‘In the rosebush? Yes.’
‘Go there. You will find a sentry guarding the door. His name is Justin. Tell him who you are, and that you came at my request. Tell him that you want to see a rat named Nicodemus. I think they will let you in, though they may insist on swearing you to secrecy. If they should ask that, you must of course use your own judgement; but my advice would be to do as they ask.’
Mrs Frisby was close to complete bewilderment.
‘Secrecy,’ she said. ‘Secrecy about what?’
‘That I cannot reveal. I, too, have agreed to it. Also, there is much I do not know, though I have given advice on certain aspects of their — projects.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Frisby, ‘I don’t understand at all. But if it might save Timothy, I will try to do what you say.’
‘Tell them,’ added the owl, ‘that I suggest moving the house into the lee of the stone. Remember that — the lee of the stone. Also, do not forget the names: Justin and Nicodemus.’
‘Justin. Nicodemus. The lee of the stone,’ repeated Mrs Frisby. ‘I will remember.’ She was now so entirely puzzled that she did not think to ask what the phrase meant. Presumably the rats would know.
‘And, Mrs Frisby,’ said the owl, moving again towards the entrance to the hollow, ‘please understand: I was an admirer of your late husband, though I never met him in person, I wish you well. I hope your son’s life can be saved. You see, I can understand your particular need, for I face a similar problem.’
‘You?’ said Mrs Frisby. ‘But you have no Moving Day.’
‘I have lived in this tree, in this same hollow,’ the owl said, ‘for more years than anyone can remember. But now, when the wind blows hard in winter and rocks the forest, I sit here in the dark, and from deep down in the bole, down near the roots, I hear a new sound. It is the sound of strands of wood creaking in the cold and snapping one by one. The limbs are falling; the tree is old, and it is dying. Yet I cannot bring myself, after so many years, to leave, to find a new home and move into it, perhaps to fight for it. I, too, have grown old. One of these days, one of these years, the tree will fall and when it does, if I am still alive, I will fall with it.’
With this sad prediction the owl stepped through his doorway, spread his great wings and was gone, soaring silently downward into the shadowy woods below.
Mrs Frisby followed him out on to the limb. To her relief, Jeremy was still waiting where she had left him, though not very patiently.
‘We must hurry,’ he said. ‘It’s almost dark. I’m not supposed to be out so late.’ Mrs Frisby, who had the same feeling, climbed on his back, much less afraid now for two reasons: First, she was getting used to air travel; second, since the woods below them were dark, she could no longer see how far away the ground was.
‘He talked to you for a long time,’ said Jeremy as they flew. ‘Did he tell you anything that will help?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Frisby. Since the owl had brought up the matter of secrecy, and had, in fact, been secretive himself, she was not sure just how much she should tell Jeremy.
‘Why don’t you know?’
‘I mean, he told me some things, but I don’t know whether they’ll help or not.’ She decided to counter with a question of her own. ‘What does “in the lee” mean?’
Jeremy, being like all birds knowledgeable about the wind, knew the answer to that. ‘It means the calm side, the side the wind doesn’t blow from. When there’s a strong wind, you fly up to the barn from the lee, so you don’t get bashed into the wall. My father taught me that.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Frisby, and she became more puzzled than ever. What had the wind to do with it?
‘He told me,’ she said finally, deciding it could do no harm, ‘to go and see the rats.’
‘The rats?’ Jeremy was startled. ‘But they don’t have anything to do with us.’
‘I know. But he thought they might help.’
‘What could they do?’
‘He thought they might move my whole house. But how they could do it, I can’t imagine.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that they could,’ said Jeremy. ‘Everyone knows — at least all the birds know — that the rats can do things. They’re up to something; nobody is quite sure what. For one thing, they’re building themselves a new house, way back in the woods, over the mountains. They’ve even made quite a big clearing near it. I’d show you, but it’s too dark now.
‘They used to carry food, like the rest of us. But now we see them with other things — pieces of metal, and bits of machinery, and things I can’t even recognize. They take them into that rosebush, and what happens to them I don’t know. But the owl knows more than most. I expect he’s had some dealings with them. Just the same, I’ve never heard of their helping anybody but themselves.’
‘Neither have I. But I’m going to ask them anyway. There isn’t anyone else to ask.’
By the time they reached the garden, it had gone almost completely dark, and Jeremy could not linger.
‘Good night, Jeremy,’ said Mrs Frisby, feeling almost affectionate towards the crow. ‘Thank you for taking me, and for waiting to bring me back.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Jeremy. ‘If you need me again, just ask. After all, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here to ask.’ And he flew off into the darkness, the last crow to get home that night.
In the Rosebush
When Mrs Frisby got home, Teresa, Martin and Cynthia were eating supper, as she had told them to do if it got dark before she returned. Coming silently down the tunnel, she could hear them talking in the room below, and she paused a moment to eavesdrop on their conversation, Obviously Cynthia had been worrying, and Teresa was reassuring her.
‘She couldn’t have got back sooner than this, Cynnie. Don’t you remember? The crow said it was a mile to the tree. It might even be farther.’
‘Yes, but crows fly so fast.’
‘But if he went two miles high’ — that was Martin — ‘it would be three miles altogether.’
‘Six,’ said Teresa. ‘Two up, two down, and one to get there and one to get back.’
‘That’s right. No wonder she isn’t back yet.’
‘But what about the owl? You know how owls are.’
‘It was still light when they got there. He couldn’t see.’
‘But it’s dark now,’ said Cynthia. ‘Oh, I wish she’d come back. I’m scared.’
‘Not so loud,’ Teresa said. ‘Timothy will hear.’
‘I’m home,’ called Mrs Frisby, hurrying the rest of the way down.
And now it appeared that they had all been worried, for they ran to her, and even Martin, who ordinarily avoided such displays, threw his arms around her.
‘Oh Mother,’ cried Cynthia, near tears. ‘I was so worried.’
‘Poor Cynthia. It’s all right.’
‘How high did you fly?’ asked Martin, recovering quickly.
‘High enough so the trees looked like bushes, the garden like a postcard, and the river like a snake.’
‘Did you see the owl? What did he say?’
‘I saw him. Later, I’ll tell you about it. First I want to see Timothy. How is he? Why didn’t you move his bed out here?’
Teresa said: ‘I wanted to, but he said he’d rather stay in the bedroom. I think he’s feeling worse again.’
But when Mrs Frisby went to see him, she found him sitting up, and his forehead felt not at all feverish.
‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘I stayed in here because I wanted to think about something.’
‘Think about what?’
‘About Moving Day.’
‘Moving Day! But why? What about it?’
Had he, after all, overheard her talking to the others? Heard about her flight to the owl? But no, he was explaining.
‘I haven’t been outdoors since I got sick, so I don’t know what it’s like. I mean the weather. But today, this afternoon, I noticed something.’
‘Wh
at was that?’
‘A smell in the air, a warm, wet smell. If you sniff you can still smell it, though it’s not so strong now.’
Mrs Frisby had noticed this, of course, both indoors and out.
‘It’s the smell of the frost melting,’ Timothy went on. ‘I remember it from last year. And after that, it wasn’t long until we moved. Mother, when are we going to move this year?’
‘Oh, not for a long time yet.’ Mrs Frisby tried to sound as casual as she could. ‘It’s still much too cold, too early to think about it.’
‘I have to think about it,’ said Timothy. He sounded serious, but calm and unworried. ‘Because if it comes too soon, I don’t know if I can go. I tried walking a little bit today, in here, when the others were outside.’
‘Timothy, you’re supposed to stay in bed! You’ll make yourself sick again.’
‘I know, I know. But I had to find out. And I didn’t walk much. I couldn’t. I only went a few steps, and I got so dizzy I had to lie down again.’
‘Of course you did. You haven’t really recovered yet.’
‘I suppose I haven’t. That’s why I wanted to think.’
‘Timothy, you must not worry about it. That will only make you worse.’
‘I’m not worried at all. I thought I would be, but I’m not — or maybe I think I should be, but I can’t. What I really think about is how nice it is there, in the summer beside the brook, and it’s true, I want to go. But I’m not scared. I was afraid you might be, or that you might think I was. That’s really what I wanted to tell you. I’m just going to wait and see what happens. So you shouldn’t worry about it, either.’
Mrs Frisby realized that he had somehow switched their positions. He had seen the danger he was in — guessed, somehow, that Moving Day was near, and that he was very likely to die. And yet here he was — reassuring her. She wanted to tell him about the owl and the rats, tell him that something still might be done. But she decided she had better not; she did not really know if they would help. It would be better to wait until she had seen them.
So instead she said, rather lamely: ‘Timothy, don’t think about it any more. When the time comes, we’ll see how you are and then decide what to do.’
The next morning at daybreak she went to see the rats. She had never been in the rosebush before, never even really close to it, and now, the nearer she got, the more nervous she became. No one had ever told her — nor, as far as she knew, told any of the other animals — to keep away from it. It was just something one knew. The rats on Mr Fitzgibbon’s farm kept to themselves. One did not prowl in their domain.
She had, before coming out of the garden, looked around carefully to be sure Dragon was nowhere in sight. But even Dragon, though he would chase a rat up to the edge of the bush, would not follow him into it.
The thorns, of course, helped to discourage trespassers. Mrs Frisby had never realized until that moment standing next to it, how very big the bush was, how dense, how incredibly thorny. It was bigger than the tractor shed, and its branches were so densely intertwined that as small as she was, Mrs Frisby could find no easy way to crawl into it, though she walked all the way around it looking. She remembered approximately where she had seen the rats go in, and she studied that part of the bush carefully. How had they done it?
Then she saw that on one branch, close to the ground, the thorns had been scraped off, and about a half-inch of it — just big enough for a handhold — was worn smooth. She put her hand on this and pushed timidly. The branch yielded easily, rather like a swinging door, and behind it she saw a trail, a sort of tunnel through the bush, wide enough so that she could walk into it without touching thorns on either side. When she went forward, she released the branch, and it swung back silently into place behind her. She was inside the bush, and it was dark.
She walked forward, peering into the dimness and following the small trail which wound in a curving course towards the centre of the bush, its earthen floor packed firm by the pressure of small feet. Then, straight ahead of her she saw the entrance.
She had expected — what? A round hole in the earth, most likely, but certainly nothing like what she saw. First, a sizeable clearing — about five feet across — had been cut from the centre of the bush. Branches overhead had been cleared away, too, not quite to the top of the bush but almost, so that the sunlight filtered through easily, and soft moss grew on the ground. In the middle of this bright green cave rose a small mound, eight inches tall, in the end of which was an arched entrance neatly lined with stone, like a small doorway without any door. Behind the entrance a tunnel, its floor also lined with stones, led backwards and downwards.
Beside the entranceway, looking at her with dark, unblinking eyes, stood the biggest rat she had ever seen.
Brutus
‘Stop where you are,’ said the rat. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘I walked in,’ said Mrs Frisby, keeping her voice calm with an effort. ‘I found a branch with the thorns smoothed off. I pushed it back, and found …’
‘I know,’ said the rat, rather rudely. ‘And now, walk out again. You aren’t allowed in here.’ He moved a few inches towards her, placing himself between her and the entrance. She noticed how powerful his muscles looked under his glossy coat. He would almost be a match for Dragon — almost, but not quite.
‘Go on,’ he repeated.
‘But I have a reason …’
‘I don’t care what you have. Go away. You’re small. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.’
‘Are you Justin?’ Mrs Frisby inched back as the rat inched forward.
‘I’m Brutus, Justin’s not here.’ That was reasonably obvious, Mrs Frisby thought. The rat named Brutus added: ‘You know Justin?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Frisby. ‘That is, not exactly.’
‘If you don’t know him, how do you know his name?’ Brutus sounded puzzled, and Mrs Frisby observed that although he was greatly oversized and muscular, and his eyes were bright enough, he looked very young.
‘It was told to me by a friend. Can I see him?’
‘Justin? No. He’s at a meeting. I’m taking his place. They’re all at a meeting but me.’
Bad luck, thought Mrs Frisby. He’s a substitute. She said:
‘Then I’ll wait for him.’
‘No,’ said Brutus. ‘You can’t stay here. I’ve got orders. Now go, or I’ll have to take you out myself.’ He moved forward again.
‘My name,’ said the mouse desperately, ‘is Mrs Jonathan Frisby. I want to see Nicodemus.’ It did not work.
‘I don’t care what your name is, and you can’t see Nicodemus, that’s sure.’ Brutus now looked puzzled and annoyed. ‘Move on, and be quick.’
‘All right,’ said Mrs Frisby. ‘You needn’t force me. I’ll go.’ She turned slowly and walked back the way she had come. She felt like crying — after coming all this way, after flying to see the owl, to be turned back so abruptly at the end. She thought, as she walked into the darker part of the bush, maybe she could just wait for an hour or so, until the meeting (what kind of a meeting could it be?) was over and then go back, and perhaps the rat named Justin would be at the entrance then. But would Justin pay any more attention to her than Brutus had done? She had a feeling that he would.
But when she stopped she heard footsteps behind her. She looked back and saw Brutus was following her, so she started again, hurrying to keep out of his sight. After a while she paused again and listened. This time there was no sound. He must have gone back to his post. She sat down on the ground.
Then, ahead of her, in the direction of the place where she had entered the bush, she heard a rustle, a faint scraping noise. It was the branch she had pushed to get in. Someone else was moving it. Someone was coming in, walking along the narrow path towards her. It must be another rat. Suddenly she was terrified. What would he do, meeting her unexpectedly in this dimness?
She shrank to one side, as close as she could get to the wall of thorns, hoping that whoever it
was might go on past, not seeing her.
Then he came around the curve, and she saw him. It was her old friend, Mr Ages, the white mouse.
He was moving extremely slowly, and she realized that he was limping badly. One of his legs was injured; it was wrapped up in splints and bandaged.
‘Mr Ages,’ she called softly, ‘it’s Mrs Frisby.’
‘Who?’ He peered into the shadow. ‘I can’t see you.’
‘Mrs Frisby.’ She moved into the middle of the path in front of him.
‘Why, so it is. Mrs Frisby. How do you do?’ He sounded cordial enough, but he was startled. ‘I didn’t know that you … How do you happen to be in here?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Then tell it to me while I rest. I’m supposed to be at a meeting, but I’m late already, and a few minutes more won’t matter. As you can see, I had a bad fall and broke my ankle.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it doesn’t hurt.’
‘It is mending. But I can walk only slowly and need to rest frequently.’ He sat down with a sigh. ‘Now tell me what you’re doing in the rats’ bush.’
Mrs Frisby (who was wondering the same thing about him) told him as briefly as she could about Timothy, Jeremy, the owl, and Brutus. Mr Ages listened in silence, interrupting only once.
‘You went into the owl’s tree?’
‘Yes. But I was afraid.’
‘I should think so. That took courage.’
‘I had to do it.’
When she had finished her story, Mr Ages sat quietly for a minute, considering it.
‘Poor Timothy,’ he said at last. ‘I should have thought of that myself. But, of course, when I gave you the medicine, the weather had not yet turned warm. Then I fell and broke my leg, and I forgot all about it.’ He stood up.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you should come with me back to the entrance.’
Mrs Frisby and the Rats of NIMH (Puffin Modern Classics) Page 5
