Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH (5 page)

'Why not?'

'In the daytime, when the sun is out, the owl goes deep into the hollow and sleeps. That is, they say he sleeps, but I don't believe it. How could anyone sleep so long? I think he sits in there, part of the time at least, and thinks. And that's why he knows so much.

'But anyway, he won't speak in the daytime, not to anyone. And at night he's out flying, flying and hunting

'I know,' said Mrs Frisby - and that was another reason to be afraid.

'The time to see him is just at dusk. Then, when the light gets dim, he comes to the entrance of the hollow and watches while the dark comes in. That's the time to ask him questions.'

'I understand,' said Mrs Frisby. 'Shall we go this evening?'

'At five o'clock,' Jeremy said, I'll be at your house.' He picked up the piece of foil in his bill, waved goodbye, and flew off.

Jeremy appeared as promised when the last thumbnail of sun winked out over the mountains beyond the meadow. Mrs Frisby was waiting, her heart pounding in her ears, and three of the children were there to watch - Teresa and Martin standing beside their mother, and Cynthia, who was afraid of the crow, just a pair of round eyes peering out of the round doorway. Timothy was down below, taking a nap, and had not been told about the expedition lest he worry and blame himself for the risk his mother must take. (Indeed, the words Moving Day had not been mentioned in his presence.) Even to the other children Mrs Frisby had explained only a part of the problem; that is, she had not told them that there were only five days left, nor anything about Mr Fitzgibbon and the tractor. She did not want to worry them, either.

Jeremy landed with a
swoosh -
a bit dramatically, perhaps - and nodded at the children and Mrs Frisby.

'Hello,' he said. 'Here I am.'

Mrs Frisby introduced Martin and Teresa (and Cynthia's eyes). Martin, who wished he were going on the trip himself, asked Jeremy in excitement:

'How high can you fly?'

'Oh, I don't know exactly,'Jeremy said. 'A couple of miles, I suppose.'

'Mother, did you hear? You'll be two
miles
up in the air.'

'Martin, it won't be necessary to go so high on this trip.'

Jeremy said cheerfully: 'No, but I can, if you'd like.'

'No, thank you. I wouldn't think of your taking the trouble.' She was trying hard to hide her terror, and Martin had not helped matters at all. But Jeremy suddenly saw that she was trembling and realized that she must be afraid.

'It's all right,' he said kindly. 'There's nothing to be nervous about. I fly over the woods a dozen times a day.

Yes, thought Mrs Frisby, but
you're
not riding on your back, and you can't fall off.

'All right,' she said as bravely as she could. 'I'm ready. Teresa and Martin, take care of Timothy until I come back, and be sure you don't tell him where I've gone.' With a small leap she was on Jeremy's back, lying as flat as she could and holding tight to the glossy feathers between his wings, as a horseback rider grips the horse's mane before a jump. Martin and Teresa waved good-bye, but she did not see them, for she had her face pressed against the feathers and her eyes closed.

Once again she felt the surge of power as the crow's broad wings beat down against the air; this time it lasted longer for they were going higher than before. Then the beating became gentler as they levelled off, and then, to her alarm, it stopped altogether. What was wrong? The crow must have felt her grow tense, for suddenly from ahead she heard his voice:

'An updraft,' he said. 'We're soaring. There's usually one over this stretch of woods in the evening.' A current of warm air, rising from the woods, was carrying them along. So smooth was the motion that they seemed to stand still, and Mrs Frisby ventured to open her eyes and lift her head just a trifle. She could not look straight down - that was Jeremy's back - but off to the right, and a bit behind them, she saw a grey-brown square the size of a postage stamp. She realized with a gasp that it was the garden patch, and Martin and Teresa, if they were still there, were too small to be seen.

'Look to the left,' said Jeremy, who was watching her over his shoulder. She did, and saw what looked like a wide, fearsome snake, blue-green in colour, coiling through the woods.

'What is it?' she asked in wonder.

'You really don't know? It's the river.'

'Oh,' said Mrs Frisby, rather ashamed of her ignorance. She had heard of the river, of course, but had not known that it looked like a snake. She had never been there, since to reach it one had to cross the entire width of the forest. There were advantages to being a bird.

In a minute more they had left the updraft, and Jeremy's wings resumed pumping. They went higher, and Mrs Frisby closed her eyes again. When she opened them, the garden patch had vanished far behind them, and Jeremy, searching the trees below, began a long slanting descent. Eventually, as he banked sharply, Mrs Frisby saw off his wing tip a greybrown patch among a group of tall green pines; from so high it looked like a gnarled grey bush, but as they circled lower she could see that it was in fact an enormous tree, leafless, skeletal, and partly dead. One huge branch had recently broken off and fallen, and three pine trunks lay bent double under its weight. It was a gloomy and primeval spot, deeply shadowed in the grey dusk. Jeremy circled over it one more time, looking at a certain mark three-fourths of the way up the towering main trunk. Just below this spot another great branch, itself as big as an ordinary tree, jutted out over the tops of the pines, and on this at last Jeremy fluttered gently to rest. They were some ten feet from the main trunk, and Mrs Frisby could see, just above the place where the branch joined the tree, a dark round hole as large as a lunch plate.

'We're here,' Jeremy said in a low voice. 'There's where he lives.'

'Should I get down?' Instinctively, Mrs Frisby spoke in a whisper.

'Yes. We've got to walk closer. But quietly. He doesn't like loud noises.'

'It's so high.' She still clung to the crow's back,

'But the limb is broad. You'll be safe enough.'

And indeed the limb was almost as wide as a pavement. Mrs Frisby gathered her courage, slithered down, and felt the solid wood under her feet; still she could not help thinking about how far it was to the ground below.

'There he is,' said Jeremy, staring at the hole. 'It's just the right time.'

They inched their way along the limb, Mrs Frisby gripping the rough bark tightly, being careful not to stumble; and as they came closer, she could dimly perceive a shape like a squat vase sitting back in the hollow of the tree. Near the top of the vase, wide apart, two round yellow eyes glowed in the dark.

'He can't see us,'Jeremy whispered. 'It's still too light.'

Perhaps not, but he could hear, for now a deep round voice, a voice like an organ tone, echoed out of the hollow trunk:

'Who is standing outside my house?'

Jeremy answered:

'Sir, I am a crow. My name is Jeremy. And I have brought a friend, I hope we have not disturbed you. My friend needs your advice.'

'I see. And can your friend not speak for himself?'

'Sir, my friend is a lady, a lady mouse.'

'A mouse?' The sonorous voice sounded unbelieving. 'Why should a crow be a friend to a mouse?'

'I was trapped, sir, and she set me free. She saved me from the cat.'

'That is possible,' said the owl,'though unusual. I have heard of such a thing before. We all help one another against the cat.'

'True. And now, sir, my friend herself is in trouble.'

'I understand,' said the owl, moving closer to the round entrance of his hollow. 'Mrs Mouse, I cannot see you, for the glare of the daylight is too bright. But if you step inside my house, I will listen to what you have to say.'

Mrs Frisby hesitated. She knew something of the dietary habits of owls, and did not much like the idea of being trapped in his house. Finally, she said timidly:

'Sir, I would not want to intrude. And I can hear you quite well from out here.'

'Mrs Mouse, please understand that I have no interest at all, as a general rule, in helping mice to solve their problems. If you have indeed saved a bird from the cat, I will spare you a few minutes. But I do not discuss problems with people I cannot see. Either come inside, or tell your friend to take you home again.'

Behind her, Mrs Frisby heard Jeremy whisper, very softly, 'It's all right. He wouldn't harm you in his own home.'

She whispered back, 'I hope not.' She walked up the limb to the hollow, climbed over the sill and stepped inside.

Up so close, the owl looked very large. Each of his feathery feet was tipped with five gleaming talons an inch long. His beak was curved and sharp and cruel. He blinked his yellow eyes and said:

'Please step across the room, away from the light.'

Mrs Frisby did as she was told. As she grew accustomed to the dimness, she looked around her. The chamber into which she had stepped was spacious - at that level, almost half of the huge trunk was hollow -and clean, but the floor was extremely rough. It was not really a floor at all, but only the jagged ends of dead wood sticking up from below, like stalagmites in a cave, so that Mrs Frisby had to climb rather than walk as she crossed the room. At the back the walls narrowed to a corner, and there she saw that the owl had built himself a nest, as big as a water bucket, of twigs and leaves; from the top she could see protruding some wisps of the feathers with which he had lined it.

When she got near this nest, she stopped and faced the owl, who had turned from the light of the doorway and was peering at her with his great yellow eyes. Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. She could only hope he was still waiting on the limb outside.

'Now,' said the owl, 'you may state your problem.'

Mrs Frisby began nervously, trying to arrange her thoughts:

'It's about my youngest son, Timothy. He is sick, too sick to leave his bed. And Moving Day is only five days off.'

'Wait,' said the owl. 'Moving from where? Moving to where?'

'From the garden patch, where we're living, to the edge of the pasture by the stream.'

'Which garden?' It had not occurred to Mrs Frisby until now that a bird, flying freely over miles of countryside, would look down on many gardens.

'It belongs to Mr Fitzgibbon.'

'The one with the large stone?'

'Yes. My house is near the stone.'

'What makes you so sure Moving Day will come in five days?'

Mrs Frisby told him about the tractor, and what Mr Fitzgibbon had said: five days until ploughing. 'Of course,' she added, 'it might turn cold again, and freeze, or even snow…"

'No,' said the owl, sounding quite sure, 'it will not. The wild onions are already up in the pastures.' He asked her then what kind of house she had, and exactly where it was in relation to the big stone; apparently he knew the spot well.

But the more she talked to him, the more Mrs Frisby became convinced that he would produce no solution to her problem. It had been foolish of her to think he could, foolish of her to come at all. Because, she thought, there really
was
no solution. At last she fell silent, and the owl asked no more questions. Finally he said:

'Lying where it does, your house will inevitably be turned up by the plough, and probably broken to bits in the process. There is no feasible way to prevent this. My only advice to you is this: If you stay in the house you will surely be crushed and killed, all of you. Therefore, it is better to take your chances with moving. Wrap your son Timothy up as warmly as you can, help him as much as possible on the journey, and hope for warm weather on Moving Day. That way you are at least sure to save yourself and the other children.'

The owl paused, turned away from her and looked again at the entrance to his hollow; the patch of light it admitted was growing steadily dimmer.