Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,
and my friends and I will be reading you a
sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to
help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From
time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,
peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.
Once we have read the stories, we will then read
them a second time, but this time they will be
ready even slower. This will help you to relax even more.
Before we begin, I would like you to close your
eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply. Take
a few seconds to inhale, and then hold your breath
for a few seconds more, and then release and breathe out.
Do this a few times if you need to, while
you listen to the music and you listen to my voice,
give yourself time to let your body relax and your
mind settle. It's important that we allow time for us
to feel safe, cozy, and completely at ease. And now
it's time for this week's story. The peculiar voyage of
the Sleepy Fox in a small meadow where the grass
leaned lazily in whichever direction the wind happened to be
thinking about. There lived a fox named Oliver, who was,
by all reliable accounts, extremely sleepy most of the time.
Oliver was not lazy exactly. He simply believed that the
the world worked better when one approached it gently, with
regular pauses for tea thoughtful staring at clouds, and the
occasional nap taken with professional dedication. His burrow sat beneath
an elderly willow tree, whose branches drooped so comfortably that
birds often forgot why they had started flying and settled
down for a while. It was the sort of place
where afternoons stretched politely, and evenings arrived like a quiet
guest removing their shoes at the door. Oliver liked it
very much. Each morning, he would wake slowly, stretch each
pore with the seriousness of a philosopher considering a difficult question,
and wander outside to see whether anything interesting had happened overnight.
Usually it had not. Sometimes a mushroom appeared, once a
hedgehog attempted to invent a hat. On one memorable Tuesday,
a cloud looked very much like a kettle, which Oliver
felt was a promising sign for tea, but mostly the
meadow remained peacefully undecided about doing anything dramatic. This suited
Oliver perfectly. Unfortunately, the universe has a long and mischievous
history of disturbing creatures who are trying to be comfortable.
One evening, just as the sky had turned the color
of soft peaches and the crickets were clearing their throats
for the night shift, Oliver was settling into his favorite
patch of moss to begin what he called his preliminary nap,
before the proper nap. He had just closed one eye,
then the other, then opened one eye again because something
unusual had floated past his nose. It was a boat.
This might not sound terribly strange if one lives beside
a river, but Oliver did not live beside a river.
He lived in a meadow, and this boat was drifting
slowly through the tall grass, as if the meadow had
temporarily decided to become an ocean but had forgotten to
inform anyone. Oliver sat up. The boat was small, wooden,
slightly crooked, and carrying what appeared to be a suitcase,
a lantern, and a hat that looked deeply suspicious of
its surroundings. The boat drifted gently until it stopped beside
Oliver's moss patch, with the soft bump of someone politely
arriving somewhere they had never meant to visit. Oliver stared
at it for a while. The boat stared back in
the quiet, dignified way boats have. Finally, Oliver cleared his throat.
Good evening, he said, because politeness remains useful even when
addressing mysterious meadow boats. The lantern flickered, the hat twitched,
and the boat said, in a creaky voice that sounded
like old floorboards, remembering things.
Speaker 2: Ah good a fox. Oliver blinked slow. A boat that talks,
He murmured, Yes, Yes, said the boat. Nothing to worry
about happens occasionally on Thursdays. Oliver looked up at the
sky to check whether it was Thursday. The sky did
not answer. It's Wednesday, Oliver said. The boat sighed heavily,
the way boats sigh when their schedules have gone badly wrong. Well,
that explains the navigation problem, it said. Oliver leaned forward slightly.
Navigation problem, he repeated, Yes, said the boat. I was
meant to be sailing along the River of quiet journeys,
but here to have drifted into a meadow instead. Oliver
considered this information with the careful calm of someone who
had once accidentally fallen asleep in a wheelbarrow, and therefore
tried not to judge situations too quickly. That does sound inconvenient,
he said, extremely, said the boat, particularly because my passenger
has not arrived yet. Oliver looked into the boat. There
was the suitcase, the lantern, the suspicious hat, but no passenger.
I don't see anyone, Oliver said, that's the trouble, said
the boat. You're the passenger. Oliver paused. He checked behind him.
There was still only meadow. He checked the willow tree.
It was still a tree. Then he looked back at
the boat. I think there has been a mistake, Oliver
said politely. I'm very busy this evening. The boat tilted slightly,
busy doing what it asked. Oliver opened his mouth, then
closed it again. I was planning to sleep, he admitted,
a noble activity, said the boat. But this voyage is
particularly suitable for sleepy individuals. Oliver scratched behind one ear thoughtfully.
What sort of voyage, he asked, A quiet one, said
the boat the river of quiet journeys flows through places
where the world slows down, lantern islands, drifting fog gardens,
fields where the stars practice shining before nighttime officially begins.
Oliver's ears twitched slightly at that last part. He had
always wondered where stars practiced. Still, a sensible fox avoids
unnecessary voyages when moss patches and naps are readily available.
I appreciate the invitation, Oliver said, carefully. I am quite
comfortable here. The boat rocked gently. Yes, it said, that
is exactly why you must come. Oliver frowned. That reasoning
seems suspicious. Not suspicious, said the boat traditional. The river
of quiet journeys only appears for travelers who are already
good at resting. Otherwise everyone would rush around on it
and ruin the atmosphere. Oliver had to admit that made
a certain kind of sense. Before he could respond, the
lanterns suddenly glowed brighter. The air in the meadow changed,
The tall grass began to sway in long, slow waves,
as if remembering something ancient and watery. Then, with the
quiet sound of distant tide pulling at the edges of
the world, a narrow ribbon of shimmering water appeared between
the blades of grass. It curved gently through the meadow,
like a path made from moonlight and patient ideas. Oliver
stared well, he said, softly, that is new. The boat
looked pleased with itself. There we are, it said, right
on schedule after all. Oliver walked around the edge of
the water ribbon. The surface reflected the sky, even though
the sky was still above it, which Oliver felt was
slightly unfair to gravity. The lantern flickered again, the suitcase
shifted politely, and the hat gave Oliver what could only
be described as a very encouraging nod. Oliver sighed the
long sigh of a creature whose evening has clearly changed direction.
If I come, he said, slowly, will the voyage be
very energetic? Absolutely not, said the boat. In fact, we
strongly discourage energetic behavior. Oliver climbed into the boat. It
felt surprisingly comfortable, like sitting inside a well organized thought.
The moment he settled down, the lantern dimmed to a
soft golden glow. The water ribbon widened slightly, and the
boat began drifting forward with the quiet confidence of something
that knew exactly where naps belonged. Oliver curled his tail
around his paws. The meadow began sliding gently away behind them,
and as the first curious stars appeared above the drifting river,
the sleepy fox discovered that sometimes the most peculiar voyages
begins simply because it seemed rude to refuse a talking boat.
The little boat drifted forward with the unhurried confidence of
something that had traveled this river many times before and
had no intention of rushing, simply because the world outside
tended to do so. Oliver settled deeper into the wooden
seat and watched the meadow slowly dissolve behind them into
a gentle haze of grass and fireflies. It did not
vanish suddenly, it faded, the way a memory fades when
one becomes pleasantly distracted by something new and slightly mysterious.
The ribbon of water widened as they moved, until it
was no longer a ribbon at all, but a narrow,
quiet river that seemed to flow not through the meadow,
but slightly beside it, as if the river preferred its
own version of geography. The lantern at the bow glowed softly,
painting warm circles of light on the water that drifted
away behind them, like floating thoughts. Oliver yawned. Excuse me,
he said politely to the lantern. The lantern flickered in
a forgiving sort of way. You'll find yawning is very
common on this river, said the boat in its creaky voice.
Most travelers do it within the first ten minutes. Oliver
nodded sleepily. That sounds reassuring, he said. They floated onward
for a while in companionable quiet. The water made a
soft brushing sound against the sides of the boat, like
someone gently turning Paine in a large, peaceful book. Oliver
watched the sky carefully. The stars above were beginning to
arrange themselves into neat, thoughtful patterns, as though rehearsing their
evening performance before the night fully arrived. Do they really practice,
Oliver asked quietly. The stars, Oh, yes, said the boat.
They take their work quite seriously. One cannot simply appear
every night without a little preparation. Oliver felt that was
very responsible of them. Soon the river curved around a
bend where the air became pleasantly misty, and the lantern
light turned the fog into slow drifting ribbons of gold shapes.
Appeared ahead. Small islands floated on the water, each carrying
a single object. One island held a rocking chair, gently
rocking all by itself. Another carried a teacup that occasionally
released a polite puff of steam. A third island held
a large sleeping cat who appeared to be dreaming about
something extremely important. Oliver leaned forward slightly. What are those,
he asked. Lantern islands, said the boat. They collect quiet
moments that wander away from busy places. Oliver watched the
rocking chair sway gently. That seems like a nice job,
he murmured. They drifted past, slowly so as not to
disturb the sleeping cat. The cat twitched one whisker in
its dream, and then settled again. The river widened once more,
the fog thinned, and ahead of them rose a cluster
of tall reeds that whispered softly to one another. As
the boat approached. From somewhere within the reeds came a low, thoughtful,
humming sound. Oliver listened carefully. It sounded like someone humming
while trying to remember where they had put something. As
the boat glided closer, a turtle appeared between the reeds.
He was wearing round specterles and holding a tiny notebook.
He looked up slowly. Which turtles are particularly good at doing? Evening,
said the turtle. Evening said the boat, routine voyage. The
turtle made a careful note in his notebook. Passenger, he asked.
The boat nodded slightly toward Oliver. Tired fox, it said. Excellent,
said the turtle. Tired passengers make the calmest journeys. Oliver
felt proud of this qualification. The turtle adjusted his spectacles
and studied Oliver for a moment. Remember, he said, kindly,
The river travels fastest when nobody notices. Oliver thought that
was very wise advice. The boat drifted on through the reeds,
leaving the turtle quietly writing in his notebook again. For
a while, the river became very smooth and very quiet.
The lantern dimmed slightly, as if encouraging softer thoughts. Oliver
felt his eyelids growing heavier. The gentle movement of the
boat made the world feel like a cradle being rocked
by an extremely patient giant. Just as Oliver was about
to drift into a small, comfortable doze, the hat beside
the suitcase suddenly cleared its throat. Oliver looked down in surprise. Oh,
he said, I forgot about you. Most people do, said
the hat cheerfully. I'm Harold, Oliver nodded politely Oliver, he replied, Yes,
I know, said Harold. The boat mentioned it earlier. Oliver
had not noticed the boat mentioning it, but he decided
not to argue. The hat shifted slightly on the seat
first voyage. Harold asked, yes, said Oliver, I was planning
to sleep in my moss patch instead. A common beginning,
said Harold wisely, But travelers often discover the sleep is
even better when the river carries it along. Oliver found
that idea extremely appealing. They continued drifting quietly. Soon the
sky deepened into a deeper blue, the kind that only
appears when night is fully considering its arrival. The stars
above grew brighter and steadier. Somewhere far away, an owl
called once, and then decided that was quite enough talking
for the evening. The river curved again ahead. Oliver could
see a stretch of water so calm that the lantern
light rested on it without moving. The boat slowed slightly.
This art is called the floating quiet, it said softly.
Most passengers fall asleep. Here, Oliver felt his tail curl
comfortably around his paws. The lantern glow warmed the wooden seat,
the water whispered softly beneath them. He leaned back against
the suitcase. This is very pleasant, he murmured, exactly said
the boat. Oliver watched the sky one last time. A
few late stars drifted into their places, like careful musicians
joining an orchestra just before the music begins. The river
carried them gently forward. The lantern dimmed to a soft,
sleepy glow, and somewhere between one slow ripple and the next,
the very sleepy fox closed his eyes and drifted into
the quietest nap of the entire peculiar voyage. The boat
continued sailing softly beneath the patient stars, carrying its passenger
deeper along the river of quiet journeys, where many more
peaceful curiosities waited. Further downstream the peculiar Voyage of the
sleepy Fox. In a small meadow where the grass leaned
lazily in whichever direction the wind happened to be thinking about,
there lived a fox named Oliver, who was, by all
reliable accounts, extremely sleepy. Most of the time. Oliver was
not lazy exactly. He simply believed that the world worked
better when one approached it gently, with regular pauses for tea,
thoughtful staring at clouds, and the occasional nap taken with
professional dedication. His burrow sat beneath an elderly willow tree,
whose branches drooped so comfortably that birds often forgot why
they had started flying and settled down for a while.
It was the sort of place where afternoons stretched politely,
and evenings arrived like a quiet guest removing their shoes
at the door. Oliver liked it very much. Each morning,
he would wake slowly, stretch each pore with the seriousness
of a philosopher considering a difficult question, and wander outside
to see whether anything interesting had happened overnight. Usually it
had not. Sometimes a mushroom appeared, once a hedgehog attempted
to invent a hat. On one memorable Tuesday, a cloud
looked very much like a kettle, which Oliver felt was
a promising sign for tea. But mostly the meadow remained
peacefully undecided about doing anything dramatic. This suited Oliver perfectly. Unfortunately,
the universe has a long and mischievous history of durbing
creatures who were trying to be comfortable. One evening, just
as the sky had turned the color of soft peaches
and the crickets were clearing their throats for the night shift,
Oliver was settling into his favorite patch of moss to
begin what he called his preliminary nap, before the proper nap,
he had just closed one eye, then the other, then
opened one eye again because something unusual had floated past
his nose. It was a boat. This might not sound
terribly strange if one lives beside a river, but Oliver
did not live beside a river. He lived in a meadow,
and this boat was drifting slowly through the tall grass,
as if the meadow had temporarily decided to become an ocean,
but had forgotten to inform anyone. Oliver sat up. The
boat was small, wooden, slightly crooked, and carrying what appeared
to be a suit case, a lantern, and a hat
that looked deeply suspicious of its surroundings. The boat drifted
gently until it stopped beside Oliver's moss patch, with the
soft bump of some one politely arriving somewhere they had
never meant to visit. Oliver stared at it for a while.
The boat stared back in the quiet, dignified way boats have. Finally,
Oliver cleared his throat. Good evening, he said, because politeness
remains useful even when addressing mysterious meadow boats. The lantern flickered,
the hat twitched, and the boat said, in a creaky
voice that sounded like old floorboards, remembering things. Ah good
a fox, Oliver blinked slowly. A boat that talks, He murmured. Yes, Yes,
said the boat. Nothing to worry about happens occasionally on Thursdays.
Oliver looked up at the sky to check whether it
was Thursday. The sky did not answer. It's Wednesday, Oliver said.
The boat sighed heavily, the way boats sigh when their
schedules have gone badly wrong. Well, that explains the navigation, probably,
it said. Oliver leaned forward slightly. Navigation problem, he repeated, yes,
said the boat. I was meant to be sailing along
the River of quiet journeys, but I appeared to have
drifted into a meadow instead. Oliver considered this information with
the careful calm of someone who had once accidentally fallen
asleep in a wheelbarrow, and therefore tried not to judge
situations too quickly. That does sound inconvenient, he said extremely,
said the boat, particularly because my passenger has not arrived yet.
Oliver looked into the boat. There was the suitcase, anton,
the suspicious hat, but no passenger. I don't see anyone,
Oliver said, that's the trouble, said the boat. You're the passenger.
Oliver paused. He checked behind him. There was still only meadow.
He checked the willow tree. It was still a tree.
Then he looked back at the boat. I think there
has been a mistake, Oliver said politely. I'm very busy
this evening. The boat tilted slightly, busy doing what it asked.
Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it again. I was
planning to sleep, he admitted, a noble activity, said the boat.
But this voyage is particularly suitable for sleepy individuals. Oliver
scratched behind one ear thoughtfully. What sort of voyage, he asked,
A quiet one, said the boat. The river of quiet
journeys flows through places where the world slows down, lantern islands,
drifting fog gardens, fields where the stars practice shining before
night time. Officially begins. Oliver's ears twitched slightly at that
last part. He had always wondered where stars practiced. Still,
a sensible fox avoids unnecessary voyages when moss patches and
naps are readily available. I appreciate the invitation, Oliver said, carefully,
but I am quite comfortable here. The boat rocked gently. Yes,
it said, that is exactly why you must come. Oliver frowned.
That reasoning seems suspicious. Not suspicious, said the boat traditional.
The river of quiet journeys only appears for travelers who
are already good at resting. Otherwise everyone would rush around
on it and ruin them in the atmosphere. Oliver had
to admit that made a certain kind of sense. Before
he could respond, the lantern suddenly glowed brighter. The air
in the meadow changed. The tall grass began to sway
in long, slow waves, as if remembering something ancient and watery. Then,
with the quiet sound of distant tide pulling at the
edges of the world, a narrow ribbon of shimmering water
appeared between the blades of grass. It curved gently through
the meadow like a path made from moonlight and patient ideas.
Oliver stared well, he said softly. That is new. The
boat looked pleased with itself. There we are, it said,
right on schedule after all. Oliver walked around the edge
of the water ribbon. The surface reflected the sky, even
though the sky was still above it, which Oliver felt
was slightly unfair to gravity. The lantern flickered again, the
suitcase shifted politely, and the hat gave Oliver what could
only be described as a very encouraging nod. Oliver sighed
the long sigh of a creature whose evening has clearly
changed direction. If I come, he said, slowly, Will the
voyage be very energetic? Absolutely not, said the boat. In fact,
we strongly discourage energetic behavior. Oliver climbed into the boat.
It felt surprisingly comfortable, like sitting inside a well organized thought.
The moment he settled down, the lantern dimmed to a
soft golden glow. The water ribbon widened slightly, and the
boat began drifting forward with the quiet confidence of something
that knew exactly where naps belonged. Oliver curled his tail
around his paws. The meadow began sliding gently away behind them,
and as the first curious stars appeared, above the drifting river.
The sleepy fox discovered that sometimes the most peculiar voyages
begins simply because it seemed rude to refuse a talking boat.
The little boat drifted forward with the unhurried confidence of
something that had traveled this river many times before and
had no intention of rushing, simply because the world outside
tended to do so. Oliver settled deeper into the wooden
seat and watched the meadows slowly dissolve behind them into
a gentle haze of grass and fireflies. It did not
vanish suddenly, It faded, the way a memory fades when
one becomes pleasantly distracted by something new and slightly mysterious.
Ribbon of water widened as they moved, until it was
no longer a ribbon at all, but a narrow, quiet
river that seemed to flow not through the meadow, but
slightly beside it, as if the river preferred its own
version of geography. The lantern at the bow glowed softly,
painting warm circles of light on the water that drifted
away behind them like floating thoughts. Oliver yawned. Excuse me,
he said, politely to the lantern. The lantern flickered in
a forgiving sort of way. You'll find yawning is very
common on this river, said the boat, in its creaky voice.
Most travelers do it within the first ten minutes. Oliver
nodded sleepily. That sounds reassuring, he said. They floated onward
for a while in companionable quiet. The water made a
soft brushing sound against the sides of the boat, like
someone gently turning pages in a large, peaceful book. Oliver
watched the sky carefully. The stars above were beginning to
arrange themselves into neat, thoughtful patterns, as though rehearsing their
evening performance before the night fully arrived. Do they really practice,
Oliver asked quietly the stars, Oh, yes, said the boat.
They take their work quite seriously. One cannot simply appear
every night with a little preparation. Oliver felt that was
very responsible of them. Soon the river curved around a
bend where the air became pleasantly misty, and the lantern
light turned the fog into slow drifting Ribbons of gold
shapes appeared ahead. Small islands floated on the water, each
carrying a single object. One island held a rocking chair,
gently rocking all by itself. Another carried a teacup that
occasionally released a polite puff of steam. A third island
held a large sleeping cat who appeared to be dreaming
about something extremely important. Oliver leaned forward slightly. What are those,
he asked. Lantern islands, said the boat. They collect quiet
moments that wander away from busy places. Oliver watched the
rocking chair sway gently. That seems like a nice job,
he murmured. They drifted past, slowly so as not to
disturb the sleeping cat. The cat twitched one whisker in
its dream, and then settled again. The river widened once more,
the fog thinned, and ahead of them rose a cluster
of tall reeds that whispered softly to one another. As
the boat approached. From somewhere within the reeds came a low, thoughtful,
humming sound. Oliver listened carefully. It sounded like someone humming
while trying to remember where they had put something. As
the boat glided closer, a turtle appeared between the reeds.
He was wearing round spectacles and holding a tiny note book.
He looked up slowly, which turtles are particularly good at doing? Evening,
said the turtle, evening, said the boat, routine voyage. The
turtle made a careful note in his note book. Passenger,
he asked. The boat nodded slightly toward Oliver. Tired fox,
it said. Excellent, said the turtle. Tired passengers make the
calmest journeys. Oliver felt proud of this qualification. The turtle
adjusted his spectacles and studied Oliver for a moment. Remember,
he said, kindly, The river travels fastest when nobody notices.
Oliver thought that was very wise advice. The boat drifted
on through the reeds, leaving the turtle quietly writing in
his notebook again. For a while, the river became very
smooth and very quiet. The lantern dimmed slightly, as if
encouraging softer thoughts. Oliver felt his eyelids growing heavier. The
gentle movement of the boat made the world feel like
a cradle being rocked by an extremely patient giant. Just
as Oliver was about to drift into a small, comfortable doze,
the hat beside the suitcase suddenly cleared its throat. Oliver
looked down in surprise. Oh, he said, I forgot about you.
Most people do, said the hat cheerfully. I'm Harold. Oliver
nodded politely. Oliver, he replied, yes, I know, said Harold.
The boat mentioned it earlier. Oliver had not noticed the
boat mentioning it, but he decided not to argue. The
hat shifted slightly on the seat first voyage. Harold asked, yes,
said Oliver, I was planning to sleep in my moss
patch instead. A common beginning, said Harold wisely, But travelers
often discover that sleep is even better when the river
carries it along. Oliver found that idea extremely appealing. They
continued drifting quietly. Soon the sky deepened into a deeper blue,
the kind that only appears when night is fully considering
its arrival. The stars above grew brighter and steadier. Somewhere
far away, an owl called once, and then decided that
was quite enough talking for the evening. The river curved
again ahead. Oliver could see a stretch of water so
calm that the lantern light rested on it without moving.
The boat slowed slightly. This part is called the floating quiet,
it said softly. Most passengers fall asleep here. Oliver felt
his tail curl comfortably around his paws. The lantern glow
warmed the wooden seat, the water whispered softly beneath them.
He leaned back against the suitcase. This is very pleasant,
he murmured, exactly, said the boat. Oliver watched the sky
one last time. A few late stars drifted into their places,
like careful musicians joining an orchestra, just before the music begins.
The river carried them gently forward. The lantern dimmed to
a soft, sleepy glow, and somewhere between one slow ripple
and the next, the very sleepy fox closed his eyes
and drifted into the quietest nap of the entire peculiar voyage.
The boat continued sailing softly beneath the patient stars, carrying
its passenger deeper along the river of quiet journeys, where
many more peaceful curiosities waited. Further downstream the peculiar voyage
of the sleepy Fox. In a small meadow where the
grass leaned lazily in whichever direction the wind happened to
be thinking about, there lived a fox named Oliver, who was,
by all reliable accounts, extremely sleepy most of the time.
Oliver was not lazy exactly. He simply believed that the
world worked better when one approached it gently, with regular
pauses for tea, thoughtful staring at clouds, and the occasional
nap taken with professional dedication. His burrow sat beneath an
elderly willowed tree whose branches drooped so comfortably that birds
often forgot why they had started flying and settled down
for a while. It was the sort of place where
afternoons stretched politely and evenings arrived like a quiet guest
removing their shoes at the door. Oliver liked it very much.
Each morning, he would wake slowly, stretch each pore with
the seriousness of a philosopher considering a difficult question, and
wander outside to see whether anything interesting had happened overnight.
Usually it had not. Sometimes a mushroom appeared, once a
hedgehog attempted to invent a hat. On one memorable Tuesday,
a cloud looked very much like a kettle, which Oliver
felt was a promising sign for Tea. But mostly the
meadow remained peacefully, undecided about doing anything dramatic. This suited
Oliver perfectly. Unfortunately, the universe has a long and mischievous
history of disturbing creatures who are trying to be comfortable.
One evening, just as the sky had turned the color
of soft peaches, and the crickets were clearing their throats
for the night shift. Oliver was settling into his favorite
patch of moss to begin what he called his preliminary nap,
before the proper nap. He had just closed one eye,
then the other, then opened one eye again because something
unusual had floated passed his nose. It was a boat.
This might not sound terribly strange if one lives beside
a river, but Oliver did not live beside a river.
He lived in a meadow, and this boat was drifting
slowly through the tall grass, as if the meadow had
temporarily decided to become an ocean but had forgotten to
inform anyone. Oliver sat up. The boat was small, wooden,
slightly crooked, and carrying what appeared to be a suitcase,
a lantern, and a hat that looked deeply suspicious of
its surroundings. The boat drifted gently until it stopped beside
Oliver's moss patch, with the soft bump of someone politely
arriving somewhere they had never meant to visit. Oliver stared
at it for a while. The boat stared back in
the quiet, dignified way boats have. Finally, Oliver cleared his throat.
Good evening, he said, because politeness remains useful even when
addressing mysterious meadow boats. The lantern flickered, the hat twitched,
and the boat said, in a creaky voice that sounded
like old floorboards, remembering things. Ah good a fox, Oliver
blinked slowly. A boat that talks, He murmured. Yes, Yes,
said the boat. Nothing to worry about happens occasionally on Thursdays.
Oliver looked up at the sky to check whether it
was Thursday. The sky did not answer, It's Wednesday, Oliver said.
The boat sighed heavily, the way boats sigh when their
schedules have gone badly wrong. Well, that explains the navigation problem,
it said. Oliver leaned forward, slightly. Navigation problem, he repeated, Yes,
said the boat. I was meant to be sailing along
the river of quiet journeys, but I appeared to have
drifted into a meadow instead. Oliver considered this information with
the careful calm of someone who had once accidentally fallen
asleep in a wheelbarrow, and therefore tried not to judge
situations too quickly. That does sound inconvenient he said extremely,
said the boat, particularly because my passenger has not arrived yet.
Oliver looked into the boat. There was the suitcase, the lantern,
the suspicious hat, but no passenger. I don't see anyone,
Oliver said, that's the trouble, said the boat, you're the passenger.
Oliver paused. He checked behind him. There was still only meadow.
He checked the willow tree. It was still a tree.
Then he looked back at the boat. I think there
has been a mistake, Oliver said politely. I'm very busy
this evening. The boat tilted slightly, busy doing what it asked.
Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it again. I was
planning to sleep, he admitted, a noble activity, said the boat.
But this voyage is particularly suitable for sleepy individuals. Oliver
scratched behind one ear thoughtfully. What sort of voyage, he asked,
A quiet one, said the boat. The river of quiet
journeys flows through places where the world slows down, lantern islands,
drifting fog gardens, fields where the stars practice shining before
nighttime officially begins. Oliver's ears twitched slightly at that last part.
He had always wondered where stars practiced still a sensible
fox avoids unnecessary voyages when moss patches and naps are
readily available. I appreciate the invitation, Oliver said, carefully, but
I am quite comfortable here. The boat rocked gently. Yes,
it said, that is exactly why you must come. Oliver frowned.
That reasoning seems suspicious. Not suspicious, said the boat traditional.
The river of quiet journeys only appears for travelers who
were already good at resting. Otherwise everyone would rush around
on it and ruin the atmosphere. Oliver had to admit
that made a certain kind of sense. Before he could respond,
the lanterns suddenly glowed brighter. The air in the meadow changed.
The tall grass began to sway in long, slow waves,
as if remembering something ancient and watery. Then, with the
quiet sound of distant tide pulling at the edges of
the world, a narrow ribbon of shimmering water appeared between
the blades of grass. It curved gently through the meadow,
like a path made from moonlight and patient ideas. Oliver stared, well,
he said, softly, that is new. The boat looked pleased
with itself. There we are, it said, right on schedule.
After all. Oliver walked around the edge of the water ribbon.
The surface reflected the sky, even though the sky was
still above it, which Oliver felt was slightly unfair to gravity.
The lantern flickered again, the suitcase shifted politely, and the
hat gave Oliver what could only be described as a
very encouraging nod. Oliver sighed the long sigh of a
creature whose evening has clearly changed direction. If I come,
he said, slowly, will the voyage be very energetic? Absolutely not,
said the boat. In fact, we strongly discourage energetic behavior.
Oliver climbed into the boat. It felt surprisingly comfortable, like
sitting inside a well organized thought. The moment he settled down,
the lantern dimmed to a soft golden glow, The water
ribbon widened slightly, and the boat began drifting forward with
the quiet confidence of something that knew exactly where naps belonged.
Oliver curled his tail around his paws. The meadow began
sliding gently away behind them, and as the first curious
stars appeared above the drifting river, the sleepy fox discovered
that sometimes the most peculiar voyages begins simply because it
seemed rude to refuse a talking boat. The little boat
drifted forward with the unhurried confidence of something that had
traveled this river many times before and had no intention
of rushing, simply because the world outside tended to do so.
Oliver settled deeper into the wooden seat and watched the
meadows slowly dissolved behind them into a gentle haze of
grass and fireflies. It did not vanish suddenly, it faded,
the way a memory fades when one becomes pleasantly distracted
by something new and slightly mysterious. The ribbon of water
widened as they moved, until it was no longer a
ribbon at all, but a narrow, quiet river that seemed
to flow not through the meadow, but slightly beside it,
as if the river preferred its own version of geography.
The lantern at the bow glowed softly, painting warm circles
of light on the water that drifted away behind them
like floating thoughts. Oliver yawned. Excuse me, he said, politely,
to the lantern. The lantern flickered in a forgiving sort
of way. You'll find yawning is very common on this river,
said the boat, in its creaky voice. Most travelers do
it within the first ten minutes. Oliver nodded sleepily. That
sounds reassuring, he said. They floated onward for a while
in companionable quiet. The water made a soft brushing sound
against the sides of the boat, like someone gently turning
pages in a large, peaceful book. Oliver watched the sky carefully.
The stars above were beginning to arrange themselves into neat,
thoughtful patterns, as though rehearsing their evening performanths before the
night fully arrived. Do they really practice, Oliver asked quietly.
The stars, Oh, yes, said the boat. They take their
work quite seriously. One cannot simply appear every night without
a little preparation. Oliver felt that was very responsible of them.
Soon the river curved around a bend where the air
became pleasantly misty, and the lantern light turned the fog
into slow drifting ribbons of gold shapes appeared ahead. Small
islands floated on the water, each carrying a single object.
One island held a rocking chair, gently rocking or all
by itself. Another carried a teacup that occasionally released a
polite puff of steam. A third island held a large
sleeping cat who appeared to be dreaming about something extremely important.
Oliver leaned forward slightly. What are those, he asked. Lantern islands,
said the boat. They collect quiet moments that wander away
from busy places. Oliver watched the rocking chair sway gently.
That seems like a nice job, he murmured. They drifted past, slowly,
so as not to disturb the sleeping cat. The cat
twitched one whisker in its dream, and then settled again.
The river widened once more, the fog thinned, and ahead
of them rose a cluster of tall reeds that whispered
softly to one another. As the boat approached. From somewhere
within the reeds came a low, thoughtful humming sound. Oliver
listened carefully. It sounded like someone humming while trying to
remember where they had put something. As the boat glided closer,
a turtle appeared between the reeds. He was wearing round
spectacles and holding a tiny note book. He looked up slowly.
Which turtles are particularly good at doing. Evening, said the turtle.
Evening said the boat, routine voyage. The turtle made a
careful note in his notebook. Passenger, he asked, the boat
nodded slightly toward Oliver. Tired fox, it said. Excellent, said
the turtle. Tired passengers make the calmest journeys. Oliver felt
proud of this qualification. The turtle adjusted his spectacles and
studied Oliver for a moment. Remember, he said, kindly, the
river travels fastest when nobody notices. Oliver thought that was
very wise advice. The boat drifted on through the reeds,
leaving the turtle quiet, writing in his notebook again. For
a while, the river became very smooth and very quiet.
The lantern dimmed slightly, as if encouraging softer thoughts. Oliver
felt his eyelids growing heavier. The gentle movement of the
boat made the world feel like a cradle being rocked
by an extremely patient giant. Just as Oliver was about
to drift into a small, comfortable doze, the hat beside
the suitcase suddenly cleared its throat. Oliver looked down in surprise. Oh,
he said, I forgot about you. Most people do, said
the hat cheerfully. I'm Harold, Oliver nodded politely. Oliver. He replied, yes,
I know, said Harold. The boat mentioned it earlier. Oliver
had not noticed the boat mentioning it, but he decided
not to argue. The hat shifted slightly on the seat.
First voyage, Harold asked, yes, said Oliver, I was planning
to sleep in my moss patch instead. A common beginning,
said Harold wisely. But travelers often discover that sleep is
even better when the river carries it along. Oliver found
that idea extremely appealing. They continued drifting quietly. Soon the
sky deem into a deeper blue, the kind that only
appears when night is fully considering its arrival. The stars
above grew brighter and steadier. Somewhere far away, an owl
cooled once, and then decided that was quite enough talking
for the evening. The river curved again ahead. Oliver could
see a stretch of water so calm that the lantern
light rested on it without moving. The boat slowed slightly.
This part is called the floating quiet, it said softly.
Most passengers fall asleep here. Oliver felt his tail curl
comfortably around his paws. The lantern glow warm the wooden seat,
The water whispered softly beneath them. He leaned back against
the suitcase. This is very pleasant, he murmured, exactly said
the boat. Oliver watched the sky one last time. A
few late stars drifted into their places, like careful musicians
joining an orchestra just before the music begins. The river
carried them gently forward. The lantern dimmed to a soft,
sleepy glow, and somewhere between one slow ripple and the next,
the very sleepy fox closed his eyes and drifted into
the quietest nap of the entire peculiar voyage. The boat
continued sailing softly beneath the patient stars, carrying its passenger
deeper along the River of quiet Journeys, where many more
peaceful curiosities waited further downstream, includ