Poppy and Rye Page 3

  It didn’t help that Rye and Ragweed looked so much alike. Though a few months younger than Ragweed, Rye was just as long and thin, and had the same sharp, penetrating gaze and noble nose. The way most knew how to tell the brothers apart was that small notch in Rye’s right ear.

  But whereas Ragweed was blunt, even cocky, Rye was considered the more thoughtful mouse, something of a dreamer. “A romantic,” Clover said, with a wistful shake of her head.

  Rye often wandered nearby meadows, where he liked to fling himself under a flower and daydream of romantic adventures.

  When he returned—flower in paw—and was asked what he’d done, he’d reply, “Oh, nothing. Some thinking, I suppose.”

  “But what were you thinking about?”

  “Today? Oh, the sky, clouds, and . . . flowers.”

  It was only when Ragweed left home that Rye came into his own. Now he was the eldest of the children at home. Now the younger ones looked up to him. Now his parents called upon him to do things. His opinion was asked. He was heard.

  Yet, even as that happened, Rye feared things would remain that way only until Ragweed returned. Hadn’t Curleydock said as much when Rye tried to speak to the beavers?

  Hardly a wonder then that, as far as Rye was concerned, there were moments he hoped Ragweed would not come home. Of course he wouldn’t say anything like that. The thought made him feel ashamed. It seemed unnatural, sinful.

  So it was that after he shouted insults at the beavers and was splashed away for his efforts, Rye returned to the family’s new nest in a deep sulk. To make things worse, no one seemed to understand why he was sulking.

  “What’s the matter with Rye?” one of his younger brothers asked Thistle.

  “Just daydreaming.”

  “He’s always daydreaming!”

  Later that day Valerian called upon Rye to join him while he went to forage for food. A reluctant Rye heaved himself up and went along.

  Father and son went out behind the boulder and took a path that led them to an old patch of sunflowers. The flowers had been planted years ago by humans—or so the mice believed—and sunflowers had grown upon that spot ever since. The great, round, yellow blossoms, like so many tethered suns, nodded and bobbed. Even better—as far as the mice were concerned—it was a fine place for sunflower-seed gathering.

  Rye and Valerian had gathered a fair pile of seeds when Valerian asked, “What’s the problem, Rye? You’re acting kind of droopy.”

  “Oh . . . never mind,” Rye mumbled.

  “You sure?”

  “Well . . . yes.” Rye, who always assumed no one would listen to him, found it hard to express himself. In that, he wished he were more like Ragweed. Ragweed always told everybody exactly what he was thinking.

  Valerian sat down, leaned against a stump, put a blade of grass in his teeth, and adjusted his arms behind his head. “This business of the beavers, the Brook, and all they’ve done—it’s upsetting. It is. Still, the family has done pretty well, considering. ’Course, your mother has been grand. Always is. You do know what a fine mother you have, don’t you, son? Lovely creature,” he murmured. “Truly lovely.”

  “I suppose. . . .” Rye said. He sat down next to his father.

  “Truth is,” Valerian continued with a rueful shake of his head, “it doesn’t seem like there’s much we can do. Beavers are big and powerful. They don’t want to listen to us. I’m just hoping they stop building. Now of course—” Valerian’s voice trailed off.

  “Of course . . . what?” Rye asked.

  Valerian threw the grass blade away and reached over to their seed pile. He looked it over, selected a seed, polished it against his chest, then took a bite.

  “What?” Rye prompted.

  “Oh,” Valerian finally said, “your mother doesn’t say, though it does slip out now and again. I’m fairly sure she thinks that when Ragweed comes home he’ll solve everything.” He contemplated the seed in his paws.

  Rye stiffened. “Do you think so?” he asked, ready to bolt up and walk off.

  “Nope,” his father said. He took another bite of the seed and chewed thoughtfully.

  “You don’t?” said Rye, taken by surprise. “Why?”

  Instead of answering, Valerian remained quiet and stared off into the distance. Now and again he nibbled at his seed.

  “Well, son, it’s a big world out there. Full of possibilities. Dangers. Your brother isn’t shy. He likes getting into things. Seems to me, if he was coming back, well, he’d have done so by now.” There was a tremor in his voice.

  Shocked, Rye looked around. “Do . . . do you think something . . . happened to him?” he asked. Something in his world shifted.

  At first Valerian only nodded. It took a moment for him to speak. “Don’t know for sure, of course, do I?” There was another pause. “But well, I’ve got this . . . bad feeling.”

  “But . . . that would be awful,” Rye said, gazing at his father’s sad face. Yet hadn’t he almost wished for it?

  “Yawp, it’d be pretty sad, all right,” his father said.

  “Do you . . . do you think,” Rye said, “I should go and look for him?”

  “Nope,” Valerian said. “Ragweed could be anywhere. If he’s coming back, he’ll come in his own sweet time. Besides, we don’t want you disappearing, too.”

  Rye hesitated before saying, “Why?”

  “We need you, Rye,” Valerian said. “We need you a lot.”

  Rye almost burst into tears of gratitude. But then he asked, “Does that mean that if . . . if Ragweed did come back, you . . . wouldn’t need me?”

  “Son,” Valerian said, “all I’m saying is, I don’t think Ragweed is coming back.”

  Rye, however, noticed that his father had not really answered his question: What would Rye’s place be if Ragweed returned? Disappointed, he did not want to ask again. His thoughts were already too confused.

  That night Rye could not sleep. Wedged in amidst his family in the one-room nest, he kept thinking about his talk with his father. What had happened to Ragweed? Would his brother come back? What would happen if he did? In particular, Rye wondered what would happen to him if Ragweed came home? Would he be ignored again?

  The more Rye thought about it, the more unappreciated he felt. He forgot how wonderful it had been when his father had talked to him mouse to mouse. Instead he thought, “Pa was telling me not to go off only because Ragweed is gone.”

  It was but a matter of moments before Rye was saying to himself, “Who pays attention to me?” He answered his own question quickly: “Nobody!”

  Perhaps, he thought, it would be a good thing if he went off to look for Ragweed. When he found him, he’d tell his brother he was needed at home. Then Rye could go off and have his own adventures.

  On the other paw, Rye mused, if he could not find Ragweed, but could discover what had happened to him, he could bring that news to his family. Not only could they be at rest with the matter, he could take his permanent place as the eldest child at home.

  It was the middle of the night. The whole nest was asleep, except Rye. He got up quietly. There were no particular belongings he needed or wanted to take. Still, he thought it best to leave something to tell his parents where he was going. They might even think he was doing something brave as well as useful.

  Finding a pale leaf, he wrote a good-bye note:

  Dear Mom & Pa,

  Farewell!

  I’ve gone into the great world to search for Ragweed.

  Fear not! I shall return!

  Your devoted son,

  Rye

  Rye took a deep breath. The night was balmy, sweet with the smell of growing things. The moon appeared calm in a velvet black sky. The grass was soft beneath his toes. The whole world seemed full and ripe.

  Rye’s slim chest swelled with emotion. Oh, to have something important happen to him at last! Oh, to be noticed, to be told by someone, “Rye, how glad I am to see you!”

  Yet was he, Rye kept wonderi
ng, doing the right thing by going? I’m doing it for the family, he told himself. It has nothing to do with me at all.

  With that thought firmly embedded in his heart, Rye set off. He was heading due east.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mr. Caster P. Canad and Company

  THE BEAVERS’ LODGE was a large, domed structure made of sticks and twigs, plastered over with mud. To get inside the lodge the beavers—just as Valerian had informed Rye—had to swim through an underwater tunnel.

  Though a small vent hole at the top of the dome provided some fresh air, it was hot and humid inside the lodge. The little light there was came from the sporadic flashing light of fireflies, which the beavers had snared and brought into the lodge for just that purpose.

  Standing at the far end of the lodge was Mr. Caster P. Canad. Looking around, paws contentedly folded over his pot belly, he liked what he saw: twelve beavers, family all, sitting on their tails paying close attention to him. Wife, child, cousin, brother or sister, he treated them all with total equality. That is to say, he was everybody’s boss. He offered up a ripe, toothy smile.

  In one of Mr. Canad’s paws was a branch—a pointer. Next to him was a large sheet of bark, which he had attached to a wall. The bark bore a drawing of the new pond the beavers had created.

  “All right then,” Mr. Canad began, tapping his stick against the drawing. “Here’s where we’ve constructed the dam. Mighty fine dam, too, if I do say so myself. Yes, sir, when Canad and Co. builds a dam, we don’t let the grass grow under our feet, do we?”

  “Way to go, Cas,” murmured a few of the beavers, slapping their tails down on the mud floor of the lodge by way of approval.

  “Okay,” Mr. Canad continued, “every journey begins with a step. But it’s plain as the nose on your face, we’re going to build the biggest, best, most profitable pond in the whole country. Honest to goodness, as the day is long, take my word for it, we are. You know what the old philosopher said: ‘If you can’t see the forest for the trees, chew the trees down!’

  “Okay. Good news and bad news. The good news is that so far we’ve done a fine job on the pond. Peachy keen-o job.” Mr. Canad tapped the map with his stick. “Bad news,” he went on with a good-natured chuckle, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, either.

  “Which reminds me. . . . Has anyone come up with a good name for this project? The locals call the brook, The Brook. Hey, dull as ditch water. Can’t sell lodges by calling them The Brook. Far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t hit the nail on the head.”

  “Hey, Cas,” one of the beavers called out, “what about Wet Wonderland?”

  “Or, Welcome Water World,” suggested another.

  “Mud Flats,” offered a third.

  To each suggestion Mr. Canad offered up a toothy smile. “Fine. Fine,” he said. “Keep those thinking caps on. Those names are A-OK. What we need, though, is something that hits folks square in the eye. Something strong. Dynamic. That goes over the top. Scores a bull’s-eye. Is a hole in one. The whole ten yards. A knock out in one. Slam dunk. I’m telling you, straight from the heart, there’s nothing I admire more than originality. As long as it fits the bill.

  “So, sure as the sun rises in the morning, I put on my thinking cap and came up with—this should knock your front teeth cockeyed—Canad’s Cute Condos. Says it all, don’t you know. Canad’s Cute Condos. Has a solid ring to it, wouldn’t you say? The real plastic.”

  There was a general thumping of tails.

  “Okay. We agree. From here on out, we call this project Canad’s Cute Condos.

  “Now,” Mr. Canad continued, using his stick to clarify his ideas, “with the dam built here, Canad’s Cute Condos will extend its boundaries. Here. Here. Here. How do you like them wood chips?” He grinned, exposing his orange buck teeth to the fullest.

  Tails thumped.

  “As for lodges, we’ll scatter them here, here, here. Plus a few more canals over here.” Mr. Canad pointed to different places on the bark.

  “I know this is a lot of work. But don’t forget the turtle, the hare, or the Alamo. We don’t want to let the grass grow under our feet. Which is okay, except we want water under our feet. The more the better. If there’s one thing I can tell you, Canad’s Cute Condos will be wet.

  “My loyal, hard-working company,” Mr. Canad continued, “we’re the original eager beavers. Canad and Co. has never shied from hard work. Never will. Yes, sir, if better ponds are to be built, Canad and Co. will build them! Any questions?”

  One of the beavers raised a paw.

  “Yes, Clara.”

  “I have received a complaint about what we’re doing here. Rather rudely put, too, I’m afraid.”

  Mr. Canad nodded sagely. “Hard to believe, sweetheart, but there are those who want life to go on the way it always has. Can’t stand progress. Resist it.

  “Okay. Let’s be sensitive to these folks. Pity them. They don’t understand they’re sitting right smack dab in the middle of the future. So, be patient, but get on with the job. Be understanding, but don’t give an inch. Keep saying ‘Progress Without Pain,’ till they believe it. Anyway, little folks can’t do much about us. Not by a long shot. Or a short one,” he added with a chuckle.

  “What if they make trouble?” asked one of the other beavers.

  “Okay. I’ve been around the pond a few times. Talk is cheap. Actions speak louder than words. A flat whack of the old tail solves most problems. Hey! The bottom line is, we’ve got bigger bottoms.”

  The lodge rippled with laughter and a few tail slaps.

  “All right then,” Mr. Canad concluded. “Don’t have to remind you, there’s work to be done. I’ll be by your side. Don’t want to hear about any beaver who isn’t busy. Hang in there. Be fresh as a daisy. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. And finally, from the bottom of my heart, and from the top, as well as the sides and also the middle, I want to say to you all, and I mean this, really, I do, with all my soul, honestly, sincerely, have a nice day!”

  CHAPTER 8

  A Dance upon the Meadow

  POPPY AND ERETH continued traveling west. Though there were many trails from which to choose, there were no clear signs to follow. The best that Poppy could do was to keep them moving in a westerly direction. For Ereth, it was a point of pride to refuse to ask directions from anyone.

  “But why?” Poppy wanted to know.

  “Ask for directions and you’re admitting you’re helpless,” the porcupine pronounced. “The only thing that matters is that I know my way back home.”

  When they did meet other mice, voles, a badger—once a deer and her fawn—it was Poppy who asked for advice. “We’re looking for the Brook,” she would say. “Do you have any idea where that might be?”

  The other animals were more than obliging. When these fellow travelers knew where a brook was, they explained how to reach it. And Poppy and Ereth did find them: one or two large brooks, some three of smaller size. But no golden mice were to be found.

  “Ereth,” Poppy finally said, “we don’t seem to be getting any closer to where Ragweed said his family lived. Do you think he might have been confused about which way he came?”

  “Probably,” Ereth grumbled.

  “I admit,” Poppy confessed, “I’m beginning to wonder how much longer we should go on.”

  Ereth came to a quick stop. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  The anxiety in his voice caused Poppy to consider him thoughtfully. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she said. “Is something bothering you?”

  “Oh, sparrow swit,” Ereth barked. “Can’t a fellow keep his thoughts to himself?”

  “Of course he can.”

  “Look here, Poppy,” the porcupine said, “I’m not used to being with others. How many times do I have to say it, I like being alone.”

  “That’s fine,” the mouse returned. “I was just wondering.”

  “Well, stop wondering, puzz ball.”

  “But the forest does
seem to be thinning,” Poppy pointed out. “Maybe we are closer to those woodlands.”

  Ereth looked about. “I prefer the dark,” he said.

  Poppy sighed. “I’m going on a bit more.”

  “Do what you want,” Ereth growled.

  By midday, with the trees thinning more and more and the sun beating down hard, it became too hot to travel. Ereth announced he needed a nap. Without even waiting for Poppy to reply, he rattled off the trail, found a shady spot in a tree, curled up in a ball, and went to sleep.

  Poppy rolled over on her stomach, plucked a blade of grass, and chewed it meditatively.

  Before her spread a small meadow. Surrounded on three sides by trees, it had a closed-in, secure feeling. The grasses were low, sprinkled about with flowers. She noticed yellow viola, forget-me-nots, and bluebells. There was a scarlet falsemallow and some lovely, lush poppies.

  A black and orange butterfly came into view, fluttering its wings like a slow-motion dancer. Soon after a fat bumblebee, legs bulky with golden pollen, worked its way from flower to flower. A fast dancer, Poppy thought.

  As Poppy looked on, something stirred within her. To her surprise, she felt lonely and empty yet full and content all at once. How, she wondered, could she feel such contradictions?

  Then, as she watched a dragonfly dart by, she recalled that it had been a long time since she had danced. When she was young—a few months ago—she had thought a great deal about dancing. She even had wanted to be a dancer.

  Sighing, she recollected that she never had danced with Ragweed. They had meant to. Now she felt the desire to dance again.

  With a nervous glance up at Ereth to make sure he was still sleeping, she got to her feet.

  Poppy checked a second time to make sure her friend was asleep. She was in no mood to deal with the porcupine’s teasing. When he didn’t stir, she lifted her front paws as if to pluck the sun from the sky. Her tail began to wave to a steady beat. A miniature melody, halfway between a whistle and hum, rose to her throat. It was no particular tune, just something she made up then and there.