Soren and the Sleepy Volcano

Soren and the Sleepy VolcanoLettersLetter.com

10:24

Soren lived in Pebblewick, a town that always felt a little warm, as if the earth kept a hidden mug of cocoa under it.

Behind the houses rose Mount Murr, the volcano.

Most days, Mount Murr behaved like a polite giant who almost fell asleep but didn’t. Sidewalk cracks steamed. The hot spring bubbled. Kettles sang.

But last night, Soren heard something different through his bedroom floor.

Not the usual gentle mrrr… mrrr…

A snore.

In the morning, Pebblewick was getting ready for Warmth Day Festival, when everyone filled mugs and teapots with “Mountain Tea,” the spring water that tasted like warm rain and pennies and something brave.

Soren hurried to the spring.

It was still bubbling, but slowly—like it was yawning.

Blup… bluuup…

Mayor Brindle stood there in his bright sash, smiling at the water as if smiling was a kind of tool.

“Perfect!” he announced. “Generous mountain!”

Nana Omi leaned close to Soren and sniffed.

“Smell that?” she murmured.

Soren sniffed. Warm rocks… and something like an old blanket.

“Sleep,” Nana said. “Too much of it.”

Soren’s stomach did a small flip.

“What happens if Mount Murr falls all the way asleep?” he asked.

Nana’s eyes went up to the mountain and stayed there.

“With Mount Murr,” she said, “a deep sleep comes with a big yawn.”

“And a volcano yawn is… bad?”

“It can shake loose things it didn’t mean to,” Nana said.

Soren pictured ash and rocks tumbling out like crumbs from a giant mouth.

“I don’t want a volcano sneeze,” he whispered.

“Neither do I,” Nana said. “My knees are too old for dramatic running.”

Soren touched his satchel strap. Inside were two dried mango strips, a smooth warm stone he liked, and Nana’s old silver bell.

“That bell is for calling goats,” Nana had said once.

Then, after a pause: “Sometimes it calls other things, too.”

Today, Soren didn’t have time to ask what.

He started up the path.

Halfway up, Kipper the goat trotted out from behind a bush, a ribbon stuck on one horn and a face that said, I am innocent and also hungry for paperwork.

“Not now,” Soren whispered, tugging the ribbon free. “I’m on a mission.”

Kipper bleated like he understood.

“Fine,” Soren sighed. “But no eating my bell.”

Kipper blinked very slowly. This did not feel like a promise.

They climbed.

The higher they went, the warmer it got, but in a sleepy way—fireplace-after-dinner warm. Soren’s eyelids felt heavy. Even the birds sounded drowsy.

Then something rolled across the path—low, white, and swirly.

A cloud.

Not a sky-cloud. A ground-cloud.

It curled around Soren’s ankles like milk in a bowl.

“Hello,” it said.

Soren stopped so fast Kipper bumped him.

“You talk?” Soren squeaked.

The cloud puffed up, offended.

“Obviously. I’m Fume,” it said. “Mount Murr’s message cloud.”

Soren’s heart thumped.

“Is Mount Murr okay?”

Fume wobbled like it was trying not to scare him.

“He’s sinking,” Fume said. “Deep sleep. Big Yawn soon.”

“Why?”

“He’s missing his Morning Spark,” Fume whispered. “A tiny ember that keeps him gentle-awake. When it hums, Mount Murr purrs. When it goes quiet… down he goes.”

“Where is it?”

“Inside,” Fume said, drifting along the rock wall. “But sounds can reach places feet can’t. Find where his purr is weakest. Remind the Spark to sing.”

Soren pressed his ear to the warm stone.

At first he heard only his own blood, rushing like a tiny river.

Then, far below: mrrr… mrrr…

He walked, listening. Stronger here. Softer there.

Kipper followed, chewing absolutely nothing, which was suspicious.

Soren’s eyes tried to close.

He pinched his arm. “Ow,” he whispered. “Rude, but effective.”

Finally he found a patch of rock that felt oddly cool, like it had forgotten it was part of a volcano.

Under it, the purr was thin. Sleepy. Like a cat behind a shut door.

“This is it,” Soren said.

He pulled out Nana’s silver bell.

His hand trembled.

What if he rang it too loud and startled the mountain? What if Mount Murr jolted into a yawn anyway?

Fume floated near his cheek.

“Not a shout,” Fume whispered. “A reminder.”

Soren nodded.

He rang the bell softly, like a secret.

ting…

The sound slipped into the stone.

Nothing.

Kipper sneezed.

Soren glared.

Kipper blinked, innocent as a loaf of bread.

Soren rang again.

ting… ting…

Deep inside, the purr stuttered.

Then sagged.

Soren’s throat tightened.

“The Big Yawn,” he whispered.

He couldn’t ring forever. He needed something warmer than metal.

A song.

He thought of practicing in the dark. He thought of Nana’s kitchen, cinnamon and wet stone.

Soren leaned close to the cool patch and sang, not for the mayor, not for the festival—just for the mountain.

“Thank you, mountain, for our heat—”

His voice cracked a little on thank you.

He kept going.

“If you’re tired, you can rest—just not too deep…”

Kipper, because goats are strange, added a wobbling “Baa-aaah,” like a crooked hat dropped onto the tune.

Soren almost laughed, and the laugh turned into a brighter note.

He sang again.

And then—deep inside Mount Murr—something answered.

Not a rumble.

A tiny scratch, like a match on stone.

A soft hum joined it.

Warm.

Awake.

Fume shivered with relief.

“The Spark,” the cloud breathed.

The rock beneath Soren’s palm warmed. Not sleepy-warm. Morning-warm.

Mount Murr’s purr grew stronger, steady as a drum.

The ground did a gentle shimmy—like someone adjusting a pillow—not like a sneeze.

Soren stopped singing.

For one awful heartbeat, he thought he’d broken it.

Then Mount Murr made a sound so clear it almost felt like a word.

Murr.

Satisfied.

A thin ribbon of steam rose from a crack nearby, bright and lively. It curled into a little spiral, like a hello.

Soren let out the breath he’d been holding.

He laughed quietly, because even a volcano deserves manners.

Kipper wagged his tiny tail and tried to eat the ribbon on his horn.

“Absolutely not,” Soren told him.

On the way down, the air felt lighter. Birds chirped like they remembered they had jobs. The path smelled like hot stones and fresh rain.

At the spring, the bubbling had returned to its cheerful blup-blup-blup! and steam danced up like it was excited to be seen.

Mayor Brindle beamed. “See? Generous!”

Nana Omi met Soren’s eyes.

She didn’t say, I told you so.

She tapped his forehead with one warm finger.

“Smart heart,” she murmured.

At the Festival, Soren stood at the front of the children. His knees wobbled like jelly trying to learn manners.

But when he sang the first line, it didn’t feel like performing.

It felt like reminding.

“Thank you, mountain, for our heat—”

From behind the town, Mount Murr answered.

Not with a yawn.

With a steady, cozy purr.

And if you listened very closely, you could almost hear another voice under it—small, humming, bright as a hidden ember—still singing inside the sleepy volcano.

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The LettersLetter "Free Bedtime Stories Club" Team