Poppy

by Avi

Poppy pointed to the scratch on her nose. “How can he miss? He put this there.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Leaving Gray House

  FOR THE NEXT two days Lungwort worked on the speech he intended to make to Mr. Ocax. He did this in his study, an old boot that Farmer Lamout had left behind the front hall steps. After lining the boot with potato sacking, Lungwort had chewed out a couple of windows, then used a plaid necktie to curtain the entryway.

  Now and again he emerged, papers in hand. Seeking out older members of the family, he’d corner them and say, “I need you to listen to this.”

  After reading a paragraph or two, he insisted upon knowing what the listener thought. If there were compliments, he said something like, “No, I don’t want flattery. I can’t use that. I need hard criticism.” When he received criticism, he always argued that his way was best. Then off he’d go—in a grump—to make minute subtractions or additions to his text, none of which had anything to do with either compliments or criticisms.

  While Lungwort prepared his speech, a committee busied itself making a white flag. No one knew whether a flag of this kind was Lungwort’s idea or Mr. Ocax’s demand. Even so, whenever there was such a “permission party,” as the younger mice called it, a crisp new flag was carried so Mr. Ocax would have no doubt as to the mice’s intentions. It would be Poppy’s job to march along with her father, bearing the flag.

  Poppy, meanwhile, did what she’d been told to do, relating the facts of Ragweed’s death to all the family. Everyone was upset by the story. Being eaten by Mr. Ocax was a shared nightmare. Moreover, it happened with some regularity. They were all scared of him. There was considerable “Tuttutting,” and much whisker twitching. Yet, while everyone expressed sorrow, Poppy suspected that few grieved. Worst were the words of comfort that began, “Well, if someone had to be sacrificed . . .”

  “I don’t understand why they disliked Ragweed so,” Poppy protested sadly to Basil the night before she and Lungwort were to go see Mr. Ocax. “What harm did Ragweed do them?”

  “I can think of three things,” Basil replied. “He was a golden mouse, not a deer mouse. He came from somewhere else. And he said things that upset them. You know, like, ‘You haven’t lived unless you die for something.’ Remember what he told old Plum? ‘A soft belly causes softness at both ends.’”

  “But I liked that he was different,” Poppy confessed. “He loved adventure. I’ll never forget the last words he ever spoke to me. They were so terribly ironic.”

  “What’s ironic?”

  “You know, when the words mean almost the opposite of what you’re saying. The last thing he said to me was ‘You don’t know how to live like I do.’”

  “What’s ironic about that?” Basil asked.

  “The next second Mr. Ocax killed him.”

  “Oh!” Basil shuddered.

  “Now, Poppy,” her mother began as she brushed her daughter’s fur for a final time, “above all, do exactly what your father tells you to do.

  “Be respectful toward Mr. Ocax if he takes notice of you. But if he does not, don’t fret. Your father commands his attention. Mr. Ocax has great respect for your father.

  “Don’t so much as squeak until you are spoken to. Then be humble and brief.

  “Remember the old saying ‘Mice should be nice.’ And for heaven’s sake, keep the white flag flying.

  “Above all,” Sweet Cicely concluded, “remember, it’s an honor that you were selected to go.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Poppy replied, though what her mother was saying made her very uncomfortable.

  Lungwort appeared at that moment. His hair was slicked down; his whiskers were crisply curled; his tail had been scrubbed to a glowing pink; his thimble hat was set at a natty angle. “Is she ready?” he asked his wife.

  “I think so.”

  Lungwort examined his daughter with a critical eye. “Fine,” he said. “A good start promises a good finish. All right, Mother, we should be off.”

  Sweet Cicely gave Lungwort a nuzzle, whispering, “Do be careful.”

  “Careful is my middle name,” Lungwort assured her, and led the way to the porch. There the whole family of mice had assembled for a send-off. Fireflies had been gathered and, now released, gave the moment a festive mood. Poppy, holding the flag, stood at the foot of the porch steps.

  Lungwort scampered atop the old porch rail and faced the crowd.

  “My fellow mice,” he began, paws clasped comfortably over his plump belly while he surveyed his family with solemn regard, “I am about to leave for my meeting with Mr. Ocax. Need I remind you how important is this deputation? A moment for the multitude of mice to memorize.”

  Poppy, unable to make much sense of the words, stopped listening. She was searching for Basil in the crowd.

  “Be certain,” Lungwort continued, “that I will go forward with your best interests at heart. I have prepared a fine speech that will, I’m sure, convince him of our needs.” He held up a scroll of paper, wrapped carefully in leaves to protect it. “I look forward to returning with Mr. Ocax’s kind permission so at least half of us can move on to a new home. That will be a great day for us all.”

  At this point he looked down at Poppy. “Poppy,” he cried, “raise up the flag!”

  “What?”

  “The flag, Poppy! The flag!”

  “Oh!” Poppy lifted the white banner high. Looking at it, all she could think of was a flag of surrender.

  As Lungwort took his place before her, one of the crowd called out, “Hip-hip—”

  “Hurrah!” cried the others.

  “Hip-hip—”

  “Hurrah!”

  “Forward!” Lungwort cried. He gave a smart nod to Poppy, and they began to march off. The crowd continued to cheer. Poppy had to admit it was grand. When she caught sight of Basil waving frantically to catch her eye, she even felt proud.

  Within moments, however, everything changed. Gray House, with its cheerful lights and well-wishers, vanished behind them. The moon had all but disappeared behind clouds that promised rain. No stars were visible. The air felt as heavy as wet wool. In the darkness, Poppy had no idea of which direction they were to go.

  “We’ll be taking the Tar Road,” Lungwort informed her. “Fewer obstructions. More visibility.”

  “Do we have a meeting place?” she asked.

  “The very tip of Dimwood Forest,” her father said. “Just on the far side of the Bridge over Glitter Creek. Mr. Ocax’s watching tree. He’s there most nights. Can’t miss it. It’s a huge dead oak.”

  “How come it’s dead?”

  “It was hit by lightning.”

  “Was Mr. Ocax on the tree at the time?”

  Lungwort chuckled. “Poppy, there are those who say Mr. Ocax made the lightning himself. He’s that kind of bird. Now, my dear, do keep that flag up.”

  Poppy tried, but she was wondering what kind of chance they’d have with an owl who made his own lightning.

  Marching down the middle of the Road made her nervous. Surely Mr. Ocax would see them. Would he recognize her? If he did, would he attack? What should she do then? Run? Where? Ashamed to have such worries, Poppy decided it would be better to hide them. So she said nothing. Still, it was hard to keep the heavy flag high.

  “Up!” Lungwort kept calling. He was now walking behind her.

  They had been marching for some time—during which they had exchanged only a few words—when the night silence was suddenly shattered by a “Whooo-whooo!”

  Startled, Poppy stopped short. In the confusion, Lungwort banged into her. He lost his thimble cap and his speech. She dropped the flag.

  “Pick the flag up!” her father cried, searching and finding both thimble and speech in the darkness. “Lose the flag and we’re done for!”

  “Do you think he’s seen us?”

  “Why else do you think he called?” Lungwort snapped.

  The hair along Poppy’s spine stood straight up. It wasn’t the owl’s call that frightened
her as much as the fear she heard suddenly in her father’s voice. Never had she heard that before. She peered around at him. He didn’t appear scared. Poppy sighed. She decided she must have imagined it, seeing in him what she was feeling.

  The call came again: “Whooo-whooo.”

  Poppy, her heart pounding, asked, “How much farther to go?”

  “Quite a ways,” Lungwort whispered.

  They listened again. No more calls came. Lungwort adjusted his hat and gave a forced chuckle. “Actually, I suspect that call was just some good-natured joshing.”

  “Papa?”

  “What?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Humph,” Lungwort replied, but Poppy sensed he was pleased. She felt better until he said, “But do keep that flag up.”

  The owl’s call came again. For a second time Poppy stopped. Her father did, too. They listened intently for a few moments. Then Lungwort whispered, “Just as I thought. He’s joking. Lighten up, child.” They moved on.

  Poppy didn’t like to contradict her father, but she doubted Mr. Ocax’s calls were a joke. She rather suspected the owl was trying to scare them. And—as far as she was concerned—he was succeeding.

  Rain began. It came softly at first, but when a clap of thunder burst right overhead—making them jump—the drizzle turned into a deluge. Within seconds they were soaked. The tar-covered road ran with water. The flag became heavier and spattered with mud.

  “Shake out the flag,” Lungwort cried. “It must stay white.”

  Poppy tried to do as she was told, but it was difficult.

  They trudged on. Off to the left, flashes of lightning allowed Poppy to see the tall trees of Dimwood Forest. Although she, like all the mice, was well aware of the forest, she had never visited it. Who would want to? She’d been taught too many fearsome things about its vast size, its dreadful darkness, the fact that Mr. Ocax had a secret home there. Equally alarming was the knowledge that Dimwood Forest was full of the animals that hunted mice, animals like porcupines. Poppy made herself look in another direction.

  “We’re getting close,” her father said, his voice tense.

  Poppy cocked an ear. Over the continual splash of rain, she heard the rushing waters of Glitter Creek. Then the Tar Road twisted sharply to the left. They had reached the Bridge, a row of heavy wooden planks thrown across the creek. The gaps between the planks were wide enough for a mouse to fall through. Lungwort chose the middle plank and Poppy followed.

  Despite her best intentions, she couldn’t keep from peeking down. Normally Glitter Creek was serene. The summer rains had made it high, fast, and fairly roaring.

  Poppy stole a nervous glance at her father. He had stopped to pull at his whiskers. She had never seen him so agitated and wondered suddenly if he would be able to protect her. She’d never asked the question before. Never had to. Just to think it upset her. She looked to her father for reassurance, but all she saw was his frailty. She knew then that he was just as frightened as she was. The realization made her stomach ache with tension.

  Lungwort caught her looking at him. “Flag!” he cried, moving forward.

  Poppy managed to lever the flag up just as she stepped off the Bridge. The moment she did, the air was rent with yet another of Mr. Ocax’s cries: “Whooo-whooo!”

  “There he is!” Lungwort exclaimed.

  Poppy looked up. As the lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, Mr. Ocax’s dead oak seemed to leap toward them. Against the darkness of Dimwood she saw that the owl’s branch reached out like a claw. As for Mr. Ocax, his head feathers were erect, making him look like a devil.

  “Don’t give way!” Poppy said fiercely to herself even as she trembled. “Don’t give way!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Standing Before Mr. Ocax

  THE LEAVES OF THE OAK trees around Mr. Ocax’s oak shielded him from the rain, but Poppy and her father were being drenched. The owl’s head, moreover, was pulled down between his wings, while his eyes, enormously wide and unblinking, gave Poppy the sensation that there was nothing she might do or even think of doing which he could not, would not, see. To Poppy he seemed to be pure power and fury.

  Wanting to look away, she glanced at the base of Mr. Ocax’s tree. There lay what appeared to be a mound of pebbles. Gradually a ghastly realization came over her. What she was seeing was a mound of Mr. Ocax’s upchucked pellets, the closely packed and undigested bits of fur and bone from his dinners. The vision made her blood turn cold. Only the sound of Mr. Ocax’s sneering voice jolted her back to alertness.

  “What do you want, Lungwort?” the owl demanded, his claws continually flexing on his perch.

  Lungwort, holding cap in hand like an empty bucket, said, “May I wish you a very pleasant evening, Mr. Ocax?”

  “It’s not very pleasant,” Mr. Ocax returned with a snarl.

  “No, well, you’re absolutely right there, Mr. Ocax,” Lungwort replied, straining to sound jaunty. “But April showers, as the song goes, bring May flowers. And I—”

  Mr. Ocax clacked his beak. “Lungwort, it’s summer. Did you come here to sing me idiot songs, or do you have something important to say?”

  “Well, in fact, I did bring—”

  “Hurry up. I’ve not eaten my dinner yet. And I’m hungry.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” Lungwort said. “I understand perfectly.”

  Lungwort hastily put on his hat, not noticing until too late that it had filled with rain. Water cascaded over his head. With a nervous shake, he fumbled to unroll his speech paper. Before he could get it out, Mr. Ocax’s eyes grew bigger.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded as he moved his head about to bring Poppy into better focus.

  “Forgive me,” Lungwort said. “I’ve been rude. This is one of my dutiful daughters. Poppy, step forward. Look up. There’s the good mouse. Mr. Ocax, may I introduce Poppy to you?”

  Prodded by her father, she stepped forward gingerly. All she could see was Mr. Ocax’s eyes. She felt not just looked at but attacked.

  “Poppy, eh?” he growled. “I think we’ve already met.”

  “One of my sweetest,” Lungwort offered.

  Mr. Ocax ignored him. Instead he said, “What happened to your nose, girl?”

  “I . . . I . . . scraped it.”

  “A close call, I’d say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Little girl mice should be more careful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you understand me?”

  Poppy longed to run away.

  Lungwort nudged her. “Poppy, dear, Mr. Ocax asked if you were understanding him.”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Poppy squeaked with a bob of her head.

  “All right, then,” Mr. Ocax said. “Now be a good little girl and come stand under my tree while I talk to your father.”

  Hating herself for acting so fearful, queasy at the thought of going closer to the mound of pellets, Poppy appealed to her father with a look. Lungwort, however, only nodded.

  “Move it!” Mr. Ocax snapped.

  Averting her eyes from the pellets, Poppy crept toward the tree, the flag dragging behind her. But when she reached the spot, she was unable to resist the fascination of the horrible mound. Once she looked, she caught sight of something that glittered.

  “All right, Lungwort,” Mr. Ocax said, “let’s hear what you have to say.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Lungwort held out his piece of paper. Now the thimbleful of water, as well as the rain, had drenched it. All the same, he tried to read:

  “Whereas Mr. Ocax, Great Horned Owl, Ruler of the Dimwood Forest Region, who, out of his kindness and wisdom, protects all members of the Deer Mice family:

  “Whereas the said family of Deer Mice living in Gray House, in return for Mr. Ocax’s protection, have agreed to ask his permission whenever they wish to move about:

  “Whereas the Deer Mice family, having grown so great in numbers, need a second place of habitation so as to mainta
in and enhance their lives with sufficient food:

  “And . . .” Lungwort paused to shake the paper.

  “And what?” Mr. Ocax demanded.

  “The paper is somewhat wet,” Lungwort apologized.

  “So is the style,” Mr. Ocax observed. “Go on.”

  Lungwort cleared his throat and continued to read. “Whereas Mr. Ocax, Protector of Deer Mice, is famous for his kindness, generosity, and compassion:

  “Theref—”

  “Stop!”

  “Yes?”

  “Repeat that!”

  “What?”

  “That line about me.”

  “About kindness, generosity, and compassion?”

  “Right. I like it. That’s well written.”

  “Yes, thank you. I wrote it. Whereas Mr. Ocax, Protector of Deer Mice, is famous for his kindness, generosity, and compassion:

  “Therefore, said Deer Mice of said Gray House humbly petition said Mr. Ocax to . . . to . . .”

  “Will you get to the point!” Mr. Ocax screeched in exasperation.

  “I’m sorry,” Lungwort said. “The rain has washed away the rest of my writing.”

  “Then just dump it and say what you want,” the owl boomed.

  “We . . . we humbly request your permission,” Lungwort finally said, “to move.”

  “Move?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I said, we are too many. We need more food.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “To New House.”

  First Mr. Ocax blinked. Next he swiveled his head around, frowning first at Lungwort, then down at Poppy, then again at Lungwort. Finally he said, “You mean that new place up along the Tar Road, beyond New Field?”

  Poppy thought she heard something new in Mr. Ocax’s voice. She tried to grasp it.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Ocax hesitated. “Well . . . er . . . have you been there?”

  Now Poppy was sure. It was uncertainty that she was hearing.

  “Have you been there?” Mr. Ocax demanded shrilly.

  “Well, the truth is,” Lungwort said, “my friend Mr.—”