Orin Shares the Sky-Bell — Every evening, after the bakers banked their ovens and the chimneys breathed cinnamon smoke, Orin climbed the tallest roof to polish his smallest harness bell. Read the full story →
Every evening, after the bakers banked their ovens and the chimneys breathed cinnamon smoke, Orin climbed the tallest roof to polish his smallest harness bell. It was no bigger than an acorn, dented on one side, and tied with blue thread from his sister’s first winter scarf. He rang it only once, just for himself, and listened as its clear note tucked the stars neatly into the dark.
Until one evening, the bell gave no sound at all. Because of that, the stars above the village blinked out in patches, leaving roofs silver on one side and black on the other. Because of that, children opened their windows and whispered, “Where did the sky go?” Orin pressed the cold bell to his ear and heard, faint as frost cracking, all the wishes he had kept inside its note.
So he leaped from roof to roof, then higher, scattering jingles from every bell he wore. “Take some,” he called, and shook the little silent bell last. A bright chime poured out, too large for one heart, and the stars answered one by one. Next time chimney smoke curls under a crescent moon, listen closely; Orin may be sharing the sky-bell again.
