Speaker 1: Max, settle in the attic is very still tonight. The
shadows in the corners are soft and fuzzy like wool.
And look at the jar. It's waking up, but it's
taking its time. It's not a flash or a sparkle tonight.
It's a slow, steady pulse, a deep, rich golden color
like honey that's been warmed by the sun. It feels solid,
doesn't it. It looks strong like like it's not in
a hurry, but it's not going to stop either. That
is exactly right, Max. It has a heavy, comforting rhythm
to it. The story Light wants to give us a
word that is all about that steadiness. I'm going to
think it now and I want you to catch it
inside your mind. The word is persistence. It's a big word,
but it means something very simple. It means keeping going,
one small drop at a time, even when the job
feels big. Watch the lid now. The light is lifting out,
drifting across the room like a slow golden leaf finding
its way to gramps.
Speaker 2: Hmm.
Speaker 3: I felt that warmth arrive before I even saw it.
It's settled right here in my beard, heavy and grounding,
and oh I know this glow. It's the color of
dried wheat in the late afternoon. It's a story about
a bird with feathers as black as a moonless night,
and a summer that was hotter than anyone could remember.
But mostly it's a story about how doing one small
thing over and over again can move a mountain. Are
you comfortable? Max? Is the blanket pulled up? The story
light is amber now the listening glow. Let's listen to
the tale of the Crow and the Pitcher. Once a
long time ago, in a valley that was usually green
and singing with brooks, a great silence had fallen. The
sun had woken up angry that year. It stared down
at the earth day after day, unblinking and fierce, like
a copper coin burning a hole in the sky. The grass,
which usually swayed like soft hair, had turned brittle and brown.
It crunched underfoot. The mud at the river banks had
cracked into dry puzzle pieces, and the water the water
had simply vanished. It had retreated into the sky or
hidden deep underground, leaving the creatures of the valley thirsty
and searching.
Speaker 1: It must have been so quiet. Cramps when it's that hot,
even the air feels too tired to move.
Speaker 3: It was a heavy, dusty, silent, sloomy. The crickets were
too tired to churn. The frogs had buried themselves deep
in the cool earth, waiting for rain that wouldn't come.
But high above the shimmering fields, one bird was still flying.
It was Corvous, the crow. His wings were broad and strong,
glossy black against the pale, bleached sky. But even Corvous
was tired. His throat felt like sandpaper, his beak was
dry and dusty. He had flown over the dried up creek,
over the empty horse trough, and over the hollow log
where the rain usually gathered. Nothing, just dry leaves skittering
in the hot breeze.
Speaker 1: He must have been scared if he didn't find water soon.
Speaker 3: He was worried. Max His wings felt heavier with every
flap flap, flap, glide. He wasn't rushing anymore. He was
conserving his strength. He saw an old farmhouse in the distance,
abandoned and quiet. A garden wall crumbled nearby, covered in
dusty ivy that had turned brown at the edges, And there,
sitting in the shadow of the wall was something that
didn't look like a rock, and didn't look like a log.
Speaker 1: A picture, like a jug.
Speaker 3: That's right, Max, A tall clay pitcher, old and weathered,
with a narrow neck and a wide round belly. It
had been left there by a garden long ago. Corvus
circled once, then twice, and landed on the crumbling wall.
His claws clicked against the stone. He hopped down, his
feathers rustling. He tipped his head to the side, looking
at the pitcher with one bright, intelligent eye. He hopped closer.
He could smell something, not dust, not dry grass. He
smelled wet clay. He smelled dampness.
Speaker 1: There was water inside.
Speaker 3: He fluttered up to the rim of the pitcher and
peered down. It was dark inside, cool and shadowy, and
there at the very bottom, gleaming like a trapped moon,
was water. It wasn't a lot, and it was far
far down. Corvos stretched his neck. He leaned as far
as he dared, gripping the rim with his toes. He
opened his beak, but he couldn't reach it. The neck
of the pitcher was too narrow for him to squeeze into,
and the water was too low for his beak to touch.
He strained. He stretched until his muscles ached, but his
beak just brushed the dry clay walls inches above the
cool liquid.
Speaker 1: That's almost worse, isn't it To see the water and
smell it, but not be able to touch it.
Speaker 3: It is a hard feeling glomy Corvs pulled his head back.
He was frustrated. He cowed a rough, dry sound that
scratched his throat. He looked at the picture. It was
just an object. Surely he could defeat it. He tried
to push the pitcher with his wing, thinking he could
knock it over and drink the water as it spilled
onto the ground. He shoved, He pushed, He braced his
feet against the earth, and heaved with all his might.
But the picture was heavy, made of thick ancient clay,
and it was half buried in the soil. It didn't budge.
It stood there, solid and stubborn, guarding its treasure.
Speaker 1: Maybe he could break it like an egg.
Speaker 3: He thought of that. He flew up into the air,
circled and dove down, striking the side of the pitcher
with his hard beak. Thunk. It wasn't the sound of
cracking pottery. It was a dull, solid, thud that rattled
his teeth. The pitcher was too strong. He tried again, thunk.
Nothing happened except a little cloud of dust puffs and
a sore beak. Corvus stopped. He was panting now, his
beak open to catch the air. He was hotter than
before and thirstier than before. He looked at the pitcher.
He looked at the dry ground. It seemed and impossible,
a problem too big for a bird.
Speaker 1: But the word is persistent smacks. Persistence doesn't mean being
strong enough to break the jar. It means finding another
way and sticking to it exactly.
Speaker 3: Corvus sat very still. He watched the ground. He saw
the pebbles scattered around the base of the wall, small
gray stones, smooth ones, jagged ones. He looked at a pebble,
Then he looked at the picture. An idea sparked in
his clever mind. It wasn't a big, flashy magic spell.
It was a simple thought about physics. If I cannot
go down to the water, he thought, maybe the water
can come up to me with the stones. He picked
up a pebble in his beak. It was small, it
weighed almost nothing. He hopped to the rim of the pitcher.
He let go blink. The pebble fell into the darkness.
A second later, blew a tiny splash. The water swallowed
the stone. Corvus looked down. The water hadn't moved. It
looked exactly the same. One pebble wasn't enough to make
a difference, not even a tiny bit.
Speaker 1: Most people and most birds would stop there. They'd say,
I tried and it didn't work.
Speaker 3: They would because the change was too small to see.
But Corvus didn't stop. He flew down. He picked up
another pebble. He flew up, blink bloop, Still no change.
He went back another pebble, and another. He fell into
a rhythm, fly down, pick up, fly up, drop clack splash,
clack splash. The sun beat down on his back. His
wings were heavy, his thirst was a burning ache. But
he didn't think about the thirst. He just thought about
the next pebble, Just one more.
Speaker 1: How many did he do?
Speaker 3: Dozens? Smacks, hundreds maybe? The pile of stones at the
bottom of the pitcher grew slowly, so slowly you couldn't
see it happening. The stones took up space, and because
they took up space, the water had to move. It
had nowhere to go but up. Plink, splash. Corvus looked down.
The water was a little higher now, it wasn't at
the bottom any more. It was climbing the walls.
Speaker 1: He must have been so tired, but seeing the water rise,
that must have been the fuel he needed.
Speaker 3: It was the magic of effort, loomy. He kept going.
The shadows of the afternoon started to stretch out long
and purple. Corvas didn't stop one more, He told himself,
just one. The water rose past the belly of the pitcher.
It rose into the neck. It was dark and cool
and inviting. He dropped a large white stone gloop. The
water rippled. It was close now, he could smell it
stronger than ever.
Speaker 1: He's almost there.
Speaker 3: He picked up one last stone, a small, round one.
He dropped it in The water level trembled, rose up
and touched the very rim of the pitcher. It sat there,
a perfect shimmering circle of life. Corvus didn't rush. He
lowered his head gently. He dipped his beak into the cool,
clear w He drank. It was the sweetest coldest water
he had ever tasted. It washed away the dust, It
cooled his throat. He drank until he was full. Then
he sat on the rim of the pitcher, looking at
the setting sun, feeling the cool water inside him and
the pile of pebbles below him. He had moved a mountain, Max,
but he had done it, one little stone at a time.
Speaker 1: He didn't give up. The story is resting now, Gramps.
The light in your beard is shifting. Look, Max, the
amber is fading, turning into a soft, warm, rose gold,
like the color of the horizon when the sun has
just gone down. The story is done telling us what happened.
Now it wants us to feel how it happened.
Speaker 3: Yes, the book is closing, but the garden is opening.
We are going to step inside, Max, just for a
little while, to see corvas and understand what that persistence
feels like in our own hands.
Speaker 1: Can we help him? I like pebbles.
Speaker 3: I think he might be working on something else. Now
let's go and see. Imagine. The heat is gone, Max.
It's evening in the garden now the air is warm.
But gentle.
Speaker 1: Here we are. The old stone wall is right there.
The ivy is rustling in a cool breeze. Now, and look,
there is corvus. He is on the ground near a
patch of dry soil where a tiny drooping flower is
trying to grow. He looks big up close. His feathers
are shiny like rainbows.
Speaker 3: He is very calm. Let's approach him slowly. He knows
we are here.
Speaker 1: Hello crow, you drank the water. That was clever.
Speaker 3: He is looking at umacs. He is nodding his head.
Look at what he is doing now. He is picking
up small twigs one by one.
Speaker 1: He's building something, isn't he. It looks like a little
shelter around that tiny flower, to protect it from the wind.
The crow that's going to take forever. The twigs are
so small, and the wind is blowing them away sometimes.
Look that one just fell over. Doesn't that make you mad?
Speaker 4: It doesn't make me mad, little one. It just makes
me notice the wind is doing what wind does? I
am doing what I.
Speaker 1: Do That you have to start all over again.
Speaker 4: No, I do not start all over. I only pick
up this twig. If I look at the whole wall,
my wings feel heavy. If I look at the whole night,
I feel tired. But if I look at this one twig,
it is light.
Speaker 1: He's right, Max. Look, he places the twig back. He
doesn't rush it. He places it carefully. He waits to
see if it holds.
Speaker 4: Fell again, then I will play again. Being angry burns energy.
Little one like flying against the wind. Being patient saves energy.
I have time, The flower has time. We are just.
Speaker 1: Here.
Speaker 3: You see Max. He isn't fighting the wind. He is
working with it. He breathes slow when he works. Can
you hear it?
Speaker 1: He's really steady. He adjusted it. Now it stays.
Speaker 4: It stays now the next one. You see. The water
did not come to me because I was magic. It
came because I did not stop. You can carry a
mountain if you carry it as sand.
Speaker 1: You can carry a mountain if you carry it as sand.
That feels true, doesn't it. It feels like you don't
have to rush, You don't have to worry about the ending.
You just do the next small thing. He placed another one,
and another one. The flower looks safer now, it stops shivering.
Speaker 4: It grows slowly, like feathers growing on a wing, like
sleep coming to a tired bird. One blink, then another blink.
You do not have to try to sleep, You just
rest one eye, then the other.
Speaker 3: I think we've found what we came for.
Speaker 1: I think so too. We have felt the weight of
the pebble and the lightness of doing just one thing,
the story light, Max. It is cooling. The rose gold
is melting away, turning into a deep, soft lavender blue,
the color of twilight, the color of dreams.
Speaker 3: And look, the garden wall is fading. The air is
shimmering again, but not with heat, with softness. The dream
gate is appearing. It's right there between the ivy vines,
a gentle opening into the quiet.
Speaker 1: It looks so peaceful. Are we going through? We are?
The story light is drifting out of Gramp's beard to
show us the way, just a little floating star. Let's
follow it slowly, step by step through the gate, leaving
the heat behind, leaving the work behind.
Speaker 3: And here we are Nocturnia. Oh, Max, take a breath.
Here the air is cool and sweet. We're at the
whispering riverbed tonight.
Speaker 1: The water it's singing a really quiet song.
Speaker 2: Burbal hush, burbal hush. It sounds like it's breathing too.
Speaker 3: The ground here is covered in smooth, round stones, but
they are soft, like felt. You can walk on them
and they massage your feet. Every step feels like a
little rest, soft step, soft.
Speaker 1: Step, look up, Max. The sky is a deep, velvety indigo.
The stars aren't twinkling fast. They are glowing steadily, like
little lanterns that never go out. And look who is
with us? It's Corvus. But he's a dream crow. Now
he's made of soft shadows and starlight. He's walking by
the riverbank. He isn't working anymore. He is moving so slowly.
Speaker 3: That is the persistence. He carried it all this way
in his beak. It's a glowing pebble. Now he is
walking to the water's edge. The dream tree's roots come
down to drink. Here do you see them, big mossy
roots curling into the stream, drinking up.
Speaker 1: The quiet corvas is leaning down. He is placing the
glowing pebble right where the root meets the water. He
isn't dropping it. He is placing it gently, like he
is tucking it into bed.
Speaker 5: The roots holding it. The light is spreading into the tree,
up the trunk and into the leaves.
Speaker 3: The tree glows a little brighter, then dims. It has
accepted the word persistence is resting. Now you don't have
to keep trying, Max, You don't have to keep working.
The pebbles are all put away, The twigs are all
put away.
Speaker 1: Corvus is tucking his head under his wing. He is
standing on one leg, steady and still. He is asleep,
and we should leave him to his rest. The dreamgate
is waiting to take us back.
Speaker 3: Let's walk back along the river bank. Don't rush. Feel
your legs getting heavy with every step, heavy like the
stones in the water, sinking down, comfortable and still.
Speaker 1: Through the gate, gently now drifting back away from Nocturnia,
back towards the attic. The air is getting warmer, the
room is getting steady.
Speaker 3: And here we are home. The attic is just as
we left it, only quieter. The bed is underneath you,
solid and sure. The pillow is holding your head. The
blanket is wrapped around you like a warm hug.
Speaker 1: The story light is slipping out of gramps his beard,
now drifting back towards the jar. But before I close it,
let's just notice how still we are.
Speaker 3: I'm going to take a long, slow breath in and
let it all the way out. You can do that too, Max,
Just letting the air leave your body.
Speaker 1: Shoulders dropping down away from your ears, jaw loose, teeth
not touching, hands, resting open with nothing.
Speaker 3: To hold, you don't have to figure anything out. Tonight.
Questions can rest too, if a thought comes. It's just
a leaf floating down a river. Let it float by.
Speaker 1: Everything is finished, The jar is waiting. There it goes.
The light is inside. I'm closing the lid. Now it's closed.
The magic is sleeping. You are safe, you are loved,
and the night is very very quiet. Good Night, Max,
Good night, sleepy listener. That was a good one, Loomy,
I think I'm just about sleep. Good Night
Speaker 3: By A B n U n