Oren’s Quiet Bell — Every day, when the cliffside kapok shook in the sea wind, Oren raced the same branch road with a tiny brass bell tucked under his chin. Read the full story →
Every day, when the cliffside kapok shook in the sea wind, Oren raced the same branch road with a tiny brass bell tucked under his chin. It looked like a toy, but it had been his mother’s crossing bell, the one sound that meant, Safe path here. He wanted to ring it at the lookout nest before the fruit bats began their dusk swoop.
Until one day, a hot storm rolled in early, smelling of wet bark and salt. Thunder boomed so hard the bell’s little ching vanished. Because of that, the old lookout horn sounded from the wrong tree; because of that, a troop of small lemurs scrambled toward a cracked vine bridge. Oren’s paws slapped wood—thup, thup, skid! He reached the fork first and saw the lookout asleep, chin in moss.
“Not the bridge!” Oren shouted, but the wind snatched his words. Finally, he tied the brass bell to the low vine above the safe branch and yanked it with all his weight. Ching-ching-ching! The lemurs veered onto solid bark, never seeing who had warned them. By dusk, Oren had no bell under his chin, only rain on his whiskers and the same branch road singing, Safe path here; can you spot where he might have left the quiet bell?
