Fen and the Runaway Storybook

High on the mountain, a warm flat rock sat in the morning sun like a loaf of golden bread. On it lay Fen, the smallest dragon in her family, her plum-purple scales glowing and her copper belly pressed against the toasty stone.

Beside her lay her favourite book, a fat little storybook with a blue cover and a ribbon bookmark. Fen could not read it herself yet, but she knew every picture by heart, and she loved the dragon on the last page best of all.

She sighed happily. The rock hummed with warmth, the air smelled of pine needles and honeyed thyme, and somewhere far below a stream was giggling over its pebbles. It was a perfect, sleepy sort of morning.

Then the wind arrived. It came tumbling over the ridge, cold and cheeky, ruffling Fen's scales the wrong way and making the thyme dance.

Flip, flap, flutter! The storybook's pages fanned open like a startled bird. Before Fen could even gasp, a gust scooped the book right off the rock and carried it into the sky.

'My book!' cried Fen. She was so surprised that she hiccupped, and a perfect little smoke ring floated up from her nose, wobbling after the book as if it wanted to help.

Fen leapt off the rock and spread her wings. They were far too big for her, wide as two umbrellas, and the wind caught them at once and spun her like a leaf.

Up she went. Down she went. Sideways she went, straight toward a prickly bush! She squeezed her eyes shut and tumbled right through it, coming out the other side with twigs in her wings and a very surprised face.

'Steering is hard,' she muttered. But far below, the blue book was still bobbing along on the breeze, and Fen was not ready to give up on it.

Fen shook off the twigs and tried again. This time she did not fight the wind. She tipped one wing, just a little, and the breeze curled around her like a friendly hand.

She turned! Only a small turn, only one gust's worth, but it was her own turn. A bubble of joy rose in her chest, and out popped three hiccupping smoke rings, one after another.

'One gust at a time,' she whispered to herself, and she swooped after the book, past silver birch trees whose leaves rustled like soft applause.

The book dropped lower and lower, until it landed with a soft flop in a meadow of tall nodding grasses. Fen glided down beside it, her wings making a swishy whisper, and landed on four wobbly feet.

A round brown marmot sat up from the clover, blinking. He wore a tiny green knitted scarf and was holding the blue book carefully in both paws, as if it were a sleeping kitten.

'Is this yours?' he asked. 'I'm Jasper. It fell right out of the sky!'

'It's mine,' said Fen, and she hiccupped a happy smoke ring. 'Thank you for catching it.'

Jasper looked at the cover and his whiskers twitched. 'Would you like me to read it to you?' he asked. 'I'm very good at voices.'

Fen's eyes shone like polished copper. She curled up on a sun-warmed flat stone at the meadow's edge, and Jasper opened the book. He rumbled like a bear, squeaked like a mouse and sang like the wind itself.

Fen listened to every word, breathing in the smell of warm grass and old paper. When he reached the dragon on the last page, she sighed so softly that her smoke ring was no bigger than a button.

The sun slid lower, painting the sky in rose and apricot. 'I should fly home before dark,' said Fen, tucking the book under one wing. 'But the way back is all uphill, and the wind is blowing the wrong way.'

Jasper tilted his head. 'Then use the wrong way,' he said kindly. 'A sailboat doesn't need the wind behind it. It just needs to lean.'

Fen thought about that. Perhaps her too-big wings were not too big at all. Perhaps they were simply sails, waiting for her to learn how to lean.

Fen waved goodbye to Jasper, took three running steps and leapt. The wind pushed against her, strong and cool, but this time she leaned. Left wing down, right wing up, a gentle slant.

And the mountain breeze, which had been so cheeky all day, lifted her up and up as if she were sitting on a soft invisible slide. She zigzagged past the birch trees, over the giggling stream, and above the pines, hiccupping smoke rings of pure joy that drifted behind her like a trail of little silver hoops.

For the first time, her wings did not feel too big. They felt just right for the sky.

Fen landed on her warm rock just as the first star blinked awake. The stone still held the last of the day's sunshine, and it felt like a hug rising up through her copper belly.

She laid the blue book gently beside her and settled in. Down in the valley, a single marmot's whistle floated up on the breeze, as if to say goodnight.

Fen yawned a huge yawn, and out drifted one last, slow, dreamy smoke ring. She watched it rise toward the stars, smiled, and fell fast asleep, ready to steer again tomorrow, one gust at a time.