The Mermaid Who Wouldn't Go to Bed

8 pages · 5 min · ages 5+

The moon came up, round and silver, and the sea went dark and blue and quiet. “Bedtime, Isla,” said Mum, holding up the soft seaweed blanket. “Just five more minutes!” said Isla. Isla was not tired. Not one bit. Her tail was full of swishes and her head was full of ideas. “Five minutes,” said Mum, and she smiled a sleepy smile. Isla swished out of the round front door before Mum could change her mind.

First, she swam to see Mr. Pinch. Mr. Pinch lived in the Golden Shell now, the one Isla had won in the Wave Race. It was the fanciest home on the whole reef. “Want to play hide-and-seek?” asked Isla. Mr. Pinch looked at her with his droopy eyes. He opened his mouth and yawned. It was a very big yawn for a very small crab. “Nice place,” he mumbled. “Going to bed.” And he pulled the Golden Shell closed. Click.

Next, she swam to see the snail. The snail was already asleep. The snail was always asleep. Isla floated beside her and waited for her to wake up. And waited. The water was warm and soft, and very, very quiet. Tiny bubbles drifted up past her nose. “I'm not tired,” Isla whispered to nobody at all. And then, without meaning to, Isla did a very small yawn.

“Five more minutes,” said Isla, and she swam faster. She swam loop-the-loops round the kelp forest. She raced a shoal of little silver fish and let them win. She did twenty cartwheels with her tail. Then the glowing jellyfish came out, one by one, like little night-lights, pink and blue and gold. They floated past so slowly. They were so soft. Isla stopped to watch them drift, and drift, and drift. She yawned again. A bigger one.

She found Olga the octopus on her rock, reading. Olga usually read eight books at once, one in each arm, because she liked to be busy. But tonight, only one book was open. The other seven were shut. “Are you going to bed too, Olga?” asked Isla. “Almost, darling,” said Olga, turning one slow page. “You look sleepy.” “I'm not,” said Isla, and she yawned so hard that her curls wobbled.

Last of all, she swam to the old blue-and-white teapot where the baby seahorses lived. Five little faces peeked out of the spout. “Isla!” they whispered. “We can't get to sleep. Will you tell us a story?” Isla curled up on the soft sand next to the teapot. She wrapped her tail around it, like a blanket. She was a very good storyteller. She took a big, slow breath. “Once upon a time,” said Isla, “there was a mermaid who wouldn't go to bed…”

“She swam to see the crab… and the crab yawned. She swam to see the snail… and the snail was asleep. She swam through the kelp… and the jellyfish floated by… slowly… slowly…” Isla's voice got softer. And slower. And softer. “And the mermaid said… just… five… more…” The seahorses waited for the end of the story. But there was no end. Isla was fast asleep, with her cheek on her hands.

Mum found her there. She scooped Isla up very gently and carried her home, past the sleeping snail, past Olga's closed books, past the Golden Shell, which was snoring. She tucked Isla into her soft seaweed bed. Isla opened one eye, just a little bit. “Five more minutes?” she mumbled. “Just five more minutes,” whispered Mum. And she snuggled down beside her, and they both fell fast asleep. Goodnight, Isla. Goodnight, little seahorses. Goodnight, little one.