Mr. Littlewhiff was a diminutive mouse. Compared to the other Cactus Mice of the desert he was hardly far behind – but their teasing remained relentless. Such was society life. Boredom of the burrows. Others just teased for the meager joy that their meanness rewarded them. But, in his later years now, Mr. Littlewhiff no longer cared. His smallness was his super power. His kindness was a treasure.
Striking out from the burrow at speed, Littlewhiff felt the nipping cold upon his ears – and darted from shadow to shadow beneath the glow of the moon. The great saguaros towered above him, and the world raced by him – a great maze of danger and dark. But Littlewhiff was not afraid. Littlewhiff knew his way.
Sensing a scorpion, he veered left, around some flat stones and beneath Branfords Mesquite Log. The wings of a diving owl pulled up short above him. Littlewhiff sighed. The desert presented few challenges to him anymore. Peeking his nose out, he followed the scent of prickly pear, and then, angled off toward the croaks of the sand toads. In time he fell beneath the looming hulk of the Old Metal Man. Nudging through the thicket of brambles, Littlewhiff shook his coat and felt the warmth of the tunnel air within.
He descended slowly – taking his time to pad quietly down the tunnel’s length. He admired the scratch marks he knew were his mothers. He felt happiness at the memory of her. No matter how old he’d gotten, he’d never lost the memory of his mother – how she’d have greeted him. The sound of her calls. Now he too warbled as she once did. Littlewhiff placed a claw next to one of the old tunnel scars and scraped downwards. A mark of his own.
Mr. Littlewhiff did not have little ones. As greatly as he had desired them – no mate had chosen him. A curse of smallness. The tunnel opened into the wide cavern of the Metal Man’s chest cavity. The many belongings of his youth lie about there. The antiques his mother had collected too. He scuttled about them, ensuring nothing had been moved or precious trinket stolen. But everything remained in place. With a satisfied grunt, Littlewhiff made his way to his secret passage.
Just behind the pile of old cotton scraps his grandfather had made, a small pipe awaited him. Littlewhiff had found it when he was a boy, and to his great joy, he had never grown large enough to bar his entry. Popping in, he pulled himself forward into the dark. The pipe curled up, up, up. He climbed slowly, making sure he did not get stuck in the corrugated plastic. Appearing at last at the end, Littlewhiff’s eyes filled with stars.
Looking out from the picture windows of the Metal Man’s eyes, Littlewhiff sat and drank in the view. An enormous city stretched out in front of him – and the lighted towers of the humans felt small from his perch. Beneath the shelter of the Metal Man’s helm, he was safe. Rivers of red and white lights spread out over the desert, and Littlewhiff watched as great metal birds brought humans to their city. And then carried them away. He watched them come and watched them go – nibbling upon the rich, toasty bramble seeds his family had long collected.
Littlewhiff felt joy. Contentment. And peace.
Smallness afforded him that vastness. And as the sun slowly made its way around the earth once again, Littlewhiff made his way back to the others. Under the owl, over the scorpion, and into the burrow. He was alone. He was small. But he possessed something far beyond the other mice. Knowledge of scale. Serenity. And that was powerful beyond any measure. So he settled down into his nook, closed his eyes, and dreamt of lights.
Goodnight, Mr. Littlewhiff. Sleep tight.
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