Poppy
Page 5
Once, when up in the Gray House attic, chewing through some old magazines, she had come upon pictures of the old ballroom dancing team of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Here the couple dipped. There they soared. Here they spun. Poppy was enraptured. From that moment on, her greatest desire was to be a ballroom dancer. Oh, to glide effortlessly across the floor in the arms of a handsome mouse!
Forgetting everything for a moment, Poppy plucked a pair of lady’s slippers and fitted them to her feet. How cool, how soft and delicate they were, as if someone were kissing her toes.
She jumped up, lifted her arms, flexed her paws—elegantly, she hoped—leaned her head back, fluttered her eyes, and twirled about just as in the pictures. Round and round she spun.
Suddenly—as if a voice actually whispered into her ear—Poppy recalled something Sweet Cicely had told her many times, that “the only live mouse is an alert mouse.”
Feeling alarmed—and embarrassed—Poppy promptly kicked off the lady’s slippers, scampered beneath the protection of some stinkweed, and scanned the skies. Yes, she must keep on guard even though Mr. Ocax was probably sound asleep.
Mr. Ocax was not asleep. He was flying over the Marsh in the direction of Bannock Hill. Though working daylight hours displeased him, he was convinced it was necessary. Ever since Lungwort had requested permission to move some of the mouse family to New House, Mr. Ocax had been uneasy. He kept wondering about the mice. Had they discovered what he had discovered? Did they know something he did not? He knew the reason they gave for moving to New House, but were they telling the truth?
Then there was Lungwort’s daughter Poppy, who had escaped him twice. The effrontery. How had she done it? the owl kept asking himself. Did she possess special skills? Why had Lungwort brought her to that meeting? Was it to mock him? Was she going to take over from the old fool?
And why did this business of New House and the matter of Poppy occur at the same time? Was it just a coincidence? Could there be a connection? A conspiracy! The more questions he asked, the more nervous the owl became.
Whatever the truth, Mr. Ocax decided that he had to remain on the alert. Sleep less. Patrol more. As his mother used to tell him, “An alert owl is a well-fed owl.” In particular, he must keep his eyes open for that mouse, the one named Poppy.
Scampering from bush to bush, Poppy soon reached the banks of Glitter Creek. There she stopped to gaze nervously at the far side and the towering trees of Dimwood Forest. Her first task, however, was to get over the water.
At the spot where she stood, Glitter Creek was as wide as the length of Gray House. Usually the water flowed with tranquillity. Not now. Though the bright water was moving far less rapidly than on the night of the storm, the flow still tumbled, twisted, and foamed around the many rocks that stuck up from the creek bed. Poppy realized that she’d never be able to swim across.
She could walk downstream and cross the Bridge. But the Bridge was situated exactly where Mr. Ocax had his watching tree, the last spot she desired to revisit.
No, as Poppy saw it, the only way for her to get across the creek was by jumping from rock to rock. She climbed a tree stump for a better view, and set about figuring a route. Though it took a while, she found a path that required fourteen jumps. The only problem would come on the ninth. On that rock a turtle was sleeping. Even so, she thought she’d have room enough to make a quick landing and leap away. The turtle might not even notice.
On the creek bank again, Poppy crouched, ready to take her first jump. Just as she was about to spring, she stopped. Once over the water, how could she return home?
Even as she hesitated, a breeze fluttered Ragweed’s earring. The tickle it brought reminded Poppy of the reasons for her mission. Resolved anew, she gave a leap and landed deftly on the first of the rocks, then the second, and the third. On she jumped, gaining confidence as she progressed. The eighth jump, however, required a pause. Her next leap would land her on the turtle’s rock, but because he had shifted position, there was no longer any room for her to land.
“Hey, Turtle!” Poppy shouted. “Would you please move?”
The turtle slept on.
In search of an alternate route, Poppy noted a small, low rock not far upstream. It was covered with moss. To reach it would require a difficult though not impossible jump. She saw no other choice.
Poppy took a deep breath and kicked. Her leap was high and far enough. She landed right on the small rock, but unfortunately its moss was wet and slimy. The moment she hit it, her feet shot out from under her. A quick skid plopped her into and under the water.
Spitting and coughing, Poppy clawed her way back to the surface. For an instant she floated downstream; then a wave picked her up and pinned her against another rock. “Help! Help!” she cried. The next moment, another wave whisked her away.
Mr. Ocax, gliding over Farmer Lamout’s fields, heard Poppy’s call for help. From the west, wasn’t it? He banked sharply and headed in the direction of Glitter Creek.
Paddling furiously, Poppy struggled to keep her nose above water. Despite her efforts, she was swept on. She spun downstream like a whirligig. Then, abruptly, she felt herself wedged between two rocks. Water washed over her. As she gasped for air, she sensed that if she stayed put it would be only a matter of time—a short time—before she drowned.
Wrenching one paw free, she groped for something to cling to. What she found was the slimy root of a water lily. She tried to hold on. The root slipped from her grasp.
She reached out again and managed to find the lily’s stem. Snorting to keep nose and mouth free of water, Poppy hauled in. Bit by bit she began to rise.
Something in the water of Glitter Creek caught Mr. Ocax’s eyes. To his surprise, he saw a mouse struggling with a water lily.
Poppy worked frantically to pull herself higher. She was now only belly-deep. With a few more pulls on the stem she would be safe.
Circling above, Mr. Ocax watched the mouse struggle to climb atop the rock. The moment it reached it, he was prepared to dive.
Poppy nearly had her footing on the rock when the lily stem snapped. Her balance lost, she tumbled back into the creek. The moment she struck the water, a wave pummeled her below the surface.
Just as Mr. Ocax dived, the mouse he was watching suddenly dropped into the water. When it failed to reappear, he assumed the creature had drowned. His patience frazzled, he pumped his wings, rose on a gust of air, and turned toward New House. A day had passed since he had been there. He needed to check it again.
Poppy, desperate for air, bobbed to the surface like a cork. Once again she was swept along. Her strength was ebbing. Desperately she sought something to hold on to. She found nothing. Down the creek she went.
Then the creek widened. The water grew less turbulent. Aware that this was probably the last chance she’d have to save herself, Poppy summoned her remaining strength and began to swim frantically. Slowly, painfully, she pulled free of the stream’s main force. She bumped against a stone, then ricocheted into a calm backwater. She stretched her toes down—and touched bottom!
Half-crawling, half-swimming, she clawed her way up the creek bank. When she reached the grass, she flung herself down, coughing violently.
For a long time Poppy lay on her back, eyes closed, capable of only gasping breaths. Then she rolled over and threw up the last of the swallowed water. At last she gave a shuddering groan of relief.
On the northern edge of Dimwood Forest, Mr. Ocax found a branch that allowed him to observe New House without being seen. From his perch he looked past a dirt road, an old barn, a cornfield, a salt lick, and a lawn. What he sought was something else, something he last saw on the new barn next to the house. When he saw it again, he gasped. It was still there. It must be living there. Whatever hopes he had, evaporated.
Poppy opened her eyes. Though her vision was bleary, she was able to gaze up at the sky through the petals of a daisy. She was quite certain it was the most beautiful flower she had ever seen.
The next second, Poppy’s pleasure vanished. She’d come ashore at the one spot in the whole world she least wanted to be, right next to Mr. Ocax’s charred oak.
CHAPTER 10
Dimwood Forest
POPPY SEARCHED DESPERATELY for a place to hide. Glitter Creek ran behind. Before her stood Dimwood Forest. There was little choice. She plunged among the shadowy tree trunks and began running wildly, her only desire to put as much distance between herself and Mr. Ocax’s tree as possible.
It did not take long before an exhausted Poppy had to stop. Her sides ached. She was hot and cold all at once. Her heart felt as though it would break out through her ribs. Gasping for breath, she crept beneath a leaf, then peered about to see where she had come.
It was as if the sun had been stolen. Only thin ribbons of light seeped down through the green and milky air, air syrupy with the scent of pine, huckleberry, and juniper. From the rolling, emerald-carpeted earth, fingers of lacy ferns curled up, above which the massive fir and pine trees stood, pillar-like, to support an invisible sky. Hovering over everything was a silence as deep as the trees were tall.
Poppy gazed at it in awe. She was not sure what she’d thought Dimwood Forest would be like. She knew only that she’d never imagined it so vast, so dense, so dark. The sight made her feel immensely isolated and small. Feeling small made her a part of all she saw. Being part of it made her feel immense. It was so terribly confusing.
The silence was broken by the sound of sharp tapping. Poppy ducked. But nothing happened. From another direction came a yelp. A screech. Poppy shivered. Closer still was the smothered scurry of something slithery and unseen. A tree groaned. A branch snapped. There was the passing scamper of little feet. Poppy’s heart raced just as fast.
She could only guess what animals were making such sounds. Automatically she thought of porcupines, recalling vividly the frightening picture her father had shown the family. Had not Mr. Ocax given a special warning about a particularly bloodthirsty porcupine he’d seen recently in the forest? He had. Poppy grew even more tense. She had to find a place to regain her composure.
Anxiously she gazed about for a safe place to rest. What she found was a massive boulder, its top half matted with dark moss, its lower part embedded in earth. Beneath it was a hollow.
Poppy bounded over to the rock. Close up, the hollow proved to be more like a cave, utterly dark at the deep end. What was there? She edged forward, sniffing the air. She froze. A distinct animal smell alarmed all her senses. Unable to identify what it might be, she listened intently, ears flicking this way and that. Seeing and hearing nothing, she crept slowly forward until she was completely inside the cave. Was anything there? Only when she was quite certain nothing was did she begin to clean herself.
Mr. Ocax, from a hiding place on the far side of Dimwood Forest, watched the barn at New House intently. His nervous talons clenched and unclenched the branch upon which he was perched. At first he tried to deny the fear he felt inside him. But it was growing too fast. It could not be denied. That he, Ocax, the great horned owl, should feel fear made him livid. It was for others to be fearful, not him. “It’s unfair,” he hissed. “Unnatural!”
Suddenly, hearing his own outburst, he looked about in alarm, anxious that some other creature might see and hear him. No matter what, his fearfulness must never be known! He spread his wings and glided silently away from New House.
In a temper he recalled the mouse he had seen in Glitter Creek. Perhaps the body had been tossed up on the bank. He was upset enough to eat anything, even if it was already dead.
When he reached the creek, he began to fly upstream, moving low over the water.
Poppy paused in her fur cleaning now and again to gaze out at the forest. It should not have been called Dimwood, she told herself, but Darkwood. She kept asking herself how she had ever thought she’d find her way through such a fearsome place. The likelihood of her survival was growing slimmer moment by moment. And though at the moment she felt relatively safe, she worried that she had not gotten far enough away from Mr. Ocax’s watching tree. But which way should she go? She had no idea where she was. She was lost and knew it.
She recalled the vow she’d made on Bannock Hill never to leave home again. She considered going back. She wanted to. But then she thought about what would happen if she did return with nothing to report to Lungwort about Mr. Ocax. Life would be miserable.
Poppy sighed. It was so hard to be courageous. So hard to be a coward. Going forward or back seemed equally awful. So much easier to do nothing. But if she did nothing, she would surely perish. What was she to do?
Trying to stay calm, she reminded herself that by pressing on, she at least had a chance to make a difference for her family. Now, if only she knew which direction would lead her to New House.
Mr. Ocax concluded that the mouse he had seen in the water was gone, washed away. At least, there was no evidence of its existence—dead or alive. In any case, he was still so upset by what he had seen at New House that he found it hard to concentrate on searching. His head ached. All he could think about was getting some sleep. He would go home.
He flew deep into Dimwood Forest, moving in a northerly direction.
Poppy peered nervously out from beneath the boulder. “If this is midday,” she said to herself, “I’d hate to be in the forest at night.”
She considered staying and sleeping for a while. But the distinct smell of the other animal made her too nervous. It certainly seemed not to be about. But what if it came back while she slept? Too risky. If she wanted to sleep—and she did—she’d have to find a better place.
Checking in all directions, paying particular attention to the angle of the slanting rays of sunlight, and knowing that moss grew on the north side of trees, Poppy made up her mind that she could make a rough determination as to which way east was, the direction from which she had come.
As she recalled the lay of the land, New House was to the north. She would go north, then, hoping for the best.
Mr. Ocax came to rest on the gray, lifeless tree—a snag—that was his nest. With its top broken off, the snag rose twice as high as a blackberry bush from the ground. A high hole served as an entrance to its hollowness.
For a while the owl sat at the edge of his nest and stared moodily before him, thinking only about what he had seen at New House. Just to think about it made him tense. He felt he was in grave danger. The question was, What kind of danger? Was he about to lose his food? Would he have to fight? If he did, he knew he might be defeated. If he was defeated, would he have to move to another territory? Was there anything he could do about the situation? It was all so painful to contemplate!
Fretful, the owl scanned his neighborhood, paying special attention to a very large hollow log on the ground not far from his snag. Its ancient thick bark was rust-colored and encrusted with yellow fungus that looked like stubby angel wings. A clutch of pale mushrooms grew from the rotting soil around it. Just the thought of the creature who had recently come to live in the log made Mr. Ocax angry. It was as if the whole world were ganging up on him.
Too tired to think about that now, Mr. Ocax dropped down into his nest. Feeling safe there, he did not take long to fall into a restless sleep.
Poppy made her way northward through the forest in short runs. She could only hope she’d chosen the right direction. Sometimes she paused to eat, but she felt too insecure to stop for long. Her toes ached with tension.
An hour later, Poppy stopped to nibble on some pine seeds. As she ate, she noticed a huge log partly embedded in the earth. Covered with yellow fungus, it seemed very old. And it appeared to be hollow.
Poppy considered it. If the log was unoccupied, it might be the perfect place for her to rest with saf
ety.
Then she noticed the remains of a large gray tree. Its top was gone and it had a hole in its side. It might be safer than the log. But after studying it, Poppy decided the hole was too high for her to climb to. The log would be better.
Wary, she crept forward. The closer she came to the log, the stronger grew a scent unfamiliar to her. She sensed trouble. She was still sniffing when she heard the sound of a twig snapping behind her. She spun about and gasped.
A red fox, long bushy tail swishing back and forth, was trotting in her direction, its sharp nose to the ground. Poppy understood immediately. The fox was following her scent.
Turning back, Poppy took a flying leap that landed her right at the log’s open end. The fox, hearing and then seeing her, barked sharply and closed in, its lips drawn back from its sharp teeth.
Poppy stood trembling before the log. Every instinct in her body warned her not to enter. When she looked back, however, the fox was almost upon her. There was no time to waste. She dived into the log.
The fox stuck its nose in after her, its barking booming about Poppy like a cannonade. Trying to get away, she moved deeper into the musky dark. Suddenly she stopped. At the far end of the log she heard the distinct sound of heavy breathing. It was exactly what she had feared: Another creature was already in the log.
Hastily she turned toward the log opening. She never reached it. The fox’s lolling red tongue and sharp white teeth barricaded the way.
Poppy stared back into the log’s darkness. The breathing and rattling were drawing nearer. She was trapped.
CHAPTER 11
Erethizon Dorsatum
IN THE OBSCURE MURK of the log’s interior, Poppy crouched tensely. Slouching slowly out of the dark came a flat-faced beast with a blunt black snout and fierce grizzled whiskers. Its eyes were heavily lidded as though it had just awakened. The creature moved ponderously, with a waddle and rattle. Its stench was powerful enough to make Poppy clamp a paw over her nose.