly the weasel didn’t seem so sure of herself. She looked back nervously at the other member of the Pork Pie Gang, who finally took out his knife.
As soon as she saw this, Ivy jumped on his back. Glub snapped off the weasel’s hat with a flick of his long tongue and the pigeons who had been watching from the awnings swooped down and pecked him on the head. Bees rose up from the flowers and swarmed around him. He swiped at them and dropped the knife. Ivy kicked it into the gutter, where it fell down a sewer grate.
“You won’t win!” Bernard said. “There’s more of us than there are of you.”
More pigeons swooped down and pecked at both the weasels. They ducked and waved their arms, striking at the birds, but the pigeons flew off beyond their reach and then the bees returned with a threatening buzz.
“We stick together,” Bernard said. “You better get out of here before the rest of us show up.”
The weasel spat the blood of the violet onto the sidewalk. Then the two of them put their hats back on and headed quickly up the street, away from the flower shops.
“It doesn’t matter,” she called back to them. “In two days you’ll all be doing exactly what we want. There’s no way you can stop us.”
15
The Girl with the Long Blond Hair
Once the weasels were out of sight, the small creatures of the flower district let out a cheer. A handsome mouse with his whiskers cut short put a wreath of tiny flowers around Bernard’s neck and gave flowers to Ivy and Glub. The bees went back to dancing and a pigeon passed around lemon candies and everyone took one—wincing at first because they were so sour but eating them anyway because they were also sweet.
“They come through here all the time,” one of the shopkeepers told Bernard, the tip of his tail twitching with excitement. “And we’ve always shut things down. We never thought the pigeons would come and help us if we fought back.”
“Of course we would,” said the pigeon who had handed out the lemon candies. “The fact is, we should have done something about it long ago.”
But there was little time to talk—more customers had shown up and the hustle and bustle of flower selling had begun again.
People who had stopped momentarily to watch the commotion of animals were now back to their shopping. Bernard looked up from the low stalls and watched them. They moved quickly with long strides, hailed cabs from the corner, rode past on bicycles, stuck bouquets of flowers in their bags. They all looked so busy with places to go—and yet they didn’t understand the language of animals. They watched the weasels with amusement, or saw them as a nuisance, not knowing the danger they might bring.
Glub put on a pair of reading glasses and was consulting a map. Ivy was talking to a pigeon about joining the underground. Just as Bernard was about to say they should all get on their way, he saw her. Walking with her mother. The girl from the garden! She was wearing a blue dress, knee socks, and black shoes. Her long hair fell at the sides of her face as she leaned down to smell a bouquet of red carnations.
As if under a spell, Bernard slipped through the crowd and climbed up the side of the flower stall to get a better look at the girl. He watched her pull some money from her pocket and hand it to a dark-haired man wearing gardening gloves and a white smock.
It was her—he was sure of it. And surely she would be able to help them! Bernard remembered how she had tried to talk to him when he was stuck in the garden and how he kept falling asleep. He knew that she understood about the Hatter and the March Hare and about Time. She would be able to explain it to the people who couldn’t understand. His heart soared.
Before he had time to regret it, Bernard hoisted himself up onto the flower stall and climbed into the pocket of the girl’s skirt—keeping out of sight of her mother. People are sometimes prejudiced against mice and he didn’t want to risk it.
“Bernard,” called Ivy, “have you lost your mind?”
“I’ll be back soon,” he called to her.
“Bernard,” Glub called, “get down from there! What are you doing?”
“I’m getting us more help!” he said. “We’ll meet you at the Empire Diner.”
The girl took her bouquet of carnations and slung a backpack over her shoulder and headed through the market. Now Bernard could see the street from up high at pocket height. It was quite a different way to see the world.
The girl and her mother walked along the bustling Chelsea street until a yellow cab stopped and they got in. The car was cool inside and the smell of the carnations suddenly filled his nostrils and soon he was very tired. The motion of the cab and his cozy place inside the pocket made him feel safe and free from worry. The Pork Pie Gang’s plan seemed like a distant memory. It had been a long time since he felt the pull of dreams so heavy on his eyelids. He hunkered down in the pocket and fell fast asleep.
Bernard awoke to a large hand clutching his body and a startled yelp. He had hoped he might climb out of the pocket on his own when they reached her house, but now she was lifting him in the air, holding him level to her face so that they could look into each other’s eyes. Her skin was pale and smooth and her eyes were a deep gray-blue, like a stormy sea, and sparkled smartly.
“Hello, little mouse,” she said. Just like the woman outside the restaurant had said to him. But she didn’t take out a rectangle and flash a light in his eyes. She just looked at him.
“Hello,” he said.
The girl’s room was large and airy. The flowers she had bought from the market smiled from a vase in the center of a small table that was set for tea. There was a pair of sneakers and a large orange ball in the corner, and an easel with a half-finished painting of a crocodile on it. The walls were painted pale blue.
“What’s your name?” she asked—and for a moment he wondered if he had gotten it all wrong and she was just talking to herself, like the woman in the alley had been. Maybe she was trying to figure out what she might call him.
“Bernard,” said Bernard.
“That’s a very nice name,” said the girl, and Bernard looked at her in awe. She could understand every word he said!
&nb
sp; “I don’t meet many mice with names like that,” she said.
“Do you know many mice?” Bernard asked. It seemed to him she must—as she could communicate very well, no hint of an accent.
The girl nodded. “My mother is a professor, and there are many mice that help her with her work. Sometimes I get to bring one home!”
Bernard had never heard of mice working with professors, but it seemed like a good job and he knew that mice and college professors often dressed alike and had similar habits.
“What’s your name?” Bernard asked the girl.
“Allie,” she said.
She set him on the windowsill. And from her window he could see down to an enormous lawn. It was incredible—a lush place enveloped in a canopy of green that stretched for blocks and blocks. It was full of paths and ponds and large boulders and was surrounded on all sides by towering buildings that shone in the sun. Bernard had never seen anything so beautiful. It was as though the hard, fast city opened up at its center to reveal the loveliest garden. He was speechless.
“Is that your garden?” Bernard asked.
The girl laughed. “It’s everybody’s garden,” she said. “It’s Central Park.”
Bernard looked out at the park and the tall buildings. He watched birds diving from the window ledges, swooping down into the green. They looked majestic and brave.
“What are those birds?” Bernard asked.
“They’re falcons,” she said. “They nest up here in the high-rises because it reminds them of mountains.”
Allie’s view of the city made it seem like a different world, and her room was so cozy he almost forgot why he had wanted to talk to her.
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
The girl shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t really tell one mouse from another,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude.”
“But you can understand me.”
“Of course,” said the girl, “I’m not a barbarian.”
Bernard thought there must be something a little magic about her. Even though she didn’t recognize him. “Allie,” he said, “I need your help. There is a group of weasels called the Pork Pie Gang and they are trying to stop time.”
The girl smiled and knelt near the windowsill so she could be closer to him.
“Tell me more!” she said.
“My friends and I are going to meet the queen at the Empire Diner and we are going to fight them.”
The girl laughed and stroked his fur lightly with her index finger. “This is wonderful.”
Bernard was glad she thought so—she must know exactly what to do.
“Mice have the best stories!” she said.
“It’s not a story,” Bernard said. “It’s real.”
“That’s even better,” said Allie. “What happened next?”
“No, it’s—” Bernard began, but he didn’t have time to finish his sentence. There was a knock at the door and Allie turned from the window and stood in front of Bernard, blocking him from view.
The girl’s mother leaned her head in; she was wearing a sweater and had long brown hair and thick glasses. She said, “Allie, we’ve got to get going; our reservation is for six o’clock.”
When she closed the door, Allie turned back to Bernard.
“I’m sorry, I have to leave you for a bit,” she said.
“No, wait!” said Bernard.
“We’ll talk more when I get back,” said Allie. Then she picked him up gently and carried him over to a small cage on top of her dresser—opened the top and dropped him inside.
16
Free Birds and Trapped Mice
The cage was filled with cedar chips and he could smell the animals who had lived there before him. It was a smell of half-eaten scraps and frightened mice.
The girl did not come back until it was dark. While she was gone Bernard walked around the cage, poking his head out and trying to see the park. He could see just a sliver of sky out the window—every once in a while, one of the fast, graceful birds whizzed past. He watched as one settled on the window ledge. The bird was very large, dark gray with a white belly, a small hooked bill, and yellow rings around its black eyes. Its talons were large and looked strong and sharp. The bird seemed lost in thought.
While the sun was still shining through the window, he looked around her room. Her bed was big and covered with a pale blue comforter with pictures of clouds on it. He looked at the table and tea set. The teapot was blue and white like the one they had used in the garden. But the picture on the side was different. On this teapot there was a picture of a long table in the center of a garden; a rabbit and a mouse sat on either end of the table and a man in a top hat sat in the middle.
Bernard rubbed his eyes and looked again. Could it be true? Was this a picture of the garden? He sat in the cage, wondering how she could have found such a teapot, and how he could get out to inspect it more closely. He tried everything he could to unhinge the lock on the top of the cage. What had he done? He had left his friends and now he was stuck.
He hung with all his strength on the bars of the cage, trying to pick the lock with his long fingers and then with his tail. If only Ivy were there to help him. He called out to any other mice that might be hiding in the room, but it was no use. Silence reigned in the clean, beautiful space, and he sat alone and afraid until the light faded to darkness.
After a time he heard the door open, and then Allie came straight to him and opened the cage.
“Sorry I was gone so long,” she said. “We went to a show after dinner.”
She lifted him out and placed him on the table, putting a little package in front of him on a tiny plate.
“This is onigiri,” she said. “I think you’ll like it.”
Inside the package was a ball of rice wrapped in a dark green leaf. It smelled delicious; sweet and savory and like the sea. Bernard bit into the strange food. Inside there were green vegetables and sesame seeds. He devoured it.
“Will you tell me the rest of the story now?”
“It’s not a story, Allie. It’s important that we meet my friends and that we tell people what they are planning. We don’t have much time. I thought you could help me, but if you can’t, can you please let me go?”
“I can help you,” said Allie. “You can live with me here and be my pet.”
Bernard felt his heart sink.
“Allie!” he said. “I can’t do that. I live in the world, not in a cage. And I have to get to my friends—to help them fight the Pork Pie Gang.”
She looked at him closely.
“I think I have some clothes that will fit you,” she said, and pulled out a little box from her desk drawer.
Inside it there was a variety of small costumes and clothes.
She took out a mouse-sized pair of sneakers, a mouse-sized ballet costume, a mouse-sized top hat and tuxedo.
“Try on the tuxedo!” said the girl, setting the top hat on his head.
“No,” said Bernard. “Allie, thank you for dinner but I need to leave. I need to meet up with my friends in the underground.”
Just then the girl’s mother called to her from the hallway. “Allie, lights out. It’s bedtime.”
“Sorry, Bernard,” Allie said. “We can talk about it in the morning.”
“No, no,” he said. “Please don’t put me back in the cage. We’re running out of time!”
But she did put him back in the cage—this time setting it on the windowsill. Then she put on her pajamas and turned off the light.
Bernard gazed out over the towering skyline of New York City and down into the sparse darkness of the park, lit by the buttery glow of the occasional streetlamp. The city was magnificent. Soon there might never be another sunset, or bright lights twinkling in the darkness; there might never be another morning song on the subway, or a new delivery to the flower district, or a walk through Chinatown with Mittens.
In a day it could all be stopped—the whole city was as powerless as a mouse in a
cage.
17
A Magic Teapot
In the morning the sun rose orange and gold and reflected in the windows of the buildings that surrounded the park. The bird was on the window ledge again, its black eyes scanning the city. Wind ruffled its feathers, but it seemed to feel no chill. Bernard watched the bird with longing. He banged on the side of the cage so that it might look over and see him. Next time Allie let him out of the cage, he decided, he would run.
Timelessness had been hard in the garden, but the idea of timelessness in New York City was frightening. Especially if he had to spend it inside Allie’s room. No fresh air, no other animals to talk to. He wondered if Allie’s teapot, like the one he had used to escape, the one with pictures of bridges on it, might lead him back to the garden. Time was running out—and it might be his only chance.
An alarm clock rang, startling Bernard. The falcon turned its head toward the window and spotted him. It nodded gravely in his direction and lifted one of its frightening talons in a kind of salute.
Allie jumped from her bed and ran straight to the cage. The bird soared off into the open air, giving a triumphant cry before swooping down into the green of the park.
“Good morning, little mouse!” Allie said as she lifted Bernard out of the cage and put him on the table in front of the teapot. He had told her his name but still she called him nothing but little mouse, as though all mice were the same.
The carnations smelled wonderful and the room was bathed in the pale glow of early-morning light. He stood inches away from the blue-and-white china teapot. Allie was too close for him to run away—he couldn’t risk her catching him again and maybe keeping him in the cage all the time.
“Where did you get this teapot?” Bernard asked.
The girl smiled. “My aunt gave it to me for my birthday,” she said. “It’s very old, and it’s very special.”
Allie set out two cups, one small enough for Bernard to hold. When she opened the lid of the pot, the smell of tea and roses and milk wafted to his nose.
