Chapter Nineteen: A Seed
Rainy awoke to the soft rustle of footsteps outside her tent. The first blush of dawn painted the edges of the horizon, and already, the children had begun to gather. By the time she emerged, the circle was nearly complete—small faces wrapped in scarves against the crisp morning air, wide eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Her heart tightened. Word had spread quickly, it seemed. Yesterday’s stories had stirred something deeper than she’d intended. The first, too sharp-edged, had rattled the adults; the second, meant to soothe, had only inspired the children to imagine wild adventures in the woods and beyond. Now, the village had set their sights on her.
She could feel it—the weight of watchful eyes. Among the nearby trees and shadows, she glimpsed the unmistakable forms of the chosen watchers, villagers tasked with spying on her. Their presence was quiet but deliberate, a reminder that every word she spoke was under scrutiny.
Why had she expected it to be different here? In fact, people were the same everywhere; the Valley of the Elder Children was no different. She was beginning to realize how different and unique she really was. But, in her heart she was so happy; she just was bursting to share this gift in her heart.
Rainy set the kettle to boil over her small fire, her hands steady despite the storm inside her. She made tea, the steam curling into the morning air like fragile threads of thought. Only when her cup was full and her breath had steadied did she sit down among the children.
They were silent, waiting. Expectant.
She hesitated, her gaze flickering to the edges of the clearing where the watchers lurked. The children leaned closer, eager, trusting. Rainy swallowed her doubt and began.
"Once, there was a tiny seed," she said, her voice soft and measured. The children tilted their heads, drawn in by the promise of something new. "It lived in a meadow, surrounded by grass taller than itself. Every day, the seed looked up at the sky and dreamed of being a tree. A big, strong tree with branches that touched the clouds."
The children smiled, some giggling softly at the image. But Rainy’s gaze swept past them, catching a shadow moving among the trees. A watcher shifted, listening.
"The seed was very small," she continued, keeping her tone light and simple. "Smaller than the pebbles on the ground, smaller than the raindrops that sometimes splashed against it. It thought, 'I’m too little to grow. The world is too big, and the earth is too heavy.' But the sun shone warmly, and the rain fell gently, and the seed began to change."
Rainy paused to sip her tea, giving the story a chance to settle. The children leaned in, their breaths held in quiet wonder.
"It wasn’t easy," she said after a moment. "The seed had to push and push to break through the soil. And when it finally did, the wind tried to knock it down, and the animals trampled near it, and the rain sometimes came too hard. But the seed didn’t stop growing. It reached for the sun, even when it seemed far away."
She felt the tension ease in the clearing. The children were enchanted, and the watchers, she hoped, found nothing to object to.
"And do you know what happened?" Rainy asked, her voice brightening.
"What?" the children whispered in unison.
"The seed grew into a sapling," she said, smiling. "And then, over many seasons, it became a tree. Not the biggest tree in the meadow, and not the tallest. But it was strong enough to shelter the birds and shade the ground. It didn’t have to be the biggest to be enough."
The children exchanged glances, some nodding as if they understood, others simply smiling at the happy ending.
"And the seed was happy," Rainy concluded. "Because it didn’t have to reach the clouds to be part of the sky."
The clearing was silent for a moment, then filled with soft murmurs as the children began to chatter about the story. Rainy’s shoulders relaxed as she watched them, their imaginations sparking in innocent, harmless directions. She glanced toward the shadows again, where the watchers lingered.
The villagers wouldn’t find fault with this story. It was safe, shallow enough to appease their fears. But as the children laughed and shared their own dreams of what they might grow into, Rainy’s heart felt heavy.
This wasn’t the kind of story she wanted to tell.
Rainy finished her tea, her gaze drifting to the mountains on the horizon. There were deeper tales she longed to share—stories of struggle and triumph, of questions and truths too complex for simple endings. But for now, she had to tread carefully.
The children would come back, she knew, hungry for more. And Rainy would be here, spinning stories that stayed within the village’s unspoken boundaries, all while planting seeds of her own. For even the shallowest tale could carry hidden roots, waiting to take hold in the fertile soil of a child’s heart. And perhaps, one day, those roots would grow strong enough to reach the sky.
As the children scattered to play, their laughter ringing through the clearing like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, Rainy lingered by the fire. She stared into the swirling embers, her thoughts tangled like the roots of the old tree she’d just spoken of. The watchers had retreated for now, but their presence lingered in the stillness, heavy as a storm cloud on the horizon.
The villagers’ concerns were clear: Rainy’s stories were stirring too much—too much curiosity, too much imagination, too much questioning. These were dangerous things in a place where rules were woven into the fabric of life, where certainty was prized above all else. Her stories threatened that fragile order.
Rainy sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her now-empty teacup. She wasn’t sure if the villagers feared for the children or for themselves. Did they truly believe a story could harm, or were they simply afraid of what it might awaken—dreams they had long buried, paths they dared not tread?
She thought of the children’s wide eyes as they hung on her every word, their worlds expanding with each tale. They didn’t see the shadows gathering at the edge of the clearing, didn’t hear the murmurs of disapproval that crept closer with each passing day.
What was she to do?
The safe stories were easy, their lessons tidy and unthreatening. But Rainy had always believed that stories were more than just entertainment or instruction. They were mirrors, windows, maps. They had the power to light the darkest corners of the soul, to ignite fires that no amount of water could quench.
But power came with risk.
She turned her gaze toward the mountains in the distance, their peaks veiled in mist. The villagers had warned her never to speak of what lay beyond them. The mountains were a boundary, both literal and metaphorical, a line no one dared cross. Yet she felt the pull of them, as though they whispered her name on the wind.
Rainy had always told herself that stories could bridge any divide, even the one between her and the villagers. But lately, she wasn’t so sure. Every story she told seemed to push her closer to the edge of their acceptance, closer to exile.
The children began to drift back toward her, their games finished, their faces flushed with anticipation. Rainy felt a pang of guilt as they settled around her once more, their trust unwavering.
"One more story," one of the younger boys pleaded, his voice soft but insistent.
Rainy hesitated. She glanced toward the trees, searching for movement among the shadows. The watchers were gone—for now—but she knew word of this morning’s gathering would reach the elders before nightfall.
Her hand hovered over the worn pouch of polished stones she carried, each one representing a story waiting to be told. She rolled one between her fingers, the smooth surface cool against her skin.
The children leaned in, their expectant faces like flowers turning toward the sun.
What would she tell them?
A shallow story, she decided. Something safe, something simple. She couldn’t risk more today, not with the villagers already sharpening their suspicions.
But as she opened her mouth to begin, her mind wandered back to the mountains. What if she told a story about them? A tale so gentle, so wrapped in metaphor, that even the most cautious watcher couldn’t accuse her of planting forbidden ideas?
She began, her voice steady but soft:
"Once, in a village much like this one, there was a girl who loved to watch the mountains. They were always there, standing silent and strong, their peaks lost in the clouds. The girl would sit by the riverbank and imagine what it would be like to climb them. Not to cross them—just to climb a little way, to see what the world looked like from up high."
The children leaned closer, their eyes wide. Rainy kept her tone light, her words chosen with care.
"One day, a bird flew down to the girl, carrying a single feather in its beak. The feather shimmered like the stars, and when the girl held it, she felt as though she could fly. The bird didn’t speak, but its eyes seemed to say, ‘Come with me.’"
Rainy paused, gauging the children’s reactions. They were enraptured, their imaginations soaring with the bird.
"But the girl hesitated," she continued. "She thought of her family, her friends, the safety of her village. The mountains were beautiful, yes, but they were also wild and unknown. She handed the feather back to the bird and said, ‘Not today.’ The bird tilted its head as if to ask, ‘Why not?’ but it flew away without another word."
Rainy smiled, though her heart ached. "The girl stayed in the village, and she was happy. But every now and then, when she looked at the mountains, she wondered what it might have been like to follow the bird, just for a little while."
The story ended there, a safe and simple tale of curiosity tempered by caution.
The children clapped politely, though a few seemed disappointed by the lack of adventure. Rainy couldn’t blame them. She felt the same.
As the children dispersed, Rainy remained by the fire, staring at the mountains once more. The villagers might think they had silenced her, but they didn’t understand the nature of stories.
Even the simplest tale could carry a spark. And sparks, given time, could ignite wildfires.
The children lingered at the edge of the clearing, hopeful for one more story. Rainy, still seated by the fire, caught the flicker of movement among the trees. The watchers had returned. Their presence was subtle but deliberate, a reminder that every word she spoke would carry back to the ears of the village elders.
If she was going to stay, she had to give them what they wanted—a story as harmless as morning dew, as fleeting as laughter carried on the breeze.
"All right," Rainy said, her voice warm and playful. "One last story before you all go help your families. But this one is about the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever imagined."
The children shuffled closer, giggles escaping in anticipation. Rainy sat up straighter, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her tone light and exaggerated.
"Once, not so long ago, in a meadow not so far from here, there lived a wobblefrog. Now, a wobblefrog isn’t your ordinary frog. No, no. A wobblefrog is much too silly for that. For starters, it couldn’t hop straight to save its life. Every time it tried, it went sideways instead, flopping onto its back in the grass."
The children burst into laughter, already imagining the clumsy frog. Rainy exaggerated her gestures, mimicking the frog's tumbling antics.
"Now, this particular wobblefrog had a problem," she continued, grinning at their delight. "It wanted to join the Annual Meadow Hop-Off, a great race where all the frogs in the land came together to show off their hopping skills. But how could a wobblefrog ever hope to win when it couldn’t even stay upright?"
A few of the older children chimed in with guesses. "It practiced!" one called out.
"It cheated!" another added, which made Rainy feign a scandalized gasp.
"Cheated? Oh, no," she said, her grin widening. "The wobblefrog wasn’t clever enough for that. But it did practice, every single day. Except... instead of getting better at hopping straight, it got really, really good at hopping in loops. Big loops, little loops, even fancy twirls."
She paused dramatically, watching the children’s eyes widen.
"When the day of the Hop-Off finally arrived, all the other frogs lined up, sleek and strong. They laughed at the wobblefrog, with its wobbly legs and crooked jumps. ‘You’ll never win,’ they said. ‘You can’t even go in a straight line!’ But the wobblefrog didn’t mind. It just wobbled its way to the starting line and waited for the signal."
Rainy leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"And when the race began, all the other frogs took off in a flash, hopping straight as arrows toward the finish line. But do you know what the wobblefrog did?"
The children shook their heads eagerly, leaning in.
"It started hopping in circles. Big, looping circles. The other frogs were so confused, they stopped to watch. ‘What’s it doing?’ they asked. And while they were all distracted, the wobblefrog’s looping path got closer and closer to the finish line until—BOING!—it bounced right across it!"
The children erupted into laughter and cheers, some hopping around to mimic the wobblefrog’s antics. Rainy clapped her hands together, the sound echoing brightly in the clearing.
"And do you know what the wobblefrog said when it won?" she asked, her smile teasing.
"What?" the children chorused.
"'Who needs straight lines when you’ve got style?'"
The children roared with laughter, and even the shadows under the trees seemed to lighten. Rainy’s heart eased slightly. It was a silly story, harmless and fun. It wouldn’t send the children on dangerous adventures or awaken forbidden questions.
The watchers, she hoped, would report back favorably. This was the kind of tale the villagers wanted—a story with no edges, no risks, no sparks to ignite forbidden fires.
Yet, as the children wandered away, chattering about wobblefrogs and imaginary races, Rainy couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. Stories like this were easy, yes, but they didn’t linger. They didn’t plant seeds.
For now, though, it was enough. She would wait, as steady and quiet as the mountains she so often dreamed of, knowing that someday the time for deeper stories would come again. But, as for tonight, she would tell the village people the silliest story of all.
Her heart tightened. Word had spread quickly, it seemed. Yesterday’s stories had stirred something deeper than she’d intended. The first, too sharp-edged, had rattled the adults; the second, meant to soothe, had only inspired the children to imagine wild adventures in the woods and beyond. Now, the village had set their sights on her.
She could feel it—the weight of watchful eyes. Among the nearby trees and shadows, she glimpsed the unmistakable forms of the chosen watchers, villagers tasked with spying on her. Their presence was quiet but deliberate, a reminder that every word she spoke was under scrutiny.
Why had she expected it to be different here? In fact, people were the same everywhere; the Valley of the Elder Children was no different. She was beginning to realize how different and unique she really was. But, in her heart she was so happy; she just was bursting to share this gift in her heart.
Rainy set the kettle to boil over her small fire, her hands steady despite the storm inside her. She made tea, the steam curling into the morning air like fragile threads of thought. Only when her cup was full and her breath had steadied did she sit down among the children.
They were silent, waiting. Expectant.
She hesitated, her gaze flickering to the edges of the clearing where the watchers lurked. The children leaned closer, eager, trusting. Rainy swallowed her doubt and began.
"Once, there was a tiny seed," she said, her voice soft and measured. The children tilted their heads, drawn in by the promise of something new. "It lived in a meadow, surrounded by grass taller than itself. Every day, the seed looked up at the sky and dreamed of being a tree. A big, strong tree with branches that touched the clouds."
The children smiled, some giggling softly at the image. But Rainy’s gaze swept past them, catching a shadow moving among the trees. A watcher shifted, listening.
"The seed was very small," she continued, keeping her tone light and simple. "Smaller than the pebbles on the ground, smaller than the raindrops that sometimes splashed against it. It thought, 'I’m too little to grow. The world is too big, and the earth is too heavy.' But the sun shone warmly, and the rain fell gently, and the seed began to change."
Rainy paused to sip her tea, giving the story a chance to settle. The children leaned in, their breaths held in quiet wonder.
"It wasn’t easy," she said after a moment. "The seed had to push and push to break through the soil. And when it finally did, the wind tried to knock it down, and the animals trampled near it, and the rain sometimes came too hard. But the seed didn’t stop growing. It reached for the sun, even when it seemed far away."
She felt the tension ease in the clearing. The children were enchanted, and the watchers, she hoped, found nothing to object to.
"And do you know what happened?" Rainy asked, her voice brightening.
"What?" the children whispered in unison.
"The seed grew into a sapling," she said, smiling. "And then, over many seasons, it became a tree. Not the biggest tree in the meadow, and not the tallest. But it was strong enough to shelter the birds and shade the ground. It didn’t have to be the biggest to be enough."
The children exchanged glances, some nodding as if they understood, others simply smiling at the happy ending.
"And the seed was happy," Rainy concluded. "Because it didn’t have to reach the clouds to be part of the sky."
The clearing was silent for a moment, then filled with soft murmurs as the children began to chatter about the story. Rainy’s shoulders relaxed as she watched them, their imaginations sparking in innocent, harmless directions. She glanced toward the shadows again, where the watchers lingered.
The villagers wouldn’t find fault with this story. It was safe, shallow enough to appease their fears. But as the children laughed and shared their own dreams of what they might grow into, Rainy’s heart felt heavy.
This wasn’t the kind of story she wanted to tell.
Rainy finished her tea, her gaze drifting to the mountains on the horizon. There were deeper tales she longed to share—stories of struggle and triumph, of questions and truths too complex for simple endings. But for now, she had to tread carefully.
The children would come back, she knew, hungry for more. And Rainy would be here, spinning stories that stayed within the village’s unspoken boundaries, all while planting seeds of her own. For even the shallowest tale could carry hidden roots, waiting to take hold in the fertile soil of a child’s heart. And perhaps, one day, those roots would grow strong enough to reach the sky.
As the children scattered to play, their laughter ringing through the clearing like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, Rainy lingered by the fire. She stared into the swirling embers, her thoughts tangled like the roots of the old tree she’d just spoken of. The watchers had retreated for now, but their presence lingered in the stillness, heavy as a storm cloud on the horizon.
The villagers’ concerns were clear: Rainy’s stories were stirring too much—too much curiosity, too much imagination, too much questioning. These were dangerous things in a place where rules were woven into the fabric of life, where certainty was prized above all else. Her stories threatened that fragile order.
Rainy sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her now-empty teacup. She wasn’t sure if the villagers feared for the children or for themselves. Did they truly believe a story could harm, or were they simply afraid of what it might awaken—dreams they had long buried, paths they dared not tread?
She thought of the children’s wide eyes as they hung on her every word, their worlds expanding with each tale. They didn’t see the shadows gathering at the edge of the clearing, didn’t hear the murmurs of disapproval that crept closer with each passing day.
What was she to do?
The safe stories were easy, their lessons tidy and unthreatening. But Rainy had always believed that stories were more than just entertainment or instruction. They were mirrors, windows, maps. They had the power to light the darkest corners of the soul, to ignite fires that no amount of water could quench.
But power came with risk.
She turned her gaze toward the mountains in the distance, their peaks veiled in mist. The villagers had warned her never to speak of what lay beyond them. The mountains were a boundary, both literal and metaphorical, a line no one dared cross. Yet she felt the pull of them, as though they whispered her name on the wind.
Rainy had always told herself that stories could bridge any divide, even the one between her and the villagers. But lately, she wasn’t so sure. Every story she told seemed to push her closer to the edge of their acceptance, closer to exile.
The children began to drift back toward her, their games finished, their faces flushed with anticipation. Rainy felt a pang of guilt as they settled around her once more, their trust unwavering.
"One more story," one of the younger boys pleaded, his voice soft but insistent.
Rainy hesitated. She glanced toward the trees, searching for movement among the shadows. The watchers were gone—for now—but she knew word of this morning’s gathering would reach the elders before nightfall.
Her hand hovered over the worn pouch of polished stones she carried, each one representing a story waiting to be told. She rolled one between her fingers, the smooth surface cool against her skin.
The children leaned in, their expectant faces like flowers turning toward the sun.
What would she tell them?
A shallow story, she decided. Something safe, something simple. She couldn’t risk more today, not with the villagers already sharpening their suspicions.
But as she opened her mouth to begin, her mind wandered back to the mountains. What if she told a story about them? A tale so gentle, so wrapped in metaphor, that even the most cautious watcher couldn’t accuse her of planting forbidden ideas?
She began, her voice steady but soft:
"Once, in a village much like this one, there was a girl who loved to watch the mountains. They were always there, standing silent and strong, their peaks lost in the clouds. The girl would sit by the riverbank and imagine what it would be like to climb them. Not to cross them—just to climb a little way, to see what the world looked like from up high."
The children leaned closer, their eyes wide. Rainy kept her tone light, her words chosen with care.
"One day, a bird flew down to the girl, carrying a single feather in its beak. The feather shimmered like the stars, and when the girl held it, she felt as though she could fly. The bird didn’t speak, but its eyes seemed to say, ‘Come with me.’"
Rainy paused, gauging the children’s reactions. They were enraptured, their imaginations soaring with the bird.
"But the girl hesitated," she continued. "She thought of her family, her friends, the safety of her village. The mountains were beautiful, yes, but they were also wild and unknown. She handed the feather back to the bird and said, ‘Not today.’ The bird tilted its head as if to ask, ‘Why not?’ but it flew away without another word."
Rainy smiled, though her heart ached. "The girl stayed in the village, and she was happy. But every now and then, when she looked at the mountains, she wondered what it might have been like to follow the bird, just for a little while."
The story ended there, a safe and simple tale of curiosity tempered by caution.
The children clapped politely, though a few seemed disappointed by the lack of adventure. Rainy couldn’t blame them. She felt the same.
As the children dispersed, Rainy remained by the fire, staring at the mountains once more. The villagers might think they had silenced her, but they didn’t understand the nature of stories.
Even the simplest tale could carry a spark. And sparks, given time, could ignite wildfires.
The children lingered at the edge of the clearing, hopeful for one more story. Rainy, still seated by the fire, caught the flicker of movement among the trees. The watchers had returned. Their presence was subtle but deliberate, a reminder that every word she spoke would carry back to the ears of the village elders.
If she was going to stay, she had to give them what they wanted—a story as harmless as morning dew, as fleeting as laughter carried on the breeze.
"All right," Rainy said, her voice warm and playful. "One last story before you all go help your families. But this one is about the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever imagined."
The children shuffled closer, giggles escaping in anticipation. Rainy sat up straighter, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her tone light and exaggerated.
"Once, not so long ago, in a meadow not so far from here, there lived a wobblefrog. Now, a wobblefrog isn’t your ordinary frog. No, no. A wobblefrog is much too silly for that. For starters, it couldn’t hop straight to save its life. Every time it tried, it went sideways instead, flopping onto its back in the grass."
The children burst into laughter, already imagining the clumsy frog. Rainy exaggerated her gestures, mimicking the frog's tumbling antics.
"Now, this particular wobblefrog had a problem," she continued, grinning at their delight. "It wanted to join the Annual Meadow Hop-Off, a great race where all the frogs in the land came together to show off their hopping skills. But how could a wobblefrog ever hope to win when it couldn’t even stay upright?"
A few of the older children chimed in with guesses. "It practiced!" one called out.
"It cheated!" another added, which made Rainy feign a scandalized gasp.
"Cheated? Oh, no," she said, her grin widening. "The wobblefrog wasn’t clever enough for that. But it did practice, every single day. Except... instead of getting better at hopping straight, it got really, really good at hopping in loops. Big loops, little loops, even fancy twirls."
She paused dramatically, watching the children’s eyes widen.
"When the day of the Hop-Off finally arrived, all the other frogs lined up, sleek and strong. They laughed at the wobblefrog, with its wobbly legs and crooked jumps. ‘You’ll never win,’ they said. ‘You can’t even go in a straight line!’ But the wobblefrog didn’t mind. It just wobbled its way to the starting line and waited for the signal."
Rainy leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"And when the race began, all the other frogs took off in a flash, hopping straight as arrows toward the finish line. But do you know what the wobblefrog did?"
The children shook their heads eagerly, leaning in.
"It started hopping in circles. Big, looping circles. The other frogs were so confused, they stopped to watch. ‘What’s it doing?’ they asked. And while they were all distracted, the wobblefrog’s looping path got closer and closer to the finish line until—BOING!—it bounced right across it!"
The children erupted into laughter and cheers, some hopping around to mimic the wobblefrog’s antics. Rainy clapped her hands together, the sound echoing brightly in the clearing.
"And do you know what the wobblefrog said when it won?" she asked, her smile teasing.
"What?" the children chorused.
"'Who needs straight lines when you’ve got style?'"
The children roared with laughter, and even the shadows under the trees seemed to lighten. Rainy’s heart eased slightly. It was a silly story, harmless and fun. It wouldn’t send the children on dangerous adventures or awaken forbidden questions.
The watchers, she hoped, would report back favorably. This was the kind of tale the villagers wanted—a story with no edges, no risks, no sparks to ignite forbidden fires.
Yet, as the children wandered away, chattering about wobblefrogs and imaginary races, Rainy couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. Stories like this were easy, yes, but they didn’t linger. They didn’t plant seeds.
For now, though, it was enough. She would wait, as steady and quiet as the mountains she so often dreamed of, knowing that someday the time for deeper stories would come again. But, as for tonight, she would tell the village people the silliest story of all.