Ereth stared balefully at the beavers. They seemed to be working nicely together. At least they were smiling at one another. “A family,” he snarled with contempt. “A happy family.
“Crabgrass up their snoots,” Ereth snapped. “I’m going back to Dimwood Forest.” With that he turned, galloped up the hill, and plunged among the trees again, quickly passing through them. The next moment he burst into an open area. Before him lay a sunken meadow filled with berry brambles and flowering vines.
Paying no particular mind to where he was going, Ereth hurled himself into the most clotted part of the thicket.
It was a wild jumble, with plants growing so closely together he had to push and shove his way through the tangle of bushes. He was close to the middle when he was forced to stop. He could not move. His quills, caught in brambles and vines, held him fast. He was stuck.
Though he could not move, an exhausted Ereth was glad for the rest, glad for the quiet, glad he could not go anywhere.
“I’ll stay here forever,” he sighed. “Till I die. It’s better that way. And it won’t be long, either. Poppy was right. I’m old. Very old.”
He closed his eyes and thought of home. He thought of Poppy. Momentarily, his anger rekindled. Then, grudgingly, he admitted to himself that it was he who had told her to go off by herself. Maybe her leaving him was—a little bit—his fault.
He sighed. The more he thought about her, the more he missed her. She was always so good-natured. Kind. And brave. His best friend. Perhaps he should find a way to tell her that. Someday.
With a shake of his head, he muttered, “Pickle puke,” and decided it would be better not to tell her anything. It wouldn’t do. She might make fun of him. Tease him. Call him that horrid word, old, again. Still, he might find her a seed . . . or two. He could leave them where she might find them. As if by accident. Nothing more than that. If a porcupine didn’t remain prickly what could he be? Nothing.
Ereth settled down, relieved that it was impossible for him to do anything but stay stuck. It was better that way. Much better. He didn’t have to think. Or feel . . . anything. He would just die. That, he thought, will show her!
CHAPTER 15
Rye in the Lodge
WHEN RYE HAD SWUM into the lodge he was too exhausted to offer any resistance to Mr. Canad. And by the time he did recover his strength, it was too late. The beaver had quickly constructed a cage of maple twigs and hard-packed mud, shoveled the exhausted mouse into it with his tail, then sealed the whole thing up. Rye was a prisoner.
“Well now, pal,” Mr. Canad said with his usual heartiness, “the name is Caster P. Canad. Feel free to call me Cas. What’s your name?”
Rye, wretched, gazed mournfully up at the large beaver from behind the bars of his cage. “Rye,” he said.
“Absolutely delighted to meet you, pal,” Mr. Canad enthused with a big grin. “Where do you live?”
“I used to live by the side of the Brook.”
“Moved away, did you?”
Rye’s eyes filled with angry tears. “You forced us to.”
“Me? Force you? Not me. You could have stayed.”
“We would have drowned.”
“Hey, pal, that was your choice. Life isn’t fair. No one promised you a rose garden. Take the good with the bad. The sweet with the sour. It all works out in the end.” Mr. Canad offered another toothy smile.
“Okay,” he went on, “let’s cut to the chase. What made you come here?”
Rye, glowering, looked up at the enormous beaver. “To get rid of you.”
“Hey, pal, you are the violent type, aren’t you? You make me nervous.” The beaver grinned. “Where do you live now?”
“Up by a boulder.”
“A boulder? That a fact? Exactly where?”
“On the ridge. Overlooking the pond.”
Mr. Canad’s heart fluttered. “Not, by any chance, that boulder right on the ridge that’s got a bunch of plants growing around it?”
“Yes,” Rye answered.
“Well, bless my teeth and smooth my tail!” Mr. Canad glowed. “There’s a piece of luck. Do you live alone?”
“With my whole family.”
“Your whole family!” the beaver said. “Better and better. Family man myself. I love families. This is a good day.”
Mr. Canad was thinking furiously: Here is a representative of that last mouse family. A violent type. He breaks in here. Okay. I’ll use him to persuade them to move on their own. And it would keep my reputation for “Progress Without Pain.”
“Why is it a good day?” Rye demanded, becoming alarmed. “What are you going to do to my family?”
“Hey, pal,” Mr. Canad cried. “Nothing to worry about. I haven’t the slightest intention of harming you or your family. You’ll be as right as the rain. All tip-top. As the day is long, I’m as straight as a ruler.”
Rye, staring furiously at the large beaver, said, “How can you say that when you’ve ruined everything?”
“Not everything, pal,” Mr. Canad chortled. “The sun still shines, doesn’t it? The moon glows? Admit it. Life goes on. We just changed a few things. Pal, when you stop looking at things selfishly—when you see the big picture—you’re going to have to agree that Caster P. Canad tells it like it is.
“But for now you’re going to have to excuse me while I fetch my family. We need to have a meeting to decide what to do with you.” With that Mr. Canad plunged off the ledge and swam out of the lodge by way of the entry hole.
Alone and depressed, Rye sat within the cage and clutched the twig bars listlessly. He was much angrier at himself than he was at Mr. Canad. Not only had he failed to do what he set out to do, he was sure his capture would
