Flutter, Flutter, Hum

"Creak." Cass sat up in the dark. "Creak, creak." It was the bed, talking to itself. Cass was a fairy, the smallest one in all of Whispering Forest, with wings no bigger than two fingernails and a nightcap that kept sliding down over one eye. Tonight was her first night in the new big bed, and the bed had plenty to say.

The bed was wide and soft, a moss mattress set into the hollow of an old stump, with a leaf blanket on top and a pillow stuffed with milkweed fluff. Before this, Cass had slept in a woven grass basket that fit her exactly, like a shoe. In the bark wall beside her pillow was a small gap shaped like a comma, which Cass had liked the moment she saw it. Now the bed went creak every time she wriggled, and Cass wriggled a lot.

Across the stump, Bea was already in her own bed. Bea was a fairy too, and her wings were big and green and folded up like two fans. "Cass," she murmured into her pillow, "go to sleep." "The bed's too big," said Cass. "It's four of me wide." "Then grow," said Bea. "I'm trying," said Cass. "I'm trying right now."

First, Cass made the bed smaller. She carried in armfuls of moss and piled it around herself, pat, pat, pat, until she had a nest. She lay down in the nest. The nest was as lumpy as a hill with stones in it. A moss lump poked her elbow, so she rolled over, and rolled right off the hump and onto the floor with a soft flump. "Oof," said Cass.

Second, Cass folded the leaf blanket so it would be basket-sized. She folded it once, twice, three times. The corners popped out again, pfft, pfft, pfft, like peas escaping from a pod. "Leaf," said Cass, "you are not helping."

Third, she lay very still and listened. The stump was full of small sounds. Outside the round window, Old Winn the owl sat on his branch, keeping watch the way he did every night. His feathers whispered when he turned his head. "Hoo," said Old Winn. "Big beds creak. It's how they talk." "They talk too much," said Cass.

Then she felt it. A thin thread of cool night air slid through the comma-shaped gap and landed right on her ear. It lifted the corner of the leaf blanket and set it flapping, flap, flap, flap. Cass pulled the leaf up to her chin, but the cool air found her ear anyway.

Bea came padding over. "Still awake?" she asked. "The bed's too big and too loud," said Cass, "and there's a draft on my ear, and I can't find the sleepy part of me anywhere." "I'll tuck you in," said Bea. She tucked the leaf in all around, and she was very good at it, until she came to the gap shaped like a comma. Her big wings went bump, bump against the bark, and a puff of moss landed right on her head. "Oops," said Bea.

She brushed the moss off her nose. "My wings are too big for that little gap," she said. "Only tiny wings fit in there."

Cass looked at her own wings. They were small as two fingernails, and she had wished them bigger about a hundred times. She fluttered them, fast, fast, fast. Flutter, flutter, hum. They made a warm little humming breeze.

Cass lifted off the pillow in a twinkle, slipped into the comma-shaped gap, and tucked the corner of the leaf blanket in tight behind her. The cool air stopped. The flapping stopped. "There," said Cass. "Now the bed can stop talking."

Bea laughed, soft as a moth. "Your little wings tuck better than mine ever could," she said. Cass kept them going, flutter, flutter, hum, and the warm hum lifted the leaf blanket into a gentle tent and brought the sleepy part of Cass close, close, close. She yawned a comma of a yawn and pulled the leaf up to her chin.

Outside the window, Old Winn tucked his head into his feathers. The fireflies drifted low over the moss, one light, then two, then a slow soft drift of them, saying goodnight to the ferns. The air smelled of pine needles and rain, and the leaves turned over in their sleep. The big bed held Cass the way a hollow holds a nut, snug and warm and not too big at all.