Stone Whisperer

Storm slunk through the forest. It was dark and cold, and the wind howled between the rustling trees. She looked around and shuddered. “Flicker? Mama? Anyone?” she called. But no one answered. She flung herself down in despair and listened to the noises of the night.

The wind picked up, rushing about with renewed effort. Storm heard the soft patter of rain against leaves. It grew louder and louder. . . . She whipped her head around, looking for a place to hide. She saw a small, dry alcove under a ridge of rocks and bounded that way. When she came closer, it appeared that there was someone there. Storm turned away to leave but heard a voice.

“No! Don’t go, please.”

She turned around. “Who was that?!” she shrieked.

“Just me.” A young, silver-coated wolf stepped out of the shadows. “Come in and dry off.”

“What’s your name?” Storm inquired. “I’m Storm.”

“I’m Silverpaw, though many call me the Stone Whisperer.”

Storm gasped. “The Stone Whisperer? The one who can create beautiful carvings just by thinking?!”

“Well, that’s how people think of me, but to tell you the truth, all I have over other wolves is a small talent. I’m not good for anything else, I’m afraid,” Silverpaw said.

They sat for a while in silence, watching the rain drip down in the corner of their shelter, where there was crack in the rock. Suddenly, there was a fierce clap of thunder, a flash of light, and quiet. Just stillness and calm.

The two wolves emerged from their shelter in the rocks. Storm sighed. Silverpaw was fiddling with a sharp stone and a flat stone, scraping one against the other. Then he looked up with a shy smile.

“Here, this is for you, Storm.” He held out the flat stone. On it was a beautiful carving of two howling wolves set in a border of vines.

“Thank you,” Storm whispered. “Thank you so much.”

Then the two wolves looked up at the full moon and howled, just as it had been carved on the stone, a token of their friendship.