Promising to return quickly, she made her way to the ground surface. The storm was over. Though dusk had fallen, the air had turned muggy. Poppy sat back against the boulder and looked out.
To the west a lush band of pink and purple layered the sky. Eastward a pale yellow moon had begun its climb. Fireflies punctuated the growing darkness with sparks of light, as if night itself had a bright pulse.
As Poppy remained sitting quietly, looking at nothing in particular, she thought of Ereth with a pang. She had not returned to him. Then she reminded herself how unusually grumpy he’d been. She thought, too, of his repeated statements about his preference for being alone. Poppy decided she’d stay at the mouse nest for the night. Ereth could wait.
Putting her friend out of her mind, Poppy was glad to give herself over to thoughts of Rye. She wondered where he had gone. She had little doubt as to why he’d left the nest: It was her words about Ragweed, how she had loved him and had all but married him. The distress upon Rye’s face as she told the tale was as easy to see as the sun in a cloudless sky.
And yet, Poppy mused, Ragweed was no more. To speculate about what might have been was useless. Poppy reminded herself that she had taken this trip as a way of bringing an end to that part of her life. That had been achieved. Even as she gently touched Ragweed’s earring, aware how restless she was to start life anew.
In fact, she thought with a bolt of boldness, she knew she wanted to share the rest of her life with Rye.
Sighing, Poppy looked down toward the pond. Even as she did, she saw a beaver haul himself out of the water, give himself a shake—sending a spray of water in all directions—then proceed to waddle clumsily uphill, right in her direction.
Poppy grew alarmed. She had never met a beaver before. Having heard angry accounts about them from the mice, she was not inclined to like them. She could see that, compared to her, they were enormous. Moreover, the approaching beaver’s huge buck teeth—brilliant orange in color—seemed positively fierce.
Dimly she recalled that beavers and mice were related, second cousins twice removed, or something like that. At the moment she didn’t feel related, only very small.
The beaver drew near. He had a distinct musky smell.
Poppy, not sure what to do, glanced around to make sure that, just in case the beaver meant her harm, she wasn’t trapped.
When they were about four feet apart, the beaver halted.
“How you doing, sweetheart? The name is Caster P. Canad. All my friends call me Cas. As the philosopher said, a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met. What’s your name?”
“Poppy.”
“Nice, sweetheart, very nice. You’re just the one I wanted to talk to.”
“Me?” Poppy said.
“You live under that boulder you’re sitting against, don’t you?”
“Well, not really,” Poppy started to explain. “I’ve only just—”
“Hey, save your breath, sweetheart,” Mr. Canad interrupted. “I know all about it. You used to live somewhere else, and you’ve come up here recently.”
“Actually . . .” Poppy tried to interject.
“Now, unless I’m holding the stick by the wrong end—and I rarely do—there’s a mouse by the name of Rye who lives here, too. Did I hit the nail on the head?”
Poppy started. “Rye? Yes, he does live here.”
“Good. I like coming to the point. I play hardball and call a spade a spade.”
“Is something . . . the matter with Rye?” Poppy stammered.
“Rye? The kid’s as fit as a fiddle. Right as the rain. A-1 okay,” Mr. Canad assured her. “Except he broke into our lodge . . .”
“Broke in!”
“Hey, I’m giving it to you straight. You heard me right. He broke in where he had no business breaking in. I mean, a beaver’s lodge is his castle. That Rye is head over heels in trouble.”
“Trouble!” Poppy cried, unable to do more than echo what she was hearing. “What kind?”
“Off the cuff, shooting from the hip, taking the fast lane, I’d have to say Rye is violent. But don’t worry, he’s perfectly safe in a cage I built in my main lodge.” He pointed to one of the mounds in the pond. “Right there.”
“But . . . that’s awful!” said Poppy, staring at the lodge.
“You took the words right out of my mouth. He shouldn’t have done it,” Mr. Canad said. “Now, sweetheart, I’m talking on the up and up. We’d like to build a dam right here on this spot. Expand Canad’s Cute Condos. Anchor it to that boulder. To make a long story short, it would be better for everybody if you all moved. Do it in two shakes of a beaver’s tale—with no fuss—and you’ll see Rye again, no worse for wear.”
“But . . .”
“’Course, if you don’t move . . .”
“Then what?” Poppy cried.
“Look here, sweetheart, let’s just say, I don’t want to beat around the bush. It’s a matter of life or death. The choice is all yours. This is a free country.”
“But what if . . . we don’t move?” Poppy cried.
“Well, sweetheart, I’ll be honest with you: I hope that doesn’t happen. Because, if you don’t go, I’m afraid your pal will have met his Waterloo. Sink or swim. Because your new home will be flooded, too. Some of your youngsters might drown. Naturally, that would upset my family so much—filled to the brim with anger, you know—I can’t say what they might do to Rye. Hope I’m not boring you, but the decision is yours. Remember, we don’t want to force anything on you.
“Anyway, nice talking with you, sweetheart. And have a nice day. I mean that, sincerely.”
With that Mr. Canad turned and began to waddle back down toward the pond.
Poppy, finding it hard to take in all she had heard, stared after him. Her first reaction was to go racing after the beaver, tell him what she thought of him, and make him release Rye instantly. But Mr. Canad, as if knowing what Poppy was thinking, gave a great slap of his broad tail, sending out a resounding thump that shook the earth.
So instead Poppy remained where she was, watching the beaver go into the pond and swim off. Only then did she race down the entryway to Clover and Valerian’s nest.
CHAPTER 17
To Help Rye
“I’VE FOUND OUT where Rye is!” Poppy shouted as she burst into the nest. “The beavers in the pond have caught him. They told me they won’t let him go—or worse—unless you all move from this nest!”
The announcement brought stunned silence. It was followed by an eruption of squeaking, squealing, and talking. Clover put paws to either side of her head and cried, “It’s too much!”
Valerian muttered, “I don’t think I can take any more. No, I don’t think I can.” This seemed to give permission for the younger children to go out of control.
They raced around in circles, shouting, “It’s too much. It’s too much.” Older children huddled in a corner and kept saying such things as, “This is so awful.”
The chaos continued until Valerian, standing tall, cried, “Quiet, please.”
The nest stilled.
“Poppy,” Valerian said, “how do you know about this?”
Poppy repeated her conversation with Mr. Canad, concluding with the beaver’s threat that if the mice did not move, Rye would remain a captive. “Or, they might do worse,” she said.
Clover opened her black eyes wide. “What do you mean . . . worse?” she asked.
“I think the beaver was threatening to . . . harm Rye.”
“Now why,” Valerian cried with exasperation, “did the boy have to go off and do such a thing?”
“I bet,” Thistle injected boldly, “he just wanted to show everybody he was as good as Ragweed, that’s why.”
Thistle’s comment made Poppy look down at her toes.
“That’s great,” Valerian exclaimed with a rare show of anger. “If that’s what he intended then he’s made things worse for himself and us.”
Valerian’s words threw the nest into anoth
er uproar. Everyone was talking at once and to no particular purpose.
Clover’s small, shrill voice rose above the clamor. “My dear family,” she cried, “we can’t take this kind of life anymore. We need to find peace. I think we’d better move out of this area entirely and start over again. Let the beavers have the Brook.”
Poppy hardly knew what to say, other than to feel that in some way she was responsible for what had happened. “But,” she offered timidly, “isn’t there anything we can . . . do?”
“Do?” Valerian returned, eyes full of anguish. “Poppy, I tried to compromise with them. They would have none of it. Clover’s right. If we’re to preserve this family, we’ve little choice.”
“I’m sorry,” Poppy murmured.
“Miss Poppy,” Clover said, her voice shrill with tenseness, “you’ve been kind enough to come here and bring us the sad news about Ragweed. Rye is our problem. Not yours. You must let us handle things our own way.”
“But Clover,” Poppy replied as gently as she could, “I’m not sure that even if you do leave they’ll let Rye go.”
“But you said that Mr. Canad promised he’d release Rye when we move,” Clover cried. “What choice do we have but to trust them?”
“Clover is right,” Valerian agreed. “It’s the family we need to protect. There’s little more to be said.”
With that the mice began to scurry about, putting their possessions in order. It did not take long for Poppy to realize how much in the way, how much of an outsider, she was. Mortified, but not wishing to intrude any more than she already had, she crept from the nest.
Night had come. The moon’s reflection lay upon the pond’s surface like a tarnished spot of gold. Poppy could make out the islands and lodge tops, surrounded by dark water.
She thought about Rye. Just to think of him languishing in the beaver’s lodge gave her pain. And longing. She sighed out loud.
“Don’t worry,” came a voice right behind her. “It’s not your fault.”
Poppy turned. It was Thistle. “You shouldn’t take it personally,” Thistle went on. “Our family has been having a bummer summer.”
“I know.”
The two mice sat silently side by side.
“But I bet,” Thistle said after a while, “I know why Rye did it.”
“Do you?” Poppy said with some hesitation. “Why?”
“Poppy,” Thistle asked shyly, “did you know Rye before you came here?”
“A little. How did you know?”
“Well . . .” Thistle said, too bashful to face Poppy directly, “it was when you were talking about Ragweed. When you first came. I noticed the way you two looked at each other. Rye acted as if he was going to die. You didn’t look so great, either.”
Poppy turned toward the pond and gazed at the big lodge. “Then it is my fault he’s where he is,” she said.
“Poppy . . . ?” Thistle said.
“What?”
“You didn’t make Rye do it. He went on his own. He’s not your responsibility. Don’t do anything weird.”
“I won’t,” Poppy replied.
“You all right?” Thistle asked, touching Poppy gently.
“Well, yes,” Poppy replied. “I just need to be alone.”
“Okay,” the young mouse said, and she slipped back down into the nest.
Left to herself, Poppy allowed the darkness to give her solace. Without thinking about what she was doing, she meandered down to the pond.
“If I could only tell Rye that . . .” she paused. With a jolt, Poppy recalled that she had yet to have so much as one conversation with the mouse. And yet, and yet, she seemed to have had so many! It was so—extraordinary!
Poppy reminded herself that she didn’t need to be with Rye. After all, she had spent her whole life—six months—without him. Yet she wanted to be with him. It was hard to sort out the difference.
When she reached the water’s edge, Poppy gazed out at the beaver lodges, trying to recall in exactly which one Mr. Canad had said Rye was being held. When she was sure she had located the right one she just stared at it. Knowing she was a bit closer to Rye gave her comfort. She wished she were a good swimmer.
She meandered along the shore of the pond, looking for nothing in particular but hoping some idea would come. When she came upon a splinter of wood she picked it up and balanced it in her paws. “Make a good paddle,” she mused.
The moment she had that thought, she knew exactly what she was looking for: a piece of wood to use as a raft. With it she could float over the pond and get to Rye—somehow.
Clutching the would-be-paddle tightly, Poppy began a search. Near the stump of a chewed-down tree she found a thin, wide chip of wood. A raft.
Pushing and pulling, Poppy worked the wood chip to the water’s edge, then set it afloat. The chip rode the water easily. Poppy leapt aboard. The chip wobbled but soon steadied itself. She was afloat.
CHAPTER 18
To the Lodge
USING HER WOOD splinter as a paddle, Poppy pushed off from the shore. The raft lurched erratically until she found a way to balance it. Then, from a kneeling position, she dipped the paddle into the dark waters and began to propel herself across the pond.
Repetitious cricket sounds tickled the air. From somewhere a fox barked. A night bird called. A frog croaked. Above, the spread of stars made Poppy think of a field of bright, scattered seeds. The moon seemed to be as adrift as she.
She gazed around, trying to get her bearings, trying to recall where the main lodge was. From the middle of the pond everything seemed different.
The moonlight did allow her to make out the humps of lodges as well as islands. They seemed all alike now. She had no idea which way to go.
Poppy paddled some more, moving farther over the pond. Knowing she had to go somewhere, she chose at random, and headed for one of the islands.
From out of the darkness she heard a splash. Coming unexpectedly, it made her jump. The next moment her raft began to rock wildly. Only by holding on tightly did she manage to keep from tumbling off.
When the waters calmed she strained to look through the darkness to determine what had caused the sound. She saw nothing. What if it were a beaver? Poppy wondered. Would it see her?
Dimly, she made out an island to her left. Its small size drew her. It would be easy to search. But after Poppy took a few more strokes, the little island seemed to have moved. Not quite believing what her eyes were telling her, Poppy stared hard. Sure enough, even as she looked, the island shifted again.
She gave a few more tentative paddle strokes. Suddenly the island moved and . . . raised its head. Poppy gasped. It was a beaver. She had almost paddled right into it.
Then to her right, there was another swell of water and a second beaver broke the pond’s surface. Poppy was between them. It was the darkness that hid her.
“That you, Judy?” asked the newcomer.
“It’s me,” grunted the first. “Who’s that?”
“Me. Joe.”
“What you doing?”
“Taking a swim to cool off, the lodge is hot.”
“Yeah. Hard to sleep. Hey, did you see that mouse?” Judy asked.
“The one Cas caught?” said the beaver named Joe. “I was sleeping right next to his cage. What about him?”
“What a pain,” Judy said.
“If it were up to me, I’d just give him a swat with the old tail.”
“Hey, you know Cas. ‘Progress Without Pain.’”
“Right, sure,” Joe said. “I’m going back.”
“Okay.”
“See you.”
The beaver named Joe swam off. Poppy paddled after him as hard as she could.
Abruptly he dove beneath the water. Poppy waited and watched for him to resurface. When he didn’t, she understood what had happened: The beaver must have gone into the lodge through an underwater passage.
She scrutinized the area. Sure enough, a large mound stuck out of the water nearby. Sh
e paddled until she bumped against it, then deftly leapt from her raft to the lodge. The movement inadvertently kicked the raft away. She made a grab for it, but the wood chip had already floated out of reach.
Resigned to being where she was, Poppy took a careful look around. The lodge was a mass of sticks, twigs, logs, leaves, and vines, tightly woven together and cemented with mud. It made her think of an upside-down bird’s nest.
Somewhere, inside, was Rye.
Her sense of urgency renewed, Poppy returned to the water’s edge and wondered if she had the courage to swim down and find the lodge’s entryway. When she reminded herself what a bad swimmer she was, she began to crawl about the lodge. She had to find a way to get in.
It was at the very top of the lodge, while prying and poking amid the mud and sticks, that she discovered a hole. When she put her nose over it, she was certain she detected a flow of air—and the distinct smell of beaver—or at least of Mr. Canad. A vent hole, perhaps.
Upon examining the hole closely, she found it was big enough for her to crawl through. Perhaps it could lead her inside. Nervous, she crept in, head first. The hole was pitch black and slimy, with a sickening stench of rotting mud. It was hard to hold on.
After going down a few inches she paused. How long is this hole? she asked herself. Will I be able to get out fast if I have to? What’s going to be at the end of it? Do I really want to do this? She answered herself in one word: Rye. She had to get to Rye.
She went on. To keep from falling, she pressed her paws tightly against the slippery sides. Down she went. It seemed endless.
As it happened, she was concentrating so hard, she came to the end of the hole without realizing she’d reached it. Catching herself just in time, she peered down into the lodge.
Such light as there was came from the occasional flashing glow of fireflies. At first Poppy thought she was looking at nothing but lumpy earth. Only gradually did she see that right below her was a room full of sleeping beavers. She gasped. There were so many! Some lay on their backs. Chins up, their teeth seemed to glow like burning embers. Some beavers were flopped over others. Others lay on their bellies, tails occasionally flipping and flapping like loose flags. In their restless sleep they kept shifting about, moaning, grunting, and growling. It was as if a large mass of mud had come seethingly alive.