“Point is, I could do a lot for her. More than she could guess. Show her the world. Teach her the way it works.
“Now, with her being off on her own I’m always worried about her. But with me around, she’d never be in danger.
“I wonder if—just suppose—if she would, well . . . all she ever talks about is . . . love . . . and that Ragweed. What did he know about love? Or her for that matter. She told me he loved her. Love. Young folk think they’re the only ones who love. Phooey! Nothing but slug splat stew and weasel jam.
“Still, if she wanted me to—as a favor—I could love her. She’d probably like that. If she’d give me the chance.
“Wonder what she’d say if I hinted at it. Or suggest it. I mean, maybe I could say—I . . . love you—well, once. Not too loudly. A little bit. Just so she knew. I wouldn’t have to say it again.
“She’d like that. Then we could get married. There would be talk. She being young. Me . . . older. We wouldn’t care. Not us. She’s got a mind of her own. So do I.
“I bet she’ll be thrilled. I’m big. Powerful. Smart. Could give her lots of advice. She’s a good listener. And it’ll be good to have someone young around that old smelly log of mine. She could clean it up. A bit. A small bit. Not too much. Yes, she’d like it. Yes, soon as I see her again, I’ll tell her. Sort of. Some way . . .”
So ran Ereth’s thoughts, stuck as he was, deep within the thicket.
CHAPTER 22
Poppy Makes Up Her Mind
THOUGH POPPY WAITED at the tree, Ereth did not return. Knowing how unpredictable her friend was, she kept asking herself how long she should wait. After all, she had been with the mice longer than she’d planned. That certainly would have irritated the old porcupine.
She began to think he’d done what he’d threatened to do all along—trundled back to Dimwood Forest. Yet Poppy was quite aware her friend might be doing no more than taking a nap in a nearby log.
Normally, Poppy would not have minded waiting. But she kept worrying that if she were going to save Rye, she had to act swiftly.
Having nothing better to do, she searched about the base of the cottonwood tree for some of Ereth’s quills to take back to the nest. When she failed to find any, she became fretful. The thought of sneaking into the beavers’ lodge without the protection of quills was something she did not relish.
Having no quills set off a nervous train of doubts in Poppy’s mind. Would she be able to get into the lodge again? Was Rye’s cage breakable? What if she or he got hurt? Would they be able to use the vine to get out of the lodge? And what if freeing Rye did bring greater harm to the rest of his family? Maybe Valerian and Clover were right. Maybe it all was too dangerous.
The more Poppy thought, the more doubts she had about her plan.
Suddenly Poppy felt an intense desire to race back to Dimwood Forest and hide. There she would be safe and secure in the world she knew and loved best. It was bittersweet to recall that when she had begun this trip, she had been looking forward to a time of calm. Perhaps Ereth was right. Perhaps it was better to be alone.
And yet she had fallen in love with Rye. Moreover, she had promised to help him. How could she abandon him? She could not, no more than she could abandon her feelings.
Too agitated to wait any longer for Ereth, Poppy hurried down the hill and crept back into the nest. It was very crowded. Some fifty and more mice were there, most of whom she had not seen before.
She caught hold of Thistle. “What’s happening?” Poppy asked.
“It’s the rest of our family,” Thistle explained. “Valerian asked them to come hear about your plan.”
“Are they for it or against it?” Poppy asked.
“They can’t make up their minds,” Thistle confided. “Poppy, I think we should do it—as long as we have quills to defend ourselves.”
“Thistle,” Poppy confided, “I couldn’t get the quills.”
Thistle blanched. “You couldn’t?”
“My friend, the porcupine, has disappeared.”
“Does that mean we can’t rescue Rye?” Thistle asked with dismay.
Poppy, feeling she had failed the young mouse, hardly knew what to say. “I’m not sure,” she replied.
Valerian approached. “Poppy, I sent word to the rest of the family about what you want to do,” he informed her. “It’s so important I felt everyone should be involved in the decision.
“Attention, please!” he cried.
The mice hushed.
“For those who don’t know her yet,” Valerian said by way of introduction, “this is Poppy. She comes to us from out east. She was a special friend of Ragweed’s. That makes her a good friend of ours.”
To this there were murmurs of assent.
“You’ve heard what’s happened to Rye and what choice we’ve been given,” Valerian continued. “Move off somewhere—and, hopefully, have Rye freed—or try to save Rye on our own, and take our chances with the beavers.
“To be honest with you, your mother and I think it’d be best to move on. Poppy here wants to rescue Rye. Since this concerns the whole family, we thought it’d be wise for you to hear her for yourselves.”
Once again Poppy found herself facing a world of grave, golden faces. Momentarily she thought of sharing her anxieties, but feared that if the mice knew how nervous she was, they would never give her help. Instead, she simply explained her plan for freeing Rye.
“Did you get those quills?” someone asked when she was done.
“I’m afraid not.”
A nervous twitter passed over the family.
“I do need some volunteers,” Poppy said, almost timidly.
Curleydock shyly lifted a paw. “I’ll . . . go,” he offered.
“Me,
