Return of the Forgotten

  On the way, Hopper found himself wondering about Dev’s description of City Hall station. According to Wyona, living there had been Dev’s father’s “dream,” and the place itself was “splendid and magnificent.” Hopper had been in the tunnels for quite some time now and, with the exception of Atlantia, he’d yet to see anything that fit that description. Dirty and musty, yes. Gloomy and frightening, absolutely. But splendid and magnificent? No.

  When they arrived at the gargantuan gray wall that sealed off the Mūs village Firren knocked urgently on the door and, for the first time, the pink-uniformed sentry posted there did not hesitate to allow them entrance.

  Ignoring the startled looks of the civilians who leaped out of their way, Hopper, Zucker, and Firren bolted through the village, toward the locomotive engine. There, they knew they could count on the newly reinstated elder tribunal to offer their assistance.

  “We need to see the Sacred Book,” Hopper called out, even before he had finished clambering up the metal ladder. “Sage, Christoph, Temperance . . . we need to examine every old subway map we can get our paws on!”

  They burst into the engine, panting and sweating, and found Sage obediently laying the book on a battered table in the center of the cavernous room. Reverently he opened the tome to which the Mūs unfailingly turned when in need of inspiration for how best to govern their lives.

  This was the book that had foretold of Hopper’s arrival.

  The book, the Chosen One now understood, had been lovingly compiled from gathered pieces of lost human communication—letters, playbills, coupons, storybook pages, and so many other things—which were interpreted to offer a kind of mystic guidance to the civilization of rodents. There were also a number of pages that had been inscribed by La Rocha himself.

  Or herself.

  Hopper leaned over the table and began to rifle through the book. A birthday card from Jack to Shannon, dated August 12, 2013; a newspaper clipping dated February 7, 1964: BEATLES ARRIVE AT JFK; a lengthy set of handwritten notes scribbled by someone who went by the name of Truman, for a story called Breakfast at Cartier (the last word had been crossed out and changed to Tiffany’s).

  Hopper turned page after page until he found what he sought. A subway map, like the one he’d used when he first deciphered the workings of the trains. But this one was much, much older. He reasoned that if Dev’s City Hall station was out of commission, it might not be noted on one of the more current maps.

  At last he found a brittle, yellowed one dated 1905. Hopper had no idea how long ago that was, but the condition of the map suggested it was hardly recent.

  And after several frantic moments of squinting, scanning, and searching, he located a stop called City Hall station!

  “This says we take the 5 train,” he explained, “then switch at Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Isn’t that the bridge we were hanging off not too long ago?” asked Zucker.

  Hopper nodded. “Except that time I was traveling over it. This time I’m pretty certain we’ll be going under it.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “When we get to Brooklyn Bridge station,” Hopper continued, “we’ll have to change to the 6 train. And then . . .” He frowned at the map, hoping he understood it correctly.

  “And then what?” asked Firren.

  “Well, if this is the right station, according to this map, there’s a loop.”

  “Loop?” Zucker repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that City Hall is—or was—the end of the line. In the old days the train would have stopped to let the passengers off. Then it would have continued around the loop to go back the way it had come. But if the station is abandoned, and I’m pretty sure it has to be, this train probably isn’t going to stop. It’s just going to keep moving around the loop. So we’re going to have to jump off while the train is in motion.”

  Zucker sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

  “It’s not like you haven’t done it plenty of times before,” Hopper reminded him.

  “I know, kid. I guess it’s just one of those things a rat can’t ever get used to.”

  Now the cricket messenger appeared in the doorway, exhausted but determined as he began to chirp out Pinkie’s reply. Apparently, there were two stations called City Hall, but only one was functioning. The cricket tweeted the specifics to Hopper, who listened carefully, then compared Pinkie’s instructions to what he’d found on the map.

  “That confirms it,” he said. “This old station here in Manhattan is the one we want.”

  With a quick nod to the elders, Zucker turned and made it to the locomotive’s door in two long strides. “To Manhattan!” he commanded. “Wherever that is.”

  Moments later, Hopper found himself again running as fast as he could through the Mūs village. This time, the citizens cheered them on, wishing them luck and invoking La Rocha’s blessings upon their quest.

  “Chosen One!” A voice rose above the din. “Hopper! Wait.”

  Hopper didn’t want to slow down. He didn’t want to waste even a single second in getting to the kidnapped royal heirs. But the voice that called out to him was so insistent.

  And so familiar.

  “Whadaya stoppin’ for, kid?” Zucker shouted from up ahead. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s go!”

  “I’ll catch up!” Hopper yelled back, waving for the emperor and empress to go on without him. Then he turned to the elderly female Mūs who had called out to him. She was the old lady mouse who had fed him a warm meal on his first visit—as Firren’s captive—to the Mūs village. She was also the midwife, Maimonides, who had delivered the royal litter.

  “Mamie,” he gasped, catching his breath. “What is it?”

  “I have something for you,” the old Mūs explained, “something I want you to have with you on this quest . . . for luck.” She extended her paw; in it was a carefully folded scrap of paper.

  Hopper, who was all for taking every bit of luck he could get, took the scrap and unfolded it. What he saw astonished him. It was a drawing. An exceptionally artistic and thoroughly surprising drawing. For a moment, Hopper could only stare at it.

  “You recognize them, I see,” said Mamie with a smile.

  “I . . . I think so,” said Hopper, unable to pull his eyes from the beautifully rendered portrait. “I only ever met one of them in person. As for the other . . . well, I can guess who he is. The white marking is pretty unmistakable.” He lifted his gaze from the sketch and looked at the midwife. “Where did you get this?” he asked. “Who drew it?”

  “Your grandmother.”

  “My grandmother?” Hopper could only blink in amazement. “You knew my grandmother?”

  Mamie nodded. “Your father’s mother. Myrtle, her name was. She was an upland mouse. Grew up in a wonderful place called Pratt Institute, where only the most artistic of humans come to study. I suppose that’s how she came to be such a talented artist herself. I was with her the day she sketched this portrait of her husband—your grandfather—Ebbets . . .” She pointed to the second face in the sketch. “And his friend.”

  Hopper frowned. “They were friends? That can’t be right.”

  “But it is,” said Mamie, sighing. “Difficult to believe, I know. But there was a short period of time when they were very close. As it happens, this was the very last thing your grandmother ever drew. You see, we were in the tunnels, Myrtle and I, with her newborn litter. Your father, Dodger, was very small and weak, and—” She stopped herself with a sad shake of her head. “There isn’t time to go into it all, Chosen One. It’s a long and heart-wrenching tale. But I have kept the drawing all this time, as a memento of your mother, who was my dearest friend. Now I want you to have it.”

  “For luck,” said Hopper over the lump in his throat.

  “For luck,” the midwife repeated with a nod. “Now, you must hurry. Keep that safe and send good thoughts to La Rocha.”

  “Thank you, Mamie,” said Hopper, tucking the artwork into his vest. ??
?I will treasure this. And so will Zucker.”

  Then the Chosen One was once again racing toward the big gray wall.

  This time, though, he carried with him a charm to bring good fortune, a faded portrait tucked close to his heart. A sketch, drawn by his artistically gifted grandmother, of her beloved Ebbets, looking hopeful and determined as he stood smiling beside a friend. Hopper almost hadn’t recognized this friend at first, for he was much younger in the drawing and had not yet received his scar. But once Hopper had made the connection, he’d been utterly shocked, astonished.

  As he barreled on toward the gray wall, it occurred to him that perhaps it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise after all. Perhaps somehow he should have known it, sensed it, all along.

  Perhaps it made perfect sense that the friend in Myrtle’s drawing, smiling so genuinely at Ebbets and looking ready to take on the world, was none other than Zucker’s father, the former majesty of Atlantia. Titus.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE FERRY GLIDED AWAY FROM the dock, chugging and wheezing, with the royal princess hanging precariously over the side.

  “Hold on!” Pup commanded, dropping his quill sword and rushing back to the door to grasp first one of her straining arms, then the other. With one great heave that sent both of them tumbling backward, he managed to yank her into the boat.

  She was safe.

  Unfortunately, the same could not be said for her tiara. The jolt of their landing knocked it off her head, sending the glimmering crown sliding across the deck, where it spun to a stop . . . right beside what, if Pup didn’t miss his guess, appeared to be a peg leg.

  “Seriously?” he muttered, gaining his feet. “This is happening?”

  “Arrgghh! What have we here?” The owner of the wooden leg crouched down, picked up the jeweled headpiece, and peered at it, a task made slightly more complicated by the fact that one of his eyes was covered by a patch. “Ain’t this a pretty bauble, now,” he drawled. “And mine for the taking.”

  “Give that back!” snapped Hope, standing up, checking to see that the quilt was still snug around her waist, then tossing the pi-rat (for surely, what else could this peg-legged, eye-patched, arrgghh-uttering rodent possibly be?) a contemptuous look. “Give it back this instant.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me, Princess Hope of the House of Romanus.”

  “We’re in open water now,” the pi-rat snarled. “So I don’t recognize any such authority.” He smiled at the gem-encrusted treasure in his grasp. “Although I am bloody impressed by the crown jewels.”

  Thanks to the pi-rat’s preoccupation with the haughty little princess and her pricey piece of headwear, Pup had quietly succeeded in locating his quill. He leaped forward, brandishing his weapon with a flourish.

  “I’ll take that tiara!” he shouted. “Hand it over.”

  “Arrgghh! You’ll have to catch me first.”

  “Catch you?” Pup repeated, throwing up his paws in frustration. “Seriously?”

  The pi-rat’s answer was to take off at a run.

  “Told you they’re a rascally bunch!” said the commodore, trotting off after the scoundrel. “Come on!”

  Pup paused only long enough to grab Hope by the paw; clutching his weapon, he followed the hedgehog to a short flight of metal steps. Down they clambered into the depths of the ferry, where the light faded quickly to a murky mist and the stench was horrendous.

  “I’ve never been down here before,” Wallabout admitted. “So I’m not sure what to expect. Just be sure to—”

  Whoosh!

  Pup watched in surprise as the pudgy commodore was swept off his feet and into a well-placed trap.

  “Are you all right?” cried Hope, gaping at the hedgehog, who was now caught in an old fishing net, swinging back and forth in a wide arc above their heads.

  “Shipshape, no harm done,” the commodore assured her. “But watch out!”

  This advice came a split second too late. Hope squealed when the point of a pi-rat’s cutlass shot out from a pile of rope and stopped short, just a hairsbreadth from her tiny pink nose.

  The pi-rat who held the blade was not the one with the bum leg and missing eye. This one was shaggier than the first and wore a red rag tied around his head. There was a hook where his right paw should have been.

  Hope didn’t so much as whimper. Perhaps she was becoming used to being on the business end of a sword.

  “Give me back my tiara!” she demanded.

  “Well, ain’t you the bossy little wench,” the pi-rat snickered.

  “I’m not a wench, I’m a rat. A royal rat.”

  “Are ye now?” said the rat, waggling his whiskery eyebrows. “That’s good to know. For it’s the royal ones that fetch the greatest ransoms.”

  “She’s not your hostage, pi-rat!” spat Pup.

  “Be still, runt!” barked a third brigand, dropping down from an overhead pipe and pulling a dagger from its sheath. “If we say she be, then she is.”

  “Well, I say she isn’t!” Pup shot back. Summoning all his strength, he sprung upward off his hind paws, grabbed onto the net that held Wallabout, and swung himself at the pirate with the dagger, kicking him hard in the gut and knocking him off his feet. Catching one of the knots of the net between his teeth, Pup managed to open a hole just big enough for Wallabout to drop through. The commodore landed—prickle side first— right on top of the hook-pawed pi-rat!

  “Owwwwwcccch!” The pi-rat dropped his rapier and howled as the pointy tips of a thousand quills connected with his fur.

  Now a fourth pi-rat appeared, hopping out from behind a pile of moldering life preservers. This was by far the biggest one yet, with rotten teeth and a face full of scars.

  And he was holding the most lethal-looking sword Pup had ever seen.

  Pup raised his quill.

  The big pi-rat laughed out loud. “Ye plan to fight me with that? A hedgehog quill? Why not just try ticklin’ me to death with a seagull feather?”

  “I would,” Pup growled, “if I had one.”

  He lunged at the pi-rat, who deftly dodged the point of the quill and laughed even harder.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be, eh?” The pi-rat swung his sword with startling force.

  Pup leaned out of the way just in the nick of time, then parried again.

  The pi-rat blocked the strike.

  By now the other two pi-rats had righted themselves and, to Pup’s distress, several more had appeared, popping out from under tarps and behind crates, every one of them menacing, and every one of them armed.

  Pup was going to need more than one measly hedgehog quill to get out of this mess.

  He shot a look at Hope, who was huddled with Wallabout near the metal stairs. Then with a mighty roar he ran at the largest pi-rat, wielding his meager weapon.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t get far before the hook-pawed rat shot out a leg and tripped him, sending Pup toppling to roll across the slick floor. The quill went flying.

  He hoped it might by some miracle lodge itself in the big pi-rat’s heart.

  But it didn’t.

  Lying there in the slime of the ferry’s hold, Pup knew he had lost. He closed his eyes and waited to feel the dagger across his throat. Or perhaps they’d do something more dramatic like toss him over the side of the ship and into that cold, bottomless river.

  Mice weren’t known for their aquatic skills, after all. He’d sink like a stone and be dead in no time.

  And Hope would be alone. Helpless. Vulnerable.

  This thought sickened him most of all.

  The moments ticked past, but no hook jerked him up from where he was sprawled, and no peg leg kicked him in the backside.

  Cautiously he opened one eye . . . and yelped when he saw the eye-patched pi-rat staring down at him.

  “Yer quite the scrappy little mouse, ain’t ye?”

  Pup sat up gingerly and sighed. “Scrappy . . . or stupid . . . it’s a tough call.”

&n
bsp; The pi-rat let out a raucous peal of laughter. “I’m thinkin’ you be both. And ya know what? We like that combination.”

  “You do?”

  Still laughing, the half-blind pi-rat reached down, offered Pup a paw, and helped him up. “Well, now, one don’t come to be a pi-rat by being timid and smart, do he?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Hope scurried over to where Pup was standing beside the pi-rat. “Can I have my tiara back now?”

  The pi-rat looked down at her and grinned. “No. But you can have your lives.”

  “Fair enough,” said Pup quickly, scooting the princess behind him. “We’ll be on our way now.”

  The pi-rat laughed. “I’m only funnin’ with ya, missy,” he said, handing her the crown. “Here’s your hat back.”

  “Tiara,” Hope corrected primly, placing it on her head. “And thank you.”

  The commodore cleared his throat, then pointed to the pile of life preservers.

  “Oh,” said Pup. “Right, I forgot!” He pushed his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “I need a favor . . . mate.”

  “Aye? And what might that be?”

  “I’d like you to relinquish one of those flotation devices to me. I need it to carry me to the island of Manhattan. Maybe you can think of it as a reward for my exemplary scrappiness and excessive stupidity?”

  The big pi-rat considered the request, then smiled at Pup.

  “We are proud to call ourselves pi-rats,” he said. “Buccaneers! Gadabouts! High-spirited rogues, the whole motley lot of us. But know ye this, lad, for it be the truth: there is not a single unkind soul among us. We have lived hard lives, and seen our share of disappointment and pain. ’Tis why we’ve joined together here, to start anew. Here, where we can live a carefree, rollicking seafaring life, causing trouble and making mischief, but our antics are all in fun. We pi-rats of the East River are naught but an honest, merry band of harmless vagabonds. So aye, little mouse, you may have your float. And ’tis my wish that it carries you safely to whatever port of call ye little varmints consider your home.”