1
An owl called, its shuddering hoots repeating mournfully in the distance. Somewhere nearby, heavy wings swooped and a young rabbit, captured by sharp talons, shrieked as he was lifted to his doom. Startled, a raccoon looked up with bright eyes from the place where he was foraging. Two deer moved in tandem through a meadow. A thin cloud slid across the moon.
The pair crept stealthily through the small house. Night was their time of work, the time when human conversation had ceased, when thoughts had drifted away and even breathing and heartbeats had slowed. The outdoors was awake and stirring but the little house was dark and silent. They tiptoed, and whispered. Unaware, the woman and her dog slept soundly, though the dog, on his pillow bed of cedar shavings at the foot of the woman's four-poster, moved his legs now and then as if chasing a dream rabbit.
"Are we a kind of dog?" Littlest One asked suddenly.
"Shhh."
They crept through the bedroom, out into the dark hall.
"May I talk now?"
"Oh, all right. Very quietly, though."
"I asked if we are a kind of dog."
Littlest One, whose name was sometimes shortened affectionately to simply Littlest, was working on this night with Fastidious, the one who had been designated her teacher. Littlest was very small, new to the work, energetic and curious. Fastidious was tired, impatient, and had a headache. She sniffed in exasperation.
"Whatever makes you ask such a thing? The other learners never ask questions like that."
"That's because they don't take time to think about things. I'm a thinker. Right now I'm thinking about whether I am a kind of dog."
"You just tiptoed past one. What did you notice about him?"
Littlest One thought. "A slight snore, a whiff of doggy breath, and his upper lip was folded under by mistake, just above a big tooth. It gave him an odd expression."
"Does he resemble us in the least?"
Littlest pondered. "No. But I believe there are many kinds of dogs. We saw that book, remember."
"Hurry along," Fastidious said. "There's much to do, and we have to go down the stairs yet."
Littlest One hurried along. The stairs were difficult, and she had to concentrate.
"You do remember the book, don't you? Ouch!" She had stumbled a bit.
"Grasp the carpet fibers. Look how I'm doing it."
"Couldn't we flutter down?"
"We can't waste our flutters. They use up energy."
They both made their way carefully down. "I hear there are houses that have no stairs," Fastidious murmured in an irritated tone. "None at all. I sometimes wish that I had not been assigned this particular house."
Littlest looked around when they reached the bottom of the stairs. She could see now into the large room with the very colorful rug. The small-paned windows were outlined in moonlight on the floor by the rug's edge. "I think this house is lovely," she said. "I wouldn't want any other house."
They tiptoed across. Littlest noticed her own shadow in the moonlight. "My goodness!" she exclaimed. "I didn't know we had shadows!"
"Of course we do. All creatures have shadows. They are a phenomenon created by light."
A phenomenon created by light. What a fine phrase, Littlest thought. She twirled suddenly on the rug and watched her shadow dance.
"Why is your shadow darker than mine?" she asked Fastidious, noticing the difference just then.
"I'm—well, I'm thicker than you. You're barely formed yet. You're practically transparent."
"Oh." Littlest examined her own self and saw that it was true. She had not paid much attention before to her own parts. Now she touched her ears, watching the shadow's arms move, too; then she swiveled her neck to peer down at her own tiny behind.
"I do not have a tail," she announced. "I think I am not a dog. We, I mean. We are not a kind of dog."
"There. You have answered your own question. Come more quickly, please. You are dawdling."
Reluctantly, Littlest scurried across the design of the carpet, beyond the moonlit rectangles, and onto the pine-boarded floor, which was always a little dangerous because of splinters.
"What if the dog woke? Would he see us? Or smell us, perhaps? I know he has a very significant nose. And if he did see us, or smell us, would that be dangerous for us?
"Or the woman? She woke the other night, remember? Because there was a bat in the house? It swooped and woke her somehow. She didn't like the bat. She was quite brave, I remember, and opened a window so the bat flew out into the night, which was where he had wanted to be all along, doing his night food-finding.
"But what if our little footsteps and flutterings had woken her? Would she have seen us?
"Are we visible to her?
"I know we don't fly the way bats do, but we operate at night. Might we be a type of bat?"
Fastidious turned suddenly with a very annoyed gesture. "Enough! Hush! Stop that questioning! We have our work to do. You insisted on coming. You said you'd be quiet. My nerves are becoming frayed. I want no more questions now. None whatsoever."
"All right. I promise," Littlest One said obediently. They continued on, one following the other.
"Are you doing your assigned tasks?"
"Yes. I touched the rug. And I'm touching this sweater now, the one she left on the chair."
"Gently. Do not under any circumstances press. But linger and get the feel of it into yourself."
"Yes, I am. You showed me how." Littlest was running her tiny fingers carefully over the sweater's soft sleeve. Then she touched a button and let her hand linger on it. It was startling, what she felt during the lingering. The entire history of the button came to her, and all it had been part of: a breezy picnic on a hillside in summer long ago; a January night, more recently, by the fire; and even, once, the time that a cup of tea had been spilled on the sweater. It was all there, still.
They moved quietly around the room, touching things. Fastidious half fluttered, half climbed to a tabletop and methodically touched framed photographs. Littlest watched in the moonlight and saw how the fingers chose and touched and felt the faces gazing out from the photographs: a man in uniform; a baby, grinning; an elderly woman with a stern look.
Forgetting her promise of no questions, Littlest suddenly asked, "Might we be human?" But Fastidious did not reply.
2
The woman stirred slightly in her sleep. She was dreaming. Sometimes, in her dreams, she recalled earlier times when she had been happier. When that occurred, her eyelids fluttered and the corners of her lips moved slightly in an upward curve.
Sometimes the creaking walls of the old house disturbed her sleep, or a shutter that came loose in the wind startled her briefly awake. A few nights before, a bat had found its way into the room, making squeaking sounds as it swooped through the dark. Sometimes a mouse scampered across the floor, usually in the fall when outdoor creatures sought warmth. Occasionally she thought that she should get a cat. Women her age often kept cats as company.
But she had the dog. They were growing old together and were good friends to each other. The dog made her take walks and gave her someone to talk to. He was all she needed.
The dog and the house. And her dreams. The tiny footsteps that crossed her bedroom each night never woke her.
3
"She talks constantly. Asks questions. Is much too curious." Fastidious sniffed imperiously and listed her complaints.
"What sorts of questions does she ask?"
They were back inside their place now, the gathering place of the dream-givers, the place they called the Heap. Littlest, exhausted, had curled into her own special corner and was asleep. But the bigger ones were meeting. Most Ancient was concerned about Littlest One.
"Oh, the usual," Fastidious replied irritably to his question. "The same things we've all wondered about. Who we are. Whether we might be a kind of dog, for heaven's sake! She asked that tonight. I should never have let her see that book about dogs. But it was on the woman's coffee table. It needed touching, and she was with me."
Most Ancient smiled. "She's very sweet, actually. I don't think we've ever had one quite so curious. It's appealing."
"And she plays."
"Plays?"
"Dances about. And—well, as an example, I'd been teaching her about the delicacy of touch? Next thing I knew, she was chanting something under her breath, and when I asked her what on earth she was mumbling about, she said she'd created a tongue twister out of my instructions!"
"A tongue twister? What was it?" Most Ancient looked amused.
"I'd prefer not to say," Fastidious said primly.
"Come on. Tell," he coaxed.
"Well, all right, then." She sniffed. "It was this: Flutter, flicker, and trutter—no. Flutter, tricker— no." Fastidious took a deep breath and spoke very slowly. "Flutter, flicker, and trickle; flutter, flicker, and trickle. Completely silly, if you ask me.
"It's a nuisance," she added. "We started her too soon."
Most Ancient, smiling, looked around at the others. They were all resting after the nightly tasks. The actual touching wasn't exhausting. It was the moving around, climbing things, fluttering—which was very difficult and energy-consuming—and remembering what to touch. Stairs were hard to navigate. It made one tired. And that didn't even take into account the most arduous and important part of the job: the bestowal. Most Ancient was a little concerned about how Littlest One would take to that. It was one thing to play and giggle during the touching. But bestowal was a serious and demanding task. Perhaps Fastidious was correct and Littlest wasn't up to it yet.
"Others? Opinions, any of you?"
One of the others yawned. "She'll be fine. I think she's cute, actually. Just keep an eye on her. We were all curious like that, once. Maybe not quite as talkative."
Most Ancient smiled. "Yes, that's true. Most of us were. I know I was. Do you think you can bear with it a while longer, Fastidious, until she settles down a bit?"
Fastidious sighed. "I suppose so. But—"
"I could switch you with someone else. Is there anyone who'd be willing to trade places?" He looked around.
Thin Elderly raised his hand. "I'd rather have that house, as a matter of fact. My assigned house is very spare, very minimalist. Not much to touch. It makes a dull night."
Most Ancient peered at him. "Have you ever supervised?"
"No. But I think I'd do a good job. I like little ones."
"And you?" Most Ancient turned to the one who had raised the problem. "How would you feel about switching?"
Fastidious shrugged. "I'd be happy to have a dull night. Does the other house have stairs?"
Thin Elderly said no. Modern house, no stairs.
"Let's do it, then. I have increasing trouble on the stairs."
"Done." Most Ancient made a note in his book. "Anything else?" He looked around. But most of them were asleep now. They lay sprawled in the Heap, cuddled against each other. One snored slightly. One was murmuring, "Flutter, flitter—?"
"Well then," he went on, and tucked the book away. He yawned. "Another night's work well done, all of you.