Young Fredle - Louise Yates [6]
He groaned a little, and that helped him squeeze his swollen stomach through it.
Back behind the wall, before they began their steep descent, Axle asked, “What do you say we don’t tell anyone about it?”
“Why not? There’s a lot left. What about Kidle?”
“If anyone knew we’d come up here … If anyone knew we were the kind of mice who’d smell something and not be afraid to track it down … Think, Fredle. It’s bad enough with my ear looking weird. Besides, it’s ours. That is, it’s ours if whoever put it there doesn’t take it away before we come back.” She stopped moving, turned around and said to him, “I mean it, Fredle. Promise you won’t tell.”
“All right,” Fredle agreed, but he wasn’t happy about it. It was such splendiferous food, his sisters and brothers would be impressed with him for knowing about it. Mother, on the other hand, wouldn’t want to risk going so far from home, and up the walls, too, and Father would be suspicious because it was something he’d never had before. Grandfather, however, might just be interested; you could never tell about Grandfather.
Fredle and Axle both felt heavy, stuffed full. “Ouff,” Fredle heard himself saying as he followed his cousin. He wasn’t used to being so slow, or so clumsy. Axle didn’t say anything, but he noticed that she was taking a lot of rests and that her tail dragged as if she didn’t have the energy to hold it up in the air. He knew just how she felt. His own tail was dragging.
“Does your head feel heavy?” he asked.
Axle just trudged silently on.
“I mean, mine feels like it’s hard to look around, and hard to see and hear. Hard to think.”
“Don’t talk,” Axle said. “Let’s just—get home.”
Eventually, they did, and although they were late, they still arrived well before the darkness had faded to light. Axle’s was the first nest they came to. There was no sound from beyond the rim except a rumbly snoring. “I don’t think I can make it over,” Axle whispered to Fredle.
“Of course you can,” he whispered back. “You have to, because I don’t think I can help push.”
“Maybe I’ll just sleep here, on the boards,” she whispered, lying down with a sigh. “Tired.” Fredle went along to his own nest and found his mother awake and worrying, with Father beside her. “Where have you been?” Father demanded as Fredle struggled to pull his body up and over the rim.
“You’re home safe!” his mother cried, but softly, so as not to wake the others.
“Not for long if he goes on like this,” Father predicted. “Now can I get some sleep, please?”
“I was so worried,” Mother murmured to Fredle before following Father.
Fredle lay draped over the rim of the nest. He didn’t have the energy to apologize or to move, to find his brothers and sisters where they would be piled up warm together, to snuggle up close behind Kidle. He could only stay where he was, with his head propped on the rim, because for some reason, that morning, this was a comfortable position. He felt as if his stomach was fighting with itself.
When Fredle did sleep, it was only the lightest of naps. He dozed and woke up, dozed and woke up, again and again. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable, no matter what position he tried, not on his left side, not on his right side, not curled up, not stretched out on his back, not lying on his swollen stomach. He felt bad, maybe sick. But he didn’t want to feel bad. It was dangerous to feel bad and especially dangerous to feel sick-bad, so he told himself he was fine.
It was his stomach, no question. What could make his stomach feel so hot, so unhappy? What he had eaten could do that. He knew it perfectly well, but he didn’t want to believe that, either. It’ll be better by nightfall, he told himself. I’ll feel back to normal when I wake up. That is what he promised himself, half-awake.
If he hadn’t been half-awake, or more accurately, if he hadn’t been only half-asleep, he wouldn’t have heard his name being spoken so softly even his sharp mouse’s ears could barely catch it. “Fredle? Fredle?”
He raised his head.
“I can see you. Can you hear me?” It was Axle.
“I don’t feel good,