Poppy and Rye Read online

  Dedication

  For Us

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map: The Woodlands

  1. Clover and Valerian

  2. Poppy and Ereth

  3. Night Thoughts

  4. The Water Rises

  5. Some Words Are Exchanged

  6. Rye

  7. Mr. Caster P. Canad and Company

  8. A Dance upon the Meadow

  9. The Rain Falls

  10. Ereth Has Some Thoughts

  11. Mr. Canad Makes Some Plans

  12. In the Nest

  13. What Happened to Rye?

  14. Ereth

  15. Rye in the Lodge

  16. Poppy Hears Some News

  17. To Help Rye

  18. To the Lodge

  19. Poppy and Rye

  20. Poppy

  21. Ereth Has More Thoughts

  22. Poppy Makes Up Her Mind

  23. The Rescue Begins

  24. Valerian and Clover

  25. Inside the Lodge

  26. The Battle of the Boulder

  27. Inside the Lodge (continued)

  28. Farewells

  Excerpt from Ereth’s Birthday Chapter 1: A Special Day

  Chapter 2: Ereth Makes a Decision

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Books by Avi

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map: The Woodlands

  CHAPTER 1

  Clover and Valerian

  “CLOVER! CLOVER, LOVE. You need to wake up! Something awful is happening.”

  Clover, a golden mouse, was small, round, and fast asleep in a snug corner of her underground nest. Too sleepy to make sense of the words being spoken to her, she opened her silky black eyes, looked up, and gasped.

  Was that Ragweed leaning over her? Ragweed was a particular favorite of her sixty-three children. He had gone east in search of adventures but had not been heard of for four months. Clover missed him terribly, and kept wishing he’d come back.

  Her eyes focused. She could see more clearly now. “Valerian,” she asked, “is that you?”

  Valerian was Clover’s husband. He was a long-faced, lanky, middle-aged golden mouse with shabby fur of orange hue and scruffy whiskers edged with gray. His face bore the fixed expression of being perpetually overwhelmed without knowing quite what to do about it. At the moment his tail was whipping about in great agitation.

  “Is something the matter with the children?” Clover asked. She had recently given birth to a new litter—her fourth that year—and was so tired, she hadn’t ventured from the nest in more than a week.

  “They’re fine,” Valerian assured her. “But Clover, you’ve got to see what I’ve discovered. You’ve not going to believe it.”

  “Can’t you just tell me what it is?” Clover replied with a yawn. She never got enough sleep.

  “Clover,” Valerian whispered, “we’re . . . we’re in great danger.”

  A startled Clover looked about the nest where she and Valerian and all their children had made their home for six happy years. A small, deep, and comfortable nest consisting of three chambers, each of its rooms was lined with milkweed fluff. There were a family room, a master bedroom, and the children’s nursery, where thirteen of the children were currently sleeping. The most recent litter—three in number and barely a week old—were still blind and without fur. They were with Clover.

  “Clover, love,” Valerian urged, “please get up. It’s not the children. But it will affect them. Badly.”

  With Clover, an appeal to family never failed. She forced herself up.

  The two mice made their way up the entry hole to the ground surface. The long, twisting tunnel had a few storage rooms—one filled with nuts, another with dried berries, a third with seeds—built into the walls. Though Clover was, as usual, hungry, there was no time to eat.

  When Valerian reached the ground’s surface, he stuck his nose out of the entry hole, sniffed, then gazed about. Certain there were no foxes, wild cats or snakes, or any other danger about, he hauled himself out of the hole. Clover followed.

  Tall, leafy trees, bushes, and brambles veiled the late summer sky, a sky aglow with the light of a full moon. The air was humid, the breeze soft. Barks and buzzes, grunts and chirps seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

  Valerian scampered down one of the many paths that radiated from the nest. When he took the path that followed a steep decline, Clover knew they were heading for the Brook.

  “The Brook,” as the mice called it, meandered lazily between low, leafy banks. Water lilies floated on its wide, shallow surface. There, fireflies flashed, butterflies danced. Mosquitoes, like ancient instruments, droned. Water bugs scooted. Cattails, standing tall, swayed to the rhythms of the night.

  With nothing rough or dangerous about the Brook, the young mice loved to frolic about its banks. Rarely was the water more than six inches deep. Splendid to splash in. Fun to swim in. Sometimes the mice made rafts of bark chips and went boating. Indeed, it was the closeness of the Brook and its serenity that caused Clover and Valerian to build their nest and raise their family where they did.

  That night everything was changed.

  The water was muddier and deeper than it ever before had been. A full three feet of bare earth at the base of the pathway—the children’s beach—had sunk beneath water. Lily pads and cattails were gone. No bugs teased the Brook’s surface. Chips of wood floated here, there, everywhere.

  “Look!” Valerian cried, in a hushed voice. He pointed downstream.

  At first Clover didn’t see it. Only gradually did she perceive the massive mound of sticks, twigs, and logs that spread across the full width of the stream.

  “Why . . . my goodness,” she gasped. “It’s a . . . dam! But . . . but why?”

  Valerian pointed to the water’s edge.

  “What should I be looking at?” asked a puzzled Clover.

  “The water,” Valerian whispered. “Watch.”

  Clover stared until, with a shock, she jumped back. “Valerian,” she cried, “the water is rising!”

  “Exactly.”

  “But . . . if it keeps coming this fast, our home will be . . . flooded!”

  Valerian nodded. “Clover, love, I’m afraid the whole neighborhood is going under.”

  “But . . . but,” Clover stammered, “who would do such a dreadful thing?”

  “Take a gander out there,” Valerian urged. This time he pointed across the water.

  Clover stared. At first she thought she was seeing nothing more than a floating brown lump of earth or wood. Then, with a start, she realized it was an animal swimming on the water’s surface.

  He was a large, portly fellow, with thick, glossy brown fur, a black nose, and two beady eyes. Two enormous buck teeth—brilliant orange in the light of the moon—stuck out from his mouth like chisels.

  “A . . . beaver!” Clover exclaimed. Just to say the word brought understanding: Beavers had come and dammed the Brook.

  As Clover and Valerian stared, the beaver saw them. Lifting his water-soaked head, he offered an immense, toothy smile.

  “Bless my teeth and smooth my tail!” the beaver called out in a loud, raucous voice. “I do believe it’s my new neighbors! Hey, pal! Evening, sweetheart! Tickled pink to meet up with you. The name is Caster P. Canad. But everybody calls me Cas. Hey,” he added with another toothy grin, “you know what the old philosopher says, ‘A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met.’

  “As for me, I’m head of the construction co that’s doing the work here. Canad and Co. ‘Progress Without Pain,’ that’s our motto.”

  “But . . . but . . . you’ve . . . destroyed our brook,” Clover managed to say.

/>   “Easy does it, sweetheart, easy does it,” Mr. Canad boomed with insistent good nature. “Don’t need to make a mountain out of a molehill, do we? Or for that matter,” he added with a laugh that set his belly to shaking, “an ocean out of a puddle.”

  Without saying another word, Valerian and Clover turned and fled back up the path.

  “Have a nice day!” the beaver shouted after them, though it was the middle of the night. “I mean that, sincerely!”

  As the two mice dashed toward their nest, all Clover could think was, “Oh, Ragweed. Please, please come home. We need you! Where are you?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Poppy and Ereth

  IT WAS COOL in Dimwood Forest. Through the high canopy of trees, flecks of sunlight sprinkled the earth with spots of gold. But on the floor of the forest, inside a long, hollow, and decaying log, it was all stink and muck.

  “Oh, skunk whizzle,” mocked the old porcupine who lived in the log. “Who cares foot fungus about Ragweed’s family? I bet they’re nothing but nasty nose bumps.”

  Though his full name was Erethizon Dorsatum, the porcupine insisted on being called Ereth. Not the sweetest smelling of creatures, he had a flat face with a blunt, black nose and fierce, grizzled whiskers. Sharp quills covered him from head to tail.

  He was talking to a deer mouse by the name of Poppy.

  Though most of her fur was soft orange-brown, Poppy had pure white fur on her round, gracefully plump belly. Her whiskers, which stuck straight out from her delicate pink nose, were quite full. Her toes were small and her tail was long. As for her ears, they were relatively large and dark, and from the right one hung an earring, nothing more than a purple plastic bead dangling from a tiny chain.

  “Ereth,” Poppy explained, “if something happened to a child of yours, wouldn’t you want to hear about it?”

  “Look here, slug-brain,” the porcupine said with something close to anger, “I thought you liked living in my neighborhood. Thought you were my friend. But if you want to trundle off, forget me, make new friends, start a new life, go ahead. I’ve got plenty of things to do.”

  “Like what?” Poppy asked.

  “Eating,” the porcupine growled. “And sleeping.” With a rattle of quills Ereth moved off toward the far end of his log.

  “Ereth,” Poppy pleaded as she followed after him, “let me try to explain one more time. Ragweed was a golden mouse. He was like no one I’d ever met before. And when he came here, I fell in love with him.”

  “Love!” sneered Ereth. “You can put love in a wasp’s nest and chew on it.”

  “But I did love him,” Poppy insisted. “And we . . . we were going to get married.”

  “Marriage!” Ereth hooted. “Head for the toilet bowl and bring two plungers!”

  “But then,” Poppy continued patiently, “that owl, Mr. Ocax, killed him and—”

  “Poppy, stop! I’ve heard this slop a hundred times!”

  “But all I want to do,” an exasperated Poppy continued, “is tell Ragweed’s parents what happened to him. Don’t you think they should know? Besides, I want to give them this.” She touched the earring. “So they’ll have something to remember him by.”

  “Listen, swamp-mouth,” Ereth said, “take my word. They don’t care what happened to him. No more than I do. Wise up. You’d have to be mushroom mucus not to know that!”

  “The thing is, Ereth,” Poppy persisted, “the trip would be so much nicer if you came along. It’ll be an adventure. We’ll see the world.”

  “Oh, frozen frog pips!” Ereth cried. “I don’t want to see the world. I hate going places. I hate doing things. And I like being alone. Most of all, I’m sick and tired of hearing about Ragweed! So beat it!” The porcupine continued on toward the far end of his log.

  A frustrated Poppy let out a sigh, tenderly fingered Ragweed’s earring, then went to the open end of the log and gazed out at Dimwood Forest.

  This forest of towering trees was her home. One moment it was dark, the next moment it was light. Usually serene, the forest often exploded with noisy life. Though Poppy loved the forest dearly, and would miss it, she felt a great need to make the journey.

  Poppy had to acknowledge that there was no particular reason for Ereth to go. He had never met Ragweed. Besides, Poppy hardly knew where his home was. Ragweed had never offered much detail about it. “The Woodlands,” he called his home area. He said it was a few miles west of Dimwood Forest.

  His family nest, he had once told her, was on the banks of a brook. He referred to it as little more than “The Brook.” “It’s a decent spot, girl,” Ragweed had told her. “But, know what I’m saying, like, dullsville. Totally. Nothing ever happens there.”

  “Tell me about your parents,” Poppy had said to him.

  “They’re named Clover and Valerian,” he said. “Pretty cool . . . for parents. But, hey, like, I needed to see the world. And I did, too.”

  “Did they give you permission to go?” Poppy asked, impressed with Ragweed’s story. At the time not only hadn’t she gone far from where her own family lived, she was certain her parents would never allow her to travel.

  Ragweed laughed. “Naw, they weren’t too easy ’bout what I was doing. Particularly Clover, my old mouse. But girl, a mouse has to do what a mouse has to do.”

  “Will you ever go back?” Poppy wanted to know.

  “Oh, sure, someday. And hey, dude, I’ll take you there,” Ragweed promised. “Bet you’ll like my folks. They’ll think you’re way sweet.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you’re my main girl, girl!” Then—Poppy remembered—Ragweed had winked at her with a sense of his own saucy being.

  But Ragweed had died. And Poppy wanted to tell his parents what had happened. Maybe, she mused, it was her way of saying a final good-bye to the mouse she had loved.

  Still, to go all that distance alone would be quite an undertaking.

  It was not that Poppy was frightened of the distance or of being alone. It was merely a question of wanting to go with someone. True, she had plenty of sisters and brothers—cousins, too, for that matter. Still, she could think of no better companion for an adventure than her best friend, Ereth. But now the porcupine had said no. Poppy sighed. There were moments she actually thought Ereth was jealous of Ragweed.

  Then the notion struck Poppy that it was probably nothing more than Ereth feeling his age. How like Ereth to be so proud he wouldn’t admit to such a thing. She wished she had not pushed him so.

  Never mind. Poppy made up her mind: Since she wanted to go, she’d go alone.

  Oh, well, she thought, I’m sure I’ll meet someone interesting. Besides, once I get to Ragweed’s brook it should be pleasant and calm. Recalling his words about the Brook, Poppy smiled. I could use a little dullness in my life, she thought.

  Poppy went back into the log to say good-bye to Ereth. He was at the far, smelly end, licking a hunk of salt as if it were a lollipop.

  Trying to keep from inhaling too much, Poppy said, “Ereth, I wanted to say good-bye.”

  The porcupine offered up an indifferent grunt.

  “And Ereth . . . I should apologize.”

  “What for?”

  “Asking you to come.”

  Ereth paused in his licking and squinted angrily down at Poppy. “Why?”

  “I should have remembered you’re too old for such a trip.”

  The salt dropped from Ereth’s paws with a clatter. “Too what?” he gasped.

  “Well, you know,” Poppy said with care. “Elderly.”

  “Me? Old? Elderly?” the porcupine cried, quills bristling. “You twisted bee burp! I can do whatever I want. Where I want. When I want. Or are you hankering to turn yourself into a busted bee bottom?”

  “But, Ereth . . .”

  “Look here, you pickle-tailed fur booger,” he roared on, “I can keep up with you any day of the week. Night too, for that matter, you slippery spot of squirrel splat!”

  “You mean you’ll
come with me?” Poppy cried, trying to keep from grinning.

  “Blow your nose and fill a bucket!” Ereth screeched. “Can’t you understand anything? Never mind me going with you. You’re going with me!”

  With that, Ereth burst past Poppy, moving so fast, so furiously, his quills combed her belly fur into twenty-seven neat rows.

  Poppy, laughing, ran after him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Night Thoughts

  ERETH MOVED ALONG so fast Poppy had to race after him. Her cries of, “Hey, slow down! Wait for me!” were of no avail. Only when they reached the deepest part of Dimwood Forest did Ereth finally pause.

  When Poppy caught up to him, the porcupine was calmly nibbling on some tender bits of bark which he had peeled from a tree.

  It was a dusky place. The high trees kept the light out but not the heat. The air felt as thick as syrup and bore a smell of skunkweed and rotting mushrooms.

  “What is this spot?” a panting Poppy asked, throwing herself down on the ground to rest. Though she had always known Dimwood Forest was big, she was beginning to fathom just how small a part of it she’d experienced.

  “The forest,” Ereth replied smugly.

  “Amazing,” Poppy said, staring around.

  “Now, look here,” Ereth said, “where was it that you said we were going?”

  Poppy, still breathing hard from her exertion, said, “It’s called The Brook.”

  “Oh, fox flip,” the porcupine growled. “There must be a million brooks in this forest! Are you saying that’s the only name you have?”

  “Ereth,” Poppy said, “all Ragweed told me was it was west of the forest.

  “Sticky roach toes,” Ereth muttered. “According to that, it could be anywhere.”

  “No, it can’t,” Poppy pointed out. “It’s not east. Or north. Or even south. It’s west.” She looked toward the sky. Though the sun was hidden behind heavy foliage, it was still possible to find its place in the sky. “Since it’s afternoon,” she said, “west must be that way.”

  “Fine,” Ereth conceded. “But how are we supposed to know which brook it is?”