Pipkin and the Rhyming Potion

“I meant to make a story brew,” Pipkin says, as Mallow announces, “My toes are cold, my tail is bold!”

Pipkin, a small green dragon, blinks at his friend. Mallow the mole has never talked like that before. He wiggles his toes, then his tail, as if they have both surprised him.

Around them, the little garden among the Dragon Hills is busy getting ready for the evening gathering. Beetles carry berry pies. A family of mice hangs paper lanterns from the bean poles. Tumble the tortoise arranges his best round stones in a circle.

Pipkin has promised to tell a story at the gathering. He has also promised to make a brew that helps him remember all the important parts. The pot is full of mint leaves, clover petals, and a spoonful of honey.

“I only tasted one drop,” Mallow says. “Now every word comes out in a hop!”

Pipkin’s ears tip forward. “Maybe I can fix that. First, we need to—”

“Find a leaf, and count to three,” Pipkin hears himself say.

He frowns. “That was not what I meant.”

“Your words have got a bouncy sound,” says Tumble. “They’re skipping all around!”

Pipkin tries again. “Mallow, please sit by the pot while I look at the recipe.”

“Sit by the pot, and mind your spot!” Pipkin says instead.

Mallow sits. “I’ll stay right here, beside the gear.”

Pipkin opens his recipe book. Its pages flap in the garden breeze. He reads that the brew must be stirred with a silver spoon, then stirred backward to undo a speech mix-up.

“A silver spoon,” he says. “I used mine just a little while ago.”

Mallow looks at the pot. Its surface makes a quiet blup. Then he points toward the pond, where a duck is paddling in slow circles.

“Before we search, let’s check the shelf,” Pipkin says.

“Check the shelf, and help yourself!” comes out of his mouth.

The friends look at one another. The gathering is nearly ready, and Mallow’s words keep tumbling into rhymes. Pipkin closes the recipe book and tries to think of a sensible next step. But his sensible thoughts seem to be tying themselves in knots.

Pipkin checks the garden shelf. He finds a wooden spoon, a spoon made of bone, and one that is so tiny it might belong to an ant. No silver spoon.

“Let’s search the grass,” he says. “It must be—”

“Down by the pond, where ducks respond!” he blurts.

Mallow points to the water. “A spoon, a moon, a silver tune!”

Pipkin stops. “Silver spoon?”

“Yes!” Mallow nods. “I stirred the brew, then heard a quack. I set the spoon beside the pond, and—plip!—it slipped right off the bank.”

The duck gives a cheerful quack, as though remembering. Pipkin looks at the pond. The water is not deep, but the bottom is muddy. He doesn’t want Mallow to wade in and get stuck.

“I’ll reach with this long garden stick,” Pipkin says.

“Reach with a stick, and make it quick!”

Pipkin groans. “Even my directions are rhyming.”

Tumble brings over a little basket. The mice hold it steady while Pipkin lies on his belly at the edge and lowers the stick into the pond. He feels a pebble, a lily stem, and something smooth. The stick slides away.

“Try from here,” Mallow says, pointing to a flat stone. “I can hold the basket while you lean.”

Pipkin shuffles onto the stone. It wobbles, but Mallow braces it with both paws. Together they guide the stick beneath the silver handle. Pipkin lifts slowly. Muddy water drips from the spoon into the pond.

“We found it!” Mallow cries. “Now stir it backward, nice and slow—”

“Back around the pot we go!” Pipkin says, then shakes his head. “That one was mine.”

He sets the spoon in Mallow’s paws. Side by side, they walk around the pot in the opposite direction from before, stirring carefully as they go. The brew makes a small plup. Then another.

Mallow clears his throat. “Pipkin, I can hear my own words again.”

“Try a sentence,” says Pipkin.

“I am glad you helped me,” Mallow says. No rhyme follows. He smiles. “And I am glad my toes are no longer cold.”

At that very moment, the mice ring a little bell. The gathering is beginning. Pipkin’s recipe book stays open, his story is still waiting, and Mallow’s voice is his own again.

The garden friends gather between the bean poles, where the lanterns hang low enough for everyone to see. The beetles set down their berry pies. Tumble settles onto his round stones, and the duck waddles over from the pond with a damp feather stuck to one foot.

Mallow sits beside Pipkin. He speaks in his usual voice as he tells the mice where to put the cups. He asks Tumble to save him the biggest slice of pie. Each word lands just where he wants it.

Pipkin opens his story book, though the pages are still blank. He has meant to write his story down, but the day has been full of potions, ponds, and spoons. So he tells it from the beginning instead.

He tells about a little dragon who wanted to make a story brew. He tells about a mole whose words hopped like frogs. He tells about a silver spoon lost in a pond and two friends who found it together.

When Pipkin reaches the part where he and Mallow stir the pot backward, his tail makes a small wag. The garden friends lean closer.

“And then,” Pipkin says, “the brew went plip, the spoon went swish, and Mallow’s words came back—just like a fish!”

A giggle rolls through the garden. Pipkin grins. “That rhyme wasn’t in my story plan.”

“It belongs there now,” Mallow says. “A story needs a silly bit to show.”

The friends enjoy their pie. The duck gets a crumb, Tumble gets the biggest slice, and Pipkin gets a dab of honey on his nose. Mallow wipes it away with a leaf, careful not to muss Pipkin’s small green scales.

Soon the cups are empty and the lanterns are taken down. The garden grows quiet. Pipkin and Mallow say good night to Tumble and the mice, then walk to the little patch where Pipkin’s wide garden leaf makes a roof.

They settle side by side beneath it. The earth smells of mint and damp grass. Mallow gives Pipkin one last rhyme, soft and sleepy: “Good night, small dragon. Rest your tail; tomorrow brings a fresh new tale.”

Pipkin chuckles, then curls his tail around his toes. Mallow curls close beside him, and the two friends rest under the warm garden leaf, while the quiet pond keeps the silver spoon safe until morning.