The Village Still Sleeping
Tova pushed the door open, and the snow had stopped falling. The air stood still and blue. Every roof in the village wore a thick white hat. Rosa hopped out beside her, one ear up, one ear flopped over. Their boots and paws made the only marks down the whole lane. Then, from somewhere ahead, came a small sound. Tink. Tova stopped and listened. Tink, again, soft as a spoon in a cup.
They followed the sound to the baker's blue door. A little bell hung above it, packed full of snow. It was trying to ring and could not. Tova stood on her toes and brushed it with her mitten. Shff, shff. The snow fell away in a lump, and the bell rang properly. Tink, tink. Behind the door, somebody yawned and moved a chair. "Softly, softly, the village is still sleeping," Tova whispered. Rosa's up-ear turned, and they went on.
At the corner stood the lamp, still lit from the night before. Snow had capped the glass, so its light lay in a small dim ring. Tova reached up and swept the top clean with both mittens. The light spread out wide and gold across the lane. It touched a gate, a bucket, and Rosa's whiskers. Behind them the baker's bell said tink. Rosa pressed her nose to a shining patch of snow and left a tiny print.
Under the woodpile eaves, four sparrows sat close together, puffed into little grey balls. Their feet gripped the cold wood. Tova watched them a moment. Then she pulled off her mittens, both of them, and pushed them into a hollow between the logs. She made a soft woollen dip with her thumbs. She crumbled half her breakfast bun beside it. The sparrows dropped down at once and shuffled in, warm as bread. They did not look up.
Tova's hands were bare now, and pink, and cold. She blew on them and tucked them into her pockets. Rosa leaned against her boot for a while. Then Rosa hopped ahead, and Tova followed, hands deep and warm enough. Tink, said the bell behind them. The lane went on past shuttered windows, all quiet, all closed. "Softly, softly, the village is still sleeping," Tova said. Her breath made a little cloud and drifted off over the snow.
The water pump by the well wore snow to its chin. Tova scooped it away with her sleeve, handful after handful, until the spout showed. She pressed the handle down. Nothing came. She pressed again, slowly, and again. Water dripped out, then ran, then splashed bright into the stone basin. Drip, drip, under the tink, tink. Rosa put one paw in and pulled it straight back out, and Tova laughed into her collar.
The last cottage sat at the end of the lane with its steps buried deep. Tova found a flat board by the fence and began to push the snow aside. It was slow. Her arms ached and her nose ran. Rosa patted the pushed snow flat into a small firm wall. Step by step the stone came back, grey and honest. When it was done, Tova sat on the bottom step and breathed. Tink, said the bell, far away.
Behind them the village was waking up. A shutter clacked open. Smoke stood up straight from a chimney. Someone's lamp came on gold in a window, then another, then two more. Boots crunched. The baker's bell rang and rang as the door swung. Tova stood up and brushed the snow off her knees. Rosa bumped her ankle. Together they walked home the way they had come, past the pump still dripping in the cold.
Inside, Tova held her hands near the stove until they tingled. Rosa settled in her lap, one ear up, one ear down. Outside the window, snow began again, slow and enormous and silent. It landed on the sill. It landed on the woodpile where four sparrows slept in wool. "Softly, softly, the village is still sleeping," Tova murmured. Her eyes closed. The flakes came down and settled, and settled, and settled, and did not make a sound.