“Thistle!” she called again. “Curleydock!”
She thought she heard an answering cry, but when it did not repeat itself, she was sure her young friends had drowned.
Drenched and forlorn, Poppy sat down, toying with the circle of vine by her side. Suddenly, she reached for her quill. It, too, was gone. That meant she had no way to defend herself. Everything bad that could have happened, had.
What she should do, she told herself, was to go back and inform Valerian and Clover what had occurred. The mere thought of it made her groan. Why did she always have to bring bad news? It was all too ghastly.
The next moment she realized that going back was not possible. Her raft was gone. She couldn’t swim to shore. There was little choice but to press on and attempt to save Rye—somehow.
Poppy hefted the circle of vine. Though heavy, she flung it back over her neck, then began to climb the side of the lodge.
As she went she began to cry. Why did Ragweed have to die? Why did Rye have to run away? Why did Ereth and Clover and Valerian have to be angry at her? Why did Thistle and Curleydock have to drown? Was everything her fault? It was all too much.
Despite her anguish, Poppy continued up the side of the lodge. It was a hard climb. Her own distress, the rough nature of the lodge’s construction, her sense of failure, all conspired to make the going difficult. Even so she kept climbing constantly, slipping, banging her head, her knees. Her paws grew raw. More than once she had to stop and regain her breath as well as her composure. But up she went, crawling on, over, under, and around twigs, sticks, and logs, all the while slipping and sliding over mud that stuck to her like glue. Sometimes the agony of it all made her whimper.
And then, when she finally reached the top, she could not find the vent hole. She could hardly believe it. Back and forth over the top she crawled. All she found was mud and more mud. Something was wrong, altered.
Gradually, Poppy began to grasp what must have happened. When she had visited Rye she had left the vine dangling from the vent hole. The beavers must have discovered what she’d done and covered the hole with mud. If that was true—and it certainly seemed to be so—then, short of swimming, there was no way for her to get into the lodge.
Feeling defeated and alone, Poppy sat atop the lodge. Ereth had fled back to Dimwood. Thistle and Curleydock were gone, presumably drowned. Rye was imprisoned. Rye! How close he was. How impossible to reach! Her whole plan was a disaster.
Poppy lay back and stared up at the few stars peeking out now and again from behind drifting clouds. I might as well be up there for all I can do, she thought.
Exhaustion—fueled by sorrow and defeat—took hold. She kept telling herself she mustn’t sleep, that she must do something. But her fatigue, mixed with her melancholy state, proved too powerful. She nodded off.
CHAPTER 24
Valerian and Clover
THOUGH THE PACKING of the nest had been completed, Valerian and Clover decided to wait for the morning to make their move. Without saying so, both were reluctant to go farther away from Rye, Thistle, and Curleydock. In any case, it was night and the children were asleep. Better not to disturb them.
Sitting side by side, paw in paw, the two mice stared up at the moon, which kept slipping behind the scudding clouds. Lifting their noses and sniffing at the breeze, they listened to the hum and buzz of the night. Sometimes they gazed down toward the pond and the lodge where they knew Rye was being held.
“I wonder where Poppy and those kids are now,” Valerian mused.
“I just hope they’re all right,” Clover said.
“That Poppy is a tough one, love,” Valerian said, trying to sound more reassuring than he felt. “I didn’t think going was a good idea, but if anyone can get Rye out and come back safe, I suppose she can.”
“And here we sit,” she said.
Valerian nodded.
Suddenly Clover sighed. “Oh, Valerian,” she whispered, “when I saw the faces of the family, it made me think how much I love them all. It isn’t wrong to want to protect them, is it?”
“I don’t think so,” Valerian replied kindly. “I feel that way myself.”
For a moment they were quiet.
Then Clover sighed. “Valerian, how long have we been together?” she asked.
“Six years.”
“Such a long time,” Clover said. “And a good time. A good life. So many children. Good children. Mostly. They come. They go. And here we are. Sometimes, Valerian, it seems the only difference with us is that you’re grayer, I’m fatter, and we’re both a lot more tired.”
“You’re still my love, Clover,” Valerian murmured, giving her paw a gentle squeeze.
“Valerian . . .” Clover said, as if she hadn’t heard, “I suppose sometimes it takes an outsider to see what we can’t see for ourselves. I’ve been thinking about what Poppy said. What she said is true: I haven’t put up much resistance to the beavers. I’ve been too . . . fearful that some of us would get hurt . . . or worse. But sitting here, with you, looking on, I . . .”
She faltered, took a deep breath. With a painful catch in her throat, she said, “Valerian . . . Poppy was right. We can’t just accept what these beavers are doing to us. It’ll only get worse. Valerian, I just wish we could do something. Anything.”
Having spoken, Clover buried her face in Valerian’s shoulder and began to weep.
Valerian patted her gently. Then he said, “Well, love, what do you have in mind?”
“That’s just it,” she whispered between sobs. “I
