Ragweed

  There had been a time when Silversides had slept on the girl’s pillow. If she wasn’t sleeping on the pillow, she was on the rug at the foot of the girl’s bed. Now the girl lavished all her affection on the mouse. She fondled him, kissed him, carried him around, gave Blinker the complete freedom of her room. Worst of all, the girl told Silversides that she was no longer welcome there. The rug had been removed to the basement.

  Insulted and humiliated, Silversides hid behind the furnace for days on end. There she brooded and sulked, deeply depressed, preferring the darkness of the cellar and the smelly litter box to any kind of social life, indoors or out.

  Only now and again did Silversides venture forth. When she did, it was to visit her grown-up kittens and grand-kittens. It was just such a visit that brought about a second crisis, one that changed the course of Silversides’s life.

  Jasper was a particular favorite grand-kitten of Silversides’s. He was an affectionate coal-black creature with blue eyes and a splash of white upon his chest.

  One day Silversides came to visit Jasper only to discover him playing on the front lawn with a . . . mouse. Silversides’s first reaction was astonishment. The next moment she was filled with rage.

  Leaping forward, she gave the mouse a few hard smacks, which sent him reeling away. Then she cuffed her grand-kitten smartly across the nose.

  “How dare you!” she howled.

  Jasper, frightened as well as upset by Silversides’s actions, hardly knew what to say. “That was my best friend,” he mewed piteously.

  “Friend!” Silversides screeched. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Aren’t there any decent cats in this neighborhood for you to play with? Don’t you know that the lowliest cat is vastly superior to the highest mouse? Where’s your mother? I intend to give her a piece of my paw!”

  A cowering Jasper said, “My mother went out.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Business.”

  “Business!” Silversides screeched. “A mother’s business is to stay home and make sure her children have proper friends! I cannot believe how far this town has fallen!”

  With that she stalked away, tail erect, but not before she had given her grand-kitten a spank on his bottom.

  This incident changed Silversides’s life. Her anger was so great she made up her mind to do something about the Amperville mouse problem.

  That night she began to prowl the streets of the city in search of mice. It was not the act of a hungry cat seeking food. It was vengeance.

  Sure enough, Silversides came upon two mice. The first was sent running for its life. The second did not run fast enough and met a grisly end. Silversides deposited the corpse outside the girl’s door. It was meant to be a declaration of war.

  Silversides quickly realized she could not solve the city’s mouse problem all on her own. She created an organization. The organization was dedicated to keeping cats on top, people in the middle, mice on the bottom. Silversides called her group Felines Enraged About Rodents, or “F.E.A.R.” She even created a slogan for F.E.A.R.: “Felines First.”

  Though Silversides invited other cats to join F.E.A.R., most could not be bothered. They would shrug or say things like “I don’t need to join a club to catch mice. I do just fine on my own.” Or “I like having more mice around. There’s that many more to chase.” And even “Rude, food, they taste the same.”

  In the end, from the entire cat population of Amperville, Silversides was able to recruit only one other cat for her organization. The two formed the membership of Felines Enraged About Rodents. Silversides was president. Her vice president was a cat by the name of Graybar.

  Graybar was a street cat. Scruffy gray in color, he was lean and covered with scars to prove his meanness. He had a jagged ear and a limp, the result of a battle about which he was particularly proud. It had been three against one, and he had been the one. And he had been the winner. He bore his injuries as proof of his toughness.

  “Do you want to know what I think of mice?” Graybar asked Silversides when she first talked to him about joining F.E.A.R.

  “Yes.”

  “The only good mouse is a dead mouse.”

  “You’re my kind of cat,” Silversides said.

  Silversides had learned that country mice often came to town by train. These trains stopped near Mouse Town and mice got off. One of the first things Silversides and Graybar did was organize a patrol around the old railway depot. Mice new to town, timid and often scared, were easy prey for the organization.

  When Silversides or Graybar caught such a mouse, they terrified it, warned it never to return, then threw it back onto the train. These were the lucky ones.

  CHAPTER 4

  To the City

  ALL THAT NIGHT the freight train carrying Ragweed rumbled on. He was too excited to sleep. Instead, he remained by the open door and watched the passing scene. And pass it did. One rapid vision after another flashed before his eager eyes. No sooner did he see something of great interest—barely grasping what it was—than it vanished, to be replaced by something just as new, just as fascinating. The one constant was the moon, which remained in the night sky like an old friend.

  At first there were many trees, but there were fewer as the train rushed on. There were also structures, large and dark, which fit the description the old vole had provided for human nests. Now and again they contained gleaming lights. Once the mouse thought he saw the silhouetted form of a human pacing before what looked like a window. It went by so quickly, however, that it was impossible to be sure.

  Sometimes there were clusters of these human nests. Ragweed—again recalling the vole’s words—decided these clusters were towns.

  It made him wonder where the train was heading. Not that there was any question about getting off while it was moving. That would have been foolish. But when the train stopped, should he jump off right away or wait for some other place?

  Laughing at himself, Ragweed acknowledged the wonderful fact that it did not matter where he got off: Everything he saw and did would be new. It was just the life he desired. So he sat and watched and thirsted for more.

  The train, clacking rhythmically over the rails, rushed on through the night. Now and again its whistle blew. Long, low, and melodic it was, the most powerful sound that Ragweed had ever heard. He decided it was the train’s song: the song of a wanderer, a song about a heroic search for adventures far from home. Humming along, he made it his own.

  It was not until dawn that the train began to slow down. Ragweed had fallen asleep at last, but the moment the train reduced its speed he woke, alert and watching intently.

  There were many human nests to see now. All in neat rows they were, with prim grassy areas before them, as well as an occasional tree. How orderly, Ragweed thought with puzzlement. He decided he must be coming to a city. Sure enough, within moments he spied a large sign. It read:

  WELCOME TO AMPERVILLE!

  A CLEAN, DECENT PLACE TO LIVE AND WORK

  For the first time he saw humans clearly. He was shocked by their size, by how little fur they had, how each one was covered by a different mix of colors. He also spotted what looked like little trains. They were boxlike metallic things, brightly colored, each with a human inside and two bright lights in front. There were many of them and they moved very fast.

  Heart beating fast with anticipation, Ragweed edged closer to the doorway, stuck his nose over the threshold, and peered down. It was a long way. Nonetheless he prepared himself to leap.

  But the train did not stop. It continued to roll with just enough speed to make a premature departure dangerous.

  Other human nests passed by. Soon, however, they grew fewer in number. And those that Ragweed saw seemed run-down, wrecked. Here and there, he saw more of those metallic boxes. They were not moving. Instead, they appeared to have been discarded, torn apart. One or two were even upside down, with wheels to the sky like a dead creature, their bright colors turned to a uniform dark brown. r />
  The train slowed to a crawl. A series of bumps and thumps followed until it came to a complete halt. The whistle sounded a long, low, mournful shriek, as if to say goodbye.

  Not far from the train Ragweed spied a number of dilapidated human nests. They looked abandoned. Among scrawny bushes there were more of those broken, twisted metallic boxes.

  Closer by was a heap of objects containing food bits, bottles, cans, boxes, paper—the sorts of things that sometimes mysteriously found their way to the Brook—plus lots of other things Ragweed could not identify. Nearby was another pile, this one made of what looked like chunks of white clay. The whole scene appeared grim and lifeless.

  Then he glanced down at the ground right beneath him. Sitting amid the gravel, long fluffy tail waving menacingly, was a large, furry white beast.

  In all his life Ragweed had never actually seen a cat. Like all mice, however, he knew a great deal about them by way of countless scary stories. So it was that Ragweed needed only to see Silversides to know that here was a cat, and she was his enemy.

  Sure enough, the cat called out in a shrill, angry voice, “If I were you, mouse, I’d keep going. Amperville doesn’t like strangers. Certainly not strangers who are mice. This is a clean, decent place.” To make her point, she opened her mouth wide, revealing a pink tongue, a deep dark gullet, and many sharp white teeth.

  Ragweed was too horrified to say or do anything.

  Not so the cat. She hissed, then spat, spewing upon Ragweed. The next moment, though she had been sitting, she leaped into the boxcar. She would have landed right on Ragweed if the frightened mouse had not lost his footing and tumbled.

  Landing on the gravel by the side of the train tracks, a frantic Ragweed twisted around and looked up. The white cat glared angrily down at him from the boxcar. “If you’re looking for a fight, mouse, you’ve come to the right town!” she said. Tensing her muscles, she prepared to jump again.

  Ragweed did not wait. He bolted up and began to run as fast as he could. A thud sounded behind. Without looking, he knew the cat was after him. “Outsider!” Silversides screeched. “Stranger!”

  Searching desperately for a place of safety, Ragweed dashed on. He stole a glance over his shoulder. The cat was loping along behind him, a horrid grin upon her face. She was enjoying the chase. “Get out of town, mouse!” she screeched. “Felines First! F.E.A.R. rules! Leave on your own before you’re dragged out by your tail!”

  Desperate, Ragweed dove into the jumble of junk he’d observed from the boxcar and crawled into a can, only to find himself knee-deep in gooey red sauce. Almost faint from the fumes, he shot out of the can and became momentarily entangled in a twist of wires. Pulling free, he paused to listen. The cat was right behind him.

  From the wires Ragweed squeezed under moldy pages full of words, worked his way around some collapsed boxes—the words “Corn Flakes” were on one of them—then crawled over old pickles and reeking tubs of decaying food. That brought him to the other side of the pile.

  He looked out. Fifteen yards in front of him were some run-down human nests. But before them sat one of those large metallic boxes, of a rusty brown color. Not only did the box appear to be broken, but its wheels were hard to see, sunk deep into the earth. On the side of the one nearest Ragweed was a small hole at ground level. He was sure that if he could get through that hole, he would be safe from the cat.

  Crouching, he listened intently for some hint as to the cat’s location. What he heard was more pushing and pulling suggesting the cat was still behind him, but getting closer. Ragweed was sure he had no choice. To stay meant certain death. He had to bolt. “Farewell, Mom,” he whispered. “Farewell, Dad!”

  With that he galloped out from beneath the pile. Almost instantly there was a hideous yowl behind him. Without looking Ragweed knew the cat was on his tail. This time she was not holding back.

  The mouse ran as he’d never run in his life, great bounding, stiff-tailed leaps that took him closer and closer to the metal box. But when he reached it he discovered to his horror that the hole was blocked from the inside by a piece of wood.

  Desperate, he clawed at the wood. It did not budge. He looked back. The cat was crouching, barely a yard away, belly low to the ground, yellow eyes fixed on him like daggers. Sequins flashing, claws flexed, tail waving, rump wiggling, the cat was preparing her deadly pounce.

  CHAPTER 5

  Clutch

  RAGWEED PRESSED AGAINST the blocked hole—only to have it suddenly open. A paw reached out, grabbed Ragweed’s shoulder, and pulled him forcibly inside. Then, just as Silversides was completing her pounce, the piece of wood—for that was what had been blocking the hole—slammed in her face.

  Stunned, a panting Ragweed lay upon a not very clean rug. It took a moment before he could focus. A female mouse was looking down at him.

  She was tall and thin as a stick, though her leanness suggested toughness, nothing brittle. Her fur was gray-brown in color, except for the top of her head, which had been dyed green. Her nose was blunt, her whiskers poorly groomed. From her left ear dangled a purple plastic bead at the end of a tiny chain.

  “Hey, dude, what’s up?” she said.

  Ragweed blinked. “What?”

  “Like, Silversides almost snuff you, mouse?”

  “Silversides?”

  “Hey, mouse, you saying you didn’t see that sucker coming down on you?”

  “You mean . . . that cat?”

  The mouse laughed. “Like, she wasn’t a bus, was she?”

  Not understanding what was being said to him, Ragweed looked around the space into which he had been pulled. It had a lofty ceiling with windows all around the top. At one end there was a wheel attached to a bar that stuck out from a wall. Other stick-like things rose up from the floor.

  “What is this . . . place?” Ragweed asked.

  “It’s a Ford Mustang,” the mouse replied. “Sixty-six. Hardtop. Like, tight, right?”

  “Oh,” Ragweed said, not particularly enlightened.

  The car was astonishingly messy. Off to one side was an unkempt mound of shredded cloth—a bed, Ragweed guessed. Crumbs lay scattered everywhere. Pieces of paper littered the area. A strip of wood with four wheels—Ragweed had no idea what that was—had been tossed into a corner. A wooden spoon on which several strings had been stretched from the narrow end to the wide end was affixed to a wall.

  “You got a name, dude?” the mouse asked.

  “Ragweed.”

  “That’s cool,” the mouse said. “What’s it mean?”

  “Mean? Well, I suppose it’s a plant. But I never think of it that way.”

  “Awesome,” the city mouse said and held out a paw.

  Ragweed offered his, but instead of shaking it, the house mouse slapped it. “Gotcha!” she said.

  “May I ask your name?” Ragweed inquired politely.

  “Clutch.”

  “Clutch?”

  “Clutch, dude, like in a car.”

  “And . . . and a . . . car?” Ragweed inquired.

  Clutch laughed. “What you’re sitting in, dude. Big metal things, on wheels. With motors, stink, and noise. They haul people around.”

  “Oh, yes. And . . . thanks for saving me.”

  “Hey, no problem. See, that Silversides is an uptown cat. She and her pal, Graybar, hang around, you know, sort of like guards. Like, they go for any little meat on the feet with a different beat. Know what I’m saying? Bad to the bone.”

  Ragweed shuddered. “I guess.”

  “I mean, she heads up an organization called Felines Enraged About Rodents. F.E.A.R. Trying to keep the town clean and pure. Like, they don’t want any riffraff—that’s us mice—coming in. And what’s already here, see, has to be right, decent, and respectful. That is, right, decent, and respectful according to them. Know what I’m saying?”

  “What’s a rodent?” Ragweed asked.

  “Like, a fancy name for mouse,” Clutch said. “Hey, mouse, exactly how new are yo
u around here?”

  “I . . . just got off the train.”

  “From the country?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Hey, I see it all the time. The train pulls in. Dudes getting off to take a peek. Know what I’m saying? Trying to get a life, right? Wanting to check things out. But, like, you’re all so green the grass is envious.”

  “Oh,” Ragweed said.

  “Anyway, welcome to where it’s at, mouse. You want action, you’ve planted right. Like, I’m saying, dude, this place—Mouse Town—ain’t pretty, but, hey, it’s cool. This town hops. This town does tricks. You do it right, it’s totally rave. Awesome. Check it out.”

  Ragweed blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Like, this is phat city,” Clutch went on. “It’s down. Sweet. Tight. Out of town, downtown. The hot spot. It rules. You cool enough to hang with me, dude?”

  “Actually, I’m quite warm,” replied an utterly bewildered Ragweed. “I had to run very fast to get away from that cat.”

  Clutch laughed. “Hey, mouse, you are seriously alien. Look, when I say cool, I mean, you know, like, it’s good. Get it. Phat?”

  “Fat?”

  “That means cool, dude. Sweet.”

  “Oh, okay! Yes, thank you. I hope I am fat . . . sort of,” Ragweed stammered. “Do you live here?”

  “Yo, dude, this is my pad. I can think of other cars I’d like better, but being on my own is my thing. Took what I could get. The freedom is worth it, mouse! Like, so sweet. My buds come, go. A few parties to lighten the load now and then, know what I’m saying? Mostly, though, just me, dude. I rip for liberty. Like, dude, I do what I do when I feel like doing it.”

  “And . . . and what exactly do you . . . do?” Ragweed asked.

  “Hey, dude, I see it this way: Nothing happens in the world without noise. Know what I’m saying? So I’m a musician. Make the sound. Tickle the strings. Like, that’s my axe over there, see?” Clutch nodded to the wooden spoon with threads on it that hung on the wall.