Why the Swans Fly Low Over the Mill
Once there was a girl named Mara, and she lived with her grandpa at the old mill by the slow river.
The mill wheel went round all day and all night. Clack-splash, clack-splash. Every morning Grandpa sang to it. “Round goes the wheel, slow goes the river, warm is the mill, and all is well.”
But one night every year was swan night. The moon was full, and the white swans flew across it in one long line. Grandpa stopped the wheel so the night would be quiet, and the swans could hear themselves fly.
Mara had never seen them. Every swan night she meant to stay up, and every swan night she fell asleep before the moon was high.
So this year, Mara practised.
On Monday she stayed awake until the kettle went cold. On Tuesday she stayed awake until the candle was half gone. On Wednesday she held her eyes open with her fingers, and fell asleep like that, sitting up.
“That doesn’t count,” said Grandpa, and he carried her to bed.
By swan night, she was very good at staying awake.
That afternoon Mara spread her big blue shawl on the mill roof. She put her supper bread in her pocket, in case staying awake made her hungry.
When the sun went down, Grandpa pulled the big lever. The wheel went clack, and then splash, slower and slower, and stopped. The night was so quiet that Mara could hear a fish turn over in the pond.
Grandpa climbed up and sat beside Mara with the lantern. The moon came up, as round as the mill wheel and twice as bright. The sky was silver and empty.
Then, from down below, came a splash. Ploosh.
On the millpond, in a ring of ripples, sat a young swan. It was white all over, except for one grey baby feather still on its back, like a sock nobody took off. It was so tired it could not even fold its wings up neatly.
“A little one,” said Grandpa. “First long flight, I should think.”
Mara looked up. The swans would come soon. If she went down to the pond, the tall mill would hide the moon. She would not see the swans at all.
Then she looked down at the little swan, very small on the wide pond.
“I’m going down,” said Mara.
She bunched up her shawl and climbed down the ladder. Grandpa came after her, one slow rung at a time.
Mara knelt on the bank. “Hello, Little Grey,” she said, because of the grey feather.
Little Grey bobbed. Little Grey puffed. Little Grey was much too tired to say anything back, even in swan.
First, Mara spread her shawl at the edge of the water. Little Grey paddled over, very slowly, climbed up, and sat down in the middle of it like a loaf in a basket.
Mara looked up. The sky was still empty.
“Not yet, swans,” said Mara.
Then Mara took out her supper bread. She broke it into crumbs, small and smaller and smallest, and put them on the shawl. Little Grey ate every one. Then Little Grey looked at Mara’s pocket, in case there was more. There wasn’t.
Mara looked up. Far away, at the edge of the sky, was a thin white line.
“Not yet, swans,” said Mara. “Wait for us.”
Last of all, Mara sang Grandpa’s mill song, very quietly, the way he sang it to the wheel. “Round goes the wheel, slow goes the river, warm is the mill, and all is well.”
She sang it once, and Little Grey stopped puffing. She sang it twice, and Little Grey lifted its head. She sang it three times, and Little Grey folded its wings up neat and tight, and stood up tall on the shawl.
Then there was a sound. Hush, hush, hush. It was wings, lots and lots of wings. The swans were going by, high on the other side of the mill.
“Not yet, swans,” said Mara, in a very small voice. But they were much too high to hear.
Up in the sky, the first swan in the line was counting. Swans always count on swan night, to be sure everyone is there. There should have been forty-one. There were only forty.
So the first swan turned round, and the next, and the next, until the whole long line had turned in the moonlight.
Down they came, over the roof, over the still wheel, low over the millpond. They came so low that Mara felt the wind of their wings on her cheeks. They came so low that their feet nearly touched the water.
“Now,” said Mara, and it came out as a whisper.
Little Grey hopped off the shawl into the pond. It spread its wings and ran across the water, faster and faster, and then it was flying. The end of the line opened up to let it in. Up went the swans, across the big round moon, forty-one of them in one long white line. And the last one in the line was Little Grey, white all over now.
Its grey baby feather had come off at last. It lay in the middle of Mara’s shawl.
Grandpa came and stood beside her with the lantern. His mouth was open.
“Sixty swan nights I’ve watched from that roof,” said Grandpa. “And they never once came down to see me.”
“I saw them,” said Mara. “Grandpa, I really saw them.” Then she yawned a yawn so big that Grandpa laughed.
She had stayed awake for the swans. Now she could stop.
Grandpa carried Mara up to bed, shawl and feather and all. He tucked her in, and she put the feather under her pillow.
Then Grandpa went down and pulled the big lever, and the wheel began to turn again, slow and soft. Clack-splash. Clack-splash. Grandpa sang to it, very quietly. Mara heard “Round goes the wheel.” She heard “slow goes the river.” She did not hear the rest, because she was fast asleep.
And that is why, every swan night since, the miller’s family leaves a shawl on the bank, in case a little one gets tired. The wheel stands still, and the night is quiet. And the swans fly low over the mill, low enough to stir the shawl with their wings, before they go on across the moon, every one of them together.