The Starry Boat

Once there was a little girl called Olesya. Evening had come, the moon was glowing outside the window, and Olesya sat up in her little bed, shaking her head.

"I don’t want to sleep! Not even a tiny bit."

Mama sat down beside her. Her hands smelled of apple: she had just been slicing one for supper. Mama laid a warm hand on the edge of the bed, and the bed swayed, just a little.

"If you don’t want to, you don’t have to," Mama whispered. "Look out of the window instead."

And there, behind the glass, the moon was rocking. Thin and curved, just like a little boat. It drifted right up to the window and stopped.

"Climb in, Olesya," the boat chimed softly. "I’ll take you for a sail."

Olesya climbed into the boat. It was soft and warm, and for some reason it smelled of apple.

Softly, softly sails the little boat. Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, lullaby.

They sailed over the rooftops, over the garden, over the river. Then they saw clouds. White and fluffy, like little pillows. They were pulling blankets of mist over themselves.

"What are you doing?" asked Olesya.

"Tucking ourselves in," the clouds yawned. "It’s night."

Softly, softly sails the little boat. Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, lullaby.

Next came the stars. Each one held a tiny lantern. Blink, and one went out. Blink, and another went out.

"Why are you putting them out?" asked Olesya.

"So the sky can rest," the stars whispered. "But we’ll leave a little light, so you won’t be in the dark."

Softly, softly sails the little boat. Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, lullaby.

Above the forest, on a tall pine, sat an owl. Round eyes, grey feathers.

"Hoo-hoo," said the owl. "Good night, Olesya."

"Good night, Owl. Aren’t you going to sleep?"

"I’ll sit up and keep watch," hooted the owl. "Hoo-hoo."

Softly, softly sails the little boat. Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, lullaby.

The breeze ran along the treetops, rustling the leaves: shh-shh-shh. Then more quietly: shh... shh... And then it lay down in the grass and went still.

Olesya yawned. Oh! She hadn’t wanted to yawn. It just happened.

"Little boat, where are we sailing?" she asked.

"Home," said the boat, swaying.

Olesya stroked its warm side. And the side felt so familiar: soft, with a little dimple, and it smelled of apple. Olesya opened one little eye. No sky at all. Bed, pillow, blanket. And on the edge of the bed, Mama’s hand. Rock-a-bye.

"Mama," whispered Olesya, "so you are the boat?"

"I am," Mama smiled. "And the moon is over there, in the window. It’s waving at you."

Olesya took Mama’s hand in both of her little hands and pressed it to her cheek.

Softly, softly sails the little boat. Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, lullaby.

And the boat did not sail away. It stayed right there beside her, warm and dear, rocking her softly, softly.