Benji Slides a Path to the Stars

Whoosh! Benji went down the dune on his belly, fast and smooth, and landed in a soft heap at the bottom with sand in his feathers and a giggle in his chest. Benji was a little penguin, the smallest one in the colony that lived in the sandy hollow between the dunes and the wide, quiet sea. Where he slid, the sand went smooth and shiny, flat as a table that has just been wiped. He looked back at his track, then ran up to the top to make another one.

Every evening, when the light went soft, the penguins waddled down to the water to fish. The wind came off the sea and combed the dunes, and the dunes hummed, low and long, like someone humming with their mouth closed. The sky filled up with stars, so many that it looked like spilled sugar, and the air smelled of cool sand and the mint that grew in the dune hollow.

At the bottom of the tallest dune sat Grandmother Pell, the oldest penguin in the colony. She wore a shawl of her own soft down and kept her flippers folded, and she watched the others go by. "Evening, small one," she said. "Do you know, I can smell the stars tonight. Cold water and mint."

"Stars don't smell," said Benji. "Mine do," said Grandmother Pell, and she gave him a slow wink. It was an old joke between them, and Benji liked it so much that he said his part every single evening.

"You used to climb up there," said Benji. Grandmother Pell looked at the long, soft slope. "Every evening," she said. "Right up to the top. From up there you could see the whole sky at once, all of it together." She said it the light way she said most things. Then she looked at the dark grass at the top of the dune and said nothing else.

Benji wished he could do something that mattered. The big penguins carried kelp in thick bundles and rolled the heavy driftwood across the sand. Benji was too small to carry, too small to dig, too small to roll. "I'm always last," he said to himself, which was true, "and I'm not much use," which was not true at all.

Lark came running. Lark was a sandpiper, all legs and hurry, and she never walked anywhere if she could run. "Quick, quick, quick," she said. "Benji, why are you sitting in the sand?" "Because Grandmother Pell can't climb the dune anymore," said Benji. "So she can't see the whole sky." Lark looked up the slope, then down at her feet, then up again. "Then we'll fix it," she said. "I'm very quick and you're very determined. Come on."

First, Benji took hold of Grandmother Pell's flipper and pulled. He leaned back. He dug his feet into the sand. Grandmother Pell did not move, except to sway a little, and then Benji's feet slid out from under him and he sat down with a soft flump. "Thank you, small one," she said, "but I am heavier than I look."

Next, Benji dug steps. He dug with his feet and scraped with his beak, one step and another and another, and the sand slid back down into every step as soon as he made it. Lark ran up to look and ran down to report. "The sand won't stay," she said. "I counted. Six steps gone."

Then Benji tried something else. He climbed to the top by himself and looked at the whole sky, and then he came back down and told Grandmother Pell everything he could see. "There's a bright one near the water," he said. "And a fuzzy patch that looks like salt." Grandmother Pell listened and nodded slowly. "That's a good picture," she said. "But I'd like to see it with my own eyes."

The big penguins tried as well. They laid flat pieces of kelp on the slope, but the sand slid out from under the kelp, and the kelp slid down after it, and everyone stood at the bottom looking up. "Tomorrow," said the biggest penguin. "We'll try again tomorrow." But everyone knew that by tomorrow the wind would have combed the dune soft again.

Benji sat down on the slope, and then, because he was tired and the sand was soft, he let himself flop forward onto his belly. And he slid. Down he went, slow at first, then quicker, and he came to a stop at the bottom with his beak in the sand and his flippers spread out like a starfish.

He sat up and looked back. His track went up the dune behind him, smooth and flat and a little shiny, packed firm by his own warm belly. He put one foot on it. It held. He put his whole self on it. It still held. "Lark," he called. "Lark, come and look at this."

"Up the dune," said Benji. "Turn around. Down on my belly." Whoosh. Another smooth track, close beside the first. "Up the dune. Turn around. Down on my belly." Whoosh. The two tracks became three, and the three became a wide, flat path.

Lark ran beside him, up and down, up and down, counting. "Nine," she said. "Fifteen. Twenty-two. Quick, quick, keep going, it's working!" And Benji kept going, though his flippers ached and his belly was warm as toast, because the path grew smoother with every slide.

The big penguins came to watch. Then one of them lay down on her belly and slid, and then another, and then all of them, and the dune was full of whooshing and soft flumps and laughing that sounded like small dogs barking far away. By the time the sky was completely full of stars, there was a broad, smooth ramp going right up the side of the dune, packed firm, holding.

Benji took Grandmother Pell's flipper. "Slowly," he said. "Slowly is how I do everything," she said, and she began to walk. Lark ran ahead to check the way and ran back to say it was clear. The sand held. The ramp held. The whole colony went quiet and let her go at her own speed, one step, and then one more step.

At the top, she stopped. "Oh," said Grandmother Pell. The whole sky was there in front of her, all of it at once, spilled sugar from one side to the other, and below it the sea went shh, shh, shh against the sand, and the dunes hummed their low hum.

Benji stood beside her. "Can you smell them?" he asked. Grandmother Pell closed her eyes and breathed in slowly. "Yes," she said. "Cold water and mint, and something underneath that I don't have a word for. Something like being small and looking up."

"I couldn't carry you," said Benji. "And I couldn't dig. I'm the smallest one there is." "You didn't carry," said Grandmother Pell. "You didn't dig. You slid. Nobody else thought of sliding." She tucked her flipper around him. "The smallest one found the smoothest way."

Benji thought about that for a long time, the way you do when something settles into you and stays. Below them the tide breathed in and out. Above them the stars spilled on and on. Lark fell asleep standing up, the way sandpipers do, then wobbled and sat down instead.

One by one, the other penguins climbed the smooth ramp and sat along the top of the dune with their flippers folded. Nobody said much. The wind combed the sand, and the sand sighed, and the sky turned slowly above them like a very large, very quiet thing.

Benji leaned against Grandmother Pell's warm side. Her shawl smelled of mint and salt. "Same time tomorrow?" he whispered. "Same time tomorrow," she said. And the dunes hummed, and the sea breathed, and Benji closed his eyes with the whole sky spilled out above him, soft as sugar and quiet as sleep.