At the edge of the quiet forest, where the rain comes softly most afternoons, lived a small unicorn named Fern. Her mane was the pale green of new leaves, and her hooves left neat little prints in the damp earth. She knew every mushroom in the meadow. She knew the smell of rain before it arrived.
That afternoon, the sky went silver. The first drops tapped the broad leaves overhead — tap, tap, tap. Fern stepped out from under the trees and saw them: two tiny rabbits, sitting completely still in the middle of the wet grass. Pip and Pod. Getting wetter and wetter. Their mushroom caps — the little spotted ones they always wore — had blown away in the wind. Without them, the rabbits didn't know which way to go. They just sat there, blinking slowly, ears flat and dripping. Tap, tap, tap went the rain on the grass around them.
Fern walked toward them, careful and quiet. "The glowing cave," she said gently. "At the far end of the meadow. It's dry there, and warm." Pip looked at Pod. Pod looked at Pip. Their noses twitched together, once. But the meadow was wide and the rain was falling faster now. Fern looked left, and then she looked right. There — along the edge of the path — grew a long row of enormous fern plants, their great leaves drooping low with the weight of the water. She walked to the first leaf and tilted it with the tip of her horn. Too small. She tried the next. Too droopy. She tried the one after that — and this one, this great curved leaf, tilted forward like a perfect umbrella, green and wide and good. Tap, tap, tap.
They were nearly halfway across when Fern, concentrating very hard on keeping the leaf steady, nudged something round and brown in the grass. It moved. Then it opened one eye. It was a snail. He was very, very grumpy. He pulled his head in. Then, after a moment, he put it back out. He looked at the leaf. He looked at the rain. He tucked himself under the very edge of the leaf and began to glide along beside them, slowly and with great dignity. Pip and Pod stared at him. Then they started to giggle — the kind of giggling that makes your whole body shake — and they forgot entirely that they were cold.
Fern held it very still. "Come underneath," she called. Pip and Pod scurried forward and pressed close to her legs, their fur smelling of wet clover. And so the small procession began — Fern stepping slowly, leaf held just so, the two rabbits trotting beneath. The cave's warm mouth glowed amber through the grey rain. The stone at the entrance was smooth and dry, and the air inside smelled of earth and something faintly sweet. Fern lowered the leaf gently and leaned it against the rock. The snail slid underneath a mossy ledge and closed his eyes again, which seemed right.
Pip and Pod pressed against Fern's side, their small ribs rising and falling. Outside, the rain pattered on the stone — tap, tap, tap — the same sound as always, but smaller now, softer, further away. Fern folded her legs beneath her and rested her chin on the cool rock. The cave glowed. The rain dripped. One small ear twitched, and then went still. Pip's head drooped against her flank. Pod's paw curled open on the ground. The meadow outside was silver and soft, and the rain came down, and everything was exactly where it needed to be.
