Bernard Pepperlin Page 7

  Bernard felt his fur standing on end—and a prickly electric feeling. As soon as she took off the lid, the pot seemed to be giving off a magnetic pull. He crept forward and climbed up the side of the pot, peering into it. To his surprise there was no tea inside, only dust and a few dried rose petals crumpled at the bottom. But the longer his head was over the rim of the pot, the dizzier he felt. Suddenly he heard a clatter of silverware and the sound of the March Hare’s voice—his quick way of speaking.

  The dust at the bottom of the pot began to rise and form a little cloud. In the center of that cloud he could see, as clearly as if he were looking through a window, the rosebushes, the lush green lawn, and the long table filled with scones and butter and tea. In the garden, the March Hare sat in his chair looking forlorn—peering into yet another teapot—the one with the pictures of bridges on it, the one Bernard had used to escape.

  “Where is he?” the March Hare asked. “Dormouse!” he called into the teapot. “Come back.” He could see the Hatter standing on the table in the middle of the cups and saucers, wearing muddy boots and leaning over the March Hare’s shoulder. They were searching for him.

  Bernard reached his paw deeper into the teapot and suddenly he could smell the grass of the dewy lawn and the smoke of the chimney. He reached in deeper still and touched the corner of the tablecloth, the cool smooth cotton. It was all so familiar and safe. He knew if he reached in even farther, he could go back there himself. He could leave Allie’s room, leave New York and the threat of the Pork Pie Gang. He could slip back into the garden where the roses never stopped blooming. It might have been hard and dull in the garden and sometimes people hurt him—but it would be easier than this race against time and better than being trapped in Allie’s room for all of eternity.

  “Dormouse!” the Hatter and the March Hare called into the teapot. “Dormouse!”

  Why aren’t they calling me by my name? Bernard wondered, and then he remembered. They had never, in a hundred years of timelessness, known it. They had never asked. They had never assumed he had one. And he hadn’t known their names either.

  No, Bernard thought. It wouldn’t be better to be in Allie’s room—to trade one tea party for another. He thought of Mittens and Ivy and Leon and Glub and all the creatures in the underground. He thought about all the things he had seen in New York and about the boredom and sadness he felt in the garden. What he wanted most was to escape from Allie’s room so he could help his friends.

  And if the Pork Pie Gang got their way and time stopped, he could at least look out at the park and see the majestic birds. It would be sad but it would be better to live like that than in the middle of nowhere, where there was never a new story or song and where the people who knew him didn’t know him at all.

  Allie’s mother called her to get ready for school. And this time the girl did not put him back in the cage.

  “Wait for me here,” she said. “When I come home we can have a special tea party.”

  “Allie,” said Bernard. “There’s no time for waiting and no time for tea parties. Tonight the Pork Pie Gang is going to stop time!”

  “You are so funny!” she said. “I love the stories you make up.” She leaned down and kissed him on the nose. “Wait for me here, then we can play more when I get home.”

  Then she shut the door and left him there. There was no way to creep under the door—the crack was too small—no way to lift the window; he was too weak. And no way to call for help; his voice was too quiet. But somehow, Bernard thought, somehow, he had to break free.

  18

  A Brave Escape

  Bernard scurried up to the windowsill, climbed up the curtains, and stood on top of the window frame. There he could see that the window was locked. He braced his feet against the glass and his back against the lock. Then he pushed and heaved with all his might until he felt the lock slowly begin to give. Sweat dripped from his brow and he turned the other way—this time pushing the lock with his feet. Suddenly the lock clicked and slid easily. He had done it!

  But how could he ever pry the window open? He jumped down from the windowsill and searched the room for something he could wedge beneath the window. He found a long, colored pencil that was lying beneath the easel and dragged it in his teeth up to the windowsill. Maybe he could wedge it into the bottom.

  All of this commotion caught the attention of the falcon, who had settled again on the ledge outside the window. It folded its long wings and this time it stared straight at Bernard with its yellow-rimmed eyes.

  “Hello!” Bernard shouted, waving at the bird and pounding on the window. “I’m trapped here.”

  The falcon cocked its head. Its eyes gleamed.

  Bernard pointed to the top of the window frame. “I unlocked the window—but I can’t get it open!”

  The falcon balanced on one foot and, with its other strong talon, wrenched the window up and open. A cool breeze blew into the room and ruffled through Bernard’s fur.

  “Thank you!” said Bernard. “Oh, thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” said the falcon. Her voice was clear and full like a bell. “My name is Hunter. And who are you?”

  “Bernard.”

  “Normally, Bernard,” said the falcon, “a mouse would never ask me for help.”

  “Oh,” said Bernard. “Why is that?”

  Hunter looked at him curiously, her eyes glinting as if she’d heard a joke. “Because I would eat them.”

  “You . . . You would . . .” Bernard was trembling, his heart pounding in his chest. “But you can’t. I . . . there’s, we have to . . .”

  “Luckily for you,” Hunter said, “I’m not hungry. I just ate a weasel.”

  Bernard caught his breath and put his hand on his forehead.

  “At least I think it was a weasel,” Hunter said. “It was wearing a little hat. Maybe it was a tiny man in a fur coat—it had very straight teeth. Quite delicious.”

  Bernard quickly told Hunter about the Pork Pie Gang. There were only hours left before the concert at Times Square. Now that Hunter was standing right next to him, he could see how strong she was. He could see her sharp beak and her intelligent eyes.

  “So let me get this straight,” said Hunter. “You and a lizard from Louisiana, and some other tiny animals, and a cat and a queen—who I’ve never heard of before—are going to stop a group of gangsters from making time stand still? Have I got that right? And these gangsters are weasels with little hats and straight teeth—like the tasty morsel I just told you about.”

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Bernard said. “I know it sounds made up. But it’s true.”

  “Huh,” said Hunter. “And these weasel gangsters are all going to be gathering at Times Square—right in the middle of the city—tonight?”

  “Yes,” said Bernard. “All of them. I’m telling you the truth. It’s not a story. And we’ll all be there to stop them.”

  “Hmmm,” Hunter said. “Very interesting.”

  She turned her back on Bernard and looked out into the blue sky, as though she were getting ready to fly away. Bernard’s heart sank. Why would no one believe him? Why was it so hard for bigger animals to imagine the things that smaller animals said were true? Why was it hard for them to see the things that smaller animals saw? Why would he lie about something so important for everyone?

  “Well?” said Hunter.

  “Well what?” said Bernard sadly.

  “Well, hop on,” she said. “We have to hurry.”

  With an excited squeak, Bernard jumped onto the falcon’s back, holding tightly to her feathers. Hunter leapt off the window ledge, into the sky, spreading her enormous wings and soaring out over the streets and the park.

  The falcon caught currents of air, gliding at first and then speeding faster and faster. Faster than the cars on the road and the boats on the river and the trains underground. She circled the park, getting lower and lower. Bernard clung to her, dizzy from the speed and the height, the wind in his fur, terrified that h
e might fall. He thought again he must be dreaming.

  As Hunter flew lower, Bernard could see there were ponds and lakes in the park, and a castle. There were people in uniform riding horses and on horse-drawn carriages, people on bicycles, families of squirrels and rabbits out having a picnic. This park was surely an enchanted place. He had only seen things like this in books or heard about them in stories. The smell of grass and trees and flowers rose into the air—and mixed with the smells of coffee and eggs coming from the vendors, and the smells of cars and buses on the street.

  The falcon circled the low boulders and bridges and statues in the park, then came to rest in a tree overlooking a gleaming green pond. People rowed boats in the late-morning sun, and others sat on benches surrounding the pond, reading newspapers.

  Hunter glided gently to the ground and Bernard climbed off her back.

  “This is as far as I can take you,” said the falcon. “If you head south, you can get the subway to the diner.”

  “Thank you!” said Bernard. He hurried along the edge of the pond. Now that he was back on ground, he could see things invisible to the larger world. A group of field mice playing baseball. A forlorn rabbit sitting on the edge of the pond, in deep conversation with a frog. There was a painter—the same young starling he had seen in SoHo painting the word starling on a van. Now she was standing in front of an easel, painting a picture of the pond.

  Several round stones stuck up out of the reedy water. Bernard decided to walk over them, cutting across the pond to save time.

  He scurried across one and jumped to the next, then the next. When he got to the next one it began to move. Bernard hunkered down to get his balance, then slowly the tiny rock in front of the one he was standing on began to rise out of the water. It turned—and Bernard found himself looking into the eyes of an ancient turtle.

  “Oh!” Bernard cried. “I thought you were a rock.”

  The turtle dipped his head a bit and raised his eyebrows. “It happens.”

  Bernard looked out at the other rocks. Many of them were moving—and he could see now that most of them were turtles, all different kinds of turtles.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude in your neighborhood,” Bernard said. “Or use you like a stepping-stone. I’m in a hurry and wasn’t thinking.”

  “I can give you a ride,” the turtle said.

  “Um . . .”

  “I know, I know,” said the turtle. “Everyone thinks we’re slow as snails. I’ll tell you one thing—we’re not slow as snails. Snails are slower.”

  As he was talking, the turtle began swimming toward the other shore.

  “Everyone’s in such a hurry,” the turtle said.

  Bernard thought about jumping off his back and swimming, but it seemed rude, and anyway he didn’t know if he could go much faster himself. He thought of jumping to another stone, but he might end up in the same situation, riding on someone’s shell. The sky was blue and the green pond smelled of mud and algae and life. In the distance he could see above the tree line, the tops of buildings rising into the sky.

  “Especially small animals,” the turtle said. “Running from one place to another. Always in a rush.”

  “I’m in a rush today,” said Bernard, “because the Pork Pie Gang is trying to stop time, and I’m trying to stop them.”

  “Never heard of them,” said the turtle. “I’ve been in this pond for sixty years and never once heard of any gang.”

  “Just because you haven’t heard of them doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” Bernard said. He was getting tired of arguing and explaining and convincing other creatures. Time was running out and it couldn’t be wasted trying to make them understand. The turtle would be no help—now it was up to Bernard to make sure the turtle didn’t hold him back.

  As soon as they swam close to another turtle, Bernard hopped from one shell to the next. This turtle didn’t seem to know he was there at all, and when he got close to a rock, Bernard jumped again.

  Now he was stranded in the middle of the pond on a jagged stone covered with grass and twigs and moss. Relying on the turtles had taken him off course. He scanned the horizon frantically and looked into the water, searching for anything or anyone that might help him get to shore.

  In the distance he could see falcons circling. He waved at them and shouted for help. Like a flash a bird came down and sank its sharp talons in the moss beside him; he could smell the blood of other animals on the bird’s claws. This bird meant no help at all—it was hunting for lunch. Bernard crouched in the tall grass, hiding and trembling. As fast as the bird had struck, it flew back up into the sky with a terrifying call, circling above and scanning the ground. Hunter had been right; a mouse could rarely find help from a falcon.

  Bernard steadied himself and prepared to dive into the cold water. There was no other choice. At the edge of the rock he noticed the chunk of moss the falcon had torn. Green on one side, a layer of roots and dirt on the other, it looked like a carpet. He set the carpet of moss in the water green side down and it floated.

  A raft! he thought. You didn’t kill me, falcon, you gave me a raft! He quickly pulled up more moss and covered himself with it, wearing it like a hooded cape so the falcons wouldn’t see him from the air. Then he gathered two long twigs and hurried out onto his raft, paddling with all the might and speed a mouse could muster.

  19

  Henry and Bernard

  When he reached the far bank of the pond, Bernard jumped from his little ship. He laughed in triumph as he reached the winding footpath. His fur was muddy and the muscles in his arms were tired, but he had never felt so alive.

  Partway down the path stood a line of business mice, waiting with suitcases in hand.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked Bernard.

  One of the business mice looked up.

  “We’re headed downtown,” she said. Then she pointed to the first mouse in line.

  Bernard watched as the mouse grabbed ahold of the edge of a man’s trousers and pulled herself up. The man walked off in great strides and soon headed down the steps of the subway.

  “Fastest way to get there,” said the mouse.

  The next several mice in line also pulled themselves up on the men and women walking by.

  “How can you tell where they’re going?” Bernard asked the business mouse.

  “We work in the same offices,” she said. “Where are you headed?”

  “Chelsea,” said Bernard.

  “Ah,” said the mouse. “You’re in the wrong line.”

  She pointed to another group of mice, who looked very fit. Many of them were dressed in well-tailored black clothes. Some wore jewelry or sported beautiful drawings on their arms, and some had paintbrushes sticking out of their back pockets or thick-framed glasses. As he got closer, he noticed the mouse with the short whiskers from the flower market was waiting there in line—the mouse who had put the wreath of flowers around his neck.

  “Hello!” Bernard said, happy to see a familiar face.

  The mouse, whose name was Henry, turned to Bernard and smiled, then he hugged him.

  “Bernard! Everyone has been talking about you. Did you bring help to stop the Pork Pie Gang?”

  Bernard’s moment of happiness disappeared like a soap bubble popping. He felt shabby and muddy and like he had let down his friends. He said, “I didn’t, Henry. I found no help at all, and was very nearly trapped and killed myself. I’m sorry.”

  Henry squeezed Bernard’s paw. “It’s not your fault,” he said kindly. “Shall we get a lift to the diner together?”

  “You’re headed there too?” Bernard asked.

  “I don’t know anyone who isn’t!” said Henry. “Ivy has been telling every animal in town about the meeting.”

  Just then a tall man wearing a black tracksuit jogged by. Bernard and Henry grabbed the bottom cuff of his pants and swung themselves up.

  The man ran out of the park and onto the sidewalk of the busy city, then down into the subway.
Once they were on the platform, the mice let go of the man’s pants and waited together in the crowded station. The train rushed in on a torrent of cold air and the mice hopped inside, scurrying beneath the seats to avoid being trampled by commuters.

  “Look,” Henry said, pointing to the wall of the train car.

  Bernard’s blood went cold. At the top of the wall, all along the car, were photographs of Gary’s grinning face. They were advertisements for the ukulele concert—the same as the poster Leon had showed them in the underground.

  PPGP Presents

  The First, Last, and Only Endless Ukulele Concert!

  Seven o’clock on May 25 at Times Square

  All are welcome.

  Free pickles.

  There were only hours left until Pork Pie Gang’s concert.

  20

  Cat and Queen

  The train stopped at Twenty-Third Street. Bernard and Henry zigzagged through the crowd and up the steps, bursting out into the sunlight. They caught the pant leg of another commuter and rode it five blocks, jumping off right in front of the Empire Diner.

  Bernard had imagined the place would look like a castle. It was, after all, where the queen held court, but it was nothing of the kind. It looked in fact like a train car—it was silver and sleek and had windows all along the side. The sign out front was in the shape of a beautiful skyscraper with a long antenna on top. The mice hurried to the back door of the diner.

  “Shh,” Henry said as they approached. “This place has a dangerous bouncer.”

  They peered around the corner and Bernard saw the back of a large black-and-white cat, its tail twitching. Part of its ear was missing, as if it had been cut with a scissor. There was a small pile of bone toothpicks at its feet.

  “Mittens!” Bernard shouted. And Henry gave out a little shriek as the cat turned around.

  “Bernard!” said Mittens, bounding over to him. “Look at you, you been rolling in the mud?” Mittens brushed Bernard’s fur roughly, then gave him some pats on the back.