Young Fredle (20 page)

He heard faint, faint sounds, the sounds of mice moving quietly, not far away. After that, silence fell again.

Could he go down rather than up? Fredle wondered. Could he make his way through these piled-up onions without getting trapped among them?

And what were all these onions doing here, anyway? Probably it was something that had to do with the humans. After all, it was their cellar, so anything in it would be something they put there.

Fredle decided that he
would
try moving down to escape, since he couldn’t move up. He crawled over to the edge of the pile and discovered that the whatever-it-was was not made of thick, impenetrable plastic like the garbage containers, or of paper like the ice cream container, but of something between straw and wood, by the smell of it. If he had to, he knew, he could chew through wood or straw. However, before he tried eating his way out, he began to squeeze and squirm between the onions, moving toward the bottom of the pile. He wouldn’t want to take all the time and trouble of chewing through, only to find himself so high above any ground that he would have no other choice but to leap out into empty space, and hope.

He made his way down around one of the onions, and another, and another, until he could feel them piled high above him, heavy. He didn’t like to think about that, so he stopped himself from thinking about anything and squeezed
himself down again, always staying close to the side of the whatever-it-was.

From below, a voice asked, “Mouse or foe?”

“Mouse,” Fredle answered without thinking, and then he realized that that was just the way a cat, or a snake, might try to trick you.

“I don’t know,” said the voice, sounding now a little closer, and definitely mouselike. “You don’t smell like mouse. You smell like onion.”

“I’m no onion,” Fredle said, and then he laughed. “Woo-Hah. What do you expect to smell, in all these onions? Apples?” But while he was laughing, he tried to position himself so that at least his front paws were free and his mouth was not blocked, so that if need be he could do some serious scratching and biting.

“Apples are in another basket,” said the voice, which hadn’t moved either closer or farther away. “Exit’s down this way. Follow my voice.”

What else could Fredle do? He crept toward the voice. It was very dark in among the onions—in the
basket
, he repeated to himself—and the spaces were tight, even for a mouse. He dug his claws in deeply at every change in position, and the sweet, rich, sharp smell of onion rose around him. Pretty soon he decided that, whatever lay ahead, he would be better able to meet it on a full stomach, so he scraped away the thin outer skin of an onion and began to take bites out of the smooth, soft whiteness. It was juicy and sweet, delicious.

“What are you doing?” asked the voice. “I don’t hear you moving, are you all right?”

Fredle swallowed. “Eating,” he called back.

“Don’t bother. There’s always plenty to eat and we were in the middle of a game of Cat. Which you’ve interrupted.”

“Oh,” said Fredle. “Sorry.” The humor of his apology struck him. “Woo-Hah.”

“And stop with the weird noises. You’re scaring the mouselets,” said the voice.

Fredle could hear how close he was to the other mouse now, and how close to being free. He tasted a change in the air. The air he was breathing now tasted a little damp, not like outside, more like the air behind the refrigerator or the air around the back of the stove. He squeezed forward and found his nose at an opening. After the oniony darkness, the dim light ahead seemed almost bright. He stuck his head and shoulders through the opening and saw, standing right before him, a fat gray mouse.

“Come on out and introduce yourself. All clear, mouselets,” the mouse called, turning away from Fredle. “It’s a house mouse, just like us.”

Fredle hesitated.

“Not far now,” the mouse said. “This is the last leg. Are you up to it?” he asked Fredle. Then he called down again, “Back to your nests, all of you. That’s all the games for tonight. Tell your mothers we’ve got company.”

There was a muffled chattering and scurrying from below. Fredle didn’t move.

The mouse said, “This is a wooden shelf. You can see I’m standing on it. It’s perfectly safe.”

So Fredle crawled all the way out.

This mouse, despite his size, didn’t look strong. He looked
well fed, not fierce. He sat back on his round haunches, giving Fredle time to have a good stare and having a good stare right back at Fredle.

What that mouse
didn’t
look was at all nervous. How could a mouse out on a shelf not be nervous?

“I’m Tarnu,” said the mouse, and cocked his ears forward.

“Fredle.”

“You need to catch your breath? Rest up? Crawl back in for a little more food?” Tarnu asked. “We’ve got time. Or would you rather have some carrot? Potato? Apple? That’s what we eat here, onion, potato, carrot, apple. Nothing fancy, but there’s always a lot in the baskets.”

Fredle tried to see where he was. There was a foundation wall on one side and open space on the other, with, ahead, another round container just like the one he’d just come out of.

“You’re a cellar mouse,” he said.

“Got it in one, friend. What about yourself?”

“Kitchen.”

“You’re used to a wider variety of eats, I bet. But what were you doing in our onion basket? No, don’t answer that yet. Everyone will want to hear. Have you decided that you’re going to trust me?” Tarnu asked.

“Yes,” Fredle said, and he had. He was also quite curious about how this mouse got so relaxed and calm, even when a stranger showed up in the middle of his private food supply.

“It’s not hard to get down to the floor from here,” Tarnu said to his uninvited guest. “Keep close. If you fall behind, I’ll wait.”

“What about predators?” asked Fredle.

“What kind of predator would there be in the cellar?”

“There’s the cat. Patches.”

“Nope.”

“There are traps.”

“Not here. They don’t have any idea we’re living down here. Either that or we don’t bother them, so they don’t bother with us. You almost never see Mister in the cellar, and Missus only comes to use her machines and that’s only in daytime. She’s no trouble. Shall we go?” And he turned and moved away.

Fredle followed, even more curious.
No predators?
He couldn’t imagine it.

They crossed in front of two more baskets and that was the end of the board. Tarnu waited for Fredle to catch up with him before explaining, “This wall is easy to climb up, or down. They used such big stones, see? There’s no trick to it. You can follow me or go your own way, whatever.” He stepped off onto a big stone that stuck out of the mortar like one of the steps, outside.

Fredle continued to follow Tarnu. Soon he stood on a cool, pleasantly moist dirt floor. Large, curved shapes stood in the distant shadows, motionless, and small things scurried along the floor close by.

“You’re in trouble with me now, mouselets,” Tarnu said, but he didn’t sound angry, or even impatient.

“Big trouble,” said the little voices, “big, big trouble,” and
they
didn’t sound frightened or even worried. “Who’s that, Tarnu?”

“It’s Fredle. He’s a kitchen mouse.”

“Did he escape to come live with us?”

“I thought kitchen mice were only in stories.”

“He’s not so big.”

“But he looks tough. Don’t you think?”

“I think he looks normal.”

“But skinny.”

“Yeah, skinny.”

“How’d he get here?”

“Yeah, how’d he get here, Tarnu?”

“Give him a minute and he’ll tell us. You
will
tell us, won’t you, Fredle? So, since I’m guessing that you mouselets aren’t about to go back to your nests, I’m going to give you a job. Go get everyone together. We’ll be waiting in front of the water heater. Call everyone.”

After the mouselets ran off, Tarnu said to Fredle, “I hope it’s an exciting story. We like an exciting story, and a long one, too. But I lied to you. I didn’t mean to, but I lied about predators. Sometimes—see up there?” He pointed with his nose to the wall far across from them, in front of which stood two square white shapes.

Fredle looked and saw the shapes, with pipes rising up behind one, and above them a window in the wall. Through the window, he could see air that shone a little brighter than the dark air of the cellar.

“I don’t know what that’s called, or what it’s for—” Tarnu began.

“It’s a window. You can see through it,” Fredle said helpfully.

“Really? Who’d have thought. But why would they want something like that in their walls?”

“To look outside.”

“What’s to see outside?” Fredle took a breath to tell him, but Tarnu was already going on. “About predators. There’s a time, usually the same time as the carrots and onions and potatoes are running out—the apples always run out first—although we never have to worry, because food hasn’t ever run entirely out … Anyway, during that time, Missus sometimes moves that thing, that window, and the air that comes in is warmer, and smells fresher.”

Fredle interrupted. “Summertime, I bet.”

“Whatever. And it’s not that there’s anything wrong with our air, it’s just something she likes to do, and when she does that, sometimes, there are a couple of cats that come in through it.”

“The barn cats,” Fredle guessed. “One’s white and the other’s black-and-white?”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Tarnu asked, and Fredle assured him, “Lots. Lots and lots.”

“They take one or two of us away, every time, but it doesn’t happen often and usually the mice that went are too old or sick to escape with the rest of us. We don’t really count those cats as predators at all. It’s not as if they come foraging every night. Most of the time that—window, you said?—I like knowing the names of things, it always impresses the mouselets … Well, she keeps it this way most of the time, and no cat can come through. So let’s get ourselves over to the water heater. It’s where we go when we all want to get together, which I should tell you is at least twice a day, often more. You’ll stay in my nest, won’t you?”

Fredle was too surprised at the invitation to answer, but Tarnu assumed it was accepted and went on. “Ellnu would like that, and we’ve got space. We’re one of the nests behind the oil tank. None of the humans ever go behind the oil tank.”

By the time Fredle had been introduced all around and told his story, he was tired out. The cellar mice, gathered in the warmth of the tall water heater, had question after question, but after answering only a few, Fredle had to tell them that he couldn’t talk any more, not right then, he was too tired, too—

“Of course, we should have thought,” said Tarnu. “It’s getting late anyway, almost day. He’s sleeping in with us, you’ll see him tonight. Come along with me, Fredle.”

No mouse scurried close along the wall, no mouse took shelter behind any of the big objects, no mouse listened fearfully for the kind of silence a stalking cat creates. The mice just went off in several directions, across the open dirt floor, chattering away without even lowering their voices. Fredle accompanied Tarnu and his family to a wide, soft, cloth-and-paper nest behind a huge, curved oil tank that stood on four short legs in a back cellar corner. Tarnu told Fredle its name, although he couldn’t say what it was used for. There was an unpleasant odor, sharp and bitter and heavy, which had soaked into the dirt beneath the tank, but even that couldn’t keep Fredle awake. As soon as he had climbed over the edge of the nest, he was already falling asleep, and the last thing he remembered was wishing he could remember the names of all the mice he’d met.
Gannu … Olnu … Ladnu …

* * *

That evening, Fredle opened his eyes to see an empty nest. Voices came from beyond the tank, so he went out to find Tarnu and the others, and maybe even something to drink and after that something to eat.

He was greeted by many voices.

“He’s awake!”

“It’s about time.”

“Fredle, I brought you some carrot—do you like carrot?”

“Fredle? Watch me!”

“Aren’t you thirsty?”

“You must have been really, really tired.”

“Are you going to live with Tarnu and Ellnu in their nest?”

“Do you like onion? I brought you some onion.”

“Play with us, Fredle. What games do you know?”

Then everyone grew quiet as the entire group waited for his response. All the round, dark mouse eyes were fixed on him.

“Actually,” Fredle told them, “I’m pretty thirsty.”

“Come with me, then.” Tarnu stepped forward. “I’ll bring him straight back,” he promised, and led Fredle off across the broad dirt floor to two large white metal boxes. “That’s the washer, that’s the dryer. It’s the washer that has water. On that pipe.”

Fredle remembered pipes. They were under the kitchen sink, in the cupboard. He knew how to lick the drops of water off of pipes, so he climbed up the wall to where he could reach the pipe while Tarnu waited patiently below. Drinking, Fredle noticed that some pipes led up, along the stone wall and then
across the ceiling above him, which he now saw was made of boards and had long, thin black lines crossing it, as well as the round metal pipes. “What are those?” he asked. “Not the pipes, the black lines. Where do the pipes go, does anyone know? I’m looking for a way to go up,” he explained.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“To get back to the kitchen.”

“Why would you want to do that?” They had started back to where the others waited. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about those pipes, or the black lines. We don’t go up to the ceiling,” Tarnu told him. “Our territory is down here, and besides, why would anyone want to leave a place where there is always food and water, and shelter, and almost never any predators?”

As soon as they were back by the water heater, Fredle was barraged with questions that gave him no time to think about anything other than what the mice wanted to know. The questions came in no order. There were just a lot of voices, asking him about outside, and what compost was, how a lattice could protect a nest. They didn’t believe him about raptors, he could tell, and he didn’t try to convince them. They had heard of snakes, but not raccoons. They wondered why the cat that he said lived in the kitchen was to be seen outside—