Then she looked again. This time she spied a rectangular strip of wood propped against a stone at an upward angle. It was about halfway between where she hunched and the hole. Poppy told herself that if she tired, or if some danger appeared, she would be able to hide—briefly—beneath the high end.
Tense, she examined the eastern sky once more. It had grown lighter. Was it day yet? Would Mr. Ocax be asleep now?
The owl, cruising high to the west of Bannock Hill, moved his wings slowly, wanting to make the least possible disturbance on the air. These deer mice, he knew, could be very sensitive.
As he flew, he kept his eyes fixed on Poppy’s rock. The mouse’s run suggested what she was doing, moving from protected spot to protected spot. Mr. Ocax was well aware that the biggest family of deer mice in his territory—headed by that old fool Lungwort—lived in Gray House. More than likely this Poppy was heading there. Well, then, how would she go?
The owl spied a bush on the south side of the hill. Though it was some distance from the rock, it would be a logical next hiding place for the mouse. But if it came to a race for that bush, he knew who would win. Mr. Ocax gave a hiss of satisfaction.
Poppy cleared the rock crevice in one jump. Her landing, however, was awkward. It threw up a puff of dust. Swiftly she scrambled back to her feet, then started to dash across the open area. Belly low, tail stiff as a nail, ears folded back, she pumped her legs like pistons.
Mr. Ocax, circling above, saw the dust caused by the mouse’s jump. The next moment he spotted Poppy. In a flash he calculated her speed and direction. Determining the exact spot where he could catch her, he made four quick, strong wing pumps, which brought him to the proper altitude. Then he dived.
Poppy streaked over the ground. Though she felt as though her heart would burst, she was almost halfway to the bush. Soon she would be passing the wood strip.
Mr. Ocax, who had plummeted to a spot not far above and behind Poppy, threw out his wings, pulled back his head, thrust his claws forward. In anticipation of the meal he was about to eat, he clacked his beak.
Poppy, hearing the clack, cast a lightning glance over her shoulder. Mr. Ocax was right behind her, his fearsome talons set. The shock of seeing the owl so close surged through her like a bolt of electricity. With an enormous kick of her rear legs she shot into the air, tumbling head over heels until she came down, belly flat, on the far end of the length of wood.
Poppy’s leap caught Mr. Ocax by surprise. As he dived, Poppy took off. Sensing he would miss her, he adjusted. Up came his claws. Down went his left wing. Over went his tail. What Mr. Ocax achieved, however, was a careening swerve that brought him crashing beyond his target, onto the same strip of wood as Poppy—but on the opposite end.
When Mr. Ocax landed, his weight catapulted the light-as-a-feather mouse into the air in a great arc that dumped her with a splat right at the base of the bush. Frantic, she clawed forward and tumbled head over heels into the hole she’d been aiming for.
Mr. Ocax swiveled his head first this way, then that, searching for his prey. She seemed to have vanished.
Frustrated, he flapped into the air and circled low over Bannock Hill but found no trace. Seething, the owl headed back to Dimwood. How dare this mouse—this Poppy—escape! Twice! Never before had a mouse done that. Mr. Ocax had half a mind to return to his watching tree and wait for the impudent creature to pop up. The next moment he decided against it. He was tired. Daylight had finally arrived. It was long past his sleeping time. Besides, he had eaten something.
But as Mr. Ocax sailed deep into Dimwood toward his secret lair, he vowed to avenge himself. If mice began to get notions that they could escape him, there would be no end of trouble.
Poppy lay in the hole beneath the bush, hurting from ears to tail. It took time for her breathing to become regular, longer still for her pulse to drop to normal.
When she began to feel herself again, she tested her legs and toes to see if they worked. Everything seemed to be intact. Cautiously she crawled to the top of the hole and stole a quick peek. Though she saw no sign of Mr. Ocax, she retreated hastily, still too agitated to do anything but hide.
It was some time before Poppy took another look. Then she took a third. Though she still didn’t see the owl, she hesitated. Mr. Ocax, she knew, was capable of great patience.
So it was that the sun had risen quite high above the horizon before Poppy finally eased herself out of the hole. Following her plan of short runs and safe havens, she scampered at last down Bannock Hill to Gray House.
According to mice family stories, a human called Farmer Lamout had lived in the house. When he and his family left—it was said to be many, many winters ago—the house started to collapse. The white walls turned ashen. The roof’s middle dropped lower than either end. Windows fell out. Doors fell in. The farmer’s cast-off boots, old furniture, magazines
