CHAPTER 13
What Happened to Rye?
AS RYE HAD LISTENED to Poppy speak about Ragweed, he hardly knew what to think. He was confused. He was upset. He felt humiliated. Ragweed was always getting in his way. He had done so when he was alive. Now he was doing so even after he had died.
And yet . . .
Rye knew perfectly well that Ragweed’s death was awful. Truly, he felt terrible about it.
And yet . . .
From the moment he had begun his dance on the meadow with this graceful mouse—this one named Poppy—he had fallen in love with her. He hoped—and thought—she felt something of the same for him. But now that she had discovered that he was Ragweed’s brother—and admitted she loved Ragweed!—surely there was no hope for him.
And yet . . .
He found himself thinking that perhaps, now that Ragweed had died, Poppy might turn to him.
And yet . . .
Rye felt deeply ashamed of himself. How self-centered and selfish he was! Such horrible thoughts! How low! How bad! Poppy would never be able to see anything decent in him.
But the very next moment he thought, “I’m not a bad mouse! I’m not!”
It was with these thoughts that Rye raced from the nest. He did not go far. He could not outrun his feelings. More importantly, he did not want to go away from this deer mouse, this Poppy.
He found himself at the edge of the beavers’ pond. It was raining steadily, monotonously. The world looked the way he felt, gray and sodden. Moreover, except for him, everything seemed immense. He was nothing but a small, bad, useless mouse.
Hunkering down, consumed by the sensation that the whole world despised him, Rye shivered with wet and cold.
“Is there any place in this wide world for such a wretch as I?” he asked himself. Simultaneously, he darted a look over his shoulder to see if, just possibly, someone—he dared not say who—had followed him. When he saw that no one had, he was angry he’d even checked.
A mournful Rye gazed down at the pond. A mist was rising off the water as if it were smoldering. A few beavers were hard at work. Suddenly Rye saw that the pond was much higher than it had been before.
Anger swept through him. How he hated the beavers. Yet there they were, making the dam higher, even as misery rained down on his head. Had they no feelings? Would they never stop?
As he looked on, Rye began to have an idea. If he could find some way to put an end to what the beavers were doing, might not he in some way redeem himself? Surely, if he kept them from building the dam higher, or—better yet—forced them to move away, he would become a hero to his family. He and he alone would defeat them! Why, even Poppy might see him as different from Ragweed then!
Rye surveyed the pond. The beavers’ main lodge was not far from the dam. He remembered his father telling him that the way the beavers got into the lodge was by swimming through an underwater passage. If he could get into the lodge, he might . . . Actually, Rye was not at all sure what he might do. He supposed he would think of something once in the lodge. The main thing was to get there. Surely he could do that. Like all his brothers and sisters, he was a good swimmer.
Rye raced down to the edge of the pond.
The beavers’ dam was built where the Brook had narrowed out a V in the land. The dam—made of twigs, branches, and logs plastered over with mud—was some twenty feet across and three feet wide. By going out along the dam he would be that much closer to the lodge.
But when Rye reached one end of the dam, a beaver was working on it. He had brought up a heap of mud and dumped it, and was now using his tail to smooth it down.
Though impatient, Rye bided his time. One whack of the beaver’s tail—not to mention what he could do with his teeth—and Rye would be crushed.
The beaver on the dam gave some final pats to the mud, surveyed his work, uttered a few grunts, moved ponderously toward the edge of the dam, then dove into the water and swam away.
Rye crawled out upon the dam, his way impeded by the twigs and branches which were crisscrossed and bent in all directions. By the time he got near the lodge he was caked with mud and bits of leaves.
Not caring how he looked, Rye crept down as close to the water as possible. There he hesitated. Then an image of Poppy rose in his mind’s eye. If he could succeed, he would be a hero. Holding his nose with one paw, Rye jumped into the water, tail first.
He landed with a splat, momentarily floundered, then righted himself. Shaking his eyes and whiskers free of water, he began to swim toward the lodge.
Three feet from the lodge, he paused and began to tread water. He had reached the most difficult part: the entrance.
Suddenly he realized he had no notion where—other than underwater—the entry hole might be. It could be on the side he was, or opposite. He would have to try his luck.
Filling his lungs with air, he let himself drop down and began to swim underwater.
It had been gray on the water’s surface. It was much darker below. Before him the lodge loomed like a shadowy lump. It sat upon the bottom of the pond and rose up, a huge dome. Enormous. Impenetrable.
Stroking steadily, Rye pushed on, a trail of tiny bubbles escaping from his clenched mouth. Gradually, he began to make out what appeared to be a dark hole. Was that the entryway?
Lungs close to bursting, Rye had to make a decision. If he guessed wrong, he would drown. “At least I tried,” he told himself. “Farewell, Poppy,” he murmured. “Farewell, love. Farewell world!”
Kicking hard, paws madly stroking the water, he propelled himself into the hole. The moment he did so everything turned as dark as a night without a moon.
Rye was no longer trying to get into the lodge. He was struggling to save his life. His strokes were wild, his kicks frenzied.
Unable to endure any more, he shot up—and found air. Gasping for breath, he waved his paws feebly to keep afloat and slowly moved toward a ledge of slippery mud. Reaching it, he clawed his way up, falling back a few times, finally heaving himself up on the slimy shelf. Eyes shut, he lay there, coughing and spitting water.
He opened his eyes.
He was in the lodge. A few feet away sat an enormous beaver. The beaver was looking right at him.
“Well, bless my teeth and smooth my tail,” Mr. Canad said with a smile full of orange teeth. “Glad you came, pal. A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met. Hey, and I mean that, sincerely.”
CHAPTER 14
Ereth
ERETH RAN AMONG the trees. Heart pounding, quills rattling, he tried every dodge he knew to escape—as if some great beast were pursuing him—though this beast was his own feelings. He climbed trees. He threw himself behind bushes. It made no difference. He still felt miserable. When he found an old hollow log, he plunged into it. There, surrounded by the stench of pulpy rot and moldering fungus, he hunkered down and stared out at the rain but found no relief. Never had he felt so miserable.
Gradually the storm subsided. The rain ceased. Water dripped. A gray mist, clinging to the earth, slithered through the dark trees like forbidden thoughts.
Ereth crawled out of the log and shook himself. “Take hold of yourself,” he muttered.
He headed back to the ridge in search of the cottonwood tree he had climbed when Poppy had left him. This time he found it. But when he reached it and discovered she was not there, all his desperation returned.
“Where is she?” he muttered. “Why did she leave me? What kind of friend is she, anyway? Doesn’t she know I need her? She should be here helping me!”
With that Ereth wheeled about and trundled down the path he had seen Poppy take. As he came down off the crest of the ridge he saw no sign of Poppy, only the pond where beavers were hard at work.
Ereth stared balefully at the beavers. They seemed to be working nicely together. At least they were smiling at one another. “A family,” he snarled with contempt. “A happy family.
“Crabgrass up their snoots,” Ereth snapped. “I’m going back
to Dimwood Forest.” With that he turned, galloped up the hill, and plunged among the trees again, quickly passing through them. The next moment he burst into an open area. Before him lay a sunken meadow filled with berry brambles and flowering vines.
Paying no particular mind to where he was going, Ereth hurled himself into the most clotted part of the thicket.
It was a wild jumble, with plants growing so closely together he had to push and shove his way through the tangle of bushes. He was close to the middle when he was forced to stop. He could not move. His quills, caught in brambles and vines, held him fast. He was stuck.
Though he could not move, an exhausted Ereth was glad for the rest, glad for the quiet, glad he could not go anywhere.
“I’ll stay here forever,” he sighed. “Till I die. It’s better that way. And it won’t be long, either. Poppy was right. I’m old. Very old.”
He closed his eyes and thought of home. He thought of Poppy. Momentarily, his anger rekindled. Then, grudgingly, he admitted to himself that it was he who had told her to go off by herself. Maybe her leaving him was—a little bit—his fault.
He sighed. The more he thought about her, the more he missed her. She was always so good-natured. Kind. And brave. His best friend. Perhaps he should find a way to tell her that. Someday.
With a shake of his head, he muttered, “Pickle puke,” and decided it would be better not to tell her anything. It wouldn’t do. She might make fun of him. Tease him. Call him that horrid word, old, again. Still, he might find her a seed . . . or two. He could leave them where she might find them. As if by accident. Nothing more than that. If a porcupine didn’t remain prickly what could he be? Nothing.
Ereth settled down, relieved that it was impossible for him to do anything but stay stuck. It was better that way. Much better. He didn’t have to think. Or feel . . . anything. He would just die. That, he thought, will show her!
CHAPTER 15
Rye in the Lodge
WHEN RYE HAD SWUM into the lodge he was too exhausted to offer any resistance to Mr. Canad. And by the time he did recover his strength, it was too late. The beaver had quickly constructed a cage of maple twigs and hard-packed mud, shoveled the exhausted mouse into it with his tail, then sealed the whole thing up. Rye was a prisoner.
“Well now, pal,” Mr. Canad said with his usual heartiness, “the name is Caster P. Canad. Feel free to call me Cas. What’s your name?”
Rye, wretched, gazed mournfully up at the large beaver from behind the bars of his cage. “Rye,” he said.
“Absolutely delighted to meet you, pal,” Mr. Canad enthused with a big grin. “Where do you live?”
“I used to live by the side of the Brook.”
“Moved away, did you?”
Rye’s eyes filled with angry tears. “You forced us to.”
“Me? Force you? Not me. You could have stayed.”
“We would have drowned.”
“Hey, pal, that was your choice. Life isn’t fair. No one promised you a rose garden. Take the good with the bad. The sweet with the sour. It all works out in the end.” Mr. Canad offered another toothy smile.
“Okay,” he went on, “let’s cut to the chase. What made you come here?”
Rye, glowering, looked up at the enormous beaver. “To get rid of you.”
“Hey, pal, you are the violent type, aren’t you? You make me nervous.” The beaver grinned. “Where do you live now?”
“Up by a boulder.”
“A boulder? That a fact? Exactly where?”
“On the ridge. Overlooking the pond.”
Mr. Canad’s heart fluttered. “Not, by any chance, that boulder right on the ridge that’s got a bunch of plants growing around it?”
“Yes,” Rye answered.
“Well, bless my teeth and smooth my tail!” Mr. Canad glowed. “There’s a piece of luck. Do you live alone?”
“With my whole family.”
“Your whole family!” the beaver said. “Better and better. Family man myself. I love families. This is a good day.”
Mr. Canad was thinking furiously: Here is a representative of that last mouse family. A violent type. He breaks in here. Okay. I’ll use him to persuade them to move on their own. And it would keep my reputation for “Progress Without Pain.”
“Why is it a good day?” Rye demanded, becoming alarmed. “What are you going to do to my family?”
“Hey, pal,” Mr. Canad cried. “Nothing to worry about. I haven’t the slightest intention of harming you or your family. You’ll be as right as the rain. All tip-top. As the day is long, I’m as straight as a ruler.”
Rye, staring furiously at the large beaver, said, “How can you say that when you’ve ruined everything?”
“Not everything, pal,” Mr. Canad chortled. “The sun still shines, doesn’t it? The moon glows? Admit it. Life goes on. We just changed a few things. Pal, when you stop looking at things selfishly—when you see the big picture—you’re going to have to agree that Caster P. Canad tells it like it is.
“But for now you’re going to have to excuse me while I fetch my family. We need to have a meeting to decide what to do with you.” With that Mr. Canad plunged off the ledge and swam out of the lodge by way of the entry hole.
Alone and depressed, Rye sat within the cage and clutched the twig bars listlessly. He was much angrier at himself than he was at Mr. Canad. Not only had he failed to do what he set out to do, he was sure his capture would be hard for his parents. As for Poppy, when she learned what he’d done, Rye had little doubt she’d think him a fool. And she’d be right. He was a fool.
For a while Rye tried to break the bars of his cage. He rattled them. He chewed them. But they were made of maple wood, and were too hard to cut quickly. Then he attempted digging about in the mud that held the twigs to see if that might lead to escape. That, too, proved a failure. Mr. Canad had packed it down hard. Rye had no choice but to wait and see what the beavers did with him.
He did not have long to wait. Members of the Canad family came into the lodge and examined him.
“Isn’t he nasty,” one said.
“What a little, puny fellow he is,” another said.
“I wonder what he expected to do to us,” a third said with a giggle. “He’s so weak!”
Rye, sulking, shrank into a corner of his cage.
Mr. Canad, standing next to the cage, called his company to order.
“Once in a blue moon,” he began, “beavers find themselves placed to do great things. But if big things are to be done, Caster P. Canad and Co. will be the one to do them.”
“Hear, hear!” murmured one of the beavers.
“Way to go, Cas,” said another.
“All right, then,” Mr. Canad continued. “We’re ready to move forward and expand Canad’s Cute Condos into something grander. How about a lake?”
“Wow!”
“Fantastic!”
“Too cool!”
Beaming, Mr. Canad went on. “’Course, we’ll call it Lake Canad. Here are the plans.” He gestured toward the drawing on the bark.
“To make this lake, we’ll need to put in a dam over by this boulder here. Turns out there’s a mouse family living under that same boulder. Okay, we could just go ahead and build. They would be flooded out.
“But that’s not our way, is it? Canad and Co. has a reputation for being sensitive. It’s important to keep that notion afloat. We need those mice to leave on their own.”
There was some beating of tails.
“Okay. How are we going to persuade these mice to move? No problem. Luck comes to those who work hard. Genius is ninety percent perspiration, ten percent inspiration. Good thing I’ve got the whole one hundred percent. Now, we have a visitor. A fine young mouse.” Mr. Canad rapped on the cage. “Goes by the name of Rye. Rye and his family live right under the boulder we’ve got the old eye on.”
“Keep going, Cas,” one of the beavers called out, beating his tail on the ground.
“Okay. I??
?m going to mosey on up and have a chat with these mice. Tell them that my pal here is . . . visiting . . . with us. And,” Mr. Canad added with a toothy smile, “if they want to see him again, they’d better move on. Hey!” he said, grinning, “you know what they say: Walk softly but carry a big stick in your mouth.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me!” Rye cried out.
“Easy does it, pal. Not saying I am going to hurt you. Remember, you broke in here. You’re the violent one. I’ll just warn your folks that unless they make amends by moving away, they won’t ever see you again. Get it? It’s their free choice. And I mean that, sincerely.”
As his family applauded wildly, Mr. Canad grinned.
CHAPTER 16
Poppy Hears Some News
IT WAS QUIET in the mouse nest. In one corner Clover tended to her three youngest children. Poppy was in another corner with the older ones, including Thistle and Curleydock, telling stories about Dimwood Forest. Valerian was in the middle of the room, surrounded by children, giving them seed lessons.
“Now this kind,” he was saying, holding up a plump sunflower seed, “is particularly nourishing. And tasty. You never can go wrong with sunflower seeds. Rye and I know a particularly fine place to find them.” He paused and looked up and around. “Say, where is Rye?”
When none of the youngsters gave an answer, Valerian called out, “Anyone know where Rye is?”
Hearing the name, Poppy pricked up her ears and looked around, but said nothing. It was Thistle who called, “He went out.”
“Do you know where?”
“Nope.”
Valerian shrugged and resumed his lesson.
Poppy leaned over toward Thistle and whispered, “Do you think Rye will come back soon?”
“With Rye you never know. Poppy, please tell us some more about your forest.” Thistle had grown very fond of Poppy.
Poppy talked but soon broke off. She could not concentrate. Thoughts of Rye crowded her mind. Besides, the warm, close underground air and the crowded conditions were beginning to bother her. “I think I need some fresh air,” she announced.