“I said no questions,” growled Rec.
Rilf’s voice grew proud. “Way back then, there was a raccoon living who was bigger and stronger, and therefore wiser, too, seven times bigger and stronger and wiser than the biggest and strongest and wisest raccoon that has ever lived. His name was Rasta and he would have made even Rec look scrawny and thin.”
“Woo-Hah,” laughed Rimble.
“Rasta had long, clawed paws that could break boulders, and he was brave, too. Raccoons are always brave—”
“You better believe it,” said Rad.
“—but Rasta was seven times as brave as any other raccoon has ever been. So when the moon came shining down the way he liked to in those days, so bright you had to shut your eyes tight not to be blinded by him, Rasta was waiting. The moon sank his great belly down into the cool lake and Rasta grabbed onto that fat white moon with one paw.”
Rilf demonstrated this by holding one arm out to the side.
“With the other”—Rilf gestured with his other arm, acting out the story—“he tore into him, as if the moon was no more than just any old fish or other food. Rasta tore off bits and pieces of that moon, and he tossed them aside, up into the air.”
“And those are the moonbits,” Rimble announced to Fredle, “and that’s why there are so many of them. So now you know.”
“Let Cap’n finish,” Rad said.
“I was only saying,” Rimble complained.
Rilf raised his voice over this quarreling. “The moon tried to get free. He twisted and turned, rolled backward and forward, but Rasta held him tight. The moon tried to escape the paw that was shredding him to bits, and the claw that was holding him; he howled and he cursed, but Rasta didn’t let go. It was hard work, long work, but Rasta kept at it, for seven nights and seven days, too. He didn’t rest, he didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat. And gradually, slowly, the moon weakened, and shrank, and got pale.”
“What about all the other moons?” asked Fredle. “The ones that aren’t full moons? Why didn’t they come to save him?”
“There’s only ever been one moon, young Fredle,” Rilf told him.
Fredle wasn’t so sure about that. He wasn’t sure about anything he was being told, but he didn’t say so to the raccoons. He wasn’t about to say to them, Don’t try to fool me about moons, I’ve seen them. Whatever he said now needed to have only one purpose: to find out when the full moon was going to come out in the sky, so he could know how much time he had. “Then what happened?” he asked.
“Then that moon started begging Rasta to stop. ‘What’ll you do for light without me?’ he asked, but Rasta didn’t answer. ‘All I wanted to do was grow,’ he said, but Rasta said not a word, just kept taking off moonbits and tossing them off into the darkness. Until at last the moon said, ‘All right, I give up, I’ll stop.’
“By then, he was no bigger than he’d been to start out. ‘Promise,’ said Rasta, and ‘I promise,’ the moon said. But Rasta knew what a liar and trickster that moon was. Do you know what he did then?”
“Kept on ripping pieces off?” Fredle guessed.
“Nope.”
“Tied a string to him so he couldn’t get away?”
“Nope.”
Fredle thought. “Climbed onto him and stayed there, ready to attack again?”
“Nope and nope,” Rilf said. “Rasta was smarter than that, and way smarter than you, smarter than even me. Rasta figured that if the moon liked growing, that was the way to make his promise stick. He told the moon that in order for Rasta, and all raccoons in all the time to come, to be sure the moon was keeping his promise, the moon would have to grow smaller first, and after that he could grow bigger again, but then he’d have to grow smaller again so he could grow bigger, over and over. As long as the moon did that, he could have the sky safe to himself. Which is what the moon has done, ever since. Raccoons know there’s only one moon, because we keep an eye on him. We’d know if another moon showed up, to start making trouble again. The moon watches us, too, hoping we’ll forget, or get bored and go away somewhere else. We’re the ones that keep him where he belongs. If he didn’t see us watching, ready to call up Rasta to turn him into nothing but moonbits forever, I don’t know what that moon might get up to.”
“Is Rasta still alive?” asked Fredle, curious despite not believing that the story could be true.
“The moon is growing now,” Rimble announced. “He’s about half-size, at least. Wouldn’t you say half-size, Cap’n? So when do we leave for the lake?” He turned to Fredle. “It takes three nights’ heavy traveling to get there.”
“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the night after,” Rilf said. “It won’t be long. I can promise you that. Fredle’s never seen a lake, and he’s never seen the way the moon lays out a silver road on the water.”
Water big enough to have a road on it? A road the color of moonlight? Fredle wondered what that might look like, and he almost asked. But Rilf was still talking, and besides, Fredle realized, if he was lucky he’d never find out.
“The mouse has to see that before we eat him,” Rilf went on. “And he has to eat fish, too. That’s what I say.” He looked around at the Rowdy Boys. “Anybody want to argue?”
Fredle did, but he kept quiet, thinking about how he might escape, and when. He was going to have to try it soon, probably right away. That much he had understood clearly from Rilf’s story. That part of the story he completely believed.
He also understood, from having lived among the raccoons, that one chance was all he would get. If they knew he was thinking of escaping, and depriving them of their long-anticipated treat, they’d finish him off immediately and even Rilf would agree that that was the best thing to do. In fact, it was probably only thanks to Rilf that Fredle hadn’t went that first night, and he knew, as surely as he knew himself to be perfectly edible, that he couldn’t count on Rilf’s interest for much longer. Fredle was a diversion for the Rowdy Boys; he gave them something new to quarrel about, which made Rilf’s job easier. But that wasn’t going to last much longer. Fredle understood that, too.
“When are we leaving, Cap’n?” they asked, and Rilf answered, “Soon. Very soon. Trust me.”
“We do, Cap’n,” they answered. “Never doubt it.”
“I’m wondering how many of the coonlets survived the winter,” Rilf said. “Two of them looked too weak, but you never know; maybe they didn’t have to give them to the foxes after all.”
“Not likely,” Rad remarked. “There’s always a couple of coonlets that have to go.”
“Lucky for me I wasn’t one of those,” said Rimble. “Neither were none of us and especially not old fatso here. He was never too scrawny and weak to spend good food on.”
“Woo-Hah,” they laughed, and Rec laughed with them. “Anybody else hungry?”
14
Escape
After the raccoons went off to raid the chicken pen and the barn, Fredle made his decision: he would head out the next morning. For a solitary mouse, traveling in the wild, outside, day might be a safer time than night—or so he hoped. Also, whereas the raccoons might return at any time during the night, depending on how their foraging went, they could be counted on to sleep most of the day.
So he knew when he was going. He also knew where. He would go that way along the stone wall until he came to the break, and then he would turn toward the brightening sky and go along the dirt road until he came to the field, and then he would turn into the field—also that way. His shoulders remembered the direction. Crossing the field to get to the stream would be the most dangerous part of the journey, he guessed. It was easy for Rilf, with his long legs and loping stride, but not for Fredle, who was a short-legged scurrier. Fredle would just have to keep on going until he came to the stream.
And after that?
After that, he hoped that he would be able to follow the stream back to where the garden might be near. He hoped he would know when he’d followed it far enough, but not too far. But how could he know tha
t?
In any case, Fredle would need to be well fed and well rested before starting off, so he crossed over the wall and ate more than his fill of the apples lying on the ground. Then he returned to his usual sleeping place, sheltered within the stone wall. He didn’t expect to sleep much, or easily, or deeply, but he did. He didn’t even wake up when the raccoons came home. In fact, Rilf had to poke him awake to offer him a section of potato peel.
Fredle ate it as if he were hungry and then pretended to go back to sleep, while he waited for the raccoons to settle down.
The air lightened and a soft rain started to fall, while Fredle listened for the snoring to begin and thought about traveling in the rain. It was less comfortable for him, that was for sure; on the other hand, the raccoons would be less likely to stir from the comfort of their burrow and discover that he was gone. On the whole, he decided, he would count it as good luck that rain came on the morning he had decided to make his escape.
Soon enough he heard four raccoons snoring almost in unison, and knew it was time. But now that he was about to actually take the first steps, he felt reluctant to leave behind something he knew and go out into who knew what landscape, into who knew what future. He began to worry that he had made an error in remembering what Sadie said, and to wonder if the stream Rilf took him to was really the same stream Sadie had wanted to drink from. Then he reminded himself that his other choice was to be a raccoon dinner in not very many nights. He reminded himself that if he waited much longer, the Rowdy Boys would carry him even farther away from the house, from home, making it even less likely that he would ever find his way back.
This was his chance, and he knew it. He wanted to take it, too. So he did.
Fredle did not look back but moved off as quietly as only a mouse can in that direction, staying close to the stone wall, where there were many openings into which a mouse could squeeze himself, to hide. He was so frightened and excited that he barely noticed the rain. This was a gentle, steady rain that coated the stones and moistened the dirt beneath his paws. It shone on the blades of grass through which Fredle moved as rapidly as he could, escaping.
He came to the break in the wall what felt like a long time later, although he knew that was only in comparison to how quickly he had made the trip riding behind Rilf’s ear. He did not allow himself to rest at the break but turned immediately onto the rutted road. His shoulders remembered the direction Rilf had taken to get to the stream, that way again, but he had no sense of how far he should go before turning off.
As he scrambled along, the rain stopped and Fredle found the going easier. He could plan ahead then: At the stream, if he could get there, he could forage for ramps and maybe even that dark green watercress Rilf had pointed out. At the stream, if he could find it, he could drink water. And somewhere downstream, Sadie had said, he would be near the garden, and the house.
Near for a dog with her long legs, Fredle reminded himself. He wondered who moved faster, a raccoon or a dog. He knew who covered distances more slowly and with more difficulty—a mouse. But just because you didn’t move fast didn’t mean you wouldn’t arrive. You would just arrive later and later wasn’t such a big deal, especially compared to never.
Fredle hurried along the rough terrain, stopping to sip water out of puddles when he grew too thirsty not to. The day went on. When he judged—how could he know? he could only guess—that he had gone far enough, he turned that way for the third time, as Rilf had done, and scrambled up onto the field.
While he knew the direction he wanted, he didn’t know what dangers might be hunting for him in the long grass, or catch sight of him as they flew through the air above. He would be safest among the thickest clumps of grass, he thought, so he made his cautious way from one thick cluster to the next, dashing between them, stopping to catch his breath and listen for danger. Above him, the air still had light, but it was a gray and sunless brightness. He didn’t know how much of the day was left.
He hoped he wouldn’t have to sleep unsheltered, unhidden, unprotected. He also hoped he wouldn’t have to cross too much of the field at night. It was with dread that Fredle saw light fading around him and knew that he could not even hear the stream. Day was ending. Night was coming on. Fredle’s fears grew.
If, he thought anxiously, if he had left the road too soon, he would never come to the stream, but would wander lost in the field until some predator finished him off. Or maybe he had turned off too late, so the stream lay behind him and he would wander lost in the field until some predator finished him off. Either of those misfortunes was possible; Fredle understood that. But the only thing he could do was go on.
Darkness and exhaustion caught up with him. How far across the field he might have gotten, Fredle couldn’t know. He might have been only ten steps from the stream—although he doubted that, since he could neither hear nor smell water. But he had come to a point—and also to a thick tuft of tall grass—where he could go no farther. He curled himself up on the ground at the foot of the stalks to rest, to sleep.
Neither the stars nor a moon could be seen, only low clouds.
Maybe, he thought hopefully, he was difficult to see in whatever shelter the grass was giving him, in the darkness.
Tired as he was, he was not so deeply asleep that rain didn’t wake him when it began falling again, pattering onto the stalks around him. He awoke cold and, of course, wet. He rose unhappily to his feet and drank some of the rainwater that was weighing down the long blades of grass. Then he set off again, going through more darkness. The air was thick with falling rain, and lightless. Fredle could hear nothing except the sound of rain hitting the ground. The sky overhead was dark, the field all around him more densely dark and filled with moving shapes. The only color was the occasional silver glint of rain, falling.
He didn’t allow himself to wonder what the coming day would bring. He just set off in the direction that felt right to his shoulders. He set off and kept going.
A lightening in the air told him when day began, which was good news. Still, he could see only rain and wet grass. He trudged on and on and then—all unready—he had come to water. He heard a gurgling sound behind the pattering of rain. He smelled a change in the watery odor of the air. He lifted his eyes from the place where he planned to place his front paws for the next step and saw that he stood on the bank of the stream.
In fact, Fredle was so surprised that he almost slid down into the water, what with the wet soil and the slippery grass of the bank; he just managed to save himself.
Standing on the bank, the water rushing by below him, the rain falling down on him from above, Fredle felt like giving a cheer. “Woo-Hah!” he laughed, as wild as any raccoon. He had done it! “Woo-Hah!” He was still wet and cold, he was still hungry and tired, but he had found the stream. Maybe, as the day went on, the rain would stop and there would be sunlight and the sunlight would warm him and dry him. He hoped so. In the meantime, he set about finding one of the ramp plants, and digging it up, and eating it. The ramp tasted so good that he set about digging up another, and then—he didn’t think he’d ever been so hungry in his life—he rooted around among the stalks of grass at the steep side of the stream for a third.
That was when he lost his footing. He scrabbled at the dirt with his rear paws, with his front paws, desperately seeking some kind of grip as he started to slip down the bank. He was still struggling when the water closed over his head.
Fredle gasped—it was so cold! When he gasped his mouth filled and he wanted to cough but he couldn’t because his throat was full. There was water all around him. His feet searched, but he was upside down until the current flipped him over and he felt something solid underfoot and without even thinking—he could no more think than swim—he pushed against it, pushed hard, to escape back up into the air, where he would be able to breathe. The water was flowing past him and dragging him along.
His head broke the surface and then he could cough, while the fast-moving stream shoved him back toward
the same bank he had fallen from, although a good distance down from the spot where he had lost his footing. Fredle snatched at a narrow root that stuck out from the side and clung to it, until he had the strength to pull himself up onto it. Hanging over it, he coughed until at last he could breathe easily again. He shivered, until he shivered himself warm. Only a pale early-morning light was in the air. He looked up through the rain to see how he could get back up to the field. Here, although the bank was steeper, he thought he might be able to scramble up, grasping grasses and roots, as soon as he had his strength back. The bank curved in behind his root, just slightly, as if the moving water had washed away some soil, making a small burrow. That was what had bared the root that saved him. But it was also something that might make it harder for him to get back to the ground because it made an overhang, right above him.
Cautiously, he turned his head and was relieved to see that the soil behind him held a rock too large to be swept away by the rushing water. If he could turn himself around without falling back into the water, he would have an easy climb out.
He hoisted himself up onto the root. Grateful for his mouse’s good sense of balance and light weight, he rotated—slowly, slowly—careful to grip the moist bark with his nails. By now, the rain was reduced to a fine spray and the air was brightening. Fredle paid no attention to rain or light but concentrated fiercely on the task before him.
Their voices took him entirely by surprise.
Fredle froze.
Then he wondered if he should do what outside mice did and make a dash for it. But that would mean leaping into the water, and he thought his best hope lay in stillness. He didn’t move. He barely breathed.
Rilf said, “I can’t get a whiff of him anymore. Can you?”