The Blanket That Could Fly

The storm arrived at bedtime, which Isla thought was extremely rude.

The wind came first — a big, pushing, rattling sort of wind that made the windows shudder and the curtains lift even though they were closed. Then the rain arrived like someone throwing a bucket of pebbles at the glass. Then the thunder.

BOOM.

Isla sat up in bed and pulled her yellow blanket up to her chin.

BOOM again.

“It’s all right,” her mother called from the hallway. “It’s only the sky talking.”

“Tell it to be quieter!” Isla called back.

She heard her mother laugh softly, and then the light under the door stayed on, which meant her mother was still nearby, which was good.

Isla looked at the window.

The curtains were moving. The rain was very loud. The thunder went BOOM a third time.

She pulled her blanket up over her head.

Inside the blanket, it was warm and yellow-dark and it smelled like home. She breathed in slowly.

And then — under the blanket — she felt a familiar feeling. A lifting feeling. Like the moment on a swing when you reach the top and your tummy goes light.

She peeked out from the blanket’s edge.

She was not in her room anymore.

—

She was in the sky.

The blanket had spread itself wide and flat like a magic carpet — soft and warm beneath her, its edges flapping gently — and she was sailing through the heart of the storm.

But here is the thing about the storm from inside it: it was magnificent.

The lightning came in great purple-white flashes that lit up enormous clouds — clouds so big they looked like floating castles, with towers and battlements made of grey and silver. The thunder was still loud, but from here she could see where it came from — two great cloud-mountains bumping together and booming.

“Oh,” said Isla. “So THAT’S how it works.”

The blanket turned gently so she could see more. It knew where she wanted to look before she looked.

The rain fell all around her, but not on her — the blanket kept her dry in its own warm circle. She could see the drops falling past her, silver in the lightning flashes, each one a tiny mirror.

Below her, through gaps in the clouds, she could see her street — the orange streetlights, her own house, the window of her room with the warm light her mother had left on.

She wasn’t frightened at all.

The storm, from here, wasn’t rude or scary. It was busy and important and doing exactly what storms were supposed to do: washing the streets, filling the rivers, giving the gardens a big drink.

A gust of wind lifted the blanket slightly and spun her in a slow circle. She laughed.

The lightning flashed again — beautiful, enormous, gone in an instant. The thunder followed, and she felt it more than heard it now, a deep vibration in her chest, like a very large cat purring.

After a while — she didn’t know how long, time moved strangely up in the storm — the blanket began to descend.

Slowly. Gently. Through a gap in the clouds.

Down past the chimneys.

Down past the treetops.

Down through her open window and onto her bed.

The blanket folded itself neatly around her, warm and yellow and smelling of home.

Outside, the storm was still going. But it sounded different now — not rude and scary, just busy. Just the sky, doing what it needed to do.

Isla lay down.

She was sleepy. Very sleepy. The good kind, where your whole body feels heavy and your eyes close on their own.

“Good night, storm,” she said softly.

BOOM, said the thunder — but quietly now, already moving away.

Isla smiled.

She was asleep before the next lightning flash.