Mrs Frisby and the Rats of NIMH

by Robert O'Brien

  So he clucked sympathetically when he heard Mrs Frisby’s story, cocked his head to one side, and thought as hard as he could for as long as he could, which was about thirty seconds. His eyes closed with the effort.

  ‘I don’t know what you should do,’ he said finally. ‘I’m sorry. But maybe I can help even so. At least, I can tell you what we do when we don’t know what to do.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The crows. Most of the birds.’

  ‘What do you do, then?’

  ‘Over that way,’ Jeremy nodded in the direction of the deep woods and faraway mountains that rose beyond the fence, ‘about a mile from here there grows a very large beech tree, the biggest tree in the whole forest. Near the top of the tree there is a hollow in the trunk. In the hollow lives an owl who is the oldest animal in the woods — some say the world.

  ‘When we don’t know what to do, we ask him. Sometimes he answers our questions, sometimes he doesn’t. It depends on how he feels. Or as my father used to say — what kind of humour he’s in.’

  Or possibly, thought Mrs Frisby, on whether or not he knows the answer. But she said:

  ‘Could you ask him, then, if he knows of any help for me?’ She did not think it likely that he would.

  ‘Ah, no,’ Jeremy said, ‘that won’t do. That is, I could ask him, but I don’t think the owl would listen. Imagine. A crow come to ask for help for a lady mouse with a sick child. He wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘Then what’s to be done?’

  ‘What’s to be done? You must go yourself and ask him.’

  ‘But I could never find the tree. And if I did, I don’t think I could climb so high.’

  ‘Ah, now. That is where I can help, as I said I would. I will carry you there on my back, the way I did before. And home again, of course.’

  Mrs Frisby hesitated. It was one thing to leap on a crow’s back when the cat is only three jumps away and coming fast, but quite another to do it deliberately, and to fly deep into a dark and unknown forest. In short, Mrs Frisby was afraid.

  Then she thought of Timothy, and of the big steel plough blade. She told herself: I have no choice. If there is any chance that the owl might be able to help me, to advise me, I must go. She said to Jeremy:

  ‘Thank you very much. I will go and talk to the owl if you will take me. It’s a great favour.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Jeremy. ‘You’re welcome. But we can’t go now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘In the daytime, when the sun is out, the owl goes deep into the hollow and sleeps. That is, they say he sleeps, but I don’t believe it. How could anyone sleep so long? I think he sits in there, part of the time at least, and thinks. And that’s why he knows so much.

  ‘But anyway, he won’t speak in the daytime, not to anyone. And at night he’s out flying, flying and hunting …’

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Frisby — and that was another reason to be afraid.

  ‘The time to see him is just at dusk. Then, when the light gets dim, he comes to the entrance of the hollow and watches while the dark comes in. That’s the time to ask him questions.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Mrs Frisby. ‘Shall we go this evening?’

  ‘At five o’clock,’ Jeremy said, ‘I’ll be at your house.’ He picked up the piece of foil in his bill, waved goodbye, and flew off.

  The Owl

  Jeremy appeared as promised when the last thumbnail of sun winked out over the mountains beyond the meadow. Mrs Frisby was waiting, her heart pounding in her ears, and three of the children were there to watch — Teresa and Martin standing beside their mother, and Cynthia, who was afraid of the crow, just a pair of round eyes peering out of the round doorway. Timothy was down below, taking a nap, and had not been told about the expedition lest he worry and blame himself for the risk his mother must take. (Indeed, the words Moving Day had not been mentioned in his presence.) Even to the other children Mrs Frisby had explained only a part of the problem; that is, she had not told them that there were only five days left, nor anything about Mr Fitzgibbon and the tractor. She did not want to worry them, either.

  Jeremy landed with a swoosh — a bit dramatically, perhaps — and nodded at the children and Mrs Frisby.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Here I am.’

  Mrs Frisby introduced Martin and Teresa (and Cynthia’s eyes). Martin, who wished he were going on the trip himself, asked Jeremy in excitement:

  ‘How high can you fly?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know exactly,’ Jeremy said. ‘A couple of miles, I suppose.’

  ‘Mother, did you hear? You’ll be two miles up in the air.’

  ‘Martin, it won’t be necessary to go so high on this trip.’

  Jeremy said cheerfully: ‘No, but I can, if you’d like.’

  ‘No, thank you. I wouldn’t think of your taking the trouble.’ She was trying hard to hide her terror, and Martin had not helped matters at all. But Jeremy suddenly saw that she was trembling and realized that she must be afraid.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said kindly. ‘There’s nothing to be nervous about. I fly over the woods a dozen times a day.

  Yes, thought Mrs Frisby, but you’re not riding on your back, and you can’t fall off.

  ‘All right,’ she said as bravely as she could. ‘I’m ready. Teresa and Martin, take care of Timothy until I come back, and be sure you don’t tell him where I’ve gone.’ With a small leap she was on Jeremy’s back, lying as flat as she could and holding tight to the glossy feathers between his wings, as a horseback rider grips the horse’s mane before a jump. Martin and Teresa waved good-bye, but she did not see them, for she had her face pressed against the feathers and her eyes closed.

  Once again she felt the surge of power as the crow’s broad wings beat down against the air; this time it lasted longer for they were going higher than before. Then the beating became gentler as they levelled off, and then, to her alarm, it stopped altogether. What was wrong? The crow must have felt her grow tense, for suddenly from ahead she heard his voice:

  ‘An updraft,’ he said. ‘We’re soaring. There’s usually one over this stretch of woods in the evening.’ A current of warm air, rising from the woods, was carrying them along. So smooth was the motion that they seemed to stand still, and Mrs Frisby ventured to open her eyes and lift her head just a trifle. She could not look straight down — that was Jeremy’s back — but off to the right, and a bit behind them, she saw a greybrown square the size of a postage stamp. She realized with a gasp that it was the garden patch, and Martin and Teresa, if they were still there, were too small to be seen.

  ‘Look to the left,’ said Jeremy, who was watching her over his shoulder. She did, and saw what looked like a wide, fearsome snake, blue-green in colour, coiling through the woods.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked in wonder.

  ‘You really don’t know? It’s the river.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Frisby, rather ashamed of her ignorance. She had heard of the river, of course, but had not known that it looked like a snake. She had never been there, since to reach it one had to cross the entire width of the forest. There were advantages to being a bird.

  In a minute more they had left the updraft, and Jeremy’s wings resumed pumping. They went higher, and Mrs Frisby closed her eyes again. When she opened them, the garden patch had vanished far behind them, and Jeremy, searching the trees below, began a long slanting descent. Eventually, as he banked sharply, Mrs Frisby saw off his wing tip a greybrown patch among a group of tall green pines; from so high it looked like a gnarled grey bush, but as they circled lower she could see that it was in fact an enormous tree, leafless, skeletal, and partly dead. One huge branch had recently broken off and fallen, and three pine trunks lay bent double under its weight. It was a gloomy and primeval spot, deeply shadowed in the grey dusk. Jeremy circled over it one more time, looking at a certain mark three-fourths of the way up the towering main trunk. Just below this spot another great branch, itself as big as an ordinary
tree, jutted out over the tops of the pines, and on this at last Jeremy fluttered gently to rest. They were some ten feet from the main trunk, and Mrs Frisby could see, just above the place where the branch joined the tree, a dark round hole as large as a lunch plate.

  ‘We’re here,’ Jeremy said in a low voice. ‘There’s where he lives.’

  ‘Should I get down?’ Instinctively, Mrs Frisby spoke in a whisper.

  ‘Yes. We’ve got to walk closer. But quietly. He doesn’t like loud noises.’

  ‘It’s so high.’ She still clung to the crow’s back,

  ‘But the limb is broad. You’ll be safe enough.’

  And indeed the limb was almost as wide as a pavement. Mrs Frisby gathered her courage, slithered down, and felt the solid wood under her feet; still she could not help thinking about how far it was to the ground below.

  ‘There he is,’ said Jeremy, staring at the hole. ‘It’s just the right time.’

  They inched their way along the limb, Mrs Frisby gripping the rough bark tightly, being careful not to stumble; and as they came closer, she could dimly perceive a shape like a squat vase sitting back in the hollow of the tree. Near the top of the vase, wide apart, two round yellow eyes glowed in the dark.

  ‘He can’t see us,’ Jeremy whispered. ‘It’s still too light.’

  Perhaps not, but he could hear, for now a deep round voice, a voice like an organ tone, echoed out of the hollow trunk:

  ‘Who is standing outside my house?’

  Jeremy answered:

  ‘Sir, I am a crow. My name is Jeremy. And I have brought a friend, I hope we have not disturbed you. My friend needs your advice.’

  ‘I see. And can your friend not speak for himself?’

  ‘Sir, my friend is a lady, a lady mouse.’

  ‘A mouse?’ The sonorous voice sounded unbelieving. ‘Why should a crow be a friend to a mouse?’

  ‘I was trapped, sir, and she set me free. She saved me from the cat.’

  ‘That is possible,’ said the owl, ‘though unusual. I have heard of such a thing before. We all help one another against the cat.’

  ‘True. And now, sir, my friend herself is in trouble.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the owl, moving closer to the round entrance of his hollow. ‘Mrs Mouse, I cannot see you, for the glare of the daylight is too bright. But if you step inside my house, I will listen to what you have to say.’

  Mrs Frisby hesitated. She knew something of the dietary habits of owls, and did not much like the idea of being trapped in his house. Finally, she said timidly:

  ‘Sir, I would not want to intrude. And I can hear you quite well from out here.’

  ‘Mrs Mouse, please understand that I have no interest at all, as a general rule, in helping mice to solve their problems. If you have indeed saved a bird from the cat, I will spare you a few minutes. But I do not discuss problems with people I cannot see. Either come inside, or tell your friend to take you home again.’

  Behind her, Mrs Frisby heard Jeremy whisper, very softly, ‘It’s all right. He wouldn’t harm you in his own home.’

  She whispered back, ‘I hope not.’ She walked up the limb to the hollow, climbed over the sill and stepped inside.

  Up so close, the owl looked very large. Each of his feathery feet was tipped with five gleaming talons an inch long. His beak was curved and sharp and cruel. He blinked his yellow eyes and said:

  ‘Please step across the room, away from the light.’

  Mrs Frisby did as she was told. As she grew accustomed to the dimness, she looked around her. The chamber into which she had stepped was spacious — at that level, almost half of the huge trunk was hollow — and clean, but the floor was extremely rough. It was not really a floor at all, but only the jagged ends of dead wood sticking up from below, like stalagmites in a cave, so that Mrs Frisby had to climb rather than walk as she crossed the room. At the back the walls narrowed to a corner, and there she saw that the owl had built himself a nest, as big as a water bucket, of twigs and leaves; from the top she could see protruding some wisps of the feathers with which he had lined it.

  When she got near this nest, she stopped and faced the owl, who had turned from the light of the doorway and was peering at her with his great yellow eyes. Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. She could only hope he was still waiting on the limb outside.

  ‘Now,’ said the owl, ‘you may state your problem.’

  ‘Go to the Rats’

  Mrs Frisby began nervously, trying to arrange her thoughts:

  ‘It’s about my youngest son, Timothy. He is sick, too sick to leave his bed. And Moving Day is only five days off.’

  ‘Wait,’ said the owl. ‘Moving from where? Moving to where?’

  ‘From the garden patch, where we’re living, to the edge of the pasture by the stream.’

  ‘Which garden?’ It had not occurred to Mrs Frisby until now that a bird, flying freely over miles of countryside, would look down on many gardens.

  ‘It belongs to Mr Fitzgibbon.’

  ‘The one with the large stone?’

  ‘Yes. My house is near the stone.’

  ‘What makes you so sure Moving Day will come in five days?’

  Mrs Frisby told him about the tractor, and what Mr Fitzgibbon had said: five days until ploughing. ‘Of course,’ she added, ‘it might turn cold again, and freeze, or even snow …’

  ‘No,’ said the owl, sounding quite sure, ‘it will not. The wild onions are already up in the pastures.’ He asked her then what kind of house she had, and exactly where it was in relation to the big stone; apparently he knew the spot well.

  But the more she talked to him, the more Mrs Frisby became convinced that he would produce no solution to her problem. It had been foolish of her to think he could, foolish of her to come at all. Because, she thought, there really was no solution. At last she fell silent, and the owl asked no more questions. Finally he said:

  ‘Lying where it does, your house will inevitably be turned up by the plough, and probably broken to bits in the process. There is no feasible way to prevent this. My only advice to you is this: If you stay in the house you will surely be crushed and killed, all of you. Therefore, it is better to take your chances with moving. Wrap your son Timothy up as warmly as you can, help him as much as possible on the journey, and hope for warm weather on Moving Day. That way you are at least sure to save yourself and the other children.’

  The owl paused, turned away from her and looked again at the entrance to his hollow; the patch of light it admitted was growing steadily dimmer.

  ‘And now, if you will excuse me — the night is falling, and I have no more time to spare. I regret that I can not give you a more satisfactory solution to your problem. Good evening, Mrs …’ he paused. ‘I don’t believe you told me your name.’

  ‘Mrs Frisby.’ The poor mouse spoke with a sob in her throat, for the owl had said exactly what she feared he would say. And she had no real hope for Timothy. The owl had said, in effect: Either Timothy alone must die, or they must all die together. Even if Moving Day should be extraordinarily warm, the nights were sure to be frosty, and that would be the end of him. Still, one must be polite, and she added sadly: ‘I thank you, sir, for listening to me.’

  But at the mention of her name an extraordinary change had come over the owl. He turned back to face her again and stared at her most intently. Indeed, he gave an agitated flutter of his wings and half flew, half hopped closer to her, bending forward until his great sharp beak was only a few inches from her face. Mrs Frisby shrank back in fear. What had she done wrong?

  ‘Did you say Mrs Frisby?’

  ‘Yes. You asked my name.’

  ‘Related to Jonathan Frisby?’

  ‘Yes. He was my husband. He died last summer. He was Timothy’s father. But how did you know about him?’

  ‘That is not important,’ said the owl, drawing back a little and looking at her in a new way — almost as if with deference. ‘I will say this: His name was not
unknown in these woods. And if you are his widow, that puts matters in a different light.’

  Something in the way he said this caused Mrs Frisby’s hopes to lift a little.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘I mean, madame, that there is a way that your son’s life might just possibly be saved. I did not mention it to you because I saw no way you could conceivably do it, and I did not want to arouse false hope. But if you are Jonathan Frisby’s widow — then perhaps it can be done.’

  ‘I don’t understand at all,’ said Mrs Frisby. ‘What is this thing?’

  ‘It is not a thing that I can do myself. You must go to the rats.’

  ‘To the rats? But I don’t know any rats. They have nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that. They have little to do with anyone except themselves, and will have less as time goes on. Nonetheless, I think they will help you, and if they will, they can.’

  ‘But what can they do?’

  ‘They must move your house to a place where it will be safe from the plough.’

  Now Mrs Frisby’s spirits fell again, and she said, almost bitterly:

  ‘You are joking, sir; you are not serious. No rat could move my house. It is far too heavy, much too big.’

  ‘The rats on Mr Fitzgibbon’s farm have — things — ways — you know nothing about. They are not like the rest of us. They are not, I think, even like most other rats. They work at night, in secret. Mrs Frisby, do you know their main entrance?’

  ‘In the rosebush? Yes.’

  ‘Go there. You will find a sentry guarding the door. His name is Justin. Tell him who you are, and that you came at my request. Tell him that you want to see a rat named Nicodemus. I think they will let you in, though they may insist on swearing you to secrecy. If they should ask that, you must of course use your own judgement; but my advice would be to do as they ask.’

  Mrs Frisby was close to complete bewilderment.

  ‘Secrecy,’ she said. ‘Secrecy about what?’