The Girl in the Walnut Shell

A woman lived alone at the edge of a village, in a small house with one window and a wide sill. She wanted someone to talk to. One morning a peddler gave her a barley seed, no bigger than a speck of pepper, and told her to plant it in a pot and wait.

She planted it. The next day a green shoot came up. The day after that a bud opened, and inside sat a girl, no longer than a thumb, with hair like yellow thread. “Hello,” said the woman, and the tiny girl said, “Hello,” back.

The woman found a walnut shell and lined it with a violet petal. That was the bed. A saucer of water held a rose leaf for a boat, and the girl sailed it from one side of the saucer to the other, laughing. She sang in a voice so small that only the cat heard it.

One night, while she slept, a toad climbed through the window. The toad was wide and wet and had a plan for her son. She lifted the walnut shell with the girl inside and carried it down to the pond, where her son sat on a lily pad. “Here is your wife,” she said. “She will sit on a lily leaf and sing to the fish.”

The girl woke on the lily pad. Water stretched everywhere. The toad and her son bowed and told her to wait, and then they swam off to build a muddy room under the bank. The girl cried, and her tears fell into the pond like little beads.

***

The fish heard her crying. They put their round mouths to the stem of the lily pad and nibbled until it came loose. The leaf became a raft, and the girl floated away, still crying, past reeds and stones and the grey faces of the toads on the bank.

A butterfly saw the leaf drift past and landed on it. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Anywhere,” she said. “Then I will pull you,” he said, and he took the thread of her belt in his feet and fluttered. The leaf went faster. The girl laughed, and her laugh was small and bright.

A beetle flew overhead. He dropped down, took her in his claws, and carried her up into a tree. “You are pretty,” he said. “Stay with me.” He gave her honeydew and showed her his branch. But the other beetles looked at her and whispered. “She has only two legs,” they said. “No feelers. She is not one of us.”

The beetle listened to them. He set her down on a daisy and flew away. The girl sat there all day. The sun moved. The grass was a forest around her, and every stem was a tree. She was alone, and small, and the evening came down like a blue cloth.

She wrapped herself in a leaf and slept. In the morning she drank dew from a clover and walked on. She did not know where she was going, but she kept going, one small step at a time.

The meadow in summer was a wide green sea. The girl ate pollen from the flowers and drank dew from the leaves. At night she slept under a clover, and the stars were huge and close. She learned to climb a grass stem without bending it. She learned to hide when a shadow crossed the sun. A bumblebee came to drink and did not notice her. A snail passed by and said nothing. The summer was long, and she was alone, but she was not afraid. She grew quick and quiet, like a mouse.

When the cold came, the flowers closed up. The wind blew harder. The girl walked until she found a hill with a small door in it. She knocked. The door opened, and a field mouse looked out. She wore a gray shawl and had bright black eyes. “What do you want?” she asked. “I am cold,” said the girl. “And hungry.” The mouse looked at her. “You are very small,” she said. “But you have good manners. Come in.”

Inside, the burrow was warm and dry. There were rooms full of grain and nuts. The mouse gave her a bed of wool and a cup of seed soup. “You may stay for the winter,” she said. “But you must work. Can you clean? Can you tell stories?” “I can do both,” said the girl. So she swept the floors and told the mouse stories about the meadow. The mouse liked the one about the butterfly best. “Tell it again,” she said, and the girl did.

The winter was long and dark. The girl learned to find her way without a lamp. She learned to be quiet when the mouse was tired. She learned that a burrow can be a home, even if it is under the ground. She was not happy, but she was safe. And sometimes, when the mouse was asleep, she sat by the door and listened to the wind.

***

One day the mouse came in with a serious face. “There is a bird in the tunnel,” she said. “A swallow. He fell and cannot fly. He is as good as dead. Leave him.” But the girl went to look. The swallow lay on the cold earth, his wings folded, his eyes closed. He was bigger than she was, and his feathers were blue-black and bright. She touched his chest. It was warm. “He is alive,” she said. “He is not dead yet.”

“He will be,” said the mouse. “Birds are no good in winter. They eat and eat and then they die. Come away.” But the girl brought water in a leaf. She held it to his beak. She brought seeds and crushed them soft. She sat by him all night, and in the morning his eyes opened. “Who are you?” he whispered. “A friend,” she said. “You fell.” “My wing,” he said. “It hurts.” “Then rest,” she said.

All winter she nursed him. She kept him warm with moss and her own body. She fed him and sang to him. The mouse grumbled but did not stop her. “You waste your time,” she said. “He will fly away.” “Then he will fly away,” said the girl. “But he will fly.”

When spring came, the swallow’s wing was strong. He stood and stretched and flapped. “I must go,” he said. “The warm lands are calling.” “I know,” she said. “Go.” He looked at her. “Thank you,” he said. “I will not forget.” And he flew out of the tunnel and up into the light.

Spring came slow and shy that year, and with it came the mole. He arrived at the mouse’s door in a black coat, blinking at the light. “I have dug a fine house,” he said. “Deep and warm. No wind gets in.” The mouse clapped her paws. “And you need a wife,” she said. “Someone small and neat.” The mole turned his head toward the girl. “She will do,” he said. The girl said nothing. That night the mouse showed her the wedding dress she was sewing. “You will be safe underground,” she said. “Safe from hawks and cold.” “But dark,” said the girl. “Dark is safe,” said the mouse. “Dark is quiet,” said the mole. “I hate the dark,” the girl whispered, but no one heard. She went to the tunnel mouth and looked up at the sky. The stars were out. She remembered the sun on the water, the green lily leaf, the swallow’s wing. “I wish,” she said. “I wish I could see the sun again.” The mole came up behind her. “You will forget the sun,” he said. “Down there you won’t miss it.” She said nothing. She thought of the swallow, far away in the warm lands. She thought of his promise. She did not know if he would remember. The wedding was set for the end of the week. The mouse sewed and hummed. The mole dug a deeper room. And the girl sat by the tunnel mouth each night, watching the sky, and wishing.

***

On the last night before the wedding, the girl stood at the tunnel mouth. The air was soft and smelled of grass. “One more look,” she said. “One more.” Then she heard a sound. A rush of wings. The swallow landed on the moss beside her. “You came,” she said. “I said I would,” he said. “I am strong now. I can carry you.” “But the mole,” she said. “The mouse.” “They are asleep,” said the swallow. “Come. Hold tight to my back.” She climbed on. The swallow rose into the night. The field fell away. The mouse’s burrow was a dot. They flew over woods and rivers and towns with yellow windows. The girl held on and did not look down. Morning came, and the swallow began to circle lower. “Look,” he said. Below them was a wide valley full of flowers. Each flower was a cup of white or blue or gold. And in each cup stood a tiny person, no bigger than the girl. The swallow landed on a broad leaf. A young man stepped forward. He wore a crown of petals and a cloak of green. “Who are you?” he asked. “I am no one,” she said. “I am just small.” “You are the same size as us,” he said. “Will you stay?” She looked at the flowers. She looked at the swallow. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will stay.” The swallow sang once and flew off toward the sun. The tiny king took her hand, and the whole valley smelled of spring.