When the Pond Froze

When the sun slid down behind the hill, the cold came tiptoeing into the forest and drew round everything with a white pencil.

Every leaf had an edge. Every twig had a line.

Under the old oak tree, behind the round wooden door, a little fox opened his eyes.

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

He wound his blue scarf twice around his neck, took his lantern pole from its hook, and stepped outside.

The grass went crunch.

Nuno looked at his paw. He tried the grass again. Crunch.

Then he leaned close to his own lantern, on the lowest branch of the oak, and breathed out as softly as he could.

Hhhh.

The lantern woke. And there, in the air in front of his nose, hung a small white cloud.

Nuno had breathed out every night of his life. He had never once seen it.

"You're making clouds," said a voice.

On the branch above him sat Pip, a very small squirrel with a very large tail, which tonight he was wearing like a coat.

"It's my breath," said Nuno. "I think it was there all the time."

Pip tried. Huff. A cloud the size of an acorn.

"I've got one too!"

He huffed all the way to the Bridge. He huffed at the moon. Nuno lit the Bridge lantern — hhhh — and underneath it the stream was talking more quietly than usual.

But at the Pond, there was no water at all.

The pond lay flat and pale and perfectly still. Nothing rippled. Nothing nodded.

Pip dropped an acorn in.

It did not go plop. It went tick, and slid all the way to the other side.

"Somebody's put a lid on it," whispered Pip. "It's broken, Nuno. The pond is broken."

Nuno put one paw on the pond. It was cold, and hard, and smooth as the inside of a shell.

He did not know what to say. So he did what he always did.

He lit the Pond lantern. Hhhh.

And the light did not stop at the top, the way it does on water. It went in.

Down through the ice it went, gold and slow, until the whole pond was glowing from underneath, like one enormous lantern lying on its back.

And far down in the glow, something small and silver turned over, and was still again.

"There's a fish," breathed Pip. "It's in bed."

"It isn't broken," said Nuno. "It's asleep. That's its blanket."

Pip looked at the ice for a long time.

"It's a very hard blanket," he said.

"It's a very big bed," said Nuno.

Pip stepped onto the blanket.

His legs went four different ways. He sat down, and slid in a slow circle on his tail, all the way round, and stopped with his nose against Nuno's knee.

"Again," said Pip.

But by the third time his teeth had started to tick like the acorn.

So Nuno unwound his scarf, one turn, and wound that turn around Pip. Now there was one scarf with a fox at one end and a squirrel at the other.

They walked on like that. The Meadow. The Stone. The Birch. At every lantern, first a cloud, then the gold.

"A lantern is a little light that says someone is awake, and you are not alone," said Nuno. "Tonight it's also somewhere to warm your nose."

At the top of the hill sat Oona.

Oona was a large round owl who sat there every night and never said a word. Tonight she had fluffed herself up until she was rounder than ever.

Nuno lit the last lantern — hhhh — and she began to hum. And her hum came out as a cloud too: a long, slow one, that drifted away over the trees.

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

The scarf had stopped tugging. Pip was a small warm lump under Nuno's chin.

Below them every lantern glowed, with the frost glittering round it like sugar. And down in the hollow, softly, under its blanket, glowed the pond.

Nuno watched them all night long. Not one went out.

When the sky grew light, the frost turned pink, and then gold.

Nuno went back down the hill. At every lantern he breathed in — just a little sip of cold air — and the light folded itself up and went to sleep.

At the Pond, the edge of the ice said drip.

He tucked Pip into his nest in the hazel tree, unwound his scarf very carefully, and went home.

"Was it cold?" asked Mama Fox.

"Only on the outside," said Nuno.

Mama Fox put her nose against his.

"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.

Da dammen frøs til

Da solen gled ned bag bakken, kom kulden listende ind i skoven og tegnede rundt om det hele med en hvid blyant.

Hvert blad fik en kant. Hver kvist fik en streg.

Under det gamle egetræ, bag den runde trædør, åbnede en lille ræv øjnene.

"Sol ned," hviskede Nuno. "Ræv op."

Han viklede sit blå tørklæde to gange om halsen, tog sin lanternestang ned fra krogen og trådte udenfor.

Græsset sagde knas.

Nuno kiggede på sin pote. Han prøvede græsset en gang til. Knas.

Så lænede han sig helt hen til sin egen lanterne på egens nederste gren og pustede ud, så blidt han kunne.

Hhhh.

Lanternen vågnede. Og dér, i luften lige foran hans snude, hang en lille hvid sky.

Nuno havde pustet ud hver eneste nat i hele sit liv. Han havde aldrig set det før.

"Du laver skyer," sagde en stemme.

På grenen over ham sad Pip, et meget lille egern med en meget stor hale, som han i nat havde taget på som en frakke.

"Det er min ånde," sagde Nuno. "Jeg tror, den har været der hele tiden."

Pip prøvede. Pfuh. En sky på størrelse med et agern.

"Jeg har også en!"

Han pustede hele vejen hen til Broen. Han pustede på månen. Nuno tændte Broens lanterne — hhhh — og nedenunder snakkede bækken mere stille, end den plejede.

Men ved Dammen var der slet ikke noget vand.

Dammen lå flad og lys og fuldkommen stille. Ingenting krusede. Ingenting nikkede.

Pip lod et agern falde.

Det sagde ikke plop. Det sagde tik og gled hele vejen over til den anden side.

"Nogen har lagt låg på," hviskede Pip. "Den er gået i stykker, Nuno. Dammen er gået i stykker."

Nuno satte en pote på dammen. Den var kold og hård og glat som indersiden af en muslingeskal.

Han vidste ikke, hvad han skulle sige. Så han gjorde det, han altid gjorde.

Han tændte Dammens lanterne. Hhhh.

Og lyset standsede ikke ved overfladen, sådan som det gør på vand. Det gik ind.

Ned gennem isen gik det, gyldent og langsomt, indtil hele dammen lyste nedefra, som én kæmpestor lanterne, der lå på ryggen.

Og langt nede i lyset vendte noget lille og sølvfarvet sig om og lå stille igen.

"Der er en fisk," hviskede Pip. "Den ligger i sin seng."

"Den er ikke gået i stykker," sagde Nuno. "Den sover. Det dér er dens dyne."

Pip kiggede længe på isen.

"Det er en meget hård dyne," sagde han.

"Det er en meget stor seng," sagde Nuno.

Pip trådte ud på dynen.

Hans ben gik i fire forskellige retninger. Han satte sig ned og gled i en langsom cirkel på halen, hele vejen rundt, og standsede med snuden mod Nunos knæ.

"En gang til," sagde Pip.

Men tredje gang var hans tænder begyndt at sige tik ligesom agernet.

Så viklede Nuno sit tørklæde én omgang af og viklede den omgang om Pip. Nu var der ét tørklæde med en ræv i den ene ende og et egern i den anden.

Sådan gik de videre. Engen. Stenen. Birken. Ved hver lanterne først en sky, så det gyldne.

"En lanterne er et lille lys, der siger: nogen er vågen, og du er ikke alene," sagde Nuno. "I nat er den også et sted, hvor man kan varme snuden."

På toppen af bakken sad Oona.

Oona var en stor, rund ugle, der sad der hver nat og aldrig sagde et ord. I nat havde hun pustet sig op, så hun var rundere end nogensinde.

Nuno tændte den sidste lanterne — hhhh — og hun gav sig til at nynne. Og hendes nynnen kom også ud som en sky: en lang, langsom en, der drev bort over træerne.

Sådan vidste skoven, at natten var tryg.

Tørklædet var holdt op med at rykke. Pip var en lille varm bule under Nunos hage.

Neden for dem lyste hver eneste lanterne, og rimen glitrede omkring dem som sukker. Og nede i lavningen, ganske blidt, under sin dyne, lyste dammen.

Nuno holdt øje med dem hele natten. Ikke én gik ud.

Da himlen blev lys, blev rimen lyserød og så gylden.

Nuno gik ned ad bakken igen. Ved hver lanterne trak han vejret ind — bare en lille slurk kold luft — og lyset foldede sig sammen og lagde sig til at sove.

Ved Dammen sagde kanten af isen dryp.

Han puttede Pip i hans rede i hasseltræet, viklede meget forsigtigt sit tørklæde af og gik hjem.

"Var det koldt?" spurgte Rævemor.

"Kun udenpå," sagde Nuno.

Rævemor lagde sin snude mod hans.

"Sov godt, min natteræv."

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

Og Nuno sov. Hele dagen lang.