Struggling to control his temper, Lungwort tapped his thimble cap down over his forehead. Fuming, he replied, “Mr. Ocax protects us from vicious porcupines only when we accept him as our ruler, that’s why. All he requires is that we ask his permission whenever we move beyond the immediate area of Gray House.
“We have freedom to go about the Old Orchard up to Glitter Creek. We can do the same for Farmer Lamout’s fields. At our own risk, of course. Life is full of danger. Go beyond, however, and we need to get Mr. Ocax’s permission.”
“What’s his reason?” Ragweed persevered.
Sweet Cicely, brushing her ears, sighed with exasperation. How Poppy, her own daughter, could take up with such an ill-mannered ruffian was beyond her understanding. All the same, she said, “Ragweed, as Mr. Ocax has patiently explained to my husband, he needs to know if we’re moving about so he won’t mistake us for porcupines. Asking permission is a small sacrifice to pay for our safety.”
Lungwort nodded his agreement. “That owl,” he pointed out, “has incredible vision. And hearing. He can hear or see anything, even in the dark. And a good thing, too. Porcupines prowl at night. Move like lightning, Mr. Ocax says. Shoot quills without asking questions. Kill without mercy.
“No, my boy, we don’t argue with Mr. Ocax. He’s our protector. If we disobey him, break his rules—and I can’t say I blame him either—he gets upset.”
“What’ll he do then?” asked Leaf, one of Poppy’s brothers.
“He’ll eat you,” Lungwort replied briskly as he put away the picture of the porcupine. “And,” he continued, “it happens. During the past year we have lost some fifteen family members. It may be presumed that all failed to ask Mr. Ocax for permission to go somewhere.”
The children were shocked into silence.
Ragweed, however, spoke out again. “Hey, Pops, didn’t I hear you say porcupines are huge?”
“You saw the picture,” Lungwort responded. “And don’t call me Pops. It’s common.”
“So them porcupines are bigger than us, right?”
“A lot bigger,” Sweet Cicely said, emphasizing the lot.
“Well, old lady,” Ragweed kept on, “if them there porcupines are so huge, and we’re so small, and if this dude owl has such amazing sight, how come he might confuse us mice with them there dude porcupines? Know what I’m saying?”
An indignant Sweet Cicely looked to her husband.
Lungwort sputtered, “Ragweed, for your information, proper grammatical usage is ‘those porcupines,’ not ‘them there porcupines.’ And while I’m thinking about it, if you intend to court my daughter I’ll thank you to groom your hair properly when you get up in the morning. As for that earring you’ve taken to wearing, I don’t like it. Not one bit. This family is committed to keeping up mice values and is opposed to stupid questions.” With that, Lungwort stalked away, tail whipping about in agitation.
On Bannock Hill, Poppy remembered it all. She also remembered it was Ragweed who insisted they come up the hill but that he absolutely refused to ask Mr. Ocax’s permission to do so. Perhaps, then, what occurred—horrible as it had been—had served Ragweed right. Then and there Poppy vowed she would never leave home again.
The difficulty was that at that moment she was far from home, frightened, and alone.
CHAPTER 3
Poppy Alone
POPPY GLANCED to the east. The horizon was streaked with layers of pink and red. Did that make it night or day? Neither. It was impossible to guess, then, if the owl was still awake, as he was at night, or asleep, as he was by day. Besides, the place in Dimwood Forest where Mr. Ocax slept—not the same as his watching post—was unknown. He kept it secret.
As if she might discover it, Poppy gazed into the forest. All she could make out was a great mass of dark trees. No wonder it was called dim, she thought, and shuddered.
Poppy considered the distance from the north side of Bannock Hill, where she was hiding, to the dwelling on the abandoned farm where she and her family lived—Gray House. It was about the length of four cornfields. Poppy decided she’d best race from one protected spot to another in quick, low belly runs.
She peeked out from beneath the bark again. There was a fallen branch up ahead, but it was leafless, so it would provide no cover. Beyond the branch, however, she spied a rock with a crevice just large enough to wedge into. Poppy decided to aim for that.
Whiskers stiffly alert, breathing deeply to catch the smallest whiff of danger, she crept out from under the protective piece of bark. If only, if only—she kept saying to herself—if only Mr. Ocax was not watching . . .
But Mr. Ocax was watching. He was perched perfectly still on the dead branch of his tree, with very wide-open eyes. Not for a moment had he ceased staring at Poppy’s hiding place. If there was one thing the owl hated more than a creature who neglected to ask permission to move about the territory, it was a creature who escaped punishment for not asking. How could he keep the mice terrified if any one of them got away with that? No, this Poppy must not escape!
Mr. Ocax belched, bringing up a pellet of Ragweed’s bones and fur as well as the earring, which he had been unable to digest. The pellet fell to the ground to lie among a large pile of other pellets.
Intently, the owl moved his head from side to side, back and forth, adjusting his depth of vision. In time he saw Poppy’s pink nose poke out from her hiding place. Then he watched as she raced toward a rock. At last! The mouse was on the move. Mr. Ocax clacked his beak with pleasure, spread his wings, and leaped into the air.
Panting hard but protected by the crevice, Poppy squirmed about and sniffed for hints of danger. She found none.
Once she had caught her breath, she edged a bit out of her nook
