For a while Rye tried to break the bars of his cage. He rattled them. He chewed them. But they were made of maple wood, and were too hard to cut quickly. Then he attempted digging about in the mud that held the twigs to see if that might lead to escape. That, too, proved a failure. Mr. Canad had packed it down hard. Rye had no choice but to wait and see what the beavers did with him.
He did not have long to wait. Members of the Canad family came into the lodge and examined him.
“Isn’t he nasty,” one said.
“What a little, puny fellow he is,” another said.
“I wonder what he expected to do to us,” a third said with a giggle. “He’s so weak!”
Rye, sulking, shrank into a corner of his cage.
Mr. Canad, standing next to the cage, called his company to order.
“Once in a blue moon,” he began, “beavers find themselves placed to do great things. But if big things are to be done, Caster P. Canad and Co. will be the one to do them.”
“Hear, hear!” murmured one of the beavers.
“Way to go, Cas,” said another.
“All right, then,” Mr. Canad continued. “We’re ready to move forward and expand Canad’s Cute Condos into something grander. How about a lake?”
“Wow!”
“Fantastic!”
“Too cool!”
Beaming, Mr. Canad went on. “’Course, we’ll call it Lake Canad. Here are the plans.” He gestured toward the drawing on the bark.
“To make this lake, we’ll need to put in a dam over by this boulder here. Turns out there’s a mouse family living under that same boulder. Okay, we could just go ahead and build. They would be flooded out.
“But that’s not our way, is it? Canad and Co. has a reputation for being sensitive. It’s important to keep that notion afloat. We need those mice to leave on their own.”
There was some beating of tails.
“Okay. How are we going to persuade these mice to move? No problem. Luck comes to those who work hard. Genius is ninety percent perspiration, ten percent inspiration. Good thing I’ve got the whole one hundred percent. Now, we have a visitor. A fine young mouse.” Mr. Canad rapped on the cage. “Goes by the name of Rye. Rye and his family live right under the boulder we’ve got the old eye on.”
“Keep going, Cas,” one of the beavers called out, beating his tail on the ground.
“Okay. I’m going to mosey on up and have a chat with these mice. Tell them that my pal here is . . . visiting . . . with us. And,” Mr. Canad added with a toothy smile, “if they want to see him again, they’d better move on. Hey!” he said, grinning, “you know what they say: Walk softly but carry a big stick in your mouth.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me!” Rye cried out.
“Easy does it, pal. Not saying I am going to hurt you. Remember, you broke in here. You’re the violent one. I’ll just warn your folks that unless they make amends by moving away, they won’t ever see you again. Get it? It’s their free choice. And I mean that, sincerely.”
As his family applauded wildly, Mr. Canad grinned.
CHAPTER 16
Poppy Hears Some News
IT WAS QUIET in the mouse nest. In one corner Clover tended to her three youngest children. Poppy was in another corner with the older ones, including Thistle and Curleydock, telling stories about Dimwood Forest. Valerian was in the middle of the room, surrounded by children, giving them seed lessons.
“Now this kind,” he was saying, holding up a plump sunflower seed, “is particularly nourishing. And tasty. You never can go wrong with sunflower seeds. Rye and I know a particularly fine place to find them.” He paused and looked up and around. “Say, where is Rye?”
When none of the youngsters gave an answer, Valerian called out, “Anyone know where Rye is?”
Hearing the name, Poppy pricked up her ears and looked around, but said nothing. It was Thistle who called, “He went out.”
“Do you know where?”
“Nope.”
Valerian shrugged and resumed his lesson.
Poppy leaned over toward Thistle and whispered, “Do you think Rye will come back soon?”
“With Rye you never know. Poppy, please tell us some more about your forest.” Thistle had grown very fond of Poppy.
Poppy talked but soon broke off. She could not concentrate. Thoughts of Rye crowded her mind. Besides, the warm, close underground air and the crowded conditions were beginning to bother her. “I think I need some fresh air,” she announced.
Promising to return quickly, she made her way to the ground surface. The storm was over. Though dusk had fallen, the air had turned muggy. Poppy sat back against the boulder and looked out.
To the west a lush band of pink and purple layered the sky. Eastward a pale yellow moon had begun its climb. Fireflies punctuated the growing darkness with sparks of light, as if night itself had a bright pulse.
As Poppy remained sitting quietly, looking at nothing in particular, she thought of Ereth with a pang. She had not returned to him. Then she reminded herself how unusually grumpy he’d been. She thought, too, of his repeated statements about his preference for being alone. Poppy decided she’d stay at the mouse nest for the night. Ereth could wait.
Putting her friend out of her mind, Poppy was glad to give herself over to thoughts of Rye. She wondered where he had gone. She had little doubt as to why he’d left the nest: It was her words about Ragweed, how she had loved him and had all but married him. The distress upon Rye’s face as she told the tale was as easy to see as the sun in a cloudless sky.
And yet, Poppy mused, Ragweed was no more. To speculate about what might have been was useless. Poppy reminded herself that she had taken this trip as
