Anger swept through him. How he hated the beavers. Yet there they were, making the dam higher, even as misery rained down on his head. Had they no feelings? Would they never stop?
As he looked on, Rye began to have an idea. If he could find some way to put an end to what the beavers were doing, might not he in some way redeem himself? Surely, if he kept them from building the dam higher, or—better yet—forced them to move away, he would become a hero to his family. He and he alone would defeat them! Why, even Poppy might see him as different from Ragweed then!
Rye surveyed the pond. The beavers’ main lodge was not far from the dam. He remembered his father telling him that the way the beavers got into the lodge was by swimming through an underwater passage. If he could get into the lodge, he might . . . Actually, Rye was not at all sure what he might do. He supposed he would think of something once in the lodge. The main thing was to get there. Surely he could do that. Like all his brothers and sisters, he was a good swimmer.
Rye raced down to the edge of the pond.
The beavers’ dam was built where the Brook had narrowed out a V in the land. The dam—made of twigs, branches, and logs plastered over with mud—was some twenty feet across and three feet wide. By going out along the dam he would be that much closer to the lodge.
But when Rye reached one end of the dam, a beaver was working on it. He had brought up a heap of mud and dumped it, and was now using his tail to smooth it down.
Though impatient, Rye bided his time. One whack of the beaver’s tail—not to mention what he could do with his teeth—and Rye would be crushed.
The beaver on the dam gave some final pats to the mud, surveyed his work, uttered a few grunts, moved ponderously toward the edge of the dam, then dove into the water and swam away.
Rye crawled out upon the dam, his way impeded by the twigs and branches which were crisscrossed and bent in all directions. By the time he got near the lodge he was caked with mud and bits of leaves.
Not caring how he looked, Rye crept down as close to the water as possible. There he hesitated. Then an image of Poppy rose in his mind’s eye. If he could succeed, he would be a hero. Holding his nose with one paw, Rye jumped into the water, tail first.
He landed with a splat, momentarily floundered, then righted himself. Shaking his eyes and whiskers free of water, he began to swim toward the lodge.
Three feet from the lodge, he paused and began to tread water. He had reached the most difficult part: the entrance.
Suddenly he realized he had no notion where—other than underwater—the entry hole might be. It could be on the side he was, or opposite. He would have to try his luck.
Filling his lungs with air, he let himself drop down and began to swim underwater.
It had been gray on the water’s surface. It was much darker below. Before him the lodge loomed like a shadowy lump. It sat upon the bottom of the pond and rose up, a huge dome. Enormous. Impenetrable.
Stroking steadily, Rye pushed on, a trail of tiny bubbles escaping from his clenched mouth. Gradually, he began to make out what appeared to be a dark hole. Was that the entryway?
Lungs close to bursting, Rye had to make a decision. If he guessed wrong, he would drown. “At least I tried,” he told himself. “Farewell, Poppy,” he murmured. “Farewell, love. Farewell world!”
Kicking hard, paws madly stroking the water, he propelled himself into the hole. The moment he did so everything turned as dark as a night without a moon.
Rye was no longer trying to get into the lodge. He was struggling to save his life. His strokes were wild, his kicks frenzied.
Unable to endure any more, he shot up—and found air. Gasping for breath, he waved his paws feebly to keep afloat and slowly moved toward a ledge of slippery mud. Reaching it, he clawed his way up, falling back a few times, finally heaving himself up on the slimy shelf. Eyes shut, he lay there, coughing and spitting water.
He opened his eyes.
He was in the lodge. A few feet away sat an enormous beaver. The beaver was looking right at him.
“Well, bless my teeth and smooth my tail,” Mr. Canad said with a smile full of orange teeth. “Glad you came, pal. A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met. Hey, and I mean that, sincerely.”
CHAPTER 14
Ereth
ERETH RAN AMONG the trees. Heart pounding, quills rattling, he tried every dodge he knew to escape—as if some great beast were pursuing him—though this beast was his own feelings. He climbed trees. He threw himself behind bushes. It made no difference. He still felt miserable. When he found an old hollow log, he plunged into it. There, surrounded by the stench of pulpy rot and moldering fungus, he hunkered down and stared out at the rain but found no relief. Never had he felt so miserable.
Gradually the storm subsided. The rain ceased. Water dripped. A gray mist, clinging to the earth, slithered through the dark trees like forbidden thoughts.
Ereth crawled out of the log and shook himself. “Take hold of yourself,” he muttered.
He headed back to the ridge in search of the cottonwood tree he had climbed when Poppy had left him. This time he found it. But when he reached it and discovered she was not there, all his desperation returned.
“Where is she?” he muttered. “Why did she leave me? What kind of friend is she, anyway? Doesn’t she know I need her? She should be here helping me!”
With that Ereth wheeled about and trundled down the path
