They exchanged another hug. This time they meant it.
CHAPTER 37
Heading Home
POPPY, ERETH, JUNIOR, AND MEPHITIS were moving along an animal trail deep in Dimwood Forest. They were going home.
“Scat stew with sandpaper,” said Ereth to Poppy. “How could you have a father like that?”
“Very few creatures get to choose their fathers,” Poppy reminded him.
“Or mothers,” added Junior, with a belch.
“You’re lucky anyone chose you,” returned Poppy. “Just remember, you all destroyed that house.”
“Oh, purple pretzel puppies,” said the porcupine. “It was just a mistake.”
“Just?”
“Miss Poppy,” said Mephitis. “Really. We didn’t mean it.”
“I’m sure,” said Poppy with a sigh.
“Anyway, it turned out okay,” said Junior. “They all found their own places. You heard them: they like it better this way.”
“I suppose a little privacy among families is a good thing,” agreed Poppy.
Suddenly Ereth stopped. “That reminds me,” he said, “I have to go somewhere.”
“Where?”
“To find some peace and quiet, bilge brain. If that’s all right with you?”
“Ereth, as always, you may do whatever you like.”
“Right,” muttered the old porcupine. He turned to Mephitis. “You coming, Misfit?”
“Coming where?” cried an alarmed Junior.
Mephitis looked about shyly. “Ereth said I could live with him in his log.”
“He did?” said Poppy, looking first at the skunk and then at the porcupine.
“But I’m not cleaning up after him,” said Ereth, “or feeding him, or teaching him, or taking care of him, or talking to him in any way whatsoever unless I want to. And the first time he stinks up the place or belches or says ‘freaking,’ he’s out. Gone. Done! Kaput!”
“But then,” asked Poppy, trying not to smile too broadly, “what are you going to do with him?”
Mephitis looked to Ereth. “Tell her yourself, Stink Star,” said the porcupine.
“He’s . . . going to teach me to swear,” said Mephitis.
Poppy ran over to Ereth, stood on her hind legs, and kissed him on the tip of his nose. Then she ran over to Mephitis and did the same. “Welcome to our neighborhood,” she said.
“French-fried Foos balls,” Ereth muttered. With crossed eyes focused on the tip of his nose, he plunged into the woods and was quickly lost to view. Mephitis hesitated, looked at Junior, grinned, and said, “See you later, pal.” Then he trundled after Ereth as fast as his own short legs would take him.
“Cool,” said Junior. “That means he’ll be living right next to us.”
As Poppy and Junior resumed their walk, she said, “Junior, I do have to ask you something: you’ve never said what you think of my parents.”
“Oh yeah. Well, your mother is a wilted flower. Your father is funny—but I don’t think he means to be.”
“No . . . what I mean, is, do you think . . . I’m . . . like them?”
“Do you want to be?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, you aren’t,” said Junior. “No more than I want to be like you or Papa. But I’d like to go back.”
Poppy stopped. “You would?”
“Yeah. See, there was this mouse, name of Laurel. . . .”
Poppy gazed at Junior. “What about her?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Junior, looking everywhere but at Poppy. “Sort of wicked.”
Poppy was sure his red fur turned a shade redder.
“What’s with you?” Junior asked, finally getting the courage to look at his mother.
“Ragweed Junior, have I told you recently how much I love you?”
Junior laughed. “Hey, a mouse has to do what a mouse has to do.”
“Well, I do love you!” she cried as she gave him a hug. After a moment he returned it.
CHAPTER 38
Another E-mail
To: DerridaDeconstructionCompany.com
Subject: Old Lamout Farmhouse
Went out to the old Lamout place. Bulldozer had been moved. House crushed. Mice, smelling like skunks, have turned red. They belch a lot, too. Something really weird going on there. I’d suggest you stay away—as long as there are red mice, anyway.
CHAPTER 39
Poppy’s Return
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Poppy and Junior reached the snag. Mariposa, Verbena, and Crabgrass were playing out front. Mariposa saw Poppy first. “It’s Mama! And Junior!” she cried.
In moments the rest of the family poured out of the snag and clung to Poppy, trying to pull her in as many directions as possible. Rye was there, too, standing back but grinning broadly.
“How did it go?” he called over the squeaky din.
“It was a smash!” said Junior.
Not until late that night did Poppy and Rye find a moment to be alone. It was then she told him all that had happened.
Then he asked, “Was it worth the going?”
“I suppose. But do you know the best thing about going away?” said Poppy.
“What’s that?”
“Coming home,” said Poppy. “To all of you. ’Specially you.” She took up Rye’s paw and held it.
Side by side, Poppy and Rye watched as a thin crescent moon, high in the sky, shed faint light over Dimwood Forest. The chirp of crickets counted the quiet moments.
“Rye?” said Poppy after a while.
“What?”
“I think I’m getting old.”
Rye leaned over, gave her a nuzzle, and into her ear whispered, “You’re just changing—again.”
Excerpt from Poppy and Ereth
CHAPTER 1
The Hard Winter
IT WAS A HARD WINTER in Dimwood Forest. Temperatures were low, snows deep, nights long, and the winds sharp. Most forest animals remained tucked away in their underground homes, burrows, and caves, sleeping or eating the food they had stored the summer before. It was that way, too, with Poppy and Rye, who kept close and warm deep down among the roots of their old snag, a tall, broken tree stump.
Poppy, an elderly deer mouse, had curled herself up into a plump ball of tan fur, her tail wrapped about so that it touched the tip of her pink nose. She was chatting with her husband, Rye, about some of the events of the past year: their good life together; guiding and watching their children grow and begin families of their own; her visit to her old home, Gray House; renewing acquaintances with relatives; and happy times with Ereth the porcupine.
As she talked, Rye, a golden mouse, was lying on his back, eyes closed, paws beneath his head, tail occasionally twitching. He was listening to Poppy even as he was contemplating a new poem, something about the cold winter and the past summer.
“It’s no good,” Rye said quite suddenly while coming to his feet.
“What’s no good?” asked Poppy, thinking he was referring to her talk about the family picnic last autumn.
“If I’m going to write anything decent about winter,” Rye declared, “I need to get out there and experience it.”
“It’s awfully cold,” Poppy reminded him, perfectly aware that such practical notions would make no difference to Rye, not when he was thinking about a poem. “I think there’s a storm.”
“Won’t be a moment,” said Rye, and he headed for the steps that led to ground level. When he reached the snag’s open entryway, however, the storm’s bitter cold struck with such force that it momentarily took his breath away. Not to be deterred, Rye pushed through the snow that had drifted in, and stepped outside.
It was difficult to see anything. The snow, bright and whirling, made the land indistinguishable from the sky. Even the forest trees appeared to be trembling shadows. As for sound, the only thing Rye could hear was the yowl of the wind.
“Wonderful. . . ,” he murmured, even as he shivered and stepped forward, sinking de
eply into a soft, powdery drift.
He brushed the flakes from his eyelashes, and they danced before his eyes like tiny, sparkling diamonds.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
Rye began to burrow forward with his front paws. As he tunneled into the snow, the sounds of the wind faded. The light turned a dull gray. The cold softened. It was as if he were in a cocoon made of winter.
Suddenly he halted. Embedded in the icy tunnel wall was a perfectly preserved green leaf.
“Oh my!” Rye whispered, gazing at the leaf with joy. “It’s from last summer!”
Rye remained looking at the leaf for a long while. Only when his toes started to become numb did he turn and scurry back down into the snag.
“I think I’ve got a good poem,” he announced as he returned to Poppy. “I’m going to call it ‘Ice Leaf.’” He threw himself down on his back and closed his eyes.
After a few moments he asked, “Do you have any more of your mix?”
“What mix?” said Poppy.
“That peppermint, elderberry, and honey mix. You know, for coughs.”
Poppy’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Slight tingle in the old throat,” muttered Rye, as he concentrated on his poem.
That night a fierce new storm swept in. The wind roared. The temperature plummeted. The two mice snuggled together for warmth. From somewhere far-off they heard a fox baying and an owl hooting.
Next morning, when Rye woke, his throat was very sore. He was coughing, too, coughing badly.
CHAPTER 2
Junior Brings Ereth Some News
A WEEK LATER, early morning, a mouse called Junior, his fur encrusted with snow, managed to make his way into Ereth’s smelly log. The old porcupine was sound asleep, snoring loudly.
After a moment’s hesitation, Junior patted him on the nose. “Uncle Ereth!” he said. “Wake up, please!”
Ereth opened one eye. “Who . . . who’s that?”
“It’s me, Junior. Poppy’s son.”
“Growling gingersnaps . . . it’s a bit early, isn’t it?”
“Uncle Ereth, you’re Poppy’s best friend. I’m sure you’ll want to know.”
“Want to know what?” the porcupine grumbled.
“It’s Rye—my father. Last night . . . he . . . died.”
Ereth jerked up his head. “What?” he cried. “Rye? D-dead? But . . . but he’s . . . so young!”
“Well, yes, he was.”
“Then how—?”
“You know Rye,” said Junior. “He went out into a storm looking for poetic inspiration. Stayed out too long. Developed a cough. The cough worsened and settled in his chest. A fever came on next. The fever became pneumonia. Mom nursed him tenderly, but . . . last night I’m afraid he . . . died in her paws. She wanted you to know.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Ereth.
“Thanks. Afraid I can’t talk more,” said Junior, retreating. “I need to get back to her.”
“Right. Sure.”
Alone, Ereth scratched his belly. He looked up. He looked down. He closed his eyes and then opened them. He shook his head as if something was irritating an ear or his brain. “What’s the point of living,” he muttered, “if all you do is get old and . . . die?”
Ereth recalled that Poppy’s children had gone off with spouses and had families of their own. She would be alone. “She needs me,” he announced with sudden urgency.
Quills rattling, the porcupine heaved himself up and walked unsteadily to the entrance of his log. Once there he gazed out upon the spotless white landscape. Large white flakes were drifting down with such gentleness that they blended into a soft blanket of thick silence.
Resolutely, if slowly, Ereth pushed his way through the high snowdrifts. By the time he reached Poppy’s snag, his quills were laden with snow and ice, his eyes were blurred with tears, and his black nose stung from the cold.
Since the hole through which Poppy and Rye entered the snag was too small for Ereth to get through, he had to stop. “Poppy!” he bellowed. “It’s me! Ereth! I want to tell you how badly I feel!”
After what seemed to be a long time, one of Poppy and Rye’s daughters, Mariposa, appeared.
“Oh, hello, Uncle Ereth.”
Disappointed it was not Poppy, Ereth mumbled, “Just wanted to say . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry. About Rye.”
“Well . . . thank you. It is sad.”
“Listen here; I forgot your name—”
“Mariposa.”
“I need to speak to Poppy.”
Mariposa was silent.
“You have some problem with that?” demanded Ereth.
“Uncle Ereth,” Mariposa whispered, “why don’t you come back a little later? Poppy is—”
“What?”
“She wants to be alone. Quiet. I’m sure you can understand.”
“But . . .”
“Uncle Ereth, please.”
Ereth began to say something but instead wheeled about and started back through the snow. Halfway home he paused. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been so loud, so—” He did not finish the thought.
Back in his log, Ereth shook off the snow and retreated to the far end. “I suppose I should have been softer,” he muttered as he hunkered down. “Or expressed more sympathy with . . . some . . . niceness. Dying . . . it’s so . . . stupid.” He closed his eyes and sighed.
Five days passed before Ereth went back outside. He searched and scratched about the snowy forest until he found an old pinecone that had a few remaining seeds. Clutching it in his chattering teeth, he lumbered to Poppy’s snag.
“Poppy!” he called. “Poppy!”
Though no answer came, Ereth waited until he could no longer bear the cold. Leaving the pinecone at the entryway to the snag, he stumbled home. Two days later, he returned. The pinecone was gone. But when he called for Poppy, there was still no reply.
Ereth waited a whole week before making his next visit. When he called for Poppy, still no one answered. This time Ereth did something he had never done before: he left a bit of his favorite food, salt, by her snag.
Two weeks later Ereth went back. The salt was exactly where he had left it. Ereth, who was quite capable of passing the whole of winter without speaking to another creature, was anxious.
“Poppy!” he bellowed. “I have to see you!”
Poppy appeared. Ereth stared at his friend. She was thin. Her whiskers drooped. Her eyes seemed dull. She kept rubbing her forepaws together as if they were cold. “Yes, Ereth,” she said, speaking softly. “Can I help you?”
“I just wanted . . . to . . . say . . . I’m really sorry. About Rye.”
“Yes. Thank you. It’s . . . hard.”
“I left . . . some things.”
“The pinecone. That was very kind. As for the salt . . . I’m afraid I don’t really care for salt. Why don’t you take it back? I know how much you love it.” Poppy’s voice was so low, Ereth could barely hear her words.
“I just . . . thought,” Ereth stammered, “we might do . . . something to—”
“Ereth,” said Poppy, “I need to be alone for a while.”
“How come?”
“I’d . . . like to spend some time reading Rye’s poetry,” she said. Eyes welling with tears, she hastily turned and disappeared from view.
Ereth stared at the salt. Though just to look at it made him salivate, he was not going to take it back. As far as he was concerned, it belonged to Poppy. But otherwise the porcupine had no choice. He felt compelled to respect Poppy’s wishes.
“Dancing doorknobs,” he muttered as he trudged back home to his log. “I’m supposed to be her best friend! How can she not want to see me? It’s as if she’s gone away—permanently.”
It was not the cold that made Ereth shiver: it was the thought.
About the Author and Illustrator
AVI is the author of the Newbery Medal–winning CRISPIN: The Cross of Lead and the Newbery Honor Books NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH and THE TRUE CONFESSION
S OF CHARLOTTE DOYLE. He also writes the beloved Poppy stories, an animal adventure series that includes RAGWEED; POPPY, winner of the Boston Globe–Horn Book Award; POPPY AND RYE; ERETH’S BIRTHDAY; POPPY’S RETURN; and POPPY AND ERETH. His many other critically acclaimed books include DON’T YOU KNOW THERE’S A WAR ON?, the hilarious animal fantasy THE MAYOR OF CENTRAL PARK, and the Victorian ghost story THE SEER OF SHADOWS. Avi lives in Denver, Colorado. You can visit him online at www.avi-writer.com.
BRIAN FLOCA’s illustrations have appeared in several books by Avi, including the six volumes of the Poppy stories and the graphic novel CITY OF LIGHT, CITY OF DARK. For younger readers, he is the author and illustrator of MOONSHOT: The Flight of Apollo II as well as the highly praised books LIGHTSHIP, a Robert F. Sibert Honor Book and ALA Notable Book; THE RACECAR ALPHABET, also an ALA Notable Book; and FIVE TRUCKS. You can visit him online at www.brianfloca.com.
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Praise for the Poppy Books
RAGWEED
“A crackerjack tale that’s pure delight from start to finish.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
POPPY
A Boston Globe–Horn Book Award Winner
An SLJ Best Book
A Booklist Editors’ Choice
An ALA Notable Book
“IRRESISTIBLE!” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
POPPY AND RYE
“A sequel worthy of its predecessor.” —The Horn Book
ERETH’S BIRTHDAY
“A must-read for fans of the series.” —ALA Booklist
POPPY’S RETURN
“A heartwarming tale of friends, family, and home.”
—Chicago Tribune
Books by Avi
Ragweed
Poppy
Poppy and Rye
Ereth’s Birthday
Poppy’s Return
Poppy and Ereth