Seven little
goodnights.

Monday

Pebble’s Warm Stone

The evening sun rested on the edge of the Valley. It made the grass look golden, and the windows of the Roost look warm. The helping cart stood beneath its little roof. The ropes were neatly coiled. Everything that needed doing today was done.

Ivy sat beside Pebble on the path. Near her shoe lay a round, smooth stone. All afternoon, the sun had shone on it. Ivy picked it up and held it between her palms. It was not hot. It was just a little warm, like a patch of sunshine that had decided to stay.

“Look, Pebble,” she said softly. “The stone remembers the day.” Pebble lowered his orange head. He touched the stone with the smooth end of his nose. Then he made a very small, comfortable hum. Ivy smiled. There was no hurry to go anywhere.

They sat for a little while. A leaf turned gently on its stem. A cloud moved so slowly that Ivy could hardly see it moving. Somewhere near the Farm, a sheep settled into the grass. One quiet thing, and then another. The Valley was getting ready to rest.

“Shall we take our stone home?” Ivy asked. Pebble gave one slow nod. Ivy waited until he stood up. Then they followed the path together. Ivy carried the stone in both hands. Pebble walked beside her, with his feet making soft, steady steps. A step for Ivy. A step for Pebble. A little more path, and a little more home.

At the gate, they stopped to look at the garden. The bean leaves hung still on their sticks. The watering can stood on its shelf, empty and ready for another day. Ivy did not need to fill it now. The garden had had its drink. The garden could rest.

Fig was folding blankets by the open door. There was a small blanket for a small lap, and a bigger blanket for a bigger friend. “A place for everyone,” Fig said. Ivy showed him the stone. Fig held it for a moment, then gave it carefully back. “A little bit of the afternoon,” he murmured.

Ivy placed the stone on the windowsill, beside a tiny wooden cup. It could stay there until morning. She did not need to keep holding it for the warmth to have mattered. Outside, the last gold on the path was turning blue. Inside, the blankets were soft.

Pebble turned once in his roomy bed. Slowly, he tucked his feet underneath him. Ivy asked whether he would like his blanket. His eyes grew half closed, and he gave another little nod. She laid it gently across his back. Fig helped Ivy settle into her own cosy spot nearby.

For a while, they watched the stone on the sill. It grew cooler, little by little. The day was leaving it gently. There would be more sunshine another time. Tonight, a cool stone could be a resting stone. Tonight, a busy friend could be a resting friend.

Ivy’s hands lay open on her blanket. Pebble’s head rested on his paws. Nothing needed carrying. Nothing needed pulling. The path was quiet, and the cart was still.

“Goodnight, little stone,” Ivy whispered. “Goodnight, Pebble.” A soft hum answered her. Then even the hum was finished.

The stone rested on the windowsill. The blankets rested over the friends. The Roost rested in the gentle evening.

All here. All home. Goodnight.

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Tuesday

Kite and the Quiet Cloud

Above the Roost was a long, pale cloud. It had a round end and a thin end, and a little curl in the middle. Hana could see it from the window. She had finished putting away her yellow coat. Her shoes stood side by side beneath the bench.

Kite sat beside her on a wide, low perch. His wings were folded close, like two carefully closed fans. He had flown over the Ferry that afternoon. Now his wings could have their rest. Hana pulled a soft cushion onto the bench and sat where she could see him.

“That cloud looks like a pillow,” she said. Kite tipped his head. The cloud slipped a little farther across the sky. Its long end became shorter. Its round end spread wider. Hana watched it change without trying to make it stay the same.

“Now it looks like a sleeping sheep.” Kite made a tiny sound in his throat. Hana smiled, but she did not call the other friends to come quickly. The cloud was taking its time. Anyone who wanted to look could look. Anyone who wanted to rest could rest.

Down at the Ferry, the boat was tied safely to its post. The rope made a loose, quiet curve. The water moved beneath it, making little folds that opened and smoothed away. From the Roost, it all looked very small. There was nothing Hana and Kite needed to fetch.

The cloud drifted past the tallest tree. For a moment, it seemed to rest on the topmost leaves. Then a little space appeared between the leaves and the cloud, and the cloud was moving on. “You don’t have to fly after it,” Hana told Kite. “We can let it go.”

Kite tucked his beak a little closer to his shoulder. The bench felt firm beneath Hana. The cushion felt soft behind her. One hand lay in her lap, and the other rested beside her. She listened to the quiet room. A blanket moved. A page turned. Then the room was still again.

Fig came by with a folded cloth for Kite’s nest. Hana asked, “Would you like this underneath you?” Kite lifted one foot, slowly, then the other. Fig spread the cloth flat. Kite settled down onto it. His feathers rested softly over his feet.

The cloud was near the other side of the window now. It was no longer a pillow or a sheep. It was simply a cloud, pale and gentle in the evening sky. Hana liked it that way, too. Some things could be lovely without needing a name.

The first small star appeared above the roof. Hana did not need to find every star. One was enough for tonight. She could see it whenever she opened her eyes. And when her eyes were closed, the window and the sky were still there.

“Goodnight, cloud,” she whispered. She knew the cloud would keep moving at its own slow pace. It had the whole wide sky. Hana had her soft cushion, and her blanket, and her friends close by.

Kite’s wings stayed folded. Hana let her head rest. Beyond the glass, the cloud thinned into a pale little ribbon. Then the ribbon drifted beyond the window.

There was no need to follow. There was no need to wave again. The cloud could have the sky, and the friends could have their rest.

The window held one small star. The Roost held its sleeping friends.

All here. All home. Goodnight.

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Wednesday

Waffle’s Soft Path

Dax and Waffle were coming home from the Wood. It was still light enough to see every turn in the path. Fig walked with them, carrying an empty basket. They had taken some apples to the Farmer. Now the basket was light, and their little visit was finished.

Waffle usually liked to find things. A fallen feather. A track in the soft earth. A berry hiding underneath a leaf. Tonight, Dax had a different idea. “Shall we notice places where things can rest?” he asked. Waffle tipped his feathered head and gave a quiet chirrup.

They began beside an old tree. There was a smooth hollow between two roots. In the hollow lay three leaves. Nobody had tucked them there. The breeze had laid them down, one at a time. Now the leaves were still. “A bed for leaves,” Dax murmured.

A little farther on, a snail rested beneath a broad green leaf. Its shell was round and brown, with a soft curl around the middle. Dax stayed on the path. Waffle stayed beside him. They did not pick the snail up. Its little roof was already just right.

Fig waited while they looked. Then all three walked on together. They took no leaves and no shells. The resting places could stay where they were. Dax’s hands were empty. Waffle’s small feet moved gently over the earth. The basket swung a little, and then a little less.

At the edge of the Wood, the path became wider. Moss grew beside a flat stone. Dax crouched to look at its tiny green fronds. They made a cushion for a bead of water. The bead sat quietly in the middle, holding a small piece of the sky.

“That can rest here,” said Dax. Fig nodded. Waffle lowered his nose, then lifted it again. There was nothing to search for tonight. They knew where everyone was. The sheep were at the Farm. The other friends were at the Roost. And the Roost was just ahead.

Through the garden gate, Dax could see the bench. Through the open door, he could see the rug. Beyond the rug, he could see the low shelf where his favourite wooden animals belonged. Each familiar thing was waiting in its familiar place.

He put a wooden lamb beside a wooden tree. The lamb did not need to walk across the shelf tonight. It could stand quietly beneath the little branches. Waffle watched. Then he turned towards the soft nest Fig had made for him, close to Dax’s bed.

“Would you like the round cushion?” Dax asked. Waffle brushed it gently with his nose. Dax put it beside the nest. Waffle curled around it, with his tail resting along his side. One feather settled over another. Then all his feathers were still.

Dax lay down and remembered the path. The hollow holding leaves. The leaf sheltering the snail. The moss holding its bead of water. He did not need to picture them all at once. They could come into his thoughts slowly, and leave slowly, too.

Now there was one more resting place. A soft blanket. A familiar pillow. A small friend nearby. Dax let his cheek rest against the pillow and heard Fig set the empty basket on the shelf.

No more carrying. No more looking. The path had brought them home.

Outside, the leaves rested between the roots. Inside, Waffle rested beside Dax.

All here. All home. Goodnight.

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Thursday

Maple and the Evening Leaves

Maple was the tallest friend in the Valley. In the daytime, he could look over the garden wall. He could see the top of the apple tree. And when Obi stood beside him, Obi could see how long a gentle neck could be.

But now the day was becoming evening. The things up high did not need any help. The apples stayed on their branches. The little flag stayed on the roof. Maple could bring his head down low, to where his smallest friend was waiting.

Obi sat on the wide doorstep of the Roost. Beside him was a cushion with a little green leaf stitched onto it. He ran one finger around the leaf. Down one side. Around the rounded point. Back along the other side. There was no hurry to finish the shape.

Above them, the real leaves were moving gently. Some showed their shiny tops. Some turned their paler sides towards the sky. Obi watched one leaf turn over and back again. “It looks like the tree is making itself comfortable,” he said.

Maple made a low, quiet hum. He bent his neck towards the doorstep. “Would you like to sit beside me?” Obi asked. Maple paused. Then he folded his legs carefully, one at a time, and settled onto the deep, soft bedding just inside the open doors.

Fig had made that place wide enough for a very big friend. There was room for Maple’s tail, and room for his feet, and room for Obi to sit nearby without being crowded. A big friend did not need to become small to belong. He only needed a place that fitted him.

Obi placed the leaf cushion beside Maple’s cheek. Maple rested his head near it. Now Obi could see his eyes without looking up. They watched the tree together. The top leaves moved a little. The lower leaves moved even less. The trunk stood quietly underneath them all.

“You can stop reaching now,” Obi whispered. “Everything is where it needs to be.” Maple’s eyelids lowered, then opened just a little. He seemed to be listening to the tree. There was a soft rustle, followed by a longer patch of quiet.

Fig sat down on the other side of Obi. His hands rested on his knees. Nobody needed to say anything for a while. The evening was full enough already. A leaf. A cushion. A very tall friend resting low. A little person tucked between familiar, gentle things.

The sky beyond the branches changed from light blue to a deeper blue. Obi leaned against his own pillow. The stitched leaf was still underneath his hand. He traced only half of it this time. Then his finger came to rest.

Maple’s neck made a long, easy curve along his bedding. His tail lay still. His feet were tucked comfortably underneath him. There was nothing above the garden wall that he needed to see tonight. The whole tall tree could look after its own leaves.

Obi pulled his blanket up to his middle. Fig smoothed one corner. “Goodnight, Maple,” Obi said, so quietly that the words hardly travelled farther than the pillow.

A small, contented hum answered him. Then there was just the gentle tree, and the quiet room, and a little space between one sound and the next.

The leaves rested on their branches. The tallest friend rested near the smallest.

All here. All home. Goodnight.

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Friday

The Blanket Boat

On Friday evening, Fig spread a blue blanket on the rug. It was long enough for four children to sit along its edge. Ivy sat down first. Then Hana. Then Dax. Then Obi. Their dinosaur friends settled in the roomy places beside them.

“It looks like a little boat,” Hana said. The blanket had a fold down the middle and a curved corner at one end. Ivy smoothed the corner with her hand. “A boat that stays at home,” she said. And that was just the kind of boat they wanted.

The rug was their quiet harbour. The cushions were the banks. The wooden floor beyond the rug could be a wide, still lake. They did not need real water. They did not need paddles or ropes. Their pretend boat was comfortable exactly where it was.

Fig put a small basket in the middle. “What shall our boat carry?” he asked softly. Dax brought a cushion. Obi brought a folded cloth. Hana brought a little wooden cup. Ivy brought nothing at all, because she liked having room for her hands.

They put everything down carefully. The cushion leaned against the basket. The cloth lay flat. The cup stood quietly in the fold of the blanket. There was room for what they had brought, and room for the empty spaces, too.

Pebble rested his chin beside Ivy. Kite folded his wings near Hana. Waffle curled beside Dax, with his tail close to his toes. Maple lowered his head near Obi. No one rocked the boat. No one splashed the lake. It was a sitting-still kind of journey.

“We could drift past the garden,” Ivy murmured. The children pictured the garden without getting up. The beans on their sticks. The neat rows of carrots. The small watering can on its shelf. Their thoughts moved gently past each familiar thing.

“And past the apple tree,” Dax said. They pictured the tree with its round apples, all held safely by the branches. One apple was green. Another had a red cheek. The leaves made a soft roof over them. There was no need to pick anything tonight.

Then they imagined a wide patch of sky. A pale cloud was resting there. It could be the boat’s sail, if it wanted. But the boat did not need wind to take them anywhere. Sometimes a journey could happen in a quiet room, while every foot stayed warm on the rug.

After a while, the friends stopped adding things to the picture. The garden was enough. The apple tree was enough. The cloud was enough. They sat with the soft blue blanket and let their little journey become still.

“Home harbour,” Fig whispered. They had been home all along. Hana placed the cup back on its shelf. Dax put the basket beside the chair. Obi folded the small cloth, and Ivy helped him smooth it. There was no hurry, and Fig did the last little bit.

Then the blanket stopped being a boat. It became a blanket again, ready to keep resting friends cosy. The children settled into their beds nearby. The dinosaurs settled into theirs. Each friend had enough room.

The wooden lake became a floor. The cushion banks became cushions. The quiet harbour stayed a quiet room.

No more places to imagine. No more things to carry. Just a blanket, and a pillow, and the feeling of being home.

All here. All home. Goodnight.

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Saturday

Nine Little Goodnights

The Roost was warm and quiet. The day’s shoes stood by the door. The day’s cups were on the shelf. Fig had finished folding the spare blankets. He placed the last one over the back of his chair, ready for anyone who wanted it.

Four children were getting comfortable. Four dinosaur friends were settling nearby. Fig was there, too. Nobody was missing. Nobody needed to be found. Tonight, Fig was simply going to say a little goodnight to each of his friends.

First, he stopped beside Ivy. She had put her favourite picture on the shelf where she could see it in the morning. Her hands were tucked beneath the edge of her blanket. “Goodnight, Ivy,” Fig said. “Your busy hands can rest.” Ivy smiled and let her head sink into the pillow.

Beside her lay Pebble. His strong feet were folded underneath him. The cart he had helped with earlier was already in its shed. Fig asked whether his blanket was comfortable. Pebble gave a small, sleepy nod. “Goodnight, Pebble. Your pulling feet can rest.”

Hana had laid her yellow coat over the bench. Its sleeves were empty. It would be ready whenever she wanted it again. For now, she had a soft blanket instead. “Goodnight, Hana,” Fig murmured. “All your going places can wait.” Hana closed her eyes for a little while.

Kite rested on his low, cushioned perch. One wing lay neatly over the other. The high branches and the wide sky would still be there another day. Fig did not touch his feathers. He just sat nearby for a moment. “Goodnight, Kite. Your flying wings can rest.”

Dax was looking at the little wooden lamb on his shelf. He liked knowing exactly where it was. He could see its round back in the soft light. Then he turned towards his pillow. “Goodnight, Dax,” Fig said. “Your looking eyes can rest.”

Waffle had made a comfortable circle around his cushion. His nose was close to his tail. His feathers looked like many small leaves lying one over another. “Goodnight, Waffle,” Fig whispered. “Your finding nose can rest.” A tiny chirrup answered, then faded into quiet.

Obi lay beneath a blanket with a smooth green edge. He had folded the edge back so it felt just right under his chin. Fig sat beside him while he made one last little adjustment. “Goodnight, Obi. You have a place just right for you.” Obi’s fingers grew still.

Maple’s roomy bed was beside the open inner doors. His long neck rested in an easy curve. Nothing needed lifting from a high branch now. Fig looked into his gentle, half-closed eyes. “Goodnight, Maple. Your reaching neck can rest.” Maple gave a low, comfortable hum.

Fig returned to his chair. There was one goodnight left. Obi opened his eyes just a little. “Goodnight, Fig,” he whispered. The other children murmured it, too, each in their own small way. Fig smiled. The person who helped everyone settle could rest as well.

He laid his hands in his lap and listened. Blankets moved softly. A cushion gave a tiny sigh. Outside, a leaf brushed another leaf. Then everything was quiet again.

They did not need to count once more. Every cosy place had its friend. Every friend had their cosy place.

Four children. Four dinosaur friends. And Fig.

All here. All home. Goodnight.

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Sunday

The Valley Under the Moon

On Sunday evening, the moon rose above the Valley. It did not ring a bell or knock on a door. It simply appeared in the soft blue sky, round and pale, while the friends at the Roost were getting ready for bed.

Its light touched the garden wall. Then the path. Then the little roof over the cart. Everything looked familiar, with a gentle silver edge. The Valley was the same Valley the friends knew in the daytime. Now it was having its quiet time.

Ivy looked at the windowsill. Her smooth stone was still there, beside the tiny wooden cup. It was cool tonight. She remembered how it had held a little warmth from the sun. “Goodnight, stone,” she whispered, and left it in its own small place.

Hana looked at the sky. There were no clouds in the piece she could see from her pillow. That was all right. The cloud they had watched had gone on with its journey. The sky could be empty for a while. There was room for the moon, and room for quiet.

Dax remembered the path through the Wood. He pictured the leaves resting between the roots. He pictured the broad leaf above the snail. He did not wonder whether he should go and look at them. They could stay in the Wood, and he could stay in his bed.

Obi touched the green edge of his blanket. Near him, Maple was lying down with his head low. The tallest branches outside were still. There was nothing Obi needed to ask Maple to reach. The moon could look at the tops of the trees tonight.

Fig sat by the window. “The day is finished,” he said softly. “Tomorrow will come in its own time.” He did not list tomorrow’s jobs. Nobody needed to prepare an adventure now. Tomorrow could stay on the other side of the night until the friends were ready to meet it.

Down at the River, the water slipped past the stones. At the Ferry, the boat rested by its post. At the Farm, the sheep lay close together in their sheltered place. The Lighthouse window shone gently over the water. Each place had its own quiet way of being home.

The friends did not need to visit those places. They could let the familiar picture come to them, as slowly as they liked. A curve of river. A resting boat. A field. A window. Then the picture could become smaller, until there was only their cosy room.

Pebble tucked his feet beneath his blanket. Kite folded his wings. Waffle settled his nose near his tail. Maple let his long neck rest. The children found the soft parts of their pillows. Fig stayed nearby, with the spare blanket over his knees.

For a moment, Ivy thought of the blue blanket boat. They had travelled without leaving the rug. Tonight, they did not need even a pretend journey. Here was enough. This pillow. This blanket. These familiar friends. This quiet evening at the Roost.

The moon moved slowly above the roof. Its light rested on the windowsill, beside the little stone. It did not ask anyone to watch it. It could shine while eyes were open, and it could shine while eyes were closed.

One small sound faded. Then another. There was no last thing to fetch. No last place to go.

The week could rest behind them. Tomorrow could wait ahead. And here, in the middle, was a soft and quiet night.

All here. All home. Goodnight.

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