Kellan’s Crooked Staff — Every evening, when the wind smelled of dust and thyme, Kellan tapped his father’s crooked staff three times on the path—tok, tok, tok—and counted the youngest lambs before the flock slept. Read the full story →
Every evening, when the wind smelled of dust and thyme, Kellan tapped his father’s crooked staff three times on the path—tok, tok, tok—and counted the youngest lambs before the flock slept. He wanted to return the staff without one new scratch, because its old nicks were the only stories of his father’s journeys he could still touch. Then one night, a star flared so bright the hills turned silver, and the two smallest lambs bolted toward the village.
Because of that, Kellan ran after them, sandals slapping stones, staff clutched tight. Because of that, he heard voices near a rough stable: a tired donkey snort, a baby’s tiny cry, straw rustling like dry rain. The lambs stopped at the doorway as if they had been invited. Kellan’s knees wobbled; he had never stepped near strangers at night. “Stay with me,” he whispered to the staff, and took one small step forward.
Inside, the air was warm with hay and lantern smoke. Kellan leaned the crooked staff against the post, no longer caring about scratches, and offered the lambs’ soft wool for the baby’s feet. When you find the staff by his hand, can you hear its three brave taps—tok, tok, tok?
