The Snail Who Took the Long Way

At the bottom of an old walled garden, where the moss grew thick and the stones were warm, there lived a snail called Sam.

Sam had a round, swirly shell the colour of honey. He had two long eyes on stalks that went up and down, up and down. And he had one very big foot, which carried him everywhere he went.

Very, very slowly.

Sam was the slowest creature in the whole garden. Slower than the beetles. Slower than the worms. Even slower, some said, than the old tortoise next door, who mostly just slept.

"Slow Sam," everyone called him. And they didn't mean it unkindly. It was simply true.

Each morning, Sam woke up under his favourite rhubarb leaf, stretched his eyes up high, and set off to see the day. He never knew where he would get to.

And he always sang the same little song as he went:

"Slowly, slowly, that's how I go,
and I see all the things that the hurriers don't know."

The rest of the garden was always in a hurry.

The bees buzzed from flower to flower, busy, busy, busy. The ants marched in long, straight lines, left, right, left, right, never stopping to look up. The blackbird hopped and pecked and flew away.

And Sam's three best friends were the busiest of all.

There was Dot the ladybird, who zipped through the air with her red wings whirring. There was Hop the grasshopper, who never walked anywhere if he could jump. And there was Bramble the wood mouse, whose little feet went pitter-pat-pitter-pat so fast you could hardly see them.

"Morning, Sam!" they called as they whizzed past. "Can't stop! Lots to do!"

"Good morning!" Sam called back.

But by the time he had finished saying it, they were already gone.

Sam didn't mind. He gave his eyes a little wiggle and carried on, slowly, slowly, along the path.

Halfway along a dandelion leaf, Sam stopped.

There, at the very tip of the leaf, hung a single drop of dew. It was round and clear and perfect. And as the morning sun shone through it, it glowed.

Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. A whole tiny rainbow, hiding inside a drop of water.

"Oh," breathed Sam. "Oh, look at you."

Just then, Hop came bouncing past. BOING! BOING! BOING!

"Hop!" called Sam. "Come and look! There's a rainbow in this dewdrop!"

"A rainbow?" said Hop, mid-bounce. "Where? I don't see one!" BOING! "Tell me later, Sam!" BOING! And he was gone over the lettuces.

The leaf wobbled. The dewdrop trembled, and slid, and dropped, plip, into the soil.

The rainbow was gone. But Sam had seen it. And he kept it, glowing, somewhere inside.

"Slowly, slowly, that's how I go,
and I see all the things that the hurriers don't know."

That afternoon, Dot came zooming down from the sky and landed on the rim of a flowerpot, quite out of breath.

"Everyone! Everyone! Big news!" she cried.

Hop bounced over. Bramble scampered up. And Sam began to make his way across, which took a little while, so Dot waited, tapping her tiny foot.

"It's the moonflower!" said Dot, at last. "The great white moonflower by the old glasshouse, at the far end of the garden. It only opens once a summer, and it opens at night, just as the moon comes up. And the old blackbird says, it's tonight!"

"Tonight!" squeaked Bramble.

"Tonight!" said Hop, bouncing so high he nearly landed in the water butt.

"Tonight," whispered Sam, and his eyes went all the way up to their very tips.

He had heard about the moonflower all his life. A flower as big as a plate, as white as the moon, that smelled of honey and summer and stars.

He had never, ever seen it.

"We'd better leave soon," said Dot, "if we want to be there when the moon comes up."

"Can I come too?" asked Sam.

The others went very quiet. They looked at each other. Then they looked at Sam. Then they looked all the way down the long, long garden, to where the old glasshouse glinted, tiny and far away.

"Oh, Sam," said Bramble gently. "It's ever so far."

"It's right at the other end," said Hop. "Even I can't get there in one bounce."

"You'll never make it in time," said Dot kindly. "Not at your speed. But don't worry! We'll tell you all about it in the morning. Every single bit."

Sam's eyes came down, slowly, slowly, until they were very short indeed.

"All right," he said in a small voice. "Thank you."

His friends meant well. Sam knew that. But inside his honey-coloured shell, his heart felt heavy, like a pebble in the rain.

"Let's take the shortcut," said Hop. "Through the rhubarb. It's much quicker."

"Race you!" squeaked Bramble.

And off they went. Dot zipped. Hop bounced. Bramble scampered. They plunged into the great green jungle of rhubarb, where the leaves were as big as umbrellas, and the stalks were as red as fire engines.

"Bye, Sam!" their voices called, getting fainter and fainter. "See you in the morning!"

Then there was only the hum of a bee, and the rustle of the leaves, and Sam.

He sat on the warm path for a long time.

The sun moved a little. A worm poked out its head and went back in. Far away, at the end of the garden, the old glasshouse glinted in the afternoon light.

It really was a very long way.

Sam looked at the rhubarb jungle. He knew he could never get through there. The leaves were too big, the ground too lumpy, the way too dark.

But there was another way.

All around the garden ran an old brick wall. It was soft with moss and warm from the sun, and it went all the way along, past the vegetable beds, past the apple tree, past the pond, right to the old glasshouse at the very end.

It was the long way round. The very long way. It was three times as far as the shortcut. Maybe four.

But a snail can climb a wall.

Sam stretched his eyes up high and looked at the wall. Then he took a deep breath, the deepest breath a snail can take.

"I might not get there in time," he said to himself. "But I'm going to try."

And he began to climb.

Up the first brick. Up the second brick. Slowly, slowly, leaving a thin silver line behind him, all the way.

"Slowly, slowly, that's how I go,
and I see all the things that the hurriers don't know."

The moon would rise tonight. Would one small snail reach the moonflower in time?

On the top of the wall, everything looked different.

Sam could see the whole garden laid out below him: the lettuces in their rows, the bean poles, the sparkling pond. He could see bees going home. He could see the shadows getting longer.

And then he heard something. A tiny, tiny cheep.

Sam turned his eyes. There, tucked deep inside a thick tangle of ivy, was a nest. A mossy cup of a nest, and sitting on it was a robin, with her orange chest puffed out and her black eyes shining.

"Oh," said Sam softly. "Hello."

"Hello, little snail," said the robin. "Hush, now. My babies are sleeping."

"I've passed this wall a hundred times," whispered Sam. "I never knew you were here."

"Nobody does," said the robin, and she smiled. "Everyone's too busy rushing by. That's why it's such a good place for a nest."

Sam tiptoed on, as much as a snail can tiptoe.

Where the wall dipped down towards the pond, an old flowerpot lay on its side in the damp grass. It was cracked, and green with moss, and Sam had always thought it was empty.

But as he slid past, two golden eyes blinked at him from inside.

"Who's there?" said Sam.

"Only me," said a small voice. And out hopped a frog. A tiny green frog, no bigger than a strawberry, with a pale, round tummy.

"I live in here," said the frog. "It's cool and damp and lovely. Hundreds of creatures go past every day, and not one of them has ever looked in."

"I'm Sam," said Sam. "I'm going to see the moonflower."

"The moonflower!" said the frog. "Oh, how wonderful. Is it far?"

"Very far," said Sam. "But I'm getting there."

"Good luck, Sam," said the frog, and gave a happy little croak.

"Slowly, slowly, that's how I go,
and I see all the things that the hurriers don't know."

The sun was going down now. The sky turned peach, then pink, then soft lavender. The air grew cool and damp, which is just the way snails like it.

Sam came round the corner of the wall by the apple tree, and he stopped.

Between two tall flower stems hung a spider's web. It was enormous, as round as a wheel, and the evening damp had settled on every thread in tiny, tiny drops. Each drop caught the last of the light.

The whole web glittered. It was like a necklace. It was like lace made of stars.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," said Sam.

In the middle of the web, a small brown spider looked up, surprised.

"Really?" she said. "Thank you. I make a new one every evening, you know. Nobody ever notices."

"I noticed," said Sam.

And the spider was so pleased that she did a little dance, right there in the middle of her web.

Now it was nearly dark.

The birds had stopped singing. The flowers had folded up their petals. The first stars were peeping out, one, then two, then ten.

And then, along the bottom of the wall, a light came on. A tiny, soft green light, glowing in the grass.

Then another. And another.

Glowworms. A whole row of them, lighting up the garden like little lanterns, one by one.

Sam had never been out this late before. He had never seen the glowworms. He watched them, his eyes wide, and he felt a shiver of happiness all the way down to the tip of his tail.

And then he smelled something.

Something sweet. Something like honey, and summer, and the far-off sky. It drifted along the wall on the cool night air.

"The moonflower," Sam whispered. "It's this way."

He didn't need to see. He could follow his nose.

Meanwhile, deep in the rhubarb jungle, things were not going quite so well.

"Which way now?" asked Bramble.

"That way!" said Hop. "No. Wait. This way?"

They had rushed in so fast. They had bounced and zipped and scampered, and not once had they stopped to look where they were going. They hadn't noticed the tall bean pole. They hadn't noticed the crooked stone. They hadn't noticed anything at all.

And now the sun had gone down. And in the dark, every rhubarb leaf looked exactly the same as every other rhubarb leaf.

"I'll fly up and look," said Dot. But ladybirds don't like flying at night, and it was too dark to see far anyway. She came back down with a bump.

"We've been going round in circles," said Bramble in a small voice. "I'm sure we passed this stalk before."

The three friends looked at each other.

They were lost.

They huddled together on a big, flat leaf. Bramble's whiskers were trembling. Hop's legs, for once, were very still.

"We're going to miss it," said Dot quietly. "The moon will come up, and the moonflower will open, and we won't be there."

"And we don't know the way home, either," said Bramble.

Nobody said anything for a while.

Above them, the sky was deep blue now, and full of stars. Far away, an owl hooted, soft and low. The garden smelled of earth and dew.

"I wish Sam were here," said Hop suddenly.

The others looked at him.

"Sam always knows where he is," said Hop. "He looks at everything. He'd know which way to go."

"But Sam's all the way back at the start," said Dot. "We left him behind."

And they all felt a little bit sorry about that. More than a little bit.

Bramble was the one who saw it first.

"Look," she whispered. "Up there."

Through a gap in the rhubarb leaves, they could see the old garden wall. And along the top of the wall, there was a line.

A thin, shining line. It glittered in the starlight like a silver ribbon. It curved and wiggled and went on and on, past the apple tree, along the wall, towards the far end of the garden.

"What is it?" said Hop.

"It's a path," said Dot. "A path made of silver."

They stared at it, the three of them, for a long, long moment. And then, slowly, all three of them began to smile.

Because they knew exactly who had made it.

Somebody slow. Somebody who never rushed, and never got lost, and always took the long way round.

Should they follow it?

"Come on!" said Hop.

They scrambled out of the rhubarb and up onto the old wall. And there it was beneath their feet: Sam's silver trail, shining, showing them the way.

They followed it past the ivy. Past the cracked flowerpot. Past the apple tree.

And there, at the very end of the shining line, sat a small snail with a honey-coloured shell, gazing up at the stars.

"SAM!"

Sam turned his eyes, slowly, slowly.

"Oh!" he said. "Hello! What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at the moonflower already."

"We got lost," said Bramble, and she gave him an enormous hug, shell and all. "We rushed, and we didn't look where we were going, and we got lost in the rhubarb."

"But we saw your trail," said Dot. "It was shining in the dark, Sam. You brought us here."

Sam didn't know what to say. So he just smiled, and his eyes went up as high as they would go.

"Can we come with you?" asked Hop. "The rest of the way?"

"Of course," said Sam. "But I'm very slow, you know."

"We know," said Hop. "We don't mind."

And so, for the first time ever, Dot did not zip, Hop did not bounce, and Bramble did not scamper. They all went slowly, slowly, at the pace of a snail.

And because they went slowly, they saw.

They saw the glowworms, glowing green in the grass like tiny lanterns. They saw a moth with wings as soft as dust. They saw a hedgehog snuffling under the hedge, and a bat looping across the stars.

"Has the garden always been like this?" whispered Bramble. "At night?"

"I think so," said Sam. "I think it's always been like this. We just have to slow down enough to see it."

"Slowly, slowly, that's how we go,
and we see all the things that the hurriers don't know."

At last they came to the very end of the garden.

There stood the old glasshouse, its glass panes glinting in the starlight. And beside it, climbing up a wooden post, was a tall green plant with heart-shaped leaves.

At the top was a bud. One single, big, white bud, wrapped up tight like a twist of paper.

"Are we too late?" whispered Dot.

"No," said Sam softly. "Look."

Over the garden wall, the moon was rising. First just a sliver of silver, then a curve, then a big, round, golden moon, climbing slowly into the sky.

They had made it. Just in time.

The four friends sat in a row at the foot of the post. Nobody bounced. Nobody zipped. Nobody scampered. They sat as still as stones.

And they waited.

The bud began to move.

Slowly, slowly, it untwisted. One petal loosened. Then another. Then another.

It did not hurry. It took its time, the way the moon takes its time to rise, and the way the tide takes its time to come in.

And then, all at once, it was open.

A flower as big as a plate. As white as the moon. It glowed in the moonlight, soft and silvery, and it smelled of honey, and summer, and stars.

Nobody said a word. It was too beautiful for words.

At last, Hop let out a long, slow breath.

"It's slow too," he whispered. "The moonflower. It's slow, just like you, Sam."

"Maybe," said Sam happily, "the most beautiful things always are."

And the moonflower glowed above them all, white and still and perfect, as the night went softly on.

It was late, very late, when they set off for home.

Nobody hurried now. They were all too sleepy, and too happy, and too full of moonflower.

They walked along the top of the old wall, slowly, slowly. The moon lit the way. And beneath their feet, Sam's silver trail shone like a ribbon, leading them all the way back.

Past the apple tree, where the spider was asleep in her web. Past the cracked flowerpot, where the little frog was snoring. Past the ivy, where the robin and her babies were tucked up warm and still.

"Thank you, Sam," murmured Dot, her wings folded tight.

"For what?" asked Sam.

"For taking the long way," said Bramble, with a yawn as big as she was.

"Slowly, slowly, that's how we go,
and we see all the things that the hurriers don't know."

At the bottom of the garden, under the big rhubarb leaf, the friends said goodnight.

Bramble curled up in a ball of fur. Hop folded his long legs. Dot tucked herself under a petal.

And Sam drew in his eyes, slowly, slowly, and settled down inside his honey-coloured shell, all snug, and warm, and home.

Outside, the moon was high, and the garden was quiet. The glowworms glowed. The moonflower shone. And a thin silver line glittered all the way along the old garden wall, from one end to the other.

Sam closed his eyes.

He thought about the rainbow in the dewdrop. The robin in the ivy. The frog in the flowerpot. The silver web, the glowing lights, and the great white flower, opening under the moon.

So many hidden things. So many wonders.

And he had seen them all.

Slowly, slowly, that's how we go...

Goodnight, Slow Sam.

Goodnight.