A story for children and for grownups who have forgotten a dream along the way.
“Stop!” said Caretta hastily. “Don’t tell me! It won’t work if you don’t keep it secret. Just put it into the nest with the eggs.”
“Put it in the nest?” How could he do that, Daniel wondered.
“Yes, go on, just do it”, urged Caretta.
Daniel didn’t think it could work, but he didn’t want to hurt the turtle’s feelings. So he cupped his hands as if to catch water, imagined his dream into them and laid it softly among the precious eggs.
“And now fill the hole again carefully. Nobody shall know that somebody dug here”, Caretta told him.
Daniel gently shoved all the sand back into the hole. He was amazed how much there was. Then he swept away the imprints of his hands with a palm leaf. Finally he scattered some of the small shells over it that lay everywhere. Now the spot looked just like the rest of the beach. Nobody but Caretta and Daniel knew the secret under the sand. No one on this half of the earth, and no one on the other half, to which Daniel would return tomorrow.
“Now my children can grow inside the eggs, a little bit every day, and your dream will grow with them”, Caretta explained. “It will take about ten weeks. When they are all big enough, they will hatch. Then they and the dream will crawl into the ocean together.”
“What will they do there?” Daniel asked, curious.
… so new that even Santa Claus hasn’t heard them.
Excerpt from “There will be stars”
He appeared out of a heavy fog on a still, dismal morning. Small and bowed in a coat sizes to big for him, he looked frail, slightly unreal, like nothing more than a passing thought . Tourists were huddled on the beach, sad because their precious holiday was dribbling away in days far too cold for this place and time. Mothers wrapped blankets around shivering toddlers, husbands grumbled because their newpapers distintegrated wetly. The waves ducked beneath the weighing horizon; even the breeze had died.
I sat on my towel, arms locked around my knees against the cold, and listened to the seagulls, whose cries drifted through the mist. My attention wandered to the fragile man, who walked from tourist to tourist with slow determination. It seemed he spoke to everyone in turn, then squatted down to hand them something tiny. My mother was busily solving a crossword puzzle. “A sea creature with eight letters” she mumbled thoughtfully.
“Sea star”? I suggested.
A shadow fell on her. “There will be stars tonight”, a voice soft as the absent breeze announced firmly. The man stood before us, no taller now he was so close. But there was something in his eyes: the warmth and the light that was missing from this July, and more. He crouched and held out a fragment of paper to my mother, who was surprised enough to take it, though she usually mistrusted strangers. Then he gave one to me…