Young Fredle - Louise Yates [56]
He made his way down around one of the onions, and another, and another, until he could feel them piled high above him, heavy. He didn’t like to think about that, so he stopped himself from thinking about anything and squeezed himself down again, always staying close to the side of the whatever-it-was.
From below, a voice asked, “Mouse or foe?”
“Mouse,” Fredle answered without thinking, and then he realized that that was just the way a cat, or a snake, might try to trick you.
“I don’t know,” said the voice, sounding now a little closer, and definitely mouselike. “You don’t smell like mouse. You smell like onion.”
“I’m no onion,” Fredle said, and then he laughed. “Woo-Hah. What do you expect to smell, in all these onions? Apples?” But while he was laughing, he tried to position himself so that at least his front paws were free and his mouth was not blocked, so that if need be he could do some serious scratching and biting.
“Apples are in another basket,” said the voice, which hadn’t moved either closer or farther away. “Exit’s down this way. Follow my voice.”
What else could Fredle do? He crept toward the voice. It was very dark in among the onions—in the basket, he repeated to himself—and the spaces were tight, even for a mouse. He dug his claws in deeply at every change in position, and the sweet, rich, sharp smell of onion rose around him. Pretty soon he decided that, whatever lay ahead, he would be better able to meet it on a full stomach, so he scraped away the thin outer skin of an onion and began to take bites out of the smooth, soft whiteness. It was juicy and sweet, delicious.
“What are you doing?” asked the voice. “I don’t hear you moving, are you all right?”
Fredle swallowed. “Eating,” he called back.
“Don’t bother. There’s always plenty to eat and we were in the middle of a game of Cat. Which you’ve interrupted.”
“Oh,” said Fredle. “Sorry.” The humor of his apology struck him. “Woo-Hah.”
“And stop with the weird noises. You’re scaring the mouselets,” said the voice.
Fredle could hear how close he was to the other mouse now, and how close to being free. He tasted a change in the air. The air he was breathing now tasted a little damp, not like outside, more like the air behind the refrigerator or the air around the back of the stove. He squeezed forward and found his nose at an opening. After the oniony darkness, the dim light ahead seemed almost bright. He stuck his head and shoulders through the opening and saw, standing right before him, a fat gray mouse.
“Come on out and introduce yourself. All clear, mouselets,” the mouse called, turning away from Fredle. “It’s a house mouse, just like us.”
Fredle hesitated.
“Not far now,” the mouse said. “This is the last leg. Are you up to it?” he asked Fredle. Then he called down again, “Back to your nests, all of you. That’s all the games for tonight. Tell your mothers we’ve got company.”
There was a muffled chattering and scurrying from below. Fredle didn’t move.
The mouse said, “This is a wooden shelf. You can see I’m standing on it. It’s perfectly safe.”
So Fredle crawled all the way out.
This mouse, despite his size, didn’t look strong. He looked well fed, not fierce. He sat back on his round haunches, giving Fredle time to have a good stare and having a good stare right back at Fredle.
What that mouse didn’t look was at all nervous. How could a mouse out on a shelf not be nervous?
“I’m Tarnu,” said the mouse, and cocked his ears forward.
“Fredle.”
“You need to catch your breath? Rest up? Crawl back in for a little more food?” Tarnu asked. “We’ve got time. Or would you rather have some carrot? Potato? Apple? That’s what we eat here, onion, potato, carrot, apple. Nothing fancy, but there’s always a lot in the baskets.”
Fredle tried to see where he was. There was a foundation wall on one side and open space on the other, with, ahead, another round container just