The other mouse blushed, turned, and fled toward the West, disappearing amid the trees that surrounded the field.
A speechless Poppy stared after him, even as her questions returned: Who are you? What are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going? But the other mouse was gone. Poppy had no answers.
Overwhelmed, Poppy picked herself up from the ground. Half walking, half staggering, she made her way back to where Ereth had remained, asleep.
At the base of the tree she sat down and closed her eyes. Had it all been a dream? Or had something truly extraordinary occurred?
She was not sure.
The next thing Poppy felt was her shoulder being rudely shaken. Simultaneously, she heard Ereth splutter into her ear, “Let’s go, stink foot. The sooner we get to where we’re going, the sooner we can get back home.”
But what had happened to Rye? For it was Rye with whom Poppy had danced.
He had gone from the meadow in a stupor equal to Poppy’s. As he went he paused now and again to look back longingly. “Who are you? What are you?” he asked the image of Poppy. “What is your name? Where do you hail from? Where will you go?” And why did he feel he had to go away, when in fact he wanted to go back and dance forever?
Rye also asked himself if the dance had been real or only a moment’s fantasy.
So intent was he upon these questions that he completely forgot he was running away from home. When he did remember, he had already reached the entryway to the family nest under the boulder. “Oh, well,” Rye said dreamily, “I might as well stay.”
No one had noticed he had gone.
CHAPTER 9
The Rain Falls
POPPY AND ERETH trudged along in silence. With her mind taken up by thoughts of the mouse with whom she had danced, she was grateful for the quiet. How so very much like Ragweed he was! And yet—how different. While they looked alike, the stranger seemed softer, gentler than the bold, headstrong Ragweed she had known. Certainly this mouse was more romantic. Was he, Poppy kept wondering, a dream or not? If he was a dream, he was the best dream she’d ever had. Still, she hoped he was real.
If her dance partner had been real, how could she find him again? Of course it was impossible that he had been Ragweed. But the mouse clearly was a golden mouse. If there was one golden mouse in the area, perhaps there would be others. Did that mean she was nearing Ragweed’s home?
As they walked, Poppy hummed the snippet of tune she had composed for her dance.
So preoccupied was Poppy by her musings that she failed to notice that Ereth was frowning and grumbling even more than usual.
“What’s that noise?” he suddenly asked.
“It’s me, humming.”
“I’m in no mood for music.”
“How come?”
“I . . . Oh, forget it.”
Poppy paused to look at her friend closely. There was a look in his eyes she had never seen before. “Ereth,” she said, suddenly alarmed. “What is it?”
Ereth looked a little sheepish. “I . . . well . . . bumblebee flunk. Never mind!”
Poppy offered a worried glance but chose to ask no more questions. In any case she preferred to think about her dance. Once again she began to hum her tune.
The two friends continued west. When on occasion they met others on the path—a mole, a water rat—Poppy asked if they had ever heard of the Brook. Much advice was offered, directions were given, and sure enough another brook was found. Small and calm, it was very much what Poppy imagined she was looking for. To her disappointment no golden mice lived thereabout.
A resident otter did inform Poppy and Ereth that there was another pretty, shallow brook, no farther than two hills beyond, in “that” direction. The otter pointed due west.
“I bet we find the right one this time,” Poppy, ever hopeful, said to Ereth as they started again.
Ereth grew even more gloomy.
Though the day had begun bright and clear, the sky had turned gray and cloudy, the air heavy. Treetops flicked and bobbed in a humid breeze. Birds flew high and fast. Clearly, a storm was coming.
With new urgency, Poppy and Ereth trudged toward the crest of the second hill.
“Maybe when we get to the top we’ll see the brook that the otter mentioned,” Poppy said.
“Soon as we get to the top of that hill,” Ereth proclaimed, “I’m going back home.”
“Why?”
“I’m sick of walking,” the porcupine replied.
From the crest of the hill they looked down into a valley. At the very bottom was a pond.
“No brook,” Ereth said with palpable relief. “Let’s go home.”
“Well, actually,” Poppy pointed out, “there’s a brook leading into the pond. And out of it.”
Ereth muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Then he said, “It’s going to rain.”
“Ereth,” Poppy said, “rain won’t hurt us. I’m going to check that brook.”
Even as they stood, drops began to fall. At first it came slowly, great plops of water. Then, while lightning crackled off to the distant north and thunder followed, a steady drizzle began to fall.
Ereth wheeled about and moved toward a clump of trees.
“Where you going?” Poppy called.
“Where do you think, toad-wart? Out of the rain.”
“Ereth, I want to explore that brook!”
“Buzzard fraps,” the porcupine muttered.
Poppy watched Ereth go. “Will you promise to stay there until I search a bit?” she called after him.
“I never promise anything.”
“How will I know where you are?”
“Watch my tracks.”
Poppy waited until Ereth reached a cottonwood tree and started to climb it. She noted its position, then hurried down the path. By now the rain was falling steadily.
For his part Ereth looked around, saw which way Poppy was going—down the other side of the hill—then curled himself into a tight ball and closed his eyes. “I never should have come,” he muttered. “Ragweed. Nothing but Ragweed. I thought I was her best friend.”
Poppy was
