Pip and the River Song

Pip had never gone past the big willow tree.

The willow hung over the river like a giant's curtain, its long green fingers trailing in the water. Pip had grown up swimming between its roots, catching minnows in its shade, sleeping on the mossy bank beside it. The willow was home.

On the other side of the willow, the river went away around a bend. Pip could hear it — a chuckling, rushing sound, like the river was telling itself a joke. He had always wondered what the joke was.

Today, he decided to find out.

He slid into the water — smooth as a stone dropping in — and paddled toward the long green curtain. The willow brushed his head as he passed beneath it. Goodbye, Pip, it seemed to say, though willows don't actually talk. (Or do they? Pip wasn't sure.)

Around the bend, the river opened up. It was wider here, and the current pulled him gently, like a friendly hand on the back. The banks were full of tall grasses and yellow flowers, and three ducks sat on a log and watched him float past.

"First time?" one of the ducks said.

"Yes," said Pip.

"You'll do fine," the duck said, and went back to looking important.

Pip laughed — a small otter laugh that came out as a squeak — and let the river carry him on.

Around the second bend, Pip spotted a large flat stone in the middle of the river. On top of the stone sat a toad so old and still that Pip almost took him for a lump of mud.

Then the toad blinked.

"Hello, otter," the toad said. His voice was deep and slow, like water moving through tree roots.

"Hello," said Pip, treading water. "I'm Pip. I've never been this far down the river before."

"I know," said the toad. "I've watched your family swim past this stone for forty years. None of you ever stopped." He paused for a very long time. "My name is Moss."

"Do you live on that stone?" Pip asked.

"I sit on this stone," Moss said, carefully. "I live in the river. The stone is where I come to listen."

"What do you listen for?"

Moss turned his great golden eyes toward Pip. "Everything," he said. "The river speaks all day. Most creatures swim too fast to hear it." He tilted his head. "But you stopped."

Pip hadn't thought about that. He had been drifting, not swimming — letting the current do the work. And now that he paid attention, he could hear the river more clearly. It was a layered sound, dozens of sounds at once, like a song sung by everyone at the same time.

"What's it saying?" Pip asked.

"Today," said Moss, "it's saying that there is a young otter going somewhere important, even if he doesn't know where yet." The toad blinked slowly. "Keep going, Pip. The river knows the way."

Pip looked downstream at the glittering water. Then he looked back at Moss.

"Thank you," he said.

"Stop and listen sometimes," Moss said. "That's all. That's everything."

And Pip swam on.

The sun was getting low and warm when Pip heard the singing.

It was coming from a cluster of river reeds on the left bank — a bright, bubbling song that seemed too big for any small thing to contain. Pip swam closer and found, among the tallest reeds, a nest no bigger than a teacup, woven from river grass and soft down. And in it, a very small bird with a very large song.

"Hello!" the bird called, without stopping her song even slightly.

"Hello," said Pip. "That's a beautiful song."

The bird — Wren, she told him, between notes — had a song for getting up in the morning, and a song for rain, and a song for finding a good worm, and a song for when a friend came by. This, she explained, was the friend song.

"But I just met you," Pip said.

"Doesn't matter," said Wren. "A friend is just a stranger you've decided to like. And I've decided to like you."

Pip thought that was the best definition he had ever heard.

The sky turned orange, then pink, then a deep quiet blue. Wren sang the going-to-sleep song, which was slow and gentle and made Pip's eyes feel heavy in the best way.

"I should go home," Pip said. "My mum will be waiting."

"Home is good," Wren agreed. "Home is very important." She settled deeper into her nest. "Come back and visit."

"I will," said Pip. And he meant it.

He swam back upstream — harder work, but the kind that feels good — under the willow curtain and onto the mossy bank where his mum was waiting with a fish and a warm look.

"Well?" she said.

Pip thought about the duck, and Moss, and Wren, and the river that knew the way.

"The river tells a good story," he said.

His mum smiled and didn't ask any more questions. Some adventures are for the adventurer to keep.

She tucked him up, and Pip slept, and in his dreams the river sang.