Florence and the Missing Pebble

Florence was sliding down the muddy bank on her tummy when she remembered her stone. She stopped at the bottom with a splat and checked under her arm. Empty.

Her stone was grey and smooth, with one white stripe. Every night, the otter family floated on their backs and tapped their stones on their tummies. Tap, tap, tap. Mum did it. Dad did it. Big brother Oscar did it. Tonight the moon was coming down to the hill to be polished, as it did every Wednesday, and the tapping would sound extra fine.

But Florence had no stone.

"Where, oh where, is my stone?" she said.

She looked under the willow branches. She looked between the smooth riverbank pebbles. She dug in the reeds. Nothing.

Then she heard it, very soft. Tink. Tink, tink.

It came from the hollow under the old willow roots. The hollow was dark. Florence always swam past it, fast.

"Where, oh where, is my stone?" she whispered, and she did not move.

Tink, tink.

Up on the hill, the moon settled down, and a pale glow slid across the water. It crept into the hollow. Something in there gleamed with a white stripe.

Florence took a big breath and went in, one paw at a time. The roots hung like curtains. And there, holding the stone in both hands, sat a very small water vole.

"Oh!" said the vole. "Is it yours? I found it. It makes such a nice tink. I tap it when it's dark in here."

Florence thought. Then she tapped the stone with her claw. Tink.

"It sounds better on a tummy," she said. "Come and see."

So they floated out together, the otter and the vole, under the shining moon. Tap, tap, tap, went Florence. Tap, tap, tap, went the vole, on a stone she'd found for herself.

The river rocked them, and the tapping got slower and slower.