Leave the Window Open for the Wind
At the very top of a windy hill stood a tall thin house. The washing on its line was always dry by lunchtime. Wren lived there with her mom.
Wren drew pictures of everything. She drew the hill. She drew the washing. She drew Mom asleep in the big chair with her mouth open, and Mom said that one could not go on the wall.
But Wren’s drawings would not stay on her table. A puff of wind came in at the window, and flap, off they flew. Wren chased them under the bed, round the rug and into her slippers.
That was because of the rule. The tall thin house had only one rule. The window was always left open a spoon-handle’s width, every night, even in winter.
Every night Mom measured the gap with the handle of the wooden spoon. Too wide, and she pushed the window in a little. Too narrow, and she pulled it out. When the spoon fit just right, she nodded.
The gap was for the Little Wind.
All day the Little Wind was out on the hill, drying the washing and pushing the clouds along. At bedtime it came home tired. It slipped in through the gap and went to sleep in Wren’s curtain. On the windowsill stood a paper pinwheel, and when the Little Wind came in, the pinwheel went round. Whirr.
“If the pinwheel turns, the Little Wind is home,” Mom said, every night.
And every morning the crumbs on the kitchen floor were blown into one small heap beside the broom.
Wren liked the Little Wind. But she did not like cold toes. And she did not like chasing drawings.
So she found four pebbles in the garden. She put one on each corner of her drawing of the hill. It stayed put. Wren was so pleased that she drew a picture of the four pebbles. Then a puff came in, and the picture of the pebbles flew off the table, and she could not find it anywhere.
“Mom,” said Wren at breakfast. “Can we shut the window? Just this once?”
“The rule is the rule,” said Mom, stirring the porridge with the wooden spoon.
“Mom,” said Wren at lunch. “Just for one little night?”
“The rule is the rule,” said Mom, bringing in the washing, which was already dry.
“Mom,” said Wren at bedtime. “My toes are so cold they are nearly blue.”
Mom looked at Wren’s toes. They were pink.
“The rule is the rule,” said Mom. She measured the gap with the spoon handle, kissed Wren goodnight and went downstairs.
Wren lay in bed. The pinwheel was still. The Little Wind was not home yet. A cold puff found her toes.
“It’s a wind,” Wren said to herself. “Winds like being outside. It can sleep on the hill, just this once.”
She got out of bed and pushed the window shut, tight.
Wren’s toes began to warm up. “There,” she said.
Then, down in the hall, the letterbox gave a polite little rattle. Rattle-rattle. It stopped and waited, the way a friend waits after knocking. Rattle-rattle, it went again, very politely.
Wren looked at the pinwheel. It stood quite still.
“Oh,” said Wren. “That’s the Little Wind. It’s knocking.”
Next the doormat flapped, as if the Little Wind was wiping its feet. Then little puffs pushed under Wren’s bedroom door, like a dog asking to be let in. Only little puffs could squeeze through. The rest of the Little Wind was still outside.
Wren thought about the Little Wind drying all that washing and pushing all those clouds. Wren thought about how tired she felt at the end of a long day. She thought about how good her own bed felt.
“It wants its bed,” said Wren.
She jumped up and opened the window. In came the Little Wind, all of it at once. It lifted Wren’s hair and put it down again. Her drawings flew up, flap, and landed higgledy-piggledy over the floor. The pinwheel went round. Whirr.
“If the pinwheel turns, the Little Wind is home,” said Wren.
Mom came to the door with the wooden spoon. “I heard the letterbox,” she said. “It sounded like somebody I know.”
“I shut the window,” said Wren. “My toes were cold. But the window is the Little Wind’s front door.”
“Yes,” said Mom. “It is.”
She slid the spoon handle into the gap and nodded. Then she went down to the kitchen and came back with a warm water bottle in a stripy cover. She tucked it in by Wren’s toes.
“Cold toes I can fix,” said Mom.
Wren looked at the drawings all over the floor. “My pictures,” she said.
“Leave them till morning,” said Mom.
The curtain went up, slowly, and down, slowly. The Little Wind was asleep. Wren’s toes were warm. Soon Wren was asleep too.
In the morning, the drawings were not on the floor. They were on the table, in one neat pile, with all their corners lined up. On the very top was the picture of the four pebbles.
“You found it,” said Wren to the curtain.
But the curtain hung still. The Little Wind had already gone out to dry the washing.
That night, Wren did not wait for Mom. She fetched the wooden spoon herself. She slid the handle into the gap. Too wide. She pushed the window in a little. Just right.
Mom came up with the warm water bottle and tucked it by Wren’s toes.
The pinwheel turned. Whirr.
“If the pinwheel turns, the Little Wind is home,” said Wren, very softly.
“It is,” said Mom, and she turned down the lamp.
The curtain went up, slowly, and down, slowly. Wren yawned, slowly, and closed her eyes, slowly. Everyone in the tall thin house was home in bed. Mom was in hers. Wren was in hers. And the Little Wind was in the curtain by the window, fast asleep.