Beyond the Drowsy Orchard, where the grey trees lean and the slow dreams ripen, the soft grass of the Meadow Between sloped gently down to the edge of the Still Water.
Marlow came to it the way you come to the end of a long and kindly day — slowly, and without quite noticing, until the water was simply there in front of him, smooth and grey and not moving at all.
The grey hare was waiting at the water's edge, as she always was.
"This is the Still Water," she said softly, "and here is the Quiet Ferry, little turtle, to carry you across."
Drawn up on the bank was a small grey boat, round and low and patient, with a soft blanket folded in the bottom of it and no oars at all.
"But there are no oars," said Marlow. "How will I row?"
"You will not row," said the hare kindly. "That is the soft rule of the ferry. No one has ever rowed across the Still Water. You only climb in, and lie down, and let the night carry you. The current here runs all on its own, slow as breathing, and it knows the way far better than you do."
So Marlow climbed into the little boat, and the blanket was just the right warmth, and he lay down and looked up.
Above him the last few stars hung quietly in the grey, the way a nightlight glows in the corner of a room — watching over everything, and asking for nothing.
"Now let go of the bank," said the hare, "and be still."
Marlow let go.
And the boat did not lurch, and it did not hurry. It simply drifted — out, and out, and gently out — onto the smooth grey water, the way a leaf drifts, the way a thought drifts when you finally stop holding on to it.
He did not row. He did not steer. He did not try.
He only lay in the warm blanket and felt the water carry him, slow as breathing, slow as the whole soft night breathing all around him.
The bank grew quiet and far behind. The grey hare grew small and dim, keeping her calm and patient watch from the shore.
"You don't have to do anything now," her voice came over the water, further and softer, like mist drawing closed. "The night will carry you the rest of the way. It always has. You have only to lie still, and let it."
So Marlow lay still, and let it.
The little boat drifted on through the quiet, and the water made no sound at all, and the warm blanket rose and fell with him, slowly in, slowly out, and his eyes grew heavy in the good and gentle way.
He did not watch for the far shore. He did not wonder how long it would be. He only rested in the small grey boat, on the smooth still water, under the last quiet stars, and let the slow current of the night carry him softly, softly, all the way down into sleep.
The Quiet Ferry drifted on.
And the morning, far away on the other bank, was in no hurry at all. It would wait. It always did.