The Whale Who Carried the Moon Up
A sleepy drift across a quiet sea on the back of a gentle whale, where the water rocks like a cradle and the moon rises slow and silver. A soft, hushaby story for the end of a long day.
Made on Nightstory, and shared. The child's name has been changed.
The Warm Shallows
When the sky turned the colour of deep water, Posy went out. The fern path was cool under her feet, one leaf, then another, then the sand. The shore was quiet. The sea lay flat and dark and glassy, like a plate of night set down to cool. It barely moved at all. It only breathed. Posy walked to the edge. The water came up over her toes, her ankles, warm as bathwater, warm as a hand holding her feet. Far out, something breathed too. A slow sound. A long sound. Like a hill, if a hill could breathe. Posy stood still in the warm shallows and listened, and the whole sea listened with her. Out in the dark, the water moved — just a little — and something enormous and kind came nearer.
Up on the Whale's Back
The water lifted, slow as a long breath, and a great back rose up beside her — deep slate-blue, speckled pale as a shell, round and wide as a hill. A dark eye looked at her, slow and kind. The whale sank down, down, until its back was level with the warm water, and Posy climbed on. The skin was smooth and cool, then warm where she sat. She tucked her triceratops under her arm and held on with her knees. Then the whale began to move. Out they went, past the last rocks, where the waves grew sleepy and the water patted the whale's sides — pat, pat — soft as a hand on a blanket. The stars came out one by one, blinking on like little lamps. Posy grew small and still, up on the wide back, and the sea rocked her, and the sea rocked her, and the sea rocked her.
The Moon Comes Up
Out and out they went, until the shore was only a soft dark line and the sea was all around them, wide and warm and still. Then the whale stopped. It did not dive. It did not turn. It only floated, big and quiet, and breathed, and waited, and Posy waited too. Far away, where the water met the sky, something pale began to glow. A thread of light. Then a curve. Then a whole round edge, rising up and up out of the sea, slow as a bubble, slow as a breath. The moon. It climbed. It dripped and shone. And all across the water, a long silver path came rocking toward them — rippling, widening, rolling softly, till the light lay right up against the whale's side. Posy sat on the wide back in the middle of all that silver, and the sea rocked her, and the sea rocked her.
The Silver Line Home
Posy's head grew heavy. Her arms grew warm. The whale's back was wide and round beneath her, rising and falling, rising and falling, like a big slow pillow that breathed. She lay her cheek down on the cool speckled skin and watched the silver path rock beside her, and the moon floated up and up until it sat right on top of the water, round and white and quiet. The whale turned. Slow, slow, it turned, and the silver path slid away behind them, and the shore came nearer — a soft dark line, then a line with ferns, then the warm shallows where the water held her feet. The whale sank down, down, till its back was level with the water, and Posy stepped off onto the sand. She looked back once. The dark eye looked at her, slow and kind, and then the whale breathed out, and sank, and was gone. The fern path was cool under her feet, one leaf, then another, then her door. She climbed into bed and pulled her blanket up to her chin and tucked her triceratops under her arm. Somewhere below, the sea rocked and rocked. A thin line of moonlight lay across the window, and Posy's eyes closed.
The end.