my friend.
In day or utter darkness,
I’ll sing for you, my friend.
Amber took a long look at Bushmaster. “That’s a song from the singing voles of the north, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Bushmaster said. “It’s what they sing when a friend is in danger.”
They sat for a moment, looking out over the meadow. It was early spring, and as the morning light eased through the trees, birdsong trembled in the air. Indeed, birds were everywhere. Golden meadowlarks erupted from the fescue like hot sparks from a forge; while hidden, they whistled songs both sweet and haunting. Red-winged blackbirds clung to the tops of cattail rushes along a small stream, making ratcheting noises as they hunted for caterpillars and bees. Finches and sparrows hopped in the brush at the edge of the woods, cheeping. And suddenly, far, far up, Bushmaster spotted a red-winged hawk wheeling in lazy circles through the sky.
“Time to get under cover,” he whispered, hopping to the ground.
The mice furtively crept through the grass, Ben taking the lead with his spear in hand, Amber in the middle, Bushmaster following at the end. The thick grass slowed them. Rye and fescue and wild vetch all competed for sunlight and grew in a tangled jungle. There were trails—hidden runways for small creatures—but the erratic paths often didn’t head the direction that they needed to go.
“Who made these trails?” Ben asked as they nosed through some thick grass. “Mice?”
“Not likely,” Bushmaster said. “The mice have all gone away. Voles are making these trails, mostly.”
“So they should be safe to follow?” Ben asked.
“Others use them,” Bushmaster said. “Pine snakes and garter snakes like to slither along them, and weasels. We have to be careful, even on the trails.”
Amber was curious. “You said the mice went away. Where did they go?”
“East,” Bushmaster said. “They went east. I asked, but they didn’t know where they were heading, or why they were leaving. Sometimes they muttered, ‘Into the Shadow,’ but they couldn’t tell me where the Shadow was or why they wanted to get there. They left in ones and twos, the mothers leading their kittens.”
“Did you humans notice this?” Amber asked Ben.
Ben shook his head.
Amber crept along silently, wondering what this could mean. The only animals she saw were small creatures—wolf spiders trundling along the grass, ants hunting in huge tribes, snails as round and pale as the moon, bright red ladybugs dozing in the dawn, a young mantis praying fervently for world peace.
So they nosed through the grass, panting and grunting, until they got hungry.
For the first time in her life, Amber foraged for oats and clover. She drank morning dew from golden buttercups, dined on wild peas. It seemed to her to be the finest feast she’d ever eaten.
* * *
Dave Hugely, owner of Noah’s Ark Pet Shop, always found his pulse racing just a bit when a customer walked into the store with a cardboard box. It was just like Christmas. You never knew what might be hidden in the package. Usually, it was just a dozen ugly calico kittens or a green iguana that had grown too big for its cage. But sometimes the box held real treasures—like the time a fellow brought in an albino cobra.
“Thing’s eatin’ three rats a week,” the fellow had complained.
“Well,” Dave had hemmed and hawed. “I don’t know what I’d do with a big, old poison snake. Can’t sell ’em, legally.”
“Maybe you could find a home for it . . . sort of on the side,” the fellow had suggested.
“Tell you what,” Dave offered. “I could take him off of your hands for you. Maybe even give you twenty bucks.”
And he bought himself a twelve-foot-long albino cobra.
Now, few people knew it, but Dave really ran two pet shops. There was the Noah’s Ark that all of the mothers and children in the neighborhood knew and loved—home to clown fish and lovebirds and sweet little puppies with their slobbery
In day or utter darkness,
I’ll sing for you, my friend.
Amber took a long look at Bushmaster. “That’s a song from the singing voles of the north, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Bushmaster said. “It’s what they sing when a friend is in danger.”
They sat for a moment, looking out over the meadow. It was early spring, and as the morning light eased through the trees, birdsong trembled in the air. Indeed, birds were everywhere. Golden meadowlarks erupted from the fescue like hot sparks from a forge; while hidden, they whistled songs both sweet and haunting. Red-winged blackbirds clung to the tops of cattail rushes along a small stream, making ratcheting noises as they hunted for caterpillars and bees. Finches and sparrows hopped in the brush at the edge of the woods, cheeping. And suddenly, far, far up, Bushmaster spotted a red-winged hawk wheeling in lazy circles through the sky.
“Time to get under cover,” he whispered, hopping to the ground.
The mice furtively crept through the grass, Ben taking the lead with his spear in hand, Amber in the middle, Bushmaster following at the end. The thick grass slowed them. Rye and fescue and wild vetch all competed for sunlight and grew in a tangled jungle. There were trails—hidden runways for small creatures—but the erratic paths often didn’t head the direction that they needed to go.
“Who made these trails?” Ben asked as they nosed through some thick grass. “Mice?”
“Not likely,” Bushmaster said. “The mice have all gone away. Voles are making these trails, mostly.”
“So they should be safe to follow?” Ben asked.
“Others use them,” Bushmaster said. “Pine snakes and garter snakes like to slither along them, and weasels. We have to be careful, even on the trails.”
Amber was curious. “You said the mice went away. Where did they go?”
“East,” Bushmaster said. “They went east. I asked, but they didn’t know where they were heading, or why they were leaving. Sometimes they muttered, ‘Into the Shadow,’ but they couldn’t tell me where the Shadow was or why they wanted to get there. They left in ones and twos, the mothers leading their kittens.”
“Did you humans notice this?” Amber asked Ben.
Ben shook his head.
Amber crept along silently, wondering what this could mean. The only animals she saw were small creatures—wolf spiders trundling along the grass, ants hunting in huge tribes, snails as round and pale as the moon, bright red ladybugs dozing in the dawn, a young mantis praying fervently for world peace.
So they nosed through the grass, panting and grunting, until they got hungry.
For the first time in her life, Amber foraged for oats and clover. She drank morning dew from golden buttercups, dined on wild peas. It seemed to her to be the finest feast she’d ever eaten.
* * *
Dave Hugely, owner of Noah’s Ark Pet Shop, always found his pulse racing just a bit when a customer walked into the store with a cardboard box. It was just like Christmas. You never knew what might be hidden in the package. Usually, it was just a dozen ugly calico kittens or a green iguana that had grown too big for its cage. But sometimes the box held real treasures—like the time a fellow brought in an albino cobra.
“Thing’s eatin’ three rats a week,” the fellow had complained.
“Well,” Dave had hemmed and hawed. “I don’t know what I’d do with a big, old poison snake. Can’t sell ’em, legally.”
“Maybe you could find a home for it . . . sort of on the side,” the fellow had suggested.
“Tell you what,” Dave offered. “I could take him off of your hands for you. Maybe even give you twenty bucks.”
And he bought himself a twelve-foot-long albino cobra.
Now, few people knew it, but Dave really ran two pet shops. There was the Noah’s Ark that all of the mothers and children in the neighborhood knew and loved—home to clown fish and lovebirds and sweet little puppies with their slobbery
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