The Lantern That Wouldn't Glow

When the sun slid down behind the hill, the forest let out a long, slow breath.

The bees went home. The daisies shut their eyes. Under the old oak tree, behind the round wooden door, a little fox opened his.

"Sun down," whispered Nuno. "Fox up."

He wound his blue scarf twice around his neck and took his lantern pole from its hook. Then he went out to light the Lantern Path, the way he did every single night.

His own lantern, on the old oak. Hhhh. Warm and yellow.

The Bridge. Hhhh. The water turned gold.

The Pond. The Meadow. One by one the lanterns woke, like eyes opening.

It was a perfectly ordinary night. Until he came to the Stone.

The Stone lantern hung high up, where the path bends.

Nuno lifted his pole. He leaned in close and breathed out, as softly as he could.

Hhhh.

Nothing.

He tried again, softer still. Hhhh.

The lantern stayed dark.

"That's funny," said Nuno.

"Blow HARDER!" said a voice above him.

It was Pip. Pip was a very small squirrel with a very large tail, and he had an idea about everything.

"Shake it!" said Pip. "Knock on it! Shout at it! That's what I'd do."

"I don't think lanterns like to be shouted at," said Nuno.

He sat down on the moss to think. Pip sat down too, to help.

They waited.

The moon came up over the trees. A beetle walked past, very busy. Pip's ideas got slower, and further apart, and then Pip was asleep with his tail over his face.

Nuno did not blow harder. He did not shake, or knock, or shout.

He climbed up onto the Stone, on his quietest feet, and put his nose against the cold glass, and looked in.

At first he saw only the dark.

Then the dark moved, just a little. It went up and down. Up and down.

Something inside the lantern was breathing.

It was a ladybird.

She was no bigger than a raindrop, and she was red, with black spots. She had folded her legs underneath her and tucked herself up in the very middle of the lantern, and she was fast asleep.

Nuno held his breath.

So that was it. The lantern was not broken. The lantern was not being stubborn.

The lantern was being kind.

"A lantern is a little light that says someone is awake," Nuno whispered. "But this one is saying something else tonight. It's saying: hush. Someone is asleep."

He climbed down again without a sound.

But now there was a dark place on the Lantern Path. And a dark place is where somebody might feel alone.

Nuno thought about it.

Then he unhooked the little lantern from the end of his own pole. He breathed on it — hhhh — and set it down on the Stone, right underneath the dark one.

It was only a small light. But it was enough to see the path by.

He lifted Pip onto his back and walked on.

The Birch. Hhhh.

And at the very top of the hill, where a large round owl called Oona sat with her eyes half closed, the last one.

Oona looked down the hill.

She saw the lanterns shining all the way along the path. She saw the dark gap at the Stone. And she saw the small, brave light that somebody had set underneath it.

She looked at Nuno. Nuno looked at her.

Oona never said anything. But she began to hum — low and slow, like a cat purring in another room.

That was how the forest knew that the night was safe.

Nuno sat beside her and kept watch until the sky turned pale. Then he went back down the hill, and at every lantern he breathed in — just a little sip of air — and the light folded itself up and went to sleep.

When he came to the Stone, the ladybird was awake.

She was sitting on top of the lantern, stretching her wings one at a time. She looked at Nuno. She looked at the little light he had left for her.

Then she flew away into the morning, as small as a spark.

Nuno hooked his little lantern back onto his pole, took Pip home to his nest, and went in.

"Did they all light?" asked Mama Fox.

"All but one," said Nuno. "That one was busy."

"Then it was a good night," said Mama Fox. "Sleep well, my night fox."

Nuno curled up in his bed of leaves and put his tail over his nose.

And Nuno slept. All day long.

Lanternen der ikke ville lyse

Da solen gled ned bag bakken, pustede skoven langsomt og længe ud.

Bierne fløj hjem. Tusindfrydene lukkede øjnene. Under det gamle egetræ, bag den runde trædør, åbnede en lille ræv sine.

"Sol ned," hviskede Nuno. "Ræv op."

Han viklede sit blå tørklæde to gange om halsen og tog sin lanternestang ned fra krogen. Så gik han ud for at tænde Lanternestien, sådan som han gjorde hver eneste nat.

Hans egen lanterne på det gamle egetræ. Hhhh. Varm og gul.

Broen. Hhhh. Vandet blev til guld.

Dammen. Engen. Én efter én vågnede lanternerne, som øjne der åbner sig.

Det var en helt almindelig nat. Lige indtil han kom til Stenen.

Lanternen ved Stenen hang højt oppe, dér hvor stien drejer.

Nuno løftede sin stang. Han lænede sig helt tæt på og pustede ud, så blidt han kunne.

Hhhh.

Ingenting.

Han prøvede igen, endnu blidere. Hhhh.

Lanternen blev ved med at være mørk.

"Det var da mærkeligt," sagde Nuno.

"Pust HÅRDERE!" sagde en stemme over ham.

Det var Pip. Pip var et meget lille egern med en meget stor hale, og han havde en idé om alting.

"Ryst den!" sagde Pip. "Bank på den! Råb ad den! Det ville jeg gøre."

"Jeg tror ikke, lanterner kan lide at blive råbt ad," sagde Nuno.

Han satte sig i mosset for at tænke. Pip satte sig også, for at hjælpe.

De ventede.

Månen kom op over træerne. En bille gik forbi og havde meget travlt. Pips idéer kom langsommere, og med længere imellem, og så sov Pip med halen over ansigtet.

Nuno pustede ikke hårdere. Han rystede ikke, og bankede ikke, og råbte ikke.

Han kravlede op på Stenen på sine allerstilleste poter, lagde snuden mod det kolde glas og kiggede ind.

Først så han kun mørket.

Så rørte mørket sig, bare en lille smule. Det gik op og ned. Op og ned.

Noget inde i lanternen trak vejret.

Det var en mariehøne.

Hun var ikke større end en regndråbe, og hun var rød med sorte prikker. Hun havde foldet benene ind under sig og puttet sig lige midt i lanternen, og hun sov tungt.

Nuno holdt vejret.

Så det var derfor. Lanternen var ikke i stykker. Lanternen var ikke stædig.

Lanternen var sød.

"En lanterne er et lille lys, der siger: nogen er vågen," hviskede Nuno. "Men den her siger noget andet i nat. Den siger: ssh. Nogen sover."

Han kravlede ned igen uden en lyd.

Men nu var der et mørkt sted på Lanternestien. Og et mørkt sted er et sted, hvor nogen kunne føle sig alene.

Det tænkte Nuno over.

Så tog han den lille lanterne af krogen på sin egen stang. Han pustede på den — hhhh — og stillede den på Stenen, lige under den mørke.

Det var kun et lille lys. Men det var nok til, at man kunne se stien.

Han løftede Pip op på sin ryg og gik videre.

Birken. Hhhh.

Og helt oppe på toppen af bakken, hvor en stor, rund ugle, der hed Oona, sad med øjnene halvt lukkede: den sidste.

Oona kiggede ned ad bakken.

Hun så lanternerne lyse hele vejen langs stien. Hun så det mørke hul ved Stenen. Og hun så det lille, modige lys, som nogen havde stillet nedenunder.

Hun kiggede på Nuno. Nuno kiggede på hende.

Oona sagde aldrig noget. Men hun gav sig til at nynne — dybt og langsomt, som en kat, der spinder inde i stuen ved siden af.

Sådan vidste skoven, at natten var tryg.

Nuno sad ved siden af hende og holdt vagt, til himlen blev lysere. Så gik han ned ad bakken igen, og ved hver lanterne trak han vejret ind — bare en lille slurk luft — og lyset foldede sig sammen og lagde sig til at sove.

Da han kom til Stenen, var mariehønen vågen.

Hun sad oven på lanternen og strakte vingerne, én ad gangen. Hun kiggede på Nuno. Hun kiggede på det lille lys, han havde ladet stå til hende.

Så fløj hun ud i morgenen, så lille som en gnist.

Nuno hægtede sin lille lanterne på stangen igen, bar Pip hjem til hans rede og gik ind.

"Blev de alle sammen tændt?" spurgte Rævemor.

"Alle undtagen én," sagde Nuno. "Den havde travlt."

"Så var det en god nat," sagde Rævemor. "Sov godt, min natteræv."

Nuno rullede sig sammen i sin seng af blade og lagde halen over snuden.

Og Nuno sov. Hele dagen lang.