“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
