Grandmother of Light’s cabin lies way back in the heavens where the bulbs and seeds of all winds and clouds live. She rarely travels, for she feels blissful and peaceful with the tornados, cyclones, and thunderstorms swirling out from her place.

But one evening, Red-winged Blackbird scratches at her door, pleading that she bring her cooking pot down to Earth. She beats her feet, creating a dust storm, and they ride the winding spiral to Earth’s navel, which opens up again.

Grandmother secures the iron pot inside, inciting the volcanic breath underneath to rage.

She gathers with Mountain Lion and Bald Eagle, Osprey and Rattlesnake. Juncos ride her shoulders as she draws the steam toward her face, testing.

The first to grab the rounded edge of the pot is a black-haired man in his 40s. He pulls himself up and out of the mixture, gasping at the galaxies in her eyes. Black Bear ambles up to the man and places his sprawling paw on his chest.

“You have learned to listen,” she says.

“Yes,” he answers. “I heard Bear calling me from behind your back, from where the animals gather and the moon licks the forest. He spoke to me, and I understood him. I have never before known a Bear, but this one now is my friend.”

“Will you protect him, not destroy him?” she asks.

“I will comfort him as if he were my brother when the storms race in summer and winter freezes all waters,” he says. “I will be his guide, and he will be mine.”

Grandmother hands him a leather-bound bundle. The man and Bear disappear into the humid portal of night.

She bends back toward the pot, listening to a young woman scratching at the cast iron, rising. “What will you return with?” she asks her.

“I wear a golden thread given to me by the Hawk of the Dawn. I am to be released by you,” the red-eyed woman demands.

“But what have you learned, my dear forceful one?” Grandmother asks her.

“My power does not need to harm,” she says. “If I align my will with the forces of the universe, I can use my strength to tear off the veil, to reveal the granite path out of darkness.”

“So, why, my dear, can’t you expunge yourself from this simple pot?” Grandmother prods.

A chorus of Coyotes and Screech Owls bend their songs to the wind. The woman flinches. “I’m afraid,” she whispers. She slips down the inside of the cast-iron belly, sinking once again into the burbling soup.

Grandmother watches a scraggly old man stretch one arm up, up, up until he grasps the side of the pot and heaves himself to the top. A Lamb waddles up to meet him. He gently puts his hand on Lamb’s back and bends to hear her speak.

The woolly animal explains that every cell in the man has been replaced with ears that can hear the nonhuman animal world. From this moment forward, he will experience all the songs, ecstasies, and pains of the animals. He will not be spared, yet he will also never be alone.

The old man weeps and heaves, his whole body shaking. A torrent of joyful tears slips and whirls down into the pot where humanity boils.

“You will hike with me up to my meadow,” Lamb explains. “Your age will peel off in layers until you are a young man of the forest again.” The pair slide down and Grandmother wraps up a packet of food for them. They step out into the yellow morning.

Grandmother brings handfuls of onions and peanuts back to the creamy stew. One man yells at her to stop as the nuts pummel the humans.

She turns to fetch her spoon, stirring until the noise quiets down. The man raises his head above the burbling surface and yells for her to retrieve him.

“I am strong,” he screams. “I am the son of the God-Sun. I deserve to be saved.”

She stirs and stirs, casting a few peanuts into her mouth.

“You are a crazy, mean fool,” he says. “I demand you listen to me and release me from this cesspool of humanity.”

Grandmother watches Raven, perched on the other side of the pot. He shifts his head from side to side and cackles—then opens a wing to reveal a sliver of sunlight.

The man lunges for it.

Grandmother laughs and says he will turn into a Poisonous Mushroom if he tries to capture the Sun. Only Raven can carry it, she teases.

She pushes the spoon in deeply, the movement sucking the man back into the stew. Grandmother drops herbs from her hand: rosemary, sage, thyme. She waits.

And with her, the Rainbow Beings wait. And the Chorus Frogs wait. And the Dolphins wait. And the Bats wait. And the Sage plants wait. And the Violets wait. And the Burrowing Owl waits. And the empty-bellied Catfish waits. And the Granite Stones wait. And the Hooded Orioles wait. And the Alligators wait. And the Elephants wait. And the Great Blue Herons wait. And the Penguins wait. And the Bonobos wait. And the rest of the chorus waits, wondering when the rest of the humans will re-member.