Gaze

After the opossum finished her tale and shuffled away, Bramble turned to the fawn.

"When you looked at me," Bramble said, his quills softening slightly, "I felt like you were about to tell me a secret."

The fawn nodded, her ears twitching as a cool breeze swept through the dark hemlocks.

"My name is Gaze," she said, her voice steady and soft. "When I tell a story, I look at my listeners, not the floor or the sky."

Her warm eyes moved gently around the empty spaces of the circle, as if still holding the ghosts of the audience.

"When I look at someone, they feel held," Gaze explained, her voice quiet. "They feel like the story is theirs."

She paused, watching a pale moth flutter near the dying embers.

"And there is a second gift," Gaze continued, leaning forward so her shadow stretched across the dirt. "When I look at their faces, they tell me things without speaking a single word."

She smiled, her dark eyes reflecting the tiny orange sparks.

"A wide eye says they are hooked, so I should keep going, while a yawn says I have gone too slow."

"A scrunched-up face means they are confused, which tells me to explain things again."

To demonstrate her method, she began to speak. She did not tell a grand legend, but a simple account of a crow who lost his shiny pebble. As she spoke, her warm gaze drifted around the circle, resting on each creature in turn.

The remaining animals leaned in together, completely caught in the net of her looking. When she saw a little mouse’s eyes go wide with fear at the mention of the farm cat, she lingered there, letting the tension build. When she noticed the green beetle start to fidget, she quickened her pace. The story bent and flexed to fit the circle because she was watching them the whole time.

"Gaze," Bramble said, "I run a listening-circle in the great clearing near the old oak tree."

He sighed deeply, his quills clicking together like dry twigs in a winter wind. "So many of the young ones tell their tales to their own feet, losing the circle without even knowing it."

He looked at her, his dark eyes pleading for her help. "Would you join our little group and teach them how to look up?"

Gaze dipped her head gracefully, her warm eyes shining in the purple twilight. "I will," she said. "Looking at someone is the kindest part of telling a story, and I would love to teach them."

So Gaze joined the listening-circle, and the young tellers there began their long journey of learning to look up.

The next afternoon, the clearing was cool and dappled with sunlight filtering through the oak leaves. The young animals sat on damp logs, shifting nervously and whispering among themselves in the cool air.

When Bramble introduced the lesson on eye contact, Gaze stepped forward to lead the group.

"Find just one friendly face," she told the anxious crowd of young animals. "Tell the first part of your story directly to them, ignoring everyone else for a moment."

She walked slowly around the inner ring, her hooves making no sound on the soft moss.

"Then find another kind face," she continued, "and tell the next part to them."

"You do not have to look at everyone in the clearing all at once."

She paused, letting her eyes rest on a trembling hedgehog who had curled himself into a tight, prickly ball.

"Just move, slowly and gently, from one warm face to the next."

The young hedgehog, whose name was Pip, swallowed hard and tried to stand on his log. His quills clicked against each other as he took a deep breath, staring hard at his own paws.

"Go on, Pip," Bramble whispered from the side of the circle, his voice encouraging and warm.

Pip looked up slowly, his small black eyes searching the crowd of faces. He found Bramble’s kind, thorny face and told the opening sentence of his tale directly to him. His voice was small, but it did not shake as he spoke.

Then, remembering Gaze’s advice, Pip turned his head to find another listener. He found a gentle rabbit sitting across the circle and told her the next part about a lost acorn.

Bit by bit, Pip made his way around the clearing, anchoring his words to the eyes of his friends. By the end of his tale, he was no longer staring at his feet. He was truly with his listeners, and they were right there with him, nodding along.

"And remember," Gaze added, stepping back into the center of the clearing as the applause died down. "Looking is not only about being seen by your audience."

She looked at each of them in turn, her eyes wide and inviting. "It is about seeing them, not just letting them see you."

"Their faces tell me everything — when to slow, when to hurry, when to wait."

She mimicked a giant yawn, making the young rabbit giggle and sit up straighter. "They will tell you when to slow down, when to hurry, and when to wait for a laugh."

"A told story is a conversation," Gaze said, "even when only one of you is speaking."

A young badger sitting in the back row raised a dusty paw. "What if looking at people makes me feel too nervous to speak?"

"Then start with the kindest face you can find," Gaze said softly, stepping closer to him. "Find eyes that are glad to see you, and tell your story to that one warm face first."

She smiled at him, her long ears tilting forward. "The bravery always grows from there, one kind face at a time."