Ragweed

by Avi

  Dedication

  For Suzi Lee

  Contents

  DEDICATION

  MAP: Amperville

  CHAPTER 1 Ragweed

  CHAPTER 2 Some Advice Is Given

  CHAPTER 3 Silversides

  CHAPTER 4 To the City

  CHAPTER 5 Clutch

  CHAPTER 6 F.E.A.R.

  CHAPTER 7 Blinker

  CHAPTER 8 The Cheese Squeeze Club

  CHAPTER 9 What Happened at the Cheese Squeeze Club

  CHAPTER 10 Blinker, Continued

  CHAPTER 11 Windshield and Foglight

  CHAPTER 12 Silversides

  CHAPTER 13 Ragweed Wanders

  CHAPTER 14 Ragweed Makes Up His Mind

  CHAPTER 15 Trapped in the Garbage Pile

  CHAPTER 16 Some Ideas

  CHAPTER 17 Silversides

  CHAPTER 18 Ragweed’s Plan

  CHAPTER 19 A Coming Together

  CHAPTER 20 The Great Cleanup

  CHAPTER 21 Silversides Learns Some Things

  CHAPTER 22 Blinker Makes a Report

  CHAPTER 23 Opening Night at Café Independent

  CHAPTER 24 The Sewer

  CHAPTER 25 The Show at Café Independent

  CHAPTER 26 In the Basement

  CHAPTER 27 A Goodbye

  EXCERPT FROM POPPY CHAPTER 1: Mr. Ocax

  CHAPTER 2: Poppy Remembers

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATOR

  BOOKS BY AVI

  PRAISE

  CREDITS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Map

  CHAPTER 1

  Ragweed

  “MA, A MOUSE HAS to do what a mouse has to do.”

  Ragweed, a golden mouse with dark orange fur, round ears, and a not very long tail, was saying goodbye to his mother and father as well as to fifty of his brothers and sisters. They were all gathered by the family nest, which was situated just above the banks of the Brook.

  “Is it . . . something about us that’s making you leave home?” his mother, whose name was Clover, asked tearfully. She was small and round, with silky black eyes.

  “Aw, Ma, that’s not fair,” Ragweed replied, wishing he could leave without so much fuss. “I just want to see things. I am almost four months old, you know. I mean, the Brook is wonderful, but . . . well, it’s not the whole world.”

  Ragweed’s father, Valerian, drew himself up. He was long-faced and lanky, and his scruffy whiskers were touched with gray. “Now, son,” he said, “no need to poke fun at us stay-at-homes.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to joke. All I’m doing is going off to explore what else there is. You know, before settling down. I won’t be gone long.”

  “Will you absolutely promise to come back?” Clover asked. Though Ragweed had carefully slicked down his fur so that it was quite neat and proper, she found a small strand around his ear that required careful adjusting. But then, Ragweed was very special to her.

  “Of course I will,” Ragweed assured her, trying to duck his mother’s fussy fixing.

  “And . . . and . . . if you meet a young female mouse,” Clover added gently, “one for whom you develop a . . . a fondness, just make sure she . . . she really cares for you.”

  Ragweed blushed. “Hey, Ma, I’m too young for that stuff. Anyway, if I’m going to get someplace today, I better start moving.”

  This notice of his imminent departure caused Clover to fling her paws around Ragweed’s neck and give him a nuzzle about his right ear. “Please, please be cautious!” she whispered. “Promise me that you will.”

  “I promise,” Ragweed returned.

  A reluctant Clover released her son.

  Valerian held out his paw. “Ragweed,” he said, “you’re a clear-thinking, straight-talking, hard-working young mouse. I’m proud of you.”

  Ragweed shook his father’s paw. “Dad,” he replied, “if I can be anything like you, that’ll be good enough for me.”

  “Thank you, son,” Valerian said, his voice husky.

  Embarrassed by so much emotion, Ragweed looked sheepishly at his brothers and sisters. Of those still at home, he was the eldest. Even among the older ones—who had returned from nearby homes to say goodbye—Ragweed was the first to leave the area of the Brook. Hardly a wonder that they were gazing at him with affectionate awe. But it was to Rye, his younger brother by a few weeks, that Ragweed went.

  Rye looked very much like Ragweed, save for a notch in his right ear, the result of an accident.

  “Okay, Rye,” Ragweed said, giving his brother a mock punch on the shoulder. “You’re the big kid in the nest now. Make sure you take care of things. If you don’t, hey, you’re going to answer to me when I come back. Get it?”

  “I know,” Rye replied with a grin masking his annoyance that his older brother was telling him what to do.

  Next, Ragweed tipped a wink to his favorite younger sister, Thistle. “See you around, kiddo,” he called.

  “Oh, Ragweed, I’m going to miss you so much!” she cried. Rushing forward, she gave Ragweed a big nuzzle.

  Ragweed, determined to be lighthearted, stepped back, gave a carefree wave, and set off up the hill, striding boldly toward the ridge that overlooked the little valley. Halfway up he came to a large boulder embedded in an outcropping of earth. There he paused and looked down at his family, who were still observing his departure. Though he wanted to move on, Ragweed found himself lingering.

  The spring air was brimming with a delicate sweetness; the vaulting blue sky seemed endless, the sun warm and embracing. Amid moss and grass, flowers had burst forth with youthful daring, in contrast to the shallow old Brook, which wound lazily between low, leafy banks, bearing pink and white water lilies on its wide surface. As for the tall trees that stood all around, they were veiled in a downy green mist of just-born leaves.

  What lay below Ragweed was not merely beautiful, it was home. His home. And there was his family, whom he loved as much as he knew they loved him.

  Hope I’m doing what’s right, he thought with a sigh. Then, reminding himself out loud that “A mouse has to do what a mouse has to do,” he gave a final wave to his family and continued up the ridge.

  Ragweed had no notion where he was heading. He had consulted no one, planned little. “I’ll just go where whim takes me,” he’d told Rye.

  As Ragweed went along he now and again broke into snatches of an old song. His voice was good—if rather low for a mouse—and he enjoyed singing. The song he trilled was one he and his family often sang on hikes and picnics.

  “A mouse will a-roving go,

  Along wooded paths and pebbled ways

  To places high and places low,

  Where birds do sing ’neath sunny rays,

  For the world is full of mice, oh!

  For the world is full of mice, oh!”

  The song carried him to the crest of yet another hill. There he paused again. The trail seemed to extend from his toes straight out to the horizon. Just to see it gave him the wonderful sensation that anything might happen. He took a deep breath. How delicious was the sense of freedom he felt. How fine that he and he alone was responsible for himself. He had not—he now realized—grasped how exciting it would be to grow up and strike out on one’s own.

  The thought of it all brought a tingling from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail.

  Energized anew, Ragweed stepped boldly along the trail, now and again squeaking out at top voice, “For the world is full of mice, oh!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Some Advice Is Given

  ALL THAT MORNING RAGWEED continued until he reached a split in the pathway. One path went due east. The other headed south. For the first time since he’d left home he had to make a decision as to which direction to go.

  Relishing
the luxury of making up his mind at leisure, he decided to rest. Then, remembering that he had not eaten that day, he nosed about until he found enough hazelnuts to make himself a lunch. Hazelnuts were Ragweed’s favorite food.

  As Ragweed nibbled away, an elderly vole meandered out from behind a bush. The vole had a short tail, large ears, reddish-brown fur on his back, and gray whiskers on his blunt snout. He was also nearsighted, snuffling so intently about the ground that he walked right into Ragweed.

  “Oh, my, oh, my,” the vole exclaimed, flustered and embarrassed. “I do beg a thousand pardons. I didn’t see you, young fellow. Really! What’s come over me? Walking into strangers. I fear my eyes are not what they used to be. Do forgive me.”

  “No harm done, sir,” Ragweed returned cheerfully. “I’m sprawled where I probably shouldn’t be, an idle wanderer from the Brook. I suppose you’ve heard of it.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t,” the vole said apologetically.

  Ragweed, thrilled by the thought that he had already come far enough to be a stranger, said, “That’s even better.” Then he asked, “Are you from around here?”

  “Indeed I am,” the vole returned. “I’ve lived in these parts for more years than I’d like to admit. What brings you here, young fellow?”

  “I’m off to see the world.”

  “Off to see the world, eh?” the vole echoed, yearning and regret mingling in his voice. “Well, it’s a mighty big place, this world.”

  “Have you seen it?” Ragweed asked with keen interest.

  “Just a tad,” the vole said, making a humble gesture that managed to imply a very great deal more. “Of course, that was when I was younger. Oh, yes, the world is fascinating.”

  Ragweed considered the vole with new eyes. Clearly, here was a creature of vast experience. “Sir,” the mouse inquired, “might you know, then, where these two paths lead?”

  “I should hope I would,” the vole returned with a touch of pride. “In my time, young fellow, I’ve traveled both. They’ll take you to completely opposite places. This one goes east to a forest. Dimwood Forest, to be precise. A most impressive place. Dark. Strange. Beautiful. Something you should experience. Just watch out for owls,” he added.

  “I’m sure I’d like it,” Ragweed said, paying no heed to the warning. “What about the other?”

  “The one to the south? It goes to a railway.”

  Ragweed blinked. “What’s a . . . railway?”

  “Forgive me,” the vole said. “I didn’t mean to presume. A railway is made by humans. You do know about humans?”

  “Oh, yes,” Ragweed replied, though he had not in fact actually seen one.

  “Well, now, humans make trains. A train sits on a track. That’s to say, two rails allowing it to go places. The whole apparatus is absolutely gigantic. Makes an astonishing noise. Goes at staggering speeds. But if I add that they’re dangerous, I’m putting it mildly.”

  “You said humans use these trains for going places,” Ragweed said, fascinated. “What kind of places?”

  “Towns. Cities.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what they are either,” Ragweed confessed.

  “Oh, my, my—we are young, aren’t we?” the vole said.

  Blushing, Ragweed said, “I’m only four months old.”

  “You’ll get over that soon enough!” The vole chuckled at his own little joke. “Well now, my young fellow, a town or a city is where great numbers of humans live. As you know, humans build the most amazing nests. Prodigious constructions. Reach the sky, they do. As for a town or a city . . . Well, look at those trees over there. Now use your imagination. Instead of a tree, picture a human’s nest. Multiply that one nest by a thousand, two thousand! No! Twenty thousand! A million! There! You have a city.”

  “Oh, wow!” Ragweed cried. “But does anything happen there?”

  “Does anything happen!” the vole echoed, paw over his heart. “Young fellow, if you had a year to spare I might begin to tell you stories about cities that would curl your tail. Why, everything happens in cities. Mind, it can be hazardous for creatures like you and me.”

  “But . . . exciting?”

  “Exciting?” the vole said with a whisper and a wink. “That’s where they invented the word.”

  “That sounds like the perfect place for me,” Ragweed said, jumping up. “Thanks for your advice.”

  “I’m not aware I was giving any advice,” the vole said wistfully. “Actually, I think you should go to Dimwood Forest first.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s safer.”

  “Next time!” Ragweed shouted, already hurrying down the path that led to the railway.

  “Oh, dear,” the vole said as he watched Ragweed scamper away. He had recollected something of great importance he should have told Ragweed. “Young fellow!” he cried out. “If you reach a city, keep on the lookout for cats! Cities are full of them!”

  Ragweed, however, was gone. The warning went unheard.

  All that afternoon Ragweed hurried along the trail, reaching a deep gully just at dusk. Peering into it he saw something he had never seen before—a railway train. At first Ragweed could do nothing but stare at it, so astonishing was its size. Not only was it amazingly tall, he found it impossible to see either end.

  He did see wheels—enormous, shiny steel ones—but they were not turning. Yet Ragweed was quite certain the old vole had said the train went to cities, though he could not begin to imagine how it managed the trip.

  The part of the train that sat before Ragweed was a boxcar. “Great Western Trail” was written large on its dull red sides of corrugated steel. The name charmed Ragweed, speaking to him of great adventures. Even better, the door was open.

  Full of the desire to explore, Ragweed scurried into the gully. Approaching the tracks, he found a low coupling hose hanging between two boxcars. He leaped on the coupling, climbed up it, then ran along a rain gutter on the side of the car. Within moments he was inside.

  The boxcar appeared to be empty. Then Ragweed spied a split sack labeled “Oats” in a corner. Though he did not exactly know what oats were, he knew good food when he smelled it. Besides, he was hungry. The day had been exciting but long.

  “This is the life,” he murmured as he pushed his nose into the oats and began to munch. He was still gorging himself when the train gave a sudden lurch.

  “Hey! What’s happening?” Ragweed cried and rushed to the open door. To his amazement the boxcar was moving. At first it did not go very fast. Within moments, however, it was rattling along at speeds far greater than Ragweed ever could have imagined.

  With a sense of shock Ragweed realized that his woodland home was very quickly fading away. His heart experienced a painful squeeze. Not only was he now truly going to see the world, there was no turning back.

  The young mouse, in a voice that managed to combine joy and sorrow, cried, “City, here I come!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Silversides

  SILVERSIDES WAS NOT JUST another white cat. She was a very angry cat. According to her, the world had become a terrible place, and the cause of it all was mice.

  A large cat, Silversides was seven years old, in the very prime of life. Her eyes were yellow, her fur white as snow. Around her neck was a pink polyvinyl collar studded with sparkling diamond-like sequins. Dangling from this collar was her city license—“Amperville 30”—a tag she wore with pride. Low numbers were prized among Amperville’s many cats.

  Silversides lived in the home into which she had been carried as an eight-week-old kitten. Most recently her private place was a rug behind a growling basement furnace. The house humans came by this warm, quiet spot only rarely, which meant that these days Silversides was alone most of the time. This did not please her.

  Though Silversides had raised twelve kittens during her mothering years, she had done it by herself. It had not been easy tending her litters. It required continual struggle to teach the kittens to grow into decent hardworkin
g, right-thinking cats. As far as she was concerned, she had succeeded. Now they were grown and gone, having chosen homes of their own. There were even grand-kittens.

  Though Silversides saw these youngsters only occasionally—on midnight strolls, while she was patrolling her territory or hunting in the park—she fretted about them all the time. Life in the city of Amperville was not what it once had been.

  When Silversides had been young, Amperville had been prosperous, clean, and wholesome. Mice were relatively few. Now—she had no idea why—the humans who bore the prime responsibility for keeping things up no longer cared much about Amperville. The community was rundown. The worst result was that the city had become infested by mice. Moreover, these mice were very different from those of previous generations.

  In the good old days—according to Silversides—house mice knew their place and numbers. Timid and respectful, these mice lived, with gratitude, on crumbs. They entered houses furtively, and then only through back doors or cracks in foundations.

  Only rarely did these mice make themselves noticeable. To do otherwise was to put their lives at risk, as both cats and mice understood.

  When the occasional rebellious house mouse got uppity, Amperville cats knew exactly what to do with them. The upstart mouse would be caught and . . . dealt with. No fuss. No muss. Nothing needed to be said.

  But nowadays Amperville mice had not just increased in number, they had become brazen. They acted as if they actually had a right to be in Amperville, going so far as to claim part of town—a section by the railroad that humans had abandoned—as their own. Mouse Town, they called it. They had their own mayor, schools, clubs.

  Though Silversides tried at first to ignore these new mice, every one of them was a personal insult, an unending irritation, a reminder that things were not as they should be.

  Then two things of great importance happened.

  The girl who lived in Silversides’s house brought home a white-furred, pink-eyed mouse and kept it in her room. She called this mouse Blinker. The mouse’s very name—sickeningly cute—irritated Silversides enormously. That she and this mouse were the same color only served to inflame the cat even more.