The Wise Old Turtle

When Annie was a little girl, still young enough to want to go on meandering walks with her grandfather, he told her about the wise old turtle who lived in the blow down on the stream at the back of his property.

“No reason those branches are still there,” he told her. “They should have washed away years ago, but the turtle keeps them arranged just so.”

Annie giggled. “How can a turtle keep branches arranged?”

“He’s a magic turtle. If you ever see him, he’ll tell you what you should do with your life. He’s very wise that way.”

“Well, let’s find him,” Annie said, starting to hop down toward the stream, but her grandfather stopped her.

“It doesn’t work that way. You won’t see him unless you can understand him, and that only happens when you really need his wisdom.”

Annie giggled again. “You’re silly,” she said, and they continued their walk.

She didn’t think about the wise old turtle again until many years later. Her grandfather had died, and she was taking a meandering walk on his property, thinking to honor his memory by revisiting the places he used to take her. She was also at a stage of life where meandering walks had become important to her. They gave her time to think. She hoped, with enough time to think, she might figure out what she was supposed to be doing with her life.

In other words, she needed wisdom. So maybe it was inevitable that, while she had forgotten about the turtle and wasn’t looking for him, she found him.

She was following the stream along the back of the property. She wasn’t thinking about much of anything until she saw the blow down, and then the whole childhood conversation with her grandfather came back in a rush. “The wise old turtle,” she murmured. She started to smile, but it quickly changed to a frown.

Annie didn’t know a lot about nature—she was a city girl at heart—but she was pretty sure a pile of brush and branches in a stream shouldn’t stay the same for twenty years. Either the force of the water should have washed them away, or the same current that brought them here should have carried other branches and added to it. But this pile was exactly the same as it had been twenty years ago. She was sure of it.

She made her way down the bank without letting herself think too much about why she was doing it. By the time she got to the edge of the water, the turtle was there, sunning himself on one of the upper branches. One moment he wasn’t there, and then—while her attention wandered for a second—he was.

Annie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She resisted the urge to clasp her hands like a schoolgirl. “Hello,” she said.

The turtle dipped his head. It might have been a greeting, or it might have been a normal turtle motion.

“Can you tell me what I should do?”

The turtle stretched his head toward the southern end of the water. “What’s a mile down the river?” he said.

His voice had the consistency of melted chocolate. Though he looked like a regular turtle, Annie discovered she wasn’t at all surprised to hear him speak.

Annie looked in the direction he’d pointed. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s too far away, and there’s a bend blocking the view.”

“And how would you learn what lies ahead?”

Annie hesitated. “I guess I’d just have to walk down there and see.”

The turtle dipped his head. “Exactly,” he said. And while she wasn’t quite looking, he disappeared.