The Whispering Woods were always a place of mystery, but none was as profound as the legend of the Whistling Moon. Old Man Tiber, his beard as white as winter snow, would spin tales by the crackling fire, his voice a low rumble. “They say,” he’d begin, “that when the moon hangs full and low, a melody drifts down from the heavens, a song of forgotten dreams and futures yet unwritten.”
Ríona (pronounced REE-uh-na), a young girl with eyes the color of the forest moss, listened intently to every word. She longed to hear the Whistling Moon, to feel its magic weave through her soul. One crisp autumn evening, as the moon, round and luminous, began its ascent, Ríona ventured out, leaving the warm glow of Tiber’s cottage behind.
The forest was alive with the hushed sounds of the night. Leaves rustled like whispered secrets, and the distant hoot of an owl echoed through the trees. Ríona walked deeper, her heart thrumming with anticipation. Finally, she reached a clearing she knew, a place where the ancient oaks formed a natural amphitheater, open to the vast, inky sky.
She settled on a bed of soft moss, gazing up at the celestial orb. It hung there, a pearlescent disc against the velvet black, seemingly larger and closer than ever before. A gentle breeze stirred, carrying with it a faint, ethereal sound. It was soft at first, like the sigh of the wind through reeds, then it grew, weaving intricate patterns of sound that seemed to dance in the air around her. It wasn’t a tune she recognized, yet it felt intimately familiar, a melody that resonated deep within her spirit.
The Whistling Moon’s song filled the clearing, a symphony of gentle hums and clear, pure notes. It spoke of journeys across starlit skies, of quiet moments of joy, and of the enduring beauty of the world. Ríona closed her eyes, letting the sound wash over her, feeling a sense of peace she had never known. When the last note faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the night, Ríona opened her eyes. The moon still shone, perhaps a little less brightly now, as if having poured its heart out in its song.
She returned to her cottage a changed girl. The Whistling Moon had not only sung to her, it had sung through her, leaving an echo of its magic in her heart. From that day on, Ríona carried a quiet knowing, a gentle wisdom that seemed to hum just beneath the surface. And sometimes, when the moon was full and bright, if you listened very carefully in the Whispering Woods, you could still hear a faint, beautiful melody, a reminder of the night the Whistling Moon sang its song to a curious young girl named Ríona.
The Silence of the Whistling Moon.
The Silence of the Whispering Woods
Years had woven themselves into Ríona’s life since she first heard the moon’s song. She was no longer the wide-eyed girl, but a young woman whose presence brought a quiet stability to the village. Her eyes, still the color of forest moss, held the steady, unchanging rhythm she had learned.
Then came the year of the Silence.
It began on the night of the full Harvest Moon—the very night when the Whistling Moon always poured its melody down upon the earth. The sky was clear, the orb hung low and vast, yet no song came. Not a whisper, not a hum, only a dense, unnatural quiet. It was the absence of sound that felt louder than any storm.
The villagers stirred with immediate dread. Old Man Tiber, now frail and trembling, muttered, “The bond is broken. The moon has turned its face from us.”
And indeed, the earth seemed to follow. Within a week, the apples on the high branches shriveled. The spring-fed stream, usually a rushing source of life, shrank to a sluggish trickle. Fear, cold and sharp, replaced the harmony Ríona had helped maintain. The villagers, desperate, looked to her, but their eyes held a new doubt. Was her wisdom a blessing, or had she somehow angered the celestial muse?
Ríona felt the silence deepest of all. It was not just outside; it was within her, a hollow echo where the moon’s rhythm once resonated. Her inner compass was spinning wildly. She knew then that her quiet knowing was not about hearing the song, but about understanding the silence.
She dressed in her plainest cloak and carried only a simple wooden staff. She knew she couldn’t wait for the sound to return; she had to find out where it had gone. She walked past the borders of the village and plunged into the deepest part of the Whispering Woods, a region known as the Gloomwood, where the trees grew so thick the sun rarely touched the ground.
The air here was heavy, almost resistant. After walking for hours, she came to a small, hidden pool. It was not stagnant, but its surface was eerily still, perfectly reflecting the massive moon above.
She looked up at the moon, then down at its mirrored image in the water. The lunar light felt cold, detached.
“Why the silence?” Ríona whispered, the sound absorbed instantly by the heavy air. “What have we forgotten this time?”
She knelt by the pool and noticed something odd. Beneath the reflected moon, at the very bottom of the pool, was a clump of dark, fibrous roots. They were not water plants; they looked like the aggressive, choking roots of the Gloomwood trees, seeking out the deepest water source. They had woven themselves into a dense, interlocking net, covering a small, smooth stone.
Ríona reached into the icy water and slowly, carefully, began to pull the roots away. They resisted her, slick and strong. She pulled and tugged, remembering the moon’s lesson: patience. She did not rip or tear, but worked them loose, strand by strand, until they finally broke free.
The small, smooth stone was then revealed. It was a piece of pale quartz, naturally shaped like a crescent moon.
As soon as the last root was severed, the air around the pool shimmered. The surface of the water rippled violently, and the reflected moon seemed to breathe.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered. But it wasn’t the sweet, ethereal whistle of the moon above. It was a low, powerful hum, emanating from the little quartz stone in her hand.
Ríona realized the truth: The Whistling Moon did not just sing to the world; it needed the world to receive and amplify its song. The little quartz crescent, a tiny piece of the earth that mirrored the moon, was the community’s receiver. The selfish, tangled roots of the Gloomwood, seeking all the water for themselves, had choked its ability to sing.
As she held the stone, the soft, bright light returned to the stream, and a gentle breeze, carrying the faintest echo of the moon’s true whistle, began to stir the leaves. The bounty would return, for the harmony was found not in a grand song, but in clearing the things that silence the small, essential voices.
Ríona returned to the village, not with a triumphant shout, but with the quiet knowing restored. She did not preach or explain the roots. She simply placed the clean quartz crescent on a stone altar near the now-reviving stream.
That night, the Whistling Moon sang again. And the villagers, hearing the melody, didn’t just feel joy; they felt a sudden, collective understanding: their harmony with the natural world depended not on the grand gestures of the heavens, but on their own vigilance in protecting the small, sacred things that keep the connection alive.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 