The Moon Who Lost Her Glow

Every night, before her eyes grew heavy, Lila knelt on the cushion by her window and said goodnight to the moon.

"Goodnight, Moon," she would whisper, and the moon would pour her silver light over the hill behind the cottage, over the bent old hawthorn tree on top, over the sleeping sheep and the quiet roofs, until everything looked as if it had been dipped in milk.

But tonight was different.

Tonight the moon came up slowly, slowly, like someone climbing stairs at the end of a long day. She was not silver. She was not bright. She was grey and dull, like an old coin found at the bottom of a pocket.

The hill was dark. The hawthorn tree was dark. Even the sheep were only soft, shadowy lumps.

Lila pressed her nose to the cold glass.

"Moon?" she said. "Are you feeling poorly?"

The curtains stirred, though the window was shut. And from very far away, softer than a feather landing on a feather, came a voice.

"Lila," whispered the moon. "I have lost my glow. I looked everywhere in the sky, and it isn't there."

Lila's heart went thump, thump, thump.

The moon had always been there for her. On the night of the big storm, the moon had peeped through the clouds. On the night Lila lost her first tooth, the moon had watched over the little gap. The moon was a friend. And friends help friends.

So Lila slid off the window seat. She pulled her mustard cardigan over her pyjamas, the one with buttons like butterscotch sweets. She stepped into her coral boots, left foot, right foot, squeak, squeak. She took her little brass lantern from the hook, and its candle-glow made a warm, round room of light around her.

Then she opened the front door very, very quietly.

The garden smelled of wet grass and sleeping roses. Up above, the tall hill waited, and on top of the hill the moon hung low and pale.

"Don't worry, Moon," Lila whispered. "I'm coming."

The path to the hill went through the meadow, where the grass grew tall enough to tickle Lila's knees.

Without the moon's light, the meadow was a sea of shadows. Lila held her lantern a little higher. The grass whispered, hush, hush, as she walked through it, and the little round room of light walked with her.

The hill was much bigger at night. It rose up and up like the back of a great green whale asleep in the dark.

Lila took a deep breath. She was only small, and the hill was very tall. But she remembered something her grandmother always said when a job looked too big: "One step, then the next one, and the next one after that."

So Lila made up a little song to keep her feet company. She sang it softly, so as not to wake the sheep:

"Step by step and up we go,
to help the moon find her glow."

Her boots went squeak. The grass went hush. And the song went round and round, like a ribbon tied around the night.

At the edge of the meadow, something soft went bump against Lila's lantern. Bump. Bump-bump.

It was a moth, pale as cream, with wings like two dusty petals. She bumped against the glass, and bumped again, and then fluttered round Lila's head in wobbly circles.

"Oh dear, oh dear," said the moth in a voice as small as a crumb. "I always fly home by the moon. But tonight there's no moon to follow, and I've gone round and round until I don't know which way is round."

Lila stood very still. She held out one finger, and the moth landed on it, light as a sigh.

"Where is your home?" Lila asked.

"In the honeysuckle," said the moth, "by the old stone wall. It smells like summer."

Lila sniffed the air. Sniff, sniff. There it was, sweet and warm, coming from the left.

"This way," she said, and she carried the moth, step by careful step, all the way to the wall, where the honeysuckle hung in sleepy yellow curls.

The moth tucked herself among the honeysuckle flowers with a happy little shiver.

"Thank you," she said. "You were the moon for me tonight."

And then something wonderful happened.

From the place where the moth had landed, a tiny speck of light rose up. It was golden, like a crumb of sunshine, and it floated up slowly, slowly, past Lila's nose, past the top of the wall, up and up into the dark sky.

Lila watched it go. It grew smaller and smaller until it was no bigger than a grain of sugar. Then it reached the moon, and it disappeared.

Lila rubbed her eyes. Was it her imagination, or was the moon just a tiny bit less grey? Just a whisker brighter, the way a room gets brighter when someone smiles?

"Hmm," said Lila to herself. She did not understand it yet. But she tucked the thought away in her pocket, the way you keep a pretty stone, to look at later.

Then she lifted her lantern, and on she went.

"Step by step and up we go,
to help the moon find her glow."

At the bottom of the hill ran a stream. In the daytime it was a chattering, giggling stream. At night it talked in a low, sleepy gurgle.

Lila heard another sound too: a small, sad "rib-bit."

On a stone in the middle of the water sat a little green frog. He looked one way. He looked the other way. His throat went in and out, in and out.

"I hopped out to catch my supper," said the frog, "and now I can't see which stone takes me home. If I jump on the wrong one, I'll go splash and get carried all the way to the sea."

"I can help," said Lila.

She crouched down at the edge of the water and lowered her lantern until its light lay across the stream like a golden scarf. Suddenly every stone shone, wet and round and easy to see.

"That one!" said the frog. "And that one, and that one!"

Hop. Hop. Hop. Three hops, and he was home on his own mossy stone, under his own leafy fern.

"Rib-bit," he said. Which, in frog, means "thank you very much indeed."

A golden speck rose from the frog's fern and floated up to the moon. Lila smiled and began to climb.

She had not gone far when she heard a snuffling, shuffling, grumbling sound coming from the hedge.

"Where is it? Where is it? It was here yesterday. It's always been here," grumbled the sound.

Out of the hedge came an old badger, grey all over, with a white stripe down his face like a path in the snow. He peered at Lila with small, blinking eyes.

"Is that a glow-worm?" he asked. "A very large glow-worm in boots?"

"I'm Lila," said Lila. "Are you lost?"

"Lost? Certainly not," said the badger. Then he sighed, a long badger sigh. "Well. Perhaps a little. My eyes aren't what they were, you see. I always find my way home by the moonlight on the hawthorn path. But tonight the path has gone, and I'm too old to go looking in every bush."

Lila held up her lantern, and the light found a narrow track winding through the grass.

"Is that your path?" she asked.

The badger sniffed. His whiskers trembled. "Well, I never," he said softly.

"I'll walk with you," said Lila. "It's on my way."

So they walked together, the girl and the badger, up the winding track. Badger walked slowly, because he was old. Lila walked slowly, because Badger was her friend now, and you don't rush a friend.

"Where are you going so late, small glow-worm?" asked Badger.

"To the top of the hill," said Lila. "The moon has lost her glow, and I'm going to help her find it."

Badger was quiet for a while. Their footsteps went shuffle, squeak, shuffle, squeak.

"Do you know," said Badger at last, "I've lived on this hill for a very long time. And every single night, the moon has given her light away. To the foxes, to the owls, to old badgers like me. She never asks for any back." He sniffed. "Perhaps nobody ever thought to say thank you."

They came to a round, dark doorway under the roots of a tree.

"Home," said Badger. "Thank you, small glow-worm."

And from his doorway rose a golden speck of light, bigger than the others, as round and warm as a thank-you.

The hill grew steeper. The grass grew shorter. And up here, where nothing stood in its way, the wind came running.

It was not a cruel wind. It was a busy, bothersome wind, the kind that tugs your hair and pokes cold fingers down your collar. It made the lantern flame dance and duck. It made Lila's ribbons flap like little coral flags.

Lila pulled her cardigan tight. She tucked her chin down. Her legs were tired now, and the top of the hill still looked very far away.

"Maybe I should go home," she thought. "Maybe the moon will find her glow by herself."

But then she looked up. The moon was still there, pale and quiet, hanging over the hilltop as if she were waiting.

Lila thought of the moth, and the frog, and old Badger. She thought of all the nights the moon had watched over her without being asked.

She took one step. Then the next one. Then the next one after that.

"Step by step and up we go,
to help the moon find her glow."

The wind blew. But Lila kept climbing.

"Maa-aa. Maa-aa."

The sound was thin and wobbly, like a recorder played by someone just learning.

Lila followed it to a bramble bush, and there, tangled up in the thorny stems, was a lamb. A small white lamb, with a black nose and knobbly knees and wool as fluffy as a cloud that has been washed and dried in the sun.

The lamb had wandered in to nibble a leaf, and now its wool was caught on the thorns. Every time it pulled, the brambles pulled back.

"Hold still," said Lila gently. "I'll help you."

She set down her lantern. She knelt in the grass. And one by one, carefully, so carefully, she unhooked each little curl of wool from each little thorn. Some were tricky. One pricked her finger, ow, but Lila only sucked it and kept going.

"Nearly there," she whispered. "Nearly, nearly there."

The last curl came free. The lamb tumbled out of the bush, shook itself, and stood blinking at Lila with big, surprised eyes.

"Maa?" it said, which meant, "Now what?"

The lamb looked left and right. It had been in the bramble for so long that it had quite forgotten where its mother was.

"Maa-aa?" it called, and its voice shook.

Lila sat down beside the lamb. When Lila was scared at night, her own mother sang to her, a low and humming song, with no real words in it, only warmth. So Lila sang it now, softly, into the dark.

"Mmm-mmm, mmm-mmm, here you are,
mmm-mmm, mmm-mmm, not so far."

And from across the hill came an answer: "Baa-aa!"

It was a deep, warm, mothery baa. The lamb's ears shot up. Its tail went wiggle-wiggle-wiggle. And off it ran, bouncing across the grass, boing, boing, boing, until it bumped right into a big woolly ewe and pressed its face into her soft side.

The ewe looked across at Lila and nodded her heavy head, slowly, once.

A golden speck rose from the place where the lamb and its mother stood together, and floated up to the moon.

Halfway up the hill there was a flat grey rock, just the right size for a girl. Lila sat down on it to rest her legs.

From here she could see the whole way she had come. There was the cottage, small and dark. There was the meadow, and the stone wall with its honeysuckle. There was the stream, glinting. There was Badger's tree, and the bramble bush, and the white shapes of the sheep.

And above each of those places, if she looked closely, there was a faint golden thread in the air, where a speck of light had floated up.

Lila looked at the moon. The moon was still pale, but not as pale as before. She was the colour of milky tea now, instead of an old grey coin.

"I think," said Lila slowly, "that the lights come from being kind."

She counted on her fingers. "The moth. The frog. Badger. The lamb."

Four lights. Four kindnesses. And the moon a little brighter every time.

Lila smiled to herself. Then she stood up, brushed off her pyjamas, and lifted her lantern again.

On a crooked fence post near the top of the hill sat an owl. She was tawny brown, with eyes as round and golden as two coins, and she turned her head almost all the way round to look at Lila.

"Who?" said the owl. "Who goes there, so late, so small?"

"It's me, Lila. I'm climbing up to help the moon."

The owl ruffled her feathers. "Hoo. But the moon is so far away, and you are so close to the ground. Why would someone so small climb so high, for someone so far?"

Lila thought about it. It was a very good question, the kind owls are famous for.

"Because the moon is always there for me," she said at last. "When I'm scared of the dark, she's there. When I can't sleep, she's there. She never asks me for anything. And now she needs help, so I want to be there for her."

The owl blinked one slow, golden blink.

"Hoo," she said, very softly, "that is a good answer." And she bowed her round head.

A speck of gold drifted up from the fence post, light as a feather.

The last part of the hill was the steepest of all. Lila had to hold on to tufts of grass with one hand and carry her lantern with the other.

Then the wind gave one big puff. Whooo.

And the lantern went out.

All at once the world was very dark. Lila could not see her boots. She could not see the grass. She could only hear her own heart going thump, thump, thump, like on the night she first heard the moon.

"Oh," said Lila in a very small voice.

But then, all around her, something began to glow.

Golden specks of light came floating down out of the sky. One, then three, then seven, then more than she could count. They gathered round her in a soft, twinkling ring, the way friends gather round when you are sad.

Lila knew them. That one was the moth's light. That one was the frog's. That big round one was Badger's thank-you, and the one shaped like a little cloud was the lamb's.

The kindnesses had come back to light her way.

"Step by step and up we go," Lila whispered, and the lights lit the path.

And then, quite suddenly, there was no more hill to climb.

Lila was at the very top. The old hawthorn tree stood beside her, bent sideways by a hundred years of wind, its branches like arms held out for a hug. The whole valley lay below, dark and still and sleeping.

And right there, so close that Lila felt she could almost touch it, hung the moon.

She was enormous. Much, much bigger than she looked from the window. Lila could see every crater and every soft shadow on her face, like the creases in a well-loved blanket. She was cool and quiet, and she was still not shining as she should.

"Hello, Moon," said Lila, a little out of breath. "I came."

The moon looked down at her. Up close, Lila could see that the moon's eyes were gently closed, the way grown-ups close their eyes when they are very, very tired.

"Lila," said the moon, in a voice like snowflakes falling. "You climbed all this way. For me?"

"Of course," said Lila. "You're my friend."

The moon sighed, and the sigh rippled through the grass like a breeze.

"Every night," she said, "I give my light away. To the foxes and the owls. To the fishermen on the dark sea. To the children who cannot sleep. I pour it out, all of it, until morning comes."

"I know," said Lila. "I see you."

"But tonight," the moon went on, "I wondered if anybody needed it at all. Nobody looks up any more. Nobody says thank you. And when I wondered that, my light got smaller and smaller, until there was hardly any left."

Lila felt a lump in her throat. She knew that feeling. It was like drawing a picture that nobody looks at. It was like saying "good morning" and nobody saying it back.

"Moon," said Lila, "I think I know where your glow went."

"You do?"

"It didn't get lost," said Lila. "It got given away. And I think some of it is coming back."

She turned and held out her hands, and all the golden specks of light came floating up behind her.

"This is the moth's light," said Lila, "because you always show her the way home. And this is the frog's, because you make the stepping stones shine. This is Badger's, because you light his path every night. And this is the lamb's, because you help mothers find their babies in the dark."

One by one, the lights rose from Lila's hands and floated into the moon.

"And this one," said the owl, who had flown up quietly to sit in the hawthorn tree, "is mine. Because you make the night beautiful."

"So you see," said Lila, "everyone needs you. They just forgot to say."

And then Lila did one more thing. She stood on tiptoe, as high as she could go, and she pressed her cheek against the edge of the moon, as cool and smooth as a pebble from the sea.

"Thank you, Moon," she said. "For every night."

The moon was very quiet. Then a single silver tear rolled down her face, but it was not a sad tear. It was the kind of tear that comes when someone has been kind to you, and you didn't know how much you needed it.

The moon began to glow.

First it was a soft shimmer, like the inside of a shell. Then it grew warmer and brighter, silver and gold together, until it was the brightest moon Lila had ever seen.

The light poured down the hill like honey. It lit the hawthorn tree and the owl inside it. It lit the steep slope, and Lila's flat grey rock, and the bramble bush. It lit the ewe and the lamb, curled up together asleep. It found Badger's doorway, and the frog's fern, and the honeysuckle on the old stone wall.

All over the valley, small faces turned upwards.

The moth fluttered out of the honeysuckle. The frog peeped out from under his fern. Badger poked his striped nose out of his door and blinked. And each of them, in their own small way, said thank you to the moon.

"There you are," whispered Lila. "There you are, Moon."

"Here I am," said the moon. "Thanks to you, small one. You found my glow by giving yours away."

"Now," said the moon, kindly, "it is very late. And it is a long way down."

She sent down a path of light, silver and smooth as a ribbon, from the top of the hill all the way to Lila's cottage door.

Lila walked home along it. Her legs were tired now, and the walking was slow.

She passed the flat grey rock. She passed the bramble bush, and the ewe and the lamb, fast asleep in a woolly heap. She passed old Badger's doorway, where a gentle snore came rumbling out. She passed the stream, where the frog's song had gone soft and slow. She passed the stone wall, where the honeysuckle smelled like summer.

The moth fluttered once, a sleepy goodnight.

Lila yawned a big yawn. Then another one.

The door of the cottage was just where she had left it. She opened it very, very quietly. She hung up her lantern. She took off her coral boots, left foot, right foot, and her mustard cardigan with the butterscotch buttons.

Then she padded up the stairs in her socks, soft as a moth.

Lila climbed into bed and pulled the coral blanket up to her chin.

Through the window, the moon was shining. Not too bright, now. Just right. A soft silver glow, like a night-light left on by someone who loves you.

The light lay across Lila's pillow. It lay across her hands, and her curls, and her little scratched finger from the bramble. It felt warm, though moonlight is meant to be cool.

"Goodnight, Moon," Lila whispered.

"Goodnight, Lila," the moon whispered back. "Thank you for my glow."

Lila smiled with her eyes closed.

Outside, the hill was quiet. The sheep were sleeping. The owl was sleeping. The badger and the frog and the moth were all sleeping.

And the moon kept watch over every one of them, glowing softly, softly, all through the night.

Step by step, and slow, so slow,
the whole world sleeps
in the moon's soft glow.

Goodnight.