A Gift Without a Box

For the third time, Nubo lifted the same shell to his head, shook it and set it back on the windowsill.

Snow was falling outside. Gingerbread biscuits were cooling in the kitchen, and Orumi was trying to decide whether a bow looked better on a present, on a chair or on himself.

“Is that shell broken?” Fira asked.

“No. It just remembers a different sea.”

Nubo ran a finger along its edge.

“Back home, the waves would hit the flat rocks first. Then the pebbles would clatter as the water drew them back. In the evening, you could sit on your board and listen for ages.”

Fira sat down beside him. Nubo told her about the dark water, the pale shore and Neptune hanging low above the horizon. Then he asked whether there were any gingerbread biscuits left.

There were. Fira gave him three, but he only ate one.

The next day, she found Orumi in the workshop.

“I want to give Nubo a little piece of his sea.”

Orumi looked at the floor.

“I could make a sea. The table would probably float away first.”

“I mean the sound. And sitting together on the shore.”

Orumi took the bow off his head.

“Then let's bring him the shore.”

Fira gathered a handful of smooth pebbles from the stream. She found some dry seed pods that rustled when shaken, and two broad pieces of wood. Orumi brought a shallow wooden trough. Then he changed his mind and brought another one, because he still meant to plant basil in the first one someday.

In the workshop, they arranged the stones, hung the seed pods on a string and began to try things out.

Scrape.

Rattle.

THUMP.

Nubo peered through the doorway.

“Have you dropped something?”

Fira froze with the trough tilted over the table.

“It was meant to be a present. We haven't finished yet. We're trying to make your sea.”

Nubo studied the pebbles for a long moment.

“It doesn't sound like that.”

Fira's petal arms slowly drooped.

“I know. I can't quite picture the place.”

Orumi tipped the stones into the other end of the trough.

“Good thing you've come. I was just making an avalanche.”

The smallest star on Nubo's face flickered. He came closer.

“It's too steep here. And all the stones start moving at once.”

He put a piece of wood beneath the trough so they could rock it gently. Fira chose smaller pebbles and separated them with strips of thick fabric. Orumi placed the seed pods by the window, in the current of warm air rising from the stove.

They worked until dusk.

Nubo tapped out the rhythm with his fingers on the table. Fira adjusted the stones until they began to roll one at a time. Orumi discovered that an old brush drawn across a rough board made a surprisingly convincing swishing sound.

“A little like a wave,” Nubo decided.

“A little like sweeping,” Orumi added, and tried it more slowly.

On Christmas Eve, presents waited beneath the tree. Nubo unwrapped a little torch, a box of crayons and a new cover for his notebook, then immediately began looking for the notebook.

“The rest of your present is in the workshop,” Fira said.

Inside were three low seats. They had hung a dark cloth on the wall, and above it Fira had placed a round picture of Neptune, painted by Orumi.

They sat down.

Fira tilted the trough. The pebbles rolled slowly. Orumi drew the brush across the board. The seed pods rustled by the window.

Nubo said nothing for a long while.

“Shall we do it again?” Fira whispered.

“Wait.”

He tilted his head as though listening for something.

“Now. The next wave is coming.”

Fira rocked the trough. Orumi found the brush he had been sitting on.

The stove crackled on the other side of the wall. The smell of gingerbread drifted from the kitchen. Nubo moved his seat closer to his friends.

“We didn't have biscuits this good on my shore.”

“I could think up a whole mountain of them,” Orumi offered.

“Let's check the kitchen first,” said Fira.

That evening, they took several breaks from their sea to go back for more.