Crisis in Crittertown

by Justine Fontes

  Have you heard that sound hunting cats make? If you aren’t a mouse, it might sound like laughter. To me, it sounded like Death.

  The students laughed. So did Miss Davis. “Dot must see a bird.”

  Dot chattered again, and my paws lost their grip. I grabbed at air and then tumbled down. OUCHing and OOFing, I bounced from twig to twig before landing on the leaf-littered ground.

  Grayson called down, “Are you all right?”

  I brushed off broken leaves and twigs. “I’m fine.”

  Grayson and Nilla quickly joined me.

  He said, “So much for the library.”

  She nodded. “I’ll have nightmares about that cat for years!”

  I asked, “Where should we go next?”

  Three mice suddenly appeared beside us. I nearly jumped out of my fur! How could they move so silently over dry leaves?

  Two waited behind the first, who announced, “I am General History of the library colony. Our leader wants to know why you are here.”

  Grayson answered, “I’m Grayson. These are my friends Cheddar and Nilla. We’re…exploring the neighborhood.”

  I would’ve blurted out that we were looking for a new home. But why tell strangers your troubles? They might use such news against you.

  Nilla squeaked, “We meant no harm. The cat just surprised us.”

  General History briefly smiled. “Dot certainly can leap!” Then he added, “Nonfiction suggests waiting until closing time.”

  When the soldiers were out of earshot, I asked, “When’s closing time?” Then my stomach growled.

  Grayson chuckled. “Too long for your belly and mine to wait.”

  Woods surrounded the parking lot. Nilla and I followed Grayson into the underbrush. Each step released the sweet smell of rotting leaves and pine needles. Wind rustled in rhythmic gusts, freeing leaves to twirl down around us. This was different music from the songs on the post office radio.

  Grayson must’ve heard it, too, because he said, “Sometimes I wish I were a wild mouse, foraging under the stars for seeds and berries…”

  Nilla interrupted, “Freezing; starving; getting eaten by owls, coyotes, hawks, and who knows what else?”

  Grayson chuckled. “Still, you have to admit the woods are great.”

  Nilla squeaked. “They certainly are. Look!” She lifted some leaves to reveal a pile of acorns.

  In the tree above us, a red squirrel chattered. “Get your paws off my pantry!”

  Nilla said, “We’ll only take enough for lunch.”

  Between sneezes, the squirrel chattered too fast for my ears. He took turns between talking to himself and scolding us. “Don’t make me come down there! Some day of rest! Strangers invading the woods and stealing my savings, and I’m too sick to forage for more. What’s this neighborhood coming to? Thieves spoiling it for honest critters!”

  Grayson tried to apologize, but the squirrel kept ranting. “Mice, bah! Never do an honest day’s work.”

  The squirrel’s remark started an argument between my mind and my stomach. Were mice really thieves? No! We found food and ate it. And that was a good thing! The squirrel hadn’t grown those acorns. The oak tree had plenty more. And there were lots more oak trees.

  Grayson whispered, “Grab what you can carry and follow me!”

  We ran until the squirrel’s complaints and sneezes faded into the wind. Finally, Grayson stopped under a pine tree and panted, “Let’s picnic!”

  After we’d sifted the shells for crumbs, we returned to the library. Nilla spotted a drainpipe near the front window. We climbed it and saw the third graders in the front room learning how to use the computer.

  Nilla asked, “What does ‘Tanya’ mean?”

  “Human names don’t mean anything,” Grayson explained. “They’re just sounds.”

  Nilla said, “How do you know? Maybe they’re words you just don’t know yet.”

  We watched the class a little longer. Then Nilla suggested, “Maybe ‘Tanya’ means ‘tall and loud.’”

  Grayson looked thoughtful. “Maybe ‘Hannah’ means ‘girl with yellow head fur.’”

  I shook my head. “Hannah’s friend, Tanya, also has blonde hair.”

  The only child whose name meant anything I recognized was April. And I had no idea why a girl and a month would share a name.

  Two of the children looked very much alike. We later learned that Jill and Bill were twins, which means they were born in the same litter.

  I knew Andy from the Crittertown Market. His parents own it, and the family lives above the store. Andy was the chubbiest kid in the class. Of course, I’d be chubby, too, if I lived in a place full of cheese!

  Andy wanted books about animals.

  Miss Davis asked if he wanted fiction or nonfiction.

  Grayson, Nilla, and I exchanged a glance. Wasn’t that the name of the library colony’s leader? We learned with Andy that “nonfiction” means “facts, not make-believe stories.”

  Andy’s friend, Wyatt, also wanted nonfiction books about animals.

  Instead of looking at books, the small, dark-furred boy named Javier sat in a corner drawing. Miss Davis showed him a shelf full of comic books, which were stories told mostly with pictures.

  Nilla pointed at Jane and Ian. “What happened to their fur?”

  Grayson chuckled. “Nothing. They’re just redheads.”

  I explained, “Some humans have fire-colored hair.”

  Nilla stared. “They are all so strange!”

  “You get used to them,” I said.

  Nilla looked skeptical. “Why would you want to get used to humans?”

  I felt too ashamed to answer. Was it wrong to like humans? Was I a traitor to mousekind?

  When the kids boarded their bus, I wanted to go with them! I wanted to see what Javier had been drawing. I wondered which books shy April had chosen, why Jane wanted to learn about ecology, and so much more. But we had a chance to explore the library, and that meant staying until closing time.

  Chapter 5 The Cat’s Game

  The afternoon passed quickly. Grayson and I recognized some library patrons from the post office.

  I wondered if the library clan would let us spend the night, or if Grayson would get to stay under the stars—with the predators?

  Finally, only one car remained in the lot. Miss Davis opened a can of food for the cat. Then she turned off the lights and shut the door.

  We knew this must be closing time. General History’s voice called out of the darkness, “This way.” We followed him to a tunnel that opened into the basement. Red buttons on the water heater and furnace provided the only light. In their dim glow, we saw a neat row of mice.

  The first had dark brown fur like General History’s. But she seemed so sweet and gentle, and I liked her instantly. “I am Poetry. You met my brother, General History.”

  Poetry introduced us to a smart-looking mouse named Biographies; a chubby mouse known as Cookbooks; a sly, dark mouse named Mysteries; and a giggly white mouse named Humor.

  Many stood behind them, staring with friendly curiosity. Several called out names such as Computer Studies, Natural Sciences, and Local History. They seemed glad to meet us.

  At the end of the line, Poetry presented her grandfather, Nonfiction. His muzzle was as white as Brownback’s. He said, “Welcome! I hope you’ll join us for food and bring us news from beyond these walls.”

  At the word “news,” I glanced at Grayson. He’d also noticed how much Nonfiction resembled Brownback. This gave me hope. Could our colonies merge peacefully? If Dot were content with her canned food, maybe living in the library wouldn’t be too bad. I’d miss the cheese crackers, Mike, and the radio, but still…

  Cookbooks led us to a table made from several volumes of an encyclopedia. Nilla asked, “What’s an encyclopedia?” And then, “What’s alphabetical order?”

  Nonfiction patiently answered her questions. An encyclopedia was a set of books full of facts arranged in alphabetical order.
I knew about alphabetical order from the phone books and files at the post office. Things were easier to find if you put the As together, then the Bs, Cs, and so on. I always felt kind of sorry for the Zs. Who wants to be last all the time?

  While Nilla struggled to learn to pronounce “alphabetical,” Cookbooks heaped the encyclopedia with acorns that smelled wonderful. She explained, “We remove the shells, sprinkle them with salty crumbs from the bottom of Miss Davis’s potato chip bag, then toast them over a light bulb.”

  Grayson took a bite. “That’s delicious!”

  Cookbooks beamed. “I might be the first mouse to invent a recipe.”

  Nonfiction put down his acorn and asked, “May I assume your visit relates to learning human language?”

  Grayson said, “We call it The Change.”

  Nonfiction nodded. “It certainly was a big change! We’ve spent the past six months learning about it.”

  “Six months?” I blurted out.

  Grayson explained, “We’ve only understood people for a few weeks.”

  General History leaped up. “I told you! Our colony was first!”

  Nonfiction waved his paw, and General History sat down again. “Probably not first in the world. But sooner than many others.” He added, “It fits with my theory.”

  “What’s that?” Nilla asked. “Why now? How is it possible? What does it mean?”

  “Excellent questions, my dear,” Nonfiction said. Then he explained, “I believe The Change has something to do with human communication devices, like telephones, computers, and televisions. What does your leader think?”

  Grayson said, “Brownback wants to gather more facts first.”

  Nonfiction smiled. “He’s a mouse after my own heart.”

  Nilla whispered, “Huh?”

  I shrugged. “Why would Brownback be ‘after’ Nonfiction’s heart?”

  Poetry said, “That expression means Grandpa thinks he and Brownback are alike.”

  She looked even prettier up close. I wanted to say something. But Grayson spoke up first. “What’s poetry?”

  Her laughter was musical. “I guess you wouldn’t see poems at the post office. Poetry is a special kind of writing. Sometimes it rhymes. Often, poetry has language that paints pictures in your mind and makes you feel strong emotions.”

  “Like the words to a song?” I asked.

  Poetry smiled. “Song lyrics are poems set to music.”

  I blurted out, “I like the music on Mike’s radio! Mike’s the postmaster.”

  A scruffy mouse declared, “Music’s the best thing people do!”

  General History scoffed. “You would think so. But it’s just fancy noise.”

  “All subjects are important,” Nonfiction declared. Then he turned to Grayson. “Our guests must be interested in certain subjects.”

  Grayson nodded. “We want to learn about Crittertown.”

  Local History looked even older than Nonfiction. He began in a slow, dry voice, “Crittertown…was…founded in…the year…1791…by…”

  Grayson interrupted. “Um…I was thinking more about the places in town.”

  Nilla and I knew he was trying hard not to say “places that could support a soon-to-be-homeless colony.” I struggled to recall a name from the greeting line of mice. It was a subject I thought might help us. “Not Local History, more…”

  General History prompted, “Geography?”

  Nilla sighed. “Gee-what-a-free?”

  White-muzzled Dictionaries defined geography, but that only confused Nilla more. “Continents? Countries?”

  General History jumped up. “It’s maps and mountains, rivers, roads, food sources, borders, and clans.”

  Nonfiction leveled his gaze on Grayson. “Tell us what you’re looking for, so we can narrow your search.”

  Nilla whispered, “You might as well. Soon the whole town will know.”

  Grayson nodded. “The post office plans to close the Crittertown office. Our colony must find a new home.”

  The library mice gasped, then started chattering. Amid that babble of squeaks, I caught a few phrases. “Not good for the town…,” “…post office is the hub…,” and “They better not want to live here!”

  Mystery wondered, “What’s the motive for such a cruel crime?”

  Humor laughed. “You see plots behind everything.”

  Economics asserted, “It’s about money. Everything human comes down to money.”

  Cookbooks suddenly shouted, “I smell a ca…” Before she finished that dreaded word, Dot leaped onto the encyclopedia! Her tail lashed. Her eyes glowed. Her sharp fangs shone like daggers. Every mouse scattered, tripping over rolling acorns.

  General History commanded, “Follow me!”

  In the semi-darkness, the brown mouse seemed to run right into a book pile. At the last second, I saw the narrow gap between stacks. We slipped in after General History. Behind us, Dot chattered and chased the stragglers.

  My heart pounded. General History seemed oddly calm. “Dot likes exercise after dinner. She’ll nap again soon.”

  Dot leaped onto Cookbook’s tail. The chubby mouse turned to bite the cat’s paw. Dot lifted it, leaving Cookbooks free to run—and be pounced at again! Dot’s paws landed on either side of the terrified chef. General History darted out to distract Dot, while Cookbooks escaped.

  Dictionaries emerged from the shadows. “Dot rarely kills or even draws blood. Did you know the meow word for ‘mouse’ means ‘delicious toy’?” I shuddered. He added, “In the ancient human language called Sanskrit, the word for ‘mouse’ means ‘to steal.’”

  I only half-listened as Dictionaries tried to explain ancient languages to Nilla. I even almost forgot Dot. Here was a clue to the mystery. Humans hate mice because to them, we aren’t brave foragers feeding hungry families; we are thieves! If this were true, I wondered what, if anything, could be done about it.

  As General History predicted, Dot soon went back upstairs. Nonfiction emerged from an old envelope box. Four soldiers followed him, carrying a large piece of folded paper. Nonfiction told Grayson, “This is a map of Crittertown. Shall we study it together?”

  With great ceremony, the four soldiers stepped backward to unfold the map. Soon all of Crittertown spread out before us. Mike sometimes showed this map to people who asked for directions. It listed the roads in Crittertown, and had squiggles for rivers and blobs for lakes.

  Nilla gasped. “I had no idea the town was so big!”

  “Fifty-eight streets on Route 1; thirty-seven on Route 2,” I muttered.

  Nonfiction said, “I didn’t know that. Thank you, Cheddar.”

  Grayson began, “In all this area there must be some place for our colony.”

  Poetry’s sweet voice suggested, “Couldn’t we make room here?”

  After Dot’s evening friskies, my desire to live in the library had departed faster than Express Mail.

  Nonfiction sighed. “If we increased our numbers, Miss Davis might bring in a younger cat, set traps, or even call an exterminator.” He whispered to a soldier, who scurried off. Then he said, “Have you been to the Crittertown Bed and Breakfast?”

  Nilla replied, “I know what a bed is and I love breakfast, but…”

  Dictionaries recited, “A B&B is a private home where travelers stay, like at a hotel. Breakfast is included in the cost of lodging.”

  The absent soldier returned with some slick paper balanced on his head.

  Nonfiction announced, “Here’s the B&B’s brochure.”

  Grayson and Nilla bent over the booklet. Grayson said, “What a big house! Ten bedrooms, four bathrooms, dining room, breakfast ‘nook,’ whatever that is…”

  Nilla read, “This quaint farmhouse was built in 1937. That’s old, right? There should be plenty of holes!”

  Cookbooks said, “Our scouts report delicious smells. And Mrs. Hill, the lady who owns the place with her husband, is always checking out cookbooks. The food must be superb!”

  Grayson as
ked, “Your scouts haven’t entered?”

  Nonfiction replied, “We have rules about avoiding human contact. The less they see us, the less chance of extermination.”

  Grayson turned a page. “Look! Vegetable and herb gardens, and a grape arbor! I love grapes!”

  Acorns stirred in my stomach. This reminded me of the Crittertown Market, because it seemed too good to be true. “Have your scouts smelled or seen a colony?”

  Nonfiction turned to General History. “I don’t recall reports of a colony, do you?”

  General History replied, “A large dog lives outside and barks a lot.”

  “No cat?” Nilla asked.

  The general shook his head. “Just the noisy dog.”

  Nilla smiled. “Let’s go now! There’s hardly any traffic, plenty of darkness to hide in, and…” her voice dropped to a whisper. “…I’d rather not stay here with that cat pouncing around.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more!

  Grayson told Nonfiction, “We’ll return when we have news. Meanwhile, thank you for your kindness and help.”

  General History said, “We can escort you across Main Street.” Then he told two of his soldiers to “confirm that Dot is napping.”

  When these scouts returned, one reported, “We approached within three tail-lengths, and Dot didn’t wiggle as much as a whisker.”

  I took one last look at Poetry before following my friends. General History led us through a crack in the foundation. We soon inhaled the chill of the quiet night.

  General History pointed across and a little further up Main Street. “That’s the B&B.”

  By moonlight and street lamp, the pavement looked shiny and black. Our paws rushed over its cool surface.

  This crossing hardly felt scary. Maybe I was getting used to it—or my mind was deliciously distracted by thoughts of the cheese we might find in the B&B’s gourmet kitchen.

  “Come on!” Grayson urged. “This could be it. We could be heroes—the mice who saved our colony!”

  Nilla whispered. “Shh!”

  I was too breathless to squeak. So I just tugged Grayson’s tail.