Their eyes met—and held. Poppy’s heart fluttered. Grief, joy, relief, sadness—all mingled, but in such confusion she hardly knew what she felt.
She lowered her eyes.
Valerian, his voice husky, spoke out. “My dear Miss mouse, do you have some news about our son, Ragweed?”
“Yes . . .” Poppy managed to say.
“What’s . . . happened to him?” Clover blurted out. “When . . . when is he coming home?”
Poppy found it impossible to speak. Instead she sought out the face of her dancing partner. Once again their eyes met. How she wished he were not there. How she wished she were not going to say what she had to say.
“Please,” she heard Clover beg as if from some distant place. “I really must know.” As Clover spoke she stood up—infant still in her arms—and reached a paw to touch Valerian, as if she were in need of steadying. Her round, heavy body seemed uncertain on her stumpy legs.
Poppy turned back to Clover. “I’m afraid Ragweed . . .” The next word stuck. She could not speak the word. She had to force it out. “Ragweed is . . . dead,” she finally said, her voice tiny.
Utter silence.
“Dead?” a small voice, a youngster’s, echoed.
“Dead?” Clover repeated.
Poppy could only nod yes.
Valerian cleared his throat. “But . . . how?” he managed to ask.
“An owl killed him.”
“An owl . . .” someone said. Then all was silence again.
Suddenly Clover sat down. “My own poor, sweet boy,” she sobbed.
“Can you tell us more?” Valerian asked in a choked voice.
Poppy closed her eyes. When she opened them she sought out the face of the mouse with whom she had danced. When she found it, it was full of awful sadness. “We . . . we were . . . in love,” Poppy said. “We were going to marry.”
“Oh, my,” Clover murmured, putting a paw to her trembling lips.
Valerian swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and said, “Poppy . . . I . . . we thank you for coming and . . . telling us.” He wiped a tear from one cheek, then the other.
“I thought you’d want to know,” Poppy said softly. “That’s why I came.”
The golden mice stared at Poppy as if she had spoken a strange language. Clover, letting escape a small squeak, even as she stroked the baby she was holding, said, “It’s a terrible thing to live beyond your own children.”
With great effort Valerian drew himself up. “Poppy, it was generous of you to come so far to bring us . . . the news. You must be tired.”
“I’m all right,” Poppy said.
“You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like,” he added. “This is not . . . where Ragweed was brought up. We’ve fallen on hard times. But . . . our nest is your nest.”
“The beavers sank our nest,” one of the young mice shouted. All the children began to talk at once.
“Poppy, I must ask you something . . .” Clover suddenly said. In an instant the nest became quiet again.
“Yes, please,” Poppy said.
“I hope you loved my son very much,” Clover said.
Poppy did not answer right away. Instead, she looked down at her toes, then up and around, seeking the face of the one with whom she had danced. He was gazing at her with a look of profound pain.
“Did you love him?” Clover pressed. The question seemed urgent.
“Yes,” Poppy said, “I did. Very much.”
“Oh, my dear . . .” Clover cried. Thrusting the baby she’d been holding into Valerian’s paws, she rushed over to Poppy and gave her an engulfing hug. Poppy hugged her back. As she did, she saw, from the corner of an eye, the mouse she had danced with, his face awash with grief, rush past and fling himself up the tunnel.
CHAPTER 10
Ereth Has Some Thoughts
HUNCHED ON HIS PERCH in the cottonwood tree, Ereth stared gloomily at the falling rain. Lightning crackled overhead. Thunder rumbled. The world had become gray and sodden.
“I hate water,” Ereth proclaimed to nobody in particular. “In fact,” he muttered, “I hate everything.”
Again and again he wished he were back home in his smelly log in Dimwood Forest. It was dry there. It was quiet. He was alone. Nothing—no one—bothered him.
“Whatever made me come here?” he kept asking himself. “Poppy did. She forced me to come. . . . Mouse frickets . . .” he muttered. “Double mouse frickets. Quadruple mouse frickets!”
From directly over his head, a pool of water that had collected in the fold of a leaf fell on his face.
“That’s enough!” Ereth shouted with a furious shake of his head. “I’m going home!” Snarling and hissing, he scrambled down the tree. Once on soggy ground, he paused. The storm appeared to be growing worse. The rain was falling harder and faster. If he went he would get soaked. Then a wind shook the tree, causing a cascade of water to plop on his head. He moaned. If he stayed he would get soaked. Where was that foolish mouse? Why did he ever bother with her?
“If I go it will teach her a lesson. If I teach her a lesson she’ll get upset with me,” he told himself. “If she gets upset she’ll scold me. Then I’ll feel bad. Why should I care? She’s just a friend. No,” he corrected himself. “I have no friends. I don’t want any friends. Poppy’s just an acquaintance. A passerby.
“Poppy!” he bellowed. “Where are you? Why don’t you come back? I need . . .” He bit off the rest of his sentence. “Spider spit,” he swore out loud. “Sticky, slimy, sloppy, spider spit!”
Furious, he jumped out from under the tree, only to sink knee-deep in mud. Complaining bitterly, he shook his paws free. “Maybe Poppy’s coming now,” he thought. “I’ll meet her halfway. Make her hurry. Tell her to stop all this drivel about Ragweed. Ragweed. . . .” He growled. “I hate Ragweed.”
He tore down the path he had seen Poppy take. As he went the rain came down harder. Water poured over his face. He felt like a decaying mushroom. “Stupid storm!” he shouted.
He peered down the path.
