by Rina Heisel
Dedication
To Rob, Lily, and Izzy . . .
the greatest companions in any adventure
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
CROUCHED IN PERFECT STILLNESS beneath a toadstool, Tobin sniffed the air. Wet, with a faint metallic odor.
A storm was coming, a big one. Lightning for sure. Not a good day for a mouse to venture too far from the Great Burrow. Tobin lifted his nose to the breeze again, performing the junior weather scout procedures dutifully: Sniff the air. Search the air. Feel the air.
He didn’t even need all three steps today. The odor of rain was obvious, the clouds sat heaped in the sky like a row of giant bears, and as for feeling the air—his tan-and-black speckled fur was already clumped together from the humidity. For the third time that afternoon, Tobin rubbed his cheeks, fluffing out his fur and whiskers. After all, whiskers used properly are a fine-tuned sensory tool. Drooping whiskers can’t do their job.
Speaking of which . . . Tobin sighed. He had a job to do, and he was only halfway done. Junior weather scouts needed to deliver their reports, too.
From beneath the cover of the toadstool cap, Tobin looked toward home. The Great Burrow hunched against the earth like a giant tortoise shell: a perfectly sculpted mud clump conveniently located beside an unruly patch of blue thistle. Hidden to the untrained eye, a dozen entrances dotted the Great Burrow, carefully concealed by knots of moss and dangling roots. It was important to always use different entrances, exits, and paths while going in and out of the Great Burrow. So important, in fact, it was an official Rule of Rodentia—the survival code for all mice of the burrow.
Rule #7: A predictable path provides easy pickings for a predator.
Tobin chose an entrance he hadn’t used in a while, left side—just behind a patch of crabgrass. Next, he ticked through the age-old mental checklist taught to all youngling mice:
Scan the sky. Done. No birds of prey.
Scan for ground predators. No trembling grass.
Scan the breeze. The scents are safe: clover, thistle, and honeysuckle.
The muscles in his hind legs twitched.
Go!
Tobin ran, darting a zig, then zag—enough to throw off a pouncing predator. With a final leap between blades of crabgrass, he was inside the safe confines of the Great Burrow. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark inner tunnels. Only then did he tread toward his family’s quarters. Memories of his morning crept into his thoughts, and his paws slowed.
Nothing but chaos waited at home. Why did his dad have to tell all the neighbors the pinkling was coming today? Now their den was packed with Eldermice waiting for baby news. But at least his weather scout status gave Tobin an excuse for fresh air, as he offered to make as many trips as the Eldermice wanted.
Because nothing—repeat, nothing—excites Eldermice like new babies and a weather report.
In fact, word about his mother going into labor spread quicker than a brushfire. That very morning, Eldermice from all corners of the burrow had begun showing up with gifts of bedding for the newborn and extra seeds and berries for Mom. And his parents, being so gracious, said they could all wait for news right there, in his family’s Gathering Room.
As Tobin rounded the last bend in the tunnel before reaching home, he could hear the chatter of guests already bouncing off the mud-and-pebble-coated walls. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself to be the center of a lot of attention. He wasn’t wrong. “Tobin, you’re back! Is the rain coming?”
“Any lightning yet?”
“Think you’re getting a baby brother or sister?”
Tobin raised a paw, thankfully the dozen or so eager Eldermice grew silent (though it seemed a challenge).
“The air,” Tobin began, “is getting thicker by the minute, and it’s loaded with ozone, so there’ll be plenty of lightning. And the clouds are growing tall, but no rain yet.”
Someone called from the back of the room, “The clouds—what shape?”
Tobin fought a smile; he had a good answer for this. “The shape? Like a row of giant hunched-over bears.”
Some Eldermice gasped, others looked around with concern. Lots of head shaking. Tobin couldn’t help the little chuckle that shook his shoulders. Eldermice and their drama. It’s a summer storm, not a blizzard. Now, a blizzard, that’s something to worry about: food buried under snow, exit tunnels sheeting over with ice . . .
“What about the birds, Tobin?”
Tobin cleared his throat and continued. “The birds are already sheltering.” He paused. Had he covered everything? Ah, one more thing. “And I have no idea if my mom is having a boy or girl.”
Heads nodded and the elders seemed satisfied. Tobin rose onto his hind legs and surveyed the crowd. A narrow gap opened between furry bodies and Tobin caught a glimpse of the hallway to his room. Maybe, just maybe, he could escape for a few minutes.
Just then, someone tugged his tail. Tobin turned to see Aunt Grebba’s toothy smile. Speckles of yellow pollen dust clung to her whiskers, and when she spoke, the scent of dandelion pounced off her breath.
“There’s the big brother!” She clapped her front paws together and then began tickling the chin of an imaginary newborn. “A teeny-tiny little pinkling, all wrinkly, with those itsy-bitsy, curly whiskers. Are you excited Tobin?”
Tobin nodded, glancing back at his narrowing escape route. Sludge. The crowd was filling in.
“And your dear mother,” Aunt Grebba continued. “With the burrow being so full, younger moms like yours just don’t produce big batches of babies anymore. Every pinkling is so precious.”
“Uh-huh,” Tobin answered politely.
“Tsk-tsk.” Grebba clucked her tongue. “That was a real heartbreak, last spring.”
Tobin’s breath caught in his snout. He snorted, swiping a paw across his muzzle.
Last spring . . .
Grebba clutched a paw to her chest. “Your poor sweet mother.”
Tobin grabbed his tail and squeezed. Just nod. Think of something else. She’ll think you’re listening.
“Your mother was so amazing through it all, really. Always put her best face forward, truly dignified.”
Tobin nodded. Remember that dead trout Wiley found yesterday? Rancid as buzzard breath.
“And now here she is, giving it yet another try.” Aunt Grebba patted his head. “Such courage.”
Rottenest fish ever. And that skunk still ate it . . .
“Oh dear, silly old auntie, prattling on.” Aunt Grebba shook her head, snapping Tobin from his foul memories. “No need to dwell on unpleasant things.”
“Suppose not,” Tobin answered.
“But this weather.” Aunt Grebba continued to prattle, the fur on her nose standing up. “Now there’s something to talk about. Bit of a squall heading our way, eh?”
“Yeah.” Tobin looked up and inched backward. “I should take my post by the window.”
“Yes, yes dear,” Aunt G
rebba mumbled, nodding until something caught her eye. She looked at Tobin’s face as if she’d only just noticed him. “You gave a fine report, Tobin. You always do.” Grebba gently took his clutched paws into hers and massaged them loose from the crushing grip on his tail. “There now, that’s a bad habit, tail grabbing.” Grebba then turned away to find the nearest available Eldermouse to chat up.
Mercifully, the rest of the Eldermice were absorbed in their conversations, and Tobin slid by them without so much as a pat on the head. He scurried through the corridor to his room, finally plopping onto his bed of cotton tufts.
My room. Of course, if Mom had a boy, this wouldn’t be just his room anymore. He’d share it with the baby. Most of his friends already had brothers sharing their rooms, and sometimes they’d complain. But to Tobin, it seemed like baby brothers eventually grew into built-in playmates.
Except Wiley never complained. No, his best friend never minded sharing his room with little pups, which was good, since Wiley had four. All Tobin had was his little sister, Talia. Good news: she was fun to hang around. Bad news: she was fun to hang around, which meant she was also constantly surrounded by other little mouselings. Like right now, a little pink nose and tan snout began poking into Tobin’s room.
“And if the pinkling is a boy,” Talia was explaining to a pair of mouselings attached to her hip, “he’ll share a room with Tobin, once the pinkling is a pup and grows some fur, that is. I think the baby should sleep where Tobin is, and Tobin should move his bed under the window so the little one won’t get cold.”
“Oh,” the friends said in unison, nodding and obviously appreciating Talia’s brilliance.
Tobin’s whiskers twitched. “Uh, Talia?”
Ignoring him, Talia turned to the mouselings. “Since Tobin’s a junior weather scout, he gets to have a window in his room. Someday I’m going to be a weather scout, too.”
Tobin hopped off his bed. “Tal, I’m right here. You know you can’t come in my room without asking, remember?”
Talia raised a paw, gesturing toward her companions. “But we have company, and I’m just giving a tour.”
Her friends giggled. Like a moonbeam surrounded by moths, Talia sat firmly planted in the center of the mouseling universe.
Tobin’s fur bristled. “You know you guys don’t count as company. Mom and Dad said you can’t come in here without asking, and since they’re pretty busy in their own room, I’ll tell you all for them. Get. Out.”
Talia’s friends’ eyes grew to the size of blueberries. She glanced over her shoulder. “Meet you guys back in my room, okay?” The mouselings ducked out, and Talia stepped closer to Tobin. “Are you nervous about the baby?”
Tobin’s ears flattened. “What?”
Talia scratched her chin, like she always did when trying to think of just the right words. “It’s just,” she began, “you’re acting a little crabbier than normal, and I know I was scared at first when Dad said the baby was coming today because of what happened last time, so if you—”
“Stop.” A fissure of nerves erupted: fear, sadness . . . annoyance. Tobin’s fur bristled. “I don’t want to talk about the baby and not because I’m scared.” Tobin felt his lip curl as he spoke, though he didn’t mean to actually snarl. “I’ve had to talk about baby stuff all day while you got to hang out and play with your friends. I’ve done two weather reports, checked on guests, and now I just want to have a little break. Maybe be alone for a minute?” Tobin tapped a hind paw, trying to funnel some of his annoyance away, into the floor beneath him. “So sorry if that makes me crabby.”
“It sounds like you need a nap.” Talia spun around, her tail a whisker’s-breadth away from smacking Tobin in the face. She only came up to his shoulder in height, but her bravado was bear-sized. As she walked back into her room, he overheard her friends: “You were just trying to be nice,” and “Maybe he’s a big deal to the junior weather scouts, but he really needs to work on his manners.”
For the second time in a minute, Tobin’s fur bristled. He stuck his head into the hallway. “You want manners? Fine. Please remember I’m awful, so please don’t try coming in here anymore, thank you very much.”
A trio of giggling mouselings was all he got for his trouble.
Tobin rubbed his paws over his fur, smoothing his tan-and-black-speckled coat into place. Would the new baby have black-tipped fur like him? Or all tan, like Talia? Speckles made for great camouflage, but—
Stop.
No thinking this way. No getting hopes up. Not for fur color, not for a brother or sister, nothing.
A gust of wind whipped through his window and tickled his whiskers. The storm. Any other day and he’d be watching that storm roll in with Wiley. Tobin’s ear cocked.
Maybe he still could?
If he could just get Wiley up here. Wiley’s family lived below, in the burrow caverns. Almost directly below.
He glanced toward his door as the voices of Eldermice filled his ears. Crowds. Questions. Grebba.
Tobin winced. No way out except . . .
He looked up. He wasn’t supposed to use his walnut-sized window as an exit. Ever. But maybe this one time, just to get Wiley. They could do weather reports together. Four eyes watching the weather beats two, right?
And if there was ever a time Mom and Dad wouldn’t catch on . . .
Tobin pounced onto the dirt wall and scaled it up to the window. The small, circular opening was held fast in place with packed tree bark, pebbles, and river clay, hidden from the outside world by strategically hanging roots. When he reached his two front paws through, a few small stones clattered to the floor. No big deal. He could patch that later. He poked his head outside, his nose pushing through the curtain of roots. He squeezed his front side through, but when he wriggled his rear end out, a clump of packed mud fell from the window frame, hitting his bedroom floor with a hard SPLUT. He heard a pebble skitter across his floor, followed by a voice.
“Tobin! What are you doing?”
Sludge.
Two
WITH CLAWS DIGGING INTO the outer wall, Tobin poked his head back inside.
Talia, her mouth hanging open like a trout, stood in the middle of his room. At least she was alone.
“Tobin, you are in so, so much trouble.”
The words tumbled from his mouth. “Please don’t tell anyone!”
She scurried beneath the windowsill. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just going to see Wiley. It’s no big deal.”
“Wait, what?” The excited spark in Talia’s eyes fizzled. “You told me you needed a break. You wanted to be alone.” Her ears drooped. “You really don’t like me.”
“What? No.” Tobin shook his head. How do I say this? “Tal, I like hanging out with you, just not when you have a bunch of friends over. I like when it’s just us. But right now, all your friends are over, so I’m going to visit Wiley. He’s a weather scout, too, after all.”
Talia’s ears lifted. “So you have someone to do reports with?”
Tobin nodded. “Exactly. Now, I really need to go.”
Talia looked at the crumbled mess on the floor. “You’ll be grounded for wrecking that window.”
“Are you gonna tell on me or what?”
“I won’t,” Talia said, the shimmer returning to her eyes like she’d just solved a riddle. “I won’t tell anyone if you take me to the creek tomorrow—just us.”
A smile crinkled Tobin’s cheeks. “I’ll take you to the creek.”
“Good. But don’t be gone too long, because—”
“I know, I know. The baby’s coming.” Tobin shimmied down the outer wall, careful to stay beneath the dangling camouflage. His dad always compared the burrow to an anthill; the dirt mound above ground was only a hint of the massive tunnel system running beneath. That’s where Wiley lived. His family was one of the Great Burrow’s founding families, and their quarters below were spacious but dug deep into the earth. Tobin preferred having a room with a breeze
. He scaled down to a lower burrow entrance and ducked inside. Taking the tunnels downward, he felt the dirt floors damp beneath his paws, and the scent of clay and earthworms grew stronger.
As he neared his friend’s quarters, a familiar voice echoed off the tunnel walls—Wiley’s mom. “You will not keep that caterpillar in here—please return it where you found it.”
“But Mom, please?”
Tobin peeked around the entryway.
Wiley stood wobbling on his hind legs, clutching a squirming, striped caterpillar that dangled nearly to the ground. “But it’s going to rain any minute. Can we just keep him till tomorrow?”
“No, Wiley, the caterpillar will be fine outside.” Wiley’s mom shook her head, and then she noticed Tobin in the doorway. Smiling, she waved him in. “Oh look, Tobin’s here. Any baby news?”
“Not yet,” Tobin answered, walking inside the cozy den. It was crammed with treasures the older pups dragged home. A dried-out clover hung on the wall, above a hollowed-out walnut shell Wiley had found, which they used as a seed bin. In the corner, the two youngest mouse pups napped in the husk of a gourd.
“You’re here just in time, Tobin.” She nodded toward Wiley. “He was about to take this caterpillar back outside. Perhaps you could help him.”
“But—” Wiley started.
“Stop,” she said firmly. Swishing her tail forward, she pointed from Wiley to Tobin. “While the two of you are outside, grab some dandelion sprouts for Tobin’s mom. Fresh ones.”
Wiley’s ears flattened to his head. The left one sported a fresh red scab. “Fine. I’ll grab some dandelion, but maybe we could . . .”
One of the pups squeaked from inside the hollowed gourd. Wiley’s mom scurried over, gently lifting the squeaking pup by the scruff of its neck. She lay down, nestling the fuzz-covered babe beside her. When she spoke again, her voice was hushed. “Tobin, please tell your mom I’d have loved to stop by today, but . . . well, things are just a little hectic around here.”
“I’ll tell her,” Tobin said.
Wiley jerked his chin toward the door. “At least we have an excuse to go outside.”
Nothing sounded better.