Young Fredle - Louise Yates [65]
It was a wonderful, comfortable feeling. It was the feeling he had been longing for ever since he had been shoved down along the wall and pushed out onto the pantry floor. He was home, where Father and Grandfather knew what a mouse had to do, where they had their own nightly routines, where he knew what the dangers were, and where Father’s family had its own territory, its very own section of the board behind the pantry wall, trespassed upon only by the occasional ant or spider. Within the walls, a mouse could move in perfect safety from the kitchen to his nest, or to the cupboard under the sink and the narrow space behind the stove. Fredle felt once again that he was a very lucky mouse. He had had an adventure and he had come safely home.
He found Axle foraging under the table. “Axle!” he cried.
“You?” she gasped. “I never thought—I thought—Fredle? Is that you, really?”
“Woo-Hah,” he laughed. “Yes, it is.”
“Quiet!” she warned him.
Fredle lowered his voice. “Am I glad to see you. How did you—”
“You know the rule, Fredle. Forage comes first. I’ll try to come to your nest, later, after. Talking now is too risky.”
Axle was as bossy as ever, but Fredle didn’t mind. He was so glad to see her strong, gray body and round, dark eyes, and the familiar curve of her half-ear that—now that he had seen them, he knew—resembled one of the moons he had glimpsed in the night sky.
He couldn’t wait to tell Axle about the moons and the stars, the compost and the raccoons—especially the raccoons. Axle would enjoy those raccoons. He would be able to admit to her that it was his sweet tooth that got him into that particular bit of trouble, too. She’d like that, and she’d understand the temptation.
Fredle’s foraging didn’t go particularly well. He found only one kibbles; it was enough to fill his stomach, but its dry tastelessness only made him think about the sweetness of onions and apples, the crisp freshness of ramps and bitter chewiness of orange peel, all the good things he’d learned to eat. After a trip into the kitchen sink cupboard for water, he was ready to return to the nest.
The others, however, weren’t. “Don’t rush us,” Father said crossly. “The mouselets aren’t experienced foragers like you, Fredle. I don’t know what kind of bad habits you’ve picked up wherever you’ve been, but you can start getting rid of them right now.”
Father grumbled on. “And two of those mouselets can never find themselves enough to eat. Of course they’re failing to flourish, what does your mother expect to happen? What does she think I can do about it?”
“Um-hmm,” answered Fredle. This was a downside to having been away for so long: you had to catch up on all the bad things that had happened while you weren’t there.
Or maybe, he thought, it was a downside to coming back?
And then he wondered: Was Father sorry that he had come back?
The foraging continued and Fredle waited by the pantry door, alert for Patches. He heard Mother’s voice telling the mouselets, “Hurry up, it’s dangerous. You can’t still be hungry, Ardle. Stay close, Doddle. Remember the cat, everyone—Idle, NO!”
He heard other whispered comments: “Hungry season coming, mark my words.” “Used to be, there were more crumbs under the table.” “Was that the cat?” “Used to be, there were always kibbles.”
Grandfather came to stand near Fredle, within easy reach of the hole through the pantry door. “You’ve come back to hard times, young Fredle.”
“You know, Grandfather? Down in the cellar there’s—” Fredle began, but he was interrupted.
“I’m glad I’ll soon be went. It won’t be too long now.”
Fredle wanted to deny this, but it was true. Grandfather was old. Hoping to cheer the old mouse up, he started to tell Grandfather what had happened to him, even though Grandfather hadn’t asked. “I was outside, Missus carried me outside. At night, outside, it’s dark, not dim like inside. Outside, it’s a bright darkness and sometimes there’s a moon. Grandfather? Or maybe it’s a lot of moons,