The other mice looked around at one another. They loved to hear Ereth swear.
Columbine, barely managing not to giggle, said, “Which brother are you looking for?”
“Ragweed,” said Ereth. “The junior variety.”
“Oh, him,” said Columbine, her good cheer fading. “What do you want him for?”
“I need to straighten him out.”
“Uncle Ereth, if you want old grumpy, he’s either with his friend Mephitis or down in the snag roots.”
“I don’t want him,” said Ereth. “I don’t want any of you. I need to talk to him.”
The porcupine went to the base of the snag. Since the mouse entry hole was too small for him to pass through, the best he could do was stick in his snout and call: “Junior! This is your Uncle Ereth. I need to speak to you. Now!” The young mice put aside what they were doing to watch what would happen.
No reply came from inside the tree.
“Junior!” bellowed Ereth. “You get your bloated beanbag of a brain up here or I’ll unzip your bottom from your belly and give it the boot!”
The young mice waited breathlessly for a reply.
When none came, Ereth screamed, “Didn’t you hear me? I said now!”
“I’m busy,” said an irritated voice.
“With what?” said Ereth.
“Stuff.”
“March yourself up here this moment,” cried Ereth, “before I stuff your stuff up your stuffing!”
“Okay, okay. Keep your pit in your olive.”
Ereth snarled and looked around at the mice. “What are you watching?” he cried.
“You,” said Snowberry, no longer able to keep from giggling.
“Good. Maybe you’ll learn something.” His prickly tail thrashed back and forth, stirring up a large cloud of dust.
All eyes were on the entry hole. After what seemed forever, a mouse crawled out. Ereth blinked. Ragweed Junior had dyed his normally golden fur tar black. A white streak ran down his back. He looked like a miniature skunk.
“Yo, dude, what’s going down?” said Junior.
“Is that you?” said Ereth. “Ragweed Junior?”
“Yeah. What do you want?”
“Why are you . . . that way?”
“What way?”
“Looking like a skunk, sounding like a frog.”
“Because I freaking well want to.”
“Bug-bellied bromides,” said Ereth. “Don’t swear at me like that. I’m your uncle.”
“Yeah, well, if a porcupine can be an uncle to a mouse, I can be a skunk,” said Junior. “And if all you’re going to do is yell at me, I’ve got better things to do.” He turned to go.
“Hold it right there, young mouse!” yelled Ereth. “I’m here to tell you that this rudeness has to stop. You need to show some respect for your parents—the ones that raised you up, take care of you, and make sure your life is decent. Have you no gratitude?”
“Gratitude is for old grumps and gimps,” returned Junior. “Listen, flat face, why don’t you pick on someone your own size? Or better yet, to talk the way you do: go pack up your prickles and peddle some pickles for some pocket change!” With that, Junior spun about and disappeared back into the snag.
Ereth—his mouth agape—stared at the entry hole. “Bottled baby barf!” he cried. “He has become a teenager.” The old porcupine hurried back toward his log.
The young mice, laughing uproariously, watched him go. “Did we learn anything?” said Snowberry.
It was Walnut who said, “Well, Junior is still grumpy.”
To which Columbine added, “And Uncle Ereth is still funny.”
CHAPTER 3
The Message
AS ERETH HURRIED BACK to his log, he saw a mouse on the path. At first he thought she was Poppy. But when he realized she was a mouse he had never seen before, he skidded to a halt and stuck his nose close to her. “Who the musky muskrat marbles are you?”
“How do you do?” said the mouse, backing away nervously. “Are you Erethizon Dorsatum?”
“What if I was?”
“Might you be Poppy’s . . . acquaintance?”
“I’m her best friend.”
“How do you do, Mr. Dorsatum. My name is Lilly. I’m one of Poppy’s siblings.”
“You’re . . . what kind of dribbling sap?”
“I am Poppy’s sister.”
“Sister! What sister? Where did you come from?”
“From Gray House,” said Lilly. “That’s Poppy’s home on the south side of the forest. Beyond Glitter Creek. Near Tar Road. Do you know where I might find Poppy? I’m bringing her an important message.”
“I always know where she is,” said Ereth. “Follow me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dorsatum,” said Lilly. “I was apprehensive about getting to her in time.”
“In time for what?”
“The news I’m bringing.”
“Which is?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dorsatum. It’s a . . . family matter.”
“Oh, clown cheese! Just come with me.” The porcupine marched to the entrance of his hollow log. “She’s in here,” he said to the mouse.
Lilly, who had been following behind Ereth, halted before the foul stench that wafted from the log. Looking about, she saw that the log’s ancient bark was rust colored, encrusted by fungus that looked like limp angel wings. In the rotting soil that lay around the log grew damp and decaying mushrooms.
Lilly wrinkled her nose. “Here?” she said. “Does Poppy truly live here?”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It . . . has an . . . offensive odor.”
“Cockroach-flavored chewing gum!” cried Ereth. “This happens to be my home, and it’s where Poppy is visiting. You can come in or wait here. Suit yourself, lice wit, or whatever your name is.” With a snort, Ereth went into the log, leaving Lilly behind.
Poppy and Rye were waiting for him. Instead of saying anything, Ereth marched to his salt lump and began to lick it, salivating loudly.
Poppy and Rye exchanged looks. Rye nodded, and Poppy went over to the porcupine. “Ereth, did you see Junior?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“Not much.”
“Did the two of you talk?”
“Humph.”
“Ereth . . . please tell me what was said.”
“I told him he was an idiot.”
“Oh. And he said?”
“Called me flat face. Told me to pack up my prickles and go.”
“I’m sorry,” said Poppy, trying not to smile. “I’m afraid that’s the way he is to everyone lately.”
“Ereth,” said Rye, “do you have any idea what we might do with him?”
“Get rid of him. Disown him. Drop him. Shoo him away. Give him the boot. Evict him. Exile him. Forget him. Tell him he’s on his own. That he’s not worth your trouble.
