The Fox Tells the Moon a Story

In the Silbenwald, where the old trees stretch out their branches like arms and small lanterns hang from every bough, this was a very particular evening. The fireflies had just begun their quiet dancing, and a soft white mist crept slowly through the moss. The fox — everyone in the forest simply called him the Fox — was sitting on his favourite stone in the middle of a small, still clearing. The stone still held the warmth of the sun. The Fox curled his bushy tail around himself and looked up. There, between the branches, hung the moon — round and yellowish, like a large, buttery biscuit.

The Fox blinked up at the moon. Then he said, first very quietly and then just a little louder, "Hello, Moon. Are you asleep yet?" The moon did not answer, of course — moons never do. But the Fox thought he could make out a tiny smile in the craters up above. He grinned to himself. He liked talking to the moon. The moon always listened. It never interrupted. It never said, "Are you quite sure?" or "I'm not sure I believe that." The moon was simply there — large and still and kind. And the Fox liked that very much.

"Moon," said the Fox, "tonight I should like to tell you a story. You give me your light every single night, so it's only fair that I give you something back." The Fox cleared his throat and straightened his green scarf. Then he began. "Once upon a time — long, long ago, or perhaps only yesterday, for one never knows quite which in the Silbenwald — there lived a small hedgehog. The hedgehog's name was Piek. Piek had twenty-seven spines, which he counted every morning, because he was a very precise sort of hedgehog. He lived beneath the great beech tree, right next to the bed of fallen leaves."

In the Fox's story — and he told it to the moon with the greatest of care — Piek the hedgehog had lost something important that very day. Not his favourite stone. Not his nightcap. Piek had lost his laugh. He didn't know how, and he didn't know when. But when he woke that morning and Balduin the badger called out good morning, Piek tried to smile — and nothing came. Not the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not the smallest warm tingle in his chest. Piek sat in front of his burrow and thought, "How very strange. Where on earth has my laugh gone?"

The Fox leant back on his warm stone and glanced up at the moon for a moment. "Are you enjoying the story so far?" The moon seemed to shine just a little more brightly. The Fox nodded, satisfied, and carried on. Piek went first to Balduin the badger. Balduin was the calmest creature in the Silbenwald. He spoke slowly, thought carefully before he answered, and always had something warm in his teapot. Balduin the badger said, "Piek, a laugh sometimes hides. It waits for the right moment. Have you looked at the forest today — really looked?" Piek had not. So Piek looked.

Piek looked out into the Silbenwald. He saw a firefly sitting on a fern frond, cleaning its wings. He saw the mist drifting between the trees like little cotton-wool sheep. He saw a lantern flame trembling in the breeze — left, then right, like a small head nodding along. And then — very quietly, very secretly — Piek felt a tingle in his chest. Small as a pea at first. Then bigger. Then a laugh burst out of Piek, loud and clear and round as a woodland berry. Piek laughed until every single one of his twenty-seven spines wobbled.

The Fox smiled as he reached this part of the story. Up in a branch above him, leaves rustled, and Fippa the squirrel peered out. Fippa had been half asleep — but stories always drew Fippa back to wakefulness. "Fox," Fippa whispered, "is the moon really listening?" The Fox looked up. The moon hung a little higher now, golden and still. "I rather think so," the Fox said softly. "Look — it's drawing closer." Fippa gave a quiet giggle, snuggled back into the tree hollow, and murmured, "Then do carry on, Fox. I'm listening too." And the Fox carried on.

In the story, Piek had found his laugh again. And because Piek felt so happy, he wanted to share it with someone. He ran to Fippa the squirrel. Fippa was so delighted that Fippa leapt three times around the trunk of the tree. Then the two of them dashed together to Balduin the badger's and drank tea all round. The owl sat high in the juniper tree and watched it all with her great round eyes. The owl thought, "These small forest creatures understand something that many forget — that a laugh grows bigger when you share it." Then the owl closed one eye and blinked wisely. Nobody in the Silbenwald was quite as clever as the owl.

The Fox was quiet for a moment. The forest was very still now. The fireflies were dancing more slowly than before. The lanterns in the trees burned warmer and softer, as though they too were growing tired. The mist lay over the moss like a gentle blanket. The Fox looked up at the moon and whispered, "And that, dear Moon, is the end of the story." The moon glowed softly. The Fox curled himself up a little tighter. His tail was warm around his paws. He felt his eyes grow heavy. A good, heavy heaviness — the heaviness that comes from being quite, perfectly content.

In the Silbenwald, everyone was asleep now. Piek beneath the beech tree. Balduin in his warm underground chamber. Fippa deep inside the tree hollow, bushy tail wrapped around like a blanket. The owl dozed on her branch. And the Fox slept on his warm stone, the moon still shining gently above him. The moon kept watch through the whole night. It watched over all of them. And it watches over you, too. Somewhere between the softly dancing fireflies, the drifting mist, and the warm glow of the lanterns, the Silbenwald whispered good night. Quietly. Gently. As quietly as a single, sleeping breath.