by Avi
From her high perch Poppy searched about for the cage Mr. Canad had spoken of, the one in which Rye was being held. She found it tucked away in a corner. She even thought she saw Rye, curled up in a ball, fast asleep.
How was she going to get down to him? She dared not jump. If she did, she’d land right in the midst of the beavers. That was a risk she did not want to take. Then she remembered something she’d seen on the lodge roof: vines. Perhaps she could lower herself down. But she’d have to work fast, before the beavers awoke.
Poppy clawed her way back to the lodge roof and searched for a vine. When she found two twisted about a stick she took the longest. Working fast, she tied one end of the vine to a stick, and taking its free end in her mouth, she crept back down the hole. When she reached the end again she lowered the vine. It dangled free. But it was impossible to see exactly how far down the vine went. Was it too far or not far enough?
Poppy could not tell.
Why was she risking her life this way? she asked herself. The same answer came as before: Rye.
Taking a deep breath—her heart was beating madly—she grasped the vine tightly with her front paws, wrapped her rear legs and tail about it too, and headed down the vine, headfirst.
She reached the end. It was too short. She was dangling some twelve inches over the beavers. To go any farther she would have to drop—and land on a beaver’s nose. The thought of it gave Poppy the shudders.
As she tried to make up her mind what to do, Poppy’s shoulders began to ache painfully. She had to either let go or go back up. She looked up. The vent hole seemed a very long way up. She looked down. The beavers seemed enormous and powerful. What would they do to her if she dropped on them?
More and more nervous, her palms grew sweaty. She shifted her grip. The shifting made the vine sway slightly. She tried to stop it but the swinging only increased. Suddenly she had an idea.
Carefully she turned about. Now she held the vine just with her paws. Her legs and tail dangled. Poppy began to pump her rear legs hard. It made the vine sway even more. Back and forth she swung until she was moving in a great arc—like a pendulum. With every swing her heart thumped.
When Poppy reached the highest point of arc—nearest to Rye—she let go. Out she sailed through the air, right over the sleeping beavers, until she landed with a plop in soft mud close to Rye’s cage.
There she lay, panting, heart hammering, trying to recover her breath. Had she really done it? Almost afraid to look, she lifted her head. When she saw she was beyond the beavers she took a deep sigh of relief. She turned toward the cage. There was nothing between her and it. The way was clear. Silently she crept forward and peered inside.
A firefly flashed. She saw Rye. He was curled up in a ball, fast asleep.
Poppy tried to reach through the bars to touch him. He was too far away.
“Rye!” she called softly. “Rye!”
Rye lifted a sleepy head and peered through the dark. It was by the light of a glowing firefly that he saw Poppy’s face. Astonished, he squinted, unsure if what he was seeing was a dream or real.
But when Poppy said, “Oh, Rye, how glad I am to see you!” he knew she was the most real creature he had ever seen.
CHAPTER 19
Poppy and Rye
POPPY AND RYE gazed at one another by the light of firefly flashes.
He was quite sure he was looking at the most beautiful whiskers and pink nose he had ever seen upon any mouse with whom he was acquainted.
Poppy was sure Rye’s face, covered as it was with delicate orange fur, was extraordinarily noble. What’s more, he had altogether splendid ears, and the small notch in the right ear only added character.
“What,” Rye said in a choked whisper, “are you doing here?”
“I came to see if you were all right.”
“But . . . why?”
“Because . . . you . . . you dance beautifully,” Poppy replied, though it made her whiskers tremble to say it.
“Thank you. And . . . you dance as if . . . as if there were moonbeams in your toes!”
“And Rye . . .”
“What?”
“I did love Ragweed,” Poppy said. “I’ll never pretend I didn’t. But he’s . . . gone.”
Rye hung his head. “I know.”
“And Rye . . . you need to know. I never danced with him.”
Rye looked up. His whiskers shook. “Poppy, you are the most kind, the most unselfish of mice,” he whispered. “In fact, you are altogether splendid!”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Poppy said, “Rye, why did you come here?”
“I wanted to do something about the beavers. To get rid of them. Somehow. Except . . . I didn’t have a plan. The truth is . . . Poppy . . . I wanted to prove myself to . . . you. They caught me before I could do anything.”
“Mr. Canad told me you were being held captive,” Poppy said. “He said if your family didn’t move, he would keep you. Forever.”
“Forever,” Rye repeated dramatically. “But Poppy, it will have been worth it.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . you came.”
“But don’t you want to get out?” Poppy asked.
“I’d like to, but I think I’ve made things much worse.”
Poppy reached her paw through the bars and touched Rye’s shoulder. “That you even tried seems brave to me,” she said.
“Do you truly think so?”
“Yes. Just . . . maybe . . . well, too bold.”
Rye took hold of Poppy’s paw—which was resting on his shoulder—and kissed it. “What you said means more . . . more . . . than a life’s supply of sunflower seeds,” he murmured.
They looked at one another.
Then Rye said, “How did you get in here?”
“There’s a hole in the roof. I crawled down a vine.”
“You are amazing,” he said.
Poppy blushed with pleasure.
Rye became alarmed. “But how are you going to get out?” he asked.
Poppy was about to say, “The same way,” but even as she had the thought, she realized it would be impossible for her to use the vine. It was dangling too high over the beavers for her to reach. “I’m not sure.”
Rye said, “I swam in. Through an underwater tunnel. The way the beavers do. It’s not too bad. You could go that way.”
“I don’t swim very well.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”
Neither mouse spoke. Instead they looked at one another by the glow of fireflies.
“Rye,” Poppy said, suddenly becoming more brusque as she felt the urgency to leave, “have you tried chewing through these bars?”
“They’re too tough.”
Poppy tried for herself. She gave up quickly. “I see what you mean.”
“I’m afraid,” Rye said, “I really am going to stay here forever. . . . I suppose I’ll die of old age and . . . regret.”
“Rye . . .”
“What?”
“Please, I know the bars are tough, but keep chewing on them. I’ll find a way back to your family nest. They need to know you’re all right. And maybe if I get a longer vine, one that reaches the ground, we could get you out that way.”
“Do . . . do you think so?”
“Maybe.” She started to back away.
Rye, clinging to the twig bars, called, “Poppy!”
“What?”
“I’m deeply moved that you came. But . . . maybe you shouldn’t return. I don’t want you to risk your life . . . for me.”
“But Rye . . .” she said, taking a few more steps toward the cage.
“What?”
“I would . . . I would like to dance again.”
“Oh, Poppy,” Rye cried out. “So would I! With you!”
“Shhh!” Poppy cautioned as she backed away. Unable to take her eyes from Rye, she stumbled over a sleeping beaver’s tail.
She stoo
d still. Rye, looking on, was horrified. For a long moment, they dared not move. Finally, the beaver rolled away, then settled down, never having awakened.
Poppy crept over to the far wall. The way was muddy. By pressing up against the wall she was able to skirt a large, sleeping beaver and come around to the edge of the water gate.
Once there she gazed into the murky water apprehensively, then looked around to see if there was any way to get up to the vine. It was impossible. She had no choice. Reluctantly she turned back to the water. The prospect of swimming caused her so much dread, she felt compelled to give herself a reassuring hug. Taking a deep breath, she jumped, hitting the water with a splash.
Across the lodge Mr. Canad sat up and looked around. He had heard something. Taking a few sniffs, he detected a vague and unusual smell. He peered about but saw nothing except bulky beavers sleeping. All seemed perfectly normal. And yet—what was it he had heard?
He sniffed again. That time he detected the faint smell of . . . mouse. Could the mouse have escaped?
“Better safe than sorry,” Mr. Canad allowed and got up. Approaching Rye’s cage, he peered through the gloom. At first he couldn’t see Rye, but by listening intently, he heard the sound of chewing.
He crept closer to the cage. Rye was at the back of the cage, gnawing on a bar.
Mr. Canad broke into a toothy smile. “Well, bless my teeth and smooth my tail,” he snorted. “You’re trying to be a beaver!”
Rye, taken by surprise, looked up.
“Don’t think you should try chewing your way out, pal,” Mr. Canad said. “We need you to stay.”
Glowering, Rye said nothing.
“Just back away from those bars, pal. You don’t want to cross over the line and force my paw. If I do something bad, it’ll be your own fault.”
Rye stepped away.
“Way to go, pal. Now, look,” Mr. Canad went on to say, “I think I’ll catch my Zs here. For the next few days, anyway. Don’t want to lock the barn door after the horses are gone.”
Mr. Canad was about to settle himself when he recalled the noise that had woken him. If this mouse was here, what was that sound? Now that he thought about it . . . could it have been a . . . splash?
He sat up and counted his beavers. All present and accounted for.
He did an inspection around the cage area. In the mud were Poppy’s prints.
“You’ve had a visitor!” the beaver suddenly exclaimed. “Haven’t you?”
“Leave me alone!” Rye cried.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Canad. “One picture is worth a thousand words. One of your pals was here.”
The beaver scrutinized the lodge intently. By a firefly flash he caught sight of the vine dangling from the lodge roof. Mr. Canad grunted. “The vent hole.”
He lumbered across the lodge floor and ripped the vine down. “Better plaster some mud over that hole,” he thought. “I can always make some other holes—and hide them. Don’t want any mice in the ointment.”
CHAPTER 20
Poppy
THE COLDNESS OF THE WATER—its utter darkness—shocked Poppy. Not only did she not move, she didn’t know which way to move. Instead, she sank, spiraling down. Unless she did something quickly, she would drown.
She began to thrash wildly. Her frenzy got her nowhere. Still sinking, she tried to think herself into calmness, succeeding just enough to move her legs and arms in unison. Within moments she bumped against some twigs. She grabbed hold.
Her breath was giving out. Letting go of the twigs, she clawed frantically upward and forward, hoping she was clear of the lodge.
Like a cork popping from a bottle, Poppy burst upon the pond’s surface. Splashing frantically, she gulped great drafts of air into her hungry lungs.
She looked up. Through water-logged eyes she saw blurry bits of light. At first she thought they were fireflies. Then she realized she was seeing stars. Never before had stars seemed so beautiful. She was out of the lodge.
Now, however, she had to get to the shore. She doubted her ability to swim. Flailing, she tried to make some sense of where she was. She did see what appeared to be other lodges. She wanted to avoid them.
As she floundered, she felt a bump on her head. Ready to defend herself, she whirled. It was only a chip of wood. Eagerly, she held on. It kept her afloat.
Clinging to the chip, Poppy kicked vigorously. She began to move forward.
Her progress was slow. Her energy was ebbing. Now and again she rested her head on the wood chip. She forced herself to think of Rye, caged in the beaver’s lodge. “At least I’m free,” she chided herself and resumed kicking.
Twenty minutes later she came to a lurching halt. In a daze she looked up. Land rose before her. She had reached the shore.
A weary Poppy stumbled out of the water. Once on land she gave herself a vigorous shake, ridding herself of what felt like a ton of water. Much lighter, she lay down on the ground and cradled her head in her paws. Only then did she allow herself to feel the full depth of her exhaustion. Never again, she vowed, would she go into water.
As she lay there she thought of the imprisoned Rye and reviewed her plan. She would get another vine—longer than the one she had just used—and drop it down the vent hole. She would go down again, and somehow get Rye out of the cage. Then the two of them would climb out. There was no other way. And she wanted it to happen quickly.
Poppy hurried up the hill.
By the time she reached the boulder, the pink glow of sunlight had begun to bloom upon the eastern horizon. Birds began to twitter madly. It was as if a night of silence had been too much to bear, and there was a desperate need to make up for lost time.
She considered the pond. As Poppy watched, a swarm of beavers emerged from the lodge where she knew Rye was being held. She studied them with intense anger. They were so large and powerful. And those teeth and huge tails . . .
She hurried into the nest.
The mice were astir, but moving about as though weighted by great burdens. No one looked up or around. Talk was minimal. Little tasks were being performed with minute attention. The family was preparing to move.
“I’m back,” Poppy announced.
The mice paused in their work and looked around.
“Ah, Poppy,” Valerian said sadly, “I thought you had left us.”
“Not at all. I went to see Rye.”
“Rye!”
“How’d you do that?” Curleydock called out.
Poppy told how she got into the beavers’ lodge, and of her subsequent visit with Rye. “He’s not happy,” she told them, “but he’s all right.”
“But . . . why did he even go there?” Clover asked.
“He wanted to do something about the beavers.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
Valerian’s tail waved in agitation. “Why that mouse must always be trying to prove himself I can’t begin to imagine. And now, a prisoner, held for a ransom, the ransom being our moving away. Well, we’re trying to go as quickly as we can.”
“I do have a plan to free him,” Poppy offered.
The nest became very still.
“Miss Poppy,” Valerian said, drawing himself up and speaking somberly, “ever since you came to our nest, you’ve been telling and doing some remarkable things. We don’t doubt you are an exceptional creature. Perhaps living quietly and simply by the Brook, we’ve become a tad shy of difficulty. No doubt the beavers have unnerved us, too. But the truth is,” Valerian concluded, “it would be better if we just gave in.”
“Won’t you even listen to my plan?”
Valerian sighed. “I guess we can. You just mustn’t expect us to do anything.”
As Rye’s family stared at her with dull eyes and twitching ears, an uncomfortable Poppy stood in the middle of the nest. She felt some anger. These mice had been generous when she told them of Ragweed’s death. Now that she was suggesting they do something to keep Rye from dying, they were not so hospitable.
“I got into the beavers’ main lodge,” she told them anew, “by using a vent hole and a vine to drop down inside. Unfortunately, Rye and I couldn’t break his cage. I need more teeth or paws. I’ll need a few of you to join me when I return to the lodge with a longer vine.”
“Go into the beavers’ lodge?” cried an alarmed mouse.
“Right. The way I did.”
“Wouldn’t that be dangerous?” called another. “Those beavers are so big. A swat of their tails—”
“And what about those teeth . . .” still another said. “One bite and . . . good-bye.”
Poppy held up a paw to still the objections. “I have a friend. My best friend. He came with me here from Dimwood Forest.”
“Another mouse?” asked one of the youngsters.
“He’s a porcupine. His name is Ereth. Porcupine quills are very sharp. My friend is always losing his. I’ll get some. When we go into the lodge we’ll each carry a quill to defend ourselves.”
“One quill against all those beavers?” asked another.
“Exactly.”
“Where is this friend of yours?” someone asked.
“Waiting for me up beyond the ridge.”
Valerian cleared his throat. “Poppy, how many of us do you propose it will take to get Rye out?”
“There’s me, of course,” she replied. “But I’ll need at least a couple of others.”
No one spoke.
It was Clover who said, “Poppy, perhaps you could get Rye out. But what about the beavers? They’ll simply go on building. What will happen to the rest of us?”
“I’m not sure,” Poppy admitted. “But I must free Rye.”
“My dear,” Clover said, “I do wish I could believe your plan would be helpful. I truly do. But, no, I . . . can’t.” She turned to Valerian. “Do you?” she asked.
