The Orphan and the Mouse (4 page)

Caro bumped the washroom door open with her hip and stood in the corridor. She had thought she would set the mouse free outdoors, but now she realized she'd wake someone if she tried that. So she knelt, opened her hand, and tipped the mouse out.

“All right, then,” she said. “Get going back home now. I'll watch for that old cat and keep it away if I have to.”

On the floor, the mouse looked around to orient itself, then, to Caro's surprise,
turned back to face her, lifted its snout, and squeaked.

“You're welcome,” Caro said. “Nice to have met you, too.” Then, because it seemed right, she raised her left pinkie finger and waved good-bye.

For its part, the mouse turned, flipped its tail, and scurried off.

With the cat nowhere to be seen, Caro went back to the washroom to wash her hands, glancing in the mirror as she did so.

Even apart from the scars, Caro knew she wasn't pretty. Her face was too square, nose too long, pale-brown hair too thick and wavy.

But, darn it, she was good. Too good, the other intermediates claimed—too studious, too obedient, too nice, even; entirely lacking in spunk.

Caro turned off the water, pulled down a paper towel, and dried her hands.

Well, wouldn't they all be surprised
, she thought,
if they knew I got up in the middle of the night and talked to mice?

Mary reentered mouse territory through the portal in the foyer, a chipped piece of marble behind a potted palm. She had no time to think about her “conversation” with the human pup or its odd behavior. She had more pressing concerns. By this time, she would have been reported overdue, and the colony scouts would be on alert. Sure enough, moments after her return, a squad intercepted her.

Their leader asked questions, which Mary did her best to answer before being overwhelmed by the pain in her shoulder. “Please, Nephew, may I have a chance to rest?” she asked.

The squad leader was firm. “You know the procedure. You have been seen. You must make your report straightaway.”

“Are you detaining me?” Mary asked.

“Of course not, Auntie.” The squad leader softened his tone. “What we're doing is escorting you to meet with Chief Director Randolph.”

Mary's injuries were obvious and bloody. Even so, Randolph did not express concern. “What happened? Where are the pictures?” was his greeting.

As Mary began her report, Randolph's whiskers drooped. “Left on the rug in the boss's office?” he said. “And what happened
next? You're back, so apparently the predator didn't eat you.”

Mary ignored his callousness. “I followed protocol. I would have gotten away. But the south office portal was closed, and so was the one in the west corridor. Some mouse must have blocked them.”

“Blocked them?” Randolph blinked. “That's preposterous.”

Mary's mind was clear in spite of the pain. “No more preposterous than the failure of the PWS,” she said. “How is it that the predator was on the loose when the monitors reported he was safely confined?”

“How should I know?” Randolph blustered. “It happens. Probably the boss was fed up and chased him out. What is it you're alleging, exactly?”

Mary was surprised. “I'm not alleging anything! But the PWS failed. And two portals were blocked. There should be an investigation. And I can't help thinking—” Her voice broke off.

“Thinking what?” Randolph said.

“Thinking something similar may explain what happened to Zelinsky.”

Mary's tone had been mild. Randolph's response was explosive. “Nonsense! Wild-eyed speculation! Poppycock!”

The chief director's outburst provoked nervous glances among the scouts who had brought Mary to his nest. Seeing this, Randolph moderated his tone “What happened next?”

Now came the crux of Mary's report. She had been seen. More than that, she had been touched.

At this revelation, Randolph exploded anew. “A human pup held you in its paw?” His eyes flashed. “I should have known! I caught the stench of human but thought it was only because you'd been abroad in their territory.”

“It was a female, and she saved my life,” Mary said.

“Then released you?” Randolph was incredulous.

“There is something else,” Mary said unhappily, “something more important. Both the pup—Caro—and Matron Polly mentioned the possibility of . . . an exterminator.”

When Randolph heard this, the pink drained from his nose and ears. He did not speak for several seconds, and when he did, his voice was changed. “I see. It would seem, in that case, that the human pup's actions may have been a trick. She may have been using you to locate one of our portals. With this knowledge, she'll assist the exterminator in his work.”

“No!” Mary defended Caro. “She didn't follow me—she didn't! I . . . I liked her.”

Randolph ignored Mary's protest and turned to the squad leader. “Bring me the messenger on duty. The directors must meet at once. The talk of an exterminator, the human pup's strange behavior, the thief's fraternizing—all pose an imminent threat to the colony.”

“Yes, Uncle,” said the scout.

“As for you—Randolph looked at Mary—relieved of your duties. Confined to your nest. A guard will be placed there until you're called to testify.”

Randolph's critics were right. The chief director was greedy, and he had long outstayed his usefulness. What they didn't realize was that Randolph knew all this himself. And he further knew that as a result, his hold on power was tenuous.

A better mouse would have given up his post and retired into respectable obscurity.

But Randolph liked being chief director.

He liked the way all the other mice had to be nice and pretend to like him. He liked ordering every mouse around. Most of all, he liked his pictures. Unlike pups or mates or subordinates, his pictures expected nothing and demanded nothing. They were faithful, constant, and beautiful. Other mice might make fun of him behind his back, but no mouse made fun of his pictures. Indeed, they wanted his pictures for their own.

No, Randolph wasn't ready to retire. And this was why, in recent months, he had resorted to extraordinary measures to protect his job. For example, when word had reached him that dissatisfied mice were organizing a Zelinsky takeover, he had spoken to some mice, who spoke to some mice, who put certain obstacles in the art thief's way the next time he embarked on a mission.

So much for Zelinsky.

Then, having seen that the art thief job might be a springboard to higher office—his own office—he had suggested the appointment of Mary Mouse. Old-fashioned himself, Randolph couldn't imagine any mouse taking seriously the idea of a female as chief director . . . until one day word reached him that times had changed, that he was wrong, that Mary Mouse might be a viable candidate in spite of her gender.

All right, then. No problem. Randolph's scheme to undermine Zelinsky had worked perfectly. There was every reason to think the same scheme would work again.

Only it hadn't. Instead, Mary Mouse had been seen by humans. The exterminator had been mentioned.

And now Randolph faced an awful prospect. The life he loved was over. Because of his own machinations, he, Randolph, would not only have to abandon his precious pictures, he would have to bring his mice through the colony's most severe crisis since its ancestors had migrated to Cherry Street from the Delaware River docks some fifty generations before.

Randolph had many qualities desirable in a leader. He was intelligent, resolute, well organized, and—born with an unusually resonant squeak—a persuasive speaker. Now, having gotten himself and every other mouse into this dire predicament, he determined he would get them out . . . or die trying.

And the first order of business was to drag his sorry bulk down from his divan, out of his nest, along the main pathway, and up the plumbing to the directors' chambers on the second floor.

The business of the emergency meeting of the Cherry Street directorate was soon accomplished. Once Mary had given her testimony, Randolph and his four colleagues agreed on the nature of the threat and the need for quick action. The challenges of moving more than a thousand mice were daunting, and thereafter most of the meeting was given over to logistical considerations.

As for Mary Mouse, Randolph committed one more act of perfidy when he convinced the other directors that her ineptitude and bad judgment had brought down calamity on them all. In Randolph's defense, he could hardly have told the truth. If he had, he would have been overthrown on the spot, leaving the colony leaderless in its darkest hour. Likewise, he could hardly have kept Mary around. Her insistence on an investigation into both her own thwarted mission and her mate's disappearance would pose an ongoing threat to his authority.

So it was that even though Mary was virtuous, smart, popular, and a mother—even though she had right on her side—she was sacrificed, her punishment the harshest possible
in the world of mice: exile. Every other mouse in the colony would emigrate, including her own pups. She would be left behind. It was a sad fate made sadder still by the impending visit of the exterminator. Effectively, Mary had been sentenced to death.

Coming as a bolt from the blue to every mouse in the colony, the emigration order was met initially with confusion and pockets of defiance. These Randolph overcame by giving every mouse a job to do, thus uniting them to face the crisis.

With no time to waste, scouts departed and fanned out across the neighborhood, visiting alternative shelters one after another until at last they identified one that met the criteria for habitation: no existing rodent population, no residual extermination poisons, and minimal resident predators, all well fed.

It went without saying that the shelter must also be inhabited by humans because humans provide mice with all their essential comforts: comestibles, nesting materials, and winter warmth.