The Dragon Who Couldn't Sleep

High in the Ashen Glades, where the rocks stay warm long after the sun goes down, there lived a small dragon named Pip. Pip was the colour of a glowing coal, and when he breathed out, tiny sparks drifted from his nose like fireflies. All the other young dragons in the glade curled up at dusk, tucked their tails over their snouts, and fell fast asleep the moment the first star appeared. All of them except Pip.

"I can't sleep," Pip whispered into the dark. His eyes were wide and bright. His wings would not stop fidgeting. "There is too much night, and I am wide awake in the middle of it."

He tried lying on his left side. He tried lying on his right. He tried counting the sparks that drifted from his nose, but that only made him more awake, because he kept losing his place and having to start again. He tried hanging his head off the edge of his warm stone so the whole world was upside down, and the stars looked like glowing pebbles scattered on a dark floor. Nothing helped. The moon climbed higher, silver and calm, and Pip only felt more awake than ever.

He listened to his cousins breathing all around him, slow and even, and it made him feel very lonely. "Why can everybody sleep but me?" he thought. "Maybe I am the only creature in all of Landorya who has forgotten how."

So he tiptoed out of the sleeping glade, past his snoring cousins, over the warm stones and down the cliff path, to go and find someone — anyone — who was still awake.

At the very edge of the cliff, where the mountain fell away into a great dark valley, sat an old grey owl named Mistle, her feathers soft as ash. She was not the least bit surprised to see a small sparking dragon at this hour. "You cannot sleep," she said. It was not a question.

"There is too much night," Pip said again, and his voice wobbled. "Everyone else is asleep and I am the only one left awake in the whole world. It feels like the night is never, ever going to end."

"Ah," said Mistle gently, and her round eyes were kind. "But you are not alone, and the night is not what you think it is. Come. Let me show you."

She spread one wide, soft wing, and Pip climbed carefully onto her back and held on, and together they lifted off the cliff and glided out over the dark and quiet land. The cool air moved gently past them, and far below, the whole valley opened up.

"Look down," said Mistle. "The night is not empty. The night is only the world getting ready to rest."

And Pip looked.

Below him, the rivers had slowed to a hush, sliding along like they too were growing sleepy, their little waterfalls softened to a whisper. The tall pines had stopped their daytime swaying and stood still as guards, holding the dark up on their shoulders. In a meadow, a flock of sheep had gathered into one warm woolly cloud, and their shepherd's lantern glowed low in a hut nearby. A family of rabbits had folded themselves into a soft grey pile under a root. On a pond, two swans slept with their heads tucked under their wings, drifting in slow circles. Even the wind had lain down in the long grass and grown quiet.

"The rabbits are sleeping," Pip whispered.

"Yes," said Mistle.

"And the river is nearly sleeping. And the sheep. And the swans."

"Yes."

"And the trees have stopped moving to keep the night safe."

"Yes," said the owl, and she turned in a slow, warm circle high above it all. "The whole world takes turns resting, little one. When you sleep, someone is awake to watch over you. And when they sleep, someone watches for them. The stars watch the sky. The mountains watch the valley. Tonight, out here, it is my turn to keep watch. So there is nothing left for you to do — nothing at all — but let go."

Pip felt something loosen in his chest, like a knot slowly untying itself. His fidgeting wings grew heavy and still. The sparks from his nose came slower now, and softer, drifting down through the dark like the last embers of a fire settling into its warm bed of ash.

Mistle glided him home in a long, gentle spiral, lower and lower, and set him down among his sleeping cousins on the warm dark stone. "The night will keep," she murmured. "And I will keep the night. Close your eyes, little coal. I am right here."

Pip curled up. He tucked his tail over his snout, just like the others. And for the first time all evening, the whole enormous night did not feel too big at all. It felt like a warm blanket the world had pulled up over itself, with room enough for everyone underneath — the rabbits and the swans, the sheep and the shepherd, the slow rivers and the still tall trees, and one small dragon the colour of a glowing coal.

"Goodnight, Mistle," he breathed.

But he was already asleep before the old owl could answer, and the last little spark from his nose winked out, quiet and content, somewhere in the soft and watchful dark.