Poppy

by Avi

  Intently, the owl moved his head from side to side, back and forth, adjusting his depth of vision. In time he saw Poppy’s pink nose poke out from her hiding place. Then he watched as she raced toward a rock. At last! The mouse was on the move. Mr. Ocax clacked his beak with pleasure, spread his wings, and leaped into the air.

  Panting hard but protected by the crevice, Poppy squirmed about and sniffed for hints of danger. She found none.

  Once she had caught her breath, she edged a bit out of her nook and studied the terrain. The nearest haven she could see was a bush whose partly exposed roots straddled a hole big enough to shelter her. Unfortunately, the bush was on the far side of a flat, open space, a long way from where she crouched. It was farther, by far, than the length of Gray House’s attic; farther even than the water pump beyond the back door; farther, in fact, than Poppy had ever run without stopping to rest. She sighed with dismay.

  Then she looked again. This time she spied a rectangular strip of wood propped against a stone at an upward angle. It was about halfway between where she hunched and the hole. Poppy told herself that if she tired, or if some danger appeared, she would be able to hide—briefly—beneath the high end.

  Tense, she examined the eastern sky once more. It had grown lighter. Was it day yet? Would Mr. Ocax be asleep now?

  The owl, cruising high to the west of Bannock Hill, moved his wings slowly, wanting to make the least possible disturbance on the air. These deer mice, he knew, could be very sensitive.

  As he flew, he kept his eyes fixed on Poppy’s rock. The mouse’s run suggested what she was doing, moving from protected spot to protected spot. Mr. Ocax was well aware that the biggest family of deer mice in his territory—headed by that old fool Lungwort—lived in Gray House. More than likely this Poppy was heading there. Well, then, how would she go?

  The owl spied a bush on the south side of the hill. Though it was some distance from the rock, it would be a logical next hiding place for the mouse. But if it came to a race for that bush, he knew who would win. Mr. Ocax gave a hiss of satisfaction.

  Poppy cleared the rock crevice in one jump. Her landing, however, was awkward. It threw up a puff of dust. Swiftly she scrambled back to her feet, then started to dash across the open area. Belly low, tail stiff as a nail, ears folded back, she pumped her legs like pistons.

  Mr. Ocax, circling above, saw the dust caused by the mouse’s jump. The next moment he spotted Poppy. In a flash he calculated her speed and direction. Determining the exact spot where he could catch her, he made four quick, strong wing pumps, which brought him to the proper altitude. Then he dived.

  Poppy streaked over the ground. Though she felt as though her heart would burst, she was almost halfway to the bush. Soon she would be passing the wood strip.

  Mr. Ocax, who had plummeted to a spot not far above and behind Poppy, threw out his wings, pulled back his head, thrust his claws forward. In anticipation of the meal he was about to eat, he clacked his beak.

  Poppy, hearing the clack, cast a lightning glance over her shoulder. Mr. Ocax was right behind her, his fearsome talons set. The shock of seeing the owl so close surged through her like a bolt of electricity. With an enormous kick of her rear legs she shot into the air, tumbling head over heels until she came down, belly flat, on the far end of the length of wood.

  Poppy’s leap caught Mr. Ocax by surprise. As he dived, Poppy took off. Sensing he would miss her, he adjusted. Up came his claws. Down went his left wing. Over went his tail. What Mr. Ocax achieved, however, was a careening swerve that brought him crashing beyond his target, onto the same strip of wood as Poppy—but on the opposite end.

  When Mr. Ocax landed, his weight catapulted the light-as-a-feather mouse into the air in a great arc that dumped her with a splat right at the base of the bush. Frantic, she clawed forward and tumbled head over heels into the hole she’d been aiming for.

  Mr. Ocax swiveled his head first this way, then that, searching for his prey. She seemed to have vanished.

  Frustrated, he flapped into the air and circled low over Bannock Hill but found no trace. Seething, the owl headed back to Dimwood. How dare this mouse—this Poppy—escape! Twice! Never before had a mouse done that. Mr. Ocax had half a mind to return to his watching tree and wait for the impudent creature to pop up. The next moment he decided against it. He was tired. Daylight had finally arrived. It was long past his sleeping time. Besides, he had eaten something.

  But as Mr. Ocax sailed deep into Dimwood toward his secret lair, he vowed to avenge himself. If mice began to get notions that they could escape him, there would be no end of trouble.

  Poppy lay in the hole beneath the bush, hurting from ears to tail. It took time for her breathing to become regular, longer still for her pulse to drop to normal.

  When she began to feel herself again, she tested her legs and toes to see if they worked. Everything seemed to be intact. Cautiously she crawled to the top of the hole and stole a quick peek. Though she saw no sign of Mr. Ocax, she retreated hastily, still too agitated to do anything but hide.

  It was some time before Poppy took another look. Then she took a third. Though she still didn’t see the owl, she hesitated. Mr. Ocax, she knew, was capable of great patience.

  So it was that the sun had risen quite high above the horizon before Poppy finally eased herself out of the hole. Following her plan of short runs and safe havens, she scampered at last down Bannock Hill to Gray House.

  According to mice family stories, a human called Farmer Lamout had lived in the house. When he and his family left—it was said to be many, many winters ago—the house started to collapse. The white walls turned ashen. The roof’s middle dropped lower than either end. Windows fell out. Doors fell in. The farmer’s cast-off boots, old furniture, magazines crumbled. All in all, it was a perfect and safe home for Poppy’s family.

  But as Poppy approached the house, she spied a small red flag hanging from one end of the roof. She stopped short. A red flag was her father’s signal that the entire clan needed to gather for an emergency meeting.

  Poppy’s first thought was that news of Ragweed’s death had already reached home. Then she realized how unlikely that was. Something else of grave importance must have occurred.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Emergency Meeting

  POPPY RAN ACROSS the lopsided porch and into the parlor. The whole family had indeed gathered. Poppy’s father, thimble on his head, was on his accustomed perch atop an old straw hat, already addressing the crowd. The moment Poppy entered the room, he saw her.

  “Ah, Poppy,” he cried, “you’re late, but at least you’re here.”

  All the mice—a sea of ears, eyes, pink noses, and whiskers—turned to look at her.

  “But where’s Ragweed?” Lungwort demanded. “Wasn’t he with you? Do you think he’ll have the common decency, not to mention courtesy, to consider joining us at this moment of crisis? Or is he beyond all that?”

  With so many eyes fixed on her, Poppy could not speak.

  “Well, Poppy?” Lungwort asked. “Do you know where your friend is?”

  Poppy stammered, “May I tell you after the meeting?”

  Lungwort murmured a “Humph,” as well as an “I suppose,” and “Thoughtless children,” concluding with, “Just take your place, please.”

  Poppy slipped forward and crouched down next to Basil, her favorite younger cousin.

  “Where you guys been?” Basil whispered.

  “Out,” Poppy replied weakly.

  “You don’t look so good. What happened to your nose?”

  “I can’t explain now.”

  “And where is Ragweed?”

  “Later,” Poppy insisted.

  Basil gave his cousin a questioning look but held his tongue.

  Lungwort, leaning over the crown of the farmer’s hat, tapped his thimble cap and held up a paw to command silence. “For Poppy’s sake,” he began, “I’ll review what I’ve said already. Our family has grown very large. So large, in fa
ct, that there is not enough food in this neighborhood to feed us all.

  “Indeed, our family is still an expanding one.” He nodded to Sweet Cicely, who smiled wanly in dutiful recognition of the remark. “For example,” Lungwort continued, “my wife and I have had seventy-five children, who in turn have given us forty grandchildren, twenty great-grandchildren, and twelve great-great-grandchildren.”

  This remark was greeted by the assembled mice with a generous tapping of tails upon the floor.

  Lungwort dipped his head in acknowledgment of the tribute. Then he went on. “The truth is, by my calculations, our current rate of population growth—and it’s this I was about to say when Poppy arrived—promises serious food shortages, sickness, and, yes, death, unless we take action within the next few days.”

  There was an immediate buzz and squeak among the family. “Good grief!” “How awful!” “What’ll we do now?” “Who would have guessed?”

  Lungwort raised his voice over the hubbub. “Living in the open will not do. The dangers of that are obvious. No, we need to establish an extra residence—a home near to abundant food but still close enough to Gray House so that the family, with its present leadership, can be maintained. And of course, the second dwelling must be safe.

  “Happily, I have been informed by an old sparrow acquaintance of mine—Mr. Albicollis—that a new home has been built within the territory.”

  Again there was chatter. “Where?” “Have you seen it?” “What’s it like?”

  “It’s on the northern side of Dimwood Forest. New House, it’s called. A half day’s trek from here.”

  “That’s so far!” “Almost another country!” “I’ve never been away from home!” “I bet it’s not so good as this place!”

  Lungwort held up a paw. The talk stilled. “This New House is reachable by the Tar Road, across the Bridge, and beyond New Field, which, I’ve been informed, has abundant food.”

  “Somebody else can go!” “Wonder what kind of food there is.” “I doubt I’d do well there!”

  “Naturally, I will need to investigate New House with care.”

  “Would I get a room of my own?” “Can I keep sharing with Tansy?” “They’ll never get me to go.” “I won’t bunk with Husk.”

  “Further, there will be much organizing and packing to be done.”

  “I hate the thought of packing.” “I have too much to move.” “I just put together a whole new room.”

  “Finally,” Lungwort went on, “we will need a delegation to go through the formality of applying to Mr. Ocax for permission to move.”

  This time Lungwort’s words brought silence. Every eye looked down or away. Except for Poppy’s. She could only stare at her father in revulsion. How could he even suggest such a thing!

  “Now, now,” Lungwort said severely, “Mr. Ocax has always been most accommodating. Need I remind you that he protects us from porcupines. We all know about porcupines, don’t we? We do indeed. Have we seen so much as one porcupine in these parts for years? Not one! Proof enough that Mr. Ocax is holding up his end of the bargain. As long as I’m head of this family, I expect us to do our part. Asking his permission to move is an insignificant sacrifice to make for our well-being.

  “All right, then,” Lungwort concluded, looking around. “Any questions?”

  Poppy had no idea what Ragweed would have asked, but she knew it would have been something.

  “Good,” Lungwort said. “I thank you for your attention. Go about your business. I will keep you informed as always. Poppy, be so good as to remain. I’d like a private word.”

  With much excited chatter the mice scurried off until only Poppy, her parents, and Basil remained.

  “Now can you tell me what’s going on?” Basil asked. “You’re really looking bad.”

  Poppy, trying to find the words to tell her parents about Ragweed, had closed her eyes.

  Basil tugged at her. “Poppy, did something happen to Ragweed?”

  Poppy gave a quick nod.

  “What?”

  “Poppy!” her father called from across the parlor. “I’m waiting!”

  Poppy opened her eyes and turned to Basil. “Stay close,” she said to him. “I’m going to need you.”

  Slowly Poppy crept toward her parents. Basil trailed behind.

  As his daughter approached, Lungwort drew himself up with a show of dignity. “Well, Poppy,” he said, “I suppose I should be grateful that you managed to find time for a family meeting.”

  “Papa,” Poppy began, “you see . . .”

  Suddenly Sweet Cicely asked, “Poppy, what did you do to your nose?”

  “It’s that—”

  “We can deal with her nose later,” Lungwort interrupted. “What I wish to say first, Poppy, is this: As I made my announcement about the house—you did hear it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I mentioned making up a delegation to go to Mr. Ocax, I was saddened that not one of your brethren or sistern would look me in the eye. It was as if they were fearful. But you, Poppy, were steady on the mark. Your eye never wavered. Straight and loyal. I admire that in a young mouse.

  “Therefore I have selected you, by way of a reward—and it is a grand one, isn’t it, Mother?”

  Sweet Cicely, brushing at her ears, smiled thinly.

  “Right, then,” Lungwort continued. “Poppy, I have selected you to go with me to Mr. Ocax.”

  “You what?” Poppy cried.

  “I know it’s an unlooked-for honor. But you heard me right. You will join me when I go to Mr. Ocax.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Poppy tried to find words but could not.

  “But what?”

  “But Mr. Ocax just ate Ragweed!” Poppy blurted out.

  There was stunned silence.

  “Ate Ragweed?” Sweet Cicely finally gasped, her voice half gargle, half squeak. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  Trying to stop her tears, Poppy nodded.

  “When?” Lungwort demanded shrilly. “How? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I barely got back,” Poppy sobbed. “And when I walked into the meeting, I couldn’t just say . . .” Pawing the tears from her face, she whispered, “I couldn’t.”

  “But to be eaten by Mr. Ocax,” Lungwort sputtered, “without even informing me . . . !”

  Sweet Cicely suddenly turned on her husband. “Oh, stop that!” she cried. “We need to know what happened. Poppy, go on.”

  Poppy, her heart heavy, stammered, “We, that is, Ragweed and I . . . last night we went out to Bannock Hill. I mean, we had never been before. It was such a beautiful summer night, and we thought it would be romantic. It was lovely. And he had just asked me . . .” Poppy paused to look at her parents. Certain they would not be sympathetic, she decided to skip some parts of her story.

  “Then Ragweed found a hazelnut,” she went on. “He loves—loved—nuts. So he started to eat it. I told him that he should get under cover. He wouldn’t listen. And then—all of a sudden—out of nowhere—Mr. Ocax burst upon us. I hadn’t heard a thing. He was just there. He almost got me, too,” she added, pointing to her nose. “But he caught Ragweed,” she whispered. “It was awful.”

  Sweet Cicely hurried forward, gathered her daughter in a hug, and patted her back. A very uncomfortable Lungwort kept clearing his throat and fiddling with his whiskers.

  “And then,” Poppy went on once she was sufficiently calmed, “when I started back home, Mr. Ocax tried to catch me—again. But I managed to escape.”

  Lungwort shook his head. “Poppy,” he intoned, “I’m bound to ask: Did you go through the proper formalities before going up on the hill?”

  “Well, I, that is, we . . .”

  “Come now!” Lungwort cried, his agitation bursting out as anger. “Did you or did you not ask Mr. Ocax for permission to go up there? Answer me!”

  “No,” Poppy admitted.

  “Well, then,” Lungwort said, “if Ragweed’s death can be an object lesson t
o the rest of the family, perhaps what happened will serve a useful purpose. Good out of bad, so to speak.”

  “Ragweed wasn’t bad,” Poppy objected.

  “I never said he was bad. But without doubt his thinking was bad. He was a rude, thoughtless, headstrong mouse. Not one of ours, may I point out. Indeed, if your friend had followed rules, if he had accepted things as they are, if he had listened to me, he would be with us today.”

  “Such a short, unhappy life.” Sweet Cicely sighed.

  “I warned him, Poppy,” Lungwort declared. “I did. Let no mouse say otherwise. Though he was no son of mine, I did my duty by him, but he would not pay heed. There should be a lesson learned from this.”

  Poppy tried to protest. “But Ragweed and I—”

  Again Lungwort interrupted. “Poppy, two things. First, I want you to go among the rest of the family and explain what happened to your unfortunate friend. Be so kind as to point out the cause: that you did not ask permission from Mr. Ocax. I desire no such tragedies to befall one of us. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,”

  “Second, what I said stands about your coming with me when I request permission from Mr. Ocax for our move. Let’s hope your presence will convince him that, one, you truly are apologetic for what you have done, and two, in the future you will ask for his permission before venturing anywhere.”

  So saying, Lungwort, with one paw about Sweet Cicely, went off, leaving Poppy and Basil alone.

  Poppy looked after them for such a long time that Basil reached out and touched her. “Poppy?” he asked. “You all right?”

  “Basil,” Poppy said with a mix of sadness and anger, “Ragweed wasn’t unhappy or bad. He wasn’t. Maybe he was cocky at times—but I loved him for it. I did!” Once again tears trickled down her face.

  “Poppy,” Basil asked, “are you really going to go to Mr. Ocax?”

  “I don’t think I have much choice, do I? Only I do wonder what’ll happen when he recognizes me.”

  Her cousin’s eyes grew wide. “Think he will?”