by Avi
“Poppy, I must ask you something . . .” Clover suddenly said. In an instant the nest became quiet again.
“Yes, please,” Poppy said.
“I hope you loved my son very much,” Clover said.
Poppy did not answer right away. Instead, she looked down at her toes, then up and around, seeking the face of the one with whom she had danced. He was gazing at her with a look of profound pain.
“Did you love him?” Clover pressed. The question seemed urgent.
“Yes,” Poppy said, “I did. Very much.”
“Oh, my dear . . .” Clover cried. Thrusting the baby she’d been holding into Valerian’s paws, she rushed over to Poppy and gave her an engulfing hug. Poppy hugged her back. As she did, she saw, from the corner of an eye, the mouse she had danced with, his face awash with grief, rush past and fling himself up the tunnel.
CHAPTER 10
Ereth Has Some Thoughts
HUNCHED ON HIS PERCH in the cottonwood tree, Ereth stared gloomily at the falling rain. Lightning crackled overhead. Thunder rumbled. The world had become gray and sodden.
“I hate water,” Ereth proclaimed to nobody in particular. “In fact,” he muttered, “I hate everything.”
Again and again he wished he were back home in his smelly log in Dimwood Forest. It was dry there. It was quiet. He was alone. Nothing—no one—bothered him.
“Whatever made me come here?” he kept asking himself. “Poppy did. She forced me to come. . . . Mouse frickets . . .” he muttered. “Double mouse frickets. Quadruple mouse frickets!”
From directly over his head, a pool of water that had collected in the fold of a leaf fell on his face.
“That’s enough!” Ereth shouted with a furious shake of his head. “I’m going home!” Snarling and hissing, he scrambled down the tree. Once on soggy ground, he paused. The storm appeared to be growing worse. The rain was falling harder and faster. If he went he would get soaked. Then a wind shook the tree, causing a cascade of water to plop on his head. He moaned. If he stayed he would get soaked. Where was that foolish mouse? Why did he ever bother with her?
“If I go it will teach her a lesson. If I teach her a lesson she’ll get upset with me,” he told himself. “If she gets upset she’ll scold me. Then I’ll feel bad. Why should I care? She’s just a friend. No,” he corrected himself. “I have no friends. I don’t want any friends. Poppy’s just an acquaintance. A passerby.
“Poppy!” he bellowed. “Where are you? Why don’t you come back? I need . . .” He bit off the rest of his sentence. “Spider spit,” he swore out loud. “Sticky, slimy, sloppy, spider spit!”
Furious, he jumped out from under the tree, only to sink knee-deep in mud. Complaining bitterly, he shook his paws free. “Maybe Poppy’s coming now,” he thought. “I’ll meet her halfway. Make her hurry. Tell her to stop all this drivel about Ragweed. Ragweed. . . .” He growled. “I hate Ragweed.”
He tore down the path he had seen Poppy take. As he went the rain came down harder. Water poured over his face. He felt like a decaying mushroom. “Stupid storm!” he shouted.
He peered down the path. There appeared to be nothing before him but water, mist, mud, and more mud. The porcupine shivered violently, making his quills rattle like a bag of old bones.
“Better go back to that tree and wait for her there,” he decided. “It was a little drier there.”
He started off the way he had come, only to stop abruptly.
“This isn’t right,” he growled with rage. Spinning around, he lumbered in another direction, trying to catch the scent of his own tracks. It had vanished. The rain had washed it away.
Lost, increasingly frustrated, Ereth galloped first this way, then that in search of the cottonwood tree. “Duck dapple!” he shouted up at the clouds. “Dry up!” But the rain continued to fall.
Utterly wretched, Ereth peered through the gloom until he saw a stand of trees that he thought would protect him.
He ran forward.
Reaching the trees was easy enough. But which tree should he climb? Confounded by his own anger, he rushed from one to another. The first was too small. The second was too thin.
Seven trees later he found one to his liking. The bark was rough. The foliage was thick. Frantic, Ereth clawed past the first layer of branches, the second, and the third. “This’ll do,” he muttered, moving toward a particularly large branch.
He reached it and squatted down, trying to make as tight a ball of himself as possible. Even so, the rain pelted him.
“Stupid mouse . . .” he mumbled. “No, she’s not stupid. She’s mean. What kind of friend would leave me in all this muck? She’s abandoned me. Left me. When I’m her real friend. Her only friend. But no, all she thinks about is Ragweed. Who’s dead! As for me, she keeps telling me I’m old. Old!” he shouted. “I’m not old! Don’t I take care of her, help her, love . . .”
He stopped. “Love . . .” he muttered. “I don’t love Poppy. I hate Poppy!” he shouted. “I hate love!”
Bursting with rage, the porcupine scrambled down from his tree and began to gallop as fast as he could. Where he was running he had no idea, no more than he knew if the water dripping from his cheeks was rain or . . . something else.
CHAPTER 11
Mr. Canad Makes Some Plans
IT WAS STILL RAINING. In the middle of the pond, Mr. Canad used his webbed feet to propel himself swiftly across the water with strong, steady strokes. There was something mighty fine about swimming, enough to make one fit as a fiddle.
Now and again he lifted his head and let the pattering rain soak him even more. “Bless my teeth and smooth my tail,” he murmured. “I do love water!” Then he thought hard as to how best to express his feelings in words that had a real impact. Though it took some hard thinking, he worked it out. “The whole thing is,” he decided, “it never rains but it should do it a lot.”
When Mr. Canad said the phrase out loud, biting off the last T with his large orange teeth, he enjoyed it so much he repeated it to himself: “It never rains but it should do it a lot—a lot.
“I must use that,” he told himself. “Perhaps during the next company meeting. They would appreciate it. They would.”
With his strong paws Mr. Canad pulled himself onto the bank, gave himself a shake—sending water in all directions—then turned to survey what had been achieved by the beavers’ work.
In the little valley through which the Brook had flowed there had been, in Mr. Canad’s mind, a dull, dreary landscape, with little to behold but a piddling stream without power or grandeur. It had no depth. Its banks were wasteful in their simple, sloping nature. Why, the water itself had no texture or color. One could see through it!
Limpid lily pads and useless bulrushes had marred its lazy surface. The animals who had wasted their time on the banks—mice, voles, otters, and toads—were insignificant. As far as Mr. Canad was concerned, it had been a place where nothing important ever had or would happen. An utter waste.
But now, how different the beavers had made it! Every day the pond was growing wider, deeper, grander. It had taken on the vibrant color of mud. It was a home for hearty, busy beavers who worked day and night.
“This,” Mr. Canad said to himself with genuine pride, “is progress.” The portly beaver felt so good about it, he spelled the word out letter by letter: “P-R-O-G-R-E-S-S!”
And yet, Mr. Canad had to confess, he was not fully satisfied. No, he was not. What he and his company had created was—he had to admit it—merely a pond.
Mind, he told himself, there was nothing wrong with a pond. A beaver who built a good pond had every reason to be pleased with himself. Yet even the word pond suggested smallness, a compactness of size which might be good enough for some, but not for the likes of Caster P. Canad and Co.! Not only could they do better, they should do better. As Mr. Canad saw things, it was not a pond that was needed but a lake!
The beaver cast his keen engineer’s eye over the little valley. To achieve a lak
e they needed to build another dam higher up.
As he surveyed the little valley, he noticed a boulder perched on a hill. A large boulder, it was embedded in an outcropping of earth and stone. Flowers and shrubs shaded it. As Mr. Canad perceived it, the boulder was doing nothing but sitting there. But it could be providing the perfect anchor for a new dam. An immense dam! With a dam at that spot, a large lake could be created. It would be his crowning achievement, a monument to himself. Indeed, what could be a better name than Lake Canad? Mr. Canad liked the sound of it so much he said it a few times.
Then he reminded himself, with some gleeful rubbing of back feet, that it was time to stop dreaming. Time to get down to the nitty gritty. To grasp the nettle. To get into the trenches. To show the flag. To hit the road running.
But even as he watched and planned he saw a mouse creep out from under the boulder and rush away.
Mr. Canad knew what that meant: Mice were living under the boulder. As far as he knew, these mice were the only ones left around the brook. Most of the other creatures had departed. How pleasing to know there had been no resistance. Surely these last mice would quickly see the hopelessness of resisting the future. But what if they did not?
He could swat them away. Mere nothings that they were, squashing the mice would be easy, though the thought made Mr. Canad uncomfortable. He was no bully. He just wanted progress. He wanted the world to appreciate him for the good he was doing. What he needed to do was find a way to convince the mice to leave—of their own accord. It would make him feel good. Nothing was more important than to make good their slogan, “Progress Without Pain.”
Mr. Canad dove back into the pond and made his way to the main lodge. When he came within five feet of it, he dove and swam underwater until he found the entrance.
Mr. Canad went to his plans—laid out on bark—and began to draw in detail. The boulder here. The large new dam there. The lake . . . everywhere.
Then he mused, “If I can make a lake, well, bless my teeth and smooth my tail, why not an ocean?”
The thought made Mr. Canad grin broadly. Then he said, “It never rains but it should do it a lot. On me.”
Then he gave himself over to finding a way to convince those last few mice that they should move away.
CHAPTER 12
In the Nest
IN CLOVER AND Valerian’s nest under the boulder there was nothing but despair. Poppy’s news of Ragweed’s death had devastated the family. The coming of the beavers, the damming of the Brook, the creation of the pond, their change of homes, all of that had been difficult to accept. But the family had shared the notion—spoken and unspoken—that Ragweed would return and somehow, some way, sort things out. Poppy’s tragic news made it perfectly clear that no such thing would happen.
Everything was now worse.
In one corner of the nest sat a disconsolate Clover, staring off into nothing that anyone else could see. From time to time she let forth a profoundly deep sigh and shifted her bulk—as if gathering her last breath in her chest. Though her black eyes were dry, they held such a weight of wretched pain, it alarmed her own children.
When a child brushed by—it always seemed like an accident but it happened often—Clover reached out and touched it gently. Sometimes she stroked it. But there was little life or spirit to her paw.
As for Valerian, though he was just as heartbroken as Clover, he spent his time and energy trying to comfort the children. “Your mother will be fine,” he kept telling them. “She’s just very sad. And it is sad.”
The children did notice that now and again Valerian wiped his cheeks with the back of his paw, or blew his nose so loudly it sounded like the honking of a goose heading south. “Summer colds are stupid,” he kept saying. No one pointed out that he had had no cold before Poppy’s news.
Those children who remembered Ragweed best sniffled, wept in corners, or exchanged reminiscences, trying, with little success, to keep their grief private or to keep a brave face.
Then they got it into their heads that it was their parents who needed to be consoled most. Not knowing what to say, they did what they thought was the next best thing: They did whatever they were asked to do and some things that they were not asked as well—did them so fast they almost tripped over themselves in their desire to please. So they were constantly cleaning up, sweeping the entry hall, minding the infants, preparing meals—anything they could think of that might soothe their parents. Someone was always sweeping, straightening up, or burping babies. . . . The result was a continual low hubbub that got on everybody’s nerves.
If two of the youngest mice got into a scuffle—they didn’t quite grasp what had happened—it was their elder brothers and sisters who stepped in and stifled the discord.
“Please,” they whispered. “Clover is very sad.” Or, “Valerian is crying.” This so alarmed the youngsters that they sniffled and whimpered and clung to their parents more than ever.
As for Poppy, she hardly knew what to do or say. No one asked her to do anything. No one asked her to leave. On the contrary, they had assured her that she should stay. She was stared at a lot, as one who had a particular connection to Ragweed and his awful death and thus seemed extraordinary. Still, no one inquired about her feelings, her life. She felt as useless as an extra tail.
She did find time to take Thistle aside, and ask, “Was I wrong, but didn’t I see another brother here? He had a notch in his right ear. He was standing way in the back, behind you all. He seems to have rushed away.”
“You must mean Rye,” Thistle replied.
“Rye,” Poppy repeated, grateful that at least she now had a name for the one with whom she had danced. “Where . . . where do you think he went?” she asked, sensing that she was blushing a little.
Thistle cocked her head to one side and considered Poppy. Then, in a matter-of-fact way, she said, “Rye’s always a little weird.”
“Weird? Why? How?”
“He gets sort of dreamy. You know, he goes off a lot by himself.”
“Why . . . why do you think he ran off—this time?” Poppy wanted to know, though she had a fairly good idea.
“He’s very emotional,” Thistle said. “He loved Ragweed, but he sort of didn’t, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“A younger brother,” Thistle whispered, as if that explained it all. Then she added, “See, Ragweed wasn’t big enough to admit Rye was better than he was at some things. He was always giving Rye a hard time. And Rye, he was, well, you know, envious that his brother was everybody’s favorite.”
“Do you think . . . Rye . . . will come back?”
Thistle shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
Poppy tried to make herself useful by tending to the children. She was not very good at it. Besides, they were inclined to stare at her as if she were odd. Being a deer mouse she was smaller than they, and her fur was a different color.
For her own part Poppy knew perfectly well she was stalling, doing little except waiting for Rye’s return. At the same time, the thought of his coming back made her nervous. She wasn’t exactly sure what she felt. What would she say to him?
Poppy’s thoughts were interrupted when Clover asked Valerian to bring her close.
“I need to ask you a little more about Ragweed,” she said to Poppy.
“I’ll tell you anything I know,” Poppy said.
Clover and Valerian asked Poppy many questions. How had she met Ragweed? Where was this Dimwood Forest she had come from? Who and what was her family? Did she and Ragweed, in fact, marry?
Poppy told them all that had happened. How she had grown up with her own family on a farm at the edge of Dimwood Forest. How she had met and fallen in love with Ragweed only to be right there when the owl—a Mr. Ocax—had killed him. She told them then how she had defeated this Mr. Ocax. Finally, she told them of her desire to bring them the news of their son.
As she told her tale, she kept looking out of the corner of her eye for Rye
. The last thing she wanted was for him to show up and hear what she was saying.
“We need you to know,” Valerian said, when Poppy was done, “that even though you didn’t marry Ragweed we’d like to think of you as our daughter.”
“We really do,” Clover agreed with a catch in her voice.
“This isn’t much of a home,” Valerian went on, “but it’s all we have. You’re welcome to stay, too.”
“Thank you,” Poppy returned. “I’m truly touched.” She reached up and took off Ragweed’s earring. “I brought this back for you,” she said. “It was his. I thought you should have it.”
She held out the earring. The purple bead seemed to glow. The little chain sparkled.
“Did he give it to you?” Clover asked.
“In a way,” Poppy said.
“Ah,” Clover said softly. “He wasn’t wearing one when he left home. It must have something to do with the life he had with you.”
“I have no idea where he got it,” Poppy told them. “He had it on when I met him.”
“Any notion what he did from the time he left here to the time he met you?” Valerian asked.
Poppy shook her head. “He never really said. But he did talk about his home fondly.”
Clover held the earring in the palm of her paw, as if it were something magical. With a sigh she offered it to Valerian, who contemplated it, too.
Then Valerian handed it back to Poppy. “I think you should keep it.”
Poppy looked to Clover. Clover nodded her agreement.
After a moment’s hesitation, Poppy took the earring and fixed it back on her ear. “I’ll stay a little while.”
But Poppy knew she was only staying so she could speak to Rye. What had happened with Ragweed, she told herself, was the past. It was done. Finished. Complete. She would remember the past. But she would not live it. Instead she would wait for Rye.
But Rye did not return. Though no one seemed to be concerned, Poppy began to wonder if he would ever come back. She began to suspect—and fear—he would not.