“Not really,” Poppy admitted. “When I went to the lodge before I floated on a wood chip.”
“The beavers leave all kinds of chips around,” Thistle said. “I’m sure we could find one big enough to carry the three of us.”
The trio crept down to the edge of the pond. A few beavers were about, working.
“Don’t let them see us,” Poppy warned.
Squatting down, the mice attempted to hide behind bushes. Only when Poppy was sure they were unnoticed did she and the others scout about in search of a chip.
Thistle found one near a recently chewed stump. All agreed the thin, square flake would be large enough to carry the three of them.
Quickly, they dragged it behind a bush and hid it, then searched out wood bits to use as paddles. Then they returned to the top of the hill.
“Better get some rest,” Poppy suggested. “As soon as it gets dark we’ll go.”
As far as she was concerned all was ready.
But the mice had been observed. Clara Canad saw them sniffing about the edges of the pond. Suspicious, she had watched intently, but was not certain what the mice were doing.
She reported what she’d seen to Mr. Canad. “What do you think?” she asked him.
“Don’t know,” he replied. “Don’t want to make a mountain out of a mouse hill. Still, you might have a point. Give them an inch, these mice take a mile.”
“The mice I saw were looking for something.”
“What do you think it was?” Mr. Canad asked.
“I’m not sure. Did you block that vent hole?”
“Piece of cake.”
“Did you make another?”
“Needle in a haystack. But look here, sweetheart, the less trouble, the better. We’ve been coasting along easy. We don’t want to slip on banana peels now. So if you want to keep on watch, far as I’m concerned, that’s frosting on the cake.”
With that, Mr. Canad swam away.
“Well, I don’t like it,” Clara said to herself. “I’m going to patrol the pond tonight.”
The farewells Thistle and Curleydock made to their family that night were brief and painful. The elder mice tried to be kind but could do little to hide their apprehension. For their part the youngsters tried to appear bold, but felt only uneasy.
Poppy, uncomfortable with the family’s disapproval, kept away entirely.
It was dark when the three mice went down to the pond. The vine hung in a coil around Poppy’s neck like a life preserver.
Once they located the wood chip they had hidden, they pushed it into the water, then jumped on. In moments they were afloat, moving slowly toward the lodge.
The three mice knelt on the wood chip and paddled steadily. Thistle and Curleydock were up front. Poppy was in the rear. Now and again she stood tall and peered into the dark, trying to keep them on course. The beavers’ main lodge, though visible, was distant. “To the left,” she called. “To the right.” Thistle and Curleydock shifted their paddles accordingly.
Other than normal night sounds, all was quiet. The moon kept slipping in and out behind clouds. A breeze from the north had begun to blow, bringing early hints of the autumn yet to come. It made the pond surface choppy.
Thistle’s whispered voice broke through the dark. “I think I heard something.”
The mice stopped paddling. Poppy’s ears twitched. She was not sure, but she too had caught a faint, splashing sound off to her left. The noise, however, did not return.
“I think we’re all right,” she called, keeping her voice low. The three resumed their paddling.
As they approached the lodge, Curleydock whispered, “Is that it?”
“I’m pretty sure,” Poppy replied.
“Which side should we aim for?” Thistle wanted to know.
“It doesn’t matter,” Poppy said. “We’ll be crawling to the vent hole on top. Let’s go. Keep your voices low.”
They dipped their paddles and moved forward again. Even as they did, a great swell of water lifted their raft, causing it to slide back as if it were rolling down a hill.
The next moment, Clara Canad, orange teeth glowing, rose up before them.
“I thought I heard something,” she barked. “What are you doing here? What are you trying to do?”
“Back paddle!” Poppy yelled frantically and plunged her oar deep into the water as if she could scoop them clear. Thistle tried, too, but with no more success. Worse, when she hauled back the strain was so great her paddle snapped in two. Curleydock, working frantically, only stirred the foaming waters.
With the raft rocking wildly, Thistle slipped. She did manage to hang on by the tips of her paws, but her hold was precarious. Curleydock, seeing her danger, attempted to reach for her, but lost his step on the listing raft and flipped over her head into the water.
“Curleydock!” Thistle screamed. She twisted to see where he had gone. He had vanished.
Clara, meanwhile, swung herself completely around, and lifted her tail.
“Look out!” Poppy cried.
Poppy saw Thistle attempt to draw her quill. It caused her to lose her grip. She fell back into the water and disappeared.
As the beaver’s tail struck, Poppy clung to the raft. The tail hit the raft’s front end, causing it to flip up and over like a catapult, flinging Poppy into the air.
As she flew she spread her legs wide, landing in the water on her belly with a splat. Stunned, she lay facedown in the water. It was the vine, still around her neck, which kept her from drowning.
Clara looked around. Seeing Poppy facedown in the water, she assumed she was dead. As for the other two mice, she did not see them at all. She was sure they, too, had perished.
With a satisfied grunt, the beaver dove beneath the water and headed for the entryway to the lodge.
Poppy, regaining consciousness, looked up. Giving her head a shake, she spat out water and called, “Thistle! Curleydock!” Her voice was weak. There was no reply.
She looked about. The beaver’s lodge rose up before her. Giving a few feeble kicks, she moved close enough to reach out and grab hold
