“Do you think . . . Rye . . . will come back?”
Thistle shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
Poppy tried to make herself useful by tending to the children. She was not very good at it. Besides, they were inclined to stare at her as if she were odd. Being a deer mouse she was smaller than they, and her fur was a different color.
For her own part Poppy knew perfectly well she was stalling, doing little except waiting for Rye’s return. At the same time, the thought of his coming back made her nervous. She wasn’t exactly sure what she felt. What would she say to him?
Poppy’s thoughts were interrupted when Clover asked Valerian to bring her close.
“I need to ask you a little more about Ragweed,” she said to Poppy.
“I’ll tell you anything I know,” Poppy said.
Clover and Valerian asked Poppy many questions. How had she met Ragweed? Where was this Dimwood Forest she had come from? Who and what was her family? Did she and Ragweed, in fact, marry?
Poppy told them all that had happened. How she had grown up with her own family on a farm at the edge of Dimwood Forest. How she had met and fallen in love with Ragweed only to be right there when the owl—a Mr. Ocax—had killed him. She told them then how she had defeated this Mr. Ocax. Finally, she told them of her desire to bring them the news of their son.
As she told her tale, she kept looking out of the corner of her eye for Rye. The last thing she wanted was for him to show up and hear what she was saying.
“We need you to know,” Valerian said, when Poppy was done, “that even though you didn’t marry Ragweed we’d like to think of you as our daughter.”
“We really do,” Clover agreed with a catch in her voice.
“This isn’t much of a home,” Valerian went on, “but it’s all we have. You’re welcome to stay, too.”
“Thank you,” Poppy returned. “I’m truly touched.” She reached up and took off Ragweed’s earring. “I brought this back for you,” she said. “It was his. I thought you should have it.”
She held out the earring. The purple bead seemed to glow. The little chain sparkled.
“Did he give it to you?” Clover asked.
“In a way,” Poppy said.
“Ah,” Clover said softly. “He wasn’t wearing one when he left home. It must have something to do with the life he had with you.”
“I have no idea where he got it,” Poppy told them. “He had it on when I met him.”
“Any notion what he did from the time he left here to the time he met you?” Valerian asked.
Poppy shook her head. “He never really said. But he did talk about his home fondly.”
Clover held the earring in the palm of her paw, as if it were something magical. With a sigh she offered it to Valerian, who contemplated it, too.
Then Valerian handed it back to Poppy. “I think you should keep it.”
Poppy looked to Clover. Clover nodded her agreement.
After a moment’s hesitation, Poppy took the earring and fixed it back on her ear. “I’ll stay a little while.”
But Poppy knew she was only staying so she could speak to Rye. What had happened with Ragweed, she told herself, was the past. It was done. Finished. Complete. She would remember the past. But she would not live it. Instead she would wait for Rye.
But Rye did not return. Though no one seemed to be concerned, Poppy began to wonder if he would ever come back. She began to suspect—and fear—he would not.
CHAPTER 13
What Happened to Rye?
AS RYE HAD LISTENED to Poppy speak about Ragweed, he hardly knew what to think. He was confused. He was upset. He felt humiliated. Ragweed was always getting in his way. He had done so when he was alive. Now he was doing so even after he had died.
And yet . . .
Rye knew perfectly well that Ragweed’s death was awful. Truly, he felt terrible about it.
And yet . . .
From the moment he had begun his dance on the meadow with this graceful mouse—this one named Poppy—he had fallen in love with her. He hoped—and thought—she felt something of the same for him. But now that she had discovered that he was Ragweed’s brother—and admitted she loved Ragweed!—surely there was no hope for him.
And yet . . .
He found himself thinking that perhaps, now that Ragweed had died, Poppy might turn to him.
And yet . . .
Rye felt deeply ashamed of himself. How self-centered and selfish he was! Such horrible thoughts! How low! How bad! Poppy would never be able to see anything decent in him.
But the very next moment he thought, “I’m not a bad mouse! I’m not!”
It was with these thoughts that Rye raced from the nest. He did not go far. He could not outrun his feelings. More importantly, he did not want to go away from this deer mouse, this Poppy.
He found himself at the edge of the beavers’ pond. It was raining steadily, monotonously. The world looked the way he felt, gray and sodden. Moreover, except for him, everything seemed immense. He was nothing but a small, bad, useless mouse.
Hunkering down, consumed by the sensation that the whole world despised him, Rye shivered with wet and cold.
“Is there any place in this wide world for such a wretch as I?” he asked himself. Simultaneously, he darted a look over his shoulder to see if, just possibly, someone—he dared not say who—had followed him. When he saw that no one had, he was angry he’d even checked.
A mournful Rye gazed down at the pond. A mist was rising off the water as if it were smoldering. A few beavers were hard at work. Suddenly Rye saw that the pond
