Young Fredle - Louise Yates [24]
Instead of quarreling, Fredle asked about the brightnesses in the sky. Bardo told him that the humans called the tiny ones stars. “I heard Mister, it was a winter night and he said it to Missus, Look at those stars. Then she called one of the big ones—”
“I’ve seen those, too,” Fredle said. Stars, he repeated silently to himself, for the pleasure of saying the word. Stars. Just saying it made him remember, as if he could see them now, those white twinkling things.
Bardo ignored him. “—moon, she called it a moon. Moons don’t look at all the same as stars and no mouse knows exactly how many of them there are. And the biggest one? It’s almost as bright as the sun.”
“I know,” Fredle said.
“And don’t dawdle on the road,” Bardo told him as they scrambled across the rough dirt strip.
Road, Fredle repeated to himself.
“One of those machines can run right over you on the road,” Bardo warned him. “Squoosh you flat. Went you before you know it.”
At the compost, Fredle chewed some green, leafy food (celery, or lettuce, maybe chard—Bardo admitted that he didn’t know for sure, and that Fredle did believe) while continuing to ask questions about the names of things. Only once did Bardo mention chickens (“You never get chicken or any meat or bones in the compost”), but he was happy to talk about the snakes in the woodshed (“Black, they’re black and real long”). Bardo reminded Fredle that the snakes were dangerous. “You don’t want to get anywhere close to those snakes, or that woodshed. They’re worse than any owl or raccoon.”
Owls, Fredle knew by then, were birds that hunted by night, swooping down out of the sky to seize mice in their sharp talons and fly off with them. Raccoons, however, sounded more like dogs to him, and he knew that dogs didn’t hunt mice. “What’s so bad about raccoons?” he asked.
Bardo was glad to tell him. “There’s nothing worse than a raccoon, and they run in packs, a lot of them at once. They’re a natural enemy, every mouse knows that. They get into everything, hunt by night, take whatever they want out of the garden—there’s nothing good about a raccoon. Dirty, quarrelsome, untrustworthy. Mice steer clear of them. There’s nothing they won’t eat. Chickens, mice, lettuce—rats, too, for all I know. The barn cats don’t dare bother them. I have heard that the dogs can chase them off, but I’ve never seen it, myself.”
“I don’t see what’s so bad about all that,” Fredle insisted.
“What does a house mouse know except how to lie around and get fat? That’s why you have a go-between,” Bardo reminded him.
“Hunh,” Fredle answered, and they parted company at the garden gate.
“I’ll watch you safe back to the garbage cans,” Bardo offered, as if he cared about the house mouse’s safety.
Fredle thanked him, but he knew better; he could see the chicken pen and what must be the woodshed beyond. However, since he didn’t want Bardo to know how much he knew, Fredle scurried off across the grass.
When he entered the dim light of his own territory, he knew immediately that something wasn’t right. He wondered: Who? What? Was he in danger? Pretending to have sensed nothing odd, he listened to the faint, eager breathing and located his visitor, over in a corner where the lattice wall met the steps. Fredle positioned himself with his back to the hard, solid rear wall. He was pretty sure it was another mouse. What would another mouse want with him? Was he in danger?
Fredle had never fought. Mice didn’t fight. Of course, he had wrestled around with his brothers and sisters the way mouselets always do, but that wasn’t real. But if this was some stranger up to no good, Fredle was ready for a fight.
He jumped up, without warning, leapt from his position by the wall to land on all four feet facing the visitor. Then he walked slowly—threateningly—toward the other mouse.
It said, “How did you know I was here?” and wasn’t a bit afraid.
He thought he recognized the voice and decided to surprise her. “Hello, Neldo.”
“How do you—Bardo told you about me, didn’t he? What did he tell you about me?