Dara and the Hundred Blinking Lights

Blink. The little light in the corner of the barnyard blinked. Then it blinked again. Dara stopped with one paw up in the air. She was a small hedgehog, with a brown nose and a back full of prickles that went tippy-tap, tippy-tap, when she walked.

The lantern on the barn door swung out and back, out and back, on its crooked hook. The whole barn smelled of warm hay and apples. Inside, the hens were muttering themselves to sleep, one soft grumble at a time. And out in the corner, near the water bucket, the little lights blinked again.

Dara liked to know things. All evening she had been asking questions. Why does the barn creak when the wind pushes it? Why do the hay bales smell of apples? Where do the hens go when the muttering stops? Moss, the old sheepdog, lay by the barn door with his chin on his paws. He said questions were the best thing about hedgehogs, and Dara had a great many of them.

"Rumi," she whispered. "Rumi, wake up. There are lights in the corner." Rumi was a small lamb with wool like a cloud that had been rained on. He opened one eye. "Lights," he said. "In the corner. Where the bucket is."

"I don't see any lights," said Rumi. Dara looked. For a moment there was nothing but dark and the smell of hay. Then the lantern swung back and, blink, the lights were there again. "There!" said Dara. "Right there. They're blinking." Rumi sat up and squinted. "I see the dark," he said. "I'm very good at seeing the dark."

Dara felt a fizz inside her, like a bottle of bubbles with the lid off. It was the fizz she always got when there was something new to find out. "I'm going to look closer," she said.

"First," said Dara, "I'll look from up high." She climbed onto a hay bale. The hay was prickly and it wobbled, wibble-wobble, and she had to hold on with all four paws. From up there she could see more lights than ever, small and round and bright, bright, bright. But she still couldn't see what they were.

"Second," said Dara, "I'll catch one." She put her paw down very gently on the nearest light and cupped it. It felt cool. It felt wet, like the inside of a mushroom. When she lifted her paw, the light was still there, and her paw was wet and shiny. "Hm," she said.

"Third," said Dara, "I'll blow on them, and then they'll have to hold still." She blew. Pfff. The lights wiggled and blinked faster. She blew harder. Pffff. The lantern swung, and all the lights blinked together, blink-blink-blink. "They won't hold still," said Dara. "They keep wriggling."

Three tries, and Dara still didn't know. She sat down in the cool grass and wiggled her nose. She felt a little wobbly inside, the way she did when a question was too big to hold. "Moss," she said, "I looked from up high, and I caught one in my paw, and I blew on them, and I still don't know what they are."

Moss lifted his big warm head. "What have you found, little hedgehog?" he asked. "Lights," said Dara. "But I can't see what they are, and they won't hold still for me."

Moss huffed a soft laugh through his nose. "Look close," he said. "Look slow. Little things have more to show."

So Dara looked close. She put her nose right down, so near that her whiskers brushed the corner post. And this time she saw it. Thread. Thin thread, going this way and that, all joined up like a tiny fishing net. And on every thread, a drop of water, round as a bead.

"Drops," said Dara. "Rumi, they're drops!" And then she saw the best part. Inside every drop there was a little piece of lantern, warm and gold, curled up small. The drops weren't making light at all. They were holding it.

"Let me look," said Rumi. He put his nose down too. Very close, closer, closest. Plip. A drop landed right on the end of his nose. "Oh," he said. "My nose is wet. My nose has a light on it." He wiggled his nose, and the little light wiggled too, and Dara laughed so hard her prickles rattled.

"Why are they round?" asked Dara. "Because a drop pulls itself in tight," said Moss. "Like you curling up in the hay." Dara looked at her own small curled-up self, and that made sense.

"Where do the drops come from?" Dara asked. Moss settled down with his chin back on his paws. "The night air gets cool," he said. "Cool air can't hold all the wet in it, so the wet sits down on the web and makes itself into drops. Round drops, Dara. And a round drop can hold a little piece of whatever light is out here."

Dara looked at the lantern. It swung out and back, out and back. Then she looked at the drops. "Rumi," she said slowly. "Watch what happens when the lantern swings." The lantern swung away, and the drops went dark. The lantern swung back, and every drop lit up. Blink.

"They're not blinking at all," said Rumi. "The lantern is doing it." "The lantern swings," said Dara, "and the drops catch the light, and then they let it go. Swing, catch. Swing, catch." Rumi watched. "One swing," he counted, "one blink. Two swings, two blinks." He put his chin on his front knees. "It's like the whole barn is winking at us."

Rumi tried to count the drops. "One, two, three, four..." He got to nine, and then a big lamb yawn took over and he lost his place. "There are more than nine," said Dara. "There are more than a hundred."

She felt that good, full feeling, like after a big supper. All evening she had thought the lights were one thing. Now she knew they were three things: a web, some drops, and the swinging lantern, all working together to make something lovely.

The wind grew soft. The lantern swung slower, out and back, out and back. The drops blinked slower too. Inside the barn, the hens had stopped muttering, and the hay smelled warm and sweet and quiet. Moss yawned a big dog yawn that made his whiskers shake.

"Bedtime," said Moss, "for small hedgehogs and small lambs." "One more swing," said Dara. She watched the lantern swing five more times, slow as a sleepy breath. Then she pattered into the barn and made a nest in the hay beside Rumi.

Rumi was already half asleep. "Dara," he mumbled, "what was the best part?" Dara thought about it. "The best part is that the lights were there all along," she said. "We just had to look close."

"Tomorrow," said Dara, "we can look close at something new." "Mmm," said Rumi. "Tomorrow." His wool went up and down, up and down, slow and sleepy.

Outside the barn door, the lantern swung out and back, slower and slower, and the little drops on the web held their small warm lights. One on every thread. The hay smelled of apples. The barn was quiet. Dara's prickles went soft and still, and the night kept its lights on, just a little, for anyone who looked close.