Mira Builds a Bridge

At the bend of a wide, slow, silver river, in an old stone cottage with a mill wheel that no longer turned, there lived a girl called Mira and her dad.

From her bedroom window, Mira could see both sides of the river.

On the sunny side was a meadow full of clover and buttercups, and under the meadow, in a warren of cosy tunnels, lived the Rabbit family. There was Grandpa Rabbit, and Mother and Father Rabbit, and more little rabbits than Mira could ever count, and the smallest of all was called Tansy.

On the shady side was a wood full of ferns and fallen logs, and under the roots of an old beech tree lived the Hedgehog family. There was Grandma Hedgehog, and Mother and Father Hedgehog, and a whole huddle of hoglets, and the smallest of all was called Burr.

Between them ran the river. Wide and deep and cold and quick.

And between them, too, ran something else. Something you couldn't see at all.

Long ago, before Mira was born, there had been stepping stones across the river. Every morning the rabbits would hop across to the wood, and every evening the hedgehogs would trundle across to the meadow, and the two families would share blackberries and gossip until the stars came out.

Then, one wild winter, there came a great flood. The river roared and rose, and when it went down again, the stepping stones were gone.

"The hedgehogs should put them back," said Grandpa Rabbit. "They're the ones with all the stones in their wood."

"The rabbits should put them back," said Grandma Hedgehog. "They're the ones who use them most."

Neither family moved a single stone. And the longer they waited, the crosser they got, and the crosser they got, the less they spoke, until one day they didn't speak at all.

Now, if a rabbit saw a hedgehog across the water, it turned its back. And if a hedgehog saw a rabbit, it rolled up in a huff.

But Mira noticed something.

Every morning, when she went down to the river to fill her watering can, she saw little Tansy Rabbit sitting at the water's edge on the sunny side.

And every morning, at exactly the same time, little Burr Hedgehog came trundling out of the ferns on the shady side.

They never said a word. They weren't allowed to. But when they thought nobody was looking, Tansy would lift one soft paw and wave, ever so slightly.

And Burr would lift one tiny paw and wave back.

Then a voice would call, "Tansy! Come away from that water!" And another voice would call, "Burr! What are you doing over there?"

And the two little ones would scurry home, looking back over their shoulders all the way.

Mira watched them go. She thought about it all day. She thought about it while she ate her supper, and while she brushed her teeth, and while she lay in bed listening to the river.

At breakfast the next morning, Mira put down her spoon.

"Dad," she said. "I'm going to build a bridge."

Dad looked up from his porridge. "A bridge?"

"Across the river. For the rabbits and the hedgehogs. So they can visit each other again."

Dad looked out of the window at the wide, deep, quick river. Then he looked at Mira, who was seven, and not very tall, and had porridge on her chin.

"That's a very big job," he said gently.

"I know," said Mira. "That's why I'm going to do it one stone at a time."

Dad smiled, the slow smile he smiled when Mira surprised him.

"One stone at a time," he said. "Well. That's how every bridge in the world was built."

He wiped the porridge off her chin. Then he found her some old gardening gloves and his wellies, which were far too big, and stuffed the toes with socks.

"Be careful," he said. "And come and get me if you need me."

Down by the river, there were stones everywhere. Big stones and small stones, round stones and flat stones, grey stones and brown stones speckled with gold.

Mira chose a big round one. She bent her knees, the way Dad had shown her, and she lifted.

It was heavy. Very heavy. She staggered. She wobbled. She waddled down to the water's edge with her cheeks puffed out, and then she let it go.

Ker-PLOSH!

The stone sank into the shallows with an enormous splash. It sat there on the riverbed, just poking its top out of the water.

It didn't look much like a bridge. It looked like one stone.

But in the long grass on the sunny side, a pair of long ears twitched. And in the ferns on the shady side, a small pointed nose peeped out.

Mira wiped her forehead and went to fetch another.

One stone, then two, then three, then more.
Step by step to the other shore.

Every day after that, Mira came down to the river.

On Monday, she laid three stones. On Tuesday, four. On Wednesday, it rained, and she laid two, and came home soaked to the skin, and Dad made her hot chocolate.

On Thursday, she laid five, and fell in twice, and laughed so much that a moorhen flew off in alarm.

Slowly, slowly, a little line of stones began to creep out from the shady side of the river, like the beginning of a sentence.

The rabbits pretended not to watch. They nibbled clover with their backs to the river. But every now and then, Grandpa Rabbit would sneak a look over his shoulder, and harrumph.

The hedgehogs pretended not to watch either. They snuffled for beetles in the ferns. But every evening, when Mira went home, Grandma Hedgehog would trundle down to the water's edge and count the stones, very quietly, under her breath.

One stone, then two, then three, then more.
Step by step to the other shore.

Then, one night, it rained.

It rained and it rained and it rained. The rain drummed on the cottage roof and gurgled in the gutters and ran down Mira's window in long silver streaks. Down in the dark, the river grew fat and fast and brown, and it rushed and roared past the old mill like a train.

Mira lay awake, listening.

In the morning, the sky was washed clean and blue, and Mira ran down to the river in her pyjamas.

The stones were gone.

Not all of them. Two were still there, close to the bank. But all the rest, every stone she had carried and splashed and wobbled and laid, had been rolled away by the river in the night, as if they had never been there at all.

Mira sat down on the wet grass. She didn't cry. Not quite. But her chin went very wobbly.

"Two weeks," she whispered. "Two whole weeks."

What do you think Mira should do now?

Dad came and sat beside her on the wet grass. He didn't say anything for a while. He just put his arm around her.

"The river's very strong," said Mira at last. "Stronger than me."

"It is," said Dad. "But you know what? The river's had to work all night. And you've only got to work one stone at a time."

Mira thought about that.

Then she thought about Tansy and Burr, waving to each other across the water.

She stood up. She went home and put on her gloves and Dad's enormous wellies. And she came back down to the river and started again.

This time she chose bigger stones. Flatter stones. And she dug little hollows in the riverbed so that each one would sit snugly and not roll away.

But when she came down the next morning, something strange had happened.

On the sunny side of the river, someone had left a neat little pile of stones, waiting right at the water's edge.

Mira looked at the pile of stones. She looked at the meadow. Nobody there. Just clover and buttercups, and a few rabbits nibbling with their backs to the river.

"Hmm," said Mira.

The next morning, there was another pile on the sunny side. And this time, there was something on the shady side too: a scattering of little round pebbles, just the right size for wedging under big stones to stop them wobbling.

"Hmm," said Mira again.

She worked faster now. With the pile of stones from the sunny side and the pebbles from the shady side, the bridge grew more quickly than ever. Soon there were stones reaching out from the shady bank. And then, mysteriously, stones began appearing on the sunny side too, reaching out to meet them.

Mira hadn't laid those.

One stone, then two, then three, then more.
Step by step to the other shore.

Mira smiled to herself. She had a pretty good idea of what was going on. But she wanted to be sure.

That night, Mira didn't go to bed. Well, she did go to bed. But when Dad was asleep, she crept out in her dressing gown and hid in the reeds by the river, and she waited.

The moon came up, round and white. The river whispered.

And then, from the meadow, came the rabbits. All of them. Grandpa Rabbit, Mother and Father Rabbit, all the little rabbits, and Tansy. They dug stones from the sandy bank with their strong paws and nudged them, one by one, into the river.

And from the wood came the hedgehogs. All of them. Grandma Hedgehog, Mother and Father Hedgehog, the whole huddle of hoglets, and Burr. They rolled little pebbles down to the water and pushed them under the stones on their side, to make them firm.

Each family worked on its own half. Neither looked at the other. Not once.

Mira hugged her knees in the reeds and smiled.

They both want the bridge, she thought. They just don't want to be first to say so.

By the end of that week, the bridge was nearly finished.

From the shady side, a line of stones marched out into the river, firm and flat and wedged with pebbles. From the sunny side, another line marched out to meet it.

But in the middle, where the river was deepest and quickest, there was a gap.

It was too wide to step across. Too wide even for a rabbit to jump. And the water there rushed and swirled so fast that any small stone dropped into it was snatched away in a moment.

Mira stood at the end of the stones on the shady side and looked at the gap. On the sunny side, Tansy sat at the end of the other stones and looked at it too.

"What we need," said Mira, "is one big stone. A big, flat, heavy stone, long enough to reach all the way across."

Tansy's nose twitched. Across the gap, it was the closest she had been to Mira. And the closest she had been to the shady side, in her whole life.

Mira searched up and down the river for the right stone. And at last, in the shallows just below the old mill, she found it.

It was long and flat and smooth, like a giant's bookshelf, and it was exactly the right size to reach across the gap.

Mira bent her knees. She took hold of one end. She heaved.

Nothing happened.

She heaved again, until her face went pink and her plaits stood out sideways.

The stone didn't budge. Not even a wobble.

Mira tried pushing it. She tried rolling it. She even tried, for a little while, asking it nicely. But the big flat stone just lay there in the shallows, as heavy as a mountain, and the river rushed around it.

Mira sat down on the bank, out of breath.

She could carry a hundred small stones, one at a time. But this one, she couldn't move on her own.

Nobody could.

Mira stood up. She cupped her hands around her mouth, and she called out, as loud as she could.

"RABBITS! HEDGEHOGS! Please come here! I need you!"

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, slowly, rabbit ears appeared above the clover on the sunny side. And small pointed noses appeared among the ferns on the shady side. One by one, the two families crept down to the water, and stood on their own banks, looking at Mira. Not looking at each other.

"I know it's you," said Mira. "I know you've been helping. Thank you. The bridge is nearly finished. But there's one last stone, and it's too heavy. I can't lift it on my own."

She took a deep breath.

"And neither can you. Not the rabbits on their own. Not the hedgehogs on their own. It needs all of us. Together."

Nobody said anything.

The river rushed on between them, quick and cold.

It was a long, long silence.

Grandpa Rabbit looked at his paws. Grandma Hedgehog looked at the sky. Mother and Father Rabbit looked at each other, and Mother and Father Hedgehog looked at their feet. Nobody wanted to go first.

Then, very quietly, Tansy hopped forward.

She hopped onto the first stone of the bridge. Then the second. Then the third. Right to the end of the rabbits' half, at the very edge of the gap.

"I'll help," she said, in a small, brave voice.

On the shady side, there was a rustle in the ferns. And out trundled Burr, as fast as his little legs would carry him, onto the hedgehogs' half of the bridge, all the way to the other edge of the gap.

"Me too," he said.

The two little ones looked at each other across the rushing water. And they smiled.

Then Grandpa Rabbit cleared his throat.

Do you think he will help too?

"Well," said Grandpa Rabbit gruffly. "We can't let the little ones do it all by themselves."

"Certainly not," said Grandma Hedgehog. And for the first time in years, she looked straight across the river at him.

So they came. All of them.

Dad came too, from the cottage, with a long, strong branch for a lever. Mira wedged it under the big flat stone. The rabbits gathered around one end and pushed with their strong back legs. The hedgehogs gathered around the other, pushing with their noses and shoulders, pebbles ready to wedge underneath.

"Ready?" said Mira. "One... two... three... HEAVE!"

Everyone heaved. The stone groaned. It wobbled. It shifted, just a little.

"Again! HEAVE!"

Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, the big flat stone slid through the shallows. Then it tipped. Then it rose. And then, with a deep, solid clunk, it settled across the gap, one end on the rabbits' side and one end on the hedgehogs' side.

The bridge was finished.

For a moment, everybody stood very still.

Then Tansy hopped onto the big flat stone. And Burr trundled onto it from the other end. And they met, right in the middle, high above the rushing water, nose to nose.

"Hello," said Tansy.

"Hello," said Burr.

It was the first thing they had ever said to each other.

Then everyone was on the bridge at once. Little rabbits and little hedgehogs, hopping and trundling and tumbling over one another, squeaking and laughing, running from one side of the river to the other and back again, just because they could.

Mira stood on the bank with Dad's arm around her shoulders, watching, and her heart felt as full as the river after the rain.

"One stone at a time," said Dad softly.

"One stone at a time," said Mira.

One stone, then two, then three, then more.
Step by step to the other shore.

Last of all, Grandpa Rabbit and Grandma Hedgehog stepped onto the bridge. Slowly, one from each side, they walked towards the middle, and stopped, face to face.

There was a little pause.

"I'm sorry," said Grandpa Rabbit. "I should have helped mend the stones, all those years ago."

"No, I'm sorry," said Grandma Hedgehog. "I should have helped too. I was just too proud to go first."

"So was I," said Grandpa Rabbit.

They looked at each other.

"Do you know," said Grandma Hedgehog slowly, "I can't even remember why we were so cross."

Grandpa Rabbit thought about it. He thought very hard. His ears went up and down.

"Neither can I," he admitted.

And then they both began to laugh, so hard that Grandpa Rabbit had to sit down and Grandma Hedgehog rolled into a ball and wobbled. And all the rabbits and all the hedgehogs laughed with them, until the whole river rang.

That afternoon, there was a picnic on the bridge.

The rabbits brought clover and dandelion leaves and sweet wild strawberries. The hedgehogs brought blackberries and crab apples and a few beetles, which only the hedgehogs ate. Dad brought a basket of sandwiches and a big flask of lemonade. And Mira brought a cake, a little bit squashed, that she and Dad had baked that morning just in case.

Everyone sat along the bridge with their feet dangling over the water, eating and chatting and passing things up and down.

The grown-ups talked about the old days, when the stepping stones were there, and the little ones talked about everything, all at once, the way little ones do. Tansy and Burr sat together at the very middle of the big flat stone, sharing a strawberry.

"What shall we call it?" asked Burr. "The bridge?"

Everybody thought.

"Mira's Bridge," said Tansy.

And everybody agreed.

The sun began to sink behind the wood, and the river turned to gold.

"Time to go home," said Mother Rabbit.

"Time to go home," said Mother Hedgehog.

So the rabbits hopped back across the bridge to their meadow, and the hedgehogs trundled back to their wood. But this time, at the end of the bridge, every single one of them turned around and waved.

"See you tomorrow!" called Tansy.

"See you tomorrow!" called Burr.

Mira and Dad walked slowly back up to the cottage, hand in hand, as the first stars came out over the river.

"Dad," said Mira. "Do you think the river will wash it away?"

Dad looked back at the bridge, solid and low and strong across the water, every stone wedged tight.

"Not this one," he said. "This one wasn't built by one person. It was built by everyone. Those are the bridges that last."

That night, Mira lay in bed with her window open, listening to the river.

It was singing its soft night song, the same as always. Shhhh, shhhh, over the stones. But tonight, it sounded different. Gentler. As if it were singing around something, instead of between.

Mira knelt up and looked out of the window.

There, in the moonlight, was the bridge. Low and grey and solid, stretching from the sunny side to the shady side, every stone silver in the moon.

In the meadow, the rabbits were asleep in their warren. In the wood, the hedgehogs were asleep under the beech roots. And somewhere, Mira was sure, Tansy and Burr were dreaming about tomorrow.

Mira lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin.

One stone, then two, then three, then more.
Step by step to the other shore.

Her eyes closed. The river sang.

Goodnight, rabbits. Goodnight, hedgehogs.

Goodnight, Mira.