Halfway up the tree, Ereth came upon a particularly fat branch whose broad width at the point where it grew out of the main trunk made a platform. “I suppose this’ll do,” he said, and settled down.
“Mind if I snuggle in?” Poppy asked.
“Snuggle,” Ereth mocked. “Why don’t you just say, ‘mind if I lean on you?’”
“I prefer snuggle,” Poppy said with a grin. She settled herself between Ereth’s front paws, curled up in a ball, and took a deep, relaxing breath.
Though the air was ripe with the sticky scent of pine, Poppy detected the smell of nearby blossoms. Loving flowers of any kind, she was happy.
The night was full of noises, too. She heard the soft, padded steps of animals, the slithering of snakes, the piping of frogs, the chirping of crickets. Now and again leaves rustled in the breeze. The night is dancing, she thought.
The stars seemed so distant. How far, Poppy wondered, would she have to travel to reach one of them?
Letting slip a murmur of contentment, she nestled closer to Ereth. She was perfectly aware he was not the easiest of companions, but she loved him for the good, blunt friend he was. Besides, whether he meant it or not, he kept her mind off the sad part of this journey, the meeting with Ragweed’s parents.
So far the trip was exactly what she had wanted. She could already sense her grief easing. She was convinced that once she saw Ragweed’s parents and delivered her doleful news—and his earring—she would be able to return home and get on with her life. The thought soothed her. She began to drift off to sleep.
Ereth broke the silence. “Poppy,” he growled, “when you tell Ragweed’s parents what happened to him, I won’t be around.”
“Oh, why?” Poppy said with a yawn.
“Because it’s just family fripple, that’s why. I hate all that garbage.”
“Ereth, you can do what you want.”
“I do,” Ereth said. “Always.”
“Fine.”
Poppy yawned again, and closed her eyes.
Then Ereth said, “It’s all those stupid feelings. Porcupines get along without that bunk.”
“Not one feeling?”
“For salt . . . maybe.”
When Poppy made no response Ereth added, “It’s better that way.”
“How come?” Poppy asked sleepily.
“Oh, chipmunk cheese. It . . . just is.”
Poppy was too tired to debate. Instead, she pondered what she might say to Ragweed’s parents, wondering if they would blame her for his death. Yawning, she placed her tail under her nose, and was soon fast asleep.
Ereth stared into the dark. “This is dumb,” he said to himself. “I never should have come. Ragweed,” he sneered. “Nothing but Ragweed. Nothing but sugared mouse slops. Phooey!”
CHAPTER 4
The Water Rises
THE BEAVERS BUILT the dam higher. Inch by inch the water rose. It licked the low banks then swallowed them whole. It crept and crawled and poked into every crevice, filling them up. It trickled along animal paths and washed them away. It sank flowers and grasses and turned them into soup. It slid between bushes and trees and drowned them, root, leaf, and branch. It made islands of low hills. It flooded nests. The water was unstoppable.
Though Clover and Valerian could observe the water rising with their own eyes, they found it hard to accept that their nest was doomed. After all, they had lived in one place for years. During that time how many storms had they weathered? How many droughts? How many cold winters? To all questions, the same answer: many.
“Why are the beavers doing this?” the children asked.
“Be fair,” Valerian said with a catch in his throat and a harassed look on his face. “We don’t own the Brook, do we? Don’t you think beavers have as much right to live here as we do?”
“But their pond is getting huge!” one of the children objected. “It’s taking over everything!”
Valerian sighed. “Maybe I can talk to them.”
So it was that Valerian—feeling apprehensive, trying to keep his gray whiskers neat—crept down to the shore of the newly created pond.
The old brook had been surrounded by many trees. The new pond was encircled by chewed-off and jagged stumps. The old brook had been tranquil. The new pond fairly rattled with beavers hard at work. Even as Valerian stood there he heard the sound of yet another tree crashing. He winced.
“Hello!” he called out across the pond. “Can I speak to someone?”
One of the beavers paused to look around. “Hey, old timer, what’s up?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Valerian returned politely.
“Who are you?” the beaver asked.
“I . . . I live here.”
“Do you? That’s cool. What’s happening, pal?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Canad.”
“Cas? He’s probably busy, but I’ll go check.”
The beaver dove, leaving Valerian to pace nervously, tail waving in agitation.
Within moments Mr. Canad burst up to the water’s surface. “Hey, pal! Nice to see you again,” he cried out. “Don’t think I got your name.”
“Valerian.”
“Val. Right! What’s up, pal?”
“Well, sir, it’s this . . . pond you’re building.”
“Sight for sore eyes, isn’t it?” the beaver boomed.
“Well, I was just wondering . . . how . . . I mean, no one owns the Brook. So, of course, naturally, we’re obliged to share. But we . . . well, we were wondering just how . . . well . . . big you intended to make it.”
“Big?” Mr. Canad cried. “Tell you something, pal, you ain’t seen nothing yet! Talking world-class pond here. The cat’s pajamas and meow in combo. Over the top! Major league. The whole enchilada. Hey, Pal, Canad and Co. don’t do small.”
“But,” Valerian said plaintively, “if you make it too big . . . you’ll drive us folks who live here . . . away.”
“Look here, Pal,” Mr. Canad said, “I’m telling you, I’d be tickled pink to see you stay. You seem decent. Clean. Good manners. Not a troublemaker, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Great! Glad to have you around! ‘Progress Without Pain.’ That’s our slogan. But, if you have to move, well, hey, no problem. Have a great trip. Ban voyage. Hasta la sweeta. Are revor.”
“Can’t we compromise?” Valerian pleaded. “So we can both stay?”
“Pal, I’ve put quality time into that question. Comes to this: Beavers do what beavers do. There you are: Question in, answer out. Neat as
