But even as he watched and planned he saw a mouse creep out from under the boulder and rush away.
Mr. Canad knew what that meant: Mice were living under the boulder. As far as he knew, these mice were the only ones left around the brook. Most of the other creatures had departed. How pleasing to know there had been no resistance. Surely these last mice would quickly see the hopelessness of resisting the future. But what if they did not?
He could swat them away. Mere nothings that they were, squashing the mice would be easy, though the thought made Mr. Canad uncomfortable. He was no bully. He just wanted progress. He wanted the world to appreciate him for the good he was doing. What he needed to do was find a way to convince the mice to leave—of their own accord. It would make him feel good. Nothing was more important than to make good their slogan, “Progress Without Pain.”
Mr. Canad dove back into the pond and made his way to the main lodge. When he came within five feet of it, he dove and swam underwater until he found the entrance.
Mr. Canad went to his plans—laid out on bark—and began to draw in detail. The boulder here. The large new dam there. The lake . . . everywhere.
Then he mused, “If I can make a lake, well, bless my teeth and smooth my tail, why not an ocean?”
The thought made Mr. Canad grin broadly. Then he said, “It never rains but it should do it a lot. On me.”
Then he gave himself over to finding a way to convince those last few mice that they should move away.
CHAPTER 12
In the Nest
IN CLOVER AND Valerian’s nest under the boulder there was nothing but despair. Poppy’s news of Ragweed’s death had devastated the family. The coming of the beavers, the damming of the Brook, the creation of the pond, their change of homes, all of that had been difficult to accept. But the family had shared the notion—spoken and unspoken—that Ragweed would return and somehow, some way, sort things out. Poppy’s tragic news made it perfectly clear that no such thing would happen.
Everything was now worse.
In one corner of the nest sat a disconsolate Clover, staring off into nothing that anyone else could see. From time to time she let forth a profoundly deep sigh and shifted her bulk—as if gathering her last breath in her chest. Though her black eyes were dry, they held such a weight of wretched pain, it alarmed her own children.
When a child brushed by—it always seemed like an accident but it happened often—Clover reached out and touched it gently. Sometimes she stroked it. But there was little life or spirit to her paw.
As for Valerian, though he was just as heartbroken as Clover, he spent his time and energy trying to comfort the children. “Your mother will be fine,” he kept telling them. “She’s just very sad. And it is sad.”
The children did notice that now and again Valerian wiped his cheeks with the back of his paw, or blew his nose so loudly it sounded like the honking of a goose heading south. “Summer colds are stupid,” he kept saying. No one pointed out that he had had no cold before Poppy’s news.
Those children who remembered Ragweed best sniffled, wept in corners, or exchanged reminiscences, trying, with little success, to keep their grief private or to keep a brave face.
Then they got it into their heads that it was their parents who needed to be consoled most. Not knowing what to say, they did what they thought was the next best thing: They did whatever they were asked to do and some things that they were not asked as well—did them so fast they almost tripped over themselves in their desire to please. So they were constantly cleaning up, sweeping the entry hall, minding the infants, preparing meals—anything they could think of that might soothe their parents. Someone was always sweeping, straightening up, or burping babies. . . . The result was a continual low hubbub that got on everybody’s nerves.
If two of the youngest mice got into a scuffle—they didn’t quite grasp what had happened—it was their elder brothers and sisters who stepped in and stifled the discord.
“Please,” they whispered. “Clover is very sad.” Or, “Valerian is crying.” This so alarmed the youngsters that they sniffled and whimpered and clung to their parents more than ever.
As for Poppy, she hardly knew what to do or say. No one asked her to do anything. No one asked her to leave. On the contrary, they had assured her that she should stay. She was stared at a lot, as one who had a particular connection to Ragweed and his awful death and thus seemed extraordinary. Still, no one inquired about her feelings, her life. She felt as useless as an extra tail.
She did find time to take Thistle aside, and ask, “Was I wrong, but didn’t I see another brother here? He had a notch in his right ear. He was standing way in the back, behind you all. He seems to have rushed away.”
“You must mean Rye,” Thistle replied.
“Rye,” Poppy repeated, grateful that at least she now had a name for the one with whom she had danced. “Where . . . where do you think he went?” she asked, sensing that she was blushing a little.
Thistle cocked her head to one side and considered Poppy. Then, in a matter-of-fact way, she said, “Rye’s always a little weird.”
“Weird? Why? How?”
“He gets sort of dreamy. You know, he goes off a lot by himself.”
“Why . . . why do you think he ran off—this time?” Poppy wanted to know, though she had a fairly good idea.
“He’s very emotional,” Thistle said. “He loved Ragweed, but he sort of didn’t, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“A younger brother,”
