Return of the Forgotten

  The princess seemed to take comfort in this. Together the mouse and the rat mounted the long, slanting bridgelike apparatus that led to the bobbing ferryboat.

  “It’s like a subway train that can swim,” Hope observed as they approached the entrance. There they stopped short at the sight of a squat, bristly-backed animal blocking their path.

  He had a narrow snout, small black eyes, and a roly-poly shape. He wore a funny hat with braided trim; its bell-curve shape made it look like a blue-and-gold version of something called a taco, which Pup had once seen Keep order in for lunch back at the pet shop. But even weirder than that hat was the fact that most of this critter’s plump little body was rippling with pointy quills.

  “Ahoy, there! Commodore Wallabout, at your service.”

  “Hello,” said Hope. “Will this fairy . . . I mean, ferry . . . take us to Manhattan?”

  “Not us,” Pup reminded her. “Me. You’re going back to the grasslands to wait for Ace, remember?”

  When Hope rolled her eyes, Pup turned back to the commodore.

  “She lands at Pier 11,” Wallabout explained.

  “Is that anywhere near City Hall?” asked Pup.

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘near,’ mate. Long walk for someone of your size.” The commodore grinned. “But it’s a pretty short sail.”

  Before Pup could ask what he meant by that, Hope piped up again.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, motioning to his pointy quills, “but what sort of creature are you?”

  “Hedgehog,” said Wallabout. “Born just a short way from here in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Swam here, I did. Hedgehogs are good at that.”

  “Oh,” said Hope. “I thought maybe you were just a prickly rat.”

  Wallabout’s response was a great loud belly laugh. “No, miss. I am hedgehog through and through. The only rats on this ship are a band of swashbuckling brigands who live below in the hold. A rascally bunch, they are. Love to frighten the human passengers, scare them so they drop their snacks and munchies all over my nice clean deck. Oh, they’re a rowdy crew!”

  “Brigands?” said Hope. “You mean pirates?”

  “I mean pi-rats!” the commodore corrected. “Complete with eye patches, hooked paws, and peg legs. Most of them used to live along the docks and wharfs, but they found they could gather more booty out on the high seas.”

  “You mean river,” Pup pointed out.

  “Aye,” said Wallabout. “The point is, they’re a mischievous lot.” He eyed Hope’s jeweled tiara and frowned. “Now there’s a treasure they’d surely want to plunder.”

  Pup wasn’t sure what pi-rats (or for that matter, pirates) were and he certainly didn’t want to know the meaning of the word “plunder.” But it didn’t matter. Because Hope would not be setting sail on the East River Ferry, not if he had anything to say about it.

  “Time for you to go back to the grasslands,” he told her firmly. “I will send word when I can.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he cut her off. “Go, Princess!”

  “All ashore that’s goin’ ashore,” said Wallabout.

  “All right, all right, I’m going!” Hope huffed, then threw her arms around Pup and squeezed with all her might. “Please be careful, Pup.”

  “You too, Princess.”

  She pulled away and used a corner of the patchwork quilt to wipe a tear from her eye. “Bon voyage.”

  “Good day, miss,” said the commodore, snapping the princess rat a formal salute. “Happy landings to you.”

  Pushing aside his sadness, Pup watched his little friend scamper down the gangplank. The spirit of La Rocha will keep her safe, he assured himself. After all, Hopper had made it home from the grasslands in one piece. Valky had looked after the Chosen One there, and he would care for Hope as well.

  Pup almost wished he could stay too, and get to know his brother’s friends. But Dev needed to be found and brought to justice. And it was up to Pup to do it.

  He followed the waddling hedgehog across the deck, being careful to avoid the human passengers. “I need to get to Manhattan,” he reminded the commodore. “To City Hall station. Can you help me?”

  “I think so,” said the commodore. “This vessel will take you at least part of the way. But when we get to the middle of the river, you’re going to have to jump ship.”

  Pup was sure he hadn’t heard the hedgehog correctly. “Did you say ‘jump ship’?”

  “Aye, aye, mate. But don’t worry. You don’t have to swim. You can float.” With a smile he pointed at a round object with a hole in the center, hanging on an interior wall of the ferry. “That is what old salts like me call a life preserver. All you have to do is toss it into the drink, hop on, and let it carry you to land.” He frowned. “’Course, you’ll have to hope the current is working in your favor. And there’s always the question of wind. But it’s the only way to get you where you need to go.”

  “Fine,” said Pup, heading toward the life preserver. “Let’s get it down from there.”

  “Oh no,” said the commodore, shaking his prickly head. “Not that one. That’s for decoration, mostly. The human crew would miss that one. But I know where we can find another.”

  “Where?”

  “Below,” said the commodore, looking suddenly nervous. “In the hold.”

  Pup gave him a sideways look. “Didn’t you say that’s where the pi-rats are?”

  Wallabout nodded. “Which is why you’re going to need this!” The hedgehog reached up and, with a little grimace, jerked a single, sharply pointed quill out of his back. “Here you go, sailor. It’s not a sword, but it’s the best I can do. Now, the human crew is ready to remove the gangplank. We should get going.”

  He hurried off in the direction of the stairs, waving for Pup to follow.

  Shuffling along behind the hedgehog, Pup was so involved in examining the quill, he didn’t notice that one final passenger was making a mad dash up the gangplank, preparing to take a giant leap across the water.

  A giant leap that would turn out to be just a hair too short.

  “Help! Pup! Help me!”

  Pup whirled and saw Hope . . . or more accurately, the tips of her tiny, grasping paws . . . clinging to the edge of the ship, dangling precariously above the churning river.

  MIDLOGUE

  Some time ago, in the subway tunnels beneath Brooklyn, New York . . .

  THE LITTER OF UPLAND MICE were fascinated by the enormous Manx cat who gave them their tour of Titus’s refugee camps. His name was Horatio, and his coat was a swirl of light gray and charcoal. His eyes were such a pale yellow that they were nearly colorless. And he was without a tail.

  At first, the pups were afraid. Upland, they had been taught to fear cats. But clearly, here in the tunnels—thanks to Titus and the feral queen—things were different. Horatio was cordial and businesslike, explaining the political and societal aspects of the camps to Fiorello, who seemed impressed with the emperor’s accomplishments.

  “Ah,” said Horatio when he spotted a line of rodents exiting the camp under the leadership of several Atlantian soldiers. “It seems there’s a colonization about to begin.” He grinned his feline grin at Fiorello. “Are you interested in tagging along?”

  “I don’t know,” said the father mouse, glancing at his litter. “It’s been a long day and I think my pups are much too tired.”

  “We’re not tired, Father,” said the eldest. “We can march. I’d like to see the new city where these rodents will be taking up residence.”

  Fiorello eyed the smallest of his children. “Ira, do you feel up to it?”

  Ira nodded. “A-a-absolutely, Father.”

  “I’ll carry him,” the eldest offered. Then he pointed to the last of the colonists who had just exited through a gate in the wire fence. “Please, Father. I want to go where they’re going.”

  Horatio laughed. “A brave lad,” he remarked. “So willing to tread into the unknown.”

  “That will serve me well when I
am a prince of City Hall,” the pup said, lifting his chin high.

  Horatio’s eyes gleamed, but he said nothing.

  “Very well,” said Fiorello. “Take us to this new, promising city. I want to learn all I can from Titus’s achievements, in order to make a success of my own colony.”

  “Follow me,” said Horatio.

  As they exited the camp, Ira took a deep breath, summoning his courage to inquire of the enormous Manx, “D-d-did you lose your tail in a f-f-fight?”

  “No,” the cat replied. “I was born this way. It is a trait unique to my breed.”

  Ira smiled. “I-I-I’m glad to hear it. I would h-h-hate to think of fights taking place in these t-t-tunnels. We are hoping our new h-h-home will be a peaceful p-p-place.”

  Ira’s older brother thought he heard the Manx chuckle and mutter something that sounded like “keep hoping.”

  They walked on until they reached a cat-size door, outfitted with heavy locks and chains. The eldest mouse thought it odd that a door would have locks on the outside, but he didn’t mention it.

  “Here we are, mice,” Horatio announced. “Right behind this door is where a rodent’s life changes. Go right in.”

  He opened the door, just a crack.

  Fiorello hesitated, his eyes sliding from the open door to the grinning cat. His son noticed the sudden look of alarm, as though some instinct were warning his father to rethink this adventure.

  “Perhaps we’d better not,” Fiorello said. “Maybe I should meet with Titus again before I—”

  “Inside!” the cat hissed, then flung the door wide, swatted Fiorello and the four pups through, and slammed it shut.

  The pups heard the locks fastening on the other side.

  “Where are we?” the eldest asked.

  “Father, I don’t like this place,” said Celeste.

  “Neither do I,” said Hazel, sniffing the air. “I smell something strange. It seems to be everywhere.”

  “Fear,” her father whispered. “What you smell is fear.”

  Ira yelped.

  “Quickly!” Fiorello cried. “We must find a place to hide.” His frightened eyes darted around the dark, dismal place, where rodents were huddling, crying, and scrambling into corners in a desperate attempt to conceal themselves.

  But from what, was anybody’s guess.

  “Over here!” came a nearby voice. “We have room in here!”

  The brown mice spun in the direction of an overturned drinking vessel. It looked sturdy and sound, crafted of some shining silver metal. Inside, a male rat and his mate were waving to them.

  “Hurry!” cried Fiorello, herding his litter toward the cup. When they reached it, the two rats slid out and the male introduced himself in an anxious voice.

  “I am Vigneault,” he said. “Something terrible is about to happen! They call this place the hunting ground. Our only chance is to hide. Put your young in this cup. They’ll be safe in there.”

  “B-but if w-w-we get in,” Ira stammered, “there w-w-won’t be room for y-y-you.”

  “It’s all right, little one,” said the female rat, lifting Ira and slipping him into the cup. “We are big enough to fight.”

  Fight whom? the eldest wondered, beginning to tremble.

  Vigneault lifted both Hazel and Celeste at once and placed them into the cup while Fiorello hoisted his eldest son in beside them.

  It was even darker inside the silver cup than it was in the hunting ground, but as his vision adjusted to the gloom, the eldest spotted a pair of bright eyes shining from the depths of the cup.

  Vigneault poked his face in, grinning (although to the mouse pups his smile looked strained). “There is our little girl, tucked way into the shadows. I’m sure you will all become fast friends.”

  The girl mice gave the young rat tentative smiles. The eldest mouse noticed that she held her shoulders back in a most confident way. He found himself trying to copy her proud posture.

  “Now,” said Vigneault, “I want you all to be very brave. Cover your ears and try not to listen. It will all be over soon.”

  “What will be over?” the eldest mouse asked.

  Vigneault’s answer was a courageous smile. Then he turned to Fiorello. “Now, let us see what we might find to protect ourselves. Stones, perhaps. Blades lost in the dirt during previous battles . . . anything with which we might fight off these hungry ferals.”

  Hungry ferals. The eldest mouse’s heart flipped over inside his chest.

  Vigneault and his mate paused only long enough to give their daughter a loving glance.

  Fiorello, too, allowed his terrified eyes to fall upon each of his children in turn, lingering for the space of a heartbeat first on the eldest, then on the girls, and finally on Ira, who had curled himself into a quivering ball of brown fluff. “I love you all,” he whispered.

  “We must hurry!” said Vigneault’s mate.

  Without a backward glance, the two rat parents and Fiorello sped off to prepare for battle.

  For a while the hunting ground bustled with rodents seeking places to hide, and searching for artillery. Some wept; others cried out in fury. To the disgust of the young mice watching from the cup, some even fought amongst themselves, shoving each other out of hiding spots or stealing found weapons for their own protection.

  And then, without warning, the whole place fell silent.

  The sudden absence of sound was an eerie presence inside the cool, shadowy cup. The eldest mouse imagined he could hear the rat child’s heart beating beside him. He knew he could feel Ira trembling.

  Then, to his surprise, the rat smiled and held out her paw to shake. “I’m Firren,” she said.

  He shook her paw and introduced himself. “Devon.”

  “I’m Celeste.”

  “My name’s Hazel.”

  Firren turned to Ira, who had peeked up from his cowering position with curious eyes.

  “Hello,” Firren said.

  “H-h-h-hello,” Ira squeaked.

  “What’s your name?”

  “My n-n-name is . . .” Ira swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to coax his own name to his lips.

  “His stutter gets worse when he’s afraid,” Hazel whispered to Firren.

  Before Ira could try again, the hush outside the cup was broken by the sound of locks clicking and chains clanging. The scent of terror filled the hunting ground as a voice rose from the throng of rodents. . . . It was Vigneault’s, Devon was certain.

  “We won’t go down without a fight,” Firren’s father bellowed. “Be brave, all of you. We must fight for our lives! And for the lives of our children.”

  And then came the whoosh of the heavy door opening to allow the ferals entrance. The last word Devon heard before the battle rang out was his brother’s name.

  “My name is . . . I-I-Ira.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  FIRREN FINISHED HER STORY WITH tears in her eyes. Zucker went to her and held her close.

  “I had no idea,” he said softly.

  “So Devon’s parents and his brother, Ira, were lost to the ferals,” said Hopper, sickened by just the thought of it.

  “He blames me,” said Firren with a shudder. “And I suppose he has every right.”

  “Oh no he does not!” scolded Dodger. “You were a mere pup, and a terrified one at that. There was no way he or anyone else could have expected you to save Ira.”

  Firren gave Dodger a grateful smile, then turned to Wyona. “Do you really think he’s taken my litter?” she asked.

  The soldier hesitated, then gave the empress a grim nod.

  “There would have been no one to stop him,” Hopper realized. “Nobody’s left in the palace except a couple of chefs. And Marcy . . . who would have believed anything he told her, since I was the one who said he could be trusted.”

  “Where do you think he’s taken them?” Dodger asked. “The remains of Felina’s lair, perhaps? Pup’s abandoned shoe?”

  “City Hall,” said Z
ucker decisively. “That’s where this lunatic is holding them. I feel it in my gut.” He turned to Hopper. “If it’s a station, that must mean that one of the metal beasts can take us there, right?”

  “I think so,” said Hopper. “But I wouldn’t know which one, unless I had some clue as to the location. Pinkie might know where it is, what with all the traveling she’s been doing.” He turned to the cricket. “Find Pinkie,” he commanded. “Chirp her this message: ‘Urgent. We need to find a station called City Hall.’ ”

  Wyona had mentioned that Dev had described the place as “long forgotten,” which made sense—he would want to avoid working stations.

  “Likely abandoned,” Hopper added. “Send word back to me at the Mūs village.”

  The dutiful cricket flicked his antennae and scampered off on his mission.

  “Why the Mūs village?” Firren asked.

  “Because,” said Hopper, who was already in motion, nudging his friends toward the track in the distance, “on the chance that Pinkie doesn’t know the whereabouts of this City Hall station, I’m going to need a subway map. Probably an old one.”

  “Yes,” said Dodger, “and fortunately for us, the Sacred Book is filled with them.”

  Since their brave and loyal cricket had already been dispatched, Dodger volunteered to deliver a second message; this one would not be encoded in chirps, tweets, and whistles, rather it would be written upon the tunnel wall:

  “Old school,” Zucker had observed. “But always effective.”

  Dodger would rush to the runes, where he would inscribe the following information:

  We Have Reason To Believe That The MŪs Soldier Devon

  Has Abducted The Royal Heirs.

  We Believe We Know Where He Has Taken Them.

  All Are To Reassemble At The Palace

  To Await Further Instructions.

  With any luck, the searching parties would see the notice and discover the change in plans. From the runes, Dodger would then escort the still-reeling Wyona back to the palace to administer medical attention.

  It wasn’t long before the appropriate train appeared; Hopper, Firren, and Zucker scrambled onto the hitch, and they were off to the Mūs village.