Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH (6 page)

'And now, if you will excuse me - the night is falling, and I have no more time to spare. I regret that I can not give you a more satisfactory solution to your problem. Good evening, Mrs…' he paused. 'I don't believe you told me your name.'

'Mrs Frisby.' The poor mouse spoke with a sob in her throat, for the owl had said exactly what she feared he would say. And she had no real hope for Timothy. The owl had said, in effect: Either Timothy alone must die, or they must all die together. Even if Moving Day should be extraordinarily warm, the nights were sure to be frosty, and that would be the end of him. Still, one must be polite, and she added sadly: 'I thank you, sir, for listening to me.'

But at the mention of her name an extraordinary change had come over the owl. He turned back to face her again and stared at her most intently. Indeed, he gave an agitated flutter of his wings and half flew, half hopped closer to her, bending forward until his great sharp beak was only a few inches from her face. Mrs Frisby shrank back in fear. What had she done wrong?

'Did you say Mrs Frisby?'

'Yes. You asked my name.'

'Related to Jonathan Frisby?'

'Yes. He was my husband. He died last summer. He was Timothy's father. But how did you know about him?'

'That is not important,' said the owl, drawing back a little and looking at her in a new way - almost as if with deference. 'I will say this: His name was not unknown in these woods. And if you are his widow, that puts matters in a different light.'

Something in the way he said this caused Mrs Frisby's hopes to lift a little.

'What do you mean?' she asked.

'I mean, madame, that there
is
a way that your son's life might just possibly be saved. I did not mention it to you because I saw no way you could conceivably do it, and I did not want to arouse false hope. But if you are Jonathan Frisby's widow - then perhaps it can be done.'

'I don't understand at all,' said Mrs Frisby. 'What is this thing?'

'It is not a thing that I can do myself. You must go to the rats.'

'To the rats? But I don't know any rats. They have nothing to do with me.'

'I don't doubt that. They have little to do with anyone except themselves, and will have less as time goes on. Nonetheless, I think they will help you, and if they will, they can.'

'But what can they do?'

'They must move your house to a place where it will be safe from the plough.'

Now Mrs Frisby's spirits fell again, and she said, almost bitterly:

'You are joking, sir; you are not serious. No rat could move my house. It is far too heavy, much too big.'

'The rats on Mr Fitzgibbon's farm have - things -ways - you know nothing about. They are not like the rest of us. They are not, I think, even like most other rats. They work at night, in secret. Mrs Frisby, do you know their main entrance?'

'In the rosebush? Yes.'

'Go there. You will find a sentry guarding the door. His name is Justin. Tell him who you are, and that you came at my request. Tell him that you want to see a rat named Nicodemus. I think they will let you in, though they may insist on swearing you to secrecy. If they should ask that, you must of course use your own judgement; but my advice would be to do as they ask.'

Mrs Frisby was close to complete bewilderment.

'Secrecy,' she said. 'Secrecy about what?'

'That I cannot reveal. I, too, have agreed to it. Also, there is much I do not know, though I have given advice on certain aspects of their - projects.'

'Well,' said Mrs Frisby, 'I don't understand at all. But if it might save Timothy, I will try to do what you say.'

'Tell them,' added the owl,'that I suggest moving the house into the lee of the stone. Remember that - the lee of the stone. Also, do not forget the names: Justin and Nicodemus.'

'Justin. Nicodemus. The lee of the stone,' repeated Mrs Frisby. 'I will remember.' She was now so entirely puzzled that she did not think to ask -what the phrase meant. Presumably the rats would know.

'And, Mrs Frisby,' said the owl, moving again towards the entrance to the hollow, 'please understand: I was an admirer of your late husband, though I never met him in person, I wish you well. I hope your son's life can be saved. You see, I can understand your particular need, for I face a similar problem.'

'You?' said Mrs Frisby. 'But you have no Moving Day.'

'I have lived in this tree, in this same hollow,' the owl said, 'for more years than anyone can remember. But now, when the wind blows hard in winter and rocks the forest, I sit here in the dark, and from deep down in the bole, down near the roots, I hear a new sound. It is the sound of strands of wood creaking in the cold and snapping one by one. The limbs are falling; the tree is old, and it is dying. Yet I cannot bring myself, after so many years, to leave, to find a new home and move into it, perhaps to fight for it. I, too, have grown old. One of these days, one of these years, the tree will fall and when it does, if I am still alive, I will fall with it.'

With this sad prediction the owl stepped through his doorway, spread his great wings and was gone, soaring silently downward into the shadowy woods below.

Mrs Frisby followed him out on to the limb. To her relief, Jeremy was still waiting where she had left him, though not very patiently.

'We must hurry,' he said. 'It's almost dark. I'm not supposed to be out so late.' Mrs Frisby, who had the same feeling, climbed on his back, much less afraid now for two reasons: First, she was getting used to air travel; second, since the woods below them were dark, she could no longer see how far away the ground was.

'He talked to you for a long time,' said Jeremy as they flew. 'Did he tell you anything that will help?'

'I don't know,' said Mrs Frisby. Since the owl had brought up the matter of secrecy, and had, in fact, been secretive himself, she was not sure just how much she should tell Jeremy.

'Why don't you know?'

'I mean, he told me some things, but I don't know whether they'll help or not.' She decided to counter with a question of her own. 'What does "in the lee" mean?'

Jeremy, being like all birds knowledgeable about the wind, knew the answer to that. 'It means the calm side, the side the wind doesn't blow from. When there's a strong wind, you fly up to the barn from the lee, so you don't get bashed into the wall. My father taught me that.'

'I see,' said Mrs Frisby, and she became more puzzled than ever. What had the wind to do with it?

'He told me,' she said finally, deciding it could do no harm,'to go and see the rats.'

'The rats?' Jeremy was startled. 'But they don't have anything to do with us.'

'I know. But he thought they might help.'

'What could they do?'

'He thought they might move my whole house. But how they could do it, I can't imagine.'

'Oh, I don't doubt that they
could
,' said Jeremy. 'Everyone knows - at least all the birds know - that the rats can do things. They're up to something; nobody is quite sure what. For one thing, they're building themselves a new house, way back in the woods, over the mountains. They've even made quite a big clearing near it. I'd show you, but it's too dark now.

'They used to carry food, like the rest of us. But now we see them with other things - pieces of metal, and bits of machinery, and things I can't even recognize. They take them into that rosebush, and what happens to them I don't know. But the owl knows more than most. I expect he's had some dealings with them. Just the same, I've never heard of their helping anybody but themselves.'

'Neither have I. But I'm going to ask them anyway. There isn't anyone else to ask.'

By the time they reached the garden, it had gone almost completely dark, and Jeremy could not linger.

'Good night, Jeremy,' said Mrs Frisby, feeling almost affectionate towards the crow. 'Thank you for taking me, and for waiting to bring me back.'

'You're welcome,' said Jeremy. 'If you need me again, just ask. After all, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here to ask.' And he flew off into the darkness, the last crow to get home that night.

When Mrs Frisby got home, Teresa, Martin and Cynthia were eating supper, as she had told them to do if it got dark before she returned. Coming silently down the tunnel, she could hear them talking in the room below, and she paused a moment to eavesdrop on their conversation, Obviously Cynthia had been worrying, and Teresa was reassuring her.

'She couldn't have got back sooner than this, Cynnie. Don't you remember? The crow said it was a
mile
to the tree. It might even be farther.'

'Yes, but crows fly so fast.'

'But if he went two miles high' - that was Martin - 'it would be three miles altogether.'

'Six,' said Teresa. 'Two up, two down, and one to get there and one to get back.'

'That's right. No wonder she isn't back yet.'

'But what about the owl? You know how owls are.'

'It was still light when they got there. He couldn't see.'

'But it's dark now,' said Cynthia. 'Oh, I
wish
she'd come back. I'm scared.'

'Not so loud,' Teresa said. 'Timothy will hear.'

'I'm home,' called Mrs Frisby, hurrying the rest of the way down.

And now it appeared that they had all been worried, for they ran to her, and even Martin, who ordinarily avoided such displays, threw his arms around her.

'Oh Mother,' cried Cynthia, near tears. 'I was so worried.'

'Poor Cynthia. It's all right.'

'How high did you fly?' asked Martin, recovering quickly.

'High enough so the trees looked like bushes, the garden like a postcard, and the river like a snake.'

'Did you see the owl? What did he say?'

'I saw him. Later, I'll tell you about it. First I want to see Timothy. How is he? Why didn't you move his bed out here?'

Teresa said: 'I wanted to, but he said he'd rather stay in the bedroom. I think he's feeling worse again.'

But when Mrs Frisby went to see him, she found him sitting up, and his forehead felt not at all feverish.

'I'm all right,' he said. 'I stayed in here because I wanted to think about something.'

'Think about what?'

'About Moving Day.'

'Moving Day! But why? What about it?'

Had he, after all, overheard her talking to the others? Heard about her flight to the owl? But no, he was explaining.

'I haven't been outdoors since I got sick, so I don't know what it's like. I mean the weather. But today, this afternoon, I noticed something.'

'What was that?'

'A smell in the air, a warm, wet smell. If you sniff you can still smell it, though it's not so strong now.'

Mrs Frisby had noticed this, of course, both indoors and out.

'It's the smell of the frost melting,' Timothy went on. 'I remember it from last year. And after that, it wasn't long until we moved. Mother, when are we going to move this year?'

'Oh, not for a long time yet.' Mrs Frisby tried to sound as casual as she could. 'It's still much too cold, too early to think about it.'

'I have to think about it,' said Timothy. He sounded serious, but calm and unworried. 'Because if it comes too soon, I don't know if I can go. I tried walking a little bit today, in here, when the others were outside.'

'Timothy, you're supposed to stay in bed! You'll make yourself sick again.'

'I know, I know. But I had to find out. And I didn't walk much. I couldn't. I only went a few steps, and I got so dizzy I had to lie down again.'

'Of course you did. You haven't really recovered yet.'

'I suppose I haven't. That's why I wanted to think.'

'Timothy, you
must
not worry about it. That will only make you worse.'

I'm not worried at all. I thought I would be, but I'm not - or maybe I think I should be, but I can't. What I really think about is how nice it is there, in the summer beside the brook, and it's true, I want to go. But I'm not scared. I was afraid you might be, or that you might think I was. That's really what I wanted to tell you. I'm just going to wait and see what happens. So you shouldn't worry about it, either.'

Mrs Frisby realized that he had somehow switched their positions. He had seen the danger he was in - guessed, somehow, that Moving Day was near, and that he was very likely to die. And yet here he was -reassuring her. She wanted to tell him about the owl and the rats, tell him that something still might be done. But she decided she had better not; she did not really know if they would help. It would be better to wait until she had seen them.

So instead she said, rather lamely: 'Timothy, don't think about it any more. When the time comes, we'll see how you are and then decide what to do.'

The next morning at daybreak she went to see the rats. She had never been in the rosebush before, never even really close to it, and now, the nearer she got, the more nervous she became. No one had ever told her - nor, as far as she knew, told any of the other animals -to keep away from it. It was just something one knew. The rats on Mr Fitzgibbon's farm kept to themselves. One did not prowl in their domain.