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Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,

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and my friends and I will be reading you a

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sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to

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help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From

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time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,

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peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.

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Once we have read the stories, we will then read

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them a second time, but this time they will be

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read read even slower. This will help you to relax

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even more. Before we begin, I would like you to

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close your eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply.

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Take a few seconds to inhale, and then hold your

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breath for a few seconds more, and then release and

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breathe out. Do this a few times if you need to.

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While you listen to the music and you listen to

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my voice, give yourself time to let your body relax

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and your mind settle. It's important that we allow time

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for us to feel safe, cozy, and completely at ease.

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And now it's time for this week's story.

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Speaker 2: The Quiet Catastrophe of Applewick Marsh, in a part of

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the countryside where the fog arrived early stayed politely late,

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and occasionally forgot why it had come at all. There

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lay a stretch of gentle wetland known as Applewick Marsh.

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It was not a dramatic marsh. There were no sudden whirlpools,

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no shouting winds, and certainly no monster's worth mentioning in

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respectable company. Instead, the marsh preferred to conduct its business slowly.

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Water drifted through tall reeds with the quiet patience of

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someone tidying a room one teacup at a time. Dragonflies

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hovered thoughtfully in the air, like tiny inspectors of sunlight,

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and every evening the frogs began their choir practice with

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a careful seriousness of musicians who believed their performance might

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be reviewed by the moon. Near the middle of this

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calm and slightly soggy landscape stood a narrow wooden house

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balanced on stilts above the shallow water. The house leaned

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very slightly to the left, not dangerously, just enough that

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visitors sometimes tilted their heads in sympathy. This house belonged

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to mister Percival Dockery. Mister Dockery was a man of

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advanced calmness and moderate mustache. He lived alone with a kettle,

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a collection of extremely patient boots and a note book

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in which he recorded the behavior of the marsh. Each morning,

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he would step onto his little porch with a cup

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of tea and write down important observations, such as duck

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looked suspicious to day, or fog behaving thoughtfully. Mister Dockery

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believed the marsh deserved careful study, not because it was dangerous,

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but because it was the sort of place where small,

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strange things happened so quietly that nobody noticed them until

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several days later. On the morning our story begins, mister

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Dockery woke at precisely seven o'clock and noticed something unusual. Immediately,

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the marsh was silent. This was concerning Applewick. Marsh was

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never completely silent, even on the sleepiest mornings. There were

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always frogs clearing their throats, reeds rustling gently, or distant

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birds arguing about extremely unimportant matters. But this morning there

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was nothing. No croaking, no splashing, gentle whisper of wind

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through the reeds. The entire marsh seemed to be holding

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its breath. Mister Dockery stood on the porch and listened carefully. Hmm,

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he said. Then he took a thoughtful sip of tea

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very peculiar, he added. Just then something drifted slowly past

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the house. It was a duck. Now, ducks drifting through

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marshes are normally quite ordinary. However, this duck appeared to

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be drifting backwards, not swimming backwards with purpose, simply gliding

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backwards across the water, as if the marsh itself had

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quietly reversed its opinion about direction. Mister lowered his teacup.

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Good morning, he said, politely. The duck continued drifting backwards

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without replying. Mister Dockery made a note in his notebook

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duck reversing unexpectedly. The duck disappeared into the reeds. For

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several long, quiet minutes, nothing else happened. Then the kettle

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inside the house whistled. Mister Dockery went inside to remove

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it from the stove. When he returned to the porch,

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he noticed another strange detail. The fog was rising downward.

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This is not normally how fog behaves. Fogg usually drifts

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upward sideways, or occasionally in a thoughtful circle. But to

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day it was lowering itself slowly from the sky toward

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the marsh, as if gravity had politely requested a small adjustment.

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Mister Dockery stared at it for a moment. Very unusual, indeed,

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he murmured. He opened his note book again, fog descending

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with unusual enthusiasm. As he finished writing, the front door

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of the leaning house creaked open slightly behind him. Mister

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Dockery turned. Standing in the doorway was Missus Lilian Crumb.

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Missus Crumb lived in a small boat house on the

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far side of the marsh and possessed the sharp observational

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skills of someone who had spent forty years watching water behave. Strangely,

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she held a lantern and looked mildly annoyed Dockery. She said, yes,

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said mister Dockery. Have you noticed anything unusual this morning?

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She asked. Mister Dockery nodded slowly. A few minor irregularities,

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he replied. Missus Crumb crossed her arms. The marsh has

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stopped flowing, she said. Mister Dockery blinked. That sounds inconvenient,

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he said, extremely, said, Missus Crumb. Water is currently drifting

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in several conflicting directions. Mister Dockery peered out across the marsh.

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Now that she mentioned it, the water did seem rather undecided.

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Some ripples moved north, others moved west. A few appeared

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to be considering the philosophical advantages of staying exactly where

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they were. Mister Dockery adjusted his spectacles. Yes, he said, calmly,

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that does appear to be happening. Missus Crumb lowered her lantern.

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And the frogs have resigned, she added, resigned, repeated mister Dockery.

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They stopped singing, she said, packed up their lily pads,

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and left twenty minutes ago. Mister Dockery frowned slightly. The

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frogs of Applewick Marsh had sung every evening for decades

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with remarkable dedication. If they had abandoned their choir duties,

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something truly unusual must be unfolding. He closed his notebook slowly. Well,

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he said, that sounds like the beginning of a catastrophe.

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Missus Crumb nodded, Yes, she agreed, a very quiet one.

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Just then, the reeds beside the house rustled softly. A

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tall heron stepped out on to a patch of shallow

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water and cleared its throat with dignified concern. Morning, said

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the heron, Morning, said mister Dockery. Marsh behaving strangely. Again,

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the heron observed, so it would seem, said mister Dockery.

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The heron glanced around the silent water. Water is confused,

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it said. Reeds are arguing with the wind, and something

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appears to have misplaced the current. Mister Dockery rubbed his

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chin thoughtfully. Misplacing an entire marsh current was certainly an

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ambitious mistake. He had read about such things happening once

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before in a very unreliable book about wandering rivers. Missus

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Crumb looked toward the distant center of the marsh. That's

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where it's wrong, she said, near the old Willow Island.

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Mister Dockery followed her gaze. Through the lowering fog. He

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could just see the dark outline of a large willow

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tree standing alone in the water. The branches hung low

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and still. The water around the island looked unusually calm,

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too calm, like a clock that had quietly forgotten how

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to tick. Mister Dockery straightened his coat well, he said,

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if the marsh has misplaced its current, we should probably

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go and look for it. Missus Crumb lifted her lantern.

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The heron folded its wings, thoughtfully, and somewhere deep within

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the silent fog of Applewick Marsh, the quiet catastrophe continued,

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unfolding so politely that most of the world had not

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yet noticed anything was wrong at all. Mister Dockery stood

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for a moment on the porch, considering the situation with

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the careful calm of a man who had once solved

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a problem involving three wandering ducks and an extremely stubborn teapot.

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Missus Crumb waited beside the steps with her lantern glowing

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softly in the pale fog. The heron watched the water

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with professional suspicion. Well, then, said mister Dockery, at last,

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we should investigate. Missus Crumb nodded. I've brought the boat,

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she said. Indeed she had tied to the side of

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the house was a narrow, flat bottomed boat that looked

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exactly like the sort of boat one would bring to

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examine a quietly misbehaving marsh. Mister Dockery stepped down carefully

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into it. The boat rocked once, then settled with the

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polite sigh of a vessel that had accepted its responsibilities

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for the day. Missus Crumb untied the rope. The heron

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glided silently into the air and began flying low beside them.

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They pushed away from the leaning house and drifted slowly

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into the still water. For several moments, nobody spoke. The

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fog hung low above the marsh, like a blanket that

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had forgotten how beds worked. The reeds stood strangely upright.

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Normally they whispered and swayed in the breeze, but to

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day they appeared to be waiting for instructions that had

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not yet arrived. Mister Dockery dipped an awe into the water.

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The ripples spread outward very slowly. Too slowly. Hm, he murmured, what,

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asked missus Crumb. The water is thinking, said mister Dockery.

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That's not normal, said missus Crumb. No, agreed, mister Dockery.

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Is less than has hone zero hash is greater than

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water usually prefers doing. They continued gliding across the marsh.

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Here and there small groups of frog sat on lily pads,

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looking deeply uncertain about their careers. One frog raised a

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hand politely as the boat passed. Morning, said the frog. Morning,

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said mister Dockery. Quiere rehearsal canceled, said the frog sadly,

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very wise, said missus Crumb. We're investigating a current related situation.

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The frog nodded gravely. Best of luck, it said. We

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tried croaking at the water, but it only looked confused.

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The boat drifted onward. Soon the fog grew thicker. The

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dark shape of Willow Island rose slowly from the mist

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ahead of them. The old willow tree stood in the

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center of the island, with its long branches trailing in

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the water like thoughtful fingers. But something about the scene

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was clearly wrong. The water around the island was perfectly still,

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not gently moving, not slowly drifting, simply stopped, as though

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the marsh had politely paused in the middle of a sentence.

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Missus Crumb guided the boat closer. Look, she whispered. Mister

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Dockery leaned forward. At the base of the willow tree.

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Tangled among the long hanging branches, something round and wooden

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bobbed quietly in the water. It was a large cork,

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not a small cork like one might find in a bottle.

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This cork was enormous, nearly the size of a barrel lid.

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The heron landed nearby, and stared at it. Well, there's

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your problem, said the heron. Mister Dockery blinked. The current

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has been corked, he said, said slowly. Missus Crumb folded

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her arms. That would explain several things, she replied. Mister

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Dockery studied the cork carefully. It was wedged tightly between

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the roots of the willow tree, where a narrow channel

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normally allowed the marsh water to flow through the island.

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With the cork blocking the passage, the entire marsh had

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gradually slowed until it simply stopped. Mister Dockery opened his notebook.

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Marsh currently corked, he wrote. Missus Crumb sighed. Any idea

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how that got there, she asked. Mister Dockery adjusted his spectacles.

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He examined the cork from several angles. Well, he said, thoughtfully,

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it appears to have drifted down from somewhere upstream. The

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heron tapped the cork gently with its beak. It did

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not move, stubborn, said the heron. Missus Crumb leaned over

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the side of the boat. We'll have to pull it out,

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she said. Mister Dockery nodded quietly, though he added, no

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need to startle the marsh. They climbed carefully on to

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the muddy island. The willow branches swayed gently above them,

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as if the tree had been waiting patiently for someone

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to notice the problem. Mister Dockery grasped one side of

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the cork. Missus Crumb took the other. The heron watched

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with the serious expression of someone supervising a complicated teapot repair. Ready,

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said Missus Crumb, Ready, said mister Dockery. They pulled, The

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cork did not move. They pulled again. The cork shifted

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slightly with a soft, wet sound. Progress, said mister Dockery.

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They pulled one more time. With a quiet PLoP, the

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enormous cork popped free from the channel. For a moment,

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nothing happened. Then the marsh remembered how to flow. Water

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rushed through the narrow channel beneath the willow roots. Ripples

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spread outward across the still water. The reeds began whispering again.

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The fog lifted slightly, as though relieved. In the distance.

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The frog suddenly burst into enthusiastic singing, as if they

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had been waiting impatiently backstage. Mister Dockery wiped his hands thoughtfully. Well,

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he said, that seems to have resolved itself nicely. Missus

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Crumb nodded. Very tidy, catastrophe, she agreed. The heron stretched

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its wings. Good work, it said. The marsh continued waking

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up around them them. Water drifted once more through the reeds.

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Dragonflies resumed their quiet inspections of sunlight. Even the backwards

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duck from earlier glided past again, this time facing the

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correct direction. Mister Dockery made one final note in his notebook.

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Catastrophe concluded politely, Missus Crumb pushed the boat back into

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the water. They climbed aboard and began drifting home through

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the now gently moving marsh. Behind them, Willow Islands stood

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quietly beneath the fog, its long branches trailing peacefully in

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the restored current, and across Applewick Marsh, the frog sang

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with renew dued confidence, celebrating the successful resolution of a

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catastrophe so quiet that the rest of the world would

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likely never know it had happened at all. The quiet

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catastrophe of Applewick Marsh in a part of the countryside

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where the fog arrived early, stayed politely late, and occasionally

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forgot why it had come at all. There lay a

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stretch of gentle wetland known as Applewick Marsh. It was

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not a dramatic marsh. There were no sudden whirlpools, no

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shouting winds, and certainly no monster's worth mentioning in respectable company. Instead,

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the marsh preferred to conduct its business slowly. Water drifted

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through tall reeds with the quiet patience of someone tidying

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a room one teacup at a time. Dragonflies hovered thoughtfully

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in the air, like tiny inspectors of sunlight, and every

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evening the frogs began their choir practice with a careful

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seriousness of musicians who believed their performance might be reviewed

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by the moon. Near the middle of this calm and

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slightly soggy landscape stood a narrow wooden house balanced on

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stilts above the shallow water. The house leaned very slightly

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to the left, not dangerously, just enough that visitors sometimes

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tilted their heads in sympathy. This house belonged to mister

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Percival Dockery. Mister Dockery was a man of advanced calmness

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and moderate mustache. He lived alone with a kettle, a

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collection of extremely patient boots, and a notebook in which

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he recorded the behavior of the marsh. Each morning, he

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would step onto his little porch with a cup of

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tea and write down important observations, such as duck looked

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suspicious today, or fog behaving thoughtfully. Mister Dockery believed the

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marsh deserved careful study, not because it was dangerous, but

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because it was the sort of place where small, strange

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things happened so quietly that nobody noticed them until several

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days later. On the morning our story begins, mister Dockery

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woke at precisely seven o'clock and noticed something unusual. Immediately,

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the marsh was silent. This was concerning Applewick. Marsh was

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never completely silent, even on the sleepiest mornings. There were

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always frogs clearing their throats, reeds rustling gently, or distant

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birds arguing about extremely unimportant matters. But this morning there

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was nothing. No croaking, no splashing, no gentle whisper of

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wind through the reeds. The entire marsh seemed to be

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holding its breath. Mister Dockery stood on the porch and

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listened carefully. Hmm, he said. Then he took a thoughtful

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sip of tea, very peculiar, he added. Just then something

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drifted slowly past the house. It was a duck. Now,

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ducks drifting through marshes are normally quite ordinary. However, this

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duck appeared to be drifting backwards, not swimming backwards with purpose,

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simply gliding backwards across the water, as if the marsh

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itself had quietly reversed its opinion about direction. Mister Dockery

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lowered his teacup. Good morning, he said politely. The duck

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continued drifting backwards without replying. Mister Dockery made a note

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in his notebook, duck reversing unexpectedly. The duck disappeared into

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the reeds. For several long, quiet minutes, nothing else happened.

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Then the kettle inside the house whistled. Mister Dockery went

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inside to remove it from the stove. When he returned

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to the porch, he noticed another strange detail. The fog

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was rising downward. This is not normally how fog behaves.

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Fog usually drifts upward sideways, or occasionally in a thoughtful circle,

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But today it was lowering itself slowly from the sky

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toward the marsh, as if gravity had politely requested a

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small adjustment. Mister Dockery stared at it for a moment.

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Very unusual, indeed, he murmured. He opened his notebook again,

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fog descending with unusual enthusiasm. As he finished writing, the

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front door of the leaning house creaked open slightly behind him.

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Mister Dockery turned. Standing in the doorway was Missus Lillian Crumb.

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Missus Crumb lived in a small boat house on the

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far side of the marsh and possessed the sharp observational

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skills of someone who had spent forty years watching water

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behave strain. She held a lantern and looked mildly annoyed Dockery.

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She said, yes, said mister Dockery. Have you noticed anything

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unusual this morning? She asked. Mister Dockery nodded slowly. A

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few minor irregularities, he replied. Missus Crumb crossed her arms.

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The marsh has stopped flowing, she said. Mister Dockery blinked.

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That sounds inconvenient, he said, extremely, said Missus Crumb. Water

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is currently drifting in several conflicting directions. Mister Dockery peered

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out across the marsh. Now that she mentioned it, the

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water did seem rather undecided. Some ripples moved north, others

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00:33:13,839 --> 00:33:19,799
moved west. A few appeared to be considering the philosophical

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advantages of staying exactly where they were. Mister Dockery adjusted

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00:33:26,720 --> 00:33:34,359
his spectacles. Yes, he said, calmly, that does appear to

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be happening. Missus Crumb lowered her lantern. And the frogs

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have resigned, she added, resigned, repeated mister Dockery. They stopped singing,

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she said, packed up their lily pads, and left twenty

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00:33:57,039 --> 00:34:05,720
minutes ago. Mister Rockery frowned slightly. The frogs of Applewick

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Marsh had sung every evening for decades with remarkable dedication.

303
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If they had abandoned their choir duties, something truly unusual

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00:34:19,360 --> 00:34:28,239
must be unfolding. He closed his notebook slowly. Well, he said,

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00:34:30,199 --> 00:34:38,519
that sounds like the beginning of a catastrophe. Missus Crumb nodded, Yes,

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she agreed, a very quiet one. Just then, the reeds

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00:34:45,960 --> 00:34:52,519
beside the house rustled softly. A tall heron stepped out

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onto a patch of shallow water and cleared its throat

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with dignified concern. Morning, said the heron, Morning, said mister Dockery.

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Marsh behaving strangely again, the heron observed, so it would seem,

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said mister Dockery. The heron glanced around the silent water.

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Water is confused, it said. Reeds are arguing with the wind,

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and something appears to have misplaced the current. Mister Dockery

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00:35:37,880 --> 00:35:44,880
rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Misplacing an entire marsh current was

315
00:35:44,960 --> 00:35:50,880
certainly an ambitious mistake. He had read about such things

316
00:35:50,960 --> 00:35:57,480
happening once before in a very unreliable book about wandering rivers.

317
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Missus Crumb looked toward the distant center of the marsh.

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That's where it's wrong, she said, near the old Willow Island.

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Mister Dockery followed her gaze. Through the lowering fog. He

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00:36:19,599 --> 00:36:22,920
could just see the dark outline of a large willow

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00:36:22,960 --> 00:36:29,320
tree standing alone in the water. The branches hung low

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and still. The water around the island looked unusually calm,

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too calm, like a clock that had quietly forgotten how

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to tick. Mister Dockery straightened his coat well, he said,

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if the marsh has misplaced its current, we should probably

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go and look for it. Missus Crumb lifted her lantern.

327
00:37:04,519 --> 00:37:10,360
The heron folded its wings thoughtfully, and somewhere deep within

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the silent fog of Applewick Marsh. The quiet catastrophe continued,

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unfolding so politely that most of the world had not

330
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yet noticed anything was wrong at all. Mister Dockery stood

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for a moment on the porch, considering the situation with

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the careful calm of a man who had once solved

333
00:37:35,199 --> 00:37:41,639
a problem involving three wandering ducks and an extremely stubborn teapot.

334
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Missus Crumb waited beside the steps with her lantern glowing

335
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softly in the pale fog. The heron watched the water

336
00:37:52,159 --> 00:37:59,760
with professional suspicion. Well, then, said mister Dockery, at last,

337
00:38:00,239 --> 00:38:07,880
we should investigate. Missus Crumb nodded. I've brought the boat,

338
00:38:08,239 --> 00:38:14,559
she said. Indeed she had tied to the side of

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the house was a narrow, flat bottomed boat that looked

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00:38:19,199 --> 00:38:22,679
exactly like the sort of boat one would bring to

341
00:38:22,800 --> 00:38:30,719
examine a quietly misbehaving marsh. Mister Dockery stepped down carefully

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00:38:30,840 --> 00:38:37,760
into it. The boat rocked once, then settled with the

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polite sigh of a vessel that had accepted its responsibilities

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for the day. Missus Crumb untied the rope, the heron

345
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glided silently into the air and began flying low beside them.

346
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They pushed away from the leaning house and drifted slowly

347
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into the still water. For several moments, nobody spoke. The

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fog hung low above the marsh, like a blanket that

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had forgotten how beds worked. The reeds stood strangely upright.

350
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Normally they whispered and swayed in the breeze, but today

351
00:39:27,039 --> 00:39:30,400
they appeared to be waiting for instructions that had not

352
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yet arrived. Mister Dockery dipped an awe into the water.

353
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The ripples spread outward very slowly. Too slowly. Hm, he murmured, what,

354
00:39:51,199 --> 00:39:56,920
asked missus Crumb. The water is thinking, said mister Dockery.

355
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That's not normal, said missus Crumb. No, agreed, mister Dockery.

356
00:40:06,280 --> 00:40:10,440
Is less than has hone zero hash is greater than

357
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water usually prefers doing. They continued gliding across the marsh.

358
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Here and there, small groups of frog sat on lily pads,

359
00:40:24,519 --> 00:40:30,599
looking deeply uncertain about their careers. One frog raised a

360
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hand politely as the boat passed. Morning, said the frog. Morning,

361
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said mister Dockery. Quir rehearsal canceled, said the frog. Sadly,

362
00:40:49,760 --> 00:40:57,559
very wise, said missus Crumb. We're investigating a current related situation.

363
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The frog not iod gravely. Best of luck, it said.

364
00:41:06,119 --> 00:41:09,760
We tried croaking at the water, but it only looked confused.

365
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The boat drifted onward. Soon the fog grew thicker. The

366
00:41:18,760 --> 00:41:23,039
dark shape of Willow Island rose slowly from the mist

367
00:41:23,079 --> 00:41:27,639
ahead of them. The old willow tree stood in the

368
00:41:27,679 --> 00:41:31,679
center of the island, with its long branches trailing in

369
00:41:31,719 --> 00:41:37,840
the water like thoughtful fingers. But something about the scene

370
00:41:38,400 --> 00:41:44,440
was clearly wrong. The water around the island was perfectly still,

371
00:41:46,000 --> 00:41:54,599
not gently moving, not slowly drifting, simply stopped, as though

372
00:41:54,639 --> 00:41:58,000
the marsh had politely paused in the middle of a sentence.

373
00:42:00,159 --> 00:42:07,960
Crumb guided the boat closer. Look, she whispered. Mister Dockery

374
00:42:08,159 --> 00:42:13,559
leaned forward. At the base of the willow tree. Tangled

375
00:42:13,599 --> 00:42:18,760
among the long hanging branches, something round and wooden bobbed

376
00:42:18,840 --> 00:42:25,559
quietly in the water. It was a large cork, not

377
00:42:25,679 --> 00:42:28,719
a small cork like one might find in a bottle.

378
00:42:30,360 --> 00:42:36,039
This cork was enormous, nearly the size of a barrel lid.

379
00:42:37,840 --> 00:42:43,400
The heron landed nearby and stared at it. Well, there's

380
00:42:43,440 --> 00:42:51,039
your problem, said the heron. Mister Dockery blinked. The current

381
00:42:51,159 --> 00:43:00,000
has been corked, he said slowly. Missus Crumb folded her arms.

382
00:43:00,039 --> 00:43:06,480
That would explain several things, she replied. Mister Dockery studied

383
00:43:06,559 --> 00:43:11,519
the cork carefully. It was wedged tightly between the roots

384
00:43:11,559 --> 00:43:15,199
of the willow tree, where a narrow channel normally allowed

385
00:43:15,199 --> 00:43:19,920
the marsh water to flow through the island. With the

386
00:43:19,960 --> 00:43:24,519
cork blocking the passage, the entire marsh had gradually slowed

387
00:43:24,840 --> 00:43:32,880
until it simply stopped. Mister Dockery opened his notebook. Marsh

388
00:43:33,079 --> 00:43:41,599
currently corked, he wrote. Missus Crumb sighed. Any idea how

389
00:43:41,639 --> 00:43:47,679
that got there? She asked. Mister Dockery adjusted his spectacles.

390
00:43:49,559 --> 00:43:56,480
He examined the cork from several angles. Well, he said, thoughtfully,

391
00:43:58,440 --> 00:44:03,719
it appears to have drifted down from somewhere upstream. The

392
00:44:03,800 --> 00:44:08,480
heron tapped the cork gently with its beak. It did

393
00:44:08,519 --> 00:44:16,079
not move, stubborn, said the heron. Missus Crumb leaned over

394
00:44:16,119 --> 00:44:20,960
the side of the boat. We'll have to pull it out,

395
00:44:21,440 --> 00:44:30,679
she said. Mister Dockery nodded quietly, though he added, no

396
00:44:30,880 --> 00:44:36,239
need to startle the marsh. They climbed carefully onto the

397
00:44:36,320 --> 00:44:42,840
muddy island. The willow branches swayed gently above them, as

398
00:44:42,840 --> 00:44:46,079
if the tree had been waiting patiently for someone to

399
00:44:46,239 --> 00:44:52,599
notice the problem. Mister Dockery grasped one side of the cork.

400
00:44:54,679 --> 00:44:59,519
Missus Crumb took the other. The heron watched with the

401
00:44:59,599 --> 00:45:07,599
seri expression of someone supervising a complicated teapot repair. Ready,

402
00:45:08,360 --> 00:45:18,159
said Missus Crumb, Ready, said mister Dockery. They pulled, The

403
00:45:18,159 --> 00:45:25,559
cork did not move. They pulled again. The cork shifted slightly,

404
00:45:25,840 --> 00:45:33,800
with a soft, wet sound. Progress, said mister Dockery. They

405
00:45:33,840 --> 00:45:39,599
pulled one more time. With a quiet PLoP, the enormous

406
00:45:39,599 --> 00:45:45,400
cork popped free from the channel. For a moment, nothing happened.

407
00:45:47,119 --> 00:45:53,400
Then the marsh remembered how to flow. Water rushed gently

408
00:45:53,519 --> 00:45:59,480
through the narrow channel beneath the willow roots. Ripples spread

409
00:45:59,519 --> 00:46:05,800
outward across the still water. The reeds began whispering again.

410
00:46:07,760 --> 00:46:13,559
The fog lifted slightly, as though relieved. In the distance.

411
00:46:13,679 --> 00:46:18,039
The frog suddenly burst into enthusiastic singing, as if they

412
00:46:18,039 --> 00:46:27,480
had been waiting impatiently backstage. Mister Dockery wiped his hands thoughtfully. Well,

413
00:46:27,960 --> 00:46:35,320
he said, that seems to have resolved itself nicely. Missus

414
00:46:35,320 --> 00:46:44,039
Crumb nodded, very tidy, catastrophe, she agreed. The heron stretched

415
00:46:44,079 --> 00:46:52,320
its wings. Good work, it said. The marsh continued waking

416
00:46:52,400 --> 00:46:57,639
up around them. Water drifted once more through the reeds.

417
00:46:59,519 --> 00:47:06,440
Dragonflies resumed their quiet inspections of sunlight. Even the backwards

418
00:47:06,519 --> 00:47:13,119
duck from earlier glided past again, this time facing the

419
00:47:13,199 --> 00:47:20,079
correct direction. Mister Dockery made one final note in his notebook.

420
00:47:22,039 --> 00:47:29,239
Catastrophe concluded politely, Missus Crumb pushed the boat back into

421
00:47:29,280 --> 00:47:35,039
the water. They climbed aboard and began drifting home through

422
00:47:35,079 --> 00:47:41,079
the now gently moving marsh. Behind them, Willow Island stood

423
00:47:41,159 --> 00:47:46,199
quietly beneath the fog, its long branches trailing peacefully in

424
00:47:46,280 --> 00:47:52,440
the restored current, and across Applewick Marsh, the frog sang

425
00:47:52,519 --> 00:47:58,559
with renewed confidence, celebrating the successful resolution of a catastrophe

426
00:47:58,679 --> 00:48:02,360
so quiet that the rest of the world would likely

427
00:48:02,519 --> 00:48:36,440
never know it had happened at all. The quiet catastrophe

428
00:48:36,559 --> 00:48:42,079
of Applewick Marsh. In a part of the countryside where

429
00:48:42,119 --> 00:48:47,440
the fog arrived early, stayed politely late, and occasionally forgot

430
00:48:47,559 --> 00:48:50,920
why it had come at all. There lay a stretch

431
00:48:51,039 --> 00:48:57,239
of gentle wetland known as Applewick Marsh. It was not

432
00:48:57,360 --> 00:49:04,079
a dramatic marsh. There were no sudden whirlpools, no shouting winds,

433
00:49:04,920 --> 00:49:11,639
and certainly no monster's worth mentioning in respectable company. Instead,

434
00:49:12,000 --> 00:49:18,159
the marsh preferred to conduct its business slowly. Water drifted

435
00:49:18,199 --> 00:49:22,400
through tall reeds with the quiet patience of some one

436
00:49:22,559 --> 00:49:28,519
tidying a room one teacup at a time. Dragon Flies

437
00:49:28,840 --> 00:49:33,519
hovered thoughtfully in the air like tiny inspects of sunlight,

438
00:49:35,639 --> 00:49:39,599
and every evening the frogs began their choir practice with

439
00:49:39,679 --> 00:49:44,400
a careful seriousness of musicians who believed their performance might

440
00:49:44,440 --> 00:49:48,719
be reviewed by the moon. Near the middle of this

441
00:49:48,960 --> 00:49:53,960
calm and slightly soggy landscape stood a narrow wooden house

442
00:49:54,760 --> 00:50:01,119
balanced on stilts above the shallow water. The house leaned

443
00:50:01,360 --> 00:50:08,760
very slightly to the left, not dangerously, just enough that

444
00:50:08,880 --> 00:50:14,880
visitors sometimes tilted their heads in sympathy. This house belonged

445
00:50:14,960 --> 00:50:20,079
to mister Percival Dockery. Mister Dockery was a man of

446
00:50:20,119 --> 00:50:26,400
advanced calmness and moderate mustache. He lived alone with a kettle,

447
00:50:27,280 --> 00:50:32,599
a collection of extremely patient boots, and a notebook in

448
00:50:32,679 --> 00:50:38,280
which he recorded the behavior of the marsh. Each morning

449
00:50:38,440 --> 00:50:41,039
he would step onto his little porch with a cup

450
00:50:41,079 --> 00:50:47,320
of tea and write down important observations, such as duck

451
00:50:47,400 --> 00:50:56,000
looked suspicious today, or fog behaving thoughtfully. Mister Dockery believed

452
00:50:56,079 --> 00:51:02,760
the marsh deserved careful study, not because it was dangerous,

453
00:51:04,800 --> 00:51:07,239
but because it was the sort of place where small,

454
00:51:07,440 --> 00:51:12,880
strange things happened so quietly that nobody noticed them until

455
00:51:12,920 --> 00:51:19,159
several days later. On the morning our story begins, mister

456
00:51:19,280 --> 00:51:26,079
Dockery woke at precisely seven o'clock and noticed something unusual. Immediately,

457
00:51:27,679 --> 00:51:35,559
the marsh was silent. This was concerning Applewick. Marsh was

458
00:51:35,719 --> 00:51:41,880
never completely silent, even on the sleepiest mornings. There were

459
00:51:41,920 --> 00:51:48,239
always frogs clearing their throats, reeds rustling gently, or distant

460
00:51:48,320 --> 00:51:55,920
birds arguing about extremely unimportant matters. But this morning there

461
00:51:56,000 --> 00:52:05,000
was nothing. No croaking, no splashing, no gentle whisper of

462
00:52:05,079 --> 00:52:09,920
wind through the reeds. The entire marsh seemed to be

463
00:52:10,039 --> 00:52:15,320
holding its breath. Mister Dockery stood on the porch and

464
00:52:15,440 --> 00:52:22,599
listened carefully, hum he said, Then he took a thoughtful

465
00:52:22,719 --> 00:52:30,639
sip of tea. Very peculiar, he added. Just then something

466
00:52:30,719 --> 00:52:37,320
drifted slowly past the house. It was a duck. Now,

467
00:52:37,519 --> 00:52:43,760
ducks drifting through marshes are normally quite ordinary. However, this

468
00:52:43,960 --> 00:52:50,920
duck appeared to be drifting backwards, not swimming backwards with purpose,

469
00:52:52,679 --> 00:52:57,039
simply gliding backwards across the water, as if the marsh

470
00:52:57,039 --> 00:53:03,800
itself had quietly reversed its opinion about direction. Mister Dockery

471
00:53:03,920 --> 00:53:11,239
lowered his teacup. Good morning, he said politely. The duck

472
00:53:11,599 --> 00:53:18,719
continued drifting backwards without replying. Mister Dockery made a note

473
00:53:18,760 --> 00:53:26,880
in his notebook duck reversing. Unexpectedly, the duck disappeared into

474
00:53:26,960 --> 00:53:28,239
the reeds.