Chapter Ten: Tea Time

 

Lily stood up on the other side of the long crawl under the briar patch, little worse for the wear. Arthur had guided her kindly all the way through, making sure that her knees never touched the bare earth and often crawling onto her back to move aside any thorns that might rip her dress.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she said.

“It was my pleasure, my dear. And now, on to Tea Time!”

They followed the path easily in the daylight, and before too long the yellowy-brownness of the Rookery towered before them. It delighted Lily to see that the home of the rooks was even more impressive in the daylight, although slightly less enchanting without the flickering light of the candles. The Rookery was indeed much more than just the great hall where the rooks slept. Side rooms and galleries stretched out on either side of the main atrium, tapering groundward as they went, meeting the earth as if the mighty structure had grown naturally from a single seed.

As Arthur and Lily walked toward the arch of the front doorway, Lily noticed for the first time a shallow stream running around its perimeter, like a moat. She had not noticed the stream in the darkness, nor had she realized that she had walked over a narrow, grass-covered stone bridge to reach the Rookery door.

In the daylight, she could make out the precision of the Rookery’s construction much more clearly. Thin, delicate branches had been braided loosely together, forming an ornate archway. As Lily passed through the archway into a short passage, she noticed that carved into the passage walls were hundreds of images of the rooks’ greatest feats of bravery and valor.  There above her were the stories of the legendary defeat of the hawks and the construction of the great hall, as well as carved portraits of some of the rooks’ more revered leaders of days gone by.

“Arthur,” Lily said, intending to ask him how the rooks could possibly have forgotten their history with these carvings displaying it so plainly, but she was startled from her thoughts by a great, almost deafening cheer followed by a ridiculous chorus of chattering and squawking.

“Oh!” Arthur exclaimed. “It looks like Tea Time has already begun! Come, we must hurry!” He grabbed her by the shoelace, almost untying it in his excitement, and began to scamper—in the most dignified way that a mouse can scamper—through the doorway and toward the far side of the Rookery.

Directly in the middle of the Rookery’s great hall the fire pit had been scrubbed sootless in preparation for Tea Time. In the middle of the fire pit, standing upon an upturned log, Romulus had just made a long, dignified bow. The cheering died down to a hush, and Arthur hurriedly directed Lily to an empty space along the outside edge of the Rookery floor.

As the rooks settled down, Lily had an opportunity to glance around her. Even though Arthur had told her that all the animals of the forest frequented the Rookery, she had not expected to see quite so many of them at Tea Time. Sitting next to her was a fidgeting tawny owl. He looked at her excitedly, unconsciously reaching up with his right foot to scratch his beak, before turning his enormous eyes back to the fire pit. He involuntarily hooted in his excitement. Lily noticed a family of bats hanging from one of the abandoned rooks’ nests, trying hard to stay awake for the festivities. A jackrabbit hopped excitedly around and around the base of the Rookery, knocking some of the smaller animals—the moles, voles, and weasels—off balance as he passed behind them.

Finally, the chattering animals and birds achieved silence. “Thank you, thank you,” Romulus cried to the rooks lining the edges of the Rookery. “I am pleased to see that our afternoon snack has arrived,” he grinned at Arthur. The rooks cheered and cawed good naturedly, while Arthur smiled and waved in acquiescence to the joke.

“I hope you’re all sitting comfortably. I hereby commence...” and here, a deadly silence washed over the crowd, “...Tea Time!”

A quiet, but intense whispering began at the top of the Rookery and fell like soft snow lower and lower until the whole Rookery was buzzing with it. It was only now that Lily noticed a huge bronze spittoon to Romulus’ left and an enormous pile of hard, flat biscuits on his right. Romulus looked grimly around the room, as if searching for something, then grasped a biscuit with his left wing, raised his right foot, and spun with blinding quickness on the spot as he hurled the biscuit high into the top reaches of the Rookery. All eyes were on the biscuit, and the tension was maddening. Then, just as the biscuit had reached its full height, threatening to fall, a midsized rook launched himself toward the empty space in the middle of the Rookery and caught the biscuit in his beak. At that moment, several things happened: two rooks blazed through the air and pirouetted around one another just below the rook with the biscuit; Romulus soared toward the Rookery’s highest point and attempted to steal the biscuit from the rook who had caught it, and the moment he left his base at the fire pit, both the jackrabbit and the tawny owl raced for the spittoon, the jackrabbit reaching it first and squeezing inside, while the owl only bounced with a ridiculously loud clang off its outside. Both owl and jackrabbit righted themselves at once and the jackrabbit began bouncing around the floor of the Rookery like a golden cannonball with legs. Animals scurried every which way, and from high above, rooks soared down from their roosts, bombarding the Rookery floor in an attempt to seize one of the biscuits. They each in turn hurled their biscuits either skyward toward the fierce game of catch that was ensuing in the air above, or earthward, trying to knock the bouncing spittoon on its side. The owl made attempt after clanging attempt to knock the jackrabbit-powered spittoon off balance, while a slick black otter, who had apparently just emerged from the stream outside, barked with glee, flipped onto his back and began to beat his wet stomach in uproarious applause.

Lily giggled and clapped her hands at the chaos. She looked to her right expecting to see Arthur, but he was gone. He had run off with the other animals to take part in the Tea Time romp. She saw him on the other side of the Rookery floor near the otter, at the head of a group of animals—some rooks, the family of bats, a weasel, a turtle, and a very sleepy mole. The mouse turned to face the hodgepodge group of animals and lifted his hands. They all took a deep breath in unison and as his hands came down, out from the midst of this rag-tag choir came a mighty song.

Sing, sing the oldest song
To all the trees and all the fields
To this glad world we all belong
Sing, sing the oldest song

Drink, drink the oldest wine
For friendship, food and cheer
From every fruit of every vine
Drink, drink the oldest wine

For all brave fools and sinful saints
For every searching soul
For mournful cry or glad heart faint
With love and mercy full

Sing, sing the oldest song
To all the trees and all the fields
To this glad world we all belong
Sing, sing the oldest song

The singing and the squawking and the banging of biscuits on the spittoon, of which the jackrabbit had somehow managed to maintain control, turned into a great dissonant tumult, like a symphony of pots and pans. And then with another deafening unified cheer, the whole lot broke into great peals of laughter. Suddenly, Tea Time seemed over, and somehow Lily had missed it altogether. She stood on the Rookery floor with her mouth hanging open before she too fell to the ground in laughter.

Romulus had landed back in the shiny fire pit that was now littered with crumbs and feathers and all manner of dust and twigs and even a few worn out rooks. He raised his wings for silence and the mad giggles slowly faded except for a few insuppressible fits of laughter from a mole or two and the jackrabbit, who was so dizzy that he hadn’t yet been able to extract himself from the spittoon.

“To your health!” Romulus cried.

“And to yours,” the animals returned, and everyone descended to the Rookery floor to shake paws, hands, and wings and celebrate the morning’s achievements. Lily found herself towering above the crowd of animals, but several of them attempted to shake her hands anyway, and a few of the smaller ones actually found the courage to ascend her stockings and her dress in order to greet her face to face—a bit too close for her comfort, perhaps, but she did not really mind.

“Pleased to meet you,” Lily said to a beaver who had stood on his hind legs to greet her with a toothy smile. He immediately attempted to regale her with the long but not-so-fascinating tale of his construction of the dam that created the Rookery moat, but at the same moment Lily noticed a furry reddish animal skulking around the outside edge of the Rookery floor. Almost instantly, Lily could tell that the animal was a fox—perhaps the only animal in the forest who had not taken part in Tea Time. The skittish creature now seemed to be hiding among the tree trunks rather than joining in the fun.

“Excuse me, Mr. Beaver. I must be going,” Lily said somewhat abruptly, and cast her eyes around the room for someone she trusted.

“Oh. Of course. Certainly,” the beaver replied, ambling off to join his friends.

Lily couldn’t see Arthur anywhere, but she heard Titus’ voice, and after having heard so many good things about him from Arthur, she decided that he was next best. “Titus,” she called to him.

“At your service, madam,” he replied rather coldly.

Afraid that Titus was still offended by her disrespect the previous day and anxious to make friends again, she said, “Titus, thank you so much for bringing me to the Rookery yesterday. What a wonderful place you rooks have built! Arthur has told me all about it.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad you like it. I knew you wouldn’t be disappointed. How are you getting on? Isn’t Tea Time marvelous?” he replied, making a noble attempt to forget their difficult beginning.

“It is marvelous! There isn’t much in the way of tea, though, is there?”

“Well, no, though I suppose there must have been some tea involved when the tradition began. Alas! Even the tea itself has disappeared from Tea Time as the years have passed.”

“I like it better this way,” she declared. “But I think there may be some trouble. Titus, I think there is a fox hiding over there.”

“Where?” the rook asked.

“Over there,” she replied, pointing to the dark shaft where a fluffy red paw rested at the base of an oak.

“What? The fox?” Titus smiled. “That’s no one. It’s just Edward. He’s a strange one. His whole family is a bit eccentric, but he’s not dangerous; he just likes to linger in this wood. Don’t concern yourself with him, miss.”

“But why would any animal want to just watch Tea Time when they could join in on the fun?”

“Why, indeed?” Titus answered with a chortle.

“It has been some morning, Titus,” Lily said.

“Yes, it has!” he agreed. And with that, he returned to his conversation with another rook about a particularly spectacular maneuver he had accomplished during Tea Time, leaving Lily free to look for Arthur.

She soon noticed him standing near a small knot of animals that Lily recognized as his choir, but he didn’t appear to be talking to them. In fact, to Lily’s great concern, he appeared to be in a heated discussion with himself.

“I do appreciate your opinion,” he was saying as Lily knelt down beside him. “In fact, I value your talent immensely, but perhaps this is a discussion best taken up at tomorrow’s rehearsal.”

Arthur was so focused on what he was saying, that he failed to notice Lily’s arrival. “Arthur?” Lily whispered, now quite concerned.

“Oh!” he said, startled. “Miss Lily, I didn’t see you there!”

“Arthur, is everything alright?” she said, gently.

He looked at her quizzically, and then burst into laughter. “Oh, Miss Lily! How this must have looked! Yes, I’m fine! Let me introduce you to Horatio. I imagine he might be difficult for you to see. Horatio is a mosquito.”

“Pleased to meet you, Horatio,” Lily said, squinting to see him hovering a foot or so off the ground.

“Horatio is our resident poet, and when you arrived he was just offering his very valued opinion about the lyrics of the Tea Time song I composed,” Arthur said to Lily before turning to Horatio and saying, “Thank you, Horatio, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Arthur!” Lily exclaimed as Horatio buzzed merrily away. “You have a choir! How fun!”

“Oh yes, Miss Lily, we do have a little singing group. I have only been working with them for a short time, but they have made tremendous progress. Singing is a great equalizer. It builds up the community in a way that competitions like Tea Time could never do. Don’t you think?” Arthur beamed.

“I do!” Lily replied. “Do they all sing with you? The rooks and everyone, I mean?”

“Heavens, no! At least, not yet,” Arthur laughed. “I have tried to convince Titus that a formal choir would do wonders to unify the rooks and help them see their potential. But he resists me—usually by saying ‘poppycock’ or ‘codswallop’ or some other nonsense word. But someday...someday I’m going to get these birds to work together. Then we will see what we can really do, won’t we?”

Just then, near the Rookery door, a group of otters flipped over onto their backs in unison and began beating out a rhythm that stirred the animals into a second frenzy. “Ah! My drum corps!” Arthur called out cheerfully to Lily over the noise, before he took off in a very mouse-like scurry toward the Rookery door.

“Come, Miss Lily! Intermission is over!” he called behind him. She was almost certain she had detected a hint of mischief in his eyes, and Lily, being quite accustomed to a hint of mischief of her own now and then, didn’t hesitate to follow quite cheerfully.

As she raced toward the Rookery door, Lily realized that something strange had come over the animals. The rooks raced into the air together and streamed through the small opening in the top of the Rookery, while all the earthbound animals scampered and hopped through the archway and over the stone bridge. Even though she was much bigger than the others, Lily found it hard to keep up with them as they dashed madly through the forest. “You’re going to love this, to be sure, miss! Part two is my favorite!” hooted the tawny owl as he flew past her to catch up with the others.

“Arthur!” she shouted as she ran, even though she couldn’t see him in the rush of animals.

“Yes?” she heard him call back with some effort

“Where are you? Where are we going?” she called out.

“You’ll see!” He tried to say something further but his voice was drowned out by the wild animal giggles rising from the forest floor.

The animals ran, hopped, and flew deeper and deeper into the forest, and Lily had become nearly wild with anticipation, wondering what the second half of this mad Tea Time would hold, when suddenly a crack and rumble of thunder like the end of the world shook the forest to its roots. The small animals cowered, the large animals became as still as statues, the rooks fell from the sky like huge black hailstones, and Lily screamed, tripped on a root, and tumbled to the ground. In their play, none of the animals had noticed the dark clouds gathering over the forest or smelled the oncoming rain, so they were all unprepared for the abrupt ending to Tea Time.

Lily held her hands over her head as the first drops fell from the dark clouds, though the effort would do little good. The bulging pillows of dark gray hanging low in the sky were not the clouds of a gentle autumn shower; they were the clouds of a fierce thunderstorm. The light sprinkling did not last long; the raindrops grew bigger and more frequent, and before anyone had time to react, the storm was upon them.

“Run for it, friends! For your lives! For queen and country!” Titus cawed at the top of his voice, and Lily looked up to see the entire party of animals running and flying straight toward her. She stood up, turned around, and ran too, more to keep from being trampled than anything else.

As Lily ran, hordes of moles, weasels, bats, and rooks sped past her, but no matter how fast she ran she couldn’t keep up with the crowd. The sky opened up in earnest and began to dump its entire store of water on the forest, and Lily and the animals careened toward the Rookery, but it was no use. By the time they reached the stream and the stone bridge, every one of them was drenched to the bone.

Chapter Nine: The Painter

 

“OUT!” Nan shouted, to Lily’s delight, just as the clock struck two. She sulked out of the drawing room as she had done a thousand times before and walked slowly around the edge of the garden lightly brushing the rosetops with her hand until she came to the kissing gate. She eased it open, and, with one last glance at the drawing room window behind which Nan was still fuming about the crumbs all over the floor, she bolted toward the boundary wall. A quick scramble up and a short jump down, and nothing but the sky and the rolling hills was left between Lily and the forest.

The sun over the purple hills was bright but cold, and off to the west a small cloud had appeared on the horizon, but Lily paid very little attention to her beloved heather fields or the familiar sounds of life on the moor. She was racing north, her eyes fixed firmly on the forest.

Lily had worn one of her prettier dresses today—blue, with small yellow flowers, and a pretty white ribbon around her waist and matching ribbons in her hair. It was not often, after all, that she was invited to a proper afternoon tea all by herself, and she wanted Arthur and the rooks to think her dignified and ladylike—quite a contrast to her appearance last night.

She arrived at the edge of the forest only a few minutes late and stepped through a break in the trees very nearly treading on Arthur, who was only saved a mighty squashing by his mousey instinct for dodging human feet. He was not, after all, a stranger to that sort of experience.

“Arthur!” Lily practically screamed, partly from a rather girly inclination to be afraid of mice, and partly from the fear that she had indeed made an end of him. She froze in mid-step looking very much like an open-mouthed flamingo, and could not unfreeze herself until she saw that Arthur was well out of reach.

“Well, Miss Lily, I daresay you almost made a pancake of me,” he chuckled, brushing the dirt from his forepaws. “You look very lovely today.”

“I’m awfully sorry, Arthur! I was in a hurry because I didn’t want to leave you waiting too long,” Lily apologized.

“It is a lady’s prerogative to arrive when she wishes, my dear. Think nothing more of it. There is no harm done. Shall we be off to tea, then?”

“Oh yes!”

“I am so happy that we are able to walk this path together in the daylight. It is a beautiful forest don’t you think?” Arthur began.

“It is beautiful! I was only inside the forest once before in the daylight. It was summer and everything was green, but I think I prefer it in autumn,” Lily replied.

“I agree. Autumn is the jewel of the seasons. I love the colors, the crisp air, the melancholy drift into the cold sleep of winter. People often talk of autumn as a sad time—the trees lose their leaves, the sun loses its warmth, the day loses its light—but I find great comfort in autumn. It reminds me of home…” Arthur had slowed almost to a stop in his reverie, and Lily, knowing a happy daydream when she saw one, was reluctant to disturb him. But soon he blinked once or twice, and his whiskers twitched in turn, and he began to walk again.

“Arthur?” Lily asked. “Were you born in the forest?”

“Oh, no my dear girl,” he smiled up at her. “I was born far, far away from this forest. I have only been here a short time, in fact.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“But how did you come to be here?” Lily asked.

“Well, it is a long story, but I suppose we have time,” Arthur began. “You may be surprised to hear that I was not in fact born in England. My parents were English merchant shipmice but they traveled often between Southampton and Paris on smaller vessels doing a rather successful trade in English wheat and French cheese with mice on both sides of the Channel. Both of my parents were devoted lovers of music and they would often while away the hours in the dark corners of their ships’ hulls making tiny instruments out of whatever cast off materials they could find on board. Over time, we children were born. There were eight mouselings altogether, and I was the youngest but one. My baby sister was named Sibyl.

“One autumn, my eldest sister, Agatha, grew very ill and Mother and Father decided that it would be wise to pass the winter in Paris rather than attempting another crossing to England. We disembarked at the Ile de la Cite, just at the downstream tip of the island. We children had rarely left the boats in our short lives, and scurrying onto land was both a treat and a terror. But how could we fear when we looked up from the plateau on which we stood to see the most ravishing, heartbreakingly beautiful autumn trees? We stood in a wonderful little triangular park. To each side of us, the river flowed gently downstream to the Channel, and before us, the shadow of the giant Pont Neuf loomed, but here, we were in a perfect little hiding place, our own secret garden. Black wrought iron fences shielded the people from an accidental slip into the river on either side. Wooden benches lined the edges of the tiny tree covered park, and the grass...oh, the soft, fragrant grass! I shall never forget it.

“As we children stood, mouths hanging wide open, gazing at the wonders about us, we heard a strange sound—a man weeping. He was sitting on a bench looking at the Seine flowing serenely by, tears flowing down his face and into his beard. He was pale and thin, and oh, so sad. His tears could break your heart. We children were all drawn to him, but it was little Sibyl who ran to the bench, climbed up to the seat and perched herself, quite fearlessly on his knee.

“The rest of us trembled in the shadows, fearful for our sweet sister. And then, the strangest thing happened...The thing that changed our lives...”

“What was it?” Lily cried, desperate for the answer.

“The sad man began to smile. He said hello to Sibyl. And she said hello back.”

“Oh dear! What happened?” Lily cried.

“Nothing happened. He didn’t start. He didn’t run. He didn’t even look surprised! He just smiled and tickled her behind her ear. Before I knew it, all my brothers and sisters had crowded around the bench, and one by one they climbed up to the seat and were introduced by my sister. My mother and father and I came last, and before I knew it, the man and my father had struck up a friendship, much like yours and mine. Once he discovered that we had nowhere to live, he invited us to stay with him in his rented rooms near the great cathedral of Notre Dame. That idea suited us all very well, and we climbed into his pockets for our first journey through Paris.

“When we arrived in his rooms, it was early afternoon. The sun was streaming in through the windows, and as we scrambled out of his pockets, we each in turn uttered a cry of surprise. Covering almost every inch of the man’s walls hung the most glorious paintings of blue and gold and red and green that I dare say you have ever seen. It was a garden of colors! Springtime and autumn thrust together in one room. And to make the day an even greater success, in the corner stood a dusty old piano.

“My mother and father leapt for joy. The man smiled a tiny smile when my father asked him if he was a musician. ‘No,’ he replied shyly, ‘I am only a painter with a love for music. I don’t have the skill to make it myself. I once engaged a teacher to help me learn to play, but he became frustrated and refused to teach me after only a few lessons. You see, in each note I hear a different color. In the low tones the deep greens and blues, in the high, the red and yellow, and when they play together, they paint the most wonderful pictures in my mind. My teacher could not appreciate that I must paint what I see in music, no matter how often it interrupted his lesson. Now, alas, the piano sits alone and unused.’

“‘It’s a pity,’ my father replied, ‘but perhaps we can help.’ That very afternoon, my parents began to fulfill a dream—a dream they had long dreamed but had never had opportunity to bring to life. That afternoon, my parents began teaching us to play the piano.

“Ten mice was a very convenient number for playing the piano, as you might imagine. We worked and worked, each of us playing the part of one finger, putting together whole sonatas one note at a time, and by early winter we had begun to build up quite a repertoire.

“Every evening we sat with the painter eating our dinner, and after dinner he would lean back in his ragged armchair and close his eyes, and we would play. Sometimes we played Wagner or Debussy. Sometimes we would compose our own melodies. As we played, we could tell that the notes were creating pictures in his head, and long before we finished he would have become immersed in his paints. Oh, the things that came from that man’s brush! It was like, like...like autumn in a way. One minute all was plain and comfortable like summer, and the next, brilliant color had spread across the world and taken your breath away. In those moments, he seemed a little less sad.

“Winter came and went and my sister Agatha blossomed with the spring. We were all overjoyed that she had regained her health, but my father’s joy seemed tinged with sorrow. One morning I found myself intruding on a private moment between my father and our host. My father stood on the painter’s shoulder, patting his neck as if to comfort him. And this time, they were both crying.

“’I am so sorry, Vincent,’ my father sniffed. ‘I wish we could stay, but we were not made for land, we mice. Our home is on the sea. I know you understand.’

“’Of course I understand,’ he replied as he shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. ‘You are at home on the sea as I am at home in a wheat field or under a cypress tree. This place is no home for any of us. Perhaps I will go away too.’

“’But your paintings!’ my father cried. ‘You have a gift my friend! Don’t give up on Paris yet.’

“’Paris has given up on me, I’m afraid. No one appreciates my work. I might just as well hurl my paintings into the Seine,’ he sobbed, dropping his head into his hands.

“And I’m afraid he did just that, Miss Lily. Over the next two weeks, his glorious paintings began to disappear, one by one. He never broke down in tears again (I think it was love for our family that compelled him to put on a brave face), but his eyes were full of sorrow. We mice cried often, though, especially my little sister, Sibyl.

“’Father, don’t you see that he needs us?’ she would plead, but our duty to our family overruled our hearts’ desire, and we made preparations to leave.

“The painter’s rooms were empty on the day we left. Not a scrap of paint, not a strip of canvas, not a sign was left that anyone had lived there, save the old piano standing in the corner. Our parting had come—but none of us could have known that an even more difficult parting was just ahead.

“We climbed into his pocket that spring afternoon and made the short but sad journey back to the park at the tip of the island. There we sat together on the bench where we had met and we all wept together. Then we kissed his tear-streaked face one by one and climbed to the ground. We watched as he walked, downhearted, to the staircase leading up to the bridge and out of our lives.

“But oh, if only the sorrow of that day had ended there!” Arthur’s whiskers had begun to twitch just a little.

“Just as the sad man passed out of sight, a crowd of noisy children ran down the staircase and into the park. There were so many of them. We tried to run for cover, but it was too late. They had seen us, and they began to scream—some with delight, some with terror. They chased my brothers and sisters around the park squealing. The women with them could do no more than stand on the benches and scream, as women tend to do. I couldn’t see clearly what was happening to my family, but before I knew it, all I could see was the inside of a child’s pocket, his chubby hand squeezing me tightly as I tried to escape. Soon the squealing died down, and I could hear the women rushing the children back toward the staircase. I bumped along violently inside the child’s pocket, unable to escape because he had buttoned me in. I tried to call for my family, but could hear nothing over the twitter of the children’s voices.”

 “I finally escaped the boy’s pocket when he opened it to show a friend. I ran frantically back to the park, but night had already fallen and I knew I was alone. I waited all night, but my family never came. Early the next morning, I ventured back to the painter’s apartment, hoping that he might be there, or that my family had found their way back. He had gone, but my baby sister’s tailbow was sitting on middle-C on the piano. She had been wearing it in the park, so I knew she had made it back to the apartment alive.

“I waited for a week, but she never returned. I can only imagine that she—and the rest of my family, if they survived—thought that I was lost. I reasoned that they must have sailed for England, so I boarded a ship, which I thought was bound for Southampton. But I was mistaken. It docked instead at the port not too far from here. Oh, the sorrow, Miss Lily! The dejection! I was a ruined mouse, and my heart had split in two. I wandered the docks, searching for news of my family, or of the painter, but no one had heard of any of them. I was alone in the world and too weary to go on. That’s when I met Titus.”

“Titus?” Lily said, wrinkling her nose.

“Yes, Miss Lily, Titus was the one who found me. At first, he admitted, he wanted to eat me. But seeing the sorrow in my eyes, he couldn’t bear to do it. Instead, he brought me to the forest. I told him the story of my family, and he told me much the same story that he told you about the rooks, but I could tell that something in my sorrow had touched a part of his heart that he had long neglected. Nevertheless, he soon flew away, leaving me alone in the hollow of an old oak tree near the sea.

“I lived alone in the forest for several months, foraging for food and trying to make friends with the other forest creatures, but none of them seemed able to relate to me. Then one afternoon I heard a great rattling crash screaming through the trees above me. Titus had been gone for many weeks, but when I looked up, I could see plainly that it was Titus himself making such a ruckus. He practically bounced from limb to limb in his descent, but when he landed in front of me with an almighty thud, there was music in it. He was carrying an enormous parcel, and was grinning from ear to ear, as I am sure you know rooks very rarely do.

“‘Hullo, Arthur!’ he beamed. ‘Package for you.’

“‘For me? I thought you had left me! Why have you returned?’ I replied, shocked nearly to death.

“‘I did leave you, but now I’m back, as you can see. Open it!’ he cried, hopping from foot to foot like he does when he is excited.

“I tore open the wrapping, and there before me was the very piano you have seen in the Rookery. It was crafted from the tiniest slivers of ivory and wood and its perfectly tuned strings and golden finish bore the marks of a true craftsman. But that was not the only mark my piano bore, Miss Lily, oh no. On the side panel was the mark of the painter—the mark I had seen him scribble on every one of his paintings.

“Titus came with a story. Having heard my tale, he had returned to the Rookery, but he couldn’t get thoughts of my family out of his mind. As I said, something changed in Titus that day. So the very next day he flew to France, where he searched high and low for news of my family and news of the painter. (A rook, of course, is a much better investigator than a mouse, simply because he travels so freely.) He flew further and further south until he met some rooks who had seen the man painting in a garden in Arles. Titus was sure that he was the same man because the rooks had mentioned, oh joy of joys, a little girl-mouse sitting on his knee as he painted. It was my sister Sibyl! Titus found them and told my tale, and both the man and my sister were so overjoyed that they at once set about together making my lovely piano.

“Not long after the piano came, Titus invited me to live at the Rookery. He had been reluctant before, not being able to guarantee my safety, but he guessed rightly (and luckily for me) that if I would play my music, the rooks would be kept at bay. As you saw last night, the power of the music is great indeed. And for now, that is the end of my tale. One day soon I hope to go and find my family, but that day is still to come. It is part of another story not yet written. And for now I am needed at the Rookery.”

Lily did not remember having sat down on a bed of leaves as Arthur was talking, but she found herself hugging her legs, staring with wide, moist eyes at Arthur who had climbed up to her left knee as he spoke. She gazed into his eyes, marveling at the courage of her tiny new friend.

“Now, Miss Lily,” he smiled, his big brown eyes shining. “I’m afraid we have come to the briar patch once again. Let’s see if we can line the ground with some of these leaves so we can keep that beautiful dress clean.”

Chapter Eight: The Garden

      Strathclyde was not the sort of man who believed in fairy tales. He was a man of fact. A man of science. He trusted in the seasons, in the rain, the sun, the fog, and the land. That is not to say that Strathclyde was not a man of faith. He had watched far too many flowers grow, too many seeds become vegetables, and too many boys become men to presume that the world of glorious science he found all around him had no designer. In his mind, science required faith, and to hold to one without the other was to lose half the wonder of life.

       The morning dew was shimmering in the garden the way it had shimmered for the last seventy years, since Strathclyde was a wee boy building castles among the dirt clods. He stood at the head of the garden for some time, surveying his kingdom. His eastern border was guarded by the stalwart parsnips and carrots. To the west, his apple trees kept lookout over the moor. The blackberry hedge stood sentinel at the southern gate, and before him, the heartland flourished: cabbages and cauliflower, broccoli and beans, potatoes, tomatoes, melons and strawberries—each bringing forth their bounty in season and fulfilling their duties year after year.

       Strathclyde sighed with satisfaction. He loved every plant like a child, and knew every dip and rise of the fertile ground. He had planted the apple trees himself as a young man and had built the garden’s many benches and arbors over the years. It was a glorious place, and Strathclyde knew his garden better than he knew himself—which is why it was so unsettling that he couldn’t find his spade.

       The old man knitted his brows and rubbed his scraggly chin as he walked toward his palace—the wooden shed he had built in the corner just beside his willow tree. The shed was a wonder. It smelled of fresh earth and clay with just a hint of the metallic tang of rust in the air. The black soil was beaten hard from Strathclyde’s work boots and the walls practically glittered with the polished iron of his carefully categorized, meticulously placed tools. The spade’s place, just over the hand plow, was empty. And this troubled Strathclyde. Oh, he had other spades, but this spade was out of its place, and he didn’t know where it had gone.

     “Troubling. Troubling indeed,” he muttered to the wall. “Where have I put you? Or could it be…no.”

       A snuffling sound just outside told him a visitor had arrived in the garden. “Come here, girl!” he shouted through the wall, and old Dot flew in from outside and into Strathclyde’s outstretched arms. The old man laughed as the dog bathed his face in kisses, and he returned the love with a rough scratch behind both her ears. They crouched together on the ground, Dot following the gardener’s gaze to the empty space on the wall.

         She whimpered in sympathy.

       “Where do you think it’s gone, girl? I know what my old man would say, God rest him: ‘It’s the sign of the spade!’ he’d say. ‘Look out for trouble!’ Crazy, wonderful old man. I wish you could talk, girl. I bet you remember where I’ve left it.”

       Strathclyde used the hand plow as a brace as he stood up creakily. “Blasted rheumatism,” he complained. Dot followed him out of the shed and into the bright sunlight. The dew had lifted, but not enough to please him. “Gonna be a wet one,” he said to no one in particular, though not a cloud was in the sky. “Suppose we’d better find that spade before it gets a soaking. No one likes a rusty spade, eh, girl?”

       Dot barked in agreement before bounding off to the blackberry hedge to help with the search.

Strathclyde headed toward the apple trees to see if perhaps he had dropped the spade there during an afternoon slumber, but stopped short when he caught sight of a black boot shooting upward and out of sight among the branches.

       “Tom! Newton!” the old man shouted. “You boys come down here at once!” Hilarious snickers erupted from the branches before four long legs, four gangly arms, and two giggling ginger heads fell in a heap at Strathclyde’s feet.

       “Hello, Strathclyde! Hello, sir!” the boys laughed together, trying to untangle themselves.

The old man grinned in spite of himself and extended a helping hand to each. They finally found their feet and stood up, Tom, the eldest, almost eye-to-eye with Strathclyde.

       “Boys, I have told you time and time again not to climb that tree. That’s the old woman’s pie tree and you know she hates footprints on her apples.”

       “We know, sir,” Tom said, only slightly apologetically.

       “It was Lily, sir,” Newton offered.

       “That’s right,” Tom agreed, “she won’t leave us to ourselves. Always wants to play with us.”

      “And we keep telling her we don’t play anymore. Playing is for babies and we don’t want her around.”

       “Oh, boys…” Strathclyde began.

       “And we told her again today but she started throwing kippers at us!”

      “’Arthur wants to play with me!’ she said. ‘Arthur is lovely and kind, not like you!’ she shouted, and kippers were flying through the air and we had to escape, Strathclyde. So, you see, we weren’t in the tree for fun. It was for safety,” Tom explained, his eyes growing wider with every word.

       “For safety,” Newton repeated.

       Strathclyde stood very still for a moment, knowing he should scold the boys for being so harsh to their sister, but also knowing the feeling of needing a quick escape from flying kippers. “Who is Arthur?” he asked.

       The boys rolled their eyes, “A mouse,” Newton said.

       Tom added, “Who plays the piano.”

     “She told us a story at breakfast just now about a bird that she rescued from a hawk and the bird apparently talks and it told her about a battle between some rooks and some hawks and it took her to a magical place in the forest and there she met Arthur. A mouse who plays the piano,” Newton elaborated.

       “We think she’s gone mad,” Tom said.

      “Maybe we should send her away somewhere. They make special hospitals for children who see talking animals, don’t they?”

       “But that was just a dream she had,” Strathclyde corrected.

       “That’s not what she told us. Sounds to me like she’s been reading too many storybooks. Or she’s as crazy as old Mr. Coffintop!” Tom cackled, and the two boys collapsed onto one another in glee. Tom pushed Newton, and Newton pushed Tom, and before Strathclyde could say another word, they had both climbed the apple tree, leapt over the garden wall, and disappeared from view.

       “She’s maaaaaaaaaaaad!” they shouted in unison as they sprinted down the lane.

      Strathclyde shook his head. “Those boys,” he said, and turned around to look for his missing spade.

Chapter Seven: Strathclyde

 

After dark the moor loses its friendly purple hue. It turns blacker than night, and with a wrong turn, a young girl would be no better off on those lonely, windy hills than a ship lost at sea. But Lily was in no danger of getting lost. Her house was brightly lit, as if every lamp and every fireplace had been stoked to their full capacity to guide her safely home. She ran up and down and up and down over the hills, her ribbons trailing behind her like the tail of a comet, and long before she reached the village’s boundary wall, she could hear her name trailing on the wind as Nan, Strathclyde, and his plump wife called desperately into the night.

“I’m here!” Lily shouted, stumbling over a small stone. “Nan! I’m here!” But her cries were in vain, for the wind only carried them back toward the forest.

The lights grew brighter and her way clearer as she ran ever nearer home. “I’m here!” she shouted again, and in three steps she had scrambled over the village wall and almost knocked down Strathclyde just as he called her name into the night.

“Well, Lily, it looks as if you’ve been adventuring,” the old man said with a quiet laugh. He set his hand upon her shoulder and looked her up and down. “Yes, sir. You have had quite an adventure, I suspect.”

“I did! Oh Strathclyde! It was wonderful! There was a rook, and a—”

“I do wish we had time now for storytelling, lass” he interrupted with a whisper. “Perhaps you can tell me all about it tomorrow. But for now I’m afraid you have some trouble coming your way. The womenfolk are on the prowl and it looks like they’ve found you. Ah yes...”

“LILY!” shouted Nan, her face the most fantastic shade of purple. “Where have you been? And look at the state of you! Stockings ripped and muddied, dress torn, shoes scuffed! You are a mess! What am I supposed to do with you? And where were you?”

“I—” Lily tried to answer.

“You’re filthy! I always said you needed a firmer hand, and I intend to tell your mother as much just as soon as she returns. Upstairs and into the bath at once, young lady! I have never been so furious in my life!” Nan held Lily firmly by the arm and half-dragged her into the house, muttering the whole way.

Lily was ashamed of her behavior, of course. She hadn’t wanted to upset Nan when she followed Titus into the forest, but in the end she felt it couldn’t have been helped. Nevertheless, she wore a truly repentant look as Nan marched her up the stairs—but just as the two climbed out of sight, Lily heard a quiet chuckle. She glanced behind her to see Strathclyde standing by the drawing room fireplace, staring up at her with a hint of amusement in his gaze.

By the time Lily had been bathed and brushed, pajamaed and bedded, the crackling nursery fire had begun to burn low. Nan had spent her anger on phrases such as, “If your father were here...” and, “If you ever do that again...” and now she leaned gently over Lily’s bed to kiss her goodnight. “You gave me a dreadful fright tonight, Lily,” she whispered, “but I am glad you have come home safe and sound. You won’t ever do that again, will you?”

“No, I promise. Good night, Nannykins,” Lily grinned.

“Good night,” Nan said with a weary smile as she closed the nursery door.

As the firelight danced on the warm, safe nursery walls, Lily’s mind drifted slowly back to the Rookery. Soon shadows of rooks and hawks in battle flickered across the walls, shadows of mice scurried for safety, and badgers and foxes snuffled around innocently below. Lily closed her eyes, and before she knew it, she was swimming in a sea of piano music. All around her, animals of every sort danced a slow, stately dance, as if they were guests at a royal ball. An Indian prince drifted by on his bejeweled elephant. He dismounted regally, and asked permission to take her arm for the next dance. He was handsome and strong and he smelled of warm hay and firewood, and Lily simply couldn’t resist. Soon they were twirling and spinning through the ocean of music and the elephant swayed gracefully to and fro (for so elephants can when swimming in a sea of nothing but music). The music swelled. They spun and drifted, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the prince became a mouse. He was dressed in splendid robes of white and gold, with a delicate golden crown resting between his pink ears. He smiled warmly, and they danced off through a forest of dark greens and purples until they came to his palace—an enormous golden rookery. The music faded, the prince bowed low in thanks, and Lily drifted away into a deep and happy sleep.

The day was still young when Lily opened her eyes the next morning. Sunrise had not yet cast off its pink nightgown, and the rays streamed gently through Lily’s window, illuminating her white bedposts, and turning the whole nursery into a bowl of strawberry ice cream. Lily liked mornings best. In the morning, there were no rough scrubbings, and no scoldings. She had, so far, done nothing wrong, and her heart was light and hopeful. She knelt beside her bed, as she had done every morning since she could remember, and said her prayers for Father in India, for Mother and Aunt Sarah’s new baby, for her brothers Tom and Newton, and of course for old Strathclyde and his grumpy wife, the housekeeper. And then she prayed a special prayer for Arthur, Titus and the rooks, for it was on them that her mind had rested much of the night.

In her nightstand, just beside her bed, Lily kept a very special book. She also kept several sheets of writing paper and her favorite charcoal pencils. For all her curiosity about life outside the village, Lily was also very content to sit beside the cold nursery fireplace in the mornings and draw. Arthur, Titus, and the Rookery would certainly make their way into the book before morning tea had arrived, but Lily was in no mood for drawing just now. Now was the time for writing.

Ever since her father had gone to India, Lily had been writing him letters. Most of them she never sent. Instead, she tucked them away in her special drawer waiting for the day he would next come home. She often dreamed of how it would be: He would have arrived late in the night while she was asleep, and the early morning light would find her creeping quietly down the stairs. She would stop just as she saw him, sitting in his huge dark leather chair, his feet propped up near the drawing room’s stone fireplace. Gray swirls of pipe smoke would be twisting in the air above him as he sat very still, staring into the fire. Mother would be back from Aunt Sarah’s by then, of course, and she would be humming just outside in the garden, happy that her husband had come home at last. Step by step, Lily would creep silently down the stairs until, bewitched by the rightness of her father’s presence, she would forget to skip the fourth step from the bottom, and it would creak in just the right way. A twinkle in his eye, her father would turn his head and leap from his chair. “There’s my girl!” he would cry as he bounded toward her. She would sail through the air from the fourth step and land in his embrace, enveloped in his dark red beard and his warm, strong arms, and they would spin around and around, laughing, until they fell together into Father’s chair.

And that’s when the stories would begin. Such wonderful stories! The Maharaja who Lost His Marbles, Pipkin’s Popcorn, and The Tale of the Golden Football—all the stories he had told her in his letters would come tumbling out of her father’s memory. He would tell her of his adventures among the Indians of the Himalayas. He would tell her of the monsoons and the grand procession of the kings. And most of all, he would tell her of the wondrous animals—orange-and-black striped cats the size of ponies, furry yellow horses who carry water in humps on their backs, and birds who can barely fly, but whose tail feathers open so wide they look like they’re standing under a blue and green rainbow. Oh, the fascinating animals of India!

“And now I will have a story to tell too, when Father returns,” thought Lily as her daydream ended and she returned, body and soul, to the nursery. She imagined pulling out her letters, tied neatly with one of her own hair ribbons, and giving them to her father. She simply couldn’t wait to share with him all the things she had seen and done since he had left nearly two years ago. And this latest adventure would be the best of them all. She pulled out her favorite pencil and began to write. 

Dear Father,

       I do hope you are well in India. We have heard much about the fighting from old Mrs. Smythe down Fulham Lane. She always comes to have tea with Mother on Thursdays and tells us many things from her son’s letters. She smells of mothballs.

       I am glad to hear from your last letter that you are doing well. But, oh Papa! You must be having so many adventures and I simply can’t contain my joy any longer. I must tell you right away. I have had an adventure of my own. Not an imaginary one, mind. A real one, and you will be ever so surprised when I tell you—oh, but you may be disappointed to learn that I gave Nan and the others quite a fright because I stayed out much too late and I ruined my dress and stockings. I am very sorry for that, and I do hope you can forgive me, dear Father. But oh, it was ever so worth the scolding and the rough scrubbing I received for it. Papa, I have met a mouse. And he is not just any mouse. His name is Arthur, and he plays the piano and his piano is in a beautiful place called the Rookery where all the rooks in the forest live (Father, do forgive me, but I went into the forest alone. I was very safe, though, I promise.), and he is ever so kind and polite and he has asked me to tea! It is all true, Papa! Every bit of it! What a grand adventure, what a surprise to find a mouse as polite and gentlemanly as Arthur. He reminds me ever so much of you. Oh, and I’ve almost forgotten Titus and the rooks and the great ancient battle with the hawks and the spade and, oh Father, what a story this is! Today I am going to a real, proper tea time with the animals, and I’m sure it will be splendid. But I do hope they don’t ask me to have stoat cakes instead of proper ones. Oh dear. Perhaps I will take some cakes of my own just in case. I don’t think I could eat stoat. But Father, what a wonder it all is! Please come home soon. I miss you.
                                                                                                                            Love,
                                                                                                                            Lily

Lily carefully folded her letter and placed it with the others in her special drawer. She had only just closed the drawer when there came a knock at the door. It was Nan calling her down to breakfast.

“Good morning, Nan!” Lily chirped. “You look lovely this morning! Will you help me with my braids, please?”

“Good morning, my girl! I would be happy to help! I don’t get to help you nearly as much as I used to, you know,” Nan said.

“I know, Nan. But I do like it when you help me,” Lily replied, looking down at her feet. “I’m sorry I frightened you last night. I just became curious and wandered off. You know that is one of my faults. One of many, I’m afraid...But I was never in any danger, though. I kept safe the whole time.”

“Now, now, Lily, don’t trouble yourself any more about it. It is water under the bridge, like they say. Let us have a new start, shall we?”

“I would like that very much!” Lily replied as they walked together toward the dining room.

Lily’s brothers were out on an early morning ramble, so Lily was alone at the table with Nan and Strathclyde, who was just finishing his first cup of tea.

“Morning, Strathclyde,” Lily smiled as she sat down at the table.

“Good morning, Lulu,” he said with a wink. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Now Lily, I believe you had a story you wanted to tell me?” he reminded her, with a glance at Nan, who was busy stirring her tea.

“Oh, yes!” she cried. “I was in the forest!”

“What?” Nan cried, very nearly spilling her tea. “You went to the forest? Lily—”

“Oh, er,” Lily stumbled, remembering that Strathclyde and Nan would not approve of her visit to the Rookery. “…no, last night I was…just wandering. It’s really not much of a story. What I meant to say is that last night I dreamed that I went to the forest.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Silly me, I know that you would never go into the forest alone. Please, continue,” Nan urged her, going back to her tea.

Lily was slightly ashamed of deceiving Nan, but continued. “I was in the forest in a kind of forest castle, and there were rooks and music and a mouse who can play the piano. Oh, it was so wonderful! And today—“ Lily stopped, horrified that she had almost given away her secret. “And then I woke up,” she said, gulping down her tea.

“A piano-playing mouse, eh?” Strathclyde laughed. “Well that’s something I’d sure like to see. And what else did you dream about, my dear?”

She hesitated. “Oh, not much. There was a curious spade stuck in the ground and some candles and...”

 “A spade, you said?” Strathclyde asked.

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Very interesting dream, Lulu,” he said, a troubled look on his face. “Let me know if you have another one!” Strathclyde drank the rest of his tea in one gulp. “Well, I have to be off!” he said, setting the teacup back onto the table a bit harder than was strictly necessary. He bolted out the back door, leaving Lily alone with Nan, once again plotting her escape from Nan’s afternoon tea.