Hushed Willows somebody's got to tell the tale

to his delight, sundance was game for the tale, and came rushing forward. cortez chuckled a little at the enthusiasm and then settled further, onto his belly, bringing him at eye level with the pale boy. it was always good to look your listeners right in the face; he thought it dragged them right into the story with the person telling it. interactivity, and all that.

a long time ago, there was a peony—that's a pretty pink flower—and a bee. but this was no ordinary peony. you see, this peony produced pollen tastier than any pollen ever tasted before. the bees loved it.

and the bee, well. . .this particular bee's soul had been born into a new body year after year. it never went away. because that's what happens—even when our bodies die, our souls don't. they just go into a different body. he believed it, wholeheartedly, and it struck him then that he was dealing with a child who'd recently lost a parent. would he be happy for this wisdom or find it distressing?

cortez hoped fervently for the former.

year after year, different body after different body, the bee went to visit the peony to eat up its pollen. he'd eat the pollen and grow nice and fat, and then return to his hive to make honey. and he'd help the peony grow, too. they needed each other. they couldn't get by if either of them went away.

he did his best to do the rest of the story justice, and then olive emerged. with a kind glance toward his nephew, they departed and spoke for a while—but things weren't as grim as they had been before, thanks to sundance's curious young mind.