After reading a paragraph or two, he insisted upon knowing what the listener thought. If there were compliments, he said something like, “No, I don’t want flattery. I can’t use that. I need hard criticism.” When he received criticism, he always argued that his way was best. Then off he’d go—in a grump—to make minute subtractions or additions to his text, none of which had anything to do with either compliments or criticisms.
While Lungwort prepared his speech, a committee busied itself making a white flag. No one knew whether a flag of this kind was Lungwort’s idea or Mr. Ocax’s demand. Even so, whenever there was such a “permission party,” as the younger mice called it, a crisp new flag was carried so Mr. Ocax would have no doubt as to the mice’s intentions. It would be Poppy’s job to march along with her father, bearing the flag.
Poppy, meanwhile, did what she’d been told to do, relating the facts of Ragweed’s death to all the family. Everyone was upset by the story. Being eaten by Mr. Ocax was a shared nightmare. Moreover, it happened with some regularity. They were all scared of him. There was considerable “Tuttutting,” and much whisker twitching. Yet, while everyone expressed sorrow, Poppy suspected that few grieved. Worst were the words of comfort that began, “Well, if someone had to be sacrificed . . .”
“I don’t understand why they disliked Ragweed so,” Poppy protested sadly to Basil the night before she and Lungwort were to go see Mr. Ocax. “What harm did Ragweed do them?”
“I can think of three things,” Basil replied. “He was a golden mouse, not a deer mouse. He came from somewhere else. And he said things that upset them. You know, like, ‘You haven’t lived unless you die for something.’ Remember what he told old Plum? ‘A soft belly causes softness at both ends.’”
“But I liked that he was different,” Poppy confessed. “He loved adventure. I’ll never forget the last words he ever spoke to me. They were so terribly ironic.”
“What’s ironic?”
“You know, when the words mean almost the opposite of what you’re saying. The last thing he said to me was ‘You don’t know how to live like I do.’”
“What’s ironic about that?” Basil asked.
“The next second Mr. Ocax killed him.”
“Oh!” Basil shuddered.
“Now, Poppy,” her mother began as she brushed her daughter’s fur for a final time, “above all, do exactly what your father tells you to do.
“Be respectful toward Mr. Ocax if he takes notice of you. But if he does not, don’t fret. Your father commands his attention. Mr. Ocax has great respect for your father.
“Don’t so much as squeak until you are spoken to. Then be humble and brief.
“Remember the old saying ‘Mice should be nice.’ And for heaven’s sake, keep the white flag flying.
“Above all,” Sweet Cicely concluded, “remember, it’s an honor that you were selected to go.”
“Yes, Mother,” Poppy replied, though what her mother was saying made her very uncomfortable.
Lungwort appeared at that moment. His hair was slicked down; his whiskers were crisply curled; his tail had been scrubbed to a glowing pink; his thimble hat was set at a natty angle. “Is she ready?” he asked his wife.
“I think so.”
Lungwort examined his daughter with a critical eye. “Fine,” he said. “A good start promises a good finish. All right, Mother, we should be off.”
Sweet Cicely gave Lungwort a nuzzle, whispering, “Do be careful.”
“Careful is my middle name,” Lungwort assured her, and led the way to the porch. There the whole family of mice had assembled for a send-off. Fireflies had been gathered and, now released, gave the moment a festive mood. Poppy, holding the flag, stood at the foot of the porch steps.
Lungwort scampered atop the old porch rail and faced the crowd.
“My fellow mice,” he began, paws clasped comfortably over his plump belly while he surveyed his family with solemn regard, “I am about to leave for my meeting with Mr. Ocax. Need I remind you how important is this deputation? A moment for the multitude of mice to memorize.”
Poppy, unable to make much sense of the words, stopped listening. She was searching for Basil in the crowd.
“Be certain,” Lungwort continued, “that I will go forward with your best interests at heart. I have prepared a fine speech that will, I’m sure, convince him of our needs.” He held up a scroll of paper, wrapped carefully in leaves to protect it. “I look forward to returning with Mr. Ocax’s kind permission so at least half of us can move on to a new home. That will be a great day for us all.”
At this point he looked down at Poppy. “Poppy,” he cried, “raise up the flag!”
“What?”
“The flag, Poppy! The flag!”
“Oh!” Poppy lifted the white banner high. Looking at it, all she could think of was a flag of surrender.
As Lungwort took his place before her, one of the crowd called out, “Hip-hip—”
“Hurrah!” cried the others.
“Hip-hip—”
“Hurrah!”
“Forward!” Lungwort cried. He gave a smart nod to Poppy, and they began to march off. The crowd continued to cheer. Poppy had to admit it was grand. When she caught sight of Basil waving frantically to catch her eye, she even felt proud.
Within moments, however, everything changed. Gray House, with its cheerful lights and well-wishers, vanished behind them. The moon had all but disappeared behind clouds that promised rain. No stars were visible. The air felt as heavy as wet wool. In the darkness, Poppy had no idea of which direction they were to go.
“We’ll be taking the Tar Road,” Lungwort informed her. “Fewer obstructions. More visibility.”
“Do we have a meeting place?” she asked.
“The very tip of Dimwood Forest,” her father said. “Just on the far side of the Bridge over Glitter Creek. Mr. Ocax’s watching tree. He’s there most nights. Can’t miss it. It’s a huge dead oak.”
“How come it’s dead?”
“It was hit by lightning.”
“Was Mr. Ocax on the tree at the time?”
Lungwort chuckled. “Poppy, there are those who say
