Young Fredle - Louise Yates [50]
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.