The smell beyond the window
Tara woke to the smell of warm bread.
Not the bread from morning, wrapped in cloth in the kitchen. This bread smelled of toasted seeds, sweet milk, and something she could only describe as a very happy cloud.
Outside her window, a silver path crossed the courtyard.
At its end stood a long table beneath the neem tree. Lanterns hung among the leaves. A fox in a blue shawl was setting out bowls, while three small badgers carried a jug between them.
Tara rubbed her eyes.
An envelope lay on the windowsill.
TARA, it said. SUPPER, IF YOU’D LIKE. BRING YOURSELF.
She read the last sentence twice.
People usually brought something to a feast. Her mother took rice fragrant with spices. Her uncle brought fruit. Her cousin could sing songs that made everyone clap.
Tara looked around her room. She had a smooth stone, a bent hairclip, and half a biscuit wrapped in paper.
She put the biscuit in her pocket.
Then she slipped on her sandals and stepped onto the silver path. It felt cool beneath her feet, like a ribbon of moonlight that had learned to stay still.
One chair without a name
The table stretched much farther than the courtyard ought to allow.
At one end, a tortoise arranged sliced pears in a blue bowl. At the other, a woman with stars caught in her hair stirred a pot of fragrant lentils.
Between them sat people and creatures of every size. A tiny mouse occupied a cushioned teaspoon. A giant rested on a bench made from two fallen clouds.
The fox greeted Tara.
“We’re glad you came.”
Tara held out the half biscuit. It had broken into crumbs inside the paper.
“I brought this.”
“Shall we put it beside the honey?”
“You don’t mind that it’s broken?”
“Not at all.”
The fox tipped the crumbs into a little dish without making a grand occasion of them.
Near the middle of the table stood an empty chair. Unlike the other places, it had no name card.
“Who sits there?” Tara asked.
“Someone who hasn’t arrived yet.”
“How do you know they’re coming?”
“We don’t.”
Tara glanced at the carefully folded napkin, the clean bowl, the cup waiting to be filled.
“Then why set it?”
The fox smiled. “It’s easier to feel welcome when there’s somewhere to sit.”
What everyone had brought
As supper began, Tara noticed the guests’ gifts.
The tortoise had brought pears from his garden. The giant had carried a whole branch of dates. A girl with silver bangles played a little drum, and the mouse told a story so funny that the badgers snorted milk through their whiskers.
Tara’s biscuit crumbs looked very small beside the honey.
She tried to remember a good story. Every story she knew seemed either too short or missing its middle.
She could help serve, perhaps. She reached for a heavy bowl, but the fox was already lifting it.
“Eat while it’s warm,” he said.
Tara sat with her hands beneath the table.
“What’s wrong?” asked the woman with stars in her hair.
“Everyone brought something useful.”
The woman glanced around. “Did they?”
“The food. The music. The stories.”
“Those are lovely.”
“I don’t have anything like that.”
The woman passed her bread. “Your invitation didn’t mention needing it.”
Before Tara could answer, a soft scuff sounded at the end of the silver path.
A small traveller stood there in a dusty coat. His hands were empty. He looked at the table, then down at his shoes, and began to turn away.
The table grows longer
Tara knew that turning-away feeling.
“There’s a chair,” she called.
The traveller stopped.
“For someone else, probably.”
“It doesn’t have a name.”
He came closer. He was a hare, young and long-eared, with one sleeve rolled higher than the other.
“I heard music,” he said. “I wasn’t invited.”
The fox pulled out the empty chair.
“We’re glad you heard it.”
“I haven’t brought anything.”
“Would you like bread?”
The hare nodded.
Tara passed the basket. The hare took a piece, then another when the fox encouraged him. Nobody asked for a song or an explanation.
As he settled, a curious thing happened.
The table lengthened by exactly one place. A fresh chair rose from the moonlight beside Tara, and a bowl appeared before it.
“There’s another empty seat,” she whispered.
“Yes,” said the woman with the starry hair.
Later, Tara grew sleepy. She had told no story and carried no heavy bowl. The hare had eaten quietly. A badger had spilled milk and been given a cloth and another cup.
Still the lanterns glowed over everyone alike.
When Tara walked home, the fox wrapped a warm roll for her breakfast.
“Will there be another feast?” she asked.
“When the moon is ready.”
“Should I bring something?”
“If you wish. But come either way.”
A little light to carry
In the morning, Tara found the roll on her windowsill, wrapped in a napkin as pale as moonlight. She shared it with her mother and described the teaspoon seat, the giant’s cloud bench, and the chair that appeared whenever the last one was filled. Her mother listened while spreading butter all the way to the edges.
That evening, Tara made room beside her on the courtyard step. No one came for a while, so she enjoyed the cool air by herself. Then a neighbour sat down, and they watched the first star appear. Tara had no performance ready, no gift in her hands. Far above the neem tree, the moon looked like a clean white bowl, waiting to be filled with light.