by Avi
“Actually,” said the skunk, “I think it’s me she doesn’t like.”
“Hey, you stink, but I’m rude. Did you see the look on her face when I splashed her?” The two burst into laughter.
“You still stink,” said Mephitis. “Don’t you want to wash some more?”
“I’d rather gross them out,” said Junior.
The two laughed for so long they started laughing at their own laughing.
“I do like your mama, though,” said the skunk when they calmed down. “She’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah, she’s all right,” said Junior.
“I wish she were my mother,” said Mephitis.
“She can’t be,” said Junior. “You’re a skunk.”
“Hey, your uncle’s a porcupine.”
That brought more laughter.
For a while they were quiet. Then Junior said, “You know what I think we should do?”
“What?”
“Let’s get to that house before my Aunt Lilly does. You know, go swaggering in as if we owned the place. Be so totally wicked.”
“Fine with me,” said the skunk. “There’s only one other thing.”
“What?”
“You’re not black anymore. The soot from the burnt tree you used got washed off in the water.”
Junior looked himself over. “Dang! I forgot about that. Maybe I can find something on the other side to dye myself again. Don’t want to get there looking ordinary for that family.”
Junior waded into the water. Stepping carefully, sometimes swimming, he worked his way across Glitter Creek. Mephitis waddled across. “Oh, NO!” he said when he reached the other side.
“What?” said Junior.
“Your stink is a lot less.”
“Can’t have that. Do me!” He turned his back on the skunk. Mephitis stood on his forepaws and squirted.
“What do you think?” asked Junior.
Mephitis sniffed. “Beautiful!”
“Come on,” said Junior, “up the bank. I think Mama said there’s an orchard. Whatever that is. We’ve got to go through it. Then it’ll be that Gray House place.”
“Nothing to it.” The skunk scrambled up the bank with ease. Once on top, Mephitis and Junior stared at the Old Orchard, which lay before them. Instead of the tall, straight pine trees that grew randomly throughout the forest, the orchard consisted of a few dozen ancient apple trees, spaced evenly one from the other, trunks twisted, branches low and drooping. And the orchard air, unlike the tangy, dry pine smell of the woods, was as sweet and moist as honey and almost as heavy.
“That’s some weird forest,” said Junior.
“Your ma called it an orchard,” Mephitis reminded him. “Smells sweet. What’s that boxy thing way over there?”
“I think that’s what they call Gray House,” said Junior.
The two gazed at it silently.
“You know what?” said Mephitis.
“What?”
“I never saw a house before. Is that where your family lives?”
“Hey, skunk, not my family. My mama’s. I never saw any of them ’cept my Aunt Lilly who I just met. Oh yeah, once we came to plant a tree for my dead Uncle Ragweed—the one I’m named after—up on that hill over there, I think. Except my mother didn’t want to visit anyone. But I saw the house from a distance.”
“What was your uncle like?”
“Skunk, that mouse did some wild stuff. I mean, really wicked. So they all hated Ragweed—that’s what my ma said. ’Specially her father.” Junior lowered his voice: “‘A mouse has to do what a mouse has to do.’ Ragweed used to say that. Is that cool or what? He only did what he liked.”
“What happened to him?”
“Got killed.”
“How?”
Junior shrugged. “Dunno. Anyway, he wasn’t stiff like that Lilly.”
“Just became a stiff,” said Mephitis.
“Skunk,” said Junior, “if they’re all like Aunt Lilly, it’ll be nasty. But I don’t care. Not really.”
“Me, neither.”
“The way I see it,” said Junior, “if they don’t like me, I won’t like them just as much. So let’s go get ’em.”
The two worked their way slowly through the orchard without speaking. Beneath the bright, warm sun, the grass was lush, with many colorful flowers to see and to smell. Apples lay on the ground. Grasshoppers rattled their wings while leaping about at random. Bees droned. Now and again a butterfly fluttered past, while jays, warblers, and bluebirds swooped and scooped up insects in their open maws.
“Freaking nice here,” said Junior after a while.
Mephitis grunted his agreement.
They meandered on quietly, pausing occasionally to look back and see how far they had come. But after a while Junior said, “I’ve been thinking: we could go back and wait for my mama. Could be easier that way.”
“Suppose.”
“Except, if we went back and she wasn’t there, things would get mixed up.”
“Right.”
“So I guess we better keep going,” said Junior. “Maybe she’ll be there when we show up—if we go slow enough.”
“Hope so,” said the skunk.
They went a little farther, until Mephitis said, “You know, I could use a nap.”
“Me, too,” said Junior. “Anyway, we want to be sure my mama’s there first, right?”
By way of answering, Mephitis lay down, curled up, wrapped his bushy tail around his body, and closed his eyes. Junior lay back against his friend, resting his head against Mephitis’s soft belly. Then he reached out to pluck a juicy strand of fragrant grass. He chewed it idly. “Yep, pretty nice here,” he murmured.
Under the sun’s soft warmth and the breezes so gently teasing, the two friends were soon slumbering.
CHAPTER 14
An Old Friend
AS JUNIOR AND MEPHITIS NAPPED, a melancholy Poppy walked slowly along the banks of Glitter Creek. Now and again she picked up a pebble and flicked it into the water. She even tried to skip one, but only achieved one jump before the stone sank. “Just like me,” she said.
Poppy was disappointed in herself. In her life she had felt anger and calm, fear and courage. She had experienced danger and joy. She had felt love and hate. While she had been bored a few times in her life, she had been excited many more times. But never before had she felt so sad.
Surely Junior was a great frustration, a mystery that should not be a mystery. And she was disappointed in her sister. Was she sad, she wondered, because of her father’s aging? Not really. Though she wanted only the best for him, it was, after all, only to be expected. He was an old mouse.
She reminded herself that on the other side of things, there was Rye. She adored him. And there were her children. She loved them so much, including Junior. Yes, he was rude. And crude. But he did have a wonderful laugh. No one could still laugh like that and be bad. And that water fight—it had been fun. Then there was her life in the forest. There was Ereth. It was all so good.
And yet . . . she was sad. What was it, she wondered, about family that made her both happy and sad at the same time?
Poppy continued to wander along the creek bank, the frustration within at odds with the calmly flowing waters by her side. Suddenly she stopped, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. “Erethizon Dorsatum!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
The old porcupine was sitting by the edge of the creek, scooping water and washing his face. Hearing Poppy’s voice, he looked about and grunted, but continued to clean himself without saying anything.
“Ereth,” cried Poppy. “Answer me!”
“Mole mucus milkshakes,” said Ereth. “Can’t you see I’m washing my face?”
“In all the time I’ve known you, you have never washed your face!”
“Then it’s about time.”
“But why are you even here?”
“Because I want to be, pickle pot. Or do you happen to own this part of the world?”
&nbs
p; “You followed me here, didn’t you?”
“If I followed you, bottom brain, I’d be behind you. As you might have noticed, it was you who found me.”
“You understand me perfectly well,” said Poppy. “You knew where I was going, and even though I asked you not to come, you came anyway.”
“I’ve been looking for some fresh salt.”
“And Ereth,” said Poppy, “I asked you to stay home and help Rye.”
“He can do it himself,” muttered Ereth.
“And I can’t travel myself? Is that what you’re saying?”
“You need protection.”
“From what?”
“Your family.”
“Ereth, everything is fine.”
“Spinach ice cream!” cried Ereth. “What’s happened to you?”
“Ereth, nothing has happened to me. I am going to see my father, who is sick. It won’t help to have you there.”
“Oh, kippered kafuffles! You used to like it when I was around. Have you gotten tired of me?”
“Ereth,” cried Poppy, close to tears, “my father does not like porcupines.”
“How come?”
“He just doesn’t. It’s ignorance. And I apologize for it.”
“Right!” exploded Ereth. “And we certainly don’t want to educate anyone, do we? Don’t want the truth to embarrass someone, do we? Which is to say I suppose I’m good enough for some of your friends. Just not good enough for your family. Sure, I thought I’d just stay on the edges of things in case you needed me. Lend a quick quill if necessary. A little help on the side—if needed. Old friends do come in handy, you know. But snot weed sauerkraut, I guess I was wrong. Forget all we’ve ever done together. Forget the past. Never mind the future. See you around, fur butt. It’s been grand. Lovely! All you have to do is let me know when you want your best friend back, flea jacket, and I’ll be right there! Count on me! Forget it, mushroom mouth, forget it! Get yourself a fried earwax sandwich and eat it backward. Good-bye!”
Still spluttering, Ereth spun around and waddled away into the forest.
“Ereth, wait!” cried Poppy. “You don’t understand! Please, listen to me. I need to talk to you.”
It was too late. Ereth had gone. The old porcupine crashed through the underbrush, prickly tail lashing back and forth with rage. “Petulant pig buttons,” he muttered. “Square root of platypus!”
Suddenly he stopped and spun about, looking back. Though he stared at nothing in particular, his thoughts were all on Poppy. It was not as if he thought she was in any physical danger. But she was clearly unhappy. Upset. She couldn’t mean what she was saying. She couldn’t.
“Buttered bilge on creamed cement!” he swore. “She is not going to tell me where I can and can’t go! If I want to go visit her family, I’ll do it!”
With that, Ereth turned again and started back toward Glitter Creek and the Old Orchard beyond.
After Ereth had plunged into the forest, Poppy stared at the place where her friend had gone. As she listened to the rustling noise of the porcupine running through the grass, tears ran down her cheeks and along her pink nose and whiskers. “This,” she murmured, “is the most awful time I have ever, ever had. I hate families! Hate them!” Then she sighed. “But there is no choice, is there? I’m part of a family.”
Poppy began to walk slowly back along the edge of the creek. She went with her head bowed, her tail drooping, and her heart heavy.
This is ridiculous, she heard herself thinking. A catastrophe! I should have come alone. If everyone in Gray House is like Lilly, it will be ghastly! They aren’t going to like me. Having Junior along is going to make things even worse. No, he cannot go to Gray House with me. He must go home. With Mephitis. I don’t care what Junior says. And it’s better that Ereth didn’t come. This is something I need to do alone. Fine! I’ll go to Gray House, pay my respects to Papa, spend a little time with Mama, and then get right back home where I belong.
So resolved, Poppy made her way along Glitter Creek. But when she got to the place she had left them, she discovered that Junior and Mephitis were gone.
CHAPTER 15
Lilly Reaches Gray House
LILLY HURRIED ALONG THE CREEK as fast as she could go. “What is the matter with Poppy?” she asked herself, quite aloud. “What has happened to her? Yes, she used to be a little headstrong, but now . . .” Lilly shook her head. “Though of course I really do know what the problem is: it’s what comes of leaving one’s family. Abandoning them. Going off with . . . a . . . a golden mouse. Look at that young Ragweed. So unpleasant! No better than the first Ragweed. And that skunk! Unthinkable! What will Papa say? What will Mama say! What will everyone say? It’s so embarrassing. As for that horrid, vulgar porcupine, what a catastrophe it would be if he showed up! Thank goodness he’s not coming! I just hope these pine seeds will soothe Papa.”
Lilly had reached the bridge that crossed the creek. It was hardly more than a row of wooden planks that stretched bank to bank, the gaps between them wide enough for a mouse to fall through. She chose one and scampered across safely. Reaching the far side, she hurried along the edge of Tar Road, which took her by the bottom of Bannock Hill.
As Lilly approached Gray House, she noticed the yellow bulldozer. It caused her to stop. Though she was relieved it hadn’t moved, just seeing the huge machine squatting there, gross and ominous, made her heart beat quicken and her small, round ears begin to twitch ever so slightly. Then she turned toward Gray House and spied the red flag flying from the roof—her father’s way of announcing an emergency. She ran the rest of the way to Gray House.
“Hey, Lilly,” called one of her cousins as she hurried up to the dilapidated building. “Did you find Poppy?”
A grim Lilly didn’t even answer.
“Lilly,” called another. “Is Poppy coming?”
“Where’s Poppy?”
“Did you find her?”
“Is Poppy going to come?”
Why do they always ask for Poppy? thought Lilly as she scrambled up the porch steps and into the house without replying. The great number of mice milling about the doorway made it hard to get far. “Excuse me!” she said, pushing her way through. “Can I get past? Sorry. Please!” She headed right behind the front hall steps. There Lungwort had established his private study in an old boot that Farmer Lamout—the original human owner of the farm—had left behind years ago.
The boot was comfortably lined with odd bits of potato sacking. A couple of windows—covered with napkin bits—had been chewed through the leather. An old plaid necktie curtained the entryway.
Out of respect for Lungwort’s position as head of the family—and now for his age and infirmities—no one entered the boot without permission of Sweet Cicely, Lungwort’s wife and Lilly and Poppy’s mother. As far as Lilly knew, Lungwort’s boot was just about the only truly private place remaining in Gray House.
When Lilly finally reached the boot, she halted and caught her breath. Once composed, she pulled the curtain aside and called softly, “Mama? Are you there, Mama? It’s me, Lilly. I’m back!”
Sweet Cicely stepped out of the boot. She was small even for a deer mouse, with soft, pale-gray eyes, thin whiskers, and a nervous habit of flicking her ears with her paws as if they were dusty. Her orange-brown fur was flecked with white.
“Oh, Lilly,” she said. “I’m so glad you got back. Papa will be much relieved.”
“How is he?” asked Lilly.
“Very much the same,” said Sweet Cicely. “Troubled and full of complaints as always, the poor dear.” She looked about and gave her ears a quick, nervous flick. “But Lilly, dear, where’s Poppy? Were you not able to find her? Isn’t she coming?”
“Oh no, I’m afraid she is coming.”
Sweet Cicely blinked. “Afraid she’s coming? But why?”
“Mama, Poppy has, well . . . she’s become . . . different.”
Sweet Cicely put a paw before her mouth in alarm. “Good gracious! Different
in what way?”
“She lives in a dead tree. Has a husband. And eleven unruly children. “
“Oh my.”
“She’s not nearly as refined as she used to be. Or gracious. The truth is, Mama, she’s become quite . . . insensitive.”
Sweet Cicely sighed. “It was after that Ragweed got into her life that she changed. She became—”
Lilly finished the sentence: “Coarse.”
“Ragweed was a difficult sort,” said Sweet Cicely. “Not a good influence. Always demanding answers to everything. And then, to die so young, so tragically. You know, I was—of course I was—dreadfully sorry about his death.” Sweet Cicely lowered her eyes for a respectful moment. “But then, Lilly, as you also know perfectly well, that mouse would simply not listen to your papa. What happened was Ragweed’s own fault. But surely Poppy isn’t that way . . . is she?”
“Mama, she married Ragweed’s brother.”
“Did she!”
“He’s a golden mouse, too.”
“Golden!”
“Then, Mama, Poppy named one of her children . . . Ragweed.”
Sweet Cicely gasped.
“And Mama—she’s bringing that young Ragweed here.”
“Here?”
Lilly nodded.
“But—” Sweet Cicely flicked her ears nervously.
“It’s terrible to say so about your grandchild,” said Lilly, “but this new Ragweed is, well, not so very different from his namesake. To begin, he’s dyed himself completely . . . black.”
“Black!”
“With a white stripe down his back.”
“Merciful mercy!”
“He’s very rude. And he—they call him Junior, by the way—is bringing a friend. . . .”
“Heavens to betsy!” cried Sweet Cicely. “What a time to bring a friend.”
“This friend, Mama”—Lilly had become quite shrill—“is . . . a . . . skunk!”
Sweet Cicely patted a paw over her mouth.
“Mama,” Lilly confided in a lower voice, “it was all I could do to get Poppy not to bring a horrid porcupine friend of hers along.”
