Young Fredle

  “For safety,” Grandfather explained. “Without safety, a mouse doesn’t have anything. He might as well just run out into the kitchen and went right away and get it over with, because he’s bound to went very soon anyway, without safety. Keep safe is the number one rule. Your cousin seems to think that rules don’t apply to her.”

  “Do all the rules apply to all the mice all the time?” Fredle wondered. After all, Axle had gotten better, despite the terrible wound to her ear. They hadn’t had to push her out.

  “You’ll see, I promise you, you’ll see. When Axle has a nest of her own and a family of her own, she’ll stop all this running about, taking foolish risks, worrying everybody. She’ll settle down. So will you, young Fredle, and when that time comes—for which, I can tell you, we will all be very grateful—you two can still go out foraging together, just like you do now, and when you’re waiting with your own families by this very same hole for it to be safe to go out into the kitchen, you’ll tell stories about all the wild and foolish things Axle did when she was too young to know better. Believe me, young Fredle,” Grandfather promised, “both of you will grow up and know better.”

  And that is probably just what would have happened, had it not been for the Peppermint Pattie.

  2

  The Peppermint Pattie

  It was Fredle who smelled it but it was Axle who led the way up to the highest pantry shelf. They had just emerged onto the pantry floor when Fredle lifted his nose and sniffed. “Smell that? What do you think it is?”

  “Let’s find out,” Axle answered.

  And so he followed her back through the pantry wall, keeping close as she climbed, up past the board their nests rested on, digging his nails deep into the soft, prickly insulation so as not to fall. High above the nests, they found an opening that led them through the wall again and out onto a high pantry shelf. There the smell was stronger. It was no surprise that at the very end, behind stacks of bowls and plates, hidden just as Fredle’s nest was hidden away, lay the source of the smell.

  Fredle had never smelled anything like it before, but anything that smelled like that had to be good, better than anything else. It wasn’t bacon or cheese or peanut butter, he knew, and it was a thick, flat, round shape, so he was confident that it wasn’t a trap.

  Axle started right in, chewing through the wrapping, but Fredle walked around it, curious about what it was, enjoying the heavy, sweet smell.

  “You could help,” Axle complained.

  “I found it, didn’t I? I’d say that’s pretty helpful.”

  “I found it,” she corrected, spitting out a mouthful of wrapping. When it was just the two of them, foraging together, they didn’t bother about the wrapping rule. Mice were supposed to swallow the wrappings they had to chew through to get to food. As long as mice swallowed the wrappings, the humans wouldn’t suspect.

  “I smelled it, I meant,” he said, but he settled down across from his cousin to chew his way into whatever it was that smelled so good, smelled better than anything he had ever smelled before in his whole short life, smelled—somehow, despite the rich sweetness—as fresh and clear as a drop of water.

  They got tiny chips of it as they made their way through the inner wrapping. Every now and then, as they chewed and spat, one or the other would stop to ask, “Did you get a taste of that?”

  “Just a little bit,” the other would answer.

  “Wow, I never—”

  “Really good.”

  When Fredle pushed the last bits of paper out of the way with his nose, he breathed in, breathed deep, before he opened his mouth to take a bite. The smell was so strong now, and so alluring, that he didn’t even think to call across to Axle to find out if she, too, had made her way through the wrapping. He wanted that taste in his mouth, right now. His teeth crunched through a thin, dark crust to the center, which was what he’d been smelling. With that first bite, his whole mouth filled with sweetness, sugary but more than sugary, entirely smooth and not at all chewy. It had two layers of taste, each wonderful in its own way, and they blended together to make—he took a second bite, then a third—the best taste he had ever had in his mouth.

  All Fredle could see of Axle was her ears, one of them rounded and perfect, the other half the size of the first, as if some creature’s teeth had taken a big bite out of it—and that was pretty much what had happened, he thought now, bending his own head down to taste that flavor again.

  Axle’s voice said, “I’m glad you’re the one I’m sharing this with, Fredle.”

  Fredle couldn’t resist. “Since I’m the one who discovered it, I’d say I’m sharing it with you.”

  “We found it, little cousin. We’re a team.”

  For a long time they ate in happy silence, and still there was a wide expanse of the food remaining between them. Fredle’s stomach was full but his mouth was not tired of the taste, so he kept on taking little nibbles. Axle came around to sit down heavily beside him.

  “Whumph! How can you still be eating?”

  “It’s so good. Do you have any idea what it might be?”

  Axle shook her head. “I know it’s something I never had before, but that could be a lot of things. Soup, olives … there’s something called whoopie pie. I’ve heard the words, but I don’t know what they are.”

  “I bet no mouse ever had this before. If he had, we’d have heard about it.” Fredle decided that maybe he would take a rest, so they sat together for a while, quiet and contented and excited and pleased with themselves.

  Then, “Which of them hid it, and why hide it?” Fredle wondered. “It’s definitely hidden, way back here behind these stacks.”

  “Maybe Missus was hiding it from Mister,” Axle suggested.

  “Or Mister was hiding it from Missus.”

  “We can be sure it wasn’t the baby.” Axle laughed a mouse’s squeaking laugh.

  “What other words haven’t you tasted?” Fredle asked.

  “Oh, lots. I forget most of them. Stew and candy bar and flour, although I think flour might be those white powdery grains that are sometimes left on the floor—you know, the ones that are finer than salt and don’t taste as good. There’s custard and cocoa, too. I can’t remember half of the words I’ve heard. There’s something called kibbles. Don’t you wish you could take a taste of something called kibbles?”

  “I’m going to have a little more of this,” Fredle said. “I’ve rested long enough. I can fit more in and it tastes … I’ve never even imagined anything that tasted this sweet, whatever it is. Maybe it’s kibbles.”

  “It could be.”

  “They might come to take it away during the day while we’re asleep,” Fredle pointed out. “We should eat as much as we possibly can.”

  So Axle, beside him, began eating again at the kibbles, if that was what it was, and the two of them ate on, until they really could not take another bite. And still, Fredle loved the way that at each new bite his mouth filled up once again with rich, fresh, soft sweetness.

  At last, however, he had to stop, and he and Axle returned along the pantry shelf to the little hole they had squeezed through. Fredle couldn’t make himself scurry fast, even though he knew that until he was back behind the wall he wouldn’t be safe, but he tried to hurry, slipping behind stacked plates and glass measuring cups, past piles of spare candles, until at last he saw the hole.

  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,” Fredle admitted. “Do you?”

  “No. That’s why—”

  “Was it poison? That good thing?” That was Fredle’s real fear.

  “Do you think so?”

  Fredle thought. Until then he hadn’t really thought about anything at all; he’d just worried and been afraid and tried not to think.

  “Poison would hurt more,” he said. “Probably. Don’t you think? Poison is really bad. Strong. And it’s quick, I think.” Then he remembered something. “Where there’s a cat there won’t be poison. That’s one of the rules.”

  Axle had come up so close that her nose almost touched Fredle’s ear, where his head was hanging down over the rim.

  “We have to leave,” Axle said. “Before they push us out.”

  Fredle had to tell her, “I can’t move.” Despite his own words he did try, to find his legs, to lift his head. But his stomach hurt so much that his four legs could only curl up next to it. He wailed, “I can’t!”

  “Quiet, Fredle. Don’t—You have to try harder.” Axle’s voice grew urgent. “You were groaning. It was loud. How do you think I knew where you were?”

  Fredle swallowed back a wail and said again, “I can’t move.”

  “Sometimes, when you can’t, you have to anyway,” Axle advised him.

  Fredle did groan then, keeping it as soft as he could.

  “I have to—Goodbye, little cousin, I’m—I’m sorry,” Axle whispered, and before Fredle could say Please don’t go, she was gone.

  Axle was gone and all Fredle could do was whimper, like a newborn mouselet, a little whining sound of sadness and fear. But not hunger. He would never be hungry again and what if his father was awakened by all the noises he was making?

  He struggled to be silent, but it was already too late.

  3

  Outside

  They had pushed him out onto the pantry floor and left him there behind its closed doors. He knew he had no chance of getting back behind the wall, even if he had felt well enough to try to fight the mice who would be guarding the hole, or even just argue with them. He had felt too sick to struggle and then he’d been ejected with such force that he was all the way out in the middle of the pantry floor before he came to a halt. Sick and unhappy and frightened, Fredle did what mice do: he froze, and trembled, and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Maybe if he had had to wait longer he would have gathered himself together and formed some kind of a plan, but almost immediately the pantry door opened and Fredle was blinded by light.

  A gasp, above, and the door slammed shut. Now Fredle could only wait, and now he wondered: What would went be? Whatever could it be, to need a word so huge and dark that nobody wanted to speak it? Did he have to be brave when he met it? And would he always, he wondered miserably, have this pain in his stomach, as if fear had sharp teeth and was chewing its way out from inside him?

  He wondered where Axle was now, and if Kidle had already forgotten him. He remembered how he had once invited Kidle to come along with him and Axle, and how his little brother had squeaked so loudly with excitement they had to scold him to be quiet. He wondered why that was what he remembered. He wondered—

  The door opened again and Fredle shut his eyes tight against the light and also against having to look at whatever he might see. He heard Mister say in a rumbly voice, too loud and close for Fredle to be able to understand all the words, “… Patches will get rid …” And Missus’s clearer voice said, “I can’t just …” Mister rumbled something else and Missus said, “… a way to take it out …”

  Fredle kept his eyes closed and his ears open. He thought he should at least try to move, but his hot, heavy stomach weighed him down. He waited, and trembled, and could not think.

  With a thump, the air around him closed off and he could no longer hear anything. His eyes flew open then but he could see only a weak, whitened light, gleaming all around him. It was a wall, a round wall. Dim shadows moved behind it. But when he looked down he could still see his two front paws, quite clearly, their gray, bony surfaces and sharp yellow nails, and when he scratched on the pantry floor he could hear a clear scritch, scritch.

  Looking up, Fredle saw that the pale wall was also close over his head.

  Then a new floor slid under the wall, and moved toward him. He backed away. The strange floor scraped over the wood of the pantry floor and Fredle kept backing up until the wall stopped him and he was forced to step onto the sliding floor. It was cool under his feet and ha
rd as glass, but it wasn’t glass. It was metal but like glass it was too smooth for his nails to grip, so he slid forward along it until his nose bumped against the opposite wall.

  Sliding, thumping, he felt the floor rising up beneath, lifting him. This felt like falling but it was the opposite of falling. Could he fall up? Fredle wondered. As far as he knew, no mouse had ever had this happen to him. Was this went?

  Without moving, he was moving; he could feel it. The trap—if this was some new kind of trap—was gliding along smoothly and he could see shadowy shapes moving by, beyond the pale wall. He heard a sound like a door closing, but the movement continued.

  Then the floor was falling away and he was falling with it, then stopping, stopping and falling, stopping and falling. Fredle couldn’t catch his breath, for the fear and the feeling sick. Finally the floor swooped down—carrying Fredle with it—until he almost fainted from the speed and steepness of the descent, and then a sudden landing.

  What—

  The cool, smooth metal floor slipped out from under him, the mysterious trap rose up and disappeared, and he huddled in a light even brighter than the one when the pantry door had opened. This was a light so bright that it hurt to see. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  From above him he heard Missus say, “I don’t know. I hope you …” And then she was gone.

  In the darkness of his closed eyes, Fredle felt warm air and he smelled wetness and something else, something entirely strange to him, coming from a floor the likes of which he had never before set his paws on. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, from the brightness and from fear, too, Fredle slid his feet, cautiously, gently, back and forth on this not-floor. It was cooler than wood and not nearly as smooth; also, it was soft. His nails slipped into it. His stomach still felt sick, felt overfull and angry.

  Even so, a sharp smell penetrated his senses—a smell of something that made him want to eat it, sick as he was. How could that be? Fredle wondered. How could he possibly think of eating anything? But this was like wanting a drop of the cool water from the pipes under the sink, something different from hunger. He opened his eyes.