Poppy and Ereth (2 page)

T
HOUGH THE DAYS
grew longer, the weather remained bitterly cold and snowy for weeks. Then, like the sudden turn of an aspen leaf in a puff of wind, the weather changed. Skies cleared. The sun became bright. The temperature climbed. Within a few weeks, unseasonable warmth and slashing torrents of rain melted the winter's deepest snow. Streams crested. Mud oozed. Tree leaves dripped and dripped. Frogs sang with joy.

The rains finally ended, but the heat continued to rise. Spring hardly arrived before it fled. In its place came an early and
hot
summer, hotter than anyone could remember. Flowers wilted. Green shoots collapsed. Mushrooms shriveled.

Midsummer brought no improvement. Hot, then hotter; dry, and drier yet. The forest floor became hard.
Grasses turned brown. Tree leaves fell. Creeks turned into empty gullies. No doubt a drought had come to the forest.

And in all this time Ereth did not see Poppy.

S
PRUCE WAS THE SON
of Ragweed Junior and Laurel. Not only had he been the last of his litter to be born that spring, he was small and skinny. His siblings called him the runt of the family though never when their parents were around.

Spruce generally enjoyed being with his brothers and sisters, but with food scarce because of the dry summer, he often found himself pushed aside or at the end of the line for good seeds. It may have happened less than he thought, but it was all too frequent for him. The result: though he was hardly more than three months old, he took to going off by himself and wandering about in search of something to eat.

One morning during the middle of summer, despite
the intense heat, Spruce set out alone. After some hours of searching, he found a dry pine seed. He was just about to eat it when he saw his grandmother Poppy coming along the path.

Spruce's parents had told their children not to bother Grandma Poppy because she was so sad about Rye's death and wanted to be left alone. It had happened before Spruce was born, so although he had heard of Poppy's many adventures, he hardly knew her. Mostly, he thought of her as very old, and Spruce was uncertain how he felt about old mice.

“Good morning, Grandma,” he whispered as he stepped aside to let Poppy pass while eyeing her with curiosity.

Poppy went silently by only to halt a few steps beyond, turn, and look back at the young mouse.

“Oh my,” she said. “I have so many grandchildren. I can hardly count them and don't know them all by name. But I believe you are…Spruce. One of Junior and Laurel's sons. Am I right?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Spruce, amazed that Grandma Poppy knew him at all.

Poppy gazed intently at the young mouse. “You resemble your father,” she announced.

“I do?” asked Spruce, who had never thought he looked
like anyone except himself.

“And your father,” continued Poppy, “looked like
his
father. That means you are rather like your grandfather Rye. But the more I consider it, the one I think you most look like is your great-uncle Ragweed.”

“Is that bad?” asked Spruce.

“Actually,” said Poppy with an all but silent sigh, “I think it's…nice. Now tell me, Spruce, what are you doing out here alone on such a hot day?”

Spruce thought for a moment and then said, “I'm hunting foxes.”

“Are you really?” Poppy cried.

“I saw a huge one go by a little while ago,” said Spruce. “But, guess what? I chased him away.”

“What a good story! What else have you been doing?”

“Looking for seeds.”

“Find any?”

Spruce held up the seed he had found. “Would you like a bite?”

Poppy actually smiled, something she had not done for a long while. Spruce's offer somehow made her feel lighter.

“Spruce,” she said, “what would you say to my helping you look for more seeds?”

Spruce was surprised. As far as he knew, Poppy had
never spent any time with his brothers or sisters. “Do you really want to?” he asked.

Poppy nodded. “And if we see another fox,” she added solemnly, “I'll help you chase him away. I think that would be really fun.”

“I'd like that,” said Spruce, delighted that Poppy enjoyed his joke.

All that afternoon Poppy and Spruce searched about the forest. They talked very little, and mostly about Spruce, but they did manage to avoid all foxes even as they collected some seeds. Then Poppy led Spruce to a rock under which they could sit in the cool shade.

“Spruce,” said Poppy as they ate, “what do you like to do most of all?”

“I don't know…,” the young mouse mused. “Probably doing something nobody else does. Just me. All alone.”

Poppy looked around at him. To Spruce she seemed very serious. “Is that bad?” he asked.

“Oh no!” cried Poppy. “You know, your great-uncle Ragweed—the one you look like—he used to say, ‘A mouse has to do what a mouse has to do.'”

“‘A mouse has to do what a mouse has to do,'” Spruce repeated. “I like that.” And he gazed at Poppy and struggled to understand what it was like to be so old. Next moment
he blurted out, “Then what is it
you
have to do?”

“Me?” said Poppy, taken aback by the question. “What do you mean?”

“It's what you said, about a mouse doing…. Only I guess you're…too old to do anything.”

“Oh dear! Do I look that old?”

“Your whiskers droop.”

“I suppose they do,” said Poppy, not sure if she should laugh or cry. Instead, she sighed, half longingly, half resigned. “Well, I have to admit I'm not sure what I'll do.”

“That's okay,” said Spruce. “You're so old you don't
have
to do anything. Only I still think you should do
something
.”

“Why?”

Spruce thought a moment. “Because I like you.”

“Well, thank you!”

Later, as they parted, Spruce said, “Grandma Poppy…Mom and Dad told us not to bother you.”

“Did they give a reason?”

“Because you were so sad.”

“Ah,” said Poppy. “I suppose I am.”

“But, can I still…visit you?”

Poppy smiled. “Anytime you want. My snag is nice and cool—and empty.”

“Okay,” said Spruce, and off he went.

As Poppy watched him go she thought,
Now there's a charming young mouse. And he really does look like Ragweed.

It made her think of Ragweed's words again—the words she had quoted to the young mouse: “
A mouse has to do what a mouse has to do.
” That, in turn, made her ponder the question Spruce had asked: “
Then what is it
you
have to do?
”

All the way back to the snag the question kept rolling about Poppy's head. Then, as she stepped into her home, she considered what Spruce had also said:
“You're so old you don't
have
to do anything.”

It's true,
thought Poppy.
These days all I'm doing is feeling hot, heavy, and tired.

She set about straightening up the snag, but stopped and sat down and thought about Spruce instead. She had not been very much older than the young mouse when she met Ragweed. Closing her eyes, Poppy recalled the first time she saw Ragweed coming through the forest. Not only was his fur golden in color—something she had never seen before—he was singing and—oh, yes!—wearing a purple-beaded earring!

Poppy giggled. That earring…Ragweed had been her first love. Except, as she thought about it, it was not so much Ragweed she'd loved as his great love of life, his
energy
.

Poppy dug deeper into her memories. What
was
it like in those days when she began to spend time with Ragweed?
Certainly, her life had begun to change. She had started asking questions. She had grown a little bolder. Then Ragweed died tragically. But his death led to her meeting Ereth and her great duel with Mr. Ocax, the owl. That, in turn, brought her to Rye, with whom she fell in love.

Rye had cared so much about life, and about Poppy, too, as well as about poetry and their family—all in the sweetest of ways. No, nothing flamboyant about Rye—just a steady, kind, and loving mouse. Oh, how she missed him!

How different my life used to be,
thought Poppy.
So many changes! Now I am utterly predictable!
Nothing
varies!
She shrugged.
It certainly would be nice if days were cooler and something different happened.

Poppy went back to thinking about Ragweed's earring.
It's almost,
she thought,
as if that tiny twist of metal with its small purple bead was the spark that altered my life!

What ever did become of that earring?
Poppy mused. Next moment she remembered: she had hung it on a hazelnut tree atop Bannock Hill so she would always remember Ragweed.

She gasped.
But life became so busy I did forget about that earring!

All at once, Poppy felt an overwhelming desire to see if the earring was where she had put it. Never mind the heat. Never mind the lateness of the day. She must see if it was
still there. In her mind, she again heard Spruce say,
“You're so old you don't
have
to do anything.”

“No!” Poppy cried right out loud. “I need to see if that earring is still there!”

The next moment she burst out of her snag and began to scurry along the path that would lead her through the forest, across Glitter Creek, and up to Bannock Hill.

As Poppy scampered along, she could not help but notice how grim the forest looked—so brittle and dusty that nothing moved without crinkling. While there was still a little greenery, much of the forest seemed rusty and stiff.

Poppy came to a halt. “Stop thinking droopy thoughts!” she scolded herself. “Be cheerful!”

She began to run and soon reached the banks of Glitter Creek. Before her lay the old bridge, and beyond, Bannock Hill. Too excited to even look at the creek, she dashed over to the other side.

What a comfort it will be if Ragweed's earring is still there,
Poppy kept thinking as she raced toward the summit of the hill. “Oh, please, please,” she said aloud, “
please
be there! I don't want everything to have changed!”

D
EEP INSIDE HIS HOLLOW LOG
, Ereth chewed loudly on an old twig. He kept wishing the wood had even a tiny bit of green underbark for him to enjoy. In fact, the twig was no tastier than old chalk, so dry it hurt his teeth, so dry he could not even spit.

“Octopus ink ice cream,” he muttered. “It needs salt, too.”

Thoughts of salt made Ereth groan. As far as he was concerned, salt was the best-tasting food in the world. It had been such a long time since Ereth had eaten good salt, or any salt for that matter. He had left his last bit with Poppy.

Normally, his log home was damp and moldy, too, thick with the heavy reek of rot and poop. Ereth liked it that way. But the summer's unrelenting heat had turned
Ereth's log into an oven, an oven filled with sand. The enticing smells he so loved had all been baked out.

And now, there was no rain.

“What good is the sky if no rain falls from it?” Ereth complained, swishing his tail so hard his quills rattled. He wished someone would dare to contradict him. Since he was alone, no one did.

“It's
stupid
that it doesn't rain,” Ereth rambled on, licking his parched black lips. “It's not as if the sky has anything better to do! The forest needs rain. Animals need
rain. Spider snot soup!” he bleated. “
I
need rain!”

Exasperated, he threw down the twig he had been chewing. “I can't eat junk!” he cried. “Creamed caterpillar cheese on chocolate-coated cats! Even my quills are sweating! I need fresh air!”

Ereth waddled clumsily to the entrance of his log and stuck out his blunt, grizzled nose. He sniffed. The late afternoon air was as thick as greasy sheep's wool. Everywhere he looked he saw dry leaves, dry grass, dry
everything
. “It's all one big sawdust and sandpaper sandwich,” he panted.

Ereth tried not to look toward Poppy's snag. Unable to resist, he peeked across. How he wished that Poppy would emerge and announce she was done with her sadness!

Next moment he was distracted from his longing by the sight of a bat darting about above him. “Bottled bat boogers,” he muttered as he eyed the bat with distaste. “I hate bats. Everybody does.”

He turned back to Poppy's snag with a new thought. “Maybe…Poppy thinks of me the way I…think of bats. With
disgust
! Maybe she doesn't want to see me, not because of Rye's death but because…because she doesn't like me anymore!”

The thought brought pain to his heart. “She probably finds me dull, or stupid, or rude. Too loud. Too unrefined. Too…me!

“Things have to change. No! Maybe
I
…need to change. First, I'll stop waiting for Poppy to come around. I'll get out and about. Make some…new friends. Mingle with…other animals. Be social. Go to parties. Dance. Make small talk. Have fun! Maybe I should even stop swearing! Maybe I should start”—the word almost made him gag—
“smiling!”

“Yes,” cried the porcupine with growing excitement. “Phooey on Poppy,” he cried. “Fried figs on frog flop! No! No more swearing! Swearing is
stupid
! Smiles are sweet! Poppy can stew in her own sadness for all I care. I need new friends!”

As Ereth spoke, a hot wind blew dust into his mouth and snout. “No!” Ereth bleated to nobody in particular. “I need coolness. Wetness! A fresh bath will give my new personality the right start. I'll wash away my old self! But where can I take a bath?
Glitter Creek!
Yes!” And with a swish of his tail, Ereth headed for the path that led to the creek and began to run.

As Ereth rushed through the forest, his only thought was of the creek, which ran along the eastern edge of Dimwood
Forest. He could almost see the fresh, cool water frothing and tumbling over rocks and fallen branches, gurgling with the joy of racing against itself, as if the creek had turned itself into a smile. Yes, a smile!
Just like I'll be doing. And oh! A cool, wet bath would be so silky sweet! Something worth smiling about!

The pleasures of becoming wet, of a bath, of soaking in the clear creek waters made Ereth fairly gallop along, thinking,
Pickled pink potatoes! No! Mustn't swear anymore. Never again! Still, I'll take a swim. Don't do it often, but I can and…I…I will! The perfect time!

He paid little attention to the heat, the wilted grass, or the drooping forest trees.

Maybe,
thought Ereth,
I should live closer to the creek. Take a bath every day. Not to be clean. Phooey on clean! But oh, oh! To be cool!

At last Ereth saw the open space that meant he was approaching the creek. Sweat trickled down over his eyes, stinging them, obscuring his vision. Not that Ereth cared. All he could think about, all he wanted, all he needed was to plunge into the creek's crisp, cool waters.

He dashed forward.

When Ereth finally reached the creek bank, he, without bothering to look, leaped—only to land with a
sickening
splat!
right in a bed of thick, deep, engulfing mud.

Ereth floundered in the mire, spitting out the sandy grit that seeped into his mouth. He began to churn his rear
legs to get out. The churning only made him slip deeper into the goo.

“Barbecued buzzard barf!” Ereth screeched. “Help!” he bellowed. “Somebody! Anybody! Poppy! Save me! I'm drowning!”