Mo Rows the Moon Across

Mo lived beside a wide, slow river. There was a wooden landing on each side, and a great deal of water in between.

Mo had a very important job. Every night the moon’s reflection lay in the river by her landing, round and shining. And every night Mo carried it over to the far side.

Somebody had to. Reflections are no good at swimming.

The moon in the sky went slowly over to the far side. Its reflection had to get there first.

Mo had three things for the job. She had a rowing boat with a red rope and two oars. She had an old tin bath with a dent in the side shaped like a thumb. And she had a tin cup.

Tonight the moon came up big and white. Mo slid the tin bath into the river, slowly, slowly, right underneath the moon’s reflection. Then she lifted it out.

There was the moon, in the bath. Round and shining and whole.

The water had to come exactly up to the dent. Too full, and the moon slopped over the side. Too empty, and the moon slid about and got the hiccups.

Mo tipped out one drop. Exactly to the dent.

“Good,” said Mo.

“HONK!” said somebody overhead.

That was Big Goose. Big Goose was large and loud and friendly, and always landed in the wrong place. On Monday Big Goose had landed in a basket of clean washing. On Tuesday, in the middle of a pie. On Wednesday, very nearly on Mo’s head.

“Hello, Big Goose,” said Mo. “Please don’t land in my moon.”

“HONK,” said Big Goose, and flew round in a big wobbly circle.

Mo set the bath in the boat and began to row.

“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,” sang Mo. Dip, dip, dip went the oars. “Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”

Then she started again at Monday. There are only seven days in a week, and the river was much wider than that.

Mo had never been late. Not once.

“Monday, Tuesday, Wedn—” sang Mo.

SPLOSH!

Big Goose came down for a rest. Right in the tin bath.

Water sloshed over the dent and into Mo’s boots. And the moon broke into a hundred wobbly silver pieces, jiggling all round Big Goose’s feet.

“HONK,” said Big Goose, very pleased with this nice little pond.

“Oh, Big Goose,” said Mo.

Mo patted the pieces, to push them back together. Pat, pat, pat. But every pat made more pieces.

So Mo got her tin cup and bailed, to scoop the wobbles out. Slosh, slosh, slosh. But every slosh made more pieces.

Big Goose wanted to help. Big Goose flapped two big wings. SPLASH!

Now Mo had too many pieces to count. Not even if she sang the days of the week all the way to next Thursday.

Mo put down her cup. She looked at the river.

All round the boat, the river was flat and quiet. The stars lay in it, little and bright, and not one of them was broken. The river did not pat. The river did not slosh. The river just kept still.

“Big Goose,” said Mo, very quietly. “We have to be still.”

So they sat, quiet as two stones. Mo did not move her hands. Big Goose did not move one feather.

“Still water, round moon,” said Mo, as softly as she could.

“Hnk,” said Big Goose. It was the smallest honk ever honked.

The silver pieces slowed down and stopped jiggling. Two pieces slid together and made one. Then ten. Then fifty.

“Still water, round moon,” said Mo again.

And there, under Big Goose, was the moon. Round and shining and whole.

Big Goose climbed out very, very carefully. Mo dipped her cup in the river and poured, slow as slow, exactly to the dent. The moon did not even wobble.

Then Big Goose laid one warm feather in Mo’s lap. That was how Big Goose said sorry.

“That’s all right,” said Mo. She put the feather in her pocket.

Mo did not want the moon to wobble ever again. So she held the bath steady with both hands, and Big Goose slid into the river and pushed the boat. Paddle, paddle went the big orange feet, and the boat slid along as smooth as butter on toast.

At the far landing, Mo tipped the moon gently into the river.

It lay there, right where it should be. Up in the sky, the moon was just coming over the far side. It looked down, and there was its reflection, waiting.

“Whole,” said Mo. “And round. And not one bit late.”

“HONK,” said Big Goose, as proud as Mo.

* * *

Mo rowed home with an empty bath. Big Goose flew up, and for once, landed in exactly the right place: the front of the boat. Big Goose tucked a head under a wing and fell asleep. Mo rowed very softly.

“Monday,” sang Mo. Then, a long while later, “Tuesday.”

At her own landing, Mo tied the red rope to the post. She laid her scarf over Big Goose’s back. She turned the tin bath upside down, so nobody could land in it.

Mo went up to bed. She put the warm feather on her pillow and climbed under the covers. From her window she could see the moon on the far side of the river, round and still.

“Still water, round moon,” said Mo, into her pillow.

“Wednesday,” she sang, very slowly. “Thursday. Fri…”

She never got to Sunday. The water was still, the moon was round, and Mo was still too, fast asleep.