The Hedgehog of Oz Read online

  “Brave for his friends,” repeated Ingot softly.

  “We need to be getting back, I’m afraid,” said Tuffy’s father. “Got twenty blocks to cover before daylight.” He turned to Marcel and Ingot. “Will you join us? You saved our boy. Our home is yours.”

  “And leave my peace and quiet? Never,” growled Ingot. “Besides, that tyke is too much trouble for this old squirrel.” It would have come off as coarse if he hadn’t given Tuffy’s chin an affectionate tap.

  Marcel hadn’t really thought about what was next. With no theater, no hens, and now no Tuffy to care for, he was free to do whatever he pleased.

  But one look at Ingot shifting his injured leg and grimacing was all Marcel needed to make his decision. “I’m going to stay too,” he said.

  They filed out of the newsstand into the December night. A snowflake fluttered down and landed on Marcel’s nose. Then another. The midnight sky became a ballet of white snowflakes—dancers twirling in lace-tipped skirts, falling to the ground all dizzy and spent.

  Ingot was the last out, and Tuffy, who was the larger of the two, swept the old squirrel up in his arms. “Tuffy will miss you!” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll miss you too.”

  Tuffy put Ingot down. “When will I be seeing you again?”

  It was a perfectly fair question, but the look on Ingot’s face when Tuffy asked it was one Marcel couldn’t discern. They watched as Ingot turned to go back inside, coming out a moment later with the front page of the prior day’s Shirley River Herald.

  “Here,” said Ingot, laying the page on the ground and swiping a half-melted chocolate from Tuffy’s hand. He ran the chocolate over his hand and made a handprint on the newspaper. “There. You got that to remember me by.” Ingot handed the chocolate to Marcel, who repeated the gesture.

  When Marcel was finished, Tuffy grabbed the newspaper and clutched it to his chest. “This is my favorite thing. My favorite thing from my friends.”

  Marcel and Ingot watched them go. The raccoons stuck to the shadows when they could, and when they couldn’t, Tuffy never failed to turn under the glow of the streetlights, waving heartily just one more time.

  “Let’s get to it, then,” said Ingot, turning back in the direction of the theater. His footprints left behind a trace of blood in the snow.

  “Ingot, you’re bleeding,” said Marcel.

  “Everything bleeds,” the squirrel replied. “Keep walking.”

  “But…”

  Ingot turned to face him. “I’m bleeding, Marcel. Yes, I am. Been bleeding a while now. Will probably continue. But here I stand. We all bleed. We just keep walking.”

  It wasn’t far. Just over a block. It shouldn’t have taken long, but Ingot’s injury now seemed too much for him. The squirrel dragged, though his brow was set as ever.

  They were nearly to the wreck of the theater, when Marcel caught a bit of movement in the corner of his glasses. A reflection.

  An eye, the flap of a wing—talons.

  And then a sinking feeling.

  “Get down!” shouted Marcel, pulling Ingot to the ground next to him just as the owl passed over, her claws missing them by the fringe of a feather.

  Wickedwing screamed a furious scream and swooped out of sight.

  “She’ll be back!” Ingot yelled. “We need to hide!”

  Marcel wrenched Ingot off the ground, braced an arm under the squirrel, and made for the pile of bricks. They ran. Ingot slipped in the snow and stumbled. Marcel pulled him to his feet. “We’re nearly there! Just a few more feet!” Marcel urged.

  The shriek of the owl pierced the air around them, and Ingot found fresh motivation to cover the last few feet at a run. They scrambled up the bricks and metal, looking for a big enough opening to squeeze through and hide.

  “There! Over there!” Ingot shouted, spotting a black crevasse in the snow. They tripped toward it, fast as they could. Marcel felt a sharp piece of glass rip through his foot. Instinctively he stopped to grab hold of it as Ingot disappeared inside the opening.

  “We’re in!” Marcel heard Ingot shout…

  Just as claws sank into his shoulders and his feet broke away from the ground.

  CHAPTER 25 A Heart That Beats

  TIME SEEMED TO SLOW. AS Marcel’s toes grazed the top of the rubble, what ran through his mind wasn’t fear or whether or not the inside of an owl’s stomach was as inhospitable as it seemed, it was…

  Dorothy.

  A cry escaped his mouth, and hot tears sprang to his eyes. He was flying. And then…

  Two hands clamped around his ankles, tight as iron shackles.

  “Not today, Witch!” Ingot cried.

  Marcel felt the tug. One above, one below.

  “I got you, Marcel!” Ingot shouted. “Don’t worry. I got you!”

  The snow swirled around them as Wickedwing tried to catch air. But the wind and the weight of the two animals tugged her back toward the ground, and soon Ingot’s tail trailed over the rubble.

  A metal pipe shot out of the wreckage like a bent flagpole on a mountaintop, and Ingot hooked his back feet around the pipe and held on. Marcel felt the owl’s fiery talons sink deeper into his shoulders as she tried to wrench him free.

  “I… won’t… let… go,” Ingot spat through gritted teeth.

  Searing pain shot shoulder to ankle as every part of Marcel felt like it was being ripped in two. And then…

  He was tumbling into the broken bowels of the theater, he and Ingot, rolling end over end, head over tail. Marcel crashed into a piece of the old mahogany balcony, managing once again to spare Toto. Ingot rolled farther, coming to a stop on a large chunk of the roof, spread-eagled and facing the sky. He lay there trying to lift himself before finally, unsteadily getting to his feet. He stood on shaky legs and called out to the hedgehog. “Now, find a place to hi—”

  Ingot never finished the sentence.

  The owl swept him up like a limp scrap of fur and began to carry him off to the clouds.

  “Noooooooo!” screamed Marcel, jumping up and chasing after Wickedwing’s precious prey. Marcel felt himself reach for Scamp’s old sling-shooter. Numbly, he looked around for a pebble, a scrap of brick, anything.

  He grabbed a hunk of plaster but fumbled it. He tried a piece of splintered wood, put it in the pocket of the shooter, and hurled it toward the sky. It helicoptered down. Wickedwing climbed.

  “This isn’t how the movie ends!” he heard himself cry.

  Marcel’s eyes landed on the frozen pipe at the top of the rubble. A single icicle hung from the metal, glinting.

  The Wizard of Oz. The Witch. Dorothy. The bucket of water.

  It wasn’t a bucket of water, but if water melted witches, maybe ice…

  Marcel ran for the pipe, snapped off the icicle, placed it in the sling, and carefully took aim.

  If he could wish on ruby slippers and fluorescent stars, if there was any magic to be called upon in this world, any prayer to be prayed, he did it now. He placed every hope he ever had in this one whisper: “Let me save him.”

  The sling drew back. The icicle gleamed with what he hoped was a deadly sheen. Marcel could still make out the limp brush of the squirrel’s tail as he aimed. And fired.

  The icicle shot through the air like a rocket set on course. Higher and higher it climbed until Marcel could no longer see the frozen arrow, so instead, he watched the owl.

  The witch flew with determination, her powerful wings carrying Ingot to his grave. One beat of her wings. Two. And then—

  Something rocked her to her side. Flapping frantically, she tried to steady herself and lost a few feet of sky. Ingot now dangled from one foot. Feathers flew. One fluttered down and settled just a few feet away. Marcel kept his eyes on the witch and wished and wished and wished.

  Let me save him.

  Let me save him.

  Let me save him.

  Wickedwing dropped a few feet, flapped. Dropped several feet more. Ingot swung dangerously from her sharp
talons.

  Not like this. Please, let me save him.

  And all at once, the owl plummeted. End over end. Wings and claws and feathers.

  Ingot, now free from her grasp, tumbled too.

  With a great crash, Wickedwing fell into the ruins, still.

  Ingot was falling, and Marcel ran to where he thought the squirrel might land. He wasn’t sure he could catch him, but he had to try. If nothing else, he might break the squirrel’s fall.

  But Ingot landed before Marcel got there.

  Into the folds of the great velvet curtain the squirrel went, snow exploding out as he hit. Marcel dashed up the mountain of wood and bricks and slid down the curtain to where Ingot lay. “Ingot! Ingot! Are you hurt? Please say you’re okay!”

  The squirrel’s eyes were closed. His leg was bleeding heavily, and one shoulder looked a bit out of joint. Ingot gave a bubbly groan and answered with a growl. “I’m just peachy.”

  “Wickedwing—she’s gone, Ingot. We don’t have to worry! But we’ve got to get you help!”

  Ingot let out a short, burbled laugh. “You’ve got good aim, kid. Real good. But don’t hold your breath about me.” His eyes remained shut. “I’m pretty broken up.”

  Marcel felt the tears well up. “Why did you do that? You’re hurt! Why’d you try to rescue me?” he cried.

  The squirrel’s voice was low, the words slipping from his mouth, slow as the falling snow. “I rescued you, you rescued Toto, Tuffy rescued himself, and Scamp rescued everyone, Mousekinland, the whole entire world—a few times.” Ingot snorted at his joke, and Marcel watched as all the squirrel’s memories passed over his face.

  The mouse’s bluster and bravado.

  Tuffy’s innocent affection.

  Marcel’s friendship and how he, the hedgehog, had brought them all together on this, the most remarkable journey of the old squirrel’s life.

  A soft smile curled the corner of Ingot’s mouth. “Lots of rescuing going on. But from the moment you barged into my tractor, you all rescued me.”

  Marcel shook his head angrily. “We should’ve let you be. We never should have asked you to help us! Look at you now!”

  “I needed rescuing!” Ingot’s voice was stern. “Angry and alone—what kind of life is that?” He closed his eyes. “I thought I had nothing left to live for after losing my family. I thought… I didn’t realize—” His breath caught. “I was lost until you found me.”

  Marcel was crying angry tears. “But you’d be okay! You wouldn’t be hurt! What could you possibly have now that’s worth this?”

  Ingot was quiet. He opened a tired eye and looked at the hedgehog, his broken glasses, and the cocoon strapped tight to his chest. “My heart, Marcel. You found the little bit of heart I guess I had left in here.” Ingot bumped a gentle fist on his chest. “You made it beat again.” A smile crept to his lips. “What good is a heart if it doesn’t beat for a thing?”

  “I wished to save you,” Marcel whispered. The snow swirled; the night deepened. “I only wanted to save you,” he cried.

  And Ingot, bruised and broken, looked at him then, with so much love. “Hedgehog, you did.”

  * * *

  Somewhere in the night, the old rusty heart of the squirrel beat its last.

  He wasn’t alone when it did.

  CHAPTER 26 The Biggest, Most Beautiful Things

  SNOWFLAKES KISSED INGOT’S FUR, AND a smile lay frozen on his lips as Marcel tucked the squirrel into the plush folds of the velvet curtain. Had he not known otherwise, Marcel would’ve guessed Ingot was only asleep and dreaming the most wonderful dream, the look of peace was so profound upon his face. And maybe he was.

  Maybe some dreams—the best ones—don’t end.

  The night was somehow colder and so much darker now. Marcel couldn’t bear the thought of staying there in the rubble of his old home—now Ingot’s final resting place. There seemed to be no choice.

  And so he found himself back. Back on the streets.

  Small and alone.

  With a heart both more broken and more put together than it had been in a long time.

  Loss always breaks you. But love—even love that spans miles and time—finds a way to mend the broken places. Scamp and Tuffy and poor Ingot—they would always be part of his heart.

  But it was all that was still broken that stole most of Marcel’s thoughts now. He missed Ingot. He missed the theater and the hens. He missed Scamp and Tuffy and…

  Dorothy.

  The streetlamps lit his way down the sidewalks, past darkened shops and restaurants, past a pet shop and a twenty-four-hour Laundromat, its machines humming away and a cloud of flowery perfume puffing into the air.

  He didn’t pay attention to where he was going. Tears blurred his eyes. Block after block slipped by, unnoticed. The snow came fast now, and the streets, every bench and fence post, every awning and car, wore a winter white.

  The tinsel snowflakes hanging from the lampposts, the colored lights strung around bushes and doorways, the cheery pine trees in so many a window gave the streets a warm and stubborn glow, and Marcel despised it. He determined to stop in the darkest spot he could find.

  Toto wriggled against his chest, and Marcel felt only a sliver of relief.

  At least he wasn’t completely alone.

  “We’ll stop soon, Toto,” he said, tucking the leaf-sack around the cocoon to keep him warm.

  It was a lie. They trudged through the snow for hours.

  Ahead, the street came to a tee at a low brick wall. Beyond it, Marcel could make out the dark, shadowy silhouettes of trees.

  A park, Marcel thought to himself, and as little light could be seen beyond its walls, it seemed the right—the only—place to stop.

  Marcel had his pick of entrances, and he found the darkest, loneliest one he could find. A path wound through the trees, and he followed it. It ended in a lawn dotted with leafless bushes and bare oaks. The snow had stopped now, and the clouds rolled back. Without thinking much about it, Marcel continued on toward a large open space under the sky.

  Toto was wriggling continuously now, and Marcel thought it strange. Maybe he’d been hurt after all. Marcel sat and unstrapped the cocoon and was shocked to find the cocoon peeling away from a small brown moth curled tightly inside.

  “Toto!” shouted Marcel. “You’re a moth! You’re beautiful.” He held the little moth carefully in his paws, making sure to give the creature space to shrug off its garments and shake out its wings.

  For the next hour Marcel spoke softly to the moth as it rested and blood pumped into its wings. Marcel sheltered it from the cold as best he could, even blowing puffs of hot air over it so it wouldn’t catch a sniffle. The moth stretched and fluttered, and Marcel felt himself a happier hedgehog, thankful again that he wasn’t alone after all.

  “I’ll find you some flowers,” Marcel told Toto. “Moths like flowers, don’t they? Or is that butterflies? Scamp would know. But I’ll help you find food—don’t worry about that.” Toto’s wings opened and closed with ease, and he seemed to be listening, Marcel thought. How fortunate it was that he’d found the little cocoon a week ago!

  Marcel supposed the moth must know of all he’d done to try to help him. And now Marcel felt Toto would surely offer him the same in return. Maybe not protection, but certainly companionship—the comfort of a friend. “We’ll have so much fun come spring, I promise. It’s not so cold then, and…”

  Toto began to creep out from under the small shelter Marcel had made of his paws. “Wait. Don’t do that, Toto,” he chided. “It’s cold and wet out there. You’ll want to stay here, where it’s warm and dry.”

  Toto appeared not to hear him and continued to crawl farther, to the tips of Marcel’s claws, fluttering his wings as he walked.

  “It’s terribly cold. Won’t you come just a little closer out of the wind?” Marcel urged.

  Toto fluttered his wings again and turned to fix his tiny black eyes on Marcel. The moth stood there a moment, and
as the hedgehog watched through his cracked spectacles, Toto lifted his wings, turned, and slipped into the wind without a word.

  “Totooooooooooo!” Marcel wailed, rushing after him. “Toto, come back! Don’t leave me!”

  But the small moth disappeared into the night in a blink.

  It was all, finally, too much for Marcel. He dropped to his knees, sobbing.

  He’d lost everything. Dorothy and the theater. The hen sisters—at least they had Gomer. And Ingot—he was somewhere over the rainbow now. Marcel sobbed as hard as he had that day in the park. The memories came back now to haunt him.

  A summer day. A picnic blanket. A few grapes, some string cheese. A couple of warm bologna sandwiches with his Dorothy.

  And then the arrival of a soccer ball and an invite from the blue-eyed boy to play.

  Dorothy had nestled Marcel into her backpack and set him under a tree in the shade.

  “You stay here,” she’d said. “I won’t be long. Stay here in the backpack and I’ll come back in a little bit.”

  Marcel had listened. Begrudgingly.

  For a little while anyway.

  But dark thoughts began to creep in again.

  Was Dorothy growing tired of him like the others had? Would it all end the same?

  Was it just that every pet moved on eventually? Were fickle hearts just the way of the world? Was the best you could hope for a warm bed, a full bowl, and a theater seat in someone’s heart… before the movie ended, the credits rolled, and the theater was swept clean to make ready for the next show?

  Marcel had thought about the day so often since.

  The boy, the bird, the bicycle basket, the basset hound.

  After Dorothy had run off to join Ethan, the chirp of a bird drifted into Dorothy’s backpack from somewhere close by, sounding exactly the way his heart felt: a bit broken.

  Just a peek, he told himself. He’d poked his nose out of the backpack. Just a quick peek.