Elsie and the Blue Lantern

"Not yet, Elsie," said Mum. "Wait for the blue lantern."

Elsie was a small whale with a round, grey head. Tonight she wanted one thing. She wanted to float on top of the sea and see every star, sitting still in the water like silver buttons.

Far off, the lantern on the red buoy was still dark. It burned blue only on nights when the sky would stay dry. Every whale in the bay knew that.

Then, flick, it glowed blue.

"Now you may," said Mum. "I'll be just below."

Elsie rose up, up, up, and her back came out into the cool air. Above her, the stars were out. Below her, the stars were in the sea too. But they wobbled. They wiggled like jelly.

"Stay still!" said Elsie.

They did not. Her own waves were rocking them.

So she tried lying very flat. Wobble, wobble. She tried swimming slowly, slowly, on tiptoe, if a whale had tiptoes. Wobble, wobble, wobble.

"Oh, bother," said Elsie. She blew out a big sigh. Pffffwoosh! A fountain of spray went up, and every star in the water broke into pieces.

Elsie looked at the pieces for a long time. They shook when she blew. They shook when she wriggled. Maybe they were not wobbling because of the sea. Maybe they were wobbling because of her.

So she did nothing at all. She held her breath, and her tail, and her fins. She felt the water go smooth under her, like a blanket being pulled flat.

One by one, the stars came back. They sat still. Every one.

"Oh," whispered Elsie.

Then she hiccupped.

Hic-whoosh! A little spray rose, and fell again like sugar. The stars shivered, then settled.

Elsie giggled very quietly. Down below, Mum began to hum a slow, deep song, and the whole sea hummed along under the blue light.