“Ereth,” Poppy said, “we don’t need to have all the answers, do we? Can’t we just keep moving? We’ve got all the time we need.”
“The faster we get there, the faster we get back,” Ereth returned.
Poppy got up and started off, this time taking the lead. Ereth, muttering “Ragweed” under his breath, followed.
The two friends traveled side by side. Moving in a steady, westerly direction, speaking little, they did not stop until darkness came. They had not come upon one brook.
“I think we’d better find a place for the night,” Poppy suggested. She was quite worn out.
“When I travel, I stay in trees,” Ereth informed her.
“That’s fine with me,” Poppy assured him. “Pick out one you’d like.”
“Can’t be any tree, you know. Has to be comfortable.”
“Fine.”
“Right height.”
“Good.”
“And smell right.”
“Just choose one, Ereth!” Poppy cried.
Constantly grumbling, Ereth lumbered about the forest floor, examining every tree he passed. Poppy followed, pausing now and again to nibble seeds when she found them. It made little difference to her where she slept. As long as she was with Ereth, she was safe. Nobody wanted to mess with him or his quills.
The porcupine finally settled on a fat tamarack pine. Its branches were thick. Its smell was pungent.
Moving awkwardly from branch to branch, Ereth climbed. Poppy followed.
Halfway up the tree, Ereth came upon a particularly fat branch whose broad width at the point where it grew out of the main trunk made a platform. “I suppose this’ll do,” he said, and settled down.
“Mind if I snuggle in?” Poppy asked.
“Snuggle,” Ereth mocked. “Why don’t you just say, ‘mind if I lean on you?’”
“I prefer snuggle,” Poppy said with a grin. She settled herself between Ereth’s front paws, curled up in a ball, and took a deep, relaxing breath.
Though the air was ripe with the sticky scent of pine, Poppy detected the smell of nearby blossoms. Loving flowers of any kind, she was happy.
The night was full of noises, too. She heard the soft, padded steps of animals, the slithering of snakes, the piping of frogs, the chirping of crickets. Now and again leaves rustled in the breeze. The night is dancing, she thought.
The stars seemed so distant. How far, Poppy wondered, would she have to travel to reach one of them?
Letting slip a murmur of contentment, she nestled closer to Ereth. She was perfectly aware he was not the easiest of companions, but she loved him for the good, blunt friend he was. Besides, whether he meant it or not, he kept her mind off the sad part of this journey, the meeting with Ragweed’s parents.
So far the trip was exactly what she had wanted. She could already sense her grief easing. She was convinced that once she saw Ragweed’s parents and delivered her doleful news—and his earring—she would be able to return home and get on with her life. The thought soothed her. She began to drift off to sleep.
Ereth broke the silence. “Poppy,” he growled, “when you tell Ragweed’s parents what happened to him, I won’t be around.”
“Oh, why?” Poppy said with a yawn.
“Because it’s just family fripple, that’s why. I hate all that garbage.”
“Ereth, you can do what you want.”
“I do,” Ereth said. “Always.”
“Fine.”
Poppy yawned again, and closed her eyes.
Then Ereth said, “It’s all those stupid feelings. Porcupines get along without that bunk.”
“Not one feeling?”
“For salt . . . maybe.”
When Poppy made no response Ereth added, “It’s better that way.”
“How come?” Poppy asked sleepily.
“Oh, chipmunk cheese. It . . . just is.”
Poppy was too tired to debate. Instead, she pondered what she might say to Ragweed’s parents, wondering if they would blame her for his death. Yawning, she placed her tail under her nose, and was soon fast asleep.
Ereth stared into the dark. “This is dumb,” he said to himself. “I never should have come. Ragweed,” he sneered. “Nothing but Ragweed. Nothing but sugared mouse slops. Phooey!”
CHAPTER 4
The Water Rises
THE BEAVERS BUILT the dam higher. Inch by inch the water rose. It licked the low banks then swallowed them whole. It crept and crawled and poked into every crevice, filling them up. It trickled along animal paths and washed them away. It sank flowers and grasses and turned them into soup. It slid between bushes and trees and drowned them, root, leaf, and branch. It made islands of low hills. It flooded nests. The water was unstoppable.
Though Clover and Valerian could observe the water rising with their own eyes, they found it hard to accept that their nest was doomed. After all, they had lived in one place for years. During that time how many storms had they weathered? How many droughts? How many cold winters? To all questions, the same answer: many.
“Why are the beavers doing this?” the children asked.
“Be fair,” Valerian said with a catch in his throat and a harassed look on his face. “We don’t own the Brook, do we? Don’t you think beavers have as much right to live here as we do?”
“But their pond is getting huge!” one of the children objected. “It’s taking over everything!”
Valerian sighed. “Maybe I can talk to them.”
So it was that Valerian—feeling apprehensive, trying to keep his gray whiskers neat—crept down to the shore of the newly created pond.
The old brook had been surrounded by many trees. The new pond was encircled by chewed-off and jagged stumps. The old brook had been tranquil. The new pond fairly rattled with beavers hard at work. Even as Valerian stood there he heard the sound of yet another tree crashing. He winced.
“Hello!” he called out across the pond. “Can I speak to someone?”
One of the beavers paused to look around. “Hey, old timer, what’s up?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Valerian returned politely.
“Who are you?” the beaver asked.
“I . . . I live here.”
“Do you? That’s cool. What’s happening, pal?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Canad.”
“Cas? He’s probably busy, but I’ll go check.”
The beaver dove, leaving Valerian to pace nervously, tail waving in agitation.
Within moments Mr. Canad burst up to the water’s surface. “Hey, pal! Nice to see you again,” he cried out. “Don’t think I got your name.”
“Valerian.”
“Val. Right! What’s up, pal?”
“Well, sir, it’s this . . . pond you’re building.”
“Sight for sore eyes, isn’t it?” the beaver boomed.
“Well, I was just wondering . . . how . . . I mean, no one owns the Brook. So, of course, naturally, we’re obliged to share. But we . . . well, we were wondering just how . . . well . . . big you intended to make it.”
“Big?” Mr. Canad cried. “Tell you something, pal, you ain’t seen nothing yet! Talking world-class pond here. The cat’s pajamas and meow in combo. Over the top! Major league. The whole enchilada. Hey, Pal, Canad and Co. don’t do small.”
“But,” Valerian said plaintively, “if you make it too big . . . you’ll drive us folks who live here . . . away.”
“Look here, Pal,” Mr. Canad said, “I’m telling you, I’d be tickled pink to see you stay. You seem decent. Clean. Good manners. Not a troublemaker, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Great! Glad to have you around! ‘Progress Without Pain.’ That’s our slogan. But, if you have to move, well, hey, no problem. Have a great trip. Ban voyage. Hasta la sweeta. Are revor.”
“Can’t we compromise?” Valerian pleaded. “So we can both stay?”
“Pal, I’ve put quality time into that question. Comes to this: Beavers do
what beavers do. There you are: Question in, answer out. Neat as a pin. Hey, nice talking to you, pal. Appreciate it. Really do. Have a nice day! I mean that, sincerely!” he cried, and dove beneath the water.
Valerian, more discouraged than when he went, returned to the nest.
“What did they say?” his children asked.
“We have to move.”
So Valerian and Clover began a frantic search for another suitable home. It was not easy. In the best of times good nests were hard to find. Now they had waited too long. Many creatures—caught in the same predicament as they—were already gone. When the mice finally found an acceptable new home it was on a hill, cresting the ridge overlooking the new pond: a small, damp hole with a large, cold boulder for a roof.
The boulder was perched precariously atop the hill. As Valerian considered it, he worried that it wouldn’t take much to set it rolling. That brought nightmarish visions of its tumbling away in the night, leaving his children exposed.
Clover sighed. “It’ll have to do.”
“I reckon it will,” Valerian agreed, trying to hide his worries.
Neither one mentioned that fitting thirteen children into one dank, chilly nest was going to be difficult.
Yet even after they had found their new quarters, they put off moving. It was too painful. Only when water began to trickle down their long entryway and make puddles in the middle of their main room did they finally pack their belongings.
These belongings—already mildewed and sodden—were easy enough to gather and haul out of the tunnel. Much harder was the removal of their children.
“Do we have to move?” the first complained.
“But Ma!” said another. “What about my friends?”
“The water isn’t that bad,” said a third. “We can make rafts. Build a houseboat. Swim from room to room. Be cool.”
And a fourth: “Do you really, really, really, really promise we’ll come back when the water goes down?”
“Dear, dear children,” Clover said, trying unsuccessfully to keep back her tears, “we have to go.”
Of those children who still lived at home, Rye was the eldest. Like all the golden mice, he had fur of an earthy orange color, a tail that was not very long, small, round ears, and youthful, downy whiskers. He did have a small notch in his right ear, but that was the result of a childhood accident.
Rye had never left home. He claimed he stayed behind to help his parents with the youngsters. Others suggested it was because he enjoyed being the eldest—which he became once Ragweed had left.
“Rye,” Valerian said, “take yourself and some of your siblings and go search out the rest of the family. Let them know your mother and I have moved to higher ground. Tell them where.”
Rye’s chest swelled with pride that it was he who had been called upon to inform his far-flung family about what was happening.
Thistle, his by-one-litter younger sister, squeaked, “Do we have to go to everybody?” She wasn’t even sure how many brothers and sisters she had.
“Absolutely,” Valerian insisted. “All sixty-three.”
“Now do hurry, Rye,” Clover said. “It’s urgent!”
Hearing the distress in their parents’ voices, Rye, Thistle, and a younger brother, Curleydock, sped off to do as they were told.
Later that day, the family moved. When the children were all out of the nest, Clover and Valerian took one last, lingering look about their old home. Side by side, she short and plump, he tall and thin, they held paws. Suddenly, Clover said, “Valerian, what about Ragweed?”
“What about him?”
“Who’s going to tell him where we’ve gone?”
Valerian pulled his whiskers. “Clover, love, I’d say that when and if Ragweed gets back he’ll see for himself that things are changed. That’s all.”
“What do you mean if?” Clover asked tremulously.
“Just saying, if ever we had a smart child, it’s Ragweed. He’ll find us when he comes looking.”
Clover and Valerian scampered out of the nest.
Within hours their old home was entirely under water.
CHAPTER 5
Some Words Are Exchanged
THE DAY AFTER they moved, Rye, Thistle, and Curleydock crouched beneath a tangle of blackberry bushes and looked out over the pond.
“There’s one!” Rye hissed.
A fat beaver had climbed atop a particularly large mound of sticks in the pond not far from the dam. It was dumping and smoothing mud on the mound’s surface.
“That’s their main lodge,” Rye said with authority, though it was Valerian who had informed him of that fact only the day before.
“How do they get into it?” Curleydock asked. As the family went Curleydock was on the small side, and rather plump like his mother.
“There’s an underwater passageway,” Rye said. “You have to swim deep to get in there.”
“Cool,” murmured Thistle. Tall and sleek, with swept back whiskers and narrow ears, she was a good swimmer.
“It’s not cool,” Rye said sharply. “They have no right to come and just take over everything. Look what happened to our nest.” He waved a paw over the water. “Gone. You call that cool?”
Thistle shrank down. “I was just saying the beavers’ home is . . . interesting.”
“Look!” Curleydock whispered.
Three beavers had surfaced near the shore. They tumbled and turned, smacking the water with their large, flat tails.
“Big, aren’t they?” Thistle said, her voice full of awe.
“They look like they’re having fun,” Curleydock said wistfully.
“Fun!” Rye snarled under his breath. “I hate them! I’d like to give them a piece of fun!”
“When Ragweed gets back, he’ll do it,” Curleydock said. “He’s not afraid of anyone.”
“Ragweed’s gone,” Rye snapped. “Besides,” he went on, “who needs him? I’m not afraid of them.”
Thistle stared at her elder brother with wide eyes. “You mean you’d . . . talk to them?”
“No big thing,” Rye replied.
“Except Ragweed wouldn’t say he would,” Curleydock said, and snickered. “He’d just do it.”
Rye felt hot. “So would I.”
“Dare you,” his brother goaded. “Double dare.”
Rye, suddenly nervous, said, “I’ll do it if you come with me.”
“You first,” Thistle replied.
Rye considered the beavers anew.
“See,” Curleydock said. “I told you. You’re no Ragweed.”
Rye offered his brother a dirty look, then crawled out from under the berry bush. Wanting his heart not to beat so fast, he yanked his whiskers—he wished they were darker, stiffer—licked down the hair on his chest, then headed down toward the water, tail tucked between trembling legs.
Halfway to the pond, Rye halted. “You coming or not?” he called back, hoping he sounded cocky.
Thistle scampered to her brother’s side. The two checked back.
“Well?” Rye asked.
Curleydock crept forward.
The three mice inched to the water’s edge near where the three beavers were playing. The beavers paid them no attention.
“Go on, tell them what you think,” Curleydock said, giving Rye a nudge. “You know, the way Ragweed would.”
Feeling he could not back down, a jittery Rye cupped his front paws around his mouth to make himself heard. “Hey you!” he shouted.
The beavers halted their play and looked about with dripping muzzles. “Were you speaking to us?” one of them asked.
“You’re the ones who dammed our brook, aren’t you?”
The beavers exchanged looks. One of them paddled through the water until she was close to the mice.
Her orange front teeth were enormous. The three mice retreated a few steps.
“My name is Clara. Clara Canad. What’s yours?”
“Rye.”
“Something bothering you, Rye
?”
Rye took a breath. “You beavers just barged into our neighborhood and . . . and . . . took over. Ruined the Brook! Ruined the land! Ruined our nest! You’re thoughtless and greedy.”
“Hey, fellah,” Clara retorted, “making a pond is progress.”
“Progress?” Rye cried. “Progress for you, maybe. What about the rest of us? Who invited you here, anyway?”
“No one invited us,” Clara replied. “Do you mice own this brook?”
“Well . . . no.”
“There a sign posted, Reserved for Mice Only?”
“No, but . . .”
“And it’s still a free country, isn’t it?”
“I suppose . . .”
“Well, then, don’t you think we’ve got the right to build our lodges here?”
“But it’s not right!” a confused Rye cried. “You destroyed our nest!”
“Hey, sorry to hear it,” Clara returned. “There’s always a price to pay for progress.”
“But who’s paying that price?” Rye screamed. “We are! The ones who live here. You just flood, flood, flood!”
“I’d be more than happy to talk to you in a civil way,” the beaver returned, “but if all you can do is rant and rave, I’d just as soon not listen.” She turned about, and as she drew away she lifted her tail and brought it down hard and flat upon the water, sending out a great spray that thoroughly soaked the mice.
Sopping wet, the mice ran off. But not before Thistle stopped and shouted back at the beavers. “You just wait till my brother Ragweed comes home,” she cried. “He’ll fix you!”
CHAPTER 6
Rye
THE POND-SIDE meeting with the beavers had infuriated and humiliated Rye. It wasn’t only the beavers that had upset him. It was all that talk about his brother Ragweed.
Rye loved his elder brother. A lot. Admired him. Looked up to him. But if Ragweed wasn’t teasing Rye, he was lecturing him, telling him the best way to do something, saying Rye was doing something wrong. Rye chafed under such treatment. Despised it.
So there were times Rye was quite sure he hated Ragweed, too. It seemed that no matter what he did, his whole family—mother, father, brothers, and sisters—was holding Ragweed up as the best. Rye was sure they were always comparing him to Ragweed. Unfavorably. As far as Rye was concerned, it wasn’t fair. “I’m not Ragweed,” he continually reminded them. “I’m me.”