The Linnet's Tale (A Mouse Story for Grownups) (The Tottensea Series)

by Dale C. Willard

  It was just here on the little beach at the base of the cliff that Merchanty Swift rejoined the company and began immediately to ask whether anyone had seen Grenadine Fieldpea and was she all right. They had and she was.

  Now. I have, from time to time, gone to some lengths in this account to point it out that field mice do not gossip. But let us be honest and straightforward. If certain of the field mice of Tottensea did not gossip about this event, then I don't know how the word is to be defined. But it was an extraordinary thing, wasn't it? And perhaps allowances can be made. In any event, and whether allowances can be made or not, I am here compelled to say that knowledge of this small happening—the asking by one mouse whether anyone had seen a particular other mouse and was she all right—was disseminated throughout Tottensea with electrical speed and was, moreover, accompanied by substantial commentary.

  But on a night of extraordinary events, there was more. For on this night and at this place—here at the bottom of the steep decline—Tottensea looked up. First a few of them, then more of them and, at length, all of them, looked up. UP!

  For most of them, it was their first time, ever, out and away from The Cottage and its lights and, more particularly, away from its security light. The security light was a very modern and up-to-date electrical thing erected against burglars and other terrors of the dark and the mice had lived their lives under it. Every single night it burned...and all night, too—burned with a half-light that had robbed them of the night sky.

  But here, away from the blindness of half-light, they had got it back! And it was wondrous. Here all Tottensea stood: homeless, damp, looking up and transfixed by this new and resplendent sky. Black and velvet it was and radiant with the most exquisite jewelry—more stars than ever they had imagined spread across the whole heavens! They were speechless.

  Old Umpteen Weeks, of a sudden, seemed to remember something and was uncharacteristically beside himself with ecstasy. He danced feebly around his cane and all of Tottensea was somehow with him in his joy—though why, they did not know. They did not know that a new kind of happiness was on its way to them, that—much more than stars!—a whole world of lost birthright would now be restored to them.

  They would come to know that they were, indeed, meant to be out here just as The Mayor had said. Something untried or forgot would awaken in them, something acute and keen, something effortless and unlearned—something given to them. It was coursing through them even now, stirring from long sleeps the rightful drives and cautions and curiosities. The noses of Tottensea, long dulled by some domestic tameness in their air, would awaken to exotic tangs and flavors, sharp and pure and piquant. Whiskers grown languid and cosmetic with disuse would soon twitch usefully.

  The lush richness of the meadow would uplift them, invigorate their lives and furbish their arts, too. The glory of waving field and tumbling brook would animate their music and dance, the brilliance of wildflower rouse their senses and vivify their canvases. Their poetry would rise up, borne away from sweet affectations and literary conceits, toward the pungent tartness of real things. It would be splendid!

  Of course...anything could happen out here. There would be dangers, yes: hawks and owls—weasels even!—and foxes. But with the dangers there would be fresh quickenings, a new cunning. The half-light was gone from their eyes and they could see right well into the new night. Soon they would be confident there, canny and full of craft. Even now they felt more ready and alert. More nimble. More fleet.

  CHAPTER 25

  The New Day

  The new day dawned on such an assortment as you've never seen of mousestockings and other less mentionable items laid out to dry on any pebble or sprig of grass which could be pressed into service. And as field mice are both modest and considerate there was ever so much looking straight ahead and minding one's own business throughout the morning.

  As for those burdens which had been dropped before going over the cliff—a climb back up the slope (the mice having located a much more gradual route than that by which they had descended) revealed a disheartening sight: mousebelongings. Mousebelongings everywhere! In every state of disarray, too: baggage broken open, contents spilled out, strewn, scattered, trampled, soiled, and mixed up with other mice's things such as you would hardly believe.

  Most of the books had been dropped right there on the slope and some of them were soiled. But at least they hadn't plopped into the water, everyone said. You could sell a soiled book, Glendowner Fieldpea told them, discounting it, of course, as you would certainly have to do. But no amount of discounting would be of the least help once a book had gone into the drink.

  And, of course, Thurgood Fidgetson's book had gone into the drink. Or, at least, Thurgood Fidgetson had gone into the drink. And here was the amazing thing: the book came out bone dry! Thurgood's sense of responsibility here and his remarkable achievement in this connection became something of a Tottensea legend and Mr. Fieldpea determined to memorialize it in some appropriate way, eventually, when things had settled down a little.

  A saying came out of it. Mice will say (I have heard them), "Do you have anything to drink? I'm as dry as Thurgood Fidgetson's book." Sometimes they will say, "I'm as dry as Thurgood Fidgetson's poetry." But that's hardly fair to Thurgood, is it? He didn't write the poetry. And it wasn't the poetry that was dry, in any event. It was the book. But they do say that.

  Anyway, it was certainly a mess, that slope. And for creatures as orderly and particular as field mice.... Well, it was a trial. That's all there is to it. But along with all their troubles they had this comfort: The Cat was nowhere to be seen.

  And so to work. It took them all the live long day and in spite of their best efforts it was simply too dangerous to move some of the larger items down the slope. For even though the slope of their new route was more gradual, it wasn't that gradual. But Opportune Baggs The Inventor was there and, seeing what had to be done, he called for his family. After a bit of thought and some rough sketches he took the elliptical conjoiner of the nib stabilizer which Parnassus had been carrying and attached it in such a way that while it lay actually athwart Lavinia's non-sequential parchment circumventor, it nevertheless continued to subtend the arc described by Maximillian's intersecting ankle mitigator—and that was the key. It wasn't perfect, of course, but it did work and with it they lowered the large items down the cliff with only a few skittery thuds and splats and no loss of life whatsoever.

  And as for the body of water which they had all fallen into, when The General got a good look at it at first light he actually whistled. "It's an absolute sea if ever I've seen one!" Which, of course, he hadn't. And it wasn't. He had nevertheless read about seas in certain naval treatises and things and this was exactly how he pictured them. "Water to the right. Water to the left. Water straight ahead. That, my friends, is a sea," is how he put it. But as to what one does with a sea, once one has identified it...that was another matter altogether. He remembered, in a general way, about frigates and galleons and dreadnoughts and words like that, but mousebook illustrations being simply not very good in the early days when he studied naval affairs, he found himself here squinting into the morning mist with only the vaguest notion of what kind of maritime shapes he might be trying to recognize. In the end he didn't see anything except...well, for a brief moment he thought he might have seen a frog looking at him. But then seas don't have frogs, do they? No. Of course not. Ponds have frogs. Weirs have frogs. Rivers even have frogs. Seas do not have frogs.

  Unlike The General, however, all the little mouselings in the company knew exactly what one does with a sea or a pond or a river or whatever it was they had fallen into. One gets in it. The irresistible nature of this intuitive knowledge was pointed up by the quiet, somewhat staccato and businesslike instructions of various of their mothers which punctuated the morning's activities: "Friday Threepurples, get away from that water and stay away from it, do you understand?" and of course he got away from that water and stayed away from it, or "Get back f
rom there, Pepper Quicksnip, and I do mean now!" and he got back from there and did it right then, or "Lemuel Twitchings, come right here and away from that water and don't make me say it again," and he came right there and away from that water and didn't make her say it again. (Technically, she would not have said it again. Field mice only give one warning.)

  Now if this type of exhortation appears unduly sharp or out of character for these normally soft-spoken and excellent little mothers, well...it isn't. While it is true that none of them had ever imagined such a thing as this much water in one place and while it is true that such a thing was frightening to them, it is not true that they were being cross. They were being what a field mouse would have called "firm" or "clear."

  And I would have you understand that the little mice were obedient not because they were naturally good children (there are no such things—not among field mice, at least) but because they had been trained, you see. They knew that if they did not do what they were told they would be punished, and that right quickly. I can promise you that not a single one of those three boys was thinking—when he obeyed—about any dangers in the water or about how these instructions were for his own good. He was only thinking he didn't want to be spanked! I can promise you, further, that this was a much smaller burden for a little heart to carry than some enormous consideration such as what really was out there in the water or what was, in some long run, for one's own good. And since smaller burdens make for lighter hearts, those boys were soon playing happily on the beach and not thinking of the water very much at all. Way down in their little mousebones, you see, they knew something they didn't even know they knew. They knew that if it had been all right to play in the water they could have played in the water. Or, if you like, we could put that another way: they knew that their mothers loved them.

  But about midmorning something began to change. If you had been there you could have seen that it was changing because a few of the mothers began to wade a little way out into the water, testing the bottom cautiously as they went. Other mothers climbed up onto some of the various field stones scattered around the beach or into accessible crannies of the cliff, from which places they looked very searchingly out into the water all the while (those who weren't wearing bonnets) shading their eyes from the morning sun with a paw or perhaps with two paws. And well before noon those good children got their day in the water.

  And what a day it was. Why, you would have thought it was the most wonderful holiday in the world. Such squeals and shrieks of laughter and such drenchings and splurtings and splashings they did! The mothers didn't have quite as much fun, of course, as they were looking and watching and hoping that those really were frogs and not something much worse looking back at them from way out there in the water. But they took turns. They weren't all watching all the time. Sometimes, some of them were building fires for roasting marshmallows over or trying to find dry towels or making sandwiches. Nevertheless, by dark they were all very tired mothers and some of them may have felt a trifle anxious but the children, you see, were perfectly happy and not at all aware that they were poor little emigrants to be pitied because they didn't have homes. They didn't worry about things like that. They just put their heads down wherever their mothers told them to put their heads down and fell fast asleep in a mouseminute. Or less.

  Epilogue

  So it came to be that Tottensea went out. And they are out there still. They wouldn't be pleased if I told you just where they are, of course, for they are hidden. And so they must remain or be in peril of their lives. They do have enemies, you know.

  They are a bit different now in the way they do things. But, of course, they would be wouldn't they? There are no compost heaps out there, you see. And they don't pinch things from anyone's vegetable garden, either. They have learnt to be field mice. And are all the more delightful for it, in my opinion.

  They have discovered a world of foods that were meant for them and for which they are devising superb new recipes to this very day. Merchanty Swift still brings in wonderful things from afar, of course, (they will want their cheeses and chocolate!) and has begun a lively commerce exporting some of the exotic delicacies which they have found in the fields. It turns out that there are tubers which certain creatures simply won't be without once they have been introduced to them. I am not free to tell you the names of these as the field mice consider that to be proprietary information.

  The New Bookish Mouse is smaller than the old one. There's a plaque on the door:

  Though small,

  we are

  (it is to be hoped)

  devoted to quality.

  It's true actually. They are. And I should probably point out that although The New Bookish Mouse is a bit smaller than the old one, there is a special wing adjoining it called The Thurgood Fidgetson Memorial Lending Library. There, the most farthingless mouse can borrow a book absolutely free for up to two weeks—even longer if it's a very large book and he makes special arrangements. Some of the books are soiled, yes, but they are nonetheless entirely readable.

  And I should also tell you that there are some very nice new volumes—recently written—and more coming, as I'm told. The following is a partial list, annotated:

  Farnaby And The Pirates

  by Grenadine Swift

  A true account. Based on actual interviews. Thrilling.

  Teaching Penmanship In The Schools—A Plea

  by Octavia Baggs

  A common sense approach. Some shocking examples shown.

  Why I Gave Up Writing Poetry

  by Adverbial Quoty

  Earnest and well-meaning but, on the whole, not well written.

  Adjustment: The Key To Things

  by Opportune Baggs

  Mice, life, and machinery. Thought-provoking. Runs on a bit.

  Living With Politics

  by Proserpine Carryforth

  Helpful guidelines from The Mayor's wife. Tips on bucking a mouse up, watching his weight and assisting with wisdom.

  Field Mouse Armies, Sea Frogs And Other Things That Are Not

  by Random Chewings

  A humorous journey of self-discovery. All about paying attention to things that are. Entertaining.

  The Colonel and the Scullery Maid

  by Clementine Chewings

  True love and tons of difficulty. A good cry, if a bit thick. Fiction.

  On Not Overheating—The Proper Limits Of Excitement

  by Farnaby Pockets

  A young mouse's reflections on the joys of calming down. Informative sections on crossword puzzles, beetle watching, and not jumping off high things without permission.

  To Love Again

  by Merchanty Swift

  A brief volume of poetry. Well-metered and -rhymed, we thought. Romantic.

  So that's it, then. We shall leave Tottensea just there, I think—writing books and buying them or, if they can't afford that, borrowing them—and being generally happy in their new life. This tale is done.

  My purpose being accomplished, I must take my leave of you, dear reader. I have grown quite fond of you, as it happens, and I hope it won't be thought forward of me to go on thinking of you as a friend. With your permission, then:

  So here's to you, my friend

  I bid farewell—and hail!

  Good listener you have been

  To this poor linnet's tale.

  There. I'm off. You must surely have other things to do than be forever listening to some bird going on about field mice, after all. And, taking the long view, I have things to be about, as well. Autumn is coming, isn't it?

  If you enjoyed

  The Linnet's Tale

  perhaps you would like the sequel!

  Tottensea Landing

  Website: dalecwillard.com

  Facebook page: facebook.com/dalecwillard

 

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