“Yes, but—”
“Beat it, Lungwort. Now!”
“Come on, Papa. We’d better leave.”
Lungwort glanced about for his thimble hat. It had rolled away. It was Poppy who retrieved it and put it on his head. Resigned, a sagging Lungwort allowed himself to be led away. Poppy glanced at her father. All traces of dignity were gone. The wetness that ran down his face was not rain but tears.
Poppy hardly tried to keep the flag aloft. And as they trudged home, she kept stealing looks into one of her paws. In it was clenched something she had pried from one of Mr. Ocax’s pellets: Ragweed’s earring.
CHAPTER 7
Home Again
POPPY AND HER FATHER did not talk on the long way home. Only occasionally did she say, “Watch the puddle, Papa,” or, “Won’t be long now.” That was all.
Lungwort, walking with his head down, eyes glued to his feet, kept uttering sighs. Now and then he reached up to touch his hat, just to be sure it was there. Once, after stealing a look at Poppy—a look that she caught—he let out something like a moan.
Poppy was fearful of asking her father the questions she kept asking herself: If Mr. Ocax refused permission for the move—and he had—and if there was not enough food—and her father said that was true—what was the family to do? Would some of them have to forage in distant places, in the open? That meant they’d be at the mercy of Mr. Ocax, a complete calamity.
Poppy peeked again at Ragweed’s earring. She kept asking herself why she had ever gone to the hill with Ragweed without asking permission. She knew better. Look at all the trouble she’d caused. Just then she hated herself for having loved Ragweed. But just to think that thought made her heart ache.
Rain was still falling when they reached Gray House. Both mice were soaked and exhausted. The once white flag trailed in the mud.
A large number of mice were milling about on the porch waiting for the expected good news. Sure enough, when Poppy and Lungwort appeared, a cheer went up.
The sound brought Lungwort to a dead halt. The old mouse stared blankly at the rows of eager faces. A second cheer began but faded as the onlookers sensed something was wrong.
Silent and grim-faced, eyes averted, Lungwort painfully climbed the Gray House steps. Alarmed into silence, the mice backed away to let him pass.
Poppy saw her mother break through the crowd. “Lungwort!” she cried. “Oh, my dear! What happened?”
Lungwort lifted sad eyes. Without a word, he continued on into the house, retreating into his boot study and drawing the curtain behind him. For a moment Sweet Cicely stared after her husband. Then she dashed into the boot after him.
Only then did the others notice Poppy. She had been standing alone, quite ignored. Now they surrounded her and pelted her with questions. “What’s happened?” “Is something the matter?” “What’s with Lungwort?” “What did Mr. Ocax say?”
Poppy, not sure how to reply, remained silent. Finally she held up a paw, her father’s gesture. The mice responded as they always did. They grew quiet.
Swallowing hard, Poppy said, “Mr. Ocax refused permission for anyone to move.”
Like air escaping from a balloon, there was a collective gasp from the crowd. But a torrent of questions followed. “What did Mr. Ocax say?” “Didn’t Lungwort explain?” “What are we supposed to do now?” “Did the owl give any reasons?”
Poppy lifted a paw again. Once the crowd had stilled, she confessed softly, “Mr. Ocax said it was because Ragweed and I didn’t ask permission to go to Bannock Hill.”
She hoped for a chorus—or at least one mouse—who would say, “That’s not fair!” or “That’s absurd!” No such word was spoken.
Alarmed, Poppy looked around. Some eyes avoided hers. Others showed sorrow. Quite a few darted angry glares at her.
“You’ll have to excuse me now,” she murmured, quite shaken. “I need to get myself dry.”
A narrow passage was made for her to pass. As she entered the house, she felt a nudge from behind. Alarmed, she jumped. It was Basil.
“This way,” he whispered.
He led her to an isolated room. “Dry yourself,” he said. “I’ll get you something hot.”
Placing Ragweed’s earring to one side, Poppy began licking her fur dry. By the time she was done, Basil returned with an acorn of steaming mashed rye. Despite her upset, Poppy ate ravenously, grateful for the warmth that seeped through her body.
Basil listened intently as Poppy told of the meeting with Mr. Ocax.
“And look what I found.” She held up Ragweed’s earring.
Basil took it carefully. “Where was it?”
“Sticking out of one of Mr. Ocax’s pellets.”
“Makes me sick,” he muttered. After a while he asked, “Poppy, what’s going to happen next?”
Poppy sighed. “I thought it would have been impossible to feel worse than I did when Ragweed died. I was wrong. This is worse. So many will suffer. And guess who’s being blamed? Me!”
Wearily, Poppy made her way to the attic. She wanted to be alone.
Amid Farmer Lamout’s clutter she’d come across a tin can a while ago shaped like a house. “Log Cabin Syrup,” the label read. After cleaning the inside to a shiny newness and lining it with her favorite old magazine bits, Poppy considered it her own room.
Now she patted down a wad of filmy lace—her pillow—and crept beneath a blanket—a crocheted doily. Curled up into a tight ball, she tucked in her paws and wrapped her tail about her, tucking its tip right below her nose. Never had she felt so worn out.
Even so, she could not sleep. She kept hearing Mr. Ocax say that he was refusing permission for family members to move because they—she and Ragweed—had not asked him if they could go to Bannock Hill.
Then, too, there was his hint that he would change his mind if she sacrificed herself. She was glad she had not mentioned that to the family, rather suspecting some of them would have urged
