by Avi
CHAPTER 27
Inside the Lodge (continued)
WHEN THE FIRST BEAVER cried out a warning that Rye was escaping, the second one spun about.
“Run!” Poppy cried and headed straight for the vine. Rye tore after her.
Poppy reached the vine first. She made a flying leap, grabbed it, swung wildly, steadied, then began to haul herself paw over paw until she made herself stop and see where Rye was.
To her horror she saw that Rye had not reached the vine. Moreover, one of the beavers had gotten to the center of the lodge first and was blocking his way. The other beaver, meanwhile, was circling behind him.
“There’s one behind you!” Poppy called.
Rye spun about, saw the beaver, and darted toward the side of the lodge.
Meanwhile the beaver just below the vine stood up and tried to grab Poppy.
Scrambling higher, she managed to elude the beaver’s claws. The beaver responded by grabbing hold of the vine and yanking, pulling it all down, including Poppy.
Down Poppy plummeted, landing with a thump on the soft floor of the lodge where she lay, dazed.
The vine, as it fell, dropped around the beaver. When the beaver tried to get rid of it, he became thoroughly entangled.
Rye, watching Poppy fall, gasped. Though the other beaver was coming right at him, he made a U-turn and shot back toward her. The beaver pursuing him was thrown off. She swiped at him but missed.
Rye approached the first beaver. Realizing that he was still enmeshed in the vine, Rye ran forward and reached Poppy’s side.
Poppy struggled woozily to get up.
Rye helped her. “Come on!” he cried, and led her back toward the broken cage.
The beaver entangled in the vine tore free. He hurried to where the other beaver was. Together they went after the mice, certain they had them cornered. Moving carefully, not wishing to miss their chance, they slowed down and began to creep forward.
“Are you all right?” Rye asked Poppy. He was whispering.
“I think so.”
“What should we do?”
Poppy twisted around. The beavers were approaching. “I’ll act as if I’m hurt,” she said, her voice low but urgent.
“Why?”
“Let them get close to us, then we’ll race off.”
“Which direction?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Poppy, they’ll trap us. It would be better if we split, you right, me left. We’ll meet at the water entry. We can swim from there.”
“Rye,” Poppy cried, “I can’t swim. I was lucky the first time.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be with you.”
“Rye . . .”
“There’s no other way out,” Rye insisted. “I’ll be with you. The vine is down.”
“But . . .”
“Here they come!”
The two mice approached the back wall. There they turned and waited. Poppy, keeping a wary eye, rubbed a leg as if it hurt. Rye acted as if he were tending to his friend.
The beavers advanced, sweeping wide to prevent any escape.
“Is your head clear?” Rye whispered Poppy. “Can you do it?”
“I think so. But Rye, swimming . . .”
“Shhh! Here they come.”
As the beavers advanced, Rye and Poppy pressed their backs against the wall.
“Don’t try to escape!” one of the beavers called. “Just slip into the cage. Both of you. If you do, we won’t hurt you.” They lumbered forward.
Just as they were about to grab the mice, Rye shouted, “Go!” The two mice tore off in opposite directions.
The beavers, taken by surprise, lunged forward, but missed.
Rye and Poppy, racing in separate paths, reached the far sides of the wall. They cut across to the shelf that hung out over the waterway.
Rye was ready to dive in. Poppy held back. Rye looked behind. The beavers, furious at being tricked again but seeing where the mice were perched, galloped across the center of the lodge in pursuit.
“Jump in!” Rye called.
“I can’t,” Poppy cried. “I’ll drown. I know I will.”
“You must.”
Poppy braced herself, ready to do what she knew she had to do.
Suddenly, from outside the lodge there was a great THUMP. The entire lodge shook.
Both mice and beavers stopped and looked around.
“What was that?” Rye asked, awed.
“I’m not sure,” Poppy replied, equally startled.
The next moment there was a great gurgling sound. Poppy and Rye looked down into the water entry. To their astonishment the water was draining swiftly away. Nothing was left but mud.
“The water’s gone!” Poppy called.
She jumped off the shelf and landed in the mud and sprinted down the tunnel.
Rye followed.
When the beavers reached the shelf, they looked with amazement at the empty waterway. “Come on! You heard what Cas said, ‘Hit the water running.’”
“But it’s mud!”
“They’ll get away.”
The beavers leapt. Bigger and heavier than the mice, they sank deep into the mud. “Help! Help!” they cried. But the more they struggled, the more they sank. They dared not move, but could only wait and watch the mice scamper off to freedom.
CHAPTER 28
Farewells
WITH THE DAM BROKEN, the Brook soon resumed its calm, meandering state. The water cleared, the waterlogged banks dried. Almost overnight new, green shoots sprang up. Lilies quickly reestablished themselves. Once again butterflies and dragonflies danced lazily over the languid mirror surface.
The beavers retreated far up the Brook. No one saw anything more of them—not their teeth, their tails, or their dams—or heard their thoughts.
Within a week, Poppy and Rye were married by the mice’s old nest, which, after it had dried out, had been reclaimed by Valerian and Clover.
It was Valerian and Clover who, according to mouse custom, performed the marriage ceremony. Thistle and Curleydock held a canopy of wildflowers over their heads—another mouse tradition. The rest of the mouse family were in full attendance, giggling and laughing, squeaking and chatting, endlessly talking among themselves. As part of the ceremony Rye read all thirty-two stanzas of his poem in praise of Poppy.
She was charmed.
Before the wedding took place, Poppy went to ask Ereth to be “best porcupine.” The old fellow—who had retreated to a clump of trees beyond the ridge—refused with surly indignation.
“I’d rather wait here,” he grumbled.
“It would mean so much to me if you were there,” Poppy pressed.
“It would mean more to me if you weren’t there,” Ereth retorted.
Poppy considered him carefully. “Ereth, you never told me what you wanted to say back in the thicket.”
“Forget it,” he muttered.
“Ereth,” she said, “I know you don’t want me to say it, but you really are the greatest and sweetest of porcupines. And the ultimate best friend to have come back.”
“I only came because I couldn’t find my way home to Dimwood Forest,” Ereth sneered. “I needed to get you to get me back home.”
“But you did do good,” Poppy insisted. “If you hadn’t come, the beavers would have won.”
“Beavers . . .” Ereth grumbled. “Bunch of furry-faced chisels.”
“Well,” Poppy said, “I still wish you’d come to the wedding.” And before Ereth knew what she was doing, she went up to him and kissed him on the nose.
“Mouse mush . . .” Ereth muttered. As Poppy went away he started to rub the kiss away, but suddenly changed his mind. Instead, he sat for a long while, cross-eyed, staring at his nose.
Once the marriage ceremony was over, Rye announced that he and his bride would be leaving the woodlands and going to Dimwood Forest to Poppy’s home. The couple invited the family to visit as often as possible, and promised to return when they could.
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Poppy made her own good-bye. “I have loved two of your sons,” she told Valerian and Clover. “What fine parents you are. We can only hope to do the same.”
They all hugged one another—with such a large family it took a long time—and then, side-by-side, Rye and Poppy hurried up the hill.
Ereth was waiting.
“Did you get stuck together?” he asked sourly.
“It was a beautiful ceremony,” Poppy said. “I would have loved you to have been there.”
“Love,” Ereth sneered. “The less said about all that slop, the better. Come on. Let’s go home.”
They started off. Early on, however, they came to the meadow where Poppy and Rye had first met, and danced.
Rye looked at Poppy. Poppy looked at Rye. They did not need to say a word. They held up their paws and began to dance upon the meadow. They dipped, they jumped, they swayed, they twirled and whirled.
Ereth, keeping his distance, watched from afar. Though he tried to hide it, the old porcupine allowed himself a small, hidden smile—and a tear. Catching himself, he frowned and turned his back on the dancers. “Love,” he complained bitterly. “Nothing but slug splat stew and toad jam. Phooey!”
But—Ereth never did wash his nose.
Excerpt from Ereth’s Birthday
CHAPTER 1
A Special Day
IN DIMWOOD FOREST, in the dark, smelly log where the old porcupine Erethizon Dorsatum lived, Ereth—as he preferred to call himself—woke slowly.
Not the sweetest smelling of creatures, Ereth had a flat face with a blunt, black nose and fierce, grizzled whiskers. As he stirred, he rattled his sharp if untidy quills, flexed his claws, yawned, frowned, and grumbled, “Musty moose marmalade,” only to suddenly remember what day it was and smile. Today was his birthday.
Ereth had given very little thought to what he would do about the day. As far as he was concerned, his birthday meant others would be doing something for him. And the one he was quite certain would be doing all the providing was his best friend, Poppy.
Poppy, a deer mouse, lived barely an acorn toss from Ereth’s log in a gray, lifeless tree—a snag with a hole on one side. She resided there with her husband, Rye, and their eleven children.
Ereth, in a very private sort of way, loved Poppy. He had never told anyone about this love, not even her. Enough for him to live near her. But since the porcupine was certain that Poppy thought of him as her best friend, he assumed she would be making a great fuss over his birthday. A party, certainly. Lavish gifts, of course. Best of all, he would be the center of attention.
So it was that when Ereth waddled out of his log that morning he was surprised not to find Poppy waiting for him. All he saw were her eleven children playing about the base of the snag, squeaking and squealing uproariously.
“Why can’t young folks ever be still?” A deeply disappointed Ereth complained to himself. “Potted pockets of grizzly grunions, it would save so much trouble if children were born . . . old.”
Agitated, he approached the young mice. “Where’s your mother?” he barked. “Where’s your wilted wet flower of a father?”
“They . . . went . . . looking for . . . something,” one of them said.
Though Ereth’s heart sank, he made a show of indifference by lifting his nose scornfully and moving away from the young mice.
Snowberry, one of the youngsters, glanced anxiously around at the others, then cried out, “Good morning, Uncle Ereth!”
This greeting was followed by the ten other young mice singing out in a ragged, squeaky chorus, “Good morning, Uncle Ereth!”
Ereth turned and glowered at the youngsters. “What the tiddlywink toes do you want?” he snapped.
“Aren’t you going to stay and play with us, Uncle Ereth?” Snowberry called.
“No!”
“Why?”
“I’m . . . busy.”
“You don’t look busy.”
“I’m trying to find some peace and quiet,” Ereth snapped. “With all the noise you make, buzzard breath, what else do you think I’d be doing?”
One of the mice—her name was Columbine—slapped a paw over her mouth in order to keep from laughing out loud.
Ereth glared at her. “What are you laughing at?”
“You,” Columbine sputtered. “You always say such funny things!”
“Listen here, you smidgen of slipper slobber,” Ereth fumed. “Don’t tell me I talk funny. Why don’t you stuff your tiny tail into your puny gullet and gag yourself before I flip you into some skunk-cabbage sauce and turn you into a pother of butterfly plunk?”
Instead of frightening the young mice, Ereth’s outburst caused them to howl with glee. Sassafras laughed so hard he fell down and had to hold his stomach. “Uncle Ereth,” he cried, “you are so hilarious! Please say something else!”
“Belching beavers!” Ereth screamed. “I am not hilarious! You’re just a snarl of runty seed suckers with no respect for anyone older than you. How about a little consideration? As far as I’m concerned you mice have as much smarts as you could find in a baby bee’s belly button.”
“But you are funny, Uncle Ereth,” cried another of the young mice, whose name was Walnut. “Nobody else talks like you do. We love it when you swear and get angry at us.”
“I am not angry!” Ereth raged. “If I were angry, I’d turn you all into pink pickled pasta so fast it would make lightning look like a slow slug crawling up a slick hill. So listen up, you tub of tinsel twist.”
This was too much for the young mice. They laughed and squeaked till their sides ached.
“Uncle Ereth,” said Sassafras between giggles, “please—please—say something funny again. You are the funniest animal in the whole forest!”
Staring wrathfully at the young mice, Ereth considered uttering something unbelievably disgusting—dangling doggerels—thought better of it, and wheeled about, heading north as fast as he could.
“Uncle Ereth!” the mice shouted after him. “Please stay and say something else funny. Please don’t go!”
But Ereth refused to stop.
Sassafras watched the porcupine plunge into the forest, then turned to the others. “But what are we going to tell Mom and Dad?” he cried. “They told us to make sure he didn’t go anywhere.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Columbine assured her brother. “Uncle Ereth always comes back.”
CHAPTER 2
Ereth Makes a Decision
“KIDS,” ERETH MUTTERED as he hurried away. “They think they’re so wonderful. Truth is, they do nothing but make their elders work hard, eat their food, ask for things, break them, then proclaim all adults stupid! And what do kids give in return? Nothing!
“All that baby-sitting I do . . . all that listening to their endlessly boring stories, dumb jokes, what they learned today . . . hearing Poppy and Rye talk about this one’s problems, that one’s doings . . . attending their parties . . . finding presents for them . . .
“Well, here it is, my birthday. At least I only have one a year. But do those kids notice? No! Not so much as a gill of grasshopper gas. Do they care what I feel, think, am? Not one pinch of pith pills! Right! The whole world would be better off without kids. So all I say is, keep kids to the rear, blow wind, and turn on the fan!”
With such thoughts and words churning in his mind, Ereth rushed on. Once, twice, he passed a rabbit, a squirrel, a vole, but when they saw the mood the porcupine was in they retreated quickly, not willing even to call a greeting. After all, the creatures of Dimwood Forest knew Erethizon Dorsatum quite well. Very few had any desire to interfere with him when he was in one of his bad moods—which was clearly the case that morning.
The old porcupine pressed on, his mind taken up by a careful composition of the things he hated, the insults he had endured, the slights he had suffered. The list was very long. The more he recalled, the grumpier he became, and the faster he hurried on.
It was an hour before Ereth allowed himself to pause.
All his emotion and running had quite worn him out and made him ravenous. Spying a young pine tree, he scrambled over to it and began to peel away the outer bark, then chew on the green layer underneath.
“Good, good,” he babbled as he gobbled. “This is more like it.”
Suddenly he lifted his nose, sniffed, and frowned. “Squirrel-splat soup! The air has changed.”
It was true—the air was different. It had become crisp and had a deep, tangy smell. And now that Ereth thought about it, the days had been growing shorter, the nights longer. It was only a question of when the first snow would arrive.
“Seasons,” Ereth thought to himself. “Boiled bat butter! Just when you get used to one way, everything changes. Why can’t things ever stay the way they are? Phooey and fried salamander spit with a side order of rat ribbon. I hate change!”
More than ever, Ereth was convinced that he needed something to mark the day. But what? It had to be something special. Something just for him. Then, in a flash, he knew exactly what would please him most. Salt.
Just to think about salt turned Ereth’s longing into deep desire and dreamy drools. For Ereth, salt was the most delicious food in the whole world. He could shut his eyes and almost taste it. Oh, if only he had a chunk! A piece! Even a lick of salt would salvage the day. No, there was nothing he would not do for the smallest bit of it.
The old porcupine sighed. Since no one else was going to pay attention to him, he owed it to himself to find some birthday treat, and salt was the perfect thing. But where was he going to find any?
Though Ereth, with his great knowledge of Dimwood Forest, knew exactly where he was, finding salt was quite another matter. He considered New Farm, a place where some humans kept a whole block of salt in the middle of a lawn. Once, when the block had shattered and fallen to the ground, Ereth had gorged himself for days. Though truly fabulous, that salt was long gone. Moreover, when the humans replaced the block they put it at a height convenient for deer—not porcupines.
“Deer dainties!” Ereth snarled with contempt. “Why couldn’t they have put the salt out for me?”
