“Ragweed,” Poppy replied as she sniffed tensely in all directions, “you promised we’d dance when we got here. We can’t do it in the open. Besides, I want to answer your question. So will you please get under here with me.”
Ragweed laughed. “Dude, you must think I’m as dull as a dormouse. You just want to get some of this nut.”
“I don’t want any of your precious nut,” Poppy insisted. “I want to give you my answer. And I want to dance! Isn’t that the reason we came up the hill? Only it’s not safe out there.”
“Oh, tell me about it.”
“You heard my father’s warnings,” Poppy went on. “It’s Mr. Ocax. He might be watching and listening.”
“Get off,” Ragweed sneered. “Your pop talks about that Ocax dude just to scare you and keep you under control.”
“Ragweed,” Poppy cried, “that’s ridiculous. Mr. Ocax does rule Dimwood. So we have to ask his permission to be here. And you know perfectly well we never did.”
“Dude, I’m not going to spend my life asking an old owl’s okay every time I want to have fun. Know what I’m saying? This is our moment, girl, right? And now that I’ve dug this nut up, I’m going to enjoy it. Besides,” he said, “it’s too dark for an old owl to see me.”
“Poppy,” Mr. Ocax scoffed under his breath. “Ragweed. What stupid names mice have. Now, if only that deer mouse will move just a little farther out from under cover, I’ll be able to snare both mice at once.”
The mere thought of such a double catch made Mr. Ocax hiss with pleasure. Then he clacked his beak, spread his wings, and rose into the night air. Up he circled, his fluted flight feathers beating the air silently.
High above Bannock Hill, he looked down. The golden mouse—the one eating the nut—was still in the open. So brazen. So foolish. Nevertheless, Mr. Ocax decided to hold back another moment to see if the deer mouse might budge.
“Ragweed,” Poppy pleaded, “please get under here.”
“Girl,” Ragweed said, “do you know what your problem is? You let your tail lead the way.”
Poppy, hurt and wanting to show she was not a coward, poked her nose and whiskers out from under the bark. “Ragweed,” she persisted even as she began to creep into the open, “being careless is stupid.”
Her friend took another scrape of the nut and sighed with pleasure. “Poppy,” he said, “you may be my best girl, but admit it, you don’t know how to live like I do.”
Poppy took two more steps beyond the bark.
Just then, Mr. Ocax pulled his wings close to his body and plunged. In an instant he was right above and behind the two mice. Once there, he threw out his wings—to brake his speed; pulled back his head—to protect his eyes; and thrust his claws forward and wide like grappling hooks—to pounce.
It was Poppy who saw him. “Ragweed!” she shrieked in terror as she hurled herself back undercover. “It’s Ocax!”
But the owl was already upon them. Down came his right claw. It scratched the tip of Poppy’s nose. Down came his left claw. It was more successful, clamping around Ragweed’s head and neck like a vise of needles, killing him instantly. The next moment the owl soared back into the air. A lifeless Ragweed—earring glittering in the moonlight—hung from a claw. As for the hazelnut, it fell to the earth like a cold stone.
Powerful but leisurely strokes brought Mr. Ocax back to his watching tree. Once there, he shifted the dead Ragweed from talon to beak in one gulp. The mouse disappeared down his throat, earring and all.
His hunger momentarily satisfied, Mr. Ocax tilted back his head and let forth a long, low cry of triumph. “Whooowhooo!”
Poppy did not hear the call. In her terror she had fainted. Now she lay unconscious beneath the length of rotten bark.
The owl did not mind. He had enjoyed the first mouse so much he decided to wait for the second. Indeed, Mr. Ocax was not entirely sorry that Poppy had escaped. She was terrified, and he enjoyed that. And for sure, he would get her soon. “Oh yes,” he murmured to himself, “mice are the most fun to catch.” Then Mr. Ocax did that rare thing for an owl: He smiled.
CHAPTER 2
Poppy Remembers
A STINGING SENSATION on her nose woke Poppy. She touched a paw to the sore spot and winced. Then she looked about in the dark and shook her head with confusion. Where was she? Under a piece of rotten bark. Where was the bark? On Bannock Hill. What was she doing there? She had come with her boyfriend, Ragweed. Where was Ragweed?
No sooner did Poppy ask herself that than the full horror of what had occurred rushed upon her. Ragweed dead! Eaten, probably. Poppy closed her eyes. The sheer ghastliness of the thought made it hard for her to breathe.
Then, recalling how close she had come to the same fate, she checked herself for other injuries.
Though her plump, round belly was white, the rest of her fur was orange-brown. She had large ears and dark, almost round eyes, full whiskers, tiny nose, pink toes and tail. Even for a deer mouse, Poppy was rather dainty. Upon examination, everything—except the nose—seemed to be intact.
She stole a look out from under the bark and considered her situation. She was on Bannock Hill alone and without permission. Oh, how she wished she were home.
From her earliest days—just a few full moons ago—her parents had been teaching their litter about Mr. Ocax. She recalled how they had lined up all twelve of them to take instruction.
“Mr. Ocax has been about for ages,” her father, Lungwort, lectured in his sternest voice. He was a rather stout fellow with elegantly curled whiskers and slightly protruding front teeth. His crowning glory was an ivory thimble he had found
