The Fox Who Carried Spring

How it begins

Fern Bramble carried spring in a green satchel. It was heavier than it looked and ticked when the frogs were nearly ready.

'The valley by sunset,' Bram Dapple reminded her.

He stood beside the bridge with a timetable and a very straight hat. Badgers liked knowing where things belonged. Seasons, he thought, belonged on time.

Fern checked the buckle. A yellow petal slipped out.

'I'll be careful.'

She had carried spring for twelve years. She knew how to keep the birdsong from tangling with the rain, how to wrap the first warm wind and where to put the smell of damp earth so it did not get into the sandwiches.

This year, the satchel had a small hole.

Halfway up the hill, Fern found a beetle upside down. She set down spring, turned the beetle over and waited until all its feet remembered what to do. A crocus appeared beside her boot.

At the next bend, an old rabbit had dropped his basket. Fern gathered the apples. Three daisies opened in the snow.

Bram caught up while she was helping a mole find its missing scarf. He looked at the flowers, then at the sun.

'We're leaking.'

'Only a little.'

'That is how leaking begins.'

He took out a sewing kit. Fern held the satchel while he examined the hole. Inside, a small green shoot curled around the thread.

'It won't let me mend it,' he said.

The mole returned wearing its scarf. It looked at the daisies and smiled. Fern felt the satchel grow lighter, though nothing more had fallen out.

Beyond the hill, the valley lay white and waiting. Bram folded the timetable. For the first time, he seemed uncertain whether being late was the worst thing that could happen to a season.

'Perhaps,' he said, 'we should find out what it is trying to deliver.'