“Now why,” Valerian cried with exasperation, “did the boy have to go off and do such a thing?”
“I bet,” Thistle injected boldly, “he just wanted to show everybody he was as good as Ragweed, that’s why.”
Thistle’s comment made Poppy look down at her toes.
“That’s great,” Valerian exclaimed with a rare show of anger. “If that’s what he intended then he’s made things worse for himself and us.”
Valerian’s words threw the nest into another uproar. Everyone was talking at once and to no particular purpose.
Clover’s small, shrill voice rose above the clamor. “My dear family,” she cried, “we can’t take this kind of life anymore. We need to find peace. I think we’d better move out of this area entirely and start over again. Let the beavers have the Brook.”
Poppy hardly knew what to say, other than to feel that in some way she was responsible for what had happened. “But,” she offered timidly, “isn’t there anything we can . . . do?”
“Do?” Valerian returned, eyes full of anguish. “Poppy, I tried to compromise with them. They would have none of it. Clover’s right. If we’re to preserve this family, we’ve little choice.”
“I’m sorry,” Poppy murmured.
“Miss Poppy,” Clover said, her voice shrill with tenseness, “you’ve been kind enough to come here and bring us the sad news about Ragweed. Rye is our problem. Not yours. You must let us handle things our own way.”
“But Clover,” Poppy replied as gently as she could, “I’m not sure that even if you do leave they’ll let Rye go.”
“But you said that Mr. Canad promised he’d release Rye when we move,” Clover cried. “What choice do we have but to trust them?”
“Clover is right,” Valerian agreed. “It’s the family we need to protect. There’s little more to be said.”
With that the mice began to scurry about, putting their possessions in order. It did not take long for Poppy to realize how much in the way, how much of an outsider, she was. Mortified, but not wishing to intrude any more than she already had, she crept from the nest.
Night had come. The moon’s reflection lay upon the pond’s surface like a tarnished spot of gold. Poppy could make out the islands and lodge tops, surrounded by dark water.
She thought about Rye. Just to think of him languishing in the beaver’s lodge gave her pain. And longing. She sighed out loud.
“Don’t worry,” came a voice right behind her. “It’s not your fault.”
Poppy turned. It was Thistle. “You shouldn’t take it personally,” Thistle went on. “Our family has been having a bummer summer.”
“I know.”
The two mice sat silently side by side.
“But I bet,” Thistle said after a while, “I know why Rye did it.”
“Do you?” Poppy said with some hesitation. “Why?”
“Poppy,” Thistle asked shyly, “did you know Rye before you came here?”
“A little. How did you know?”
“Well . . .” Thistle said, too bashful to face Poppy directly, “it was when you were talking about Ragweed. When you first came. I noticed the way you two looked at each other. Rye acted as if he was going to die. You didn’t look so great, either.”
Poppy turned toward the pond and gazed at the big lodge. “Then it is my fault he’s where he is,” she said.
“Poppy . . . ?” Thistle said.
“What?”
“You didn’t make Rye do it. He went on his own. He’s not your responsibility. Don’t do anything weird.”
“I won’t,” Poppy replied.
“You all right?” Thistle asked, touching Poppy gently.
“Well, yes,” Poppy replied. “I just need to be alone.”
“Okay,” the young mouse said, and she slipped back down into the nest.
Left to herself, Poppy allowed the darkness to give her solace. Without thinking about what she was doing, she meandered down to the pond.
“If I could only tell Rye that . . .” she paused. With a jolt, Poppy recalled that she had yet to have so much as one conversation with the mouse. And yet, and yet, she seemed to have had so many! It was so—extraordinary!
Poppy reminded herself that she didn’t need to be with Rye. After all, she had spent her whole life—six months—without him. Yet she wanted to be with him. It was hard to sort out the difference.
When she reached the water’s edge, Poppy gazed out at the beaver lodges, trying to recall in exactly which one Mr. Canad had said Rye was being held. When she was sure she had located the right one she just stared at it. Knowing she was a bit closer to Rye gave her comfort. She wished she were a good swimmer.
She meandered along the shore of the pond, looking for nothing in particular but hoping some idea would come. When she came upon a splinter of wood she picked it up and balanced it in her paws. “Make a good paddle,” she mused.
The moment she had that thought, she knew exactly what she was looking for: a piece of wood to use as a raft. With it she could float over the pond and get to Rye—somehow.
Clutching the would-be-paddle tightly, Poppy began a search. Near the stump of a chewed-down tree she found a thin, wide chip of wood. A raft.
Pushing and pulling, Poppy worked the wood chip to the water’s edge, then set it afloat. The chip rode the water easily. Poppy leapt aboard. The chip wobbled but soon steadied itself. She was afloat.
CHAPTER 18
To the Lodge
USING HER WOOD splinter as a paddle, Poppy pushed off from the shore. The raft lurched erratically until she found a way to balance it. Then, from a kneeling position, she dipped the paddle into the dark waters and began to propel herself across the pond.
Repetitious cricket sounds tickled the air. From somewhere a fox barked. A night bird called. A frog croaked. Above, the spread of stars made Poppy think of a field of bright, scattered seeds. The moon seemed to be as adrift as she.
She gazed around, trying to get her bearings, trying to recall where the main lodge was. From the middle of the pond everything seemed
