time.” He was a powerful sorcerer, the greatest in the west. But he had been hiding now for decades, since the Great War, slowly regrowing his power. He didn’t dare let this young wizardess stay alive, lest she interfere with his plans.
So he winged back up into the top of the big pine behind the house. He could feel Amber’s power. He didn’t know what rock she was hiding under, but he knew that she was near.
He took a position in one of the lower boughs.
“What are we doing here?” Darwin asked.
Nightwing cast a magic spell to boost his sensitive hearing and perked up his ears. He had to move them back and forth a bit in order to avoid picking up radio signals from the local radio station. “Quiet,” Nightwing said, scrunching forward. “I hear mice . . .”
* * *
Back in the burrow, Ben’s confession had had a chilling effect on the voles. For a bit, they seemed distant and quiet, and Ben sulked in embarrassment at being forced to admit what humans did to mice.
Indeed, the voles all fell silent until young Bushmaster shouted, “Hey, let’s have some fun.” He began to sing:
When your fur gets all dirty,
Let it be your cue—
Don’t stink up your burrow;
Go run through the dew!
When the morning grass is wet,
You can sure have fun
Scrubbing off your belly
If you do it on the run!
Go and leave your odor—
Don’t let it follow you!
Find yourself a meadow
And run through the dew!
The song was obviously a favorite with the younger voles, who capered about, hopping madly as if forging through the grass in order to bathe in the morning dew.
From then on, the voles seemed to almost forget Ben. All night long they told stories and sang and danced around Amber’s light. It was a joyous celebration, unlike anything that Ben had ever witnessed. The voles played games, chasing each other’s tails, and when they tired, they feasted again, and the whole party started over.
Ben had a merry time but soon began feeling drowsy. Lest he fall asleep without his nightly prayer, he found a quiet corner and prayed softly but fervently, “Thank You for all of my blessings.” He had to stop to think of things that he was thankful for. “Thank You for this burrow, with its roots and warm leaves. Thank You for the . . . the trail mix of . . . ugh . . . dried fungi, even if it did smell questionable and have lots of vole spit on it.”
Now that he felt he had expressed appropriate thanks, he felt free to beg. Sniffling, he pleaded, “Please, please, I really hate being a mouse. If this was supposed to teach me something—like you shouldn’t feed your friends to lizards—then I’ve learned my lesson. So will You please, please turn me back?”
He sat for a moment hoping that God would answer, but nothing happened. No burning bush, no angel. Not even a strong hunch as to what to do.
What if I can never turn back into a human? Ben wondered. Would it be so bad to live here, in the backyard, under a pine tree with some friendly voles? He’d still be close to his mom and dad, he imagined, and that might make him feel sort of safe when he went to sleep—even though he wouldn’t have his football helmet on or a baseball bat hidden with him under the covers.
But now Ben could hear the voles whispering to Amber, holding a council. Vervane and Bushmaster warned of nearby dangers. There were local cats and dogs, which Ben had known about, but there were other predators too—like a crotchety old opossum, crows, an owl, a pair of grey foxes that came down from the hills in winter, a mink that sometimes wandered from the mill pond, pine snakes that slithered into burrows and ate whole families, and even a tarantula that hid under Ben’s own house.
If Ben had known of all these carnivores, he’d have been afraid to cross his own backyard.
I’ve got to find a weapon in the morning, Ben thought.
With that, he lay with his eyes closed, as if asleep, lulled by tales of narrow escape that Vervane spun with the expertness
So he winged back up into the top of the big pine behind the house. He could feel Amber’s power. He didn’t know what rock she was hiding under, but he knew that she was near.
He took a position in one of the lower boughs.
“What are we doing here?” Darwin asked.
Nightwing cast a magic spell to boost his sensitive hearing and perked up his ears. He had to move them back and forth a bit in order to avoid picking up radio signals from the local radio station. “Quiet,” Nightwing said, scrunching forward. “I hear mice . . .”
* * *
Back in the burrow, Ben’s confession had had a chilling effect on the voles. For a bit, they seemed distant and quiet, and Ben sulked in embarrassment at being forced to admit what humans did to mice.
Indeed, the voles all fell silent until young Bushmaster shouted, “Hey, let’s have some fun.” He began to sing:
When your fur gets all dirty,
Let it be your cue—
Don’t stink up your burrow;
Go run through the dew!
When the morning grass is wet,
You can sure have fun
Scrubbing off your belly
If you do it on the run!
Go and leave your odor—
Don’t let it follow you!
Find yourself a meadow
And run through the dew!
The song was obviously a favorite with the younger voles, who capered about, hopping madly as if forging through the grass in order to bathe in the morning dew.
From then on, the voles seemed to almost forget Ben. All night long they told stories and sang and danced around Amber’s light. It was a joyous celebration, unlike anything that Ben had ever witnessed. The voles played games, chasing each other’s tails, and when they tired, they feasted again, and the whole party started over.
Ben had a merry time but soon began feeling drowsy. Lest he fall asleep without his nightly prayer, he found a quiet corner and prayed softly but fervently, “Thank You for all of my blessings.” He had to stop to think of things that he was thankful for. “Thank You for this burrow, with its roots and warm leaves. Thank You for the . . . the trail mix of . . . ugh . . . dried fungi, even if it did smell questionable and have lots of vole spit on it.”
Now that he felt he had expressed appropriate thanks, he felt free to beg. Sniffling, he pleaded, “Please, please, I really hate being a mouse. If this was supposed to teach me something—like you shouldn’t feed your friends to lizards—then I’ve learned my lesson. So will You please, please turn me back?”
He sat for a moment hoping that God would answer, but nothing happened. No burning bush, no angel. Not even a strong hunch as to what to do.
What if I can never turn back into a human? Ben wondered. Would it be so bad to live here, in the backyard, under a pine tree with some friendly voles? He’d still be close to his mom and dad, he imagined, and that might make him feel sort of safe when he went to sleep—even though he wouldn’t have his football helmet on or a baseball bat hidden with him under the covers.
But now Ben could hear the voles whispering to Amber, holding a council. Vervane and Bushmaster warned of nearby dangers. There were local cats and dogs, which Ben had known about, but there were other predators too—like a crotchety old opossum, crows, an owl, a pair of grey foxes that came down from the hills in winter, a mink that sometimes wandered from the mill pond, pine snakes that slithered into burrows and ate whole families, and even a tarantula that hid under Ben’s own house.
If Ben had known of all these carnivores, he’d have been afraid to cross his own backyard.
I’ve got to find a weapon in the morning, Ben thought.
With that, he lay with his eyes closed, as if asleep, lulled by tales of narrow escape that Vervane spun with the expertness
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