Grunt the Brachiosaurus had one job. Stand still. Hold the ornament box. Do not wag your tail.
He wagged his tail.
The box flew up, spun twice, and every single sparkly icicle ornament tumbled out and plopped — plop, plop, plop, plop — into the cold river, bobbing away downstream in a glittering, wobbling line.
Stomp, stomp, stomp. Grunt was after them before the last one hit the water, his enormous feet leaving deep round holes in the snowy bank, his long neck swinging low over the current, eyes tracking every glint of silver.
The ornaments bobbed around the first bend. Grunt stomped faster. His breath came out in big white puffs. The river smelled of cold mud and pine needles, and the snow squeaked under his feet with every step.
He nearly squashed Pip before he saw her. She was crouched on the path, very tiny, very serious, arranging three grey pebbles with one claw. "Don't. Move," she said, without looking up. "I am making a perfect triangle."
Grunt looked at the triangle. One side was definitely longer than the others. He opened his mouth. He closed it. "That," he said carefully, "is a very perfect triangle." Pip beamed so wide her eyes disappeared, and she scrambled up onto the bank beside him. Stomp, stomp, stomp — now there were two of them.
They heard Marge before they saw her. A low, strained voice from the shallows said, "I would like someone to know that I am stuck." Marge the Triceratops stood mid-river, water rushing cold around her ankles. Every one of her three horns was threaded with dripping, glittering ornaments, and she could not turn her head even a little bit without them all swinging dangerously.
Grunt waded in — the water was icy and bit at his ankles — and very, very carefully, one by one, he lifted each ornament off Marge's horns with the tip of his long neck. Pip caught them. Marge turned her head slowly left, then right, and made a sound like a tea kettle finally letting off steam.
Stomp, stomp, stomp — now there were three of them, and the ornaments clinked softly in Pip's small arms as they walked. By the river's last bend, they had found every single one. Grunt counted. Pip counted. Marge counted with her eyes because her horns were tired.
Back at the festival, the small dinosaurs stared at the tallest tree. Then they stared at Grunt. Then one of them, very quietly, said, "Grunt is taller than the tree." This was true. Grunt was considerably taller than the tree.
Someone fetched a scarf — long, striped, a bit scratchy — and wound it round and round Grunt's smooth neck so the ornaments would have something to grip. Then the ladders went up. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Small claws hung icicles from his chin, his shoulders, the very tip-top of his head, while Grunt held his breath and stood perfectly, completely, absolutely still.
He did not wag his tail once.
The walk home was the slowest walk any of them had ever walked. Grunt placed each enormous foot down like he was setting down something made of glass. The ornaments chimed softly in the cold air. Snow fell in fat flakes and landed on his scarf without a sound. Behind him, Pip and Marge and all the small dinosaurs followed in a quiet, proud line, their footprints filling up with snow one by one, until the whole glittering parade had passed, and the night went still.
