Poppy and Ereth

  Avi

  Poppy and Ereth

  Illustrated by Brian Floca

  For Brian Floca

  Contents

  Dear Friends of Poppy

  Map

  Chapter 1 The Hard Winter

  Chapter 2 Junior Brings Ereth Some News

  Chapter 3 Changes

  Chapter 4 Spruce and Poppy

  Chapter 5 Ereth Has Some Thoughts

  Chapter 6 Ragweed’s Earring

  Chapter 7 A Surprise

  Chapter 8 Luci in the Sky

  Chapter 9 What Ereth Thought He Saw

  Chapter 10 In the Dark

  Chapter 11 Above Dimwood Forest

  Chapter 12 Ereth Shares the Awful News

  Chapter 13 The Bat Cave

  Chapter 14 Poppy and Luci

  Chapter 15 On Bannock Hill

  Chapter 16 Spruce

  Chapter 17 Ereth Chooses

  Chapter 18 Spruce Goes Looking for Poppy

  Chapter 19 Poppy and the Bats

  Chapter 20 Poppy in the Tunnel

  Chapter 21 The Fire

  Chapter 22 Ereth Looks at Himself

  Chapter 23 Bounder the Fox

  Chapter 24 On the Trail to Glitter Creek

  Chapter 25 Poppy and Bounder

  Chapter 26 Spruce Sees What’s Bad

  Chapter 27 Poppy Tries to Escape

  Chapter 28 The Bridge to Dimwood Forest

  Chapter 29 What Poppy and Bounder Did

  Chapter 30 Where Is Spruce?

  Chapter 31 The Rescue

  Chapter 32 Poppy’s Funeral

  Chapter 33 Poppy Alive

  Chapter 34 Surrounded

  Chapter 35 The End

  Chapter 36 The Beginning

  Chapter 37 Rye’s Poem

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author and the Illustrator

  Other Books by Avi

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Dear Friends of Poppy:

  It has been quite a while since I first began to write the Poppy stories.

  Truly, when I started, I did not think Poppy’s story would go on for as long as it has, or create a cast of characters for whom I have developed so much affection. Each time I have come back to them, it has been like a joyous family reunion. For, sometimes, a writer is lucky: he invents characters who allow continual discovery, who keep surprises coming, who keep growing.

  In your hands is Poppy and Ereth, the last book in the series. While wanting to bring the Poppy saga to a satisfying end, I have worked hard to join many of the characters, events, and memories of the previous five books. My desire is to evoke the past even as the future unfolds.

  It is my fondest hope that you—as I already have—will gather this final tale to your heart as much as you have taken to the others.

  Avi

  Map

  CHAPTER 1

  The Hard Winter

  IT WAS A HARD WINTER in Dimwood Forest. Temperatures were low, snows deep, nights long, and the winds sharp. Most forest animals remained tucked away in their underground homes, burrows, and caves, sleeping or eating the food they had stored the summer before. It was that way, too, with Poppy and Rye, who kept close and warm deep down among the roots of their old snag, a tall, broken tree stump.

  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 hi
m 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 that?” demanded Ereth.

  “Uncle Ereth,” Mariposa whispered, “why don’t you come back a little later? Poppy is—”

  “What?”

  “She wants to be alone. Quiet. I’m sure you can understand.”

  “But…”

  “Uncle Ereth, please.”

  Ereth began to say something but instead wheeled about and started back through the snow. Halfway home he paused. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been so loud, so—” He did not finish the thought.

  Back in his log, Ereth shook off the snow and retreated to the far end. “I suppose I should have been softer,” he muttered as he hunkered down. “Or expressed more sympathy with…some…niceness. Dying…it’s so…stupid.” He closed his eyes and sighed.

  Five days passed before Ereth went back outside. He searched and scratched about the snowy forest until he found an old pinecone that had a few remaining seeds. Clutching it in his chattering teeth, he lumbered to Poppy’s snag.

  “Poppy!” he called. “Poppy!”

  Though no answer came, Ereth waited until he could no longer bear the cold. Leaving the pinecone at the entryway to the snag, he stumbled home. Two days later, he returned. The pinecone was gone. But when he called for Poppy, there was still no reply.

  Ereth waited a whole week before making his next visit. When he called for Poppy, still no one answered. This time Ereth did something he had never done before: he left a bit of his favorite food, salt, by her snag.

  Two weeks later Ereth went back. The salt was exactly where he had left it. Ereth, who was quite capable of passing the whole of winter without speaking to another creature, was anxious.

  “Poppy!” he bellowed. “I have to see you!”

  Poppy appeared. Ereth stared at his friend. She was thin. Her whiskers drooped. Her eyes seemed dull. She kept rubbing her forepaws together as if they were cold.

  “Yes, Ereth,” she said, speaking softly. “Can I help you?”

  “I just wanted…to…say…I’m really sorry. About Rye.”

  “Yes. Thank you. It’s…hard.”

  “I left…some things.”

  “The pinecone. That was very kind. As for the salt…I’m afraid I don’t really care for salt. Why don’t you take it back? I know how much you love it.” Poppy’s voice was so low, Ereth could barely hear her words.

  “I just…thought,” Ereth stammered, “we might do…something to—”

  “Ereth,” said Poppy, “I need to be alone for a while.”

  “How come?”

  “I’d…like to spend some time reading Rye’s poetry,” she said. Eyes welling with tears, she hastily turned and disappeared from view.

  Ereth stared at the salt. Though just to look at it made him salivate, he was not going to take it back. As far as he was concerned, it belonged to Poppy. But otherwise the porcupine had no choice. He felt compelled to respect Poppy’s wishes.

  “Dancing doorknobs,” he muttered as he trudged back home to his log. “I’m supposed to be her best friend! How can she not want to see me? It’s as if she’s gone away—permanently.”

  It was not the cold that made Ereth shiver: it was the thought.

  CHAPTER 3

  Changes

  THOUGH 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.

  CHAPTER 4

  Spruce and Poppy

  SPRUCE 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 m
ore 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.