Portrait of a Mouse, Sleeping.

I stumbled across him--almost literally--that noontime, stretched out on a
patch of grass in the shade of a straggly bush, not far from the sun-washed and
crowded swimming beach. He lay flat on his stomach atop a blanket, his head
cradled in his arms and his clothing--a white shirt and a dark-green
tunic--folded neatly beside him. His eyes were closed, and his shoulders rose
and fell steadily with his deep, slow breathing. I smiled to see that--and also
that his patchy fur had begun to fill in, deepening the distinctive dark
patches on his shoulder and hip. I circled around him, moving quietly (though
if he could sleep through the screams and splashes of a dozen young rats trying
to drown one another, I was unlikely to wake him) and sat down crossed-legged a
little distance away, setting my picnic basket beside me.

Even in the shade, the air was oppressively warm, and I immediately began to
envy my companion's au natural turnout. For a minute I hesitated,
gnawing my lip in indecision...then I shrugged. Why not? Spreading blanket
across the softest-looking rectangle of ground in the vicinity, I stripped off
my skirt and blouse, folded them, and set them aside. For a time I stretched
out on my back with my good arm behind my head, the breeze ruffling my fur--but
then my stomach rumbled painfully, and I sighed. Helping your little sister
with her geometry is hungry work, it seems. Levering myself upright, I rummaged
one-handed through the basket.

I don't know if it was the faint crackle of waxed paper that did it, or if
he smelled the peanut butter; but no sooner than I'd unwrapped the first
sandwich, Jonathan woke. I heard a catch in his breathing, and glanced over to
see his whiskers twitch and his eyes slowly drift open. Vague and unfocused at
first, they soon found me, and he smiled. "Hacker," he said
indistinctly, using a nickname that--by rights--should have died with our
mission. Not that I really minded--but it did tend to remind me of what I'd
lost. "What brings you out here?"

"Lunch," I said simply. "It's too nice a day to stay
indoors."

"That it is," he agreed. He sat up, ran a hand across his scalp,
and dug his knuckles into his eyes. "Must have dozed off," he said.
"I've been having a little trouble sleeping at night..."

"Seems to be going around," I said dryly.

"A regular mini-epidemic," he agreed. Eyeing the basket, he
grinned sheepishly. "I don't suppose..."

I waved my hand. "Help yourself," I said. "There's far more
than I can eat."

He did, eagerly locating another sandwich, and for a few minutes we ate in
silence, watching the kids churn up the waterhole. Finally he said, softly,
"It's okay, though--not being able to sleep. It's enough just to lie there
and hold her in my arms. I never expected to have the chance again."

I could think of nothing to say, so instead I passed him the water bottle.
He took a swig, and fastidiously wiped the rim on his blanket before handing it
back. "Speaking of which," I said, "where is your better
half?"

"Working in the kitchen, I think," he said. He pointed at the
basket. "She might even have packed your lunch."

I chuckled. Given the amount of food the basket contained--enough for an
entire regiment of rats--I wouldn't have been surprised. By all accounts,
Elizabeth Brisby did tend to be a bit of a den-mother. "I'm surprised
she's not sharing the sunshine with you," I commented.

Jonathan shook his head. "Not today," he replied. "That's one
of the mistakes I made before: I smothered her. I never let her be her own
person, or live her own life. Not any more, though." He grinned ruefully.
"Not that she'd let me. Justin was right: she has grown."

"I'll have to take your word for that," I said. I glanced into the
basket. "Raisin?"

"Please."

When we'd finished our meal--when, that is, we'd eaten enough between us to
sink a medium-sized ocean liner--we stretched out on our backs, using our
folded clothing as pillows. Gazing up through the gently-waving branches,
Jonathan said dreamily, "You know, if anyone had told me a month ago that I'd
be sitting here in the fresh air and sunshine having a picnic..."

I nodded. "I hear you," I said. "To be honest, a month ago I
didn't even remember what fresh air was, let alone sunshine. I was beginning to
believe that I'd been born in a storeroom, and that I'd die there."

"I was born in a storeroom," he said. "And I grew up
in a cage. In a way, though, that mission was worse than being a prisoner. When
you're a lab animal, at least you're reasonably certain where your next meal is
coming from."

"Even if you have to run a maze and receive electric shocks to get
it," I put in dryly.

"Oh, you get used to that," he assured me. "Eventually."

"I hope to God I'll never have to," I said seriously. "I hope
none of us do."

"Me too," Jonathan said. "More than you can possibly
imagine." He paused. "I have a feeling we won't, though. Not you, nor
me, nor any of our descendants."

"Meaning--?" I prompted.

"I have no idea," he confessed, flashing an embarrassed grin.
"Just a gut feeling. I think the Rats of NIMH are destined for something
else--not experimentation, or extermination. I just hope I'm around to find out
what it is."

"No reason you shouldn't be--now."

"True," he agreed. "And to be honest, I've never been sure
whether that's heartening or frightening."

"A little of both, I'd say. Like most things."

He raised his head to look into my eyes. "You and I," he
announced, "understand each other far too well." He took a deep
breath. "But I'm not in the mood for pop philosophy today. The past is
over and done with, and the future is yet to come. Leave it at that."

If only I could. "Jonathan?"

"Yes, Hacker?"

I cleared my throat. "Jonathan, you know my parents--"

He chuckled. "I hope so."

"That's not what I meant," I said testily. "I mean you really
know them--as friends, traveling companions, fellow fugitives. That sort of
thing."

"I daresay," he agreed. "So--?"

"Do you think," I began, and trailed off. Swallowing hard, I tried
again. "Do you think I'm a disappointment to them?"

He levered himself up onto his elbows. "I hope you're joking."

I shook my head. "I'm not," I replied. "Or--I don't think
I am. I don't really know. Sometimes I think I haven't done as much with my
life as they would have liked. First I joined the Guard, and played toy
solider; then I ran off on a damn-fool suicide mission..."

Jonathan speared me with his stern, steady gaze. "Eileen," he said
softly, "I can tell you with absolute certainty that Henry and Margaret
are not disappointed in you. Very much the opposite, in fact. And I'll
go even farther. As difficult as it is to believe, I'm old enough to be your
father myself. And if such a thing were possible, I would be very proud to have
you as my daughter."

I smiled and reached across to grasp his hand. "Thanks," I said.
"That helps."

He cocked a curious eyebrow. "What's gotten into you, anyway?" he
asked. "Where's my self-confident, never-at-a-loss-for-an-answer
Hacker?"

"I...think she's gone," I told him. "Along with Eileen the
Guardsman, and Judith's marauding twin. I'm not certain who's left."

"I understand," he said. "Believe me, I do." For a
second his face wore an expression of infinite sadness, and his whiskers
drooped. Then he shook himself, and brightened like a hundred-watt bulb.
"I might be able to help, though," he went on. "I've been
meaning to discuss this with Elizabeth, but I haven't had a chance yet. I'll
just have to assume she'll agree--though she'll probably kill me anyway..."

"Or I will," I said blandly. "If you don't get to the
point."

"Uh--yes. I'm sure you know by now that my family and I have decided to
stay in Thorn Valley..."

"Do tell," I said dryly. As if there was ever any doubt...

He grinned. "Well taken. Unfortunately, we have a small problem: my
kids. Their education is badly lacking." He shook his head mournfully.
"My fault, I fear--"

"But that's past history too," I interrupted

He nodded gratefully. "Whatever the reason, they're far behind their
peers. They're aware of that, of course, and they've been working on their own
to catch up, with Alice's encouragement. But she doesn't believe that's enough,
and I have to agree."

"And that involves me how, exactly--?"

"I'm getting to that," he promised. "If you're willing, I'd
like you to tutor them."

I sat up quickly, making myself dizzy. "You want me to what?"

"Tutor them," he repeated.

"In what?"

He shrugged. "Whatever they need. They're like anyone else; they each
have strengths and weaknesses. Timothy doesn't need any help with math, but he
does with history. Teresa is just the opposite. That will be one of your jobs:
finding out exactly where they need a boost."

A strange tingling sensation began in the pit of my stomach and spread
quickly through my body: either I was growing excited, or I was about to throw
up. "And what makes you think I'm qualified?"

He beamed that famous irresistibly-charming smile of his, which in recent
months I'd despaired of ever seeing again. "I'll assume that's a
rhetorical question," he said. He paused. "So--will you?"

"I...don't know," I said uncertainly. "I've never thought of
myself as a teacher..."

"You don't have to be," Jonathan assured me. "Not as such.
You just have to steer them in the right direction, answer their questions, and
help them find the materials they need. They'll do the rest."

For a moment I sat silent, staring into space. It was indeed a tempting
offer. It would be something to occupy my time while my arm healed--and while I
figured out where my life was headed. And while working with Kim that morning
I'd realized, a little to my surprise, that I actually enjoyed the process of
imparting my boundless knowledge. And more importantly, my little sister truly
had departed with a greater understanding of geometry than she'd possessed
before. So I must have been doing something right. "Has
Justin--?" I began, and Jonathan nodded.

"He has," he said. "And he's completely in favor. He agrees
it would be pointless and demeaning to force my kids into classrooms with
children far younger than they." He paused and smiled. "Believe me,
Hacker, all four of them want to learn--they're desperate to, in fact. They
know what it takes to be productive members of this community. They just need
the tools."

He's really counting on this, I realized, gazing at the hopeful,
almost pleading expression in his big brown eyes. And that being the case, I
could not possibly disappoint him.

...And so I smiled and shook his hand. "You've got yourself a
tutor."

"Thank you," he said, in tones of infinite gratitude--not to
mention relief. "You have no idea what that means to me."

Better save that, I thought wryly, until they've passed their
exams.

That evening, with my fresh-minted Purpose clutched shield-like to my bosom,
I went to see my parents--which was not, I'm sorry to say, one of the best
decisions I've ever made. It wasn't even in the top twenty. Here's what happened:

Henry (never "Hank") and Margaret (sometimes "Meg") were
of course members of the Original 22, the rats and mice who broke free from
NIMH way back in the dim and misty. And as such, they endured privations that
made my recent experiences look like an ice-cream social. Their romance (one
might even say their marriage) began long before their escape, when they shared
adjoining cages--and they'd been deeply, irrevocably in love ever since. (I've
often wondered, by the way, why Dr. Schultz never took his experiment to the
next logical level: breeding his hyperintelligent rodents to see what their
offspring would be like. Perhaps that was on the "Things to Do" page
of his day-planner. But I digress.) During our rosebush days, my father was in
charge of the gathering (a.k.a. "stealing") teams; he often referred
to himself ruefully as the "chief thief." These days he had a much
more satisfying--and honorable--profession, overseeing the workshop that turned
cotton, flax, hemp and jute into cloth, yarn, thread and rope, and thence into
clothing, blankets, towels, rugs and upholstery. Mother, as she had been for
some considerable time, was in charge of the kitchen; responsible, in other
words, for feeding three square meals a day to more than two hundred ravenous
rats. Considering what she had to work with, it was a task that required a
sense of humor, infinite patience, and a large measure of imagination.

For the most part they were kind and loving parents, especially considering
the circumstances under which my siblings and I were born; and while no
relationship is ever absolutely perfect, I'd never been able to generate much
Freudian resentment toward either of them.

...But that was then, and a whole ocean had since flowed over that particular
dam. Both of them had spent months mourning me, and had become somewhat
reconciled to my "death"--as much as any parent can ever be. Was it
possible they might be a little resentful to find me still alive and kicking?
Or was that my hyperactive imagination at work again?

I arrived at their apartment about an hour after dinner, just as the
early-summer sun was dipping below the western ridge. I hesitated for a long
time before that big purple (my mother's favorite color) door, my knees
suddenly shaking and my palms damp. I'd passed through that portal exactly once
before, the day after my return--an event which could best be described as
"emotional." No doubt this would be a less traumatic experience; but
even so I felt a strange, inexplicable reluctance. It was all I could do to
keep myself from fleeing. For heaven's sake, I told myself sharply. They're
your parents! The authors of your genes, the ones who raised and
nurtured you--and the ones who changed your diapers. Finally, almost with a
mind of its own, my good hand rose, drew back...and knocked.

"Come in!" I heard immediately: that familiar, clear, baritone
voice, which could range from soft to strident--sometimes in the space of a
single sentence. It was the voice of many a bedtime story--and many a sharp
reprimand too, usually well-deserved. During those months at NIMH, it was my
father's voice I heard most often in my dreams; seldom, for some reason, my
mother's.

I took a deep breath, and from somewhere in my costume trunk I found and
donned a broad beaming smile. I opened the door then, just a little, and peeked
inside. "Hi, folks," I said breezily.

Like my own, my parents' Thorn Valley apartment was modest but comfortable,
with a large living room and two bedrooms--one for them and one for Kim, the
last of their children still at home. The furnishings were a collection of old
and new: the large sofa, the coffee table and the desk had come all the way
from the rosebush, but the smaller sofa, the pair of easy chairs, and the
brightly-colored rug on the floor were recent additions. Many things had been
left behind during that final mad rush to evacuate, so I'd been
told--including, unfortunately, everything I'd ever owned. Such is the price of
being missing and presumed dead.

Father sprawled comfortably in a big tweedy chair near the fireplace, a book
in his lap and reading glasses perched on the end of his substantial nose. He
wore a grey tunic, unbuttoned nearly to the waist, and an immaculate white
pullover shirt. He was sturdily built, not tall but solid, with muscular arms
and large, capable hands. His fur was greyish-brown, with a beige stripe that
began under his chin and (so I recalled) extended down his chest and belly. He
gazed at me over the top of his glasses, and his eyes widened; setting aside
his book, he rose quickly, a smile lighting up his broad face.

Mother sat on the smaller sofa--the type generally known as a "love
seat"--her legs tucked beneath her. She wore a sage-green skirt and a
sleeveless blouse a shade lighter, and a pale-yellow silk scarf was tied around
her neck. Her fur was dark grey, bordering on black, her muzzle small and her
eyes large and expressive. As she saw me, she leaped to her feet with an
unmistakable cry of delight.

"Can I come in?" I asked.

A step ahead of Father, Mother drew me into her ample embrace. "Of
course you may," she said. "Please, sit down. We were just talking
about you."

Nothing good, I'm sure--but I decided against uttering that tired old
quip. Instead, I peered closely at the two of them, really seeing them for the
first time since my return. Though by all outward appearances they were young
and strong, they--along with Justin, Jonathan and the other surviving members
of the Original 22--had an indefinable air of age about them, a quiet dignity
that stopped somewhere short of world-weariness. They'd done it all, seen it
all--and lived to tell about it. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I
understood what that meant.

I let Mother lead me to the love seat--and as she did, I realized with a
start that we weren't alone.

Kim, of course, I might have expected to be there: it was, after all, her
home too. She was curled up in one corner of the big sofa, and had traded in
her school outfit for shorts and a halter. She grinned and winked, and the look
of self-congratulation on her face told me she knew that she was the major
reason why I'd decided to pay this visit. And of course she was right--though I
hated to be quite that predictable.

The room's other occupant was my brother Calvin, or Cal, the next in line
above Kim. An adolescent when I left, he'd since grown up--and then some. He
worked as a field-supervisor on the farm, and certainly looked capable of
tossing around hay-bales all day. Large, brown-furred and bright-eyed, he wore
a loose shirt of unbleached cotton and a brown vest. He rose smiling from his
chair to clasp my hand. "I haven't seen much of you since you got
back," he said, in a voice just a fraction of an octave higher than
Father's, and rough-edged. "Welcome home."

I reached up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

I glanced back at my mother then--and my heart sank when I saw that her eyes
were brimming over with tears. "Mom--" I began, but she waved me off
with a watery smile, searching through her pockets for a handkerchief.

"I'm fine," she assured me. "I was just remembering the night
you...left. We had dinner together--the whole family..."

I nodded slowly. That was a memory I didn't call upon very often: it was far
too painful. "I didn't want to," I said. "But there was no way I
could say no." I quirked a grin. "It was the last good meal I had for
months."

"You seemed nervous," Mom said wistfully. "I never knew why.
But I remembered--and I always wondered if Nicodemus had told us the whole
truth about what happened to you. It seemed so strange that you, and Philip,
and Mark, and David, would vanish the same night Jonathan 'died'..."
She trailed off then, and shook herself, and turned to peer deep into my eyes.
What I saw in her gaze both dismayed and (in an odd way) pleased me. Obviously,
though, I would be a very, very long time making this up to her; and to my
father and brother as well. Only Kim seemed satisfied; the result, no doubt, of
our talk that morning.

"But we'll not speak of that any more," Mom said brightly.
"What brings you here this evening, dear?"

I'd been asking myself the same question--and I still had no good answer, at
least none that I cared to voice. I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat, and
forced another smile. "I didn't used to need a reason."

"You still don't," Dad said firmly. "Our door is open to you
always--you know that." He paused. "How's your arm, honey?"

I chuckled as I shifted the damaged limb within its sling. "An infernal
nuisance," I said. "But it's mending. Alice wants Ages to take a look
at it when he arrives, though."

Dad nodded. "Sensible." He removed his glasses, peered through
them, and polished the lenses on his sleeve. "Justin came to see us,
several days ago," he went on softly. "And so did Jonathan. We
understand why you went on that mission, Eileen--and why it had to be kept
secret." He shook his head. "I can't say I agree, but I
understand. As your mother said, there's no need for us to go into any of that.
But perhaps you can answer one question--?"

I nodded. "If I'm able."

"Now that you're home--" he began. He saw my sardonic grin, and
nodded. "I know," he said. "We're only now getting used to the
place too. But it is home, and will be for the foreseeable future..."

"Thanks to Elizabeth Brisby," I put in.

"Exactly," Dad agreed. "But that's not my point. Now that
you're here--presumably to stay--what are you going to do with yourself?"
He glanced at Mom. "Your mother and I weren't altogether happy when you
joined the Guard..."

"--Because that's man's work?" I asked challengingly, and he shook
his head.

"Not at all," he insisted. "With a few obvious exceptions,
I've never believed in those sorts of divisions. We simply felt--still
feel--that you weren't living up to your potential. " He held up his hand.
"I know, I know, it's your life. Certainly we respect that." He
smiled. "But we are your parents. Worrying is part of the job
description."

I bit back the sarcastic rejoinder that rose unbidden to my lips. There's a
time and place for flippancy--and this wasn't it. And anyway, I had an
uncomfortable feeling that in a similar situation I'd be saying exactly the
same thing. Maybe someday I'd find out. "For the moment," I told him,
"I think I've got it covered. I'll be--"

I never got the chance to say what, though, because at that moment there was
a knock on the door--one which interrupted me and (incidentally) entirely
ruined my burgeoning good mood.

"Come in!" Dad called, with the barest touch of irritation--and
the door opened upon my mirror image.

In our youth, we were indistinguishable, she and I--but after what I'd been
through, that was no longer quite true. She was now considerably heavier than
me, for one thing--and it's a good measure of how skinny I still was, that she
managed to far outweigh me and remain slim. She had two working arms as well. I
was amused to note, though, that our taste in clothing remained similar. Like
me, she wore a light skirt and a sleeveless blouse--though in tones of blue
rather than yellow. It made a nice change from her usual uniform of patched
coveralls, flannel shirt and tool-belt. Something that could almost be called a
smile played across her face as she entered; but then she caught sight of me,
and froze in her tracks.

"Judith!" Mom said in tones of delight. She lifted her hands.
"Please come in, dear. Sit down."

My twin let the door close behind her, but made no move to sit. "I came
to ask you what herbs you need tomorrow," she said. Her voice, so I'd
always been told, was eerily similar to my own. But never--or so I hoped--had
my tone been quite that clipped or biting. "But it appears I'm
intruding."

"Not at all," Dad said. "What makes you think that?"

She flashed a brief, canary-swallowing grin. "You mean this isn't
a belated welcome-home celebration for the conquering hero?"

She spoke bitterly--more so, perhaps, than even she realized--and at that
moment I began to have an inkling as to what was really bothering her. Only an
inkling, though, and I could easily be wrong. For the moment I'd keep my
suspicions to myself--because feet don't taste very good.

"No," Mom said softly. She glanced from Judith to me and back
again, a look of perplexity on her face. I fought to keep my own expression
neutral--and thereby to maintain the moral high ground. "Eileen simply
decided to visit us," she went on. She pointed to the sofa. "Please,
dear, sit down. We'd like to talk to you..."

Judith shook her head. "No thanks," she said. "I won't be
staying."

By now, Cal and Kim were staring, their eyes wide with trepidation. I could
scarcely blame them. The waves of hostility radiating from my dear twin were
quite palpable, obvious in the set of her jaw, her flicking tail and her
bristling whiskers. In other circumstances, I might have felt an answering
surge of anger within myself--but somehow, all I could muster was sadness. This
was wrong, all wrong--and as far as I could tell, entirely my fault.

Dad set aside his glasses, and there was a dangerous edge in his voice as he
said, "I don't understand this, Judith. Aren't you glad to see your
sister?"

She peered at me--and in the depths of her eyes, so like my own, I saw an
undercurrent of what could only be pain. Which is it? I wondered. Was
she jealous of me because I'd "died," and thus drawn away our
parents' attention at a time when she was beginning to forge her own identity,
her own accomplishments? Or was she angry because, in leaving, I'd deprived her
of a part of herself? Identical twins are formed from the splitting of a single
fertilized egg; is it any wonder we had sometimes felt like two halves of one
person? Or was it something else entirely?

I returned her gaze in silent appeal--but finally, deliberately, she turned
away. "Should I be?" she asked coldly.

"Of course you should!" Father thundered. "I mean, my God--!"

I held up my hand. "Don't bother, Dad," I said. "After all,
she's entitled to her opinion."

Judith smiled nastily. "That's right," she said. "I am."
She leaned forward. "And if I say I was perfectly happy when you were
dead, that's my 'opinion' too, isn't it?"

Mom and Kim gasped, and Cal leaped to his feet, with clenched fists and fire
in his eye. "That was uncalled for--" he began, but Judith cut him
off with a mocking laugh.

"Oh please," she said. "We're beyond that kind of hypocrisy.
Aren't we, 'Hacker'?"

"It appears so," I said heavily. "Though I like to think I'm
not beyond civility. But as long as we're being brutally honest..." I
paused, and swallowed. "I did miss you, Judith--a lot. And I loved
you, when I still knew who you were. I don't love what you seem to have
become."

"Get used to it," she said shortly. "It's the new improved
Judith." She glanced around. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I have
things to do. I'll stop by your office in the morning, Mother--when we can
discuss business."

With that she departed, leaving behind a stunned and heavy silence. For a
moment we sat staring at each other, my family and me; then I cleared my
throat. "Well," I observed, "that's put a damper on the
evening, hasn't it?"