The Tortoise and the Hare

The Slowest One

Shel the tortoise was not fast. She knew this. Everyone knew this. The snails knew this, and they were SNAILS.

But Shel didn't mind being slow. Slow meant she noticed things — the way the dew sat on the clover in the morning. The way the earthworms waved hello when she passed. The way the sunset lasted FOREVER when you walked toward it, because you never arrived fast enough for it to end.

Zip the hare was fast. He knew this. He told everyone. Twice.

"I'm the fastest animal in the meadow," Zip said every morning, stretching his long legs. "Possibly the fastest in the COUNTY. Has anyone timed me? Someone should time me."

"Nobody cares, Zip," said the badger.

Zip did not hear this, because he was already on the other side of the field.

One morning, Zip found Shel crossing the path. She was on her way to the pond. She'd been walking since dawn. The pond was fifty steps away.

"STILL walking?" Zip laughed. "I could run to the pond and back SEVEN TIMES before you get there."

Shel blinked slowly. "Probably," she said.

"I could run to the OLD OAK and back before you take TEN steps."

"Probably."

"I could — actually, you know what? Let's RACE."

Shel looked at Zip. She looked at the path to the pond. She looked at her own four slow, flat feet.

"Okay," she said.

The news spread fast — faster than Zip, which annoyed him. By noon, every animal in the meadow had gathered at the starting line. The badger drew a line in the dirt. The crows agreed to judge. The squirrels sold acorns to the crowd.

"To the old oak and back," the badger announced. "On your marks..."

Zip crouched. Every muscle coiled.

Shel stood normally, because tortoises don't crouch.

"GO!"

Zip VANISHED. A blur of grey fur and long ears, dust kicking up behind him, already halfway to the oak before Shel had taken her second step.

Step. Step. Step. Shel walked. The crowd watched. Some yawned.

Step. Step. Step.

Zip reached the oak in forty seconds. He wasn't even breathing hard. He looked back. Shel was a tiny brown dot near the starting line.

"This isn't even a RACE," Zip muttered. He sat down under the oak. The shade was nice. The grass was cool. His eyes felt heavy — he'd been running since dawn, showing off for the crows.

"I'll just rest for a moment," he said. "She won't be here for an HOUR."

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

Step. Step. Step.

Shel walked. She passed the dandelion patch. She passed the rabbit holes. She passed the spot where the stream crosses the path and stopped for exactly one sip of water — cold and clear — and then kept going.

Step. Step. Step.

She didn't look at the oak. She didn't think about Zip. She thought about the way her feet felt on the warm earth, and the way the breeze carried the smell of clover, and the way each step was exactly the same as the last — small, and steady, and hers.

Zip dreamed about winning. In his dream, the crowd cheered and the badger gave him a medal and the squirrels named an acorn after him. It was a very good dream.

Meanwhile, Shel reached the oak. Zip was asleep against the trunk, one ear twitching, a snail sitting on his nose. Shel walked around him. She did not speed up. She did not slow down. She walked exactly as she had been walking since the beginning.

Step. Step. Step.

"WAIT — WHAT—"

Zip's eyes flew open. Shel was past him. She was past the oak. She was — he squinted — she was almost at the FINISH LINE.

He scrambled up. He ran. He ran so fast his ears laid flat and his feet barely touched the ground. He ran faster than he had ever run in his LIFE.

But Shel's last step — her four-thousandth step, steady and small and exactly like every one before it — crossed the line first.

The meadow exploded. The crows cawed. The squirrels threw acorns. The badger nodded, because badgers don't get excited but he was clearly impressed.

Zip skidded to a stop, panting, three steps too late. He stared at Shel.

"How?" he said.

Shel blinked. "I kept going," she said.

"That's IT?"

"That's it."

Zip sat down next to Shel. For a long time, neither spoke. The crowd drifted away. The sun began to set — orange and gold and slow, the way sunsets always are when nobody's rushing.

"I could have won," Zip said quietly.

"Yes," said Shel.

"But I stopped."

"Yes."

Zip looked at his long fast legs. Then at Shel's short slow ones. "Want to walk to the pond?" he said.

Shel looked at him. "I was going there this morning. Before all this."

"I know. I'll walk with you. If... that's okay."

"It's okay," Shel said.

They walked together. Slowly. Past the dandelion patch. Past the rabbit holes. Past the place where the stream crosses the path.

And the sunset lasted FOREVER... because they never arrived fast enough for it to end...

And by the time they reached the pond, the stars were out, and the water was silver, and two friends sat at the edge — one fast, one slow — watching the moon rise, saying nothing...

Because some things don't need to be said quickly... or loudly... or at all... they just need to be... still.