In the village of Ormen, many miles down a long and winding track, spring had arrived.
The ground had softened, the trees were beginning to bloom, and the ploughs were out again while the animals grazed the upper fields. Ormen was not a rich village, but it was a friendly place. People worked together, they knew each other’s names, and most of each other’s stories.
One morning, just as the day was warming, Pip the farmer was preparing his fields for sowing. Making good progress, he turned the plough at the end of a row and felt it strike something hard beneath the soil. He stopped, knelt, and started to dig a little with his hands, he found a huge stone, it was black, smooth, and cold, unlike anything he’d seen before. As Pip touched the stone, he felt an uneasy feeling wash over him, a feeling he’d not felt for a long time. It was the nagging sense that he wasn’t good enough, and everyone knew. He stood up and it left him as quickly as it had come.
He ran down to the village so that they could come and see what he had found.
The villagers dug quickly, excited by the discovery. Soon they found that the stone ran in a seam, clean and dark beneath the field. When struck, it split easily, breaking into flat pieces that caught the light like still water. There was enough for everyone, and so each person took a piece home with them.
It was there, indoors, that the change began. The obsidian spoke to Pip, it told him what he already knew, that everyone thought he was useless, that he was no good at anything. It told him that it was his only friend, the only one he could trust, the only one that understood him.
At first he tried to put it out of his mind, but as the days went by he spoke less and less, went out less and less and avoided his friends and neighbours more and more. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice everyone else was doing the same.
Slowly, the village began to turn inward.
The people all stayed inside. They arranged their houses so the obsidian had a place of honour. Work was missed, no one attended town meetings and the streets grew quiet. Inside the houses the obsidian kept the people company.
The fields were planted late, then not at all. The animals went unfed, a broken roof stayed broken.
By the time anyone noticed, Ormen had already begun to fail.
One day, a traveller came down the old track and into the village. He stopped in the square and waited, but no one came. The fields lay bare. The animals were thin and skittish. Doors were closed, though smoke still rose from some chimneys.
He knocked at a house.
A woman opened the door a crack. Her eyes were wide and restless. When she saw him, she closed it again at once, turning back to the black rock. He tried another house, then another. Each time the same thing happened.
He made his way through the village, at the edge, he found the field where the black stone had been uncovered. He knelt, touched the exposed seam, and nodded to himself.
He started to work, slowly, methodically and with purpose, to bring the village back, first clearing the well, then hanging the door back on the inn. In the evenings, he played music in the square on an old fiddle, simple tunes, familiar melodies meant to be shared, not admired.
After a couple of days he saw a curtain move and a set of frightened eyes appear. The traveller went up and knocked on the door, Pip opened the door, blinking fiercely in the bright sun, a worn and tired look on his face.
“I could do with some help out here” the traveller said
“I can’t” Pip said and slammed the door
The traveller went on, clearing and mending, the next day he tried again
“I’m no good at this work” Pip said “go away”
The traveller tried again the next day
“I really need your help” he said “I must repair the roof on this barn and need another pair of hands, the animals need shelter”
Reluctantly Pip stepped outside.
When the job was complete, the traveller thanked Pip and bid him goodnight
“Same again tomorrow?” he said
The next day the traveller knocked again and Pip came out with a smile on his face, they worked slowly, together repairing and mending as they went, the blacksmith’s forge lit, smoke rising out of the chimney, finally ending in the field which Pip had left many weeks ago.
As the sun set, Pip sat quietly while the traveller played a tune on his fiddle, Pip smiled, surveying the work they had done.
When Pip returned home that night, the black rock still lay where he had left it, but for the first time in many days, it had nothing to say.
The next morning, the traveller was gone so Pip went and knocked on his neighbour’s door.
“I need your help” he said.
Stories like this one sit at the heart of what Wild Together does — not as lessons to be unpacked, but as things to carry outside and let the fresh air work on.
If this resonated, you might like to explore our free seasonal session plans — or browse more stories and folklore in our library.