Ragweed

  Silversides was about to leap down and grab them when at the last moment she held herself back. Her instincts told her that there was more here than mere stink. She decided to watch the mice and see what happened.

  The two mice came to a stop in front of one of the deserted stores. Its name was painted on the window in once-bright letters:

  THE LAST INDEPENDENT BOOKSTORE

  Silversides heard the two mice squeaking to each other, but all she could make out was the phrase, “She said to leave our instruments home for now.” The next moment they popped into a hole and vanished from sight.

  For a moment Silversides regretted not having acted. Perhaps these were the only mice involved. “No,” she murmured, “have faith in yourself, cat. You smelled something more. Be patient.”

  When two more mice appeared, Silversides had the satisfaction of knowing that she had made the right decision. These two new ones were hurrying along the base of a dark wall. One, a rather fat mouse, was chattering with great excitement, so loudly Silversides caught some of the words: “. . . a whole new trend . . . a turning point . . . a revolution . . .”

  The two mice paused before the bookstore door, then disappeared into the same hole the others had taken.

  “My, my,” Silversides murmured to herself. “Something is happening here, something big.” She stretched her legs with anticipatory pleasure.

  As she waited and watched, more and more mice appeared and made their way into the store. They came by ones, twos, and threes. Silversides watched them all with growing excitement.

  Then for a long time, no more mice appeared.

  Silversides was content. “If they go in, they’ll come out,” she told herself.

  Folding her front paws beneath her chest, she settled in for the wait.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Great Cleanup

  IT WAS TWO O’CLOCK in the morning when Lugnut and Dipstick arrived at the bookstore.

  “Hey, dude,” Lugnut said to Ragweed, “we’re here to be near!”

  “Cool!” Ragweed said by way of welcome.

  “Who’s the pale one?” Dipstick whispered into Ragweed’s ear.

  “His name is Blinker. A friend of mine and . . . Clutch’s.” He made formal introductions.

  Blinker held back shyly, preferring to look on.

  Ragweed asked the two musicians to start clearing the main floor of bits and scraps. They set to with gusto, dragging and hauling.

  Windshield and Foglight were the next to arrive. Right away Windshield took Ragweed aside and told him how important it was that this new club was being created. As he went on, Ragweed tried to be patient. “Mr. Windshield,” he finally interrupted, “like, I have to work.”

  “Of course!” Windshield exclaimed. “Work lies at the very heart of the mouse experience. It makes mice noble, even as it creates a common bond with all other mice.”

  “Like, what we need,” Ragweed explained, “is some kind of mural on that wall. Know what I’m saying? Should be really sweet. Think you could do it?”

  Windshield’s eyes seemed to glow with fire. “What about something that expresses the total mouse experience from the dawn of existence to the present day?”

  “Whatever,” Ragweed agreed.

  “Then I’m the mouse for you,” Windshield proclaimed. “What’s more, you, sir, may be the first to know, I intend to make it my masterpiece!”

  Over the next few hours almost a hundred mice arrived. Virtually all slipped in silently through the front door, found their way to Ragweed, and murmured, “Like, Clutch sent me, dude. I want to, you know, help.”

  Ragweed set them all to different tasks.

  It was not long before the entire store was teeming with busy mice.

  As for Windshield, he was staring at a blank wall, painting away—at least in his mind. Foglight was off alone in another corner looking grim—carefully revising her poem.

  Blinker, meanwhile, found the courage to take on the task of dragging away pages of books that lay scattered about. Though he meant to work hard, he more often than not paused and glanced about at the activity swirling about him. It was exciting. These were remarkable mice. Ragweed was very brave and strong. As for Clutch, she was truly fascinating, quite the most fascinating mouse of all.

  Yet Blinker reluctantly found himself wishing he were back in his own room. “They don’t mean to be rude, but they keep stealing glances at me,” he kept telling himself. “It’s because I’m different. An oddity. Not that there’s anything I can do about it. I can’t change my ways or my looks. I should be in my home, in my room, in my cage. I don’t belong here.” Still he stayed and tried to work.

  The sheer dirtiness of the floor proved to be the most pressing problem. No matter how many mice scrubbed, it was clear it would take days to make the surface suitable for dancing.

  Blinker approached Ragweed. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Sure, dude.”

  “That hose,” the white mouse said timidly, “in the back hallway. The one used for putting out fires. Perhaps it could be used to wash the filth away.”

  “Way cool! But how?”

  Blinker explained how the valve and hose worked.

  Ragweed immediately saw great value in the idea. Quickly, every mouse in the store was recruited to help with the job. First, as many mice as could fit on the hose did so. With much lifting, pushing, and heaving, the hose—nozzle attached—was uncoiled, lowered to the floor, and dragged to the threshold of the main room. Then all the mice returned to the wheel and gripped it tightly.

  “Heave!” Ragweed called. “Heave!”

  As the mice tugged and pulled, the wheel began to turn. As it turned, a trickle of water began to flow from the nozzle, then a stream. The more the mice turned the wheel, the greater the strength of the gushing water.

  “Hold it! Lower the pressure!” Ragweed cried. “It’s too strong!”

  The valve was adjusted.

  When the proper force was set, the mice leaped down and gathered around the nozzle, grasped it in their paws and aimed it at the filthy floor. The power of the shooting water lifted the dirt and floated it away. By aiming the nozzle now this way, now that, the mice managed to flush the filth down the back steps of the store, into the building’s basement.

  The floor was soon clean. Hours if not days of work had been saved. The mice were so excited they didn’t even bother to rewind the hose. Instead, they crowded around Ragweed and congratulated him on his idea.

  For his part, Ragweed kept meaning to say it was Blinker’s suggestion, but never quite did.

  When Clutch returned to the store she was delighted to find that so many mice had responded to her summons. “Like, I’m stoked, dude,” she informed Ragweed as they exchanged high fours.

  “What should I be doing?” she asked.

  “You, Lugnut, and Dipstick need to make a place to perform.”

  “Cool. What are you up to?”

  Ragweed said, “I think I need to be, like, in charge of making sure those cats can’t come busting in here like they did before.”

  “I hear you,” Clutch agreed. “A ‘Cats Keep Out’ sign ain’t going to do the trick.”

  “You got it.”

  Ragweed was about to go off and survey the store when he noticed Blinker off in a corner alone.

  Still feeling guilty that he had not properly acknowledged the white mouse’s contribution, Ragweed approached him. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing very much.”

  “The whole thing is pretty cool, don’t you think?”

  “Ragweed,” Blinker said timidly, “I need your advice.”

  “About what?”

  “I think . . . I should go.”

  “Go where?” Ragweed replied with surprise.

  “To my human’s nest.”

  Ragweed gazed at Blinker thoughtfully. “I thought, like, you were done with that, dude.”

  “I . . . I don’t think I belong here. It makes me
too anxious. I’m . . . different from everybody else.”

  “Hey,” Ragweed said, “trust me. Everything new feels strange. Even being free probably takes some getting used to. Give it some time, dude.”

  “Perhaps,” Blinker said. “Meeting mice like you and Clutch . . . Clutch is quite wonderful, isn’t she?”

  Ragweed found himself frowning. “Yes, she is.”

  Blinker considered Ragweed thoughtfully. “Ragweed,” he asked, “are you particularly fond of her?”

  “Yo,” Ragweed said, wanting to change the subject, “that was great about the hose. Have any idea about ways to keep the cats out?”

  “You mean, a security system?”

  “That what you call it? Whatever. Like, we need to make this place really off-limits to cats. Last club they just blew apart. Can’t let that happen again.”

  Blinker trembled at the thought of such destruction. “I’m sure you can work something out,” he said. “But, Ragweed, I really, really do want to go home.”

  “Do you know the way?”

  “No,” Blinker admitted.

  “Hey, dude,” Ragweed urged, “you’re going to have to loosen up a bit. Come with me.”

  “Ragweed,” Blinker said in a whisper Ragweed had to strain to hear, “I . . . I don’t want to stand between you and Clutch.”

  Ragweed nodded grimly. “Dude, if I know anything about Clutch, it’s that she’s got a mind of her own. We aren’t going to decide anything. Know what I’m saying? She’ll do what she wants.”

  “But—”

  “Mouse, this club is going to open in a few days,” Ragweed said, feeling some exasperation with Blinker. “Like, I promise, as soon as we check things out you can go on home.”

  “I want to go now,” Blinker begged.

  “But you don’t know the way.”

  “I’ll find it,” Blinker said.

  “Then go,” Ragweed snapped and he went off.

  Blinker watched him, murmuring, “He cares for Clutch, too. I’m only making trouble.” Without saying goodbye, he slipped out of the store.

  CHAPTER 21

  Silversides Learns Some Things

  JUST BEFORE DAWN, Silversides spied a white mouse emerging from the hole in the bookstore door. She could hardly believe her eyes. It was Blinker!

  Unable to restrain herself, she flung herself down from her perch, streaked across the road, and trapped the mouse under her paws before he even realized what was happening.

  Blinker began to cry. Silversides held him with one paw and cuffed him a few times across the ears with the other to make him stop squealing.

  “It’s about time we got together,” she sneered, making sure her teeth were visible. “Now, quickly, what is going on?”

  “Going . . . on?” Blinker stammered.

  Silversides gave the mouse another cuff. “You heard me. There have been a lot of you vermin going into this old store. I want to know why.”

  “Please, I just want to go home,” Blinker whimpered.

  “You’ll be lucky if you go anywhere,” Silversides snapped. “Talk fast or I’ll bite your head off. Once more, what are all you mice doing in there?”

  “It’s . . . it’s an old bookstore,” the thoroughly frightened mouse said.

  “Are you suggesting that you mice are going there to read?” Silversides hissed. “You’re much too stupid. Hurry up! I want the truth!”

  “You’re hurting me,” Blinker squealed.

  “You won’t feel anything unless you answer my questions,” Silversides snarled.

  “It’s Ragweed . . . and Clutch,” the mouse said haltingly. “He’s setting up a new—”

  “Ragweed?” Silversides interrupted. “Who’s Ragweed?”

  “He’s . . . he’s a golden mouse. He arrived in Amperville only recently.”

  Silversides’s eyes gleamed as brightly as her sequined collar. “So that’s his name! Suits him! And I’ll bet anything that this Clutch has green hair. Am I right?”

  “Y-yes,” Blinker replied, even more frightened by what Silversides already knew.

  “Are they friends of yours?”

  “I . . . think so.”

  “Of course they are. You’re a gang. A conspiracy. Go on. What are you plotting?”

  “We’re . . . we’re not plotting. It’s . . . just a new club for the mice,” Blinker managed to say.

  “A new club!” Silversides cried. “How dare they! They should be staying home and taking care of their filthy children.”

  “Silversides,” Blinker pleaded. “Please, I don’t know anything about it.”

  The cat, her paws still holding Blinker down, said, “Look here, Blinker, you want to live, to go home. And I suppose you want those two particular friends of yours to live, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Blinker pleaded, “you mustn’t hurt them. They’re so kind. So nice—”

  Silversides gave Blinker another swat. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect your friends. But first you’re going to get back to this club and find out how I can get inside.”

  “Oh, no,” the mouse cried in horror, “don’t make me do—”

  Silversides struck Blinker anew. “You either act as I say or your two friends will become cat food, do you understand me?”

  “Oh, yes, but I—”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  With her teeth Silversides plucked up the mouse by the scruff of his neck and carried him, dangling, back to the girl’s house, where she dropped him by the still-locked door. “The girl left it open for you, mouse. Not me. Now get inside and make sure she sees you. Do you understand? But I expect you to make your first report about the club tomorrow night. Right here. In the yard. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Blinker murmured.

  Silversides leaned against the cat door. It opened just wide enough for a trembling Blinker to crawl through.

  He went up the stairs of the house and into the girl’s room. Once there, he took a deep breath, feeling a great sense of comfort and security. He was home.

  He had started for the girl’s bed when he fully realized what he had just agreed to do for Silversides. Dread engulfed him. “But at least Clutch and Ragweed won’t be hurt,” he whispered to himself. “The cat promised.”

  Instead of getting on the bed, Blinker went to the window, where he looked out into the world. It was dawn. The tears that fell along his cheeks were almost as big as he.

  Silversides, meanwhile, made her way to Graybar’s sewer home. When she arrived, the vice president of F.E.A.R. was deeply immersed in a meal consisting of the remnants of a double cheeseburger—with soggy pickles—along with a packet of french fries so limp they might have been spaghetti. Ketchup was smeared over a large portion of his face.

  “What’s up?” he asked when Silversides appeared. “Come for a decent meal?”

  “I’ve got something going,” Silversides announced grimly, ignoring Graybar’s words. “Something big.”

  Graybar’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “We can wipe out a lot of mice in one blow.”

  “Whatever you say,” Graybar replied with his usual indifference. “Sure you don’t want some eats?”

  “No. And Graybar,” Silversides said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m the head of F.E.A.R.”

  “What am I supposed to do, salute?” Graybar said with a shrug.

  Silversides returned to the girl’s house, found a makeshift place to sleep among the bushes in the backyard, and nodded off. But before she slept she reviewed her goals:

  Get rid of the three mice.

  End F.E.A.R.

  Leave Amperville.

  Never come back.

  CHAPTER 22

  Blinker Makes a Report

  ONCE THE GIRL SAW that Blinker had returned alive, she sought out Silversides in the backyard and told her she could return home. But when the girl failed to apologize for her false accusation, a proud Silversi
des refused. She preferred to remain outside.

  With the cat out of the house, Blinker was free to roam at will. For most of the next day, however, he remained buried deep beneath the wood chips in his cage, where he slept fitfully or lay moaning in despair. Quite often he wept. Over and over again he wished he had never left the cage, the room, the house. How he wished he had never met Ragweed. Even more did he wish that he had never met Clutch.

  “Oh,” Blinker sighed, “I’ve fallen in love with the most amazing mouse in the whole world, only to be so weak that I’ve put her life in danger. The only way of saving her is by sacrificing the rest of the mice. But if Clutch learns about that, she’ll hate me forever, anyway.”

  On the night after his return, Blinker, as he’d been told to do, crept out of the house and met Silversides.

  “What I need,” the cat said, “is complete information about what kind of security they’re setting up.”

  “I . . . don’t know how to get there,” Blinker whispered in anguish.

  “I’ll escort you,” Silversides assured him.

  After leading Blinker back to the street where the new club was, she said, “Do you want me to come and get you in a couple of hours?”

  “I think I can find my way back now,” Blinker murmured.

  “Remember,” Silversides went on, “if you don’t bring me the information I want, you’ll never see those two friends of yours alive again.”

  Blinker, who had been considering running away, bowed his head in submission, convinced Silversides would do exactly as she threatened.

  “Do they have a name for this place?” Silversides asked.

  “Café . . . Independent.”

  “Café Good Riddance,” the cat sneered. “Now go.”

  Blinker made his way into the old bookstore. The place was very busy. Windshield was attacking one wall with paint. Foglight was still in a corner immersed in writing. Clutch, Lugnut, and Dipstick were hard at work pushing and pulling a volume of an old encyclopedia across the floor with the intent of using it as a performance platform. Other mice were polishing the floor with bits of tissue. Still others were collecting and carrying out the endless trash, dumping it in the back hallway.