Nuno and the Little Light Beyond the Wall

When the sun slid down behind the hill, the forest tucked its birds in and turned down its colours, one by one.

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 went out to light the Lantern Path.

His own lantern, on the old oak. Hhhh.

The Bridge. The Pond. The Meadow. The Stone. The Birch. At each one he leaned close and breathed out, and at each one the dark stepped politely back.

Pip came too. Pip was a very small squirrel with a very large tail, and he liked to check Nuno's work.

At the top of the hill sat Oona.

Oona was a large round owl who sat there every night and never said a word. Nuno lit the last lantern — hhhh — and she began to hum, low and slow, like a kettle far away.

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

Nuno sat down beside her and looked back along the path. Every lantern was glowing.

"You missed one," said Pip.

"I didn't," said Nuno.

"You did. Look."

Pip was pointing the other way. Not back along the path, but out past the last trees, where the forest stopped and Nuno had never lit anything at all.

There, very far off and very small, was a light.

It was not gold like his lanterns. It was yellow, and square, and perfectly still.

"Who breathed on that one?" asked Pip.

"I don't know," said Nuno.

He had never not known before. He looked at Oona. Oona hummed a little louder, which meant: go on. I'm here.

So Nuno picked up his pole, and Pip climbed onto his back, and they went to see.

The trees grew thin. The path ran out. And then, where the forest ended, there was a wall.

It was a low wall, made of old stones with moss in between, just the right height for a fox to put his chin on.

So Nuno put his chin on it.

On the other side the grass was short and soft. There was a tree with a swing hanging from it. And at the far end stood a house, with one small window glowing.

"It's inside," whispered Pip. "Somebody keeps a lantern inside."

He put one paw on top of the wall.

"No," said Nuno gently. "That isn't our path, Pip. That one is somebody else's."

"But who's looking after it?" said Pip. "What if it goes out?"

Nuno thought about that for a long time.

"A lantern is a little light that says someone is awake, and you are not alone," he said. "I think that one is saying it too. To somebody in there. Somebody small, I think. It's a small light."

"Then who says it to the light?" asked Pip.

Nuno climbed up onto the wall. He held his pole as high as he could, so that his own lantern swung out over the stones, where a window might see it.

"We do," he said. "From here."

They sat on the wall, the fox and the squirrel, and looked after a light that wasn't theirs.

It did not flicker. It did not answer. Lanterns don't. They only stay.

After a while Pip leaned against Nuno's side, and after another while he was asleep.

Nuno did not put his arm down once.

Behind him, through the trees, he could just hear Oona humming. In front of him the little window glowed. And for the first time, Nuno was in the middle of the lights instead of at the end.

When the sky grew light, the little window went dark, all by itself.

Somebody over there, thought Nuno, has just breathed in.

So he breathed in too, all the way home, and the lanterns folded up their light and went to sleep. He tucked Pip into his nest in the hazel tree, and went in.

"Did you light them all?" asked Mama Fox.

"All of mine," said Nuno. "There's one more. Somebody else keeps it."

"Then there are two of you," 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.

Nuno og det lille lys bag muren

Da solen gled ned bag bakken, puttede skoven sine fugle og skruede ned for farverne, én efter én.

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 gik ud for at tænde Lanternestien.

Hans egen lanterne på det gamle egetræ. Hhhh.

Broen. Dammen. Engen. Stenen. Birken. Ved hver af dem lænede han sig helt hen og pustede ud, og ved hver af dem trådte mørket høfligt et skridt tilbage.

Pip var også med. Pip var et meget lille egern med en meget stor hale, og han kunne godt lide at se efter, om Nuno gjorde det rigtigt.

På toppen af bakken sad Oona.

Oona var en stor, rund ugle, der sad der hver nat og aldrig sagde et ord. Nuno tændte den sidste lanterne — hhhh — og hun gav sig til at nynne, dybt og langsomt, som en kedel langt borte.

Sådan vidste skoven, at natten var tryg.

Nuno satte sig ved siden af hende og kiggede tilbage langs stien. Hver eneste lanterne lyste.

"Du har glemt én," sagde Pip.

"Nej, jeg har ej," sagde Nuno.

"Jo, du har. Se."

Pip pegede den anden vej. Ikke tilbage langs stien, men ud forbi de sidste træer, hvor skoven holdt op, og hvor Nuno aldrig havde tændt noget som helst.

Dér, meget langt væk og meget lille, var der et lys.

Det var ikke gyldent som hans lanterner. Det var gult og firkantet og fuldkommen stille.

"Hvem har pustet på den dér?" spurgte Pip.

"Det ved jeg ikke," sagde Nuno.

Det havde han aldrig prøvet før, ikke at vide. Han kiggede på Oona. Oona nynnede en lille smule højere, og det betød: gå bare. Jeg er her.

Så tog Nuno sin stang, og Pip kravlede op på hans ryg, og de gik ud for at se.

Træerne blev færre. Stien holdt op. Og dér, hvor skoven sluttede, var der en mur.

Det var en lav mur af gamle sten med mos imellem, lige præcis så høj, at en ræv kunne lægge hagen på den.

Så Nuno lagde hagen på den.

På den anden side var græsset kort og blødt. Der stod et træ med en gynge. Og allerlængst væk lå et hus med ét lille vindue, der lyste.

"Den er indenfor," hviskede Pip. "Der er nogen, der har en lanterne indenfor."

Han lagde en pote oven på muren.

"Nej," sagde Nuno blidt. "Det er ikke vores sti, Pip. Den dér er en andens."

"Men hvem passer på den?" sagde Pip. "Hvad nu, hvis den går ud?"

Det tænkte Nuno længe over.

"En lanterne er et lille lys, der siger: nogen er vågen, og du er ikke alene," sagde han. "Jeg tror også, den dér siger det. Til nogen derinde. Nogen, der er lille, tror jeg. Det er et lille lys."

"Hvem siger det så til lyset?" spurgte Pip.

Nuno kravlede op på muren. Han holdt sin stang så højt, han kunne, så hans egen lanterne svingede ud over stenene, hvor et vindue måske kunne se den.

"Det gør vi," sagde han. "Herfra."

De sad på muren, ræven og egernet, og passede på et lys, der ikke var deres.

Det blafrede ikke. Det svarede ikke. Det gør lanterner ikke. De bliver bare.

Efter et stykke tid lænede Pip sig ind mod Nunos side, og efter endnu et stykke tid sov han.

Nuno tog ikke armen ned en eneste gang.

Bag sig, inde mellem træerne, kunne han lige akkurat høre Oona nynne. Foran ham lyste det lille vindue. Og for første gang var Nuno midt imellem lysene og ikke for enden af dem.

Da himlen blev lys, blev det lille vindue mørkt, helt af sig selv.

Der er nogen derovre, tænkte Nuno, som lige har trukket vejret ind.

Så trak han også vejret ind, hele vejen hjem, og lanternerne foldede deres lys sammen og lagde sig til at sove. Han puttede Pip i hans rede i hasseltræet og gik ind.

"Fik du tændt dem alle sammen?" spurgte Rævemor.

"Alle mine," sagde Nuno. "Der er én til. Den er der en anden, der passer."

"Så er I to," 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.