Once upon a time, on a small, forgotten island called Calmwind, there was a mysterious object that everyone knew about but no one truly understood. It was a siurell. The kind-hearted but somewhat distracted inhabitants considered it a type of whistle, a toy, or, according to the oldest folks, a mystical artifact capable of communicating with goats. Because in Calmwind, if something was mystical, it almost always had to do with goats.
The siurell, for those who had never seen one, was a small clay figurine, painted white with red and green details. On its little head, there was a hole that, if blown into with the right technique (something only an old baker with athlete's lungs had managed once in his youth), produced a whistle. But this was not an ordinary whistle. This sound was like an owl's sigh after a long night, or the attempt of a teapot trying not to sound desperate.
The siurell belonged to Tiby, a ten-year-old boy, as thin as a spaghetti noodle, with hair that always seemed to be fighting the wind, even when there was no breeze. Tiby had found it in the dusty attic of his grandmother's house, wrapped in a scarf that smelled like lemon cookies.
“Grandma,” Tiby asked one afternoon while trying (not very successfully) to make the siurell whistle, “what is this? I’ve tried blowing into it, but it just sounds like a scared hiccup.”
His grandmother looked at him over her glasses, a little smile on her face that always made her seem like she knew something no one else did, and said:
“Oh, dear boy, the siurell isn’t for just anyone. That whistle is filled with ancient magic, the real kind, not like those modern things with batteries. It only responds to those who truly know how to listen! There are so many things we don’t hear because we’re too busy talking! I used to talk to it when I was young; it doesn’t pay attention to me anymore, though—it’s become very selective!”
Tiby squinted. “Ancient magic” sounded vaguely like what the village fishmonger said about his scales when he tried to charge him too much. But, intrigued, he decided to take it home. Maybe, just maybe, if he kept trying, he would discover its secret.
The first night he had it in his room, Tiby dreamed he was in a field full of sheep. The sheep were big and round, like clouds someone had pulled down from the sky to graze. As he walked among them, a very peculiar sheep approached him. It wore sunglasses, which was strange for a sheep, and a straw hat.
“Hey, kid,” said the sheep in a deep voice, “that thing you have there is no ordinary item. I mean the siurell.”
Tiby scratched his head, because that’s what you do when a sheep talks to you in a dream.
“How do you know?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as one can be when interrogated by a sheep in sunglasses.
“We sheep know things,” replied the sheep, twitching its ears as if it was obvious. Then, leaning closer, it added in a whisper, “Besides, I have a goat cousin who once had a siurell. She used it to communicate with... well, with other beings, those who live among the clouds and the cheeses. You know, magical beings.”
“Magical beings?” Tiby was completely confused.
The sheep sighed like someone who has to explain something very simple, but for some reason, it turns out to be terribly complicated.
“Look, kid, I don’t have all day. If you want to know what that siurell does, blow it right before dawn, but make sure you’re in a good mood. The siurell only responds to happiness. Oh, and be careful not to be near too many sheep; that whistle bothers us.”
And without further ado, the sheep turned away, leaving Tiby even more confused. But before he could ask more questions, the dream faded away.
The next morning, Tiby woke up with a strange determination. He decided that, no matter how strange it all seemed, he would try to make the siurell whistle at dawn, just like the sheep had told him.
So, just as the sky began to turn a soft shade of pink, Tiby took the siurell and blew into it. He blew with all the joy he could gather at that early hour (which wasn’t much since he hadn’t had breakfast). And to his surprise, the siurell produced a sound, a long and melodious whistle that seemed to envelop everything. It was a sound so gentle yet so clear that it made the air around him vibrate, as if everything had been waiting to hear it.
Tiby stood still, listening to the echo of the siurell’s whistle fade into the calm of the dawn. Something in the air had changed. Everything seemed sharper, more alive. The leaves of the trees whispered a little louder, the water in the nearby stream sparkled with a glimmer he hadn’t noticed before. But the strangest thing of all was the presence of the goats. Without him seeing them arrive, a group had gathered around him, looking at him with those serene, deep eyes that only goats possess.
One of them, a gray goat with twisted horns, stepped forward and regarded him with a kind of reverence. Tiby didn’t know what to do, but he remembered what the sheep had said in his dream: “The siurell only responds to happiness.” So, taking a deep breath, he smiled. He smiled like he had never smiled before, with all his heart, and blew the siurell again.
This time, the sound was different. It was as if the wind had decided to share a secret. The goats, instead of getting restless, began to move gracefully, forming a circle around Tiby. Suddenly, they started to whistle along with him. Yes, the goats were whistling, creating a melody so ancient it seemed to have been forgotten by the world. The air filled with music, and Tiby felt something deep connect within him, something beyond words.
“It’s real,” he whispered to himself, amazed.
The gray goat looked at him with an expression that almost seemed like a smile, and in that moment, Tiby understood everything: the siurell was not just a toy or a simple mystical artifact. It was a key, a door to a world that the inhabitants of Calmwind had long forgotten. It was a bridge between the ordinary and the magical, between humans and the beings that dwell among the clouds and cheeses, as the sheep in his dream had said.
Suddenly, the gray goat came even closer and, in a soft yet clear voice, spoke:
“Welcome, Tiby. The siurell has accepted you, and now you have the responsibility to keep its legacy alive. It’s not just to communicate with goats; it’s to remember that in every corner of this world, magic is waiting to be heard.”
Tiby, still holding the siurell, felt a mix of wonder and excitement. He didn’t fully understand what the goat had said, but deep down, he knew that his life would never be the same. Because now, he had discovered a secret that few could imagine: in Calmwind, the impossible was just a matter of knowing how to listen to the wind and the goats... and always keeping a little happiness in his heart.
And so, with the first ray of sunshine lighting up his face, Tiby smiled once more, aware that his adventure was just beginning.