Slow Hands, Little Snail
Ivo went down the curved hallway with a bowl of water held in both hands. Fern rode on his shoulder, spines tipped mossy green, and watched the water lean. Somewhere in the wall a pipe kept time. Tock. Tock. The beans in the growing ring were thirsty; he had promised them last night. Earth slid past the round windows, blue and turning, the way it always did. Ivo walked slowly, because slow was easier here, where things floated if you were careless. Fern's nose twitched at the wet green smell. Tock, said the pipe. Ivo matched a step to it and kept going.
The growing ring smelled of warm soil and leaves. Ivo set his feet in the floor straps and tipped the bowl. The water did not pour. It rose. It came out in one round wobbling ball, big as an apple, and floated up past his chin. Fern made a small sound. Ivo grabbed. The ball broke into a dozen smaller balls that drifted off in every direction, shining like beads. Tock, said the pipe in the wall. "Come back," Ivo said to the water. The water did not come back. It turned slowly, showing him a tiny bent picture of his own face.
He caught them with a cloth, one at a time, pressing gently until each drop soaked in. Fern climbed down to the bench and watched the last one drift past her nose. Then Ivo filled the bowl again and tried faster, thinking speed might beat the floating. The water leapt out before he had even turned. It burst against the lamp and hung there in a hundred small round lights. Tock. Ivo sat down on the bench with the empty bowl in his lap. The beans waited, dry and patient. Fern leaned against his arm, quiet, the way she was when she was thinking.
It was Fern who looked at the water tank first. Ivo followed her nose. On the inside of the glass, smaller than his thumbnail, a snail was crossing. It had a shell like a curl of honey and a foot like a grey ribbon. It moved so slowly that Ivo had to hold still to see it move at all. Behind it lay a clean bright track through the green film. Tock, said the pipe. The snail went on at the same speed, never hurrying, never stopping. "Look how it holds on," Ivo whispered. Fern's spines lifted a little. They both watched.
Ivo counted with the pipe. Tock, and the snail moved the width of a seed. Tock, and another. Nothing about it was quick, and nothing about it slipped. He began to move his hand at that speed, back and forth above the bench, until his arm knew the pace by itself. "Slow hands, and the water comes along," he said. Fern put one paw on his wrist, as if to keep the pace there. The snail reached the corner of the glass and turned, unbothered. Ivo filled the bowl at the tap, one thin thread at a time, and let it settle before he lifted it.
He lifted the bowl the way the snail crossed the glass. The water rose in one trembling dome and stayed, joined to itself, leaning but whole. Tock, said the pipe, and Ivo moved on the tock and rested in between. Fern walked beside his feet with her nose up. The dome wobbled once near the bean row and he stopped, breathing, until it calmed. "Slow hands, and the water comes along," he said, mostly to himself. Then he tipped the bowl the smallest amount, and the water leaned out, and touched the dark soil, and soaked in without one escaping bead.
He watered every pot that way. The bean leaves lifted. A drop he had missed floated by the window, and he caught it on his finger and carried it to the parsley. Fern found a warm spot under the lamp and curled there, spines down, watching him work. Back at the tank the snail was still going, a shining road behind it, in no hurry at all. Earth turned below the round window, white cloud sliding over blue sea. Tock, said the pipe, slower now, or seeming slower. Ivo hung the bowl on its hook and sat down on the floor beside Fern.
The growing ring was quiet. Ivo lay back with his knees up and Fern tucked warm against his side, one paw on his wrist. In the bowl above them a last spoonful of water rocked, then stopped rocking, and lay flat and still as a small grey window. "Slow hands, and the water comes along," Ivo said, almost asleep. Fern breathed. Somewhere in the wall the pipe kept time for both of them. Tock. Tock. The soil drank its last drop and went dark and soft, and the station hummed, and Ivo's eyes closed.
