Clover and the First Winter

Clover was a small badger with a stripy nose and very muddy paws.

Autumn had turned the world gold and rust and red. The air smelled like wet leaves and something sweet. Clover sniffed and sniffed.

"What is that smell?" asked Clover.

"That," said Mama, "is winter coming."

Clover had never met winter before.

First came the gathering. Mama and Papa filled their arms with soft dry grass. They carried it underground, down the long tunnel, into the deepest, roundest room. Clover helped. Her bundle was very small, but Mama said it was just the right size.

Then came the baking. Papa mixed and stirred something warm and golden. It bubbled. It filled the whole burrow with a smell like honey and toasted nuts. Clover pressed her nose to the pot and breathed in deeply.

"Is that what winter tastes like?" she asked.

"That is what getting ready tastes like," said Papa, and he gave her a spoonful.

It was the very best thing she had ever tasted.

Then the rain came. It tapped on the roots above them. Then it tapped harder. Then it shushed and hissed and everything outside went quiet and grey.

Clover stood at the tunnel entrance and looked out. The world was silver and cold and very, very still.

"Come inside, little one," called Mama softly.

Clover padded back down. Down and down, past the roots that glowed amber in the lamplight, into the round warm room.

The grass was soft beneath her. The lantern made everything glow. Mama was there. Papa was there. And Grandmother, too, round and warm as a loaf of bread.

They all tucked in together. Close and snug. Four heartbeats in the quiet dark.

Clover pressed her nose against Mama's side.

"Is this what home is for?" she whispered.

Mama smiled and held her close.

"Yes, my love," she said. "Exactly this."

Outside, the first snow began to fall. But inside, everything was just right.