The Night Watchman and the Moon Clock

Every evening, when the last stamp at the Bureau of Whimsy had been put away in its drawer, Mr Wick the night watchman put on his slippers. They were official slippers, brown and very quiet, with Night Watch stitched across the toes. He lit his lantern, took the big brass key from its hook, and called up the stairs. "Minutes. Time for rounds."

Minutes was a small grey owl who took notes on everything. She kept a pencil tucked behind one ear tuft and a notebook under her wing. She flew down, landed on his shoulder and wrote: Seven fifty-nine. Slippers on. Lantern lit.

Mr Wick walked the long corridors the way he always did, saying goodnight to everything. "Goodnight, Department of Teeth," he said, and a filing drawer gave a small, polite rattle. "Goodnight, Lost Sock Department. Goodnight, radiator. Goodnight, photocopier, who has worked very hard today."

At the end of the corridor was a little door, and behind the door were ninety-nine stone steps, and at the top of the steps was the moon clock. It was as big as a garden pond, with a silver moon for a hand. Every night it moved the real moon across the sky, slowly enough for every child in the world to fall asleep underneath it. And every night, it had to be wound.

Tonight, before he had even reached the top step, Mr Wick heard it. Tickety-tickety-tickety-tick. "Oh dear," he said. "That is much too fast." Minutes peered out of the tower window. The moon was hurrying across the sky as if it had a bus to catch.

"If the moon goes at that speed," said Mr Wick, "the night will be over by nine o'clock, and nobody will get any sleep at all." Minutes wrote: Clock overexcited. Moon in a hurry. Watchman worried.

Mr Wick tried the usual things. He polished the clock's face with a soft cloth, which is good for a clock with a busy mind. Tickety-tickety-tick. He read it a page of the Bureau's Big Book of Regulations, which sends almost everybody to sleep. But the clock found Regulation Forty-Six, on the correct folding of envelopes, so thrilling that it ticked even faster.

Minutes hopped onto the clock and pressed her ear tuft to the glass. She listened for a long time. Then she wrote something in her notebook and held it up. It said: Clock excited. Try breathing.

So Mr Wick sat down on the top step and set his lantern beside him. He breathed in slowly through his nose, as if he were smelling a mug of cocoa. He breathed out slowly through his mouth, as if he were cooling it down. The clock listened, and its ticking went tickety-tick, then tick-tick, then just tick.

In and out went Mr Wick. In and out went Minutes, whose feathers puffed up and went down again like a small grey loaf of bread. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Out of the window, the moon stopped hurrying. It slowed to a stroll, and then to the gentle drift of a moon with nowhere else to be.

"There we are," whispered Mr Wick. He fitted the brass key into the keyhole in the middle of the moon and turned it, and it made a sound like a drawer closing softly. One turn, two turns, all the way up to twelve, which is the correct number for a weeknight. Minutes wrote it down: Twelve turns, clock calm, moon on schedule.

Before they went back down, Mr Wick looked out over the rooftops. Most of the windows were dark. In one of them, a boy called Leo was climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to his chin. "Goodnight, Leo," said Mr Wick, much too quietly for anyone to hear. The moon heard, though, and it slid along, slow and silver, and rested for a while outside Leo's window, as moons are allowed to do.

Mr Wick picked up his lantern and walked down the ninety-nine steps, one quiet slipper at a time. Minutes rode on his shoulder with her eyes half closed and her notebook tucked under her wing. Behind them the moon clock ticked, tick, tock, tick, tock, as slow as a sleeping cat breathing.

And out in the sky the moon went on its way, taking its time, keeping watch over every bed and every pillow until morning.