by Avi
As she moved, she kept looking around at the beavers. They had remained quite still. It was just as she reached the halfway point that they showed signs of activity.
One of them got up and arched his back. Then he turned fully around. Poppy almost fainted with fright. But the beaver turned back around and resumed guarding the entryway. Never had Poppy felt so glad to be so small.
Poppy struggled to suppress her anxiety and move faster. A little calmer, she continued down.
She had reached the vine’s end. Now she was dangling above the floor. There she hung, swaying back and forth, her heart beating madly. After taking one more look at the beavers, she released her grip and dropped to the floor.
The second she landed, she crouched down into as tight a ball as she could. Then, with great care, she lifted her head to check what the beavers were doing. They had not noticed her.
With a burst she sprang up and darted to the cage. “Rye,” she called in a whisper even as she clung to the bars.
Rye looked up. “Poppy!” he gasped and fell back.
“Shhh!” she warned.
“You are always such a wonderful surprise,” he said.
In spite of herself, Poppy grinned.
“Poppy . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve . . . I’ve been working on a poem about you. Would you like to hear it? It goes,
“Hail, sweet mouse of shape divine!
Who pledged her heart and tail to me and mine . . .”
“Rye,” Poppy interrupted, “it sounds beautiful, but there’s no time for that now. We need to get you out of here, fast.”
“I’m all for that,” Rye agreed. “I’ve been working away on this bar, too. It is awfully tough. Almost as hard as writing a good poem. And they do watch me. But I did make some progress. Poem and bar. Maybe the two of us can do the rest. The bar, that is.”
“Show me where.”
“Here.” He went to the back of the cage. Poppy, on the outside, followed him. “This one.”
Poppy looked at the twig. It was gnawed almost halfway through.
“Makes my teeth sore,” Rye said.
“If you gripped from above,” Poppy suggested, “and I held on from below, and we pulled in opposite directions, it might give.”
“We can try.”
The two mice did what Poppy suggested.
“Pull!” Rye urged. The two yanked. There was some give but not enough.
“Again,” Rye said.
The twig splintered with a sudden snap. While it did not break completely in two, it had been pulled wide enough to allow Rye to squeeze through. He popped out and gave Poppy a hug. She returned it.
“Do you want to hear the rest of the poem?” he asked.
“Let’s get out of here first.”
“Of course. How silly of me. How did you come in?”
“The vent hole and another vine. A much longer one. Come on.”
With Poppy in the lead, the two mice crept across the floor of the lodge.
As they went Poppy kept darting glances at the beavers.
Rye, following Poppy, kept thinking, “Isn’t she amazing. Isn’t she something.”
They were halfway to the vine when one of the beavers turned, looked at them, saw what had happened, and cried, “Mice on the loose!”
CHAPTER 26
The Battle of the Boulder
WHAT HAD HAPPENED to Thistle and Curleydock?
When Thistle, under attack from the beaver, lost her grip on the raft, she let herself sink below the water’s surface. A good swimmer, she had the sense to move fast and far away from the tumbled raft as well as the beaver. For as long as her lungs allowed her to, she swam underwater. Then she rose to the surface and cried out, “Curleydock! Poppy!”
There was no reply. And it was too dark to see anything.
Terribly distressed, Thistle swam about in circles, in search of her companions. She was still searching when she heard a faint splash.
“Who’s that?” she called.
“It’s me, Curleydock! Who’s that?”
“Thistle.”
“Where are you?”
“Here. Keep talking. Try to swim toward me. I’ll try to move toward you.”
The two met in the middle of the pond.
“Where’s Poppy?” was the first thing Curleydock said.
“I hoped she’d be with you.”
“I didn’t see what happened to her.”
“Do you think she’s all right?” asked Thistle.
“I don’t know.”
“Listen!”
There came what sounded like a faint cry.
“Here we are!” Thistle called back loudly.
“Shhh! A beaver might hear you.”
In any case, there was no response.
“Curleydock?”
“What?”
“Poppy said she wasn’t that good a swimmer.”
“Do . . . do you think . . .” Curleydock stammered, “do you think she . . . drowned?”
Instead of replying, Thistle said, “We’d better get back to the land.”
“Which way?”
Thistle tried to gauge their place. “I think that way is closest.” She pointed the way with her nose.
The two mice swam steadily. Neither spoke until they reached the shore. As soon as they got out they both looked back over the pond.
“Do you see anything?” Thistle said.
“No.”
“What are we going to tell Pa and Ma?”
“Better just say what happened,” Curleydock replied.
“What do you think . . . did happen?”
“She must have . . . drowned.”
Thistle shook her head.
Curleydock said, “She said she couldn’t swim. And we didn’t hear her, did we?”
“Maybe she got to the lodge anyway.”
“Thistle, even if she did, she said she needed us to get Rye out.”
“But . . . then . . . what’ll happen to Rye?”
There was no answer.
Suddenly Thistle said, “Curleydock, Ma and Pa were moving tonight. We don’t know where they went.”
“Maybe they left a note.”
The two mice ran up the hill.
There was pale light—but no sun yet—upon the eastern horizon when an exhausted Thistle and Curleydock, full of their awful news, reached the hilltop. To their complete surprise, they saw the entire family working in a frenzy. Half were laboring in the ditch before the boulder. The others were toiling about the boulder’s base, hauling away dirt as fast as they could. Most of the earth around the boulder already had been removed. To Thistle and Curleydock’s eyes the boulder appeared to be resting on absolutely nothing.
“Pa!” Curleydock called.
Valerian turned. His mouth opened with surprise. “Why . . . what are you two doing here? Did you free Rye? Where’s Poppy?”
“Pa,” Thistle said, “we were getting close to the beaver’s lodge—on a raft—when one of the beavers discovered us.”
“No!”
“Then we got whacked with a tail,” Curleydock continued. “The raft went over. But we’re . . . Thistle and I . . . we’re good swimmers.”
“You mean . . . Poppy . . . ?”
“We’re not sure, but . . . drowned, probably.”
Valerian, mouth agape, struggled to control his emotions. Turning away, he gazed at the boulder, the ditch, the pond.
“Pa,” Thistle asked, “what’s everybody doing?”
Valerian explained as best he could.
“You’re going to smash the dam?” Curleydock exclaimed when he heard the plan.
“We’re trying. But I think I’d better talk to your mother. Tell her your news.” He hurried away.
Clover, to oversee her part of the digging, had established herself—with her three youngest—just behind the large stone.
The moment Valerian appeared, she bolted up. “What is it? Something has happened. I
can see it in your face.”
“It’s Thistle and Curleydock—”
Clover shut her eyes.
“They were going to the lodge on a wood chip when a beaver turned them over.”
“Valerian . . . the children . . . what happened to them?”
“Thistle and Curleydock got back. They’re good swimmers. But it’s Poppy. They don’t know what happened to her.”
“Then they never reached . . . Rye?”
“No.”
“Valerian!”
“Clover,” Valerian asked, “what do you think we should do?”
Clover dipped her head, swallowed hard, then looked up. “Valerian, you said it before: Poppy’s a clever mouse. Maybe she’s all right. Maybe she isn’t. But I still think we have to get that boulder going down the ditch like we planned. We have to do . . . something.”
“But Clover, if Rye’s still in the lodge . . . it might make things worse.”
The two mice stared at each other.
“Valerian,” Clover said in a whisper, struggling to remain dry eyed, “I still think we have to try. I do.”
“I guess you’re right,” Valerian returned grimly. “The ditch is pretty much done. How soon can we push the boulder down?”
Clover, burping one of the babies, said, “We only need to dig a little more and then—”
Whatever Clover was about to say was cut off by a shout on the other side of the hill. “Beavers!” came the cry. “The beavers are attacking!”
“Oh, my gosh! Work as fast as you can!” Valerian urged Clover. “We’ll try to hold them off.” He gave Clover a quick hug, then tore around to the front of the boulder to see what was happening.
Thirteen beavers had waddled out of the pond. Arrayed all in a row, dripping wet, they were whacking their broad tails on the earth, making an awful racket. Their teeth, side by side, looked like an orange picket fence.
In the middle of the line was Mr. Canad, peering up at the boulder. Now that the mice’s work had progressed so far, he was able to grasp what it was the mice were attempting.
“Great balls of fire!” he raged. “They’re going to topple that boulder. If it comes down, it’ll hit the dam. It’s unfair! It’s wrongheaded! It’s a matter of life or death!”
Up he reared. “For the honor of Canad’s Cute Condos,” he bawled, “we’ve got to draw the line somewhere. Give me a dam or give me death! Go whole hog! Go for broke! Fight tooth and tail! Charge!” As one, the beavers began to waddle up the hill.
The mice, taken by surprise, stopped work on the boulder and the ditch. Too terrified to do anything, they simply stared at the advancing line of beavers.
Valerian rushed down. “Defend yourselves!” he cried. “If only for a few minutes. That’s what we need.”
Galvanized, the mice scrambled in all directions, running and tripping over themselves as they gathered up sticks, pebbles, and clods of dirt.
“Hold your fire,” Valerian cried. “Wait till you can see the gap between their teeth.”
The beavers, beating their tails, pressed up the hill. Their sheer bulk was enough to frighten away some of the mice.
Curleydock, unable to restrain himself, charged down the hill with a mud ball in either paw. “Come on,” he called. “Don’t stand there. Attack!”
Thistle, armed with a pointed stick, was the first to join him.
As soon as he was in throwing range, Curleydock chucked his mud balls at the beavers. When these balls bounced harmlessly off the beavers’ pelts, he gathered up more and threw them.
Unfazed, the beavers continued their advance. “Be warned!” Mr. Canad bawled up at the mice. “We don’t intend to let anything happen to that boulder!”
Valerian, meanwhile, was in a frenzy, organizing his sons, daughters, and grandchildren into three brigades.
“When I give the word,” he told them, “the first group will follow me. Go after one beaver at a time. It’s the only way. You other two groups, attack when you think it’s time. Now, chins up, whiskers straight, noses aquiver! Let’s show them what mice can do!”
Brandishing a twig, he dashed down the hill, his offspring trailing close behind.
Thistle and Curleydock were off on their own, poking and pricking a beaver’s feet with twigs. Maddened, the beaver spun about, lowering his tail shield. Brother and sister pressed their attack relentlessly. The beaver turned and fled back to the pond.
Meanwhile, Valerian and his pack of mice surrounded another beaver. They pelted her with mud balls, then followed up with a stick attack. The beaver responded by grabbing at them, snatching them up and flinging them off to one side. She also began to flail about with her tail, smashing down indiscriminately.
The mice, some hurt, retreated.
But even as they did, the second wave of mice—fifteen strong and squeaking madly—swarmed down the hill. “Mice to the fore! Mice to the fore!” they cried in unison. So furious was their onslaught—with sticks, pebbles, and mud balls—the attack of the beavers faltered. When one of the mice managed to shove a stick up a beaver’s nose, the beaver turned and scampered back toward the pond.
Mr. Canad reared up to block his way. “How dare you retreat,” he cried, shoving the frightened beaver back up the hill. “They’re only mice. Beavers never retreat! We have not yet begun to fight! Rally round the flag! Don’t give up the ship. Remember Canad’s Cute Condos. You’re fighting for the honor and glory of me!”
A third wave of mice, emboldened by the success of the first two groups, poured down the hill in a great wave, squealing, “Mice and freedom! Mice and freedom!” at the top of their lungs. Too excited to stay organized, they struck out at any beaver that was near.
It was Thistle and Curleydock who went after Mr. Canad. He snarled and snapped at them, and then, with one sweep of his tail, sent them tumbling head over tail.
Dazed but unhurt, they shook themselves up, then hurled themselves back into the fray. WHACK! WHACK! went Mr. Canad’s tail. The mice danced away.
The mice did manage to dent the beavers’ onslaught. Each beaver—surrounded by mice—was forced into fighting alone. But though the mice attacked and attacked again, the beavers gradually moved up the hill. Despite their stubborn resistance, the mice were forced into retreat. It was not a rout, but their strength was beginning to ebb.
Valerian, who was engaged with a particularly large beaver, had been knocked down twice. Each time he picked himself up, he cast an eye toward the top of the hill. When he saw that Clover and the other mice were still feverishly digging around the boulder, he threw himself back into the fray.
Clover, who kept looking from the frantic digging around the boulder to the equally frantic battle below, finally shouted, “We’re ready!” down to Valerian.
Valerian, who had just been brushed back, staggered up, heard the call. “Mice to the boulder!” he bellowed. “Mice to the boulder!”
The mice began an orderly retreat. But the beavers, sensing success, pressed harder, gnashing their orange teeth and smacking their tails down indiscriminately. “Drive them away!” Mr. Canad shouted. “Show no mercy! Flatten them! Turn them into lily pads!”
The attack worked. The mice began to scatter. Once dispersed, they grew panicky. They started to race in all directions. Now their orderly retreat became a rout.
“Swat them!” Mr. Canard cried. “Crush them! Flatten them out!”
Valerian raced toward the boulder. A blow from Mr. Canad sent him backward. Spinning about in corkscrew fashion, he collapsed to his knees, stunned.
Mr. Canad reared up and beat his chest. “We have them!” he cried triumphantly. “Strike while the iron is hot. Hit them where it hurts. Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing!”
Suddenly, from up behind the boulder came a great shout: “What the mice mollies is going on here? Where’s Poppy? Get out of my way, fur face! Hit the road, tooth brain.”
There was the sound of a slap, and a beaver—his nose a pincushion of quills�
�let forth a shriek, and began to bolt down the hill.
“Who’s in charge here?” Ereth yelled. “Where’s that seed brain, Poppy? Get out of my way, waffle tail!” WHACK! Another beaver went scrambling down the hill. “Beat it, buck tooth!”
Thistle approached him. “You are good. Just like Poppy said.”
“Don’t call me good, you furry inch of tail leavings. Just tell me what’s going on. What’s all this ruckus? Who are you, chisel mouth?” he demanded.
“The name is Caster P. Canad. But please, just call me Cas. We can be friends. You know what the philosopher said, A stranger is just someone you haven’t met. I mean that, sin—”
“Don’t tell me I’m your friend, buster!” Ereth interrupted with a roar. “I’m nobody’s friend!” With that he slapped Mr. Canad hard, right across the face, with his quill-covered tail. For a moment, Mr. Canad, nose bristling with quills, could do no more than stare at Ereth with shock, horror, and pain. Then he turned and fled down the hill toward the pond. Seeing their leader in a humiliating retreat, the rest of the beavers quickly lost heart and followed.
“Tumble the boulder!” Valerian cried. “Hurry!”
Regrouping, the mice raced up to the top of the hill. Some forty of them, including Clover, dug their rear toes into the earth and placed their front paws against the boulder.
“Push!” Clover cried.
The boulder trembled.
“Push!” she cried again.
The boulder shook. It moved. It began to roll forward. Quickly it gathered speed and momentum until, to the high, shrill cheers of the mice, the boulder plopped into Valerian’s ditch. Then, still rolling, it began to hurtle down the hill, moving faster and faster. Plummeting, it struck a stone, which caused the boulder to bounce high into the air, over the heads of the astonished and retreating beavers. When it came down, it struck the dam.
There was a tremendous THUMP! followed by absolute silence. The silence was broken by a sudden gurgling noise—the sound of the pond water emptying through the breach in the dam.
Neither beavers nor mice spoke. They could only stare.
It was Ereth who broke the profound silence by asking, “Where the busted bat bung is that Poppy, anyway?”
