The Last Little Sound

Evening came softly to Lanternroot Caverns. The river held little reflections of stars. The acorn lanterns glowed. But Rook, closing his cream umbrella, paused at his doorstep. Something was missing.

Usually the last drop from the highest root fell into a hollow stone. Tip. The cave would answer with a soft, round tonk. Tip, tonk. It was the sound that told the neighbours their day was done.

Tonight the drop fell, but the stone made no sound at all. Rook listened again. The river still whispered. A slipper still brushed a doorstep. There was simply a small, familiar space where the tonk should have been.

Juniper came along with her acorn lantern. ‘I can look,’ she offered. ‘And I can listen,’ said Rook. They crossed Mossbridge together. Where they listened carefully, the roots shone a little brighter.

Beyond the bridge, a gold glimmer moved inside Madame Hush's glass jar. Around it stood other jars: a tiny giggle, a spoon's bright clink, a whole flutter of applause.

‘My finest sounds,’ the moth announced. ‘Nobody may borrow them.’ ‘That one belongs in the hollow stone,’ said Rook. Madame Hush wrapped a velvet wing around the jar. ‘It sounds much grander beside me.’

Juniper lifted her lantern, but its light had grown small. ‘Could you stand a little closer?’ she asked Rook. He did. Together they could see the jar clearly. Inside, the golden sound pressed gently against the glass, wanting somewhere to echo.

‘Will you perform your collection?’ Rook asked. Madame Hush straightened her ivory ruff. She lifted the jar, tapped its lid and bowed. Nothing happened. The sounds were shut inside. So was every clap she had collected.

For a moment, even Madame Hush had nothing to say. Then Rook spoke quietly. ‘A sound needs somewhere to go. And somebody who can hear it.’

The moth looked toward the dark doorsteps across the river. Slowly she turned the lid. Out drifted the small golden tonk. It slipped under the bridge, followed the river and settled into its hollow stone.

Tip, tonk. The neighbours opened their doors. Madame Hush loosened the other lids too. A spoon clinked. Somebody giggled. And this time the applause came from real paws, outside the jars.

‘Tomorrow,’ Juniper said, ‘you could arrange a concert.’ Madame Hush considered this. ‘With a proper bow at the end?’ ‘Of course,’ said Rook. ‘But the sounds get to go home afterwards.’

Back at his doorstep, Rook hung up his umbrella. Juniper's lantern rested beside the warm roots. Across the water came the last little sound of the day. Tip, tonk. A pause. And then, very softly, goodnight.