by Avi
With the barn door open, a few chickens strutted out, clucking and pecking the ground. They paid no mind to the cat or the owl. Nor did the owl consider them.
Poppy was completely baffled. What could the owl be looking at that so held its attention?
The next moment she was even more startled to see the upper barn window open—the window right next to where the owl was roosting. It was the boy who opened it. Even so the owl did not budge. More amazing, the boy reached out, placed his hand on the owl, and turned it about so that it now faced in a new direction!
Never had Poppy been more astonished. Could it be that this huge owl was not real? Was it only a fake? It certainly seemed so, but after all, she had made but one observation. What she needed was proof. To get it, she would have to wait at New House and watch.
Poppy stayed on the edge of the cornfield. But her time was not all spent waiting. She was too excited to remain in one place. Instead, she took time to explore the old barn at the other edge of the field—by the dirt road—and found it a respectable addition to Gray House. As for food, Poppy had never eaten so well. It was as she had first believed. There was enough in this cornfield to feed her family. In fact, all of them could move here.
During her hours of watching, Poppy met with no other small animals. At first she was perplexed. Then she decided it was because the fake owl was successful. It had frightened everybody away.
Not that Poppy put aside her porcupine-quill sword. She remained sufficiently wary to keep the sword at her side.
Once she almost used it.
At midday she was trying to take a needed nap when she suddenly heard something coming through the corn behind her. Taken by surprise, she leaped up, darted behind a cornstalk, and drew the quill, ready to defend herself.
It was a family of deer, a doe and two young fawns, though to Poppy even the little ones seemed enormously tall. Even so, they had not the slightest interest in her. Instead the animals threaded their way through the corn and approached the salt lick cautiously. With the mother standing guard, the fawns took a few delicate licks of salt until, at a silent signal, they all bounded away.
As Poppy tucked the quill back under her sash, it occurred to her that she might enlist the deer’s help in bringing the salt to Ereth. But from the way they had enjoyed themselves it did not seem likely that they would be willing to take the salt to the porcupine. No, she would have to find another way to make good her promise. Besides, the questions about the barn owl were more pressing. As far as Poppy could tell, it had yet to move on its own. Though Poppy was fairly sure it was a fake, she had to be positive.
That afternoon Poppy thought of a way of getting proof. The old cat was still stretched out where he had begun the day. The more Poppy observed the cat, the more certain she was that he was too old to be dangerous. She decided to ask him about the owl. The notion made her a little nervous, but she convinced herself that keeping her quill sword at the ready would be enough protection.
With considerable care, she crept out of the cornfield, all the while eyeing the barn owl—just in case. It did not move. At last she was standing before the sleeping cat, close enough to feel the wash and smell of his fish-scented breath. He was snoring. Gripping her quill tightly, but using her friendliest voice, Poppy shouted, “Hello!”
The cat opened one eye.
“Hi there,” the cat murmured. Although he had now opened both eyes, he did not move.
“My name is Poppy.”
The cat sneezed delicately.
“Bless you,” Poppy said.
“Thanks,” returned the cat. “They call me George.”
Poppy nodded. “Nice place you have, George.”
“Pleasant enough,” George replied.
“Ah . . . well . . . that owl sure keeps things quiet around here,” Poppy offered.
“Owl?”
“The one up on the barn.”
“Oh, right. The fake one,” said George. “Does the job,” he said.
“What job?” Poppy asked carefully while trying to contain her mounting excitement.
“Keeps everybody away. Even other owls.”
“How do you know?”
“’Bout two weeks ago the people here put in some chickens. First day some big old horned owl snatched himself one. Next day the people put up that fake owl. About two days later—I was watching—that real owl came back for another chicken. I saw him dive. Saw him catch sight of that fake owl.”
“What happened?” Poppy asked. Then she held her breath.
“That owl put on his air brakes so fast he flipped right over himself. Must have been scared silly,” the cat said with a mostly toothless grin. “Funniest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ll tell you, that was the last time I’ve seen that owl around here.” The cat closed his eyes. “Mighty funny,” he murmured.
Poppy could hardly keep from grinning. “Nice talking to you, George,” she said.
“Have a nice day.” The old cat sighed and resumed his snoring.
Poppy all but skipped back to the cornfield. Despite her excitement in proving the barn owl was fake, she made herself settle down and think things through carefully.
The owl was fake, but Mr. Ocax believed it was real. Afraid of an image of himself, he was probably fearful that he would no longer be the one to rule over the mice. But—according to Ereth—Mr. Ocax was not really a ruler. That was a lie, just as it was a lie that he was protecting the mice from porcupines, whom he actually feared himself. In fact, the owl was full of fears!
Suddenly a whole new idea burst upon Poppy. Was it possible that Mr. Ocax’s claim that he was protecting mice was merely his way of getting to eat them? The notion was astounding. But the more Poppy thought about it, the more it seemed to be so. It certainly explained things. That is, Mr. Ocax’s refusal to give permission for the mice to move to New House had nothing to do with what she and Ragweed had done. He had refused because he did not want the mice to know how fearful he was of losing his dinners!
But if that was true, then the mice could come to New House whether Mr. Ocax liked it or not. It was not for Mr. Ocax to decide where they lived but for the mice themselves! And oh, irony, if the family moved to New House, the fake owl would protect them.
Poppy was so sure she had found the truth that she stood up on her hind legs, leaped into the air, and kicked her heels twice. When she landed, she collapsed into a soft heap and allowed herself a great sigh of contentment. With that, she closed her eyes, and fell into a deep sleep. What a day!
As Poppy slept, Mr. Ocax flew in to settle on a branch along the edge of Dimwood. From deep within the foliage he stared furiously at the owl on the barn.
CHAPTER 17
A Surprising Conversation
POPPY WOKE REFRESHED. For a moment she just lay still, luxuriating in her discoveries. She imagined telling her family what a phony Mr. Ocax was. What a delicious moment. Yes, it was time to return home.
Realizing that she was very hungry, Poppy first treated herself to a big meal, eating only the plumpest corn kernels. Hadn’t she deserved them?
Gradually she ate her way over to the dirt road that ran alongside Dimwood Forest. With her mouth full and her belly tight, she gazed across at the wall of pine and fir. She had feared it before. Now, knowing it, she recalled only its dark beauty, its deep fascination.
The forest made her think of Ereth and her promise. How was she going to get him the salt? She still had no idea. Then and there she vowed that once she got home, she would return, maybe this time with cousin Basil. Perhaps the two of them could find a way.
Poppy thought about Mr. Ocax, too. Wouldn’t it be fun to tell him what she had discovered? The image of it made her grin. The liar! The bully! It was while she was thinking about him that she spied him.
Mr. Ocax was perched deep within the foliage on a small tree right by the edge of the forest. If it had not been for the slanting rays of the sun, Poppy might never have noticed. It was the light of his glowing
eyes that caught her attention.
Poppy crept forward. When she came near the row of corn closest to the forest, she looked up again.
A moody Mr. Ocax was staring at the barn across the field. He kept moving his head about, back, forward, side to side, hissing and clacking his beak. Sometimes his black talons kneaded the branch with nervous tension. At other times he ruffled his feathers, lifted his wings, let his head sink lower. Poppy could tell he was miserable, sulking.
She had to marvel at how different he appeared from the time she’d seen him on his watching tree in the rain. All that glaring and hissing. He’s just a frightened bully! she said to herself with jubilation. She had to slap a paw over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. What fun it would be to humiliate him. Just the idea of it brought a feeling of power.
Unable to resist teasing him, she called out, “Mr. Ocax!”
The owl, taken by surprise, looked up, down, around.
“Here!” Poppy cried. “In the corn. It’s me, Poppy.”
Mr. Ocax hunched over and peered in her general direction. “Show yourself,” he said harshly.
“I’ll stay where I am, thank you,” Poppy returned. Wedged in as she was among the cornstalks, she felt totally secure. She knew he could not reach her there.
“Mr. Ocax,” she called, “is it the owl on that barn you’re looking at?”
“What’s it to you?” he growled.
“You’re frightened of it, aren’t you?” Poppy said.
Mr. Ocax opened his beak, but no sound came out. Instead, he kept peering into the corn.
Poppy said, “It’s awful to be frightened, isn’t it?”
“What did you say?”
“I said, it’s not fun being frightened, is it?”
To this Mr. Ocax said nothing.
“I could tell you a little something about that owl,” Poppy called, feeling altogether giddy with her knowledge.
“What is . . . that something?” the owl asked.
“Want to talk about it?” Poppy offered, suppressing a giggle. “Well, I might as well say it to you—I’m going to tell my family.”
Mr. Ocax shifted uncomfortably on his perch. “I’ll talk,” he said. Then he added, “But we could talk more easily if I could see you.”
To Poppy’s ears, the owl’s tone had shifted. It was not nearly so hostile as it had been. Was she only imagining that? Should she trust him? But even as she asked herself that question, she thought, Oh, the look on his face when I tell him that the bird he’s so frightened of is nothing but a fake! Aloud, she called, “Would you really like to talk about it with me?”
“Yes, I would,” replied Mr. Ocax. “You seem to be a very smart mouse.”
Poppy blushed. No one had ever called her smart before. This, she had to admit, was a very different side to Mr. Ocax from what she had known. Ragweed, in his way, had challenged him. As for her father, he had been very timid in his approach. Perhaps the owl would respect someone who stood up to him politely but firmly. “Do you really think I’m smart?” she inquired.
“I certainly do,” the owl said. “Yes, perhaps the two of us should just sit down and talk. The two smart ones. Maybe we can work something out.”
Poppy felt a stirring of excitement. Here she was, Poppy, talking in a perfectly reasonable way with the great Mr. Ocax. It was she, with her new knowledge, who had gained power. Perhaps, instead of humiliating him, she could work things out reasonably so the mice could move to New House. Wouldn’t that be a trophy to bring home! So thinking, she moved from her hiding place a little onto the dirt road.
“Yes,” Mr. Ocax said soothingly, “let the two of us talk things over. I should think we could find some reasonable solutions.”
“All right,” said Poppy. Boldly she stepped farther out on the road. She looked up. Mr. Ocax was gone. “Where are you?” she cried. At that moment the owl plunged down upon her from behind.
CHAPTER 18
The Battle
RAGWEED’S EARRING SAVED HER. So powerful, so swift was Mr. Ocax’s descent that he pushed a wave of air before him and caused the earring to flutter. The flutter felt like the tap of a tiny finger on Poppy’s ear. She felt it and whirled. At the last possible second she saw the owl coming and made a leap to safety.
The next moment, however, she realized she had made a terrible mistake. She had leaped, not back among the corn, but farther onto the open road.
Mr. Ocax was now on the ground, blocking her way to the field. She spun toward the forest. In a second the owl was up in the air and down on the other side. Once again he had blocked her way.
“Not so smart as all that, are you?” he sneered. “Well, I don’t compromise with what I want,” he told her. “And what I want is you never getting home alive.” He made a sudden darting movement to the left. Poppy jumped to the right, but Mr. Ocax was ahead of her. Just as quickly he shifted back toward her, so that Poppy was forced to halt herself clumsily. There she stood, flat-footed, panting, not sure which way to go.
The owl, towering over her, laughed. “I told you what would happen if I caught up with you again, didn’t I? But this time you won’t have that fat porcupine to help you.” So saying, he made a snap at her with his beak.
Mr. Ocax’s mention of Ereth was the reminder Poppy needed. She reached down and yanked the quill from her sash, then held it before her like a sword.
At first Mr. Ocax blinked. Then he snickered. “You don’t think one of his quills is going to stop me, do you?”
“That owl on the barn,” Poppy panted between hard breathing, “is just a fake! You’ve been frightened by a fake owl!”
Mr. Ocax’s beak dropped open. He hesitated. In that moment Poppy sensed she could have gotten away. But she could not resist another taunt. “You’re not an owl, you’re a chicken!” she cried in triumph.
For an instant the two of them, owl and mouse, confronted each other. Then a look of terrible rage passed across the owl’s face. Poppy knew then she’d made another blunder. She’d lost her momentary chance of escape. Now there was nothing he’d not do to kill her. She would have to fight him.
Trembling, she flourished the quill. In response, Mr. Ocax spread his wings, then beat down hard with them upon the road. They threw up a cloud of dust.
It was hard for Poppy to breathe, much less see. She took a step back, only to hear a sound behind her. Confused, she turned. Hidden by the dust, Mr. Ocax had overleaped the road. Once again he was behind her. From there he made a slash at her with his beak. Poppy struck out with her quill.
Seeing the quill and realizing the danger to his eyes, the owl pulled back. He glared at Poppy. He snapped his beak.
Poppy stared back grim-faced, gasping for breath, waving the quill before her.
“If it takes the whole night, I’ll wear you down,” Mr. Ocax hissed. “All it takes is one mistake on your part. Then you’re done. Finished.” He made a forward feint. Poppy danced nimbly back.
Mr. Ocax struck again. This time it was not with his beak but with his talons.
Poppy, quill up, dodged the talons with a quick side step, but she knew her only hope was to get into the corn and hide. Otherwise, the owl would overpower her.
Making sure of her footing, she began to back toward the forest. Just as she had hoped, Mr. Ocax leaped up and landed between her and the trees. It was then that she raced for the corn.
Mr. Ocax was just as fast. Grasping her strategy, he barely touched earth when he took a flying hop forward to block her way.
He advanced wildly now, snapping and snarling. In response, Poppy slashed wildly with her quill. Once she struck out at the owl’s face but only hit his feathers. But though the blow glanced off harmlessly, it served to infuriate him.
Mr. Ocax, closing in, darted his head in and out, side to side. Poppy was bewildered. Then the owl turned briefly away from her. In a flash, she made a successful rolling dive under his wing. She was behind Mr. Ocax at last, on the corn side of the road. She started to r
un. He turned his head in a complete half circle, saw her, and spun his whole body about, his right wing extended full length. The wing tip struck Poppy a glancing blow to her head. Down she tumbled and landed on her back in the dust.
Seizing his advantage, Mr. Ocax pounced, beak open, tongue out, hissing. Poppy whipped the air with the quill. The tip of it pricked the owl’s tongue. He screamed in rage, and reeled back.
Poppy had just time enough to regain her feet. Once more she faced him, quill at the ready.
Mr. Ocax, stung, pressed forward now this way, now that, head bobbing, weaving, viciously snapping with his beak.
Increasingly exhausted, Poppy was forced to give ground. She crumpled to her knees. It was the moment the owl had been waiting for. With a powerful kick, he thrust his left claw—talons spread wide—at Poppy’s head.
Poppy saw the claw coming. Using all of her strength to grip the quill, she held it up with both paws to protect herself, and jabbed it into Mr. Ocax’s claw as it came down.
The owl gave a great squawk, fell back, and began to roll about violently. Fearful of losing the quill—her only weapon—Poppy pulled on it with all her might. But the barbs had caught. She could not get the quill loose. She was being dragged and bumped along.
Mr. Ocax, screeching and flapping his wings wildly, flailed into the air. Before Poppy knew what was happening, she, too, was in the air. She did tell herself to let go of the quill, but by the time the thought was whole, it was too late. To drop from the height Mr. Ocax had already reached meant a fall to certain death. There was nothing to do but hang on.
Mr. Ocax, squawking, hissing, flew like one possessed. Up, down, and around he went, making loops and stalling dives, climbing and twisting, anything and everything to work the quill from his claw. But the more he flexed and twisted, the more the barbs worked themselves into his claw, causing ever more excruciating pain. Poppy hung on.