Poppy and Rye Page 4

  She took one step, and another, gliding forward, pretending, wanting to be as graceful as possible. With every step her heart seemed to lighten.

  Within moments Poppy was leaping about, skimming the surface of the field, bending and bowing, twirling and whirling, hardly thinking, aware mostly of the sun’s warmth that caressed her fur, and the cool grasses that tickled her toes. Oh, how she loved to dance! Oh, how she loved life!

  Almost overwhelmed with emotion, Poppy closed her eyes, spun, dipped, and danced some more. Then she opened her eyes. Standing before her was a mouse.

  Poppy gasped. For one indescribable moment she thought it was Ragweed. The mouse before her had the same orange-colored fur. His whiskers were fair. His tail was not very long. His ears were small and round. She almost cried, “Ragweed!” but could not find tongue to do it.

  Then she noticed a small notch on this mouse’s right ear. This was not Ragweed. Even so she stood there, transfixed, staring, heart pounding as fast as hummingbird wings.

  For his part, the strange mouse stood absolutely still, gazing at Poppy as if in a rhapsody.

  When Poppy had opened her eyes she had been in the midst of a twirl, arms and paws extended before her, legs behind. As she gawked at the mouse before her she dared not move.

  Now the strange mouse extended his paws. Without a word, he gently took Poppy’s paws in his. At his touch Poppy felt a tingle ripple through her body. It was as if a feather had stroked her from her tail to her nose.

  For a moment—a moment that felt like eternity—the two mice looked into each other’s eyes.

  He whispered, “May I dance with you?”

  In answer, Poppy made the first move. It was not a movement away, or a retreat, but a small step to one side.

  His paws in hers, the two mice moved in perfect rhythm. Round and round and paw-in-paw they danced upon the meadow. Eyes locked, whiskers sometimes brushing, they turned this way, that way, bobbing, bowing, soaring, in as graceful a duet as two mice ever had danced, could dance, would dance.

  How much Poppy wanted to ask, “Who are you? What are you? Where do you come from?” She could not. She had no voice or words capable of expressing what she felt. She only knew nothing bad was happening. Indeed, it was just the opposite. Something very fine was occurring, something grand, something wonderful!

  Suddenly, Poppy slipped. Her paws jerked away from the stranger’s paws and she fell back. The two mice continued to stare at one another.

  The other mouse blushed, turned, and fled toward the West, disappearing amid the trees that surrounded the field.

  A speechless Poppy stared after him, even as her questions returned: Who are you? What are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going? But the other mouse was gone. Poppy had no answers.

  Overwhelmed, Poppy picked herself up from the ground. Half walking, half staggering, she made her way back to where Ereth had remained, asleep.

  At the base of the tree she sat down and closed her eyes. Had it all been a dream? Or had something truly extraordinary occurred?

  She was not sure.

  The next thing Poppy felt was her shoulder being rudely shaken. Simultaneously, she heard Ereth splutter into her ear, “Let’s go, stink foot. The sooner we get to where we’re going, the sooner we can get back home.”

  But what had happened to Rye? For it was Rye with whom Poppy had danced.

  He had gone from the meadow in a stupor equal to Poppy’s. As he went he paused now and again to look back longingly. “Who are you? What are you?” he asked the image of Poppy. “What is your name? Where do you hail from? Where will you go?” And why did he feel he had to go away, when in fact he wanted to go back and dance forever?

  Rye also asked himself if the dance had been real or only a moment’s fantasy.

  So intent was he upon these questions that he completely forgot he was running away from home. When he did remember, he had already reached the entryway to the family nest under the boulder. “Oh, well,” Rye said dreamily, “I might as well stay.”

  No one had noticed he had gone.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Rain Falls

  POPPY AND ERETH trudged along in silence. With her mind taken up by thoughts of the mouse with whom she had danced, she was grateful for the quiet. How so very much like Ragweed he was! And yet—how different. While they looked alike, the stranger seemed softer, gentler than the bold, headstrong Ragweed she had known. Certainly this mouse was more romantic. Was he, Poppy kept wondering, a dream or not? If he was a dream, he was the best dream she’d ever had. Still, she hoped he was real.

  If her dance partner had been real, how could she find him again? Of course it was impossible that he had been Ragweed. But the mouse clearly was a golden mouse. If there was one golden mouse in the area, perhaps there would be others. Did that mean she was nearing Ragweed’s home?

  As they walked, Poppy hummed the snippet of tune she had composed for her dance.

  So preoccupied was Poppy by her musings that she failed to notice that Ereth was frowning and grumbling even more than usual.

  “What’s that noise?” he suddenly asked.

  “It’s me, humming.”

  “I’m in no mood for music.”

  “How come?”

  “I . . . Oh, forget it.”

  Poppy paused to look at her friend closely. There was a look in his eyes she had never seen before. “Ereth,” she said, suddenly alarmed. “What is it?”

  Ereth looked a little sheepish. “I . . . well . . . bumblebee flunk. Never mind!”

  Poppy offered a worried glance but chose to ask no more questions. In any case she preferred to think about her dance. Once again she began to hum her tune.

  The two friends continued west. When on occasion they met others on the path—a mole, a water rat—Poppy asked if they had ever heard of the Brook. Much advice was offered, directions were given, and sure enough another brook was found. Small and calm, it was very much what Poppy imagined she was looking for. To her disappointment no golden mice lived thereabout.

  A resident otter did inform Poppy and Ereth that there was another pretty, shallow brook, no farther than two hills beyond, in “that” direction. The otter pointed due west.

  “I bet we find the right one this time,” Poppy, ever hopeful, said to Ereth as they started again.

  Ereth grew even more gloomy.

  Though the day had begun bright and clear, the sky had turned gray and cloudy, the air heavy. Treetops flicked and bobbed in a humid breeze. Birds flew high and fast. Clearly, a storm was coming.

  With new urgency, Poppy and Ereth trudged toward the crest of the second hill.

  “Maybe when we get to the top we’ll see the brook that the otter mentioned,” Poppy said.

  “Soon as we get to the top of that hill,” Ereth proclaimed, “I’m going back home.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sick of walking,” the porcupine replied.

  From the crest of the hill they looked down into a valley. At the very bottom was a pond.

  “No brook,” Ereth said with palpable relief. “Let’s go home.”

  “Well, actually,” Poppy pointed out, “there’s a brook leading into the pond. And out of it.”

  Ereth muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Then he said, “It’s going to rain.”

  “Ereth,” Poppy said, “rain won’t hurt us. I’m going to check that brook.”

  Even as they stood, drops began to fall. At first it came slowly, great plops of water. Then, while lightning crackled off to the distant north and thunder followed, a steady drizzle began to fall.

  Ereth wheeled about and moved toward a clump of trees.

  “Where you going?” Poppy called.

  “Where do you think, toad-wart? Out of the rain.”

  “Ereth, I want to explore that brook!”

  “Buzzard fraps,” the porcupine muttered.

  Poppy watched Ereth go. “Will you promise to stay there until I sear
ch a bit?” she called after him.

  “I never promise anything.”

  “How will I know where you are?”

  “Watch my tracks.”

  Poppy waited until Ereth reached a cottonwood tree and started to climb it. She noted its position, then hurried down the path. By now the rain was falling steadily.

  For his part Ereth looked around, saw which way Poppy was going—down the other side of the hill—then curled himself into a tight ball and closed his eyes. “I never should have come,” he muttered. “Ragweed. Nothing but Ragweed. I thought I was her best friend.”

  Poppy was approaching the pond. Halfway down the hill she could see that it had been created by beavers. At one end was a dam, and Poppy could even observe a number of beavers hard at work. Some were swimming upon the pond’s surface. Others were laboring on lodges. A few were working on the main dam, building it higher.

  At the far side of the pond a particularly large, fat beaver was gnawing upon the trunk of an aspen tree. There was a sharp crack as the tree snapped and tumbled to earth, landing with a crash.

  At the sound all the beavers in the pond looked around. When they saw it was a tree that had fallen, they began to slap the pond’s surface with their tails.

  Poppy, standing in the rain, looking on, heard someone say, “Awful. Just awful.”

  She turned. Sitting beneath a large toadstool, protected from the rain, was a golden mouse.

  Poppy’s heart fluttered. For an instant she thought it was the one with whom she had danced. Then she saw that this mouse, though tall and thin, was a female.

  “Hello,” Poppy said.

  The mouse looked beyond Poppy. “Oh, hi,” she said. She sounded unhappy.

  “Do you live around here?” Poppy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are there . . . are there a lot of you around?” Poppy inquired. “I mean . . . golden mice.”

  The mouse looked down at herself as if she had never considered the question before. “I suppose.”

  “My name is Poppy,” Poppy said. “I’m a deer mouse.”

  “My name is Thistle,” said the other. “How come you’re standing in the rain?”

  “Oh, right. I am. May I join you?”

  “Sure.”

  Poppy darted under the cover of the toadstool. Thistle, making room, asked, “Where are you from?”

  “Back east. Over by Dimwood Forest.”

  “Never heard of it,” Thistle said with polite indifference. She had turned back to stare down at the pond. Water dripped from around the edges of the toadstool like a tattered curtain.

  “I hate beavers,” Thistle said.

  “Why?”

  “When they made that pond they ruined everything for everybody. The Brook used to be so cool.”

  Poppy’s heart gave a lurch. “Is that what you called it?” she asked, her voice faltering. “The Brook?”

  Thistle nodded. “You wouldn’t think it used to be small and calm. Look at it now!” she said sadly. Then she added, “Our home was right on the banks of the Brook. No more. Flooded out. We had to move away. Because of them.”

  Poppy was trying to restrain her growing excitement.

  “Thistle . . .” Poppy said nervously.

  “What?”

  “Does the name . . . Ragweed . . . mean anything to you?”

  Thistle had been gazing mournfully down at the pond. At the name she whirled about. “Ragweed!” she cried. “That’s my brother! Do you know him? Have you seen him? Have you any idea where he is? Is he coming back? I can’t tell you how much we need him!”

  Instead of answering Thistle’s barrage of questions, Poppy asked one of her own. “Are your parents named Clover and Valerian?”

  “How did you know? Ragweed must have told you. But that means you do know him. Oh, man, you gotta see my parents. Our nest isn’t far,” she went on. “Come on. Please tell me about Ragweed. What’s he doing? You don’t know how much we miss him! Do you know when he’s coming? We really need him to come back. I’ve got tons of brothers but Ragweed’s the best.”

  Managing to push down her emotions, but speaking in a strained voice, Poppy said, “I think I better talk to your parents.”

  Thistle darted into the rain. “I’ll take you. What did you say your name was?”

  “Poppy.”

  “Poppy, you won’t believe how glad my parents will be to see you!”

  With Thistle looking over her shoulder to make sure Poppy was following, the two mice made their way through the rain along a path that led uphill from the pond. The farther they went, the more nervous Poppy became.

  “It’s just over here,” Thistle kept calling.

  They had come to a large boulder embedded in an outcropping of earth. A variety of shrubs and flowers rimmed the rock. In the rain they seemed shrunken and cold.

  Poppy herself was thoroughly soaked as well as trembling. The wetness came from the rain but the trembling came from her emotions. Though Thistle was just as wet, she was too excited to notice Poppy’s state.

  “Just follow me,” the young mouse said, darting along the base of the rock, then plunging into the small hole which was screened by some flowering rosecrown.

  At the entry hole, Poppy paused to give herself strength. “Why did I ever want to do this?” she wondered.

  Thistle popped back up out of the hole. “Come on!” she called, then plunged down the tunnel again. A reluctant Poppy followed at a slower pace. She could hear Thistle yell, “Ma! Pa! Everyone. Guess what? Someone’s come with news about Ragweed!”

  Full of dread, wishing the tunnel were a hundred miles long, Poppy crept the whole way. All the same, within moments she entered the nest.

  In a glance Poppy saw the nest for what it was: a single, shabby room stuffed with golden mice. Golden mice tended to be bigger than deer mice, so Poppy’s first sensation was not only that there were a lot of them, but that they all seemed quite large.

  But Poppy had not the slightest doubt she was in the presence of Ragweed’s family. The resemblance was uncanny. It was as if she were in a room full of familiar ghosts. She felt weak.

  There were the two adults, Clover and Valerian, plus eleven children. The children ranged from fully grown young adults to squeaking infants, one of which was being burped on Clover’s shoulder.

  When Poppy entered the nest the golden mice stared at her with twitching ears and wide eyes.

  “This is Poppy,” Thistle announced excitedly.

  “How do,” Valerian said, standing tall and thin, and fussing with his whiskers. There was a tremor in his voice.

  Clover, very pale, said nothing. Her black eyes, open wide, just stared at Poppy. Her whiskers were shaking.

  Thistle cried, “Poppy knows all about Ragweed, don’t you?”

  Poppy was so choked with emotion, it was all she could do to nod a response and gaze from face to face. Suddenly, she stopped. At the back of the pack was the mouse she had danced with. There was the same sweet, soft, noble face, the same right ear with a notch.

  Their eyes met—and held. Poppy’s heart fluttered. Grief, joy, relief, sadness—all mingled, but in such confusion she hardly knew what she felt.

  She lowered her eyes.

  Valerian, his voice husky, spoke out. “My dear Miss mouse, do you have some news about our son, Ragweed?”

  “Yes . . .” Poppy managed to say.

  “What’s . . . happened to him?” Clover blurted out. “When . . . when is he coming home?”

  Poppy found it impossible to speak. Instead she sought out the face of her dancing partner. Once again their eyes met. How she wished he were not there. How she wished she were not going to say what she had to say.

  “Please,” she heard Clover beg as if from some distant place. “I really must know.” As Clover spoke she stood up—infant still in her arms—and reached a paw to touch Valerian, as if she were in need of steadying. Her round, heavy body seemed uncertain on her stumpy legs.

  Popp
y turned back to Clover. “I’m afraid Ragweed . . .” The next word stuck. She could not speak the word. She had to force it out. “Ragweed is . . . dead,” she finally said, her voice tiny.

  Utter silence.

  “Dead?” a small voice, a youngster’s, echoed.

  “Dead?” Clover repeated.

  Poppy could only nod yes.

  Valerian cleared his throat. “But . . . how?” he managed to ask.

  “An owl killed him.”

  “An owl . . .” someone said. Then all was silence again.

  Suddenly Clover sat down. “My own poor, sweet boy,” she sobbed.

  “Can you tell us more?” Valerian asked in a choked voice.

  Poppy closed her eyes. When she opened them she sought out the face of the mouse with whom she had danced. When she found it, it was full of awful sadness. “We . . . we were . . . in love,” Poppy said. “We were going to marry.”

  “Oh, my,” Clover murmured, putting a paw to her trembling lips.

  Valerian swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and said, “Poppy . . . I . . . we thank you for coming and . . . telling us.” He wiped a tear from one cheek, then the other.

  “I thought you’d want to know,” Poppy said softly. “That’s why I came.”

  The golden mice stared at Poppy as if she had spoken a strange language. Clover, letting escape a small squeak, even as she stroked the baby she was holding, said, “It’s a terrible thing to live beyond your own children.”

  With great effort Valerian drew himself up. “Poppy, it was generous of you to come so far to bring us . . . the news. You must be tired.”

  “I’m all right,” Poppy said.

  “You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like,” he added. “This is not . . . where Ragweed was brought up. We’ve fallen on hard times. But . . . our nest is your nest.”

  “The beavers sank our nest,” one of the young mice shouted. All the children began to talk at once.