Chapter One: In The Clearing
“Sometimes, the quietest places tell the truest stories.”
-The Clearing
The forest thrived in harmony, moving with a quiet rhythm that kept everything in balance.
It stretched wide across the land, with ancient trees, moss-covered stones, and familiar paths that followed winding streams.
The forest pulsed with quiet life, from the stillness of the understory to the whisper of owl wings above. Light filtered through the leaves, shifting with the sun overhead. The air smelled of pine and cedar, or fresh rain. Sounds were gentle: wind through needles, frogs calling in the hollows, and the soft scurry of small paws returning to their dens.
At the center of the forest was a clearing. It hadn’t been carved by force or chance. It had simply always been there. A wide, sunlit meadow where the trees stood back quietly, as if making space.
Here, creatures met to talk about important things, or to sit together in quiet when there was nothing to say. Creatures of all sizes, colors, feathers, and fur; those who burrowed, those who soared, those who preferred shadows, and those who basked in the sun, all found space in the clearing. They belonged equally to the forest.
Paths from every part of the forest were worn smooth by the many creatures who traveled them. They twisted through trees and brush and across the streams, connecting even the farthest burrows and dens.
It was said, that long ago, one of these paths was marked by one who was able to see things clearly, one who had journeyed far and returned with a kind of wisdom waiting to be discovered by all. Parts of that path could still be found, markings on tree trunks or stones along the way. The wisdom left in these markings weren’t rules, just quiet reminders of something important to remember.
This one who journeyed was remembered only in fragments now, a name passed on in whispers: The Keeper of the Clearing. Rather than a ruler or prophet he was but a traveler, who offered great understanding, and who gave what understanding he found as a gift to others.
Over time, the paths faded and the stories softened. Still, every so often, someone would pause at the edge of the forest and wonder if the signs were still there and the path could still be found.
Life in the forest wasn’t perfect. Sometimes creatures disagreed or made mistakes, but it was still peaceful.
Foxes were clever, badgers sturdy and quiet, raccoons resourceful and often up to something. Owls watched. Deer listened. Turtles thought things through. And tigers, well, there were not many, but those who were there learned to honor their strength by keeping distance when needed.
There were differences among them, certainly. The mice believed that gathering in the spring was the surest way to provide for their families, while the squirrels swore by the abundance of autumn. The owls held that silence revealed the deepest truths; magpies believed in talking things through. Some creatures trusted in the wisdom of age, others in the vigor of youth. But these differences were not reasons to cause division between them.
The forest welcomed them all. No creature was asked to be like another. Each was responsible for their own way of living, their own part in the whole. They shared where it made sense and stayed apart where it did not. Respect didn’t require agreement, it just asked for attention and a willingness to listen.
The clearing itself held evidence of this shared trust. On one edge, a garden had been planted, a place where kindness became something you could grow and harvest.
Although it grew slowly, and sometimes unevenly, what was grown and harvested was shared. Carrots, turnips, leafy greens, and berry patches were left unguarded. No creature took more than they needed, and what was not needed was left to grow.
The garden, once fully planted, brought more than nourishment. It offered a reason to gather, and to celebrate.
As the seeds took root and the moon grew full, word spread throughout the forest: it was time to gather and harvest. Tables of woven reeds were spread with fruits, roots, and toasted grains. The hummingbirds offered nectar-sweet tea, while the beavers built an entertainment stage out of cedar rounds and laughter.
At one particular festive gathering, a tall heron stepped onto the stage, cleared his throat, and began to share a speech he’d prepared, something about the importance of rotational planting and the long-term yield benefits of companion crops. But just as he launched into his second paragraph, a young fox dashed by, tripped over a stump, and sent the heron’s prepared speech flying into the fire pit. The crowd gasped.
A hedgehog near the front called out, “Well, looks like the fire needed a little more kindling!” Laughter rippled through the gathering.
“Didn’t know we were roasting speeches tonight!” someone else chimed in.
A turtle from the back raised a berry high and said with mock formality, “Here’s to the Heron. Fuel for the fire and fun for us all!”
Glasses were raised, and the music picked up again. The frogs brought drums made from hollow logs, and the squirrels turned dried pods into rattles. The foxes danced first, all flash and flicker, tails lit by fireflies. Then the hedgehogs took a turn, rolling through leaves in choreographed flips that left everyone cheering. Even the usually reserved badgers shared a rhythm, tapping their claws in sync on a log while the mice sang a harmony that no one knew they’d been practicing.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, a young rabbit declared, “This is the best day ever! We should do this every year!”
Everyone erupted in cheers and laughter, stomping their paws and clapping wings in agreement. And just like that, the Annual Midsummer’s Harvest Festival was born.
And on those nights and throughout time, no creatures were left out. The slow among them were waited for, the timid were heard, and the loud were gently nudged to share the stage with others.
There was always an abundance: of food, of peace, of harmony. There was a shared understanding in the forest that wasn’t written or spoken, but felt among them. Peace was something everyone participated in. Differences didn’t threaten it. And when someone forgot to be kind, others gently reminded them—and the reminder was welcomed.
Such was the forest then, held together by kindness, memory, and attention.
Over time though, many of the creatures began to forget, and with the forgetting, unwelcome change.
The change came slowly at first, then all at once.
The garden grew silent. The bramble crept in.
And the peace that was shared?
Well, that was long ago.
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Keeper of the Clearing: A Woodland Adventure of Friendship, Curiosity, and CourageWood, Jan and Neufeld, Gail
Keeper of the Clearing 