Winky's gate

Rainbow put the cloud down at the gate and then his arms started shaking, great long shudders right down to the paws, and he could not get one word out — the chief of Candyfloss Land, in front of fifty-five fluffs, with a cloud on a table and nothing to say.

Nobody said anything clever, which I was glad about.

I sat down on the wall next to him. That is all I did.

After a while I asked which colour it was today, which is his own question, the one he has asked every fluff in this land hundreds of times.

They were all at the gate. Every one of them, in the dark, under the last lantern, and a great deal of shouting.

And the first thing I did — before the hello, before anything at all — was open my mouth to ask who needed what. Who was tired. Who had been left out. What wanted fixing.

Nine seasons of it. It is not even a decision any more; it is the shape my mouth makes.

"Rainbow," said Tipsy, who had tip-toed to the front. "Put the cloud down. Winky's got a table for it."

Rainbow came down off the hill at twenty past six with a cloud in both arms and stopped at the top of the bend for a long time, and then walked down and read the day off the path as he came.

And at the gate, in front of fifty-five fluffs, he opened his mouth to ask who needed what. Automatic. Nine seasons of it.

I got there first.

"Rainbow. Put the cloud down. Winky's got a table for it."

We were all at the gate. And the first thing he did — before hello, before anything — was open his mouth to ask who needed what.

Tipsy got there first. "Put the cloud down. Winky's got a table for it."

He put it down, and then his arms started shaking, and he could not get a single word out.

I have known Rainbow my whole life and I have never once seen that. Mopsy sat down on the wall next to him, and after a while asked which colour it was today, which is his own question, and he said grey. Worn out. Carried alone since the spring and never said, because he did not want anybody worrying.