The Worry That Followed Moss Home

Moss hurried home from the meadow, with grass seeds in his fur and a small grey cloud behind him. He turned left. The cloud turned left. He ducked under a root. It ducked too, though it had no head to duck. The worry came too.

At supper, the cloud sat on Moss’s plate. He pushed his beans from one side to the other. “You’re giving those beans quite a tour,” said Mum. “They enjoy travel,” Moss muttered. He did not mention the cloud. It grew until it covered the spoon. The worry came too.

After supper, Moss squeezed into his favourite tunnel. The cloud slid after him and filled it from whisker to tail. “Everything all right in there?” Mum called. “Yes,” said Moss. “I’m checking whether the tunnel is still tunnel-shaped.” It was. The cloud grew anyway. The worry came too.

Moss went to his digging patch and scraped at the soft earth. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. The cloud pressed between his paws and the soil. Each scoop tumbled straight back into the hole. His ears flattened. His claws curled tight. The worry came too.

Mum sat nearby. She did not pull the cloud or pat it or poke it with a broom. “That looks crowded,” she said. Moss stared at his muddy toes. Mum waited. At last she asked, “Could you tell me the first bit?”

Moss opened his mouth. Nothing came. He tried again. “Tomorrow,” he squeaked. The word was so small it almost hid under his tongue, but it got out. The words came too. The cloud lifted off his paws.

“Tomorrow has the swimming lesson,” Moss said. “Moles are excellent underground. Water is underground only when it has made a mistake.” His voice wobbled, then steadied. The cloud shrank until the tunnel showed around its edges.

“And Fennel the newt is teaching it,” Moss went on. “Newts have swimming-shaped tails. I have a digging-shaped bottom.” Mum’s mouth twitched. Moss took one long breath. “I’m scared I won’t know what to do.” The cloud folded smaller and smaller.

Soon Moss could hold it in one paw. He turned it over. It was still grey. It was still there. “The lesson is still tomorrow,” he said. “Yes,” said Mum. Moss nodded slowly. Tomorrow could wait until morning.

At bedtime, Moss chose the smallest teacup. He tucked the grey puff inside and placed it on the shelf. “It can stay there,” he whispered. Mum pulled the blanket to his chin. The burrow grew still.

Moss’s paws went loose. His ears softened. On the shelf, one small grey puff rested in a teacup.

The End