The Polite Brachiosaurus and the Wide Blue River
Bo packs a picnic and follows a long line of footprints to a very tall, very polite guest who cannot reach the other side of the river — until a child notices what the river has been showing her all along.
Made on Nightstory, and shared. The child's name has been changed.
The Basket and the Footprints
Bo found the basket in the kitchen, right where the bread had been. She packed two sandwiches, cut in triangles. She packed two apples, one red and one green. She packed three little oat biscuits in a little paper nest. "Someone might like a biscuit," she told her triceratops, tucking him under her arm. Outside, the afternoon was warm on the moss. The ferns stood still. And there — pressed deep and round, big as a washtub, small as a teacup — went footprints. One. Two. Three. Bo put on her sunhat. She put on her yellow boots. The footprints had been waiting all morning. They pointed past the hedge, past the reeds, toward somewhere she could not quite see. "Coming?" she asked her triceratops. She followed them. The basket bumped her knees, gently, all the way.
Down the Fern Path to the Reeds
The grass path went under the big hedge, and Bo went under it too. The leaves made a green roof, and the light came through in wiggly patches. A beetle crossed the path. It was round and shiny, like a tiny black boot. Bo stepped around it. The beetle went on its way. A feather lay in the moss. Bo picked it up. It was soft and small and grey-blue, and she tucked it in her pocket next to the biscuits. A stone sat by the path, white and smooth and pointed. It looked just like a tooth. Bo turned it over in her hand, then set it back where she found it, pointing the way it had pointed. The footprints went on. Past the hedge, the ferns grew tall and close, and Bo pushed through them, one frond at a time. Then the reeds. They whispered. They leaned. They were taller than Bo, taller than the hedge, and she walked between them with her basket bumping her knees. And somewhere past the reeds, she heard it: a wide, soft, watery sound, like many small hands clapping, very far away. The river. Before she saw it, she heard it.
A Very Tall Guest on the Bank
Bo came out onto the shore where the ground was made of small grey pebbles, and the pebbles said shh, shh, shh under her yellow boots. The river was wide and blue and bright, and on the near bank stood a brachiosaurus. It was very, very tall. Its neck went up and up, and its small head turned slowly, the way a weathervane turns, to look across at the far bank. Across the water, three more brachiosauruses grazed among the ferns. They lifted their heads. They dipped them down again. The tall one on the near bank held a folded leaf napkin in one front foot. It did not splash. It did not shout. It stood very politely, and its thick round feet were exactly at the edge, not one step in. Then it saw Bo. It lowered its long neck all the way down, down, down, until its nose was near her sunhat, and it blinked at her. Bo held up her basket. "I have biscuits," she said. The brachiosaurus looked across the wide blue river. Then it looked back at Bo, and let out a small, soft sound, like a question.
The Picnic on the Flat Warm Stone
Bo found a flat stone at the water's edge, wide as a table and warm as toast. She spread the leaf napkin on it and set out the picnic. Two sandwiches, cut in triangles. One red apple, one green apple. Three little oat biscuits in their paper nest. The brachiosaurus folded its legs and settled down, slow and careful, like a hill deciding to sit. Even sitting, it was taller than the hedge. It brought its head all the way down to the stone, and Bo held up a biscuit. The huge mouth opened — just a little. Just enough. The brachiosaurus nibbled the oat biscuit with enormous care, one crumb at a time, and Bo caught the crumbs in her two hands. She passed up the red apple. Then the green one. The brachiosaurus chewed and blinked and looked pleased. Then it nodded at the water. One small nod, one bigger nod. Bo understood: too polite to splash, and not quite sure how deep the bottom went. The river went on being wide and blue between them, and the puzzle sat quietly on the warm stone, waiting.
What the Shallow Water Was Showing
Bo did not look across. She looked down. The water at the edge was so shallow it was almost see-through, like a window lying flat on the ground. Bo walked slowly along the shore, one yellow boot, then the other, and she watched. A flat grey stone, just under the surface. Then another. Then another, in a line, one, two, three, all the way across the wide blue river. The river had been showing her all along. Bo pointed. She pointed at the first stone, then the next, then the next, and the brachiosaurus lowered its long neck to look. It lifted one thick round foot. It set it down on the first stone. Then the second. Then the third. The river laughed around its ankles — splash, splash, splash — and kept on laughing, all the way over, until the brachiosaurus stood on the far bank beside its family. It turned its long neck all the way back, the way a weathervane turns, and nodded once. Thank you.
Home, Boots, and the Frogs
Bo packed the basket again. Napkin folded, apples gone, one oat biscuit saved for later, tucked beside the sandwiches' empty paper. She said goodbye with a wave, and the brachiosaurus on the far bank lifted its head and waved its leaf napkin back, very politely. Then Bo walked home. The river got quieter behind her, shh, shh, shh, and then softer, and then just a hum. Past the tall reeds. Past the big hedge. The footprints in the moss were filling up with afternoon, their edges going soft and golden. At home she set her yellow boots side by side by the door, toe to toe, the way they liked to be. She climbed into bed and pulled her triceratops under her arm. Outside, the frogs began their small evening song — peep, peep, peep — one frog, then two, then all of them together. Bo yawned a big yawn. The day folded itself up small and warm, and she closed her eyes.
The end.