by Avi
“Yes or no?” the owl screamed.
“Well, no. Not exactly. But my friend told me it would make an excellent source of food for half of my family, and—”
“Lungwort!” Mr. Ocax interrupted. “I forbid you to move to New House.”
“What?” Lungwort gasped, flapping the rain away from his face with a paw. The word had all but stuck in his throat.
“Permission denied, Lungwort. You cannot move to New House.”
“But, but—why, sir?”
“Because I said so.”
“But . . . but the Gray House area does not provide enough food. It’s urgent that some of us move so we can survive and—”
“No New House. Now I’ve got a dinner to catch, so you’d better skedaddle. Unless, of course, you want to please me by leaving your daughter. Then”—the owl chuckled—“I might reconsider.”
“But . . .”
Mr. Ocax leaned forward. “Whooo-whooo,” he wailed in his loudest but lowest voice.
The sound exploded over them. Poppy, clapping paws to ears, ran out from under the tree toward her father, who was still standing there, stammering, “But . . . but . . .”
“Come on, Papa,” Poppy urged, trying to turn her father around. “We’d better go.” With difficulty she turned him.
“Lungwort!” Mr. Ocax called suddenly.
Lungwort whirled so fast the thimble fell off his head. Bowing, smiling, he began, “You were just teasing, weren’t—”
“Listen to me, Lungwort!” Mr. Ocax cried. “I’ve two more things to say to you. First! Pass the word among your friends that I’ve spotted a new porcupine around Dimwood.”
“Porcupine?” Lungwort echoed dumbly.
“A particularly vicious one. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you. Second . . . it’s about your daughter there. If you want a reason for my refusal, ask her how she and I met before.”
“Reason?”
“She didn’t ask permission to go to the hill. That’s why you can’t go to New House.”
“Yes, but—”
“Beat it, Lungwort. Now!”
“Come on, Papa. We’d better leave.”
Lungwort glanced about for his thimble hat. It had rolled away. It was Poppy who retrieved it and put it on his head. Resigned, a sagging Lungwort allowed himself to be led away. Poppy glanced at her father. All traces of dignity were gone. The wetness that ran down his face was not rain but tears.
Poppy hardly tried to keep the flag aloft. And as they trudged home, she kept stealing looks into one of her paws. In it was clenched something she had pried from one of Mr. Ocax’s pellets: Ragweed’s earring.
CHAPTER 7
Home Again
POPPY AND HER FATHER did not talk on the long way home. Only occasionally did she say, “Watch the puddle, Papa,” or, “Won’t be long now.” That was all.
Lungwort, walking with his head down, eyes glued to his feet, kept uttering sighs. Now and then he reached up to touch his hat, just to be sure it was there. Once, after stealing a look at Poppy—a look that she caught—he let out something like a moan.
Poppy was fearful of asking her father the questions she kept asking herself: If Mr. Ocax refused permission for the move—and he had—and if there was not enough food—and her father said that was true—what was the family to do? Would some of them have to forage in distant places, in the open? That meant they’d be at the mercy of Mr. Ocax, a complete calamity.
Poppy peeked again at Ragweed’s earring. She kept asking herself why she had ever gone to the hill with Ragweed without asking permission. She knew better. Look at all the trouble she’d caused. Just then she hated herself for having loved Ragweed. But just to think that thought made her heart ache.
Rain was still falling when they reached Gray House. Both mice were soaked and exhausted. The once white flag trailed in the mud.
A large number of mice were milling about on the porch waiting for the expected good news. Sure enough, when Poppy and Lungwort appeared, a cheer went up.
The sound brought Lungwort to a dead halt. The old mouse stared blankly at the rows of eager faces. A second cheer began but faded as the onlookers sensed something was wrong.
Silent and grim-faced, eyes averted, Lungwort painfully climbed the Gray House steps. Alarmed into silence, the mice backed away to let him pass.
Poppy saw her mother break through the crowd. “Lungwort!” she cried. “Oh, my dear! What happened?”
Lungwort lifted sad eyes. Without a word, he continued on into the house, retreating into his boot study and drawing the curtain behind him. For a moment Sweet Cicely stared after her husband. Then she dashed into the boot after him.
Only then did the others notice Poppy. She had been standing alone, quite ignored. Now they surrounded her and pelted her with questions. “What’s happened?” “Is something the matter?” “What’s with Lungwort?” “What did Mr. Ocax say?”
Poppy, not sure how to reply, remained silent. Finally she held up a paw, her father’s gesture. The mice responded as they always did. They grew quiet.
Swallowing hard, Poppy said, “Mr. Ocax refused permission for anyone to move.”
Like air escaping from a balloon, there was a collective gasp from the crowd. But a torrent of questions followed. “What did Mr. Ocax say?” “Didn’t Lungwort explain?” “What are we supposed to do now?” “Did the owl give any reasons?”
Poppy lifted a paw again. Once the crowd had stilled, she confessed softly, “Mr. Ocax said it was because Ragweed and I didn’t ask permission to go to Bannock Hill.”
She hoped for a chorus—or at least one mouse—who would say, “That’s not fair!” or “That’s absurd!” No such word was spoken.
Alarmed, Poppy looked around. Some eyes avoided hers. Others showed sorrow. Quite a few darted angry glares at her.
“You’ll have to excuse me now,” she murmured, quite shaken. “I need to get myself dry.”
A narrow passage was made for her to pass. As she entered the house, she felt a nudge from behind. Alarmed, she jumped. It was Basil.
“This way,” he whispered.
He led her to an isolated room. “Dry yourself,” he said. “I’ll get you something hot.”
Placing Ragweed’s earring to one side, Poppy began licking her fur dry. By the time she was done, Basil returned with an acorn of steaming mashed rye. Despite her upset, Poppy ate ravenously, grateful for the warmth that seeped through her body.
Basil listened intently as Poppy told of the meeting with Mr. Ocax.
“And look what I found.” She held up Ragweed’s earring.
Basil took it carefully. “Where was it?”
“Sticking out of one of Mr. Ocax’s pellets.”
“Makes me sick,” he muttered. After a while he asked, “Poppy, what’s going to happen next?”
Poppy sighed. “I thought it would have been impossible to feel worse than I did when Ragweed died. I was wrong. This is worse. So many will suffer. And guess who’s being blamed? Me!”
Wearily, Poppy made her way to the attic. She wanted to be alone.
Amid Farmer Lamout’s clutter she’d come across a tin can a while ago shaped like a house. “Log Cabin Syrup,” the label read. After cleaning the inside to a shiny newness and lining it with her favorite old magazine bits, Poppy considered it her own room.
Now she patted down a wad of filmy lace—her pillow—and crept beneath a blanket—a crocheted doily. Curled up into a tight ball, she tucked in her paws and wrapped her tail about her, tucking its tip right below her nose. Never had she felt so worn out.
Even so, she could not sleep. She kept hearing Mr. Ocax say that he was refusing permission for family members to move because they—she and Ragweed—had not asked him if they could go to Bannock Hill.
Then, too, there was his hint that he would change his mind if she sacrificed herself. She was glad she had not mentioned that to the family, rather suspecting some of them would have urged her to do it. The mere
hint of such a thing gave Poppy the horrors. She drew herself into a tighter ball.
Harder to deal with was her own inner voice. It kept insisting that if what she and Ragweed had done was the reason for keeping others from moving and being safe, maybe she should sacrifice herself. A tear trickled down her face, rolled to the end of a whisker, and dropped into her pillow.
Oh, she thought, if only Ragweed were here. He would have had something to say.
But what? she asked, trying to cheer herself up. Most likely a question, a backward one just like the time he asked Lungwort how Mr. Ocax could confuse huge porcupines with small deer mice.
Even as she thought about Ragweed’s asking, Poppy realized that her father never did give an answer. She wondered why.
Poppy forced herself back to her problem. Mr. Ocax said he was refusing permission because of something she and Ragweed had done. How would Ragweed have turned that around?
Poppy could almost hear it: Ragweed would have said, “What did refusing permission allow Mr. Ocax to do?”
Just asking herself the question—because it lifted some of the burden from her—gave Poppy a touch of encouragement. Well, then: What did refusing permission allow Mr. Ocax to do?
Poppy tried to remember exactly what occurred when her father finally came to his point and requested permission for the move.
Slowly but clearly it came back: When Lungwort asked the question, Mr. Ocax became flustered. He seemed unsure about something, something connected with New House. That is, he didn’t ask Lungwort about the move, he asked if he had been to New House. In fact, he actually asked the question twice. Or was it three times? The point was, the moment Lungwort said he had not been to New House, that was when Mr. Ocax said no.
But it was not, Poppy recalled, “No, you can’t move.” Rather, it was “No, you cannot move to New House.”
Well, then, what did refusing permission allow Mr. Ocax to do? It allowed him to keep the mice away from New House!
Poppy sat up. Was it possible that there was something there—at New House—that Mr. Ocax wanted to keep hidden from them? Was that the real reason for his refusal?
The idea so excited Poppy that she felt like rushing downstairs to tell Lungwort. She started to get up—only to stop.
If she had hit upon the real reason for Mr. Ocax’s refusal, there was but one way she could prove it. She would have to go to New House and see what was there. And she could hardly ask Mr. Ocax permission to do that!
“I don’t care,” Poppy said aloud, making a fist of a paw. “I’ll do it. I will.”
With a sigh of exhaustion, Poppy finally fell asleep. But it was not a restful sleep. She kept dreaming she was lost. Worse, no matter where she turned for help, she saw only eyes—Mr. Ocax’s eyes. They were always just above and behind her.
CHAPTER 8
Poppy and Papa
FROM THE MOMENT LUNGWORT pulled the curtain across the entrance to his boot study, he did not show himself. When inquiries were made, the curtain was opened by Sweet Cicely, but merely a fraction. Looking out just long enough to say, “He’s not well,” she would draw the curtain closed.
Now Poppy stood before the study, working up the courage to speak to him. She kept asking herself—as she’d already done a hundred times—if she really wanted to go to New House. The answer, plain and simple, was no. Just the thought frightened her. But still, she was convinced it was the only way to prove that she and Ragweed were not really the cause of Mr. Ocax’s refusal. Nonetheless, she feared that when she told her father about her intentions, he would be displeased.
With a sigh she braced herself and called, “Papa!”
Her mother peeked out from behind the curtain. “He’s not—oh, Poppy, it’s you.”
“Mama,” Poppy said, “can I speak to Papa, please?”
“Well, if anyone . . . Just make it brief.”
Poppy slipped into the boot. “Is he still ill?” she whispered.
Sweet Cicely nodded. “I’ve never seen him looking so poorly. He lies there whimpering, though every once in a while he’ll shake his head and sob, ‘What are we going to do?’ or ‘It’s all over with us now.’”
Poppy’s heart sank.
“Poppy,” Sweet Cicely continued, “I do hope you’re going to tell him something that will cheer him up.”
“I’m not sure I will,” Poppy confessed.
Her mother sniffed. “Well, then, you’d best know what else he keeps saying.”
“Oh?”
“He says, ‘If only Ragweed and Poppy had asked permission!’”
Poppy’s heart sank even further.
“And I must agree with him,” Sweet Cicely went on. “Well, if you insist on seeing him, come along.”
Lungwort had curled himself into the absolute toe of the boot, the gloomiest part. His tail was wrapped around his feet, his whiskers were limp, and his front paws were in constant motion as if squeezing a sponge. Poppy thought his fur had grown grayer, too.
Sweet Cicely leaned over him. “Lungwort, dearest. It’s Poppy come to visit.”
Lungwort shook his head, and mumbled as if holding an argument with himself.
Poppy came forward. “Papa . . . ,” she said.
Lungwort looked up and stared fixedly at his daughter. “Doomed,” he said mournfully.
“Who is?”
“The whole family.”
“But . . .”
“If rules aren’t followed,” he began, but stopped to shake his head. “No, it’s my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I had raised you properly, you would never have gone to Bannock Hill without asking permission and none of this would have happened. I accept full responsibility.” His tail swished in dismay and he started squeezing his paws again.
Poppy appealed to Sweet Cicely with a look, but her mother was gazing piteously at Lungwort.
“Papa,” Poppy said, “I have an idea that there may be another reason why Mr. Ocax refused us.”
Lungwort sniffed. “You’re too young to have ideas.”
Poppy didn’t protest but pressed on. “I think Mr. Ocax refused permission because of something about New House, something he doesn’t want us to know.”
Lungwort considered his daughter for a moment. Suddenly his whiskers stiffened and he bared his front teeth. “That Ragweed,” he snarled with anger, “he twisted your mind. He’s the cause of all this!”
Poppy stepped back as though struck. But she managed to say, “I’m going to try to find out.”
“How?”
“I’ll go to New House.”
Lungwort turned limp again. “Why tell me?” he said with a shrug. “You don’t care what I think. You’ll go anyway.”
Poppy wanted to say something kindly, but the words would not come. Instead, after a painful silence, she turned to go.
Suddenly Lungwort cried, “Poppy!”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Look out for porcupines!”
Poppy lay upon the floor of her Log Cabin Syrup room and studied a map of the area. As far as she could see, there were three ways to reach New House. The easiest would be to go along the Tar Road. But if she took that route, she’d be traveling in the open. That was reason enough to rule the Tar Road out. The longest way would be to go around the Marsh, but that meant going over Bannock Hill, and it held too many painful memories—and fears—connected to Ragweed’s death. No, Poppy was not ready to go there again. Not yet.
Her third choice was Dimwood Forest. Few mice who had ventured in had returned to tell of their experiences. Even so, the dark woods seemed to offer real advantages. She could travel midday even in bright sun. Mr. Ocax and most other creatures would be asleep then. And if and when the need arose, the same light would enable her to find a hiding place. If the forest had anything, Poppy assumed, it would have plenty of places to hide. She would go that way.
Poppy told only Basil about her plans. If she succeeded in discovering the real reason f
or Mr. Ocax’s refusal, there would be time enough to let everybody know. On the other hand, if she discovered nothing, who would know—or care—if she disappeared?
She asked Basil to meet her at the back steps of Gray House when the sun was at its highest the next day. That morning she mingled with the family so none would suspect what she was up to. But with so many convinced that she was the cause of the crisis, the hostility made it too painful to wait. Some time before her appointment with Basil, she was pacing by the back steps, ready to go.
“I’m leaving right away,” Poppy announced as soon as her cousin appeared.
“You forgot something,” he said.
“What?”
“This.” Basil held out Ragweed’s earring. “For courage,” he said.
Poppy held still while her cousin gently affixed the earring. When she shook her head, it tickled her ear. “I need a nuzzle,” she said, caught in a swell of emotion.
As they nuzzled, Basil whispered, “I could go with you.”
Poppy broke away. “It has to be just me,” she said, and leaped off the back steps.
“Why?”
“If I’m the one who caused this mess,” she called, “it has to be me who sorts it out.”
“Good luck!” Basil cried after her.
Poppy, not wanting to look back because she thought it might make her lose heart, dashed away.
CHAPTER 9
On Her Way
ONCE PAST THE RUSTY water pump, Poppy had to cross Old Orchard. Mr. Ocax’s permission was not required here. Even better, the grass was high among the old twisted apple trees, providing good camouflage. Here and there delicate pink lady’s slippers bloomed. Berry bushes were heavy with fruit. Bluebirds, jays, and warblers flitted by. Grasshoppers leaped about joyfully.
“Oh my, oh my,” Poppy murmured as she rested halfway across. “It’s too nice a day to be worried and sad.” She was sitting beneath the shade of a snowberry bush, nibbling on a succulent dandelion stem. Above, only a few high-flying clouds floated in the blue sky.
The graceful drift of clouds reminded Poppy of her secret desire, something she had never told anyone, not even Ragweed. She suspected he would have teased her.
