“What Clara discovered suggests they’ve got something up their sleeves. Maybe they’re trying to pull the wool over our eyes. Okay. I say it’s time we pulled out all the stops. End our kid-glove treatment. Teach the whole kit and caboodle a trick or two. Knock the spots off them. Lower the boom.
“Let’s go up there and give them a few what-fors. Level the playing field with our tails. Do I have any volunteers?”
There was an enthusiastic chorus of yea-sayers.
“Good!” Mr. Canad enthused. “Let’s hit the water running. I’ll lead you myself.”
“Don’t you think we should post some guards around by the waterway entry?” Clara asked. “Just in case they try something funny again.”
“Good thinking, sweetheart. You’re a chip off the old block. And for a beaver, you can’t do better than that! We’ll leave some guards here. Just in case.”
High in the vent hole, Poppy heard it all. Although she was relieved the beavers were going, she worried about what was happening up by the nest.
She watched as the beavers scrambled out of the lodge. Soon only two remained.
It had been Poppy’s intention to crawl down the vine—just as she had done on her previous visit. Then, the beavers all had been asleep. This time, the two beavers who stayed in the lodge were not just awake, one of them went over to the cage where Rye was being kept.
“What are you doing?” called the other beaver.
“Just checking to make sure this guy’s secure.”
“Is he?”
“A sure thing.”
The two beavers waddled away from the cage and lay down near the lodge’s water entry to guard it.
Poppy watched them intently. Their backs were to her.
In the dimness—the fireflies were not very active—Poppy was sure she saw Rye. He was curled up in a tight ball at the far end of his cage. Even as she watched him, he got up and crept to one of the back bars. There he crouched. If she was seeing clearly, he was gnawing on one of them.
Just to see Rye working made Poppy’s heart swell with love. Her doubts melted away. Together—somehow—they would get him out of the cage and to freedom. Her pulse quickened.
After giving a yank to the vine to make sure it would hold fast, Poppy began to lower it slowly. As she did, she kept her eyes on the two beavers. If they saw what she was doing, all was lost. She barely dared to breathe.
Inch by inch the vine dropped.
One of the beavers swung about and used a rear leg to scratch himself vigorously. Poppy froze. But the beaver’s face was so scrunched up—he seemed to be enjoying his scratching—he gave no sign that he noticed anything unusual.
Poppy lowered the vine some more. She was pretty sure she had guessed its length properly, that it would touch the floor. She was wrong. Even when she had lowered the vine as far as possible, it hung off the ground by a distance—as best Poppy could reckon—twice her full height when she stood tall. At first dismayed, she decided it did not matter. It was—it had to be—close enough.
The next step would be harder. It was time for her to go down. Head first or tail first? She glanced over at the beavers. They were paying no attention. Best to go tail first. If the need came, heading up would be easier and faster than backing up.
After wiping her sweaty paws on her fur, Poppy grasped the vine and began her descent by letting herself drop in a series of small jerks.
The moment she left the vent hole in the ceiling, the vine began to sway. The farther she went, the greater the sway. It made her dizzy, then nauseated. She knew then she should have come down headfirst like the first time.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Poppy continued down. Moving with her eyes closed gave her a panicky feeling—far worse than the dizziness. She opened them in haste and hung there. The vine swayed. Her dizziness increased. Gritting her teeth, she made herself go on.
As she moved, she kept looking around at the beavers. They had remained quite still. It was just as she reached the halfway point that they showed signs of activity.
One of them got up and arched his back. Then he turned fully around. Poppy almost fainted with fright. But the beaver turned back around and resumed guarding the entryway. Never had Poppy felt so glad to be so small.
Poppy struggled to suppress her anxiety and move faster. A little calmer, she continued down.
She had reached the vine’s end. Now she was dangling above the floor. There she hung, swaying back and forth, her heart beating madly. After taking one more look at the beavers, she released her grip and dropped to the floor.
The second she landed, she crouched down into as tight a ball as she could. Then, with great care, she lifted her head to check what the beavers were doing. They had not noticed her.
With a burst she sprang up and darted to the cage. “Rye,” she called in a whisper even as she clung to the bars.
Rye looked up. “Poppy!” he gasped and fell back.
“Shhh!” she warned.
“You are always such a wonderful surprise,” he said.
In spite of herself, Poppy grinned.
“Poppy . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve . . . I’ve been working on a poem about you. Would you like to hear it? It goes,
“Hail, sweet mouse of shape divine!
Who pledged her heart and tail to me and mine . . .”
“Rye,” Poppy interrupted, “it sounds beautiful, but there’s no time for that now. We need to get you out of here, fast.”
“I’m all for that,” Rye agreed. “I’ve been working away on this bar, too. It is awfully tough. Almost as hard as writing a good poem. And they do watch me. But I did make some progress. Poem and bar. Maybe the two of us can do the rest. The bar,
