Nuno and the First Lantern

When the sun slid down behind the hill, the forest began to yawn.

The birds tucked their heads under their wings. The bees went home. The flowers closed, one by one, like small hands.

And under the old oak tree, behind a round wooden door between the roots, a little fox opened his eyes.

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

He stretched his front paws. He stretched his back paws. He wound his blue scarf with the golden dots twice around his neck, because nights can be cool. Then he took his lantern pole from its hook, quietly, so as not to wake Mama Fox.

It was time to go to work.

Nuno's own lantern hung on the lowest branch of the oak. It was always the first one.

He stood on his toes. He took a big breath and blew — whooo.

Nothing happened.

He took a bigger breath and blew harder — WHOOO.

The lantern only swung on its hook and looked at him.

Nuno sat down and thought about it. Then he leaned in very close, as close as you lean to tell a secret, and breathed out as softly as he could.

Hhhh.

A tiny glow woke up inside the glass. It wobbled. It grew. And then the whole lantern shone, warm and yellow, like a small piece of the afternoon.

"There you are," said Nuno.

"What are you doing?"

Nuno looked up. On the branch above him sat a very small squirrel with a very large tail.

"Lighting the lanterns," said Nuno.

"Why?" said Pip. Pip was always asking why.

"So the path can be seen."

"Why?"

"So nobody gets lost."

"Why?"

Nuno thought about that one for a while.

"Because a lantern is a little light that says: someone is awake, and you are not alone," he said.

Pip thought about that too. It took nearly a whole second.

"Can I come?"

So they went along the Lantern Path together, the fox in front and the squirrel hopping behind.

At the Bridge, Nuno breathed softly — hhhh — and the lantern woke, and the water underneath turned gold.

At the Pond, the frogs stopped singing to watch. Hhhh. Then they started again, a little more quietly.

At the Meadow, the fireflies came to see who was copying them.

"How many are there?" asked Pip.

"Enough to reach the top of the hill."

"How many have we done?"

"Four."

"Is that nearly enough?"

"Nearly," said Nuno kindly.

At the Stone, the lantern was high up, and Nuno had to lift his pole as far as it would go. When he looked round again, Pip was lying in the moss with his tail over his face, fast asleep.

Nuno did not wake him. He lifted Pip very gently onto his back, where it was warm, and walked on more slowly.

The Birch lantern. Hhhh.

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

"Good evening, Oona," whispered Nuno.

Oona did not answer. She never did. But when the Hilltop lantern began to glow, she started to hum — a low, slow, sleepy hum, like a kettle a long way off.

That was how the forest knew. Every lantern on the path was shining, the owl was humming, and the night was safe.

Nuno sat down beside her. Below him, the Lantern Path wound through the dark like a string of small suns. He watched it all night long, and not one light went out.

When the sky turned pale at the edges, Nuno stood up.

Now he went the other way. At every lantern he breathed in instead of out — just a little sip of air — and the light folded itself up and went to sleep.

Hilltop. Birch. Stone. Meadow. Pond. Bridge.

He left Pip in his nest in the hazel tree, still snoring, with his tail tucked round him.

Last of all, his own lantern on the old oak. Nuno looked at it for a moment.

"Thank you," he said. "Same time tonight."

And he breathed in.

Inside, the hollow smelled of warm bread. Mama Fox was awake.

"Did they all light?" she asked.

"Every one," said Nuno. "The first one took three tries."

"The first one always does," said Mama Fox. "Sleep well, my night fox."

Nuno curled up in his bed of leaves. He put his tail over his nose. Outside, the birds were beginning to sing, and the sun was coming up over the hill.

And Nuno slept. All day long.

Nuno og den første lanterne

Da solen gled ned bag bakken, begyndte skoven at gabe.

Fuglene stak hovedet ind under vingen. Bierne fløj hjem. Blomsterne lukkede sig, én efter én, som små hænder.

Og under det gamle egetræ, bag en rund trædør mellem rødderne, åbnede en lille ræv øjnene.

"Sol ned," hviskede Nuno. "Ræv op."

Han strakte forpoterne. Han strakte bagpoterne. Han viklede sit blå tørklæde med de gyldne prikker to gange om halsen, for nætter kan være kølige. Så tog han sin lanternestang ned fra krogen, ganske stille, så han ikke vækkede Rævemor.

Det var tid til at gå på arbejde.

Nunos egen lanterne hang på egetræets nederste gren. Den var altid den første.

Han stillede sig på tæer. Han trak vejret dybt ind og pustede — fuuu.

Der skete ingenting.

Han trak vejret endnu dybere ind og pustede hårdere — FUUU.

Lanternen gyngede bare på sin krog og kiggede på ham.

Nuno satte sig ned og tænkte over det. Så lænede han sig helt tæt på, lige så tæt som når man fortæller en hemmelighed, og pustede ud, så blidt han kunne.

Hhhh.

En lillebitte glød vågnede inde bag glasset. Den blafrede. Den voksede. Og så lyste hele lanternen, varm og gul, som et lille stykke eftermiddag.

"Der var du," sagde Nuno.

"Hvad laver du?"

Nuno kiggede op. På grenen over ham sad et meget lille egern med en meget stor hale.

"Tænder lanternerne," sagde Nuno.

"Hvorfor?" sagde Pip. Pip spurgte altid hvorfor.

"Så man kan se stien."

"Hvorfor?"

"Så ingen farer vild."

"Hvorfor?"

Den måtte Nuno tænke lidt over.

"Fordi en lanterne er et lille lys, der siger: nogen er vågen, og du er ikke alene," sagde han.

Det tænkte Pip også over. Det tog næsten et helt sekund.

"Må jeg komme med?"

Så gik de sammen hen ad Lanternestien, ræven forrest og egernet hoppende bagefter.

Ved Broen pustede Nuno blidt — hhhh — og lanternen vågnede, og vandet nedenunder blev til guld.

Ved Dammen holdt frøerne op med at synge for at kigge. Hhhh. Så begyndte de igen, lidt mere stille.

Ved Engen kom ildfluerne for at se, hvem der efterlignede dem.

"Hvor mange er der?" spurgte Pip.

"Nok til at nå helt op på toppen af bakken."

"Hvor mange har vi tændt?"

"Fire."

"Er det næsten nok?"

"Næsten," sagde Nuno venligt.

Ved Stenen sad lanternen højt oppe, og Nuno måtte løfte sin stang, så langt han kunne. Da han vendte sig om igen, lå Pip i mosset med halen over ansigtet og sov tungt.

Nuno vækkede ham ikke. Han løftede Pip ganske forsigtigt op på sin ryg, hvor der var varmt, og gik videre, lidt langsommere.

Lanternen ved Birken. Hhhh.

Og så den sidste, helt oppe på toppen af bakken, hvor en stor, rund ugle sad på sin gren med øjnene halvt lukkede.

"Godaften, Oona," hviskede Nuno.

Oona svarede ikke. Det gjorde hun aldrig. Men da lanternen på Bakketoppen begyndte at lyse, gav hun sig til at nynne — en dyb, langsom, søvnig nynnen, som en kedel langt borte.

Sådan vidste skoven det. Hver eneste lanterne på stien lyste, uglen nynnede, og natten var tryg.

Nuno satte sig ved siden af hende. Neden for ham snoede Lanternestien sig gennem mørket som en snor af små sole. Han holdt øje med den hele natten, og ikke ét lys gik ud.

Da himlen blev lysere i kanten, rejste Nuno sig.

Nu gik han den anden vej. Ved hver lanterne trak han vejret ind i stedet for at puste ud — bare en lille slurk luft — og lyset foldede sig sammen og lagde sig til at sove.

Bakketoppen. Birken. Stenen. Engen. Dammen. Broen.

Han lagde Pip i hans rede i hasseltræet, stadig snorkende, med halen svøbt godt om sig.

Til allersidst hans egen lanterne på det gamle egetræ. Nuno kiggede på den et øjeblik.

"Tak," sagde han. "Samme tid i aften."

Og han trak vejret ind.

Inde i hulen duftede der af varmt brød. Rævemor var vågen.

"Blev de alle sammen tændt?" spurgte hun.

"Hver eneste én," sagde Nuno. "Den første tog tre forsøg."

"Det gør den første altid," sagde Rævemor. "Sov godt, min natteræv."

Nuno rullede sig sammen i sin seng af blade. Han lagde halen over snuden. Udenfor var fuglene begyndt at synge, og solen var på vej op over bakken.

Og Nuno sov. Hele dagen lang.