The Sand Sifter. Julie Lawson

Boys Only Fort, and you find a few more stones and shells to add to your collection— which you keep in an old cookie tin. And which you keep hidden from that brother of yours!”

      “Wow!” Jessica was impressed. “How did you know all that?”

      The old man chuckled and gave her a wink. “Why, it’s all in the sand! And every grain of sand tells a story. And that’s why you’ve come, isn’t it? Not to keep an old man company, no, no, no. But to hear a story!”

      “Well, we’ll keep you company at the same time, if that’s alright!” Jessica said.

      “Fine, fine! I’m only teasing, anyway. You can’t believe everything you hear, isn’t that right, Carey?”

      “That’s for sure!”

      “Except for what the sand sifter tells you.

      And that’s the honest truth.” He settled himself down amongst his pails and piles of sand. Then, taking a sieve in his hand, he began.

      He told of far-away places, and long-ago times — when he was young, and the world was young. In hushed tones he spoke of creators and mythical heroes. He spoke of enchanted places, and kingdoms beneath the sea where dragons guarded their treasures, and nymphs floated dreamlike across the sand. And he looked into their eyes as he wove the tales, and held them, entranced. And all the while he spoke, he sifted the sand.

      Every grain in its proper place. Into one pail went the pearly grains, into another the misty grays. Into one the bits of sparkling mica; into another, the heavier black-lava grains. And there was a pail for the golden sun-drenched sands, and a pail for the crystally white. Every grain in its proper place, and every grain holding a story.

      Day after day Jessica went to see the sand sifter. Sometimes with Carey, sometimes on her own. Her mind danced with the stories he told, and her dreams were filled with the images he created. Often she thought of telling Andrew. But then at the last minute she’d change her mind, and hug the secret to herself.

       3

      “Hear that ruckus out there?” the old man asked. It was the cry of a raven. “Some believe that’s the one that started it all. Life, I mean.”

      Today the old man was sifting the misty grays, the sand of myths on rugged sea coasts where the raven had created the world.

      “Raven. That’s the one. He was a spirit, you see, and could change his shape. Why, he could be a baby or an old man or even a spruce needle! But most often he was Raven— sly and cunning, with a gift for mischief! And one day he made the Great Chief of the Sky Kingdom so angry he was sent away for good.