The Storyteller by Aaron Starmer

wombat’s head and back. It was a warm day, so the rain wasn’t a bad thing. It was quite pleasant, actually. A lovely sort of rain.
    Sprinting through the forest and down the road, with plastic tubs of wild black raspberries they’d picked, a girl named Rosie and her younger brother named Hamish came upon the wombat. “Well, look at that,” Rosie said.
    â€œUgliest puppy I’ve ever seen,” Hamish said.
    â€œIt isn’t a puppy,” Rosie said. “That there is a wombat.”
    â€œA womwhat?”
    â€œWombat. From Australia. Like a koala that can’t climb. Or a kangaroo that can’t jump.”
    Hamish got down on all fours for a closer look. Water dripped from his floppy bangs. “Then what does he do?” he asked.
    Rosie didn’t need to get on all fours to answer. “First off, he’s a she. Notice the lack of dangly bits. And why does she have to do anything?”
    Hamish leaned in closer, until the wombat showed her teeth. He pulled back, pushed his bangs up, and said, “Everything needs a purpose. Guess hers is to be mean and ugly.”
    â€œYou’re mean and ugly,” Rosie said, a comment that made the wombat smile. At least it looked like a smile. Maybe it was gas.
    Whatever the case, Rosie whistled a welcoming whistle and the wombat waddled over to her, stood up on her hind legs, and swayed because of the weight of the sign around her neck. Rosie bent down and picked the wombat up.
    â€œShow-off,” Hamish said.
    â€œPerfectly fine wombat,” Rosie said, bobbing her chin at the sign because she needed both hands to hold the slippery beast. “Means she’s fine and perfect and I’m taking her home.”
    â€œMeans she’s perfectly fine ,” Hamish said. “That’s entirely different. Might as well be spectacularly regular .”
    Rosie stuck out her tongue and set off down the road with the wombat under her arm. When Rosie was only twenty feet or so away, Hamish could barely see her, on account of all the rain. But he could see a faint glow.
    Yes, that perfectly fine wombat was glowing.
    *   *   *
    They took the wombat home. Well, to their summer home, a small cabin on the rocky coast of an island in the Atlantic. Their parents asked the standard questions:
    What are you going to feed it?
    Where will it sleep?
    Who’s going to clean up after it?
    Rosie gave three answers:
    Table scraps.
    In my bed.
    Hamish.
    Hamish didn’t object. He knew Rosie could convince their parents of just about anything, and if he was forced to live with this wombat, then he’d rather clean up her poop than have her sleep in his bed, especially since she glowed.
    â€œIt’ll be like having a night-light pressed against your face while you sleep,” he told Rosie. “No thank you.”
    â€œOh, come on, she doesn’t glow that much,” she replied. And she was right. At first. But, like a dimmer on a lamp slowly turned up, the wombat was getting brighter day by day. They didn’t notice the brightening during those first few weeks, but they did decide to name her Luna, on account of the fact that in the nighttime, she resembled the moon.
    Rosie gave Luna showers every day, hoping to wash off whatever it was that made her fur glow. Luna adored the showers, but no matter what or how much soap Rosie used, the glow remained.
    â€œDo you think she’s sick?” Hamish asked one afternoon. Though he’d been resistant to Luna initially, the boy had come to truly care for her.
    â€œDr. Hoover will know,” Rosie replied.
    Dr. Hoover was a veterinarian who lived on the island with a menagerie of animals—dogs, cats, goats, parrots, ferrets, snakes, and other things. She had years of experience with all sorts of beasts, even a wombat or two. However, Dr. Hoover had no idea what was wrong with Luna.
    Standing back from the examining table where Luna sat and munched