Poppy could not tell.
Why was she risking her life this way? she asked herself. The same answer came as before: Rye.
Taking a deep breath—her heart was beating madly—she grasped the vine tightly with her front paws, wrapped her rear legs and tail about it too, and headed down the vine, headfirst.
She reached the end. It was too short. She was dangling some twelve inches over the beavers. To go any farther she would have to drop—and land on a beaver’s nose. The thought of it gave Poppy the shudders.
As she tried to make up her mind what to do, Poppy’s shoulders began to ache painfully. She had to either let go or go back up. She looked up. The vent hole seemed a very long way up. She looked down. The beavers seemed enormous and powerful. What would they do to her if she dropped on them?
More and more nervous, her palms grew sweaty. She shifted her grip. The shifting made the vine sway slightly. She tried to stop it but the swinging only increased. Suddenly she had an idea.
Carefully she turned about. Now she held the vine just with her paws. Her legs and tail dangled. Poppy began to pump her rear legs hard. It made the vine sway even more. Back and forth she swung until she was moving in a great arc—like a pendulum. With every swing her heart thumped.
When Poppy reached the highest point of arc—nearest to Rye—she let go. Out she sailed through the air, right over the sleeping beavers, until she landed with a plop in soft mud close to Rye’s cage.
There she lay, panting, heart hammering, trying to recover her breath. Had she really done it? Almost afraid to look, she lifted her head. When she saw she was beyond the beavers she took a deep sigh of relief. She turned toward the cage. There was nothing between her and it. The way was clear. Silently she crept forward and peered inside.
A firefly flashed. She saw Rye. He was curled up in a ball, fast asleep.
Poppy tried to reach through the bars to touch him. He was too far away.
“Rye!” she called softly. “Rye!”
Rye lifted a sleepy head and peered through the dark. It was by the light of a glowing firefly that he saw Poppy’s face. Astonished, he squinted, unsure if what he was seeing was a dream or real.
But when Poppy said, “Oh, Rye, how glad I am to see you!” he knew she was the most real creature he had ever seen.
CHAPTER 19
Poppy and Rye
POPPY AND RYE gazed at one another by the light of firefly flashes.
He was quite sure he was looking at the most beautiful whiskers and pink nose he had ever seen upon any mouse with whom he was acquainted.
Poppy was sure Rye’s face, covered as it was with delicate orange fur, was extraordinarily noble. What’s more, he had altogether splendid ears, and the small notch in the right ear only added character.
“What,” Rye said in a choked whisper, “are you doing here?”
“I came to see if you were all right.”
“But . . . why?”
“Because . . . you . . . you dance beautifully,” Poppy replied, though it made her whiskers tremble to say it.
“Thank you. And . . . you dance as if . . . as if there were moonbeams in your toes!”
“And Rye . . .”
“What?”
“I did love Ragweed,” Poppy said. “I’ll never pretend I didn’t. But he’s . . . gone.”
Rye hung his head. “I know.”
“And Rye . . . you need to know. I never danced with him.”
Rye looked up. His whiskers shook. “Poppy, you are the most kind, the most unselfish of mice,” he whispered. “In fact, you are altogether splendid!”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Poppy said, “Rye, why did you come here?”
“I wanted to do something about the beavers. To get rid of them. Somehow. Except . . . I didn’t have a plan. The truth is . . . Poppy . . . I wanted to prove myself to . . . you. They caught me before I could do anything.”
“Mr. Canad told me you were being held captive,” Poppy said. “He said if your family didn’t move, he would keep you. Forever.”
“Forever,” Rye repeated dramatically. “But Poppy, it will have been worth it.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . you came.”
“But don’t you want to get out?” Poppy asked.
“I’d like to, but I think I’ve made things much worse.”
Poppy reached her paw through the bars and touched Rye’s shoulder. “That you even tried seems brave to me,” she said.
“Do you truly think so?”
“Yes. Just . . . maybe . . . well, too bold.”
Rye took hold of Poppy’s paw—which was resting on his shoulder—and kissed it. “What you said means more . . . more . . . than a life’s supply of sunflower seeds,” he murmured.
They looked at one another.
Then Rye said, “How did you get in here?”
“There’s a hole in the roof. I crawled down a vine.”
“You are amazing,” he said.
Poppy blushed with pleasure.
Rye became alarmed. “But how are you going to get out?” he asked.
Poppy was about to say, “The same way,” but even as she had the thought, she realized it would be impossible for her to use the vine. It was dangling too high over the beavers for her to reach. “I’m not sure.”
Rye said, “I swam in. Through an underwater tunnel. The way the beavers do. It’s not too bad. You could go that way.”
“I don’t swim very well.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”
Neither mouse spoke. Instead they looked at one another by the glow of fireflies.
“Rye,” Poppy said, suddenly becoming more brusque as she felt the urgency to leave, “have you tried chewing through these bars?”
“They’re too tough.”
Poppy tried for herself. She gave up quickly. “I see what you mean.”
“I’m afraid,” Rye said, “I really am going to stay here forever. . . . I suppose I’ll die of old age and . . . regret.”
“Rye . . .”
“What?”
“Please, I know the bars are tough, but keep chewing on them. I’ll find a way back to your family nest. They need to know you’re all right. And maybe if I get a longer vine, one that reaches the ground, we could get you
