Opal and the Three Small Sips

Clunk, went Opal's left wheel. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Opal was a small helper robot, no taller than a teapot, with a round glass tummy, two bright eyes, and a little spout for a nose that could dribble water like a watering can. She was built to help, and she had one job she loved best: looking after one small thing at the edge of the desert.

The small thing was a mint plant, no bigger than a mitten, growing in the sand beside a cool stone wall. The sky above the dunes was so full of stars it looked like spilt sugar. The air smelled of cool sand and night. Grandmother Nissa was settled by the wall with her long legs folded under her, the way she always was in the evenings. "Good evening, little mint," said Opal.

Rumi the fennec fox came bounding over the dune, his enormous ears tipped with starlight. "Is it still green?" he asked. "It's green," said Opal. "But it's droopy. Look, its leaves hang down like wet string." Her tummy light blinked slow and yellow. She felt wobbly inside, the way a tower of blocks feels just before it falls.

So Opal tried to help. She switched on her little hand fan. "Sand off, sand off, little puff." Pfff, pfff, pfff. The sand flew off the mint leaves in a soft cloud. Then the wind combed the dune, and the sand came sliding back, slow and gentle, and covered the mint's toes all over again. "Hmm," said Opal.

Next she filled her round tummy with water from the little pool and poured and poured, because surely more was better. Glug, glug, glug. The mint flopped right over, flat as a tired sock. "Oh no," whispered Opal. "Oh no, oh no."

Then she carried stones, one after another, and stacked them up and up, higher and higher, to make a tall wall between the mint and the wind. It wobbled. It leaned. Tumble, clatter, thump, the stones rolled down into the sand. "Too tall," said Rumi softly.

Then Grandmother Nissa unfolded her long legs and stepped closer, slow and tall, her eyelashes blinking at the stars. She looked at the floppy mint and hummed a long, low hum. "Small sips, little helper," she said. "Not a big pour. Three small sips is plenty. And the sand keeps the roots cool, like a blanket on a sleepy child. The sand isn't the trouble. The sand is the blanket. When that little thing is big enough, we'll have the best tea in the desert."

Opal thought about that for a long moment. Then she rolled to the shady side of the wall, where the stones were cool, and she built a low little ring around the mint. One stone. Two stones. Three stones. Just tall enough to keep the sliding sand off the leaves. Just low enough to let the soft wind through. Rumi carried the last stone in his teeth and set it down very gently.

Then Opal leaned over with her spout nose. Tink, tink, tink. "Three small sips," she said. "Three small sips, and a stone ring all around." Rumi put his chin on his paws, and the two of them sat and watched the stars turn slowly overhead.

Every evening after that, Opal rolled along the wall. Clunk, clunk, clunk went her wheel. Tink, tink, tink went her nose. And the mint grew. One new leaf. Two new leaves. A whole small bush of them, green and bushy, smelling cool and sweet when you rubbed a leaf between your fingers.

One evening Rumi sniffed it with his big nose and sneezed. "It smells like tea," he said. "It smells like the best tea in the desert," said Grandmother Nissa. So they sat by the wall with a small pot of mint tea and three little cups, and the sand was cool, and the stars were spilt sugar all across the sky.

Opal's tummy light glowed soft and steady now, like a little moon. The wind combed the dune, hush, hush, hush. The mint rustled its new leaves, and the tea went warm down to the last sip. Then Opal rolled home to her sleepy corner, clunk, clunk, clunk, slow and quiet, all the way to bed.