by Cara Hoffman
“I nearly gave up hope! I’ve been waiting for you for DAYS! Thought you were a goner.”
Henry watched all of this in astonishment.
“You know Mittens the mouse hunter?” he asked.
“Hey!” said Mittens. “I ain’t hunting no mice—I ain’t the kind. I just make sure nobody’s sneaking into the storeroom, that’s all. Give ’em a scare; it’s part of the job. But I ain’t eating no mice. I don’t know how those rumors got started.”
“Because it’s your job to terrorize mice!” said Henry indignantly.
“Whaddaya want?” said Mittens, grinning. “New York’s a tough town, a cat’s gotta hustle.”
“It’s okay,” Bernard said. “Mittens is my friend.”
“Dat’s right!” said Mittens. “And I’m your friend too, you cute little pipsqueak. Any friend of Bernard’s is a friend of mine. We ain’t got time for fighting with each other—c’mon.”
But Henry had no intention of going with Mittens, even if he was a friend of Bernard’s. Instead he slipped through the back door and down the basement steps alone.
“His loss,” said Mittens.
Mittens led Bernard through the back door of the diner into a crowded kitchen that smelled like coffee and every manner of delicious food. Cooks in white shirts were hard at work preparing lunch for customers. They were either too busy to notice or didn’t mind at all that the animals were passing through.
A swinging door led out into the bright dining room where people sat eating, sunlight pouring in through the windows. Everything was silver and mirrored and lovely. She must be a very powerful queen, Bernard thought with relief. She would surely call on her guards to take care of the Pork Pie Gang; she might even know some magic.
Just then Bernard caught sight of her.
There in a corner was a tall older woman. She sat with perfect posture, wearing a red sequined gown, embroidered with white roses. Her eyes were dark and her lips were red and her hair was piled in shining black curls on top of her head. There were jewels around her neck, and she had a fierce, wise expression on her face. On the table before her was a teacup with pictures of hearts and clovers on it.
Her guards, a crow and four yellow finches, were perched on the window ledge outside, looking in at her. She was deep in conversation with two bees who were sitting in an orchid that stood in a tiny vase at the center of her table. And beneath her chair sat a little dog with a jeweled collar.
“Your Majesty,” Mittens said. “This is Bernard Pepperlin.”
Bernard bowed low and the queen looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. Then she lifted him up to the table, holding him gently in the palm of her hand. The crow and the finches fluttered their wings and stared at him.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Bernard.
She was elegant, but as Bernard got closer, he saw that she looked weary, as if she had been up all night.
“Bernard Pepperlin,” she said. “So you are the little mouse who escaped the Pork Pie Gang and rallied the underground. You are the one who chased those weasels out of the flower market.”
“I . . . ,” Bernard stammered. “I didn’t do it by myself.”
“No, indeed,” she said. “Nobody ever does.”
He was wondering if she was going to tell them now how they could defeat the weasels, what sort of help she was going to give them.
“Since the beginning of my reign,” said the queen, “weasels have been a problem. They’re cruel and they’re vicious and they’re selfish and they’re unbearably boring. I sometimes think being boring, being aggressively boring, is a kind of cruelty. Do you?”
“I . . . ,” Bernard stammered again. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think they don’t know any better,” he said.
“Ha!” said the queen, and her eyes glittered. “Don’t know any better? Mouse, please. These weasels know exactly what they are doing. They’re trying to bore us to death. Because they’re bored to death. They’re trying to make us all the same.” She scratched Mittens on the head and gazed out the window, and Bernard realized that Mittens in some way belonged to her.
The queen took a sip of her tea. Sunlight streamed across the table and made the sequins in her dress glitter. Bernard watched the people eating, talking. He saw the waiters moving from table to table, pouring coffee and tea. He heard the clatter of dishes from the kitchen and the conversations of men and women nearby. How was it that the queen could understand the language of animals and insects when other people couldn’t? And why was she all alone in this diner? Where was the rest of the royal family?
“How are we to fight them?” asked Bernard. Now, he thought, she would give him the power that she had. She would give him a magic weapon, or tell him she had already taken care of it. But she sat silently, looking out the window.
When she finally spoke, her voice was only a whisper.
“We fight the way we always do,” said the queen. “With our voices and our bodies, until there’s nothing left.”
21
Ivy’s Plan
That was it, Bernard thought. The queen couldn’t help them. He had asked everyone in the underground to meet him at the Empire Diner. He had told them the queen could help—but the queen had no better idea how to fight the Pork Pie Gang than anyone else. All she could offer was understanding, but understanding wasn’t enough anymore.
And how could you fight for your own freedom, he thought, if you were loyal to a queen?
He had told his friends that Allie could help them, but Allie didn’t even understand the magic that was in her own room. All she wanted was a pet.
How could he have gotten so many things wrong?
After the queen dismissed him, Mittens led Bernard back through the swinging doors, then down a flight of stairs that led to a basement storeroom. They walked past rows of shelves and boxes, and Bernard could see why a mouse would want to live down there. It was warm and dry, and there were sacks of things that mice always kept on hand, like sugar and grain and potatoes. There were jars of peanut butter and rows of fruit pies and big cans of chocolate syrup.
At the back of the storeroom there was a small green door. Mittens rapped on it three times and a rabbit wearing a black sweater and black boots opened it, letting them inside a large, brightly lit room. It was filled with creatures from the underground, and mice from the flower market. Many of them were dressed in black. Ivy and Sophie and Leon were standing at the front of the room. Pictures of each member of the Pork Pie Gang, a map, and several diagrams hung on the walls around them.
Ivy looked up when Bernard came in and a smile broke across her face. He had never seen her looking stronger and more determined.
“Here he is now!” Ivy said, and the animals cheered.
He shook his head and there was silence. The hopeful smiles on his friends’ faces disappeared and were replaced by fear and worry, but Ivy’s intelligent gold eyes shone into his.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We have the best luck of all to have you back.”
Bernard felt his chest tightening and tears welling in his eyes. He didn’t want to let his friends down, but it was a great relief to be back among them.
“All right,” Ivy went on. “Here’s what we know. According to the sparrows who landed here this afternoon, weasels have been gathering in different parts of the city since the sun came up. They’re preparing to take over each neighborhood. At seven o’clock today the Pork Pie Gang will have a captive audience.” She pointed at an area on the map as she spoke. “Maybe the biggest captive audience in history. And if that audience watches them—if they stand there and pay attention to their terrible songs—the city as we know it will be gone.”
Several of the animals began to mutter among themselves.
“Tell us something we don’t know!” cried an angry Chihuahua. “We’ve been hearing about some plan to fight these weasels for days. But I’m looking around an
d I say we got nothin’. All we got is a bunch of runaway pets and the same old rats from the underground telling us we can be free.”
“Hey!” said Mittens. “Let the lizard talk!”
“Thank you, Mittens,” Ivy said. She cleared her throat and went on. “It’s true. We don’t have much. We’re small. We’re weaker than the weasels and Time is not on our side. It’s true we might not win.”
A hush fell over the crowd.
“And that’s why I’ve made a meticulous six-point plan. The details are all here.” Ivy took a pile of maps and instructions off the table and began handing them out to all the animals. “Everyone has a job to do, and it should go like this.
“Rabbits,” she said, “you’re our ears. We need you stationed at every corner of the square—
“Pigeons, starlings, sparrows, you’ll be bringing messages from the rabbits and fighting from the air when necessary.
“Mice and rats and squirrels. Show yourselves! Your job is to scare people off the streets so they can’t hear the song.
“Dogs, you’re our voice. Howling helped break up the gang back at PPGP—and it just might work again.
“Bees, your help in the flower market did not go unnoticed and we remember the brave souls among you who fought the weasels there. I can’t ask you to use your stingers—I know that it could kill you. But you too can scare creatures off the street, and like the dogs, you can raise your voices.
“Frogs and cats—by nature you are aloof. We just ask you to fight in any way you can.
“If you are hurt, head for the sewer grate. Rats will be waiting there to give medical attention and the crosstown ferry will be running all night, taking the injured back to the underground, where they can be safe.”
By the time Ivy was done speaking, the animals had tears in their eyes. The task ahead of them seemed impossible. But they understood the code of all small animals, and if they died upholding that code, they would not die alone.
22
A Battle beneath the Bright Lights
An hour before the concert was to begin, the creatures began arriving at Times Square. Some came by the crosstown ferry, some by train or tunnel or sky.
When Bernard arrived, he could not believe his eyes. The place was so crowded with people it was nearly impossible to move without getting trampled. Lights flashed and images danced over the sides of the massive buildings that rose up around Times Square. The place crackled with electricity and color. Bright red and yellow and blue and green and orange lights and pictures filled every inch of their sight. It was as if someone had broken open the sky and filled it with advertisements. Advertisements for shows, for clothing, for people.
The streets were lined with restaurants and theaters. In some parts there were no cars, just more people walking, eating, gawking. Pigeons and small birds scavenged the sidewalks and streets. There were performers singing, dancing, and acting—working for tips from people passing by. And there was some kind of magic that could put the images of people standing in the square up on the buildings for everyone to see.
Bernard felt dizzy. For a moment he was hopeful the Pork Pie Gang would be lost in the crowd or ignored among the enchanted buildings and creatures. But then he saw them. They had set up a stage in the center of the square. Gary and the rest of the band stood together—and around them there were dozens of other weasels—standing guard, ready to protect them. People and animals had already begun to notice the gang, and they gathered around, waiting to see the ukulele concert.
Ivy raced up to Bernard’s side.
“It’s a matter of minutes now,” she said. “The rabbits have given the word.”
Bernard’s heart thumped in his chest. Suddenly he heard squeals from the crowd.
“Ugh!” somebody cried. “It’s a rat!”
“Oh no! There’s another one!”
Bernard scurried up the back of a man’s leg, onto his shoulder, and then onto his head. The man screamed. “There’s mice everywhere!” The man swiped wildly at Bernard, but Bernard managed to jump away, landing on another person in the crowd.
Soon voices rose from all parts of the square. “Help!” “That’s disgusting!” “A rat just took my potato chips!” “There’s a lizard in my shopping bag!” “A squirrel stole my coffee!”
The small animals were suddenly everywhere—running wild. Birds swooping, bees swarming; Johnny the Squirrel raced from person to person, untying their shoes. A group of tough-looking mice wearing red jackets with the letters MM painted on the back scurried along, taunting people as they left shops and theaters. Sophie, two bedraggled racoons, and an angry yipping Chihuahua chased tourists down into the subway.
But there were not enough of them to prevent the Pork Pie Gang from starting their terrible song.
Toc. Toc. Toc. Toc. Gary began tapping his pen against his horrible straight teeth. Three other weasels began plucking their ukuleles and the singer with the screeching, yowling voice began to sing. The grating noise joined the sounds of car horns beeping and alarms sounding.
Zooba zooba zooba zooba zooba zooba zay
Today it won’t matter what you say
I drove a car I bought a house
I flew a plane
I ate a mouse
I wore a fancy feathered hat
I taxidermied your favorite cat
And pulled the whiskers off a rat
The song’s power was beginning to take hold. People stood fascinated by the droning, screeching ugliness of it all. It seemed to Bernard that many of the people enjoyed the terrible song. They were taking pictures, giving the gang even more attention. It was already difficult to say how long the weasels had been playing.
Bernard looked out at the crowd and could see even more people gathering. He tried his best to frighten them off, but the air felt thick and heavy, and he found himself growing tired. To his left several rats from the underground were limping along, trying to get closer to the band. One of them looked like his leg had been broken. He stumbled with his arms draped across the shoulders of his friends.
“Get him to the sewer grate!” Bernard shouted.
Bernard spotted Leon, whose face was swollen and bleeding. He watched as Leon climbed up a streetlamp and then jumped onto the shoulder of man who was pointing a camera at the Pork Pie Gang’s concert. The man screamed and Leon knocked the camera to the ground, where it was trampled by the crowd.
Bernard looked around for Ivy, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. Above their heads a dark cloud of insects was buzzing and swarming. He could feel the song doing its terrible work. The images on the buildings that had been flickering and moving were now standing still. Cars had come to a halt. Business mice looked at their watches, tapping them as if they were broken. Even in the midst of the fight, in the midst of such a crowd, a great feeling of emptiness and timelessness was descending upon them.
Then suddenly he spotted it. About half a block from where the weasels had set up their stage was a chalk circle, and all around it a small crowd was slowly beginning to gather.
“Over here,” Bernard shouted. “Over here, everyone—this is the real show—a real showstopper!” He zipped through the crowd toward the cockroaches, calling to every manner of creature to join them.
At the center of the circle, the cockroaches were setting up their band.
“Boy oh boy oh boy!” shouted the bandleader. “Good thing we brought earplugs today, ladies and gentlemen, rats and mice, pigeons and starlings, bees and frogs. Would you get a load of that lousy song? Who do those weasels think they are?”
Skippy Waterburg, the Girl from the Silverware Drawer herself, stood next to him shaking her head, her antennae waving from side to side. “I’d say we could do better than that!” she said. “Whaddaya think?”
The little crowd that had gathered around them clapped and whooped. “Sing it, Skippy!”
The cockroach band started playing. And it seemed to Bernard that there were many more members than he’d seen befo
re. Strings and trombones and clarinets and drums, and then the wonderful tap-tap-tapping of the dancers.
“The city is ours!” Skippy shouted.
And then she began to sing:
The city is ours, it’s ours!
Every crevice and every crack
Every train and every track
Every Tompkins Square squirrel, or small boat that sails
All the art on walls, all the yellow leaves in fall
The city is ours, it’s ours
Suddenly a bigger crowd had gathered around the cockroaches. People leaving Broadway shows stopped to watch them perform. People who had been watching the weasels came to watch Skippy singing and dancing and twirling and flying. Soon people were taking pictures of the cockroaches.
“We’re not loud enough,” Skippy shouted. “We’re gonna need your help!”
All the cockroaches were singing, but soon the rats and mice and runaway pets joined in. Even the bees hummed along, and Glub hopped forward into the chalk circle beside Skippy and added his melodic baritone to the mix. It was a familiar song—one the troupe had performed all over the city. The melody was so catchy no one could forget it. They sang:
Wading in fountains or skating on ice
Singing on street corners dancing with mice
Walking at midnight to see the bright lights
The city is ours, it’s ours
Basements and rooftops and high water towers
Sidewalks and streetlamps and bouquets of flowers
Hot summer pavement and cool thunder showers
The city is ours, it’s ours
The food has magical powers
Pho and masala, a slice for a dollah
dim sum and sushi, a pineapple smoothie
The city is ours, it’s ours!
The bridges and trains, the sun and the rains
The birds and the beasts, the hunger, the feasts
The queens and the kings, the dawning of spring
The barges and parks and each dog who barks
