by Avi
Valerian gazed at his feet. “It seems awful risky,” he said gloomily. He looked up. “And it sure will create greater danger for the rest of us.”
No one spoke. Then, speaking gently, Poppy said, “But, as I understand it, you’ve not resisted them at all.”
Once again there was silence.
Valerian cleared his throat. “Poppy,” he said, “since this matter concerns the family I think we need to talk this over. Privately.”
“All right,” Poppy said, trying to hide her disappointment. “I’ll go where my friend is waiting, gather up some quills, and bring them back. When I do, you can tell me what you’d like to do.”
“I think that would be best,” Valerian agreed.
An angry Poppy ran up the entryway, took one more look down at the pond and the lodge where she knew Rye was being kept, then hurried up toward the ridge.
She had no trouble finding the cottonwood where she had seen Ereth go. But the porcupine was nowhere in sight.
CHAPTER 21
Ereth Has More Thoughts
DEEP WITHIN THE THICKET, unable to move, Ereth was thinking hard:
“I probably shouldn’t be so hard on Poppy. She’s only a mouse. Small. Helpless. Talks a lot. Jabbers. Too cheerful most of the time. Nothing but squirrel sludge and buzzard belch.
“But then, she doesn’t know the world. Not like I do. She needs protecting. Actually, there’s no one around who can protect her better than me. I’ve done it before. I could do it again. I know the world. Know how it works. Not that she appreciates me. What was it she said about me . . . old.
“I’m not old. Maybe I look old . . . but inside, where it counts . . . I’m young. Young as her. Younger! I’m good-looking too—in my way. Fine set of quills. And I’m smart. Very smart.
“I wonder what she thinks of me. Really thinks. Wonder if she likes me. Really likes me. The way I . . . like . . . her. I suppose, in a way, I do like her. A lot. I can . . . allow that.
“Point is, I could do a lot for her. More than she could guess. Show her the world. Teach her the way it works.
“Now, with her being off on her own I’m always worried about her. But with me around, she’d never be in danger.
“I wonder if—just suppose—if she would, well . . . all she ever talks about is . . . love . . . and that Ragweed. What did he know about love? Or her for that matter. She told me he loved her. Love. Young folk think they’re the only ones who love. Phooey! Nothing but slug splat stew and weasel jam.
“Still, if she wanted me to—as a favor—I could love her. She’d probably like that. If she’d give me the chance.
“Wonder what she’d say if I hinted at it. Or suggest it. I mean, maybe I could say—I . . . love you—well, once. Not too loudly. A little bit. Just so she knew. I wouldn’t have to say it again.
“She’d like that. Then we could get married. There would be talk. She being young. Me . . . older. We wouldn’t care. Not us. She’s got a mind of her own. So do I.
“I bet she’ll be thrilled. I’m big. Powerful. Smart. Could give her lots of advice. She’s a good listener. And it’ll be good to have someone young around that old smelly log of mine. She could clean it up. A bit. A small bit. Not too much. Yes, she’d like it. Yes, soon as I see her again, I’ll tell her. Sort of. Some way . . .”
So ran Ereth’s thoughts, stuck as he was, deep within the thicket.
CHAPTER 22
Poppy Makes Up Her Mind
THOUGH POPPY WAITED at the tree, Ereth did not return. Knowing how unpredictable her friend was, she kept asking herself how long she should wait. After all, she had been with the mice longer than she’d planned. That certainly would have irritated the old porcupine.
She began to think he’d done what he’d threatened to do all along—trundled back to Dimwood Forest. Yet Poppy was quite aware her friend might be doing no more than taking a nap in a nearby log.
Normally, Poppy would not have minded waiting. But she kept worrying that if she were going to save Rye, she had to act swiftly.
Having nothing better to do, she searched about the base of the cottonwood tree for some of Ereth’s quills to take back to the nest. When she failed to find any, she became fretful. The thought of sneaking into the beavers’ lodge without the protection of quills was something she did not relish.
Having no quills set off a nervous train of doubts in Poppy’s mind. Would she be able to get into the lodge again? Was Rye’s cage breakable? What if she or he got hurt? Would they be able to use the vine to get out of the lodge? And what if freeing Rye did bring greater harm to the rest of his family? Maybe Valerian and Clover were right. Maybe it all was too dangerous.
The more Poppy thought, the more doubts she had about her plan.
Suddenly Poppy felt an intense desire to race back to Dimwood Forest and hide. There she would be safe and secure in the world she knew and loved best. It was bittersweet to recall that when she had begun this trip, she had been looking forward to a time of calm. Perhaps Ereth was right. Perhaps it was better to be alone.
And yet she had fallen in love with Rye. Moreover, she had promised to help him. How could she abandon him? She could not, no more than she could abandon her feelings.
Too agitated to wait any longer for Ereth, Poppy hurried down the hill and crept back into the nest. It was very crowded. Some fifty and more mice were there, most of whom she had not seen before.
She caught hold of Thistle. “What’s happening?” Poppy asked.
“It’s the rest of our family,” Thistle explained. “Valerian asked them to come hear about your plan.”
“Are they for it or against it?” Poppy asked.
“They can’t make up their minds,” Thistle confided. “Poppy, I think we should do it—as long as we have quills to defend ourselves.”
“Thistle,” Poppy confided, “I couldn’t get the quills.”
Thistle blanched. “You couldn’t?”
“My friend, the porcupine, has disappeared.”
“Does that mean we can’t rescue Rye?” Thistle asked with dismay.
Poppy, feeling she had failed the young mouse, hardly knew what to say. “I’m not sure,” she replied.
Valerian approached. “Poppy, I sent word to the rest of the family about what you want to do,” he informed her. “It’s so important I felt everyone should be involved in the decision.
“Attention, please!” he cried.
The mice hushed.
“For those who don’t know her yet,” Valerian said by way of introduction, “this is Poppy. She comes to us from out east. She was a special friend of Ragweed’s. That makes her a good friend of ours.”
To this there were murmurs of assent.
“You’ve heard what’s happened to Rye and what choice we’ve been given,” Valerian continued. “Move off somewhere—and, hopefully, have Rye freed—or try to save Rye on our own, and take our chances with the beavers.
“To be honest with you, your mother and I think it’d be best to move on. Poppy here wants to rescue Rye. Since this concerns the whole family, we thought it’d be wise for you to hear her for yourselves.”
Once again Poppy found herself facing a world of grave, golden faces. Momentarily she thought of sharing her anxieties, but feared that if the mice knew how nervous she was, they would never give her help. Instead, she simply explained her plan for freeing Rye.
“Did you get those quills?” someone asked when she was done.
“I’m afraid not.”
A nervous twitter passed over the family.
“I do need some volunteers,” Poppy said, almost timidly.
Curleydock shyly lifted a paw. “I’ll . . . go,” he offered.
“Me, too,” Thistle joined in.
“What about the rest of you?” Poppy asked. “Can I have your approval?”
Valerian cleared his throat. “Poppy, if you don’t mind waiting outside, I think it would be easier for us to make up our minds.”
It
was a discouraged Poppy who left the nest.
Once above ground she gazed down at the pond and the lodge where she knew Rye was being kept. “Think of it,” she told herself, “as just another kind of dance.”
Thistle and Curleydock emerged from the nest.
Poppy looked at them expectantly.
Thistle said, “They think you’re making a mistake, but they won’t keep you from trying. They’re going to move. So we’re on our own.”
Poppy considered her young friends. “Please,” she said to them, “you’re very brave to volunteer. But it will be hard. Maybe impossible. I won’t think less of you if you change your minds.”
“No way,” Thistle said with a stubbornness that made Poppy recall Ragweed. “We’re going with you.”
Curleydock nodded in agreement.
“All right then,” Poppy said briskly as she tried to stir up her own energy. “The first thing we need to do is get a long piece of vine. Any idea where we can get one?”
The young mice exchanged looks. “Maybe up by the berry thicket,” Curleydock suggested.
With Curleydock leading the way, the three mice scampered up the hill. A short run brought them up and over the ridge. On the far side they went down into a sunny hollow. Before them lay an overgrown thicket of berry bushes and flowering honeysuckle vines. The air was filled with sweetness.
“We should be able to get a honeysuckle vine there,” Thistle said. “They’re long and tough.”
The three mice were soon deep within the thicket. Cool and moist, it was perfumed by the almost overpowering, sticky-sweet scent of berries.
“How about this vine?” Curleydock asked. He was yanking on a green strand that twisted high over their heads and out of sight.
“It really needs to be long and strong,” Poppy urged. “It has to get us into the lodge and out.”
“This one looks okay,” Thistle called from another spot.
She was joined by the others.
“Haul it in,” Poppy said. While the other two worked to untangle the vine, she chewed through its roots. Then they began to pull.
“It’s stuck,” Thistle announced.
“Must be tied around something,” Curleydock agreed.
No matter how hard the three pulled, the vine would not come.
“We can follow it along,” Poppy suggested.
Curleydock was up front. Thistle was in the middle. Poppy came behind. As they followed the vine they became increasingly spread out, losing sight of one another.
Suddenly, from deep within the thicket, there was a frantic call from Curleydock. “Help!” he cried. “Hurry! Fast!”
Poppy and Thistle dropped the vine and charged forward. Curleydock was crouched down in terror.
Looming over him was Ereth.
“Ereth!” Poppy cried.
“Poppy,” Ereth snapped, “you simple smudge of a slimy slug! Where have you been?”
Poppy grinned. “I’ve been busy. But I’ve been looking for you. What are you doing here?”
“Never mind. Just get me out of here. I’m stuck.” He pulled back and forth but his quills continued to hold him fast.
“Ereth,” Poppy said, “this is Thistle and Curleydock. They’re brother and sister to Ragweed.”
“Ragweed,” Ereth said. “I’m sick of talk about Ragweed. Just get me out. I need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Just get me out!”
Poppy turned to Curleydock and Thistle. They had been looking on in great puzzlement. “It’s all right,” she told them. “He’s perfectly harmless.”
“Bee butter!” Ereth roared. “I am not harmless! I have a terrible temper. I say dreadful things. I’m a selfish old coot who does what he wants when he wants and doesn’t care what anyone else wants.”
“He’s really good,” Poppy said.
“Don’t listen to her. I’m bad!” Ereth screamed.
Nonetheless the three mice set to work chewing away at the vines that had ensnared Ereth. Even as they did, the impatient porcupine tossed and pulled, trying to free himself. Finally, with a snap, he broke loose.
“Now,” Ereth said, “tell those friends of yours to beat it. I have something important to tell you.”
“I’m sure they could listen—”
“It’s private, mush-head!”
Poppy looked to Thistle and Curleydock, who, understanding, scampered off.
“I’ve got something to tell you, too,” Poppy said when they were gone.
“You have to listen to me first,” Ereth insisted. “What I’ve been thinking is . . .” He stopped, suddenly bashful and tongue-tied.
“What is it?”
“It’s just that . . . what I think is . . . Now, see here, Poppy . . . I . . . wish . . . I wish . . . I had a piece of salt! Tell me what you wanted to say first.”
“Are you sure?”
“Push the barf button and take a bath! I just said so, didn’t I?”
“Well, then,” said Poppy, blushing with pleasure. “Ereth . . . I’ve fallen in love.”
“You . . . what?” Ereth whispered, aghast.
“Fallen in love.”
“With . . . whom?” Ereth asked. He was trembling with emotion.
Poppy smiled. “I know it must seem strange, but you see, I met . . . well, actually, he’s Ragweed’s brother. His name is Rye and he’s . . . But what’s the matter?”
“Thief! Crook!” Ereth yelled. “I’ll skewer him! Whack him! Mash him! Turn him into skunk gunk.”
“Ereth! What are you talking about?”
“You just think I’m too old,” the porcupine ranted, rearing up and down as though bitten by ants. “Too stupid! Too big. Too sour. Too . . . me!” Abruptly he whirled around and began to rush away.
“But that’s not true,” Poppy called after him. “It’s not. And what did you want to tell me?”
“Forget it,” Ereth called back. “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Dimwood Forest, pickle seed!” he cried.
“Ereth!” Poppy called after him. “Please don’t go. I need you!”
“You’re on your own, traitor!” the porcupine shouted as he tore from view.
With great puzzlement Poppy gazed after him. Something was surely the matter with her friend. With a sigh, she wished she understood him better.
She glanced around. To her great relief she saw that in his fury Ereth had dropped some quills. She gathered them up and hurried to find Thistle and Curleydock.
CHAPTER 23
The Rescue Begins
“HOW DO WE get to the lodge?” Curleydock asked after Poppy had given him and Thistle a lesson in the use of the quills. “We can swim. Can you?”
“Not really,” Poppy admitted. “When I went to the lodge before I floated on a wood chip.”
“The beavers leave all kinds of chips around,” Thistle said. “I’m sure we could find one big enough to carry the three of us.”
The trio crept down to the edge of the pond. A few beavers were about, working.
“Don’t let them see us,” Poppy warned.
Squatting down, the mice attempted to hide behind bushes. Only when Poppy was sure they were unnoticed did she and the others scout about in search of a chip.
Thistle found one near a recently chewed stump. All agreed the thin, square flake would be large enough to carry the three of them.
Quickly, they dragged it behind a bush and hid it, then searched out wood bits to use as paddles. Then they returned to the top of the hill.
“Better get some rest,” Poppy suggested. “As soon as it gets dark we’ll go.”
As far as she was concerned all was ready.
But the mice had been observed. Clara Canad saw them sniffing about the edges of the pond. Suspicious, she had watched intently, but was not certain what the mice were doing.
She reported what she’d seen to Mr. Canad. “What do you think?” she asked him.
�
�Don’t know,” he replied. “Don’t want to make a mountain out of a mouse hill. Still, you might have a point. Give them an inch, these mice take a mile.”
“The mice I saw were looking for something.”
“What do you think it was?” Mr. Canad asked.
“I’m not sure. Did you block that vent hole?”
“Piece of cake.”
“Did you make another?”
“Needle in a haystack. But look here, sweetheart, the less trouble, the better. We’ve been coasting along easy. We don’t want to slip on banana peels now. So if you want to keep on watch, far as I’m concerned, that’s frosting on the cake.”
With that, Mr. Canad swam away.
“Well, I don’t like it,” Clara said to herself. “I’m going to patrol the pond tonight.”
The farewells Thistle and Curleydock made to their family that night were brief and painful. The elder mice tried to be kind but could do little to hide their apprehension. For their part the youngsters tried to appear bold, but felt only uneasy.
Poppy, uncomfortable with the family’s disapproval, kept away entirely.
It was dark when the three mice went down to the pond. The vine hung in a coil around Poppy’s neck like a life preserver.
Once they located the wood chip they had hidden, they pushed it into the water, then jumped on. In moments they were afloat, moving slowly toward the lodge.
The three mice knelt on the wood chip and paddled steadily. Thistle and Curleydock were up front. Poppy was in the rear. Now and again she stood tall and peered into the dark, trying to keep them on course. The beavers’ main lodge, though visible, was distant. “To the left,” she called. “To the right.” Thistle and Curleydock shifted their paddles accordingly.
Other than normal night sounds, all was quiet. The moon kept slipping in and out behind clouds. A breeze from the north had begun to blow, bringing early hints of the autumn yet to come. It made the pond surface choppy.
Thistle’s whispered voice broke through the dark. “I think I heard something.”
The mice stopped paddling. Poppy’s ears twitched. She was not sure, but she too had caught a faint, splashing sound off to her left. The noise, however, did not return.
