Lyra and the Low Branches

Lyra measured the world in necks. Her mother could reach a branch she could not. Her uncle could see over a rise that hid everything from her. Even her cousin Reed, hatched only a little earlier, seemed to grow longer every morning. Lyra stretched beside a conifer and missed the leaves she wanted by the length of her nose. “You’ll grow,” her mother said. Lyra wished growing came with a lever she could push.

That day the Diplodocus group was moving to a new feeding place. The adults knew a broad woodland clearing beyond a low ridge. Reed said the branches there were excellent, which made Lyra suspect they were all too high. She followed at the back with her aunt Sedge. Tall bodies moved ahead like a walking forest. Their long tails had plenty of room on the wide track, and Sedge reminded Lyra to stay clear of everyone’s steps.

Near the ridge, Lyra noticed a narrow green tunnel under the branches. She could see through it because her head was lower than the adults’. Beyond the tunnel lay a little hollow, and in the hollow stood another young Diplodocus. He was staring at a fallen trunk. Lyra called to Sedge. The group stopped, and the stranger startled so badly that he nearly backed into a bush. “I’m not lost,” he announced before anyone asked.

His name was Bay. He had followed the group’s tracks from the river but taken the wrong turn where two trails crossed. The fallen trunk had blocked his way back. It was not especially high, but its branches tangled together, and Bay had tried three times to squeeze through. Each attempt had frightened him more. Lyra understood the tight feeling in his voice. Being small was hard enough without everyone seeing you stuck behind something.

One adult suggested walking around the far end of the trunk. From above, the ground looked clear. Lyra could see a deep hollow concealed under the ferns there. “Wait,” she said. Everyone looked down. Her own voice suddenly felt very small. She wanted to hand the problem back to someone taller. Instead she took Sedge to a firm place where the hollow was visible. The adult stepped back at once. “Good looking,” she told Lyra.

They examined the other end of the trunk. There the branches spread across flat ground, with enough space between them for a careful youngster. Lyra could see exactly where Bay’s body would fit. She did not go into the tangle herself. Sedge checked for rolling wood and loose branches first. Then Lyra stood where Bay could see her. “There’s a low opening on your left,” she said. “Come toward my voice, slowly. We have time.”

Bay tried to hurry after the first step. A twig scratched his side, and he froze. Lyra stayed still. “Look at the gap in front of your nose,” she said. “Only that gap.” Bay breathed out. One foot moved. Then another. Sedge watched the branches while Lyra guided him across the level ground. At last his tail cleared the last twig. He stood beside her, shaking slightly, with a leaf stuck to his forehead.

The group waited while Bay rested. Lyra nudged the leaf free, and he began to laugh. It was a wobbly laugh at first. He admitted that he had been lost. Nobody teased him. His own family was feeding at the edge of the next clearing, where Sedge could call to them from the ridge. The reunion involved much relieved murmuring and a very long drink. Lyra stood beside Reed and watched Bay settle among familiar bodies.

The excellent branches really were too high for her. But below them, in a sheltered patch of sun, tender shoots grew around an old stump. Lyra found those first too. She invited Reed to share, then looked up at her mother’s long neck. Someday she would reach farther. Today she had seen something the tall dinosaurs missed, and she had used it to help. As they rested, Bay called across the clearing, “Thanks for looking down here.” Lyra smiled. “There’s a lot to see.”