On the far side of the Still Water, where the Quiet Ferry had carried him so slowly and so kindly, Marlow felt the little boat touch the soft sand of the Far Shore.
He did not get up in a hurry. There is never any hurry on the Far Shore. He lay a moment longer in the warm blanket, listening to the small sound of the water folding over and over against the sand, the way a quilt is smoothed flat by a gentle hand.
The grey hare was there, as she always was, sitting on the shore with her paws tucked under her.
"You crossed the Still Water," she said softly. "Look up, little turtle. The Sleepy Lighthouse is keeping watch."
Marlow looked, and high on the dunes above the shore stood a small white lighthouse, no taller than a friendly tree, with one round window of soft golden light at the very top.
The light did not flash or hurry. It turned slowly, slowly, around and around, the way you turn over in a warm bed to find the cosiest place. Each time it came round, it laid a long, soft ribbon of gold across the water and across the sand and across Marlow himself — warm for a moment, like a hand resting on your back — and then it moved gently on.
"What is the lighthouse for?" Marlow asked, in a voice that was already going soft at the edges.
"It is not for finding your way," said the hare. "You have already arrived. It is only here to keep the watch, so that no one on the Far Shore has to. The lighthouse stays awake so that you do not have to. That is its whole quiet job."
And Marlow understood, the way you understand things on the edge of sleep, without quite using words. He did not have to keep watch. He did not have to listen for anything, or wait for anything, or hold on to anything at all. The little golden light would do all of it, turning and turning, all through the long and gentle dark.
So he climbed out of the boat and lay down in the soft sand of the Far Shore, which was just the right warmth, and pulled the blanket up over his shell.
Around came the light, slow and gold, and rested on him for a moment, and moved on.
Around it came again, a little softer.
And again, softer still, until the gold and the dark and the small folding sound of the water all wove together into one warm and drowsy thing, and Marlow could no longer tell where the lighthouse ended and his own slow breathing began.
The grey hare watched him a while, the way you watch over someone you love when they have finally, safely, gone to sleep.
Then she settled down beside him on the warm sand, and the Sleepy Lighthouse turned its soft gold ribbon around them both, keeping the whole quiet shore, so that neither of them had to.
Far off, beyond the dunes, the morning was waiting — patient and unhurried, in no rush at all to come.
And it did not wake him.