Young Fredle - Louise Yates [49]
Water big enough to have a road on it? A road the color of moonlight? Fredle wondered what that might look like, and he almost asked. But Rilf was still talking, and besides, Fredle realized, if he was lucky he’d never find out.
“The mouse has to see that before we eat him,” Rilf went on. “And he has to eat fish, too. That’s what I say.” He looked around at the Rowdy Boys. “Anybody want to argue?”
Fredle did, but he kept quiet, thinking about how he might escape, and when. He was going to have to try it soon, probably right away. That much he had understood clearly from Rilf’s story. That part of the story he completely believed.
He also understood, from having lived among the raccoons, that one chance was all he would get. If they knew he was thinking of escaping, and depriving them of their long-anticipated treat, they’d finish him off immediately and even Rilf would agree that that was the best thing to do. In fact, it was probably only thanks to Rilf that Fredle hadn’t went that first night, and he knew, as surely as he knew himself to be perfectly edible, that he couldn’t count on Rilf’s interest for much longer. Fredle was a diversion for the Rowdy Boys; he gave them something new to quarrel about, which made Rilf’s job easier. But that wasn’t going to last much longer. Fredle understood that, too.
“When are we leaving, Cap’n?” they asked, and Rilf answered, “Soon. Very soon. Trust me.”
“We do, Cap’n,” they answered. “Never doubt it.”
“I’m wondering how many of the coonlets survived the winter,” Rilf said. “Two of them looked too weak, but you never know; maybe they didn’t have to give them to the foxes after all.”
“Not likely,” Rad remarked. “There’s always a couple of coonlets that have to go.”
“Lucky for me I wasn’t one of those,” said Rimble. “Neither were none of us and especially not old fatso here. He was never too scrawny and weak to spend good food on.”
“Woo-Hah,” they laughed, and Rec laughed with them. “Anybody else hungry?”
14
Escape
After the raccoons went off to raid the chicken pen and the barn, Fredle made his decision: he would head out the next morning. For a solitary mouse, traveling in the wild, outside, day might be a safer time than night—or so he hoped. Also, whereas the raccoons might return at any time during the night, depending on how their foraging went, they could be counted on to sleep most of the day.
So he knew when he was going. He also knew where. He would go that way along the stone wall until he came to the break, and then he would turn toward the brightening sky and go along the dirt road until he came to the field, and then he would turn into the field—also that way. His shoulders remembered the direction. Crossing the field to get to the stream would be the most dangerous part of the journey, he guessed. It was easy for Rilf, with his long legs and loping stride, but not for Fredle, who was a short-legged scurrier. Fredle would just have to keep on going until he came to the stream.
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