Fog on the Lantern Path

When the sun slid down behind the hill, something soft and white came creeping up out of the pond.

It slid between the trees. It filled up the hollows. It tucked itself round every stone and stump, until the whole forest looked as if it had been put away in cotton wool.

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 opened the door.

The forest was gone.

There was no path. There were no trees. There was only white, as far as he could see — and he could not see very far at all.

"Oh," said Nuno.

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

Hhhh.

The lantern woke. And all around it the fog turned gold, like the inside of a peach.

Nuno looked for the next lantern. He could not see it.

He looked for the Bridge. He could not see that either.

"I know this path," he said to himself. "I walk it every night." But his paws did not feel sure.

"Nuno? Is that you? I can't find my tree."

A very small squirrel with a very large tail came out of the white, bumped into Nuno's leg, and sat down.

"Hello, Pip," said Nuno.

"Everything's gone," said Pip. "How do you know where to go?"

"I don't," said Nuno. "Not all the way."

He looked down. In the gold light of his own lantern he could see three steps of path. Just three.

"But I can see that far," he said. "So we'll go that far."

Pip took hold of the end of Nuno's scarf, and they went three steps. And there, in the white, was the shape of a wooden rail.

The Bridge.

Hhhh. The Bridge lantern woke, and the fog glowed gold, and now they could see a little further — just as far as the reeds.

So they went as far as the reeds.

Hhhh. The Pond lantern. And there was the edge of the long grass.

"It's like stepping stones," said Pip. "But made of light."

"A lantern is a little light that says someone is awake," said Nuno. "In the fog, it says one more thing. It says: this far. You only have to come this far."

The Meadow. The Stone. The Birch. Each time the dark white ahead of them turned into gold, and each time there was just enough path to reach the next one.

Somewhere along the way, the tugging on Nuno's scarf stopped. He lifted Pip onto his back and walked on.

After the Birch, the path climbs the hill. And here the fog was thickest of all.

Nuno stopped. He could not see the top. He could not see the last lantern. He could not even see three steps.

He stood very still and listened.

And out of the white, from somewhere high above him, came a sound. Low and slow, like bees in a faraway garden.

Oona was humming.

Oona was a large round owl who sat at the top of the hill every night and never said a word. She always hummed after the last lantern was lit.

Tonight she was humming first.

Nuno smiled, and walked toward the sound.

He found the post by bumping into it.

Hhhh.

The Hilltop lantern woke. The fog around it glowed, and there was Oona on her branch, with drops of mist on every feather, humming with her eyes half closed.

"Thank you," whispered Nuno.

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

Nuno sat beside her. Below them there was no path to see — only soft gold clouds in a row, one for each lantern, floating in the white like a string of little moons.

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

In the morning the fog went home to the pond, and the forest was just where it had always been.

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

He tucked Pip into his nest in the hazel tree, and went in.

"Could you see the way?" asked Mama Fox.

"Only to the next lantern," said Nuno.

"That's all anybody ever needs," 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.

Tåge på Lanternestien

Da solen gled ned bag bakken, kom noget blødt og hvidt krybende op fra dammen.

Det gled ind mellem træerne. Det fyldte lavningerne. Det lagde sig om hver eneste sten og stub, indtil hele skoven så ud, som om den var blevet pakket væk i vat.

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 åbnede døren.

Skoven var væk.

Der var ingen sti. Der var ingen træer. Der var kun hvidt, så langt han kunne se — og han kunne slet ikke se ret langt.

"Nå," sagde Nuno.

Han kunne lige skimte sin egen lanterne på egetræets nederste gren. Han lænede sig helt tæt på og pustede ud, så blidt han kunne.

Hhhh.

Lanternen vågnede. Og hele vejen rundt om den blev tågen gylden, som indersiden af en fersken.

Nuno kiggede efter den næste lanterne. Han kunne ikke se den.

Han kiggede efter Broen. Den kunne han heller ikke se.

"Jeg kender den her sti," sagde han til sig selv. "Jeg går den hver nat." Men hans poter var ikke helt sikre.

"Nuno? Er det dig? Jeg kan ikke finde mit træ."

Et meget lille egern med en meget stor hale kom ud af det hvide, stødte ind i Nunos ben og satte sig ned.

"Hej, Pip," sagde Nuno.

"Det hele er væk," sagde Pip. "Hvordan ved du, hvor du skal gå hen?"

"Det ved jeg ikke," sagde Nuno. "Ikke hele vejen."

Han kiggede ned. I det gyldne lys fra sin egen lanterne kunne han se tre skridt af stien. Kun tre.

"Men så langt kan jeg se," sagde han. "Så går vi så langt."

Pip tog fat i enden af Nunos tørklæde, og de gik tre skridt. Og dér, i det hvide, var der noget, der lignede et gelænder af træ.

Broen.

Hhhh. Lanternen ved Broen vågnede, og tågen lyste gyldent, og nu kunne de se lidt længere — lige hen til sivene.

Så gik de hen til sivene.

Hhhh. Lanternen ved Dammen. Og dér var kanten af det lange græs.

"Det er ligesom trædesten," sagde Pip. "Bare lavet af lys."

"En lanterne er et lille lys, der siger: nogen er vågen," sagde Nuno. "I tågen siger den én ting til. Den siger: hertil. Du skal kun nå hertil."

Engen. Stenen. Birken. Hver gang blev det mørke hvide foran dem til guld, og hver gang var der lige præcis sti nok til at nå den næste.

Et sted undervejs holdt det op med at rykke i Nunos tørklæde. Han løftede Pip op på sin ryg og gik videre.

Efter Birken går stien op ad bakken. Og her var tågen allertykkest.

Nuno standsede. Han kunne ikke se toppen. Han kunne ikke se den sidste lanterne. Han kunne ikke engang se tre skridt.

Han stod helt stille og lyttede.

Og ud af det hvide, et sted højt over ham, kom der en lyd. Dyb og langsom, som bier i en have langt væk.

Oona nynnede.

Oona var en stor, rund ugle, der sad på toppen af bakken hver nat og aldrig sagde et ord. Hun nynnede altid efter, at den sidste lanterne var tændt.

I nat nynnede hun først.

Nuno smilede og gik efter lyden.

Han fandt pælen ved at støde ind i den.

Hhhh.

Lanternen på Bakketoppen vågnede. Tågen omkring den lyste, og dér sad Oona på sin gren med tågedråber på hver eneste fjer og nynnede med øjnene halvt lukkede.

"Tak," hviskede Nuno.

Sådan vidste skoven, at natten var tryg.

Nuno satte sig ved siden af hende. Neden for dem var der ingen sti at se — kun bløde, gyldne skyer på række, én for hver lanterne, der svævede i det hvide som en snor af små måner.

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

Om morgenen gik tågen hjem til dammen, og skoven stod lige dér, hvor den altid havde stået.

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

Han puttede Pip i hans rede i hasseltræet og gik ind.

"Kunne du se vejen?" spurgte Rævemor.

"Kun hen til den næste lanterne," sagde Nuno.

"Mere behøver man aldrig," 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.