The moonlight did allow her to make out the humps of lodges as well as islands. They seemed all alike now. She had no idea which way to go.
Poppy paddled some more, moving farther over the pond. Knowing she had to go somewhere, she chose at random, and headed for one of the islands.
From out of the darkness she heard a splash. Coming unexpectedly, it made her jump. The next moment her raft began to rock wildly. Only by holding on tightly did she manage to keep from tumbling off.
When the waters calmed she strained to look through the darkness to determine what had caused the sound. She saw nothing. What if it were a beaver? Poppy wondered. Would it see her?
Dimly, she made out an island to her left. Its small size drew her. It would be easy to search. But after Poppy took a few more strokes, the little island seemed to have moved. Not quite believing what her eyes were telling her, Poppy stared hard. Sure enough, even as she looked, the island shifted again.
She gave a few more tentative paddle strokes. Suddenly the island moved and . . . raised its head. Poppy gasped. It was a beaver. She had almost paddled right into it.
Then to her right, there was another swell of water and a second beaver broke the pond’s surface. Poppy was between them. It was the darkness that hid her.
“That you, Judy?” asked the newcomer.
“It’s me,” grunted the first. “Who’s that?”
“Me. Joe.”
“What you doing?”
“Taking a swim to cool off, the lodge is hot.”
“Yeah. Hard to sleep. Hey, did you see that mouse?” Judy asked.
“The one Cas caught?” said the beaver named Joe. “I was sleeping right next to his cage. What about him?”
“What a pain,” Judy said.
“If it were up to me, I’d just give him a swat with the old tail.”
“Hey, you know Cas. ‘Progress Without Pain.’”
“Right, sure,” Joe said. “I’m going back.”
“Okay.”
“See you.”
The beaver named Joe swam off. Poppy paddled after him as hard as she could.
Abruptly he dove beneath the water. Poppy waited and watched for him to resurface. When he didn’t, she understood what had happened: The beaver must have gone into the lodge through an underwater passage.
She scrutinized the area. Sure enough, a large mound stuck out of the water nearby. She paddled until she bumped against it, then deftly leapt from her raft to the lodge. The movement inadvertently kicked the raft away. She made a grab for it, but the wood chip had already floated out of reach.
Resigned to being where she was, Poppy took a careful look around. The lodge was a mass of sticks, twigs, logs, leaves, and vines, tightly woven together and cemented with mud. It made her think of an upside-down bird’s nest.
Somewhere, inside, was Rye.
Her sense of urgency renewed, Poppy returned to the water’s edge and wondered if she had the courage to swim down and find the lodge’s entryway. When she reminded herself what a bad swimmer she was, she began to crawl about the lodge. She had to find a way to get in.
It was at the very top of the lodge, while prying and poking amid the mud and sticks, that she discovered a hole. When she put her nose over it, she was certain she detected a flow of air—and the distinct smell of beaver—or at least of Mr. Canad. A vent hole, perhaps.
Upon examining the hole closely, she found it was big enough for her to crawl through. Perhaps it could lead her inside. Nervous, she crept in, head first. The hole was pitch black and slimy, with a sickening stench of rotting mud. It was hard to hold on.
After going down a few inches she paused. How long is this hole? she asked herself. Will I be able to get out fast if I have to? What’s going to be at the end of it? Do I really want to do this? She answered herself in one word: Rye. She had to get to Rye.
She went on. To keep from falling, she pressed her paws tightly against the slippery sides. Down she went. It seemed endless.
As it happened, she was concentrating so hard, she came to the end of the hole without realizing she’d reached it. Catching herself just in time, she peered down into the lodge.
Such light as there was came from the occasional flashing glow of fireflies. At first Poppy thought she was looking at nothing but lumpy earth. Only gradually did she see that right below her was a room full of sleeping beavers. She gasped. There were so many! Some lay on their backs. Chins up, their teeth seemed to glow like burning embers. Some beavers were flopped over others. Others lay on their bellies, tails occasionally flipping and flapping like loose flags. In their restless sleep they kept shifting about, moaning, grunting, and growling. It was as if a large mass of mud had come seethingly alive.
From her high perch Poppy searched about for the cage Mr. Canad had spoken of, the one in which Rye was being held. She found it tucked away in a corner. She even thought she saw Rye, curled up in a ball, fast asleep.
How was she going to get down to him? She dared not jump. If she did, she’d land right in the midst of the beavers. That was a risk she did not want to take. Then she remembered something she’d seen on the lodge roof: vines. Perhaps she could lower herself down. But she’d have to work fast, before the beavers awoke.
Poppy clawed her way back to the lodge roof and searched for a vine. When she found two twisted about a stick she took the longest. Working fast, she tied one end of the vine to a stick, and taking its free end in her mouth, she crept back down the hole. When she reached the end again she lowered the vine. It dangled free. But it was impossible
