Poppy, an elderly deer mouse, had curled herself up into a plump ball of tan fur, her tail wrapped about so that it touched the tip of her pink nose. She was chatting with her husband, Rye, about some of the events of the past year: their good life together; guiding and watching their children grow and begin families of their own; her visit to her old home, Gray House; renewing acquaintances with relatives; and happy times with Ereth the porcupine.
As she talked, Rye, a golden mouse, was lying on his back, eyes closed, paws beneath his head, tail occasionally twitching. He was listening to Poppy even as he was contemplating a new poem, something about the cold winter and the past summer.
“It’s no good,” Rye said quite suddenly while coming to his feet.
“What’s no good?” asked Poppy, thinking he was referring to her talk about the family picnic last autumn.
“If I’m going to write anything decent about winter,” Rye declared, “I need to get out there and experience it.”
“It’s awfully cold,” Poppy reminded him, perfectly aware that such practical notions would make no difference to Rye, not when he was thinking about a poem. “I think there’s a storm.”
“Won’t be a moment,” said Rye, and he headed for the steps that led to ground level. When he reached the snag’s open entryway, however, the storm’s bitter cold struck with such force that it momentarily took his breath away. Not to be deterred, Rye pushed through the snow that had drifted in, and stepped outside.
It was difficult to see anything. The snow, bright and whirling, made the land indistinguishable from the sky. Even the forest trees appeared to be trembling shadows. As for sound, the only thing Rye could hear was the yowl of the wind.
“Wonderful. . . ,” he murmured, even as he shivered and stepped forward, sinking deeply into a soft, powdery drift.
He brushed the flakes from his eyelashes, and they danced before his eyes like tiny, sparkling diamonds.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
Rye began to burrow forward with his front paws. As he tunneled into the snow, the sounds of the wind faded. The light turned a dull gray. The cold softened. It was as if he were in a cocoon made of winter.
Suddenly he halted. Embedded in the icy tunnel wall was a perfectly preserved green leaf.
“Oh my!” Rye whispered, gazing at the leaf with joy. “It’s from last summer!”
Rye remained looking at the leaf for a long while. Only when his toes started to become numb did he turn and scurry back down into the snag.
“I think I’ve got a good poem,” he announced as he returned to Poppy. “I’m going to call it ‘Ice Leaf.’” He threw himself down on his back and closed his eyes.
After a few moments he asked, “Do you have any more of your mix?”
“What mix?” said Poppy.
“That peppermint, elderberry, and honey mix. You know, for coughs.”
Poppy’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Slight tingle in the old throat,” muttered Rye, as he concentrated on his poem.
That night a fierce new storm swept in. The wind roared. The temperature plummeted. The two mice snuggled together for warmth. From somewhere far-off they heard a fox baying and an owl hooting.
Next morning, when Rye woke, his throat was very sore. He was coughing, too, coughing badly.
CHAPTER 2
Junior Brings Ereth Some News
A WEEK LATER, early morning, a mouse called Junior, his fur encrusted with snow, managed to make his way into Ereth’s smelly log. The old porcupine was sound asleep, snoring loudly.
After a moment’s hesitation, Junior patted him on the nose. “Uncle Ereth!” he said. “Wake up, please!”
Ereth opened one eye. “Who . . . who’s that?”
“It’s me, Junior. Poppy’s son.”
“Growling gingersnaps . . . it’s a bit early, isn’t it?”
“Uncle Ereth, you’re Poppy’s best friend. I’m sure you’ll want to know.”
“Want to know what?” the porcupine grumbled.
“It’s Rye—my father. Last night . . . he . . . died.”
Ereth jerked up his head. “What?” he cried. “Rye? D-dead? But . . . but he’s . . . so young!”
“Well, yes, he was.”
“Then how—?”
“You know Rye,” said Junior. “He went out into a storm looking for poetic inspiration. Stayed out too long. Developed a cough. The cough worsened and settled in his chest. A fever came on next. The fever became pneumonia. Mom nursed him tenderly, but . . . last night I’m afraid he . . . died in her paws. She wanted you to know.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Ereth.
“Thanks. Afraid I can’t talk more,” said Junior, retreating. “I need to get back to her.”
“Right. Sure.”
Alone, Ereth scratched his belly. He looked up. He looked down. He closed his eyes and then opened them. He shook his head as if something was irritating an ear or his brain. “What’s the point of living,” he muttered, “if all you do is get old and . . . die?”
Ereth recalled that Poppy’s children had gone off with spouses and had families of their own. She would be alone. “She needs me,” he announced with sudden urgency.
Quills rattling, the porcupine heaved himself up and walked unsteadily to the entrance of his log. Once there he gazed out upon the spotless white landscape. Large white flakes were drifting down with such gentleness that they blended into a soft blanket of thick silence.
Resolutely, if slowly, Ereth pushed his way through the high snowdrifts. By the time he reached Poppy’s snag, his quills were laden with snow and ice, his eyes were blurred with tears, and his black nose stung from the cold.
Since the hole through which Poppy and Rye entered the snag was too small for Ereth to get through, he had to stop. “Poppy!” he bellowed. “It’s me! Ereth! I want to tell you how badly I feel!”
After what seemed to be a long time, one of Poppy and Rye’s daughters, Mariposa, appeared.
“Oh, hello, Uncle Ereth.”
Disappointed it was not Poppy, Ereth mumbled, “Just wanted to say . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry. About Rye.”
“Well . . . thank you. It is sad.”
“Listen here; I forgot your name—”
“Mariposa.”
“I need to speak to Poppy.”
Mariposa was silent.
“You have some problem with
