Young Fredle (18 page)

And after that?

After that, he hoped that he would be able to follow the stream back to where the garden might be near. He hoped he would know when he’d followed it far enough, but not too far. But how could he know that?

In any case, Fredle would need to be well fed and well rested before starting off, so he crossed over the wall and ate more than his fill of the apples lying on the ground. Then he returned to his usual sleeping place, sheltered within the stone wall. He didn’t expect to sleep much, or easily, or deeply, but he did. He didn’t even wake up when the raccoons came home. In fact, Rilf had to poke him awake to offer him a section of potato peel.

Fredle ate it as if he were hungry and then pretended to go back to sleep, while he waited for the raccoons to settle down.

The air lightened and a soft rain started to fall, while Fredle listened for the snoring to begin and thought about traveling in the rain. It was less comfortable for him, that was for sure; on the other hand, the raccoons would be less likely to stir from the comfort of their burrow and discover that he was gone. On the whole, he decided, he would count it as good luck that rain came on the morning he had decided to make his escape.

Soon enough he heard four raccoons snoring almost in unison, and knew it was time. But now that he was about to actually take the first steps, he felt reluctant to leave behind
something he knew and go out into who knew what landscape, into who knew what future. He began to worry that he had made an error in remembering what Sadie said, and to wonder if the stream Rilf took him to was really the same stream Sadie had wanted to drink from. Then he reminded himself that his other choice was to be a raccoon dinner in not very many nights. He reminded himself that if he waited much longer, the Rowdy Boys would carry him even farther away from the house, from home, making it even less likely that he would ever find his way back.

This was his chance, and he knew it. He wanted to take it, too. So he did.

Fredle did not look back but moved off as quietly as only a mouse can in
that
direction, staying close to the stone wall, where there were many openings into which a mouse could squeeze himself, to hide. He was so frightened and excited that he barely noticed the rain. This was a gentle, steady rain that coated the stones and moistened the dirt beneath his paws. It shone on the blades of grass through which Fredle moved as rapidly as he could, escaping.

He came to the break in the wall what felt like a long time later, although he knew that was only in comparison to how quickly he had made the trip riding behind Rilf’s ear. He did not allow himself to rest at the break but turned immediately onto the rutted road. His shoulders remembered the direction Rilf had taken to get to the stream,
that
way again, but he had no sense of how far he should go before turning off.

As he scrambled along, the rain stopped and Fredle found the going easier. He could plan ahead then: At the stream, if
he could get there, he could forage for ramps and maybe even that dark green watercress Rilf had pointed out. At the stream, if he could find it, he could drink water. And somewhere downstream, Sadie had said, he would be near the garden, and the house.

Near for a dog with her long legs, Fredle reminded himself. He wondered who moved faster, a raccoon or a dog. He knew who covered distances more slowly and with more difficulty—a mouse. But just because you didn’t move fast didn’t mean you wouldn’t arrive. You would just arrive later and later wasn’t such a big deal, especially compared to never.

Fredle hurried along the rough terrain, stopping to sip water out of puddles when he grew too thirsty not to. The day went on. When he judged—how could he know? he could only guess—that he had gone far enough, he turned
that
way for the third time, as Rilf had done, and scrambled up onto the field.

While he knew the direction he wanted, he didn’t know what dangers might be hunting for him in the long grass, or catch sight of him as they flew through the air above. He would be safest among the thickest clumps of grass, he thought, so he made his cautious way from one thick cluster to the next, dashing between them, stopping to catch his breath and listen for danger. Above him, the air still had light, but it was a gray and sunless brightness. He didn’t know how much of the day was left.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to sleep unsheltered, unhidden, unprotected. He also hoped he wouldn’t have to cross too much of the field at night. It was with dread that Fredle saw
light fading around him and knew that he could not even
hear
the stream. Day was ending. Night was coming on. Fredle’s fears grew.

If, he thought anxiously, if he had left the road too soon, he would never come to the stream, but would wander lost in the field until some predator finished him off. Or maybe he had turned off too late, so the stream lay behind him and he would wander lost in the field until some predator finished him off. Either of those misfortunes was possible; Fredle understood that. But the only thing he could do was go on.

Darkness and exhaustion caught up with him. How far across the field he might have gotten, Fredle couldn’t know. He might have been only ten steps from the stream—although he doubted that, since he could neither hear nor smell water. But he had come to a point—and also to a thick tuft of tall grass—where he could go no farther. He curled himself up on the ground at the foot of the stalks to rest, to sleep.

Neither the stars nor a moon could be seen, only low clouds.

Maybe, he thought hopefully, he was difficult to see in whatever shelter the grass was giving him, in the darkness.

Tired as he was, he was not so deeply asleep that rain didn’t wake him when it began falling again, pattering onto the stalks around him. He awoke cold and, of course, wet. He rose unhappily to his feet and drank some of the rainwater that was weighing down the long blades of grass. Then he set off again, going through more darkness. The air was thick with falling rain, and lightless. Fredle could hear nothing except the sound
of rain hitting the ground. The sky overhead was dark, the field all around him more densely dark and filled with moving shapes. The only color was the occasional silver glint of rain, falling.

He didn’t allow himself to wonder what the coming day would bring. He just set off in the direction that felt right to his shoulders. He set off and kept going.

A lightening in the air told him when day began, which was good news. Still, he could see only rain and wet grass. He trudged on and on and then—all unready—he had come to water. He heard a gurgling sound behind the pattering of rain. He smelled a change in the watery odor of the air. He lifted his eyes from the place where he planned to place his front paws for the next step and saw that he stood on the bank of the stream.

In fact, Fredle was so surprised that he almost slid down into the water, what with the wet soil and the slippery grass of the bank; he just managed to save himself.

Standing on the bank, the water rushing by below him, the rain falling down on him from above, Fredle felt like giving a cheer. “Woo-Hah!” he laughed, as wild as any raccoon. He had done it! “Woo-Hah!” He was still wet and cold, he was still hungry and tired, but he had found the stream. Maybe, as the day went on, the rain would stop and there would be sunlight and the sunlight would warm him and dry him. He hoped so. In the meantime, he set about finding one of the ramp plants, and digging it up, and eating it. The ramp tasted so good that he set about digging up another, and then—he didn’t think he’d ever been so hungry in his life—he rooted
around among the stalks of grass at the steep side of the stream for a third.

That was when he lost his footing. He scrabbled at the dirt with his rear paws, with his front paws, desperately seeking
some kind of grip as he started to slip down the bank. He was still struggling when the water closed over his head.

Fredle gasped—it was so cold! When he gasped his mouth filled and he wanted to cough but he couldn’t because his throat was full. There was water all around him. His feet searched, but he was upside down until the current flipped him over and he felt something solid underfoot and without even thinking—he could no more think than swim—he pushed against it, pushed hard, to escape back up into the air, where he would be able to breathe. The water was flowing past him and dragging him along.

His head broke the surface and then he could cough, while the fast-moving stream shoved him back toward the same bank he had fallen from, although a good distance down from the spot where he had lost his footing. Fredle snatched at a narrow root that stuck out from the side and clung to it, until he had the strength to pull himself up onto it. Hanging over it, he coughed until at last he could breathe easily again. He shivered, until he shivered himself warm. Only a pale early-morning light was in the air. He looked up through the rain to see how he could get back up to the field. Here, although the bank was steeper, he thought he
might
be able to scramble up, grasping grasses and roots, as soon as he had his strength back. The bank curved in behind his root, just slightly, as if the moving water had washed away some soil, making a small burrow. That was what had bared the root that saved him. But it was also something that might make it harder for him to get back to the ground because it made an overhang, right above him.

Cautiously, he turned his head and was relieved to see that
the soil behind him held a rock too large to be swept away by the rushing water. If he could turn himself around without falling back into the water, he would have an easy climb out.

He hoisted himself up onto the root. Grateful for his mouse’s good sense of balance and light weight, he rotated—slowly, slowly—careful to grip the moist bark with his nails. By now, the rain was reduced to a fine spray and the air was brightening. Fredle paid no attention to rain or light but concentrated fiercely on the task before him.

Their voices took him entirely by surprise.

Fredle froze.

Then he wondered if he should do what outside mice did and make a dash for it. But that would mean leaping into the water, and he thought his best hope lay in stillness. He didn’t move. He barely breathed.

Rilf said, “I can’t get a whiff of him anymore. Can you?”

“I can’t, Cap’n,” Rad answered. “The boys are none too pleased. You think we should have gone right after him last night?”

“With all that food in our bellies? Besides, how was I to know he wasn’t off in the orchard, stuffing his face,” Rilf’s voice said. “Then the rain. It was bad enough without the rain watering up his scent,” he grumbled.

“You know, Cap’n, if you think about it, we don’t
have
to go back. Not you and me. We could go straight on to the lake. Those two will never find the lake on their own and we’d never have to see them again.”

“My guess is, he fell in. What do you think, could he fall in?”

“Drowned, then?”

“And the body washed up who knows how far downstream. Too far for us to retrieve him. I didn’t think he’d do this to me.”

“In all fairness, Cap’n, we
were
going to eat him. You can’t really blame him.”

Then Rilf laughed, “Woo-Hah. You’ve got the right of it, Rad. I could almost admire that mouse.”

“So, are we going to go back to the burrow?” asked Rad. “I have to say, I could use some sleep. I’m pretty worn out.”

“We might just be going back to trouble,” said Rilf, not unhappily, and Fredle was almost sure that he heard the nasal voice moving away. “A bit of trouble always cheers me up,” Rilf said, his voice now faint.

After that, there was silence. It was not a complete silence, naturally. There was the rush of the stream and, with growing daylight, the voices of birds. Fredle waited on the root, resting. The sun came out and dried him and as he waited it also dried the dirt on the bank in front of him. He continued to wait, and rest.

If you will have only one chance, you want to make it the best it can be.

After a long time, Fredle reached out, cautiously, gently, to grab at the dirt with one front paw while digging the nails of the other into the top of the stone. With his two back paws still on the root, using all the strength in his haunches, he pushed himself off.

He scrabbled and clung, climbed over up onto the rock and stretched his front paws up, up, to the grassy edge of the
bank. Then it was just a scramble up over the top until he could lie panting among the grass and overgrowth of the field. When he had caught his breath, he dug up a ramp, and then another, and ate them both.

By then the sun had thoroughly warmed the air and insects flew busily about. Fredle set off, following the fast-moving water, going downstream. He had no idea what waited for him next. The only idea he had was
home
.

15
Downstream