Poppy hurried up the hill.
By the time she reached the boulder, the pink glow of sunlight had begun to bloom upon the eastern horizon. Birds began to twitter madly. It was as if a night of silence had been too much to bear, and there was a desperate need to make up for lost time.
She considered the pond. As Poppy watched, a swarm of beavers emerged from the lodge where she knew Rye was being held. She studied them with intense anger. They were so large and powerful. And those teeth and huge tails . . .
She hurried into the nest.
The mice were astir, but moving about as though weighted by great burdens. No one looked up or around. Talk was minimal. Little tasks were being performed with minute attention. The family was preparing to move.
“I’m back,” Poppy announced.
The mice paused in their work and looked around.
“Ah, Poppy,” Valerian said sadly, “I thought you had left us.”
“Not at all. I went to see Rye.”
“Rye!”
“How’d you do that?” Curleydock called out.
Poppy told how she got into the beavers’ lodge, and of her subsequent visit with Rye. “He’s not happy,” she told them, “but he’s all right.”
“But . . . why did he even go there?” Clover asked.
“He wanted to do something about the beavers.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
Valerian’s tail waved in agitation. “Why that mouse must always be trying to prove himself I can’t begin to imagine. And now, a prisoner, held for a ransom, the ransom being our moving away. Well, we’re trying to go as quickly as we can.”
“I do have a plan to free him,” Poppy offered.
The nest became very still.
“Miss Poppy,” Valerian said, drawing himself up and speaking somberly, “ever since you came to our nest, you’ve been telling and doing some remarkable things. We don’t doubt you are an exceptional creature. Perhaps living quietly and simply by the Brook, we’ve become a tad shy of difficulty. No doubt the beavers have unnerved us, too. But the truth is,” Valerian concluded, “it would be better if we just gave in.”
“Won’t you even listen to my plan?”
Valerian sighed. “I guess we can. You just mustn’t expect us to do anything.”
As Rye’s family stared at her with dull eyes and twitching ears, an uncomfortable Poppy stood in the middle of the nest. She felt some anger. These mice had been generous when she told them of Ragweed’s death. Now that she was suggesting they do something to keep Rye from dying, they were not so hospitable.
“I got into the beavers’ main lodge,” she told them anew, “by using a vent hole and a vine to drop down inside. Unfortunately, Rye and I couldn’t break his cage. I need more teeth or paws. I’ll need a few of you to join me when I return to the lodge with a longer vine.”
“Go into the beavers’ lodge?” cried an alarmed mouse.
“Right. The way I did.”
“Wouldn’t that be dangerous?” called another. “Those beavers are so big. A swat of their tails—”
“And what about those teeth . . .” still another said. “One bite and . . . good-bye.”
Poppy held up a paw to still the objections. “I have a friend. My best friend. He came with me here from Dimwood Forest.”
“Another mouse?” asked one of the youngsters.
“He’s a porcupine. His name is Ereth. Porcupine quills are very sharp. My friend is always losing his. I’ll get some. When we go into the lodge we’ll each carry a quill to defend ourselves.”
“One quill against all those beavers?” asked another.
“Exactly.”
“Where is this friend of yours?” someone asked.
“Waiting for me up beyond the ridge.”
Valerian cleared his throat. “Poppy, how many of us do you propose it will take to get Rye out?”
“There’s me, of course,” she replied. “But I’ll need at least a couple of others.”
No one spoke.
It was Clover who said, “Poppy, perhaps you could get Rye out. But what about the beavers? They’ll simply go on building. What will happen to the rest of us?”
“I’m not sure,” Poppy admitted. “But I must free Rye.”
“My dear,” Clover said, “I do wish I could believe your plan would be helpful. I truly do. But, no, I . . . can’t.” She turned to Valerian. “Do you?” she asked.
Valerian gazed at his feet. “It seems awful risky,” he said gloomily. He looked up. “And it sure will create greater danger for the rest of us.”
No one spoke. Then, speaking gently, Poppy said, “But, as I understand it, you’ve not resisted them at all.”
Once again there was silence.
Valerian cleared his throat. “Poppy,” he said, “since this matter concerns the family I think we need to talk this over. Privately.”
“All right,” Poppy said, trying to hide her disappointment. “I’ll go where my friend is waiting, gather up some quills, and bring them back. When I do, you can tell me what you’d like to do.”
“I think that would be best,” Valerian agreed.
An angry Poppy ran up the entryway, took one more look down at the pond and the lodge where she knew Rye was being kept, then hurried up toward the ridge.
She had no trouble finding the cottonwood where she had seen Ereth go. But the porcupine was nowhere in sight.
CHAPTER 21
Ereth Has More Thoughts
DEEP WITHIN THE THICKET, unable to move, Ereth was thinking hard:
“I probably shouldn’t be so hard on Poppy. She’s only a mouse. Small. Helpless. Talks a lot. Jabbers. Too cheerful most of the time. Nothing but squirrel sludge and buzzard belch.
“But then, she doesn’t know the world. Not like I do. She needs protecting. Actually, there’s no one around who can protect her better than me. I’ve done it before. I could do it again. I know the world. Know how it works. Not that she appreciates me. What was it she said about me . . . old.
“I’m not old. Maybe I look old . . . but inside, where it counts . . . I’m young. Young as her. Younger! I’m good-looking too—in my way. Fine set of quills. And I’m smart. Very smart.
“I
