Feast & Flowers

Once there was a traveler who had walked a long road. His boots were dusty, his coat was thin, and in his pack he carried only an empty pot and one smooth stone.

As evening came on, he saw a village tucked between the fields. Smoke curled from chimneys, shutters were closing, and warm lamplight shone behind the windows.

"Surely someone here will have a little food to spare," thought the traveler.

He knocked at the first door. A woman opened it just a crack.

"Good evening," said the traveler. "I have walked far today. Could you spare a bite of supper?"

The woman looked at his empty hands and shook her head. "I am sorry. We have barely enough for ourselves." Then she closed the door.

He knocked at another door. An old man answered.

"Could you spare a crust of bread?" asked the traveler.

"Times are hard," said the old man. "There is nothing extra here." And he closed his door too.

Door after door gave the same answer. "Nothing to spare." "Not tonight." "Our cupboard is nearly empty."

So the traveler went to the middle of the village square. He gathered a few sticks, made a small fire, set his pot above it, and filled the pot with water from the well.

Then he reached into his pocket, took out the smooth stone, and dropped it into the pot with a plunk.

A child peered from behind a gate. "What are you doing?" the child asked.

"I am making stone soup," said the traveler.

"Stone soup?" said the child. "Can you make soup from a stone?"

"Oh yes," said the traveler. "A very fine soup. It is good by itself, though it is even better with a carrot."

The child ran home. Soon the woman from the first house came back with one carrot in her hand.

"I found this at the bottom of the basket," she said. "It is not much."

"It is exactly right," said the traveler.

He chopped the carrot and dropped it into the pot. The water began to turn golden.

A man came closer and sniffed the steam. "What is cooking?"

"Stone soup," said the traveler. "It is already good, though it would be better with an onion."

The man rubbed his chin. "I may have one onion." He went away and came back with an onion wrapped in a cloth.

Into the pot it went.

Another neighbor came carrying two small potatoes. "These are a little soft," she said.

"Soft potatoes make kind soup," said the traveler, and he added them too.

Soon the village square smelled warm and savory. More doors opened. More people came out.

"I have a handful of beans," said one.

"I have a pinch of salt," said another.

"I have herbs from the garden," said a child, holding them carefully in both hands.

"I have a heel of bread," said the baker. "It is yesterday's bread, but it will still do."

"Everything will do," said the traveler. "Stone soup welcomes what is brought."

The pot bubbled gently. Carrot, onion, potato, beans, herbs, salt, and bread all gave what they had. The villagers stood close to the fire and watched the soup deepen.

Someone brought bowls. Someone brought spoons. Someone found a cloth for the table. Someone lit a candle. A little girl picked one flower and set it beside the pot.

At last the traveler tasted the soup. He closed his eyes and smiled.

"It is ready," he said.

They ladled the soup into bowls. The old man tasted first. "Why," he said, "this is the best soup I have eaten all winter."

The woman laughed. "And to think it began with a stone."

They ate together in the square while the stars came out. People who had closed their doors now sat side by side. Children dipped bread into their bowls. The candle burned low, and the pot grew empty.

When the last spoonful was gone, the traveler lifted the smooth stone from the bottom of the pot. He washed it carefully, dried it on his sleeve, and put it back in his pocket.

"May I see it?" asked the child.

The traveler placed the stone in the child's hand. It was warm from the soup.

"Is it magic?" the child whispered.

"In a way," said the traveler. "But the real magic was not in the stone."

"Where was it?" asked the child.

The traveler looked around at the empty bowls, the shared bread, the smiling faces, and the little flower by the candle.

"It was in what everyone brought," he said.

The next morning, when the traveler left the village, the people waved goodbye. Their cupboards were not full, but their hearts were lighter. They had learned that a feast can begin with almost nothing, if each person brings something to the pot.

And from that day on, whenever someone in the village made soup, they remembered the smooth stone and the night they discovered that supper tastes best when it is shared.

Narration: Why did the villagers say they had nothing to spare? What did each person bring? Was the magic really in the stone? What can you bring to the table today?