In fact, she thought with a bolt of boldness, she knew she wanted to share the rest of her life with Rye.
Sighing, Poppy looked down toward the pond. Even as she did, she saw a beaver haul himself out of the water, give himself a shake—sending a spray of water in all directions—then proceed to waddle clumsily uphill, right in her direction.
Poppy grew alarmed. She had never met a beaver before. Having heard angry accounts about them from the mice, she was not inclined to like them. She could see that, compared to her, they were enormous. Moreover, the approaching beaver’s huge buck teeth—brilliant orange in color—seemed positively fierce.
Dimly she recalled that beavers and mice were related, second cousins twice removed, or something like that. At the moment she didn’t feel related, only very small.
The beaver drew near. He had a distinct musky smell.
Poppy, not sure what to do, glanced around to make sure that, just in case the beaver meant her harm, she wasn’t trapped.
When they were about four feet apart, the beaver halted.
“How you doing, sweetheart? The name is Caster P. Canad. All my friends call me Cas. As the philosopher said, a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met. What’s your name?”
“Poppy.”
“Nice, sweetheart, very nice. You’re just the one I wanted to talk to.”
“Me?” Poppy said.
“You live under that boulder you’re sitting against, don’t you?”
“Well, not really,” Poppy started to explain. “I’ve only just—”
“Hey, save your breath, sweetheart,” Mr. Canad interrupted. “I know all about it. You used to live somewhere else, and you’ve come up here recently.”
“Actually . . .” Poppy tried to interject.
“Now, unless I’m holding the stick by the wrong end—and I rarely do—there’s a mouse by the name of Rye who lives here, too. Did I hit the nail on the head?”
Poppy started. “Rye? Yes, he does live here.”
“Good. I like coming to the point. I play hardball and call a spade a spade.”
“Is something . . . the matter with Rye?” Poppy stammered.
“Rye? The kid’s as fit as a fiddle. Right as the rain. A-1 okay,” Mr. Canad assured her. “Except he broke into our lodge . . .”
“Broke in!”
“Hey, I’m giving it to you straight. You heard me right. He broke in where he had no business breaking in. I mean, a beaver’s lodge is his castle. That Rye is head over heels in trouble.”
“Trouble!” Poppy cried, unable to do more than echo what she was hearing. “What kind?”
“Off the cuff, shooting from the hip, taking the fast lane, I’d have to say Rye is violent. But don’t worry, he’s perfectly safe in a cage I built in my main lodge.” He pointed to one of the mounds in the pond. “Right there.”
“But . . . that’s awful!” said Poppy, staring at the lodge.
“You took the words right out of my mouth. He shouldn’t have done it,” Mr. Canad said. “Now, sweetheart, I’m talking on the up and up. We’d like to build a dam right here on this spot. Expand Canad’s Cute Condos. Anchor it to that boulder. To make a long story short, it would be better for everybody if you all moved. Do it in two shakes of a beaver’s tale—with no fuss—and you’ll see Rye again, no worse for wear.”
“But . . .”
“’Course, if you don’t move . . .”
“Then what?” Poppy cried.
“Look here, sweetheart, let’s just say, I don’t want to beat around the bush. It’s a matter of life or death. The choice is all yours. This is a free country.”
“But what if . . . we don’t move?” Poppy cried.
“Well, sweetheart, I’ll be honest with you: I hope that doesn’t happen. Because, if you don’t go, I’m afraid your pal will have met his Waterloo. Sink or swim. Because your new home will be flooded, too. Some of your youngsters might drown. Naturally, that would upset my family so much—filled to the brim with anger, you know—I can’t say what they might do to Rye. Hope I’m not boring you, but the decision is yours. Remember, we don’t want to force anything on you.
“Anyway, nice talking with you, sweetheart. And have a nice day. I mean that, sincerely.”
With that Mr. Canad turned and began to waddle back down toward the pond.
Poppy, finding it hard to take in all she had heard, stared after him. Her first reaction was to go racing after the beaver, tell him what she thought of him, and make him release Rye instantly. But Mr. Canad, as if knowing what Poppy was thinking, gave a great slap of his broad tail, sending out a resounding thump that shook the earth.
So instead Poppy remained where she was, watching the beaver go into the pond and swim off. Only then did she race down the entryway to Clover and Valerian’s nest.
CHAPTER 17
To Help Rye
“I’VE FOUND OUT where Rye is!” Poppy shouted as she burst into the nest. “The beavers in the pond have caught him. They told me they won’t let him go—or worse—unless you all move from this nest!”
The announcement brought stunned silence. It was followed by an eruption of squeaking, squealing, and talking. Clover put paws to either side of her head and cried, “It’s too much!”
Valerian muttered, “I don’t think I can take any more. No, I don’t think I can.” This seemed to give permission for the younger children to go out of control.
They raced around in circles, shouting, “It’s too much. It’s too much.” Older children huddled in a corner and kept saying such things as, “This is so awful.”
The chaos continued until Valerian, standing tall, cried, “Quiet, please.”
The nest stilled.
“Poppy,” Valerian said, “how do you know about this?”
Poppy repeated her conversation with Mr. Canad, concluding with the beaver’s threat that if the mice did not move, Rye would remain a captive. “Or, they might do worse,” she said.
Clover opened her black eyes wide. “What do you mean . . . worse?” she asked.
“I think
