Poppy and Ereth
Authors: Avi
Poppy and Ereth
Illustrated by Brian Floca
For Brian Floca
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
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 youâas I already haveâwill gather this final tale to your heart as much as you have taken to the others.
Avi
The Hard Winter
I
T 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.
“Wonderfulâ¦,” 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 âIce 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.
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. “Whoâ¦who's that?”
“It's me, Junior. Poppy's son.”
“Growling gingersnapsâ¦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 Ryeâmy father. Last nightâ¦heâ¦died.”
Ereth jerked up his head. “
What?
” he cried. “Rye?
D-dead? Butâ¦but he'sâ¦so young!”
“Well, yes, he was.”
“Then howâ?”
“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, butâ¦last night
I'm afraid heâ¦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 andâ¦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 sayâ¦I'mâ¦I'm sorry. About Rye.”
“Wellâ¦thank you. It is sad.”
“Listen here; I forgot your nameâ”
“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 isâ”
“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, soâ” 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 withâ¦someâ¦niceness. Dyingâ¦it's soâ¦
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 wantedâ¦toâ¦sayâ¦I'm really sorry. About Rye.”
“Yes. Thank you. It'sâ¦hard.”
“I leftâ¦some things.”
“The pinecone. That was very kind. As for the saltâ¦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 justâ¦thought,” Ereth stammered, “we might doâ¦something toâ”
“Ereth,” said Poppy, “I need to be alone for a while.”
“How come?”
“I'dâ¦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 awayâpermanently.”
It was not the cold that made Ereth shiver: it was the thought.
