Young Fredle - Louise Yates [52]
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
Fredle did not rush the journey. He knew better than to exhaust himself by trying to race over rough ground. As he traveled along the bank of the stream, stopping to eat ramps when he was hungry,