The hammer rang once. A spark jumped off the anvil and did not go out. It waited. They followed.

It rolled into the library and up onto a thin book of poems. It stopped on the white margin. The margin opened like a path, and Inkling and Beto stepped onto it.

The page had come loose once and been sewn back in with white thread. Next to the stitches was a tiny hammer, drawn in ink.

The title at the top of the page said: MY SHADOW.

"I know," said Inkling at once. "It's a scary poem about a shadow that follows you around. I noticed it straight away."

Yonder, the alert young hare, put his ears up.

"Guess first, then read on," said Yonder. "A guess is not a name. If you name it now, you might not see what it really is."

Inkling stopped. She hated being too quick. She did it all the time.

"Then my guess is," she said slowly, "somebody has a shadow, and the shadow does something surprising."

"Let's see," said Yonder.

They walked along the first verses. This poem was printed exactly as it was written, long ago.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.

"What's an india-rubber ball?" asked Beto.

Pith, the round coconut, rolled up beside him. "Look at the words around it," said Pith. "Shoots up taller. Like a ball."

"A bouncy ball," said Beto. "One that shoots up when you drop it."

"Crack it open and find the meat," said Pith. "Rubber used to be called india-rubber. So the shadow bounces up tall, quick as a ball."

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

"A notion is an idea," said Pith. "Swap in a word you know. He hasn't got an idea how to play."

"It's not scary at all," said Inkling. "The child thinks the shadow is silly."

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

"An arrant sleepy-head is a real, total sleepy-head," said Pith. "Arrant means completely."

Nettle, the hedgehog with question-shaped quills, popped up out of the gutter of the book.

"Wait, why that?" said Nettle. "Why was the shadow still in bed?"

"It's lazy," said Inkling.

Beto looked at the line again. Before the sun was up.

"No," he said slowly. "There's no sun yet. No sun, no shadow. The shadow didn't stay in bed. It just wasn't there."

Nettle's quills went up. "So the poem is a joke," she said, "and it's also true."

At the end of the margin stood Sheaf, with an armful of wheat.

"One armful, not every stalk," said Sheaf. "What does the shadow do? What does the child think of it?"

Inkling took her time. She did not say the first thing that came.

"A child finds their shadow funny and a bit annoying," she said, "because it grows and shrinks and sticks close. And one early morning, before the sun was up, it wasn't there at all. Not scary. Funny, and true."

Sheaf tied the wheat with one stalk. A paper bookmark slid out of the binding. It had a coconut on it.

Back on the Green

The spark dimmed to a warm dot and settled back on the anvil. The Green was just the Green again.

At lunchtime, Inkling stood in the playground and looked at her shadow. It was short and squat, right under her feet.

"Noon," she said. "The sun is high."