Pennybell and the Slippery Umbrella

Pennybell’s umbrella went plip, plip, plip across the dewy leaf, just as she was ready to take off.

She grabbed the handle. The umbrella slid away. Pennybell scooted after it, wings buzzing, and caught it by one tiny tip. The umbrella spun around her like a sleepy windmill.

“Not now,” she whispered.

The broad leaf was the Tooth Fairy’s landing spot in the moonlit garden. Pennybell had polished it that evening until it was as slick as a plate. Now the very dew she had admired was making her umbrella wriggle free.

Beside the leaf, Gus the garden snail was taking a nap on the path. His shell rose in a neat spiral, and one feeler drooped over his face like a curtain. A small tooth token rested in Pennybell’s other hand. It was meant for a child who had left a tooth beneath a pillow.

Pennybell tucked the token safely into a little pouch. Then she took hold of the umbrella with both hands and tried to lift off.

Her wings beat. The umbrella slid down her arm.

She tilted left. It slid right.

She tilted right. It popped up and bonked her gently on the head.

Pennybell blinked at it. The umbrella bobbed above her, then plopped onto the leaf.

Gus opened one eye. “Is it raining?”

“Only on my plans,” said Pennybell.

She tried carrying the umbrella under one arm. It slipped out and rolled toward the edge of the leaf. Pennybell darted after it and caught it just in time. Her wings fluttered so hard that the tooth token’s pouch bounced against her shoulder.

She looked toward the garden path. The quiet window stood on the other side, its lower sash open just wide enough for a fairy to slip through. A pale curtain hung inside. Pennybell needed to reach the sill without dropping the token. She also wanted her umbrella along, because the night was damp and her wings felt chilly.

She looked at the umbrella. She looked at her hands. Then she looked at Gus’s round, ridged shell.

Gus had already closed his eye again. Pennybell’s eyebrows lifted. Perhaps there was a way to carry everything after all.

Pennybell leaned close to Gus’s shell. The ridges curled around it like the steps of a tiny staircase. She held the umbrella upright beside one ridge, then turned it sideways.

The handle settled neatly into a groove.

Pennybell let go. The umbrella stayed put.

She gave it a cautious poke. It wobbled once, then rested across Gus’s shell like a little bridge.

“Gus,” she said, “would you carry my umbrella to the window?”

Gus opened both eyes. He looked at the umbrella, then at Pennybell. His feelers rose. “If I can do it slowly.”

“Slowly is perfect.”

Gus began to move. His shell carried the umbrella along the garden path, one small slide at a time. The umbrella handle bobbed in its groove. Pennybell flew beside him with the tooth token tucked snugly in her pouch.

At the first bend, Gus turned left. The umbrella pointed right. Pennybell zipped around to straighten it, but Gus kept crawling. She hurried to catch up, and her wings made a tiny fanning sound.

“Coming through,” she called.

Gus paused while she nudged the handle back into place. Then they went on together.

A round pebble blocked the path. Gus climbed over it, very slowly. The umbrella tipped toward the ground. Pennybell caught its far end with both hands. For a moment, she hung in the air with her feet kicking and the umbrella balanced between her and Gus.

Gus stopped. Pennybell steadied the umbrella and gave him a grin.

“Ready?” she asked.

Gus nodded. One careful step, then another, and the umbrella settled across his shell again.

At last, they reached the stepping stone beneath the quiet window. Gus climbed onto it and stopped. Pennybell landed beside him, keeping one hand over her pouch. The token was still safe.

“You carried it all the way,” she said. “Thank you, Gus.”

Gus smiled with his whole face, which made his feelers curl.

Pennybell found a tiny dry leaf tucked beneath the broad landing leaf. She set it on Gus’s shell like a rain hat. It sat at a jaunty angle, with one point over his forehead.

Gus peered out from underneath it. “Very stylish.”

Pennybell giggled. The umbrella rested snugly in its ridge, and the path behind them was quiet.

Pennybell climbed from the stepping stone to the windowsill. She slipped through the narrow opening beneath the raised sash and past the pale curtain. Inside, the room was still and dark. A pillow rested on the bed, and a tiny tooth lay beneath its edge.

Pennybell took the token from her pouch and eased it beneath the pillow, beside the tooth. Its little shape would be waiting there for the child to discover after waking.

Then she looked back at Gus. He had tucked himself beneath his dry leaf hat. Only his face showed, with two feelers poking out like the handles of a tiny umbrella.

“Good night, Gus,” Pennybell whispered.

“Good night, Pennybell,” Gus murmured.

The umbrella came off his shell with a small, tidy lift. Pennybell folded it and tucked it beneath her arm. This time it did not slip. She gave Gus a wave, and his feelers waved back beneath the leaf.

Pennybell glided through the open window and from the sill toward the broad landing leaf. Her wings made hardly a sound as she crossed the garden. She touched down beside a bead of dew, folded her umbrella, and set it where it could dry.

Gus’s leaf hat stayed in place as he nestled on the path. He turned once beneath it, found just the right spot, and became still.

Inside, the tooth and token rested together beneath the pillow. In the garden, the umbrella rested safely on the leaf, and Pennybell’s wings settled against her back. The moon watched over the quiet garden while Gus slept beneath his new hat.