Seven child starter stories

Reo and the Song That Went the Wrong Way

Reo follows a wrong note in the path-song and finds a blocked water channel behind the berry terraces.

Reo — Story 5 of 7

Reo could carry a basket, sing a song, and trip over a stone all at the same time.

This was useful more often than people expected.

The basket was empty, which helped. Reo had balanced it upside down on his head, where it sat like a very plain crown. His hands were free for pointing at beetles, touching warm stones, and conducting the path-song with one finger.

The Berry Terraces climbed above the village in long green steps.

Low walls held the soil in place. Berry canes leaned over the paths, their leaves bright in the morning sun. Narrow channels carried water from the hill spring, and little wooden bridges crossed the channels wherever the path turned.

The other children walked ahead with their baskets looped properly over their arms.

Talla led because she knew every terrace path and liked reminding people of this.

Benn walked behind her, counting the baskets under his breath.

Orrin carried three tying cords, two folded cloths, and the worried look of someone who expected Reo to fall into something before midday.

Reo sang.

“Up by the ash tree, left by the canes,
right by the water stones, down by the rains—”

His voice turned.

The note bent sideways.

“Left by the water stones—”

Talla stopped.

Benn walked into her.

Orrin walked into Benn.

Reo walked into Orrin, and the basket slid over his eyes.

“That is wrong,” Talla said.

Reo lifted the basket from his face. “It sounded left.”

“It is right by the water stones.”

“I know.”

“You sang left.”

“I also know that.”

Orrin sighed. “Knowing two things does not make the wrong one better.”

“It makes it interesting,” said Reo.

Talla pointed up the path. “Again. Properly.”

Reo put the basket back on his head.

They began again.

“Up by the ash tree, left by the canes,
right by the water stones—”

The note twisted.

“Left by the water stones—”

Talla made a noise like a kettle trying to stay polite.

“Reo.”

“I heard it too,” Reo said quickly.

“You sang it.”

“Yes, but I also heard it.”

“That is how singing works,” said Benn.

Reo frowned.

He took the basket off his head and held it against his chest.

The path-song was old. Children learned it before they were allowed to carry full baskets through the terraces. The song told feet where to go when eyes were busy looking at berries. It kept people from missing bridges, stepping over low walls, or wandering into steep side paths where loose stones liked rolling under shoes.

The song was simple.

That was the point.

Up by the ash tree.
Left by the red canes.
Right by the water stones.
Down by the moss wall.
Home by the bell-post.

Reo knew it.

He knew it so well that he had once sung it backwards while standing on one foot and eating a yellow plum. The song had survived the plum. It should have survived an empty basket.

Talla folded her arms. “Sing it slowly.”

Reo sang it slowly.

The first line behaved.

The second line behaved.

The third direction reached the water stones and pulled left.

Reo stopped.

The other children looked at him.

He looked at the path.

On the right, the proper way dipped between two water stones and crossed a little bridge. On the left, an old side path curled behind a wall thick with moss and small white flowers. People rarely used that way. It led behind the terraces and came out near the dry shed, where broken baskets went to become useful again or stay broken in company.

Reo hummed the third line under his breath.

The note pulled left.

He hummed it again.

Left.

Again.

Left.

His skin prickled with the kind of excitement that usually meant discovery or trouble. Sometimes both arrived together and shared a chair.

“It keeps doing it,” he said.

“Because you keep doing it,” Talla said.

“A real mistake wobbles about. This one keeps going to the same place.”

Benn glanced at the sun. “The upper berries will be warm soon. We are meant to fetch, fill, and come back.”

“And we will,” said Reo.

Orrin narrowed his eyes. “Why did you say that in the voice you use before you make everything take longer?”

Reo was already stepping towards the left-hand path.

“Because the song wants to look behind the wall.”

“Songs do not want,” said Talla.

“In Vaelinya?” Reo said.

Talla opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Pointed at him instead. “Five minutes.”

Reo grinned.

The old side path was narrow and scratchy.

Berry canes leaned over it from both sides, catching at Reo’s sleeves. The ground was dry under the dust, and little stones clicked away from his shoes. Behind him, the others followed in a line.

Talla followed like a person proving she was only there to stop foolishness.

Benn followed because he had counted four children going up the terraces and still wanted four children coming down.

Orrin followed because he had the tying cords and disliked being left out of danger after danger had already started.

Reo hummed.

The note tugged him onward.

Gently. Like a small finger hooked into the edge of his sleeve.

He passed the moss wall.

The wrong-way note sharpened.

He passed the dry shed.

The note dipped.

He stopped beside a low stone marker half-hidden by grass.

“There,” he said.

Talla looked around. “There is nothing here.”

Reo turned slowly.

The path behind the terraces was quieter than the proper path. The berry leaves looked duller here. The air had less water in it. Even the moss on the wall seemed tired, dark at the roots and pale at the tips.

A little channel ran along the base of the wall.

Or it should have.

The channel held still water, brown leaves, and one flat stone lodged at an angle where water should have passed through.

Reo crouched.

Behind the stone, water clicked and tapped, trapped in a small dark pocket.

He hummed the song again.

The note pulled straight into the blocked channel.

“Oh,” said Benn.

Talla knelt beside Reo. She put one finger into the channel below the blockage. “It is dry past here.”

Orrin moved along the wall and touched the soil under the young berry canes. “These roots are dry too.”

The canes were smaller than the others, planted in a narrow strip behind the wall. Their leaves had started to curl inwards, quietly enough for people to miss, but loudly enough for a song to notice.

Reo looked at Talla.

Talla looked at the blocked channel.

Then she said, very carefully, “The path-song may have been checking the water.”

Reo smiled.

Talla pointed at him. “Do not look so pleased. The basket is still on your head.”

Reo reached up.

It was.

He removed it with dignity.

They set to work.

Benn fetched a short stick from near the shed and used it to lift dead leaves from the channel. Orrin laid the tying cords aside and rolled up his sleeves. Talla wedged both hands under the flat stone and tried to shift it, but it held tight.

Reo listened to the trapped water.

Click. Tap. Click.

He tapped the rhythm back with one finger on the stone.

Click. Tap. Click.

The water answered from behind it.

“There is a hollow under this side,” Reo said.

Talla paused. “How do you know?”

“It sounds like a cup.”

Orrin leaned close. “It does sound like a cup.”

Benn frowned. “What does a cup sound like under a stone?”

“Useful question,” said Reo. “Wrong time.”

He pushed his fingers into the mud beside the stone and found the hollow. Cold water touched his knuckles. He wiggled his hand deeper, pulled out a knot of wet leaves, and yelped because a beetle ran up his wrist.

The others jumped back.

Reo shook his hand.

The beetle shook itself.

Everyone watched it walk away with great seriousness.

Then the water moved.

A thin thread slipped under the stone and ran down the channel. It touched the dry moss, darkening it as it went.

Talla pushed the stone again.

This time it shifted.

Orrin helped.

Benn pulled.

Reo hummed the wrong-way note.

With a sucking sound and a splash, the stone came loose.

Water rushed through the channel.

It ran past their shoes, under the wall, along the dry strip, and into the thirsty soil beneath the young berry canes. The leaves trembled as the water reached them.

The wrong-way note changed in Reo’s mouth.

It turned bright.

Talla sat back on her heels, muddy to the elbows.

“The song was right.”

Reo considered this.

“The song was left.”

Benn groaned.

Orrin laughed first, which made Reo laugh, which made Benn laugh even though he tried to hide it, which made Talla look at all of them as if she had been given three badly folded maps.

Then she laughed too.

The sound moved through the side path, bounced off the moss wall, and came back warmer.

They stayed until the channel ran clear.

Talla marked the blockage place with two white stones so the terrace keepers would see it. Benn counted the young canes twice and announced that all of them had water now. Orrin rinsed mud from the tying cords and hung them over his shoulder.

Reo stood in the path and sang again.

“Up by the ash tree, left by the canes,
right by the water stones, check where they run,
down by the moss wall, home with the sun—”

Talla stared at him.

“That is not the path-song.”

“It is now longer.”

“That does not make it correct.”

The water ran through the cleared channel with a cheerful sound.

Talla looked at it.

Then she sighed. “Sing it again. More neatly.”

Reo sang it again.

Benn joined on the second line.

Orrin joined on the third.

Talla held out until the fourth, then came in with the proper tune and a very firm voice, as if the song might misbehave without supervision.

Together they walked back to the proper path.

They still had empty baskets.

They were late.

Their sleeves were muddy, Reo’s hair had two leaves in it, and the path-song had acquired a new line, which was the sort of thing adults noticed.

At the upper terraces, Maer Vessa was waiting beside the berry canes.

She looked at the empty baskets.

Then at the mud.

Then at Reo.

Reo took the basket off his head before she could mention it.

“The song went wrong,” he said.

Maer Vessa raised one eyebrow.

Talla stepped forward. “It went left at the water stones.”

“That is wrong.”

“Yes,” said Talla. “But it did it consistently.”

Maer Vessa looked at her for a long moment.

Then at Reo.

Then she smiled slightly. “Consistently wrong deserves investigation.”

Reo beamed.

Benn pointed back down the terraces. “The side channel was blocked. The young canes behind the moss wall were dry.”

Orrin held up the muddy tying cords as evidence, though they proved only that something wet had happened near him.

Maer Vessa walked down with them to inspect the channel.

When she saw the running water and the two white marker stones, her face became serious.

“Well found,” she said.

The words warmed Reo from throat to toes.

That afternoon, they picked berries from the upper terraces.

Orrin tied one folded cloth over Benn’s basket and the other over Reo’s, because those were the two baskets most likely to lose berries on the way home. Benn accepted this as sensible. Reo accepted it as an invitation.

The full baskets were heavier on the way home. Reo carried his properly for almost seven whole minutes before balancing it carefully on his head. The cloth kept the berries covered. The basket still wobbled, but in a thoughtful way.

Nobody told him to take it down, because Talla was busy trying the new song under her breath, Benn was counting berry baskets, and Orrin had already done what could reasonably be done with cloth.

At the water stones, everyone paused.

Reo sang softly:

“Right by the water stones, check where they run—”

The song bent left for a moment, just enough to nod towards the old side path.

From behind the moss wall, the cleared channel answered with running water.

Then the tune came back.

Down by the moss wall.
Home with the sun.

The children walked on together.

At the village edge, the evening bell began to ring.

Reo’s basket slipped sideways over one ear.

The cloth held.

One berry had escaped somehow and rolled down his sleeve.

He caught it in his mouth.

Talla saw.

She shook her head, but she was smiling.

Behind them, the terraces held the new line of the song. The water kept running where the wrong way had led them, and the young berry leaves opened quietly beside the old wall.