Poppy tried, but she was wondering what kind of chance they’d have with an owl who made his own lightning.
Marching down the middle of the Road made her nervous. Surely Mr. Ocax would see them. Would he recognize her? If he did, would he attack? What should she do then? Run? Where? Ashamed to have such worries, Poppy decided it would be better to hide them. So she said nothing. Still, it was hard to keep the heavy flag high.
“Up!” Lungwort kept calling. He was now walking behind her.
They had been marching for some time—during which they had exchanged only a few words—when the night silence was suddenly shattered by a “Whooo-whooo!”
Startled, Poppy stopped short. In the confusion, Lungwort banged into her. He lost his thimble cap and his speech. She dropped the flag.
“Pick the flag up!” her father cried, searching and finding both thimble and speech in the darkness. “Lose the flag and we’re done for!”
“Do you think he’s seen us?”
“Why else do you think he called?” Lungwort snapped.
The hair along Poppy’s spine stood straight up. It wasn’t the owl’s call that frightened her as much as the fear she heard suddenly in her father’s voice. Never had she heard that before. She peered around at him. He didn’t appear scared. Poppy sighed. She decided she must have imagined it, seeing in him what she was feeling.
The call came again: “Whooo-whooo.”
Poppy, her heart pounding, asked, “How much farther to go?”
“Quite a ways,” Lungwort whispered.
They listened again. No more calls came. Lungwort adjusted his hat and gave a forced chuckle. “Actually, I suspect that call was just some good-natured joshing.”
“Papa?”
“What?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Humph,” Lungwort replied, but Poppy sensed he was pleased. She felt better until he said, “But do keep that flag up.”
The owl’s call came again. For a second time Poppy stopped. Her father did, too. They listened intently for a few moments. Then Lungwort whispered, “Just as I thought. He’s joking. Lighten up, child.” They moved on.
Poppy didn’t like to contradict her father, but she doubted Mr. Ocax’s calls were a joke. She rather suspected the owl was trying to scare them. And—as far as she was concerned—he was succeeding.
Rain began. It came softly at first, but when a clap of thunder burst right overhead—making them jump—the drizzle turned into a deluge. Within seconds they were soaked. The tar-covered road ran with water. The flag became heavier and spattered with mud.
“Shake out the flag,” Lungwort cried. “It must stay white.”
Poppy tried to do as she was told, but it was difficult.
They trudged on. Off to the left, flashes of lightning allowed Poppy to see the tall trees of Dimwood Forest. Although she, like all the mice, was well aware of the forest, she had never visited it. Who would want to? She’d been taught too many fearsome things about its vast size, its dreadful darkness, the fact that Mr. Ocax had a secret home there. Equally alarming was the knowledge that Dimwood Forest was full of the animals that hunted mice, animals like porcupines. Poppy made herself look in another direction.
“We’re getting close,” her father said, his voice tense.
Poppy cocked an ear. Over the continual splash of rain, she heard the rushing waters of Glitter Creek. Then the Tar Road twisted sharply to the left. They had reached the Bridge, a row of heavy wooden planks thrown across the creek. The gaps between the planks were wide enough for a mouse to fall through. Lungwort chose the middle plank and Poppy followed.
Despite her best intentions, she couldn’t keep from peeking down. Normally Glitter Creek was serene. The summer rains had made it high, fast, and fairly roaring.
Poppy stole a nervous glance at her father. He had stopped to pull at his whiskers. She had never seen him so agitated and wondered suddenly if he would be able to protect her. She’d never asked the question before. Never had to. Just to think it upset her. She looked to her father for reassurance, but all she saw was his frailty. She knew then that he was just as frightened as she was. The realization made her stomach ache with tension.
Lungwort caught her looking at him. “Flag!” he cried, moving forward.
Poppy managed to lever the flag up just as she stepped off the Bridge. The moment she did, the air was rent with yet another of Mr. Ocax’s cries: “Whooo-whooo!”
“There he is!” Lungwort exclaimed.
Poppy looked up. As the lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, Mr. Ocax’s dead oak seemed to leap toward them. Against the darkness of Dimwood she saw that the owl’s branch reached out like a claw. As for Mr. Ocax, his head feathers were erect, making him look like a devil.
“Don’t give way!” Poppy said fiercely to herself even as she trembled. “Don’t give way!”
CHAPTER 6
Standing Before Mr. Ocax
THE LEAVES OF THE OAK trees around Mr. Ocax’s oak shielded him from the rain, but Poppy and her father were being drenched. The owl’s head, moreover, was pulled down between his wings, while his eyes, enormously wide and unblinking, gave Poppy the sensation that there was nothing she might do or even think of doing which he could not, would not, see. To Poppy he seemed to be pure power and fury.
Wanting to look away, she glanced at the base of Mr. Ocax’s tree. There lay what appeared to be a mound of pebbles. Gradually a ghastly realization came over her. What she was seeing was a mound of Mr. Ocax’s upchucked pellets, the closely packed and undigested bits of fur and bone from his dinners. The vision made her blood turn cold. Only the sound of Mr. Ocax’s sneering voice jolted her back to alertness.
“What do you want, Lungwort?” the owl demanded, his claws continually flexing on his perch.
Lungwort, holding cap in hand like an empty bucket, said, “May I wish you a very pleasant
