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A long ways back, when the earth still listened more than it spoke, the land did not bellow but whispered instead. And in that quiet time only a few creatures had voices and even fewer knew how to use them. The two-legged creatures had voices and yes, they knew how to use them. The earth could already hear that they used their voices too often and sometimes much too loudly.

The older ones knew that the gift of speech was not something to be taken lightly and often would tell the young ones to treasure their voices and to only speak when one actually had something to say. The young ones would usually listen quietly and patiently until the older voice had finished, and then the laughing and jabbering and chirping would begin once again as if the young ones had two mouths and only one ear, which was certainly not the way things were.

There were many animals without a voice in this beginning quietude of the earth. The coyote was one such animal. The wolf could speak, but the coyote could not. Coyote was jealous and did not think it fair that the wolf was granted a voice while the coyote had to remain silent. Although the wolf had the important job of announcing the phases of the moon and the location of the good hunting grounds, and only used his voice when he had something important to say, it did not matter to the coyote. For his part, coyote had nothing to say. He had nothing at all on his mind, in fact, except the idea that he would somehow get a voice of his own even if he had to steal one.

The voices of the children were especially tantalizing to coyote’s ears. Their laughter and lively yammering cut through the quiet air like the edge of the wind through the tall grass. Every evening when the fires had died down, the coyote pack would lope along the edge of the camp hoping for a chance to steal away with some young voices.

But as long as a scrap of color still hung in the darkening sky, a voice could not be taken from its owner. The sun knew who owned which voice and could show the face of the speaker to prove the ownership. But once the light was gone and the soft black of the night had wrapped itself around every creature’s face, when a voice rang out, who could tell where it had come from? In that first moment of dark confusion, a voice certainly could be taken and it most certainly would not be returned.

“As darkness falls, so too must silence,” the elders would gravely tell the children as families quietly prepared for the evening rest. “Laughter and chatter in the gathering dark brings the stealthy ones to our camp. They steal our meat; they steal our blankets and they watch and wait to steal our voices.” The children, who had seen the glittering eyes of the coyotes at the edge of the camp in the evening, knew that the words were true and as the sun set, all was quiet in the darkness and the coyotes had nothing to steal.

One evening, as the crisp fall air sharpened the smells and sounds of the settling earth, the children begged their elders to be allowed to go camping on their own. “We will return with herbs for the winter foods and smooth willows for the basket weaving,” they promised eagerly. “Grass shoots held tightly in the hand can become nothing,” they argued, “The hand must open so the grass may grow.” The elders smiled at hearing the old words tumbling out of mouths so young and they agreed to let the children go.

“Remember, children,” warned the old ones, “the days are shorter and the darkness comes quickly. Guard your voices as the night falls. Laughter and silly talk will draw the coyotes.”

The children nodded and laughed and rolled their eyes as they rolled their blankets and packed their food for the trip. They had heard the words so often that they did not need to listen anymore. Then off they ran into the tall grass, whooping and leaping and yipping with the delight of sound and motion and freedom.

The day passed quickly and without the steady, even gaze of the elders to dampen the exuberance, the children became louder and sillier as the day wore on. They did manage, in spite of all the laughter and teasing, to gather the herbs and the willows that they had promised. By dusk, all the plants had been neatly tied into bundles and the blankets had been laid out and the children were settling down for the night.

Out of habit, their voices became quiet as the color faded from the sky. There was still so much more that each one had to say, however, and so the whispering began. Their voices became louder even as they tried their hardest to keep quiet. Laughter bubbled out here and there as the children shared jokes and stories. Finally they could hold it in no longer, and the children threw back the covers and burst out laughing. It was too delicious to be on their own with no one to tell them when to go to bed or when to be quiet.

Up they jumped one after the other, throwing blankets, tickling one another with willows, rubbing herbs in each other’s hair. The laughter was so loud that not one of them noticed the coyotes creeping closer through the grasses, their silent mouths open and their tongues hanging out. And as the last bit of light soaked into the damp grass, the coyotes flung themselves into the center of the yelping children. With a snap of their jaws and a click of their teeth, the coyotes had captured the voices.

Away ran the coyotes, yelping and yammering with the high voices of the children captured deep in their throats. They ran this way and that, saying nothing at all but reveling in the sheer joy of making a loud racket. The strange new voices reached the ears of the elders back at camp.

“What is this animal who speaks with nothing to say?” they whispered to each other. “And why do these voices remind us so much of our children?” they wondered.

Just then they heard the rustling of grass and the running of feet as the children tumbled into camp, their eyes wide and frantic in the dim light of the fire.

“What has frightened you so that you have no words to explain?” But the answer was echoing across the land. The coyotes had stolen their voices.

By Ruth Gilmore; September 2001

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I welcome any comments or helpful critiques that you may have regarding this story. If it might be of use to you in your teaching, feel free to use it. I only ask that my name be attached to the story as I may try to rewrite it someday as a children’s book.
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Long, long ago when the earth was being born and creation was new and wet and stretching out in all directions, the slug was given a beginning. Every creature had a purpose and a gift. And as each was born and began to stretch, it knew what it was and why it was becoming in this great and complicated world.

The slug was born a bundle of feelings. It not only had the sharpest eyes, the keenest ears and the most sensitive touch; it also fairly hummed with emotion. It felt the jubilations of happiness, the darkest caves of sorrow, the sharp arrows of fear, and the thundering waves of courage. But best of all, the sensitive slug was gifted with the bravest leaps of selfless love.

In the beginning, as hard as it may be to believe, the slug had wings and feet and fins. It was a creature of the sky, the land and the water. It could soar and crawl and swim. There seemed to be no limit to what this creature could do. One would think with all the gifts that slug had been given, it would be reaching to the edges of creation, stretching out with all its senses to explore and experience all that the world had to offer.

But sadly enough, all creatures do not use the wonderful gifts that they possess. Instead of going out into the world to explore and teach other creatures the emotions that churned and bounced about inside of it, the slug curled itself into a little ball and would not move or talk to any of the other creatures. More than anything, the world needed the gift of love that the slug had been given to share with all of creation. The Creator waited for the slug to stretch out and share the gifts that it had been given with the wide and spinning world.

“It is a dangerous thing,” thought the introverted slug, “to go out into the world with all of these emotions and meet other creatures. My feelings are sensitive and I may get hurt. Other creatures of this world may not treat me with the utmost care. If I stretch out with selfless love and meet the rough touch of anger, my tender skin may be damaged.”

The slug was so concerned with the idea that another creature might damage its sensitive skin, that it pulled itself so far inside of itself, that it finally turned itself inside out. Now its sensitive skin was safely tucked inside, but there was no longer anything left to contain the precious emotions. They flowed like water out of the slug, taking with them the senses that the slug had been gifted with; sight, hearing and touch. The lost gifts flowed into a smooth brown patch of clay by the riverbank. This was the clay that the Creator was preparing to shape into the form of a creature that walked on two legs.

The only feeling that remained with the lowly slug was the clinging moistness of sorrow. Sadly the slug began to pull itself along the forest floor. It did not feel the roughness of the tree bark or the smoothness of the river rock or the sharpness of the pine needle. It only felt its own sorrow. Indeed, it traveled on a path of its own sorrow that it spread beneath itself as it crept along, stretching itself out, searching for the precious gifts that it had lost.

To this day, if you happen to cradle a slug in your hands, the sorrow of the slug will cling to your skin. Sorrow always has been a difficult thing to wash away and so it is with the slimy sorrow of the lowly slug. If you pick up a slug, it hides its head, still trying to protect itself from the world. But if one is very patient and waits and watches with hand wide open, the slug will slowly emerge, put out its feelers (or what is left of its feelings) and begin once more to explore and search for all that it has lost.

The gifts of the slug were not lost to the world forever. They were absorbed by the two-legged creatures, the people, who now roam the earth with their sharp senses and their bundle of churning emotions. Most importantly, they were given the gift of selfless love that reaches out to the other creatures of the earth, teaching them also to love. The two-legged ones are so very different from the lowly slug, but at times, they too try to pull into themselves, protecting their sensitive skin. And when that happens, it is best to be patient. Watch and wait with open hands and heart, until the risk of feeling is taken once more.

By Ruth Gilmore; April 2001

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I welcome any comments or helpful critiques that you may have regarding this story. If it might be of use to you in your teaching, feel free to use it. I only ask that my name be attached to the story as I may try to rewrite it someday as a children’s book.
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One day, many lifetimes ago, a little redwood was born in the middle of a vast forest. No sooner had the tiny sprout popped its green head out of the soft needle-covered forest floor, than it began to ask questions. Because the forest was alive with friendly creatures, the little tree got many answers to her many, many questions.

She learned the language of every animal that lighted in her branches and every creature that scurried across her roots. Even the insects that trickled through the deep furrows of her bark taught her to understand their whispers. She was a good and patient listener, and so she learned about the big wide world around her without ever having to move from the place where she was growing.

The little tree soon grew to be a gigantic tree with branches reaching high into the sky and roots that spread deep into the ground. The creatures that lived near the mighty tree made homes for themselves among her roots, in her bark and high in her branches. Because she was always so gentle and protective to every creature in the forest, the animals all gave her a very honorable name. “Mother of the Forest” they called her; and they deeply respected her for her tenderness, her protection and her vast store of knowledge.

But despite her age and her wisdom, the Mother of the Forest was still very curious. Every day she listened carefully to the creatures that came to her and every day she would learn something new. A complex, lovely world wove itself in and out of her branches and wound itself warm and damp about her roots and the tree treasured every strand of this marvelous tapestry.

But often the answers to her questions did not seem complete. She asked the grey spider meticulously spinning its perfect orb, why it spun such a beautiful circle. The spider replied simply that it spun to trap its supper. But when the morning lit up a gossamer web hung with thousands of tiny rainbow water globes, the tree felt sure that a web was not simply for capturing supper. When she asked the white-crowned sparrow why he sang so beautifully, he replied that he was only claiming his branch in the tree. But when his lilting melody made the whole forest come alive with music, the tree knew that the song was not given simply for boasting.

One day, as the Mother was sleeping the very still sleep of a great Sequoia, dreaming of still more questions and mysteries, a small, sharp pain pierced her trunk. Although the vast tree had very thick skin and it was not easy to disturb her, this pain was quite different from the pecking of a bird. It was different than the chewing of a bug. It wasn’t even anything like the clawing of a bear. She looked down and saw the long straight shaft of an arrow sticking straight out from her trunk. This was an arrow shot from the bow of a two-legged creature that walked upright and looked out at the world with two intelligent and very curious eyes. The man approached the tree on quiet feet and pulled the arrow from her side. His hands felt the furrowed bark and his eyes looked up, up to the top of the tree towering far above him.

The Mother of the Forest had never before seen a creature like this one. Here, perhaps, was a kindred spirit; one who wished to learn and discover the world as much as she did. She would speak to this animal; they could learn much from each other. The tree could talk to all of the creatures in the forest, but this new creature did not seem to understand. The Mother of the Forest spoke as loudly as she could and the two-legged animal only stopped to look up to the top of the tall tree and to listen to the wind blow through the branches. Try as she might, the Mother of the Forest was not able to make the human understand the questions that she was trying to ask.

That night, as the moon rose, cool and distant in the sky, the old Mother Redwood could stand it no longer. She wanted to know the world more than her roots could allow. She wanted to see the world with creature eyes and feel it with sensitive hands. She wanted to hear and taste it. Most of all she wanted to walk around; to travel the wide world and explore its wonders. She willed her roots to walk, but only succeeded in exposing one of her larger roots and tripping a startled squirrel that was scampering past.

The curiosity deep inside her began to smolder; it burned hotter and hotter until flames began. And in the center of the flame, a creature was being born; furry and agile with sensitive hands, and bright, very intelligent eyes. But most of all, this creature was curious. The ball of curiosity burned so hot that a cave began to form in the center of the tree. By the time the first rays of the morning sun began to filter through the branches, the fire had burned through the thick bark on one side of the tree and opened a door to the heart of the tree. The cool forest air rushed in, hushing the flames.

The creature of curiosity came barreling out of the charred cave. The heat had caused dark scorch marks across its eyes and lines of charred fur ran in stripes across its tail. It skidded across the forest floor and the gray-black ball of fur rolled to a stop next to a puddle. Chattering and scolding, the animal plunged its little hands into the water to cool them off.

Raccoon had been born and he was just as curious as the giant redwood that had birthed him. He could pick up the smallest of objects in his little black hands and turn them around and about, carefully examining the details. He tasted this and that, always searching for new smells and delicacies. He could run and climb and scamper wherever he wished to explore. The redwood’s child became the eyes and ears of the towering Mother of the Forest. Raccoon would follow the two-legged animals, watching them closely for many moons, and then he would amble back to the cave in the tree and describe to the waiting redwood all the wonders of the human villages. And the tree would smile and sigh and drink in the stories that her creature of curiosity would share. There seemed to be no end to the wonderful tales that raccoon would relate. At last the tree was satisfied.

To this very day, the raccoon can be found investigating the habitations of humans, rummaging through their garbage cans and learning everything he can about those strange two-legged animals so that he can hurry home and share his discoveries with the Mother of the Forest. Quite often, too, you will see him plunge his little hands into a cool stream of water as if he cannot quite forget the fire of curiosity that gave him life.

by Ruth Gilmore; January 2000

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I welcome any comments or helpful critiques that you may have regarding this story. If it might be of use to you in your teaching, feel free to use it. I only ask that my name be attached to the story as I may try to rewrite it someday as a children’s book.
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