The Smallest Drum

On Tansy Hill, the drum parade happened once a year. Momo the mouse had waited all winter for it. He polished his drum with a soft cloth until the butter-yellow rim shone. It was the smallest drum in the village, no bigger than a teacup, and it hung on a red strap across his chest.

The big drums were another thing altogether. They stood taller than Momo and boomed like thunder in a bucket. When the drummers practised, Momo pressed his ears flat and hid behind the flour sacks. “Aren’t you excited?” asked the drummers. Momo nodded, because he was. He was also scared of the noise, and he did not say so.

On parade day, fog came down over Tansy Hill. It covered the rooftops and the lane and the end of Momo’s own nose. The drummers banged louder to keep everyone together. Boom! Boom! Momo’s ears hurt. His little drum went tap-tap, tap-tap, but nobody could hear it at all, and he fell further and further behind.

Then, near the pear orchard, Momo heard something that was not a drum. A small, shaky sound. Meh. He stopped. He listened. Meh… meh. It came from under a pear tree, where the fog was thickest. A lamb had wandered off the path, and its mother was calling somewhere far away, and no one could hear either of them.

Momo’s heart went fast. He wanted to run after the parade. Instead he lifted his drum and played the softest pattern he knew. Tap… tap… tap. Not loud. Just steady, like a heartbeat with a friend. The lamb went quiet. Momo played again. Tap… tap… tap. “Follow me,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

Step by step, the lamb came out of the fog: small, white and wobbly. Momo kept tapping, and the lamb followed the sound along the lane, past the bakery, past the well, all the way to the village square. The big drums had stopped now. Everyone was standing still, listening. Tap… tap… tap, came the smallest drum out of the white.

Then the fog thinned, and there was the mother sheep, running. The lamb bleated and ran to her. Everyone turned to look at Momo, who was very small and very red in the face. “Lead us,” said the drummers. So Momo did. He walked at the front of the parade, playing his small drum, and the whole hill leaned in to hear.

That night, Momo set his drum on the windowsill. The fog had gone, and the stars were out over Tansy Hill. He tapped twice, softly, just to hear it. From the meadow below, a small voice answered: meh. Momo smiled, pulled up his blanket, and slept with the window open.