“Do . . . do you think so?”
“Maybe.” She started to back away.
Rye, clinging to the twig bars, called, “Poppy!”
“What?”
“I’m deeply moved that you came. But . . . maybe you shouldn’t return. I don’t want you to risk your life . . . for me.”
“But Rye . . .” she said, taking a few more steps toward the cage.
“What?”
“I would . . . I would like to dance again.”
“Oh, Poppy,” Rye cried out. “So would I! With you!”
“Shhh!” Poppy cautioned as she backed away. Unable to take her eyes from Rye, she stumbled over a sleeping beaver’s tail.
She stood still. Rye, looking on, was horrified. For a long moment, they dared not move. Finally, the beaver rolled away, then settled down, never having awakened.
Poppy crept over to the far wall. The way was muddy. By pressing up against the wall she was able to skirt a large, sleeping beaver and come around to the edge of the water gate.
Once there she gazed into the murky water apprehensively, then looked around to see if there was any way to get up to the vine. It was impossible. She had no choice. Reluctantly she turned back to the water. The prospect of swimming caused her so much dread, she felt compelled to give herself a reassuring hug. Taking a deep breath, she jumped, hitting the water with a splash.
Across the lodge Mr. Canad sat up and looked around. He had heard something. Taking a few sniffs, he detected a vague and unusual smell. He peered about but saw nothing except bulky beavers sleeping. All seemed perfectly normal. And yet—what was it he had heard?
He sniffed again. That time he detected the faint smell of . . . mouse. Could the mouse have escaped?
“Better safe than sorry,” Mr. Canad allowed and got up. Approaching Rye’s cage, he peered through the gloom. At first he couldn’t see Rye, but by listening intently, he heard the sound of chewing.
He crept closer to the cage. Rye was at the back of the cage, gnawing on a bar.
Mr. Canad broke into a toothy smile. “Well, bless my teeth and smooth my tail,” he snorted. “You’re trying to be a beaver!”
Rye, taken by surprise, looked up.
“Don’t think you should try chewing your way out, pal,” Mr. Canad said. “We need you to stay.”
Glowering, Rye said nothing.
“Just back away from those bars, pal. You don’t want to cross over the line and force my paw. If I do something bad, it’ll be your own fault.”
Rye stepped away.
“Way to go, pal. Now, look,” Mr. Canad went on to say, “I think I’ll catch my Zs here. For the next few days, anyway. Don’t want to lock the barn door after the horses are gone.”
Mr. Canad was about to settle himself when he recalled the noise that had woken him. If this mouse was here, what was that sound? Now that he thought about it . . . could it have been a . . . splash?
He sat up and counted his beavers. All present and accounted for.
He did an inspection around the cage area. In the mud were Poppy’s prints.
“You’ve had a visitor!” the beaver suddenly exclaimed. “Haven’t you?”
“Leave me alone!” Rye cried.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Canad. “One picture is worth a thousand words. One of your pals was here.”
The beaver scrutinized the lodge intently. By a firefly flash he caught sight of the vine dangling from the lodge roof. Mr. Canad grunted. “The vent hole.”
He lumbered across the lodge floor and ripped the vine down. “Better plaster some mud over that hole,” he thought. “I can always make some other holes—and hide them. Don’t want any mice in the ointment.”
CHAPTER 20
Poppy
THE COLDNESS OF THE WATER—its utter darkness—shocked Poppy. Not only did she not move, she didn’t know which way to move. Instead, she sank, spiraling down. Unless she did something quickly, she would drown.
She began to thrash wildly. Her frenzy got her nowhere. Still sinking, she tried to think herself into calmness, succeeding just enough to move her legs and arms in unison. Within moments she bumped against some twigs. She grabbed hold.
Her breath was giving out. Letting go of the twigs, she clawed frantically upward and forward, hoping she was clear of the lodge.
Like a cork popping from a bottle, Poppy burst upon the pond’s surface. Splashing frantically, she gulped great drafts of air into her hungry lungs.
She looked up. Through water-logged eyes she saw blurry bits of light. At first she thought they were fireflies. Then she realized she was seeing stars. Never before had stars seemed so beautiful. She was out of the lodge.
Now, however, she had to get to the shore. She doubted her ability to swim. Flailing, she tried to make some sense of where she was. She did see what appeared to be other lodges. She wanted to avoid them.
As she floundered, she felt a bump on her head. Ready to defend herself, she whirled. It was only a chip of wood. Eagerly, she held on. It kept her afloat.
Clinging to the chip, Poppy kicked vigorously. She began to move forward.
Her progress was slow. Her energy was ebbing. Now and again she rested her head on the wood chip. She forced herself to think of Rye, caged in the beaver’s lodge. “At least I’m free,” she chided herself and resumed kicking.
Twenty minutes later she came to a lurching halt. In a daze she looked up. Land rose before her. She had reached the shore.
A weary Poppy stumbled out of the water. Once on land she gave herself a vigorous shake, ridding herself of what felt like a ton of water. Much lighter, she lay down on the ground and cradled her head in her paws. Only then did she allow herself to feel the full depth of her exhaustion. Never again, she vowed, would she go into water.
As she lay there she thought of the imprisoned Rye and reviewed her plan. She would get another vine—longer than the one she had just used—and drop it down the vent hole. She would go down again, and somehow get Rye out of
