Clouds Forming laughed and slapped Tawis playfully on his arm. “Stop being silly,” she said. “You know what Okwaho means.” Then she answered his question herself. “While we were listening to that story your mother just shared, I felt as if I was flying to the sky land along with Turkey Buzzard to bring back clothes for all the other birds. And I know you felt that way too, Tawis.” She lifted her hand as if to swat Tawis a second time and he scooted back from her.

“Do not hit me again,” he said, making his voice small like that of a little child. “You are going to break my arm, you bully! You should be called Lightning Striking, not Clouds Forming.”

Then Tawis grinned at Okwaho. “My friend, sometimes you are sooo serious,” he said. “But Clouds Forming is right. She is right twice. First, I was teasing you. Second, I always feel as if I am no longer inside our longhouse listening to a story. I feel as if I am part of the story. When that one was done, I had to look at my arms to make sure I was not covered with brown feathers like Turkey Buzzard.”

Okwaho had gone to his mother after that conversation with his two friends.

“I have a question,” he said.

“You always do,” his mother replied. Then she smiled. “And I am always ready to try to answer you. Though I still cannot explain to you why water is wet and fire is hot.”

“It is about stories,” Okwaho said, choosing not to laugh at his mother’s teasing. “Why are they so strong? Why do your stories always take me somewhere?”

“Ah,” Wolf Woman said. “You are finally asking me an easy question, Okwaho. Stories are so strong because they are alive. A story is like someone you trust to take your hand, lead you on a journey, and then bring you back home again.”

Okwaho had nodded at that answer. It had made it easier for him to understand why he and his friends felt as they did, not just during a story but after one had been told. It was as if they had been guided along a trail, sometimes one they’d traveled before and sometimes a new one, guided by someone like his mother or his uncle, someone who cared about them, showed them wonderful things along the way, and then brought them back to their longhouse safe and happy.

Okwaho shook his head as he sat with his back against his mother’s longhouse. His best friend was gone. His other friend Clouds Forming was back in Onondaga and perhaps he would never see her again. Nothing made sense without them. What use was a story now?