Poppy and Rye

by Avi

  “I think we’re all right,” she called, keeping her voice low. The three resumed their paddling.

  As they approached the lodge, Curleydock whispered, “Is that it?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” Poppy replied.

  “Which side should we aim for?” Thistle wanted to know.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Poppy said. “We’ll be crawling to the vent hole on top. Let’s go. Keep your voices low.”

  They dipped their paddles and moved forward again. Even as they did, a great swell of water lifted their raft, causing it to slide back as if it were rolling down a hill.

  The next moment, Clara Canad, orange teeth glowing, rose up before them.

  “I thought I heard something,” she barked. “What are you doing here? What are you trying to do?”

  “Back paddle!” Poppy yelled frantically and plunged her oar deep into the water as if she could scoop them clear. Thistle tried, too, but with no more success. Worse, when she hauled back the strain was so great her paddle snapped in two. Curleydock, working frantically, only stirred the foaming waters.

  With the raft rocking wildly, Thistle slipped. She did manage to hang on by the tips of her paws, but her hold was precarious. Curleydock, seeing her danger, attempted to reach for her, but lost his step on the listing raft and flipped over her head into the water.

  “Curleydock!” Thistle screamed. She twisted to see where he had gone. He had vanished.

  Clara, meanwhile, swung herself completely around, and lifted her tail.

  “Look out!” Poppy cried.

  Poppy saw Thistle attempt to draw her quill. It caused her to lose her grip. She fell back into the water and disappeared.

  As the beaver’s tail struck, Poppy clung to the raft. The tail hit the raft’s front end, causing it to flip up and over like a catapult, flinging Poppy into the air.

  As she flew she spread her legs wide, landing in the water on her belly with a splat. Stunned, she lay facedown in the water. It was the vine, still around her neck, which kept her from drowning.

  Clara looked around. Seeing Poppy facedown in the water, she assumed she was dead. As for the other two mice, she did not see them at all. She was sure they, too, had perished.

  With a satisfied grunt, the beaver dove beneath the water and headed for the entryway to the lodge.

  Poppy, regaining consciousness, looked up. Giving her head a shake, she spat out water and called, “Thistle! Curleydock!” Her voice was weak. There was no reply.

  She looked about. The beaver’s lodge rose up before her. Giving a few feeble kicks, she moved close enough to reach out and grab hold of some of its branches. When she pulled at them, she came up against it. There she rested some more until her wind was completely restored. Only then did she crawl out of the water and onto the lodge. Turning, she gazed back over the pond.

  “Thistle!” she called again. “Curleydock!”

  She thought she heard an answering cry, but when it did not repeat itself, she was sure her young friends had drowned.

  Drenched and forlorn, Poppy sat down, toying with the circle of vine by her side. Suddenly, she reached for her quill. It, too, was gone. That meant she had no way to defend herself. Everything bad that could have happened, had.

  What she should do, she told herself, was to go back and inform Valerian and Clover what had occurred. The mere thought of it made her groan. Why did she always have to bring bad news? It was all too ghastly.

  The next moment she realized that going back was not possible. Her raft was gone. She couldn’t swim to shore. There was little choice but to press on and attempt to save Rye—somehow.

  Poppy hefted the circle of vine. Though heavy, she flung it back over her neck, then began to climb the side of the lodge.

  As she went she began to cry. Why did Ragweed have to die? Why did Rye have to run away? Why did Ereth and Clover and Valerian have to be angry at her? Why did Thistle and Curleydock have to drown? Was everything her fault? It was all too much.

  Despite her anguish, Poppy continued up the side of the lodge. It was a hard climb. Her own distress, the rough nature of the lodge’s construction, her sense of failure, all conspired to make the going difficult. Even so she kept climbing constantly, slipping, banging her head, her knees. Her paws grew raw. More than once she had to stop and regain her breath as well as her composure. But up she went, crawling on, over, under, and around twigs, sticks, and logs, all the while slipping and sliding over mud that stuck to her like glue. Sometimes the agony of it all made her whimper.

  And then, when she finally reached the top, she could not find the vent hole. She could hardly believe it. Back and forth over the top she crawled. All she found was mud and more mud. Something was wrong, altered.

  Gradually, Poppy began to grasp what must have happened. When she had visited Rye she had left the vine dangling from the vent hole. The beavers must have discovered what she’d done and covered the hole with mud. If that was true—and it certainly seemed to be so—then, short of swimming, there was no way for her to get into the lodge.

  Feeling defeated and alone, Poppy sat atop the lodge. Ereth had fled back to Dimwood. Thistle and Curleydock were gone, presumably drowned. Rye was imprisoned. Rye! How close he was. How impossible to reach! Her whole plan was a disaster.

  Poppy lay back and stared up at the few stars peeking out now and again from behind drifting clouds. I might as well be up there for all I can do, she thought.

  Exhaustion—fueled by sorrow and defeat—took hold. She kept telling herself she mustn’t sleep, that she must do something. But her fatigue, mixed with her melancholy state, proved too powerful. She nodded off.

  CHAPTER 24

  Valerian and Clover

  THOUGH THE PACKING of the nest had been completed, Valerian and Clover decided to wait for the morning to make their move. Without saying so, both were reluctant to go farther away from Rye, Thistle, and Curleydock. In any case, it was night and the children were asleep. Better not to disturb them.

  Sitting side by side, paw in paw, the two mice stared up at the moon, which kept slipping behind the scudding clouds. Lifting their noses and sniffing at the breeze, they listened to the hum and buzz of the night. Sometimes they gazed down toward the pond and the lodge where they knew Rye was being held.

  “I wonder where Poppy and those kids are now,” Valerian mused.

  “I just hope they’re all right,” Clover said.

  “That Poppy is a tough one, love,” Valerian said, trying to sound more reassuring than he felt. “I didn’t think going was a good idea, but if anyone can get Rye out and come back safe, I suppose she can.”

  “And here we sit,” she said.

  Valerian nodded.

  Suddenly Clover sighed. “Oh, Valerian,” she whispered, “when I saw the faces of the family, it made me think how much I love them all. It isn’t wrong to want to protect them, is it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Valerian replied kindly. “I feel that way myself.”

  For a moment they were quiet.

  Then Clover sighed. “Valerian, how long have we been together?” she asked.

  “Six years.”

  “Such a long time,” Clover said. “And a good time. A good life. So many children. Good children. Mostly. They come. They go. And here we are. Sometimes, Valerian, it seems the only difference with us is that you’re grayer, I’m fatter, and we’re both a lot more tired.”

  “You’re still my love, Clover,” Valerian murmured, giving her paw a gentle squeeze.

  “Valerian . . .” Clover said, as if she hadn’t heard, “I suppose sometimes it takes an outsider to see what we can’t see for ourselves. I’ve been thinking about what Poppy said. What she said is true: I haven’t put up much resistance to the beavers. I’ve been too . . . fearful that some of us would get hurt . . . or worse. But sitting here, with you, looking on, I . . .”

  She faltered, took a deep breath. With a painful catch in her throat, she said, “Valerian . . . Po
ppy was right. We can’t just accept what these beavers are doing to us. It’ll only get worse. Valerian, I just wish we could do something. Anything.”

  Having spoken, Clover buried her face in Valerian’s shoulder and began to weep.

  Valerian patted her gently. Then he said, “Well, love, what do you have in mind?”

  “That’s just it,” she whispered between sobs. “I don’t know. But why,” she cried, “did those beavers have to build that dam?” She hid her face again.

  Valerian gazed down at the dam. Then he shifted about, looked at the boulder, then down at the dam, then the boulder again. “Maybe . . .” he said softly, “what we should do is . . . bust it.”

  Taken aback, Clover looked up. “Bust their dam?” she cried in astonishment.

  “Look here,” Valerian continued. “Maybe we had no right to say they couldn’t come here and build. It wasn’t our brook. But they’ve taken over. Taken everything. If we busted that dam,” Valerian continued, “the pond water would drain away. All the animals could use the Brook again. The way we did before.”

  “But we’re mice, Valerian!” Clover squeaked. “We’re small. It’s huge. They’re huge. How could we do anything big like that?”

  Valerian looked all around. Then, nodding, he said, “I’ll tell you how . . . by using the boulder we’ve been living under. Always seemed to me it might topple on its own. Well, listen here, love, suppose we dig around it and under it. Get it loose. Then, well, give it a shove. Let it roll down the hill so that it hits the beavers’ dam smack on. I bet you a pile of acorns it’d punch out a pretty big hole. Water would drain right out.”

  “But . . .” Clover said, quite flabbergasted, “how could you get it to go the right way?”

  Valerian studied the boulder, the hill, then the pond anew. “Let’s say we made a kind of ditch right in front of it. Sort of a chute. Of course, we’d have to aim it right at the dam. If we did it properly it couldn’t miss.”

  Clover stared at her husband with wide-eyed admiration. “Valerian, do . . . do you think we really could do that?”

  Valerian was getting more and more excited. “We’ve got the whole family around, don’t we? If everybody pitched in, worked hard, I think we could do it. But we’d have to do it right away. By dawn. Once we start, those beavers will figure out what we’re doing.”

  “I’d want to work, too,” Clover assured him. “One of us could be in charge of digging around the boulder. The other could make that ditch.”

  “Right!” Valerian cried. “But, like I said, we better do it right away.”

  “But what about Rye, Thistle, and Curleydock? And Poppy?”

  “Can’t see where it’d do them any harm. Might even make things easier for them. And if it works, maybe the beavers will go away,” he added, with new determination in his voice. “Forever.”

  Clover looked at him. Suddenly she cried, “Oh, Valerian, I’m so glad it’s you I love. I truly am!” And she threw her paws about him and gave him a tight hug, which he returned.

  The next moment the two went rushing down into their nest. “Everybody up! Everybody up! There’s work to do!”

  The family having been roused, Valerian and Clover told them of the plan. Sensing their parents’ enthusiasm, all the children pitched in eagerly.

  In quick time, under Clover’s direction, some thirty golden mice were scraping the earth away from around the boulder. Though their paws were small and could carry but little at a time, they attacked the task with great determination. The dirt began to fly.

  Simultaneously, directly in front of the boulder and aimed right at the dam, Valerian and his crew marked out the ditch.

  Valerian had but one worry: Could they do it all fast enough?

  CHAPTER 25

  Inside the Lodge

  A TOP THE BEAVERS’ lodge, Poppy woke with a start. How long had she slept? She stood tall and looked east. There was a faint hint of dawn. It made her heart lurch. With the coming of dawn she was sure the beavers would awaken. When they did, she would lose whatever chance she had to free Rye. A great deal of time already had been lost.

  She scrambled to the top of the lodge where she thought the vent hole had been. As before, all she found was mud. This time, however, she was desperate. Putting the vine ring aside, she clawed at the mud. While heavy and thick, it was capable of being dug. Poppy began to hack at it.

  Gradually, a hole emerged. The more she worked, the more her energy was restored. She worked harder. Unexpectedly, she broke through. A scent of beaver wafted up. It made her almost shout with joy. She had uncovered the vent hole. The mud had been plastered over—and poorly at that.

  Working fast now, Poppy dug out the vent hole to its fullest. Done, she sat back, breathless with her efforts. Now there was nothing to prevent her from at least trying to get to Rye, force open his cage, and free him. Then she recalled that one of the reasons she had wanted Thistle and Curleydock to join her was to help with the bars. There was nothing to do but go on. She and Rye would have to get him free on their own.

  Feeling almost reckless now, Poppy tied one end of the vine to a stick, took the free end in her mouth, and crept into the vent hole.

  Even though she had made her way through the hole before, this time the way seemed longer. Moreover, some of the mud from the top had fallen in. She was constantly scraping it away and pushing it behind her.

  Down she went. When she finally reached the end, she peered into the lodge. To her horror, the beavers were not sleeping. They were having a meeting.

  Mr. Canad was standing before his family. Next to him was his daughter, Clara. With great glee, she was telling them what had happened out on the pond.

  “I don’t think any of them survived,” she said with pride. “And it only took one smack of the old tail.”

  The other beavers beat their own tails against the ground. Even Mr. Canad joined in.

  “Okay, folks, I just went out to check for myself. Clara did a great job, but if seeing is believing, the mice up on the hill are up to no good around that boulder. That’s where we’re going to put in a new dam.

  “What Clara discovered suggests they’ve got something up their sleeves. Maybe they’re trying to pull the wool over our eyes. Okay. I say it’s time we pulled out all the stops. End our kid-glove treatment. Teach the whole kit and caboodle a trick or two. Knock the spots off them. Lower the boom.

  “Let’s go up there and give them a few what-fors. Level the playing field with our tails. Do I have any volunteers?”

  There was an enthusiastic chorus of yea-sayers.

  “Good!” Mr. Canad enthused. “Let’s hit the water running. I’ll lead you myself.”

  “Don’t you think we should post some guards around by the waterway entry?” Clara asked. “Just in case they try something funny again.”

  “Good thinking, sweetheart. You’re a chip off the old block. And for a beaver, you can’t do better than that! We’ll leave some guards here. Just in case.”

  High in the vent hole, Poppy heard it all. Although she was relieved the beavers were going, she worried about what was happening up by the nest.

  She watched as the beavers scrambled out of the lodge. Soon only two remained.

  It had been Poppy’s intention to crawl down the vine—just as she had done on her previous visit. Then, the beavers all had been asleep. This time, the two beavers who stayed in the lodge were not just awake, one of them went over to the cage where Rye was being kept.

  “What are you doing?” called the other beaver.

  “Just checking to make sure this guy’s secure.”

  “Is he?”

  “A sure thing.”

  The two beavers waddled away from the cage and lay down near the lodge’s water entry to guard it.

  Poppy watched them intently. Their backs were to her.

  In the dimness—the fireflies were not very active—Poppy was sure she saw Rye. He was curled up in a tight ball at the far end of his cage. Even
as she watched him, he got up and crept to one of the back bars. There he crouched. If she was seeing clearly, he was gnawing on one of them.

  Just to see Rye working made Poppy’s heart swell with love. Her doubts melted away. Together—somehow—they would get him out of the cage and to freedom. Her pulse quickened.

  After giving a yank to the vine to make sure it would hold fast, Poppy began to lower it slowly. As she did, she kept her eyes on the two beavers. If they saw what she was doing, all was lost. She barely dared to breathe.

  Inch by inch the vine dropped.

  One of the beavers swung about and used a rear leg to scratch himself vigorously. Poppy froze. But the beaver’s face was so scrunched up—he seemed to be enjoying his scratching—he gave no sign that he noticed anything unusual.

  Poppy lowered the vine some more. She was pretty sure she had guessed its length properly, that it would touch the floor. She was wrong. Even when she had lowered the vine as far as possible, it hung off the ground by a distance—as best Poppy could reckon—twice her full height when she stood tall. At first dismayed, she decided it did not matter. It was—it had to be—close enough.

  The next step would be harder. It was time for her to go down. Head first or tail first? She glanced over at the beavers. They were paying no attention. Best to go tail first. If the need came, heading up would be easier and faster than backing up.

  After wiping her sweaty paws on her fur, Poppy grasped the vine and began her descent by letting herself drop in a series of small jerks.

  The moment she left the vent hole in the ceiling, the vine began to sway. The farther she went, the greater the sway. It made her dizzy, then nauseated. She knew then she should have come down headfirst like the first time.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Poppy continued down. Moving with her eyes closed gave her a panicky feeling—far worse than the dizziness. She opened them in haste and hung there. The vine swayed. Her dizziness increased. Gritting her teeth, she made herself go on.