The Rare Turtle of Willowshade Wood

In the early breath of spring, when the forest floor of Willowshade was soft with thawing leaves and the air smelled of earth and mystery, I had been listening to a podcast by a reptile expert named Tammy. Her voice, calm and sure, described a creature of mythic rarity—a turtle unlike any other—rumored to dwell beneath the mossy bones of old trees in the woods near my home.

Curious and quietly compelled, I invited DH, a fellow seeker and coworker, to come searching with me. We stepped into the woodland, past sleeping shrubs and bristling brambles, into the ancient green. There was something sacred about the silence there, punctuated only by the chatter of jays and the occasional snap of twigs underfoot.

After hours of wandering, we came upon a cluster of decomposing trees, collapsed atop stone slabs like the forgotten ruins of a secret temple. Beneath them was a dark hollow—more than a burrow, it seemed like a den carved with intent. I crouched, lifted my phone, and shone the flashlight into the gloom.

There it was.

A turtle emerged into the dim light, calm and unbothered, as if expecting us. It was no more than twenty centimeters long, with a shell of smooth, sandy beige edged in earthy brown. Strangely, tufts of fine hair adorned its back, and a furry tail followed behind. The turtle blinked once, slowly. It stepped into the light.

"Just like Tammy described," DH murmured. "Its head will change when it feels threatened. Watch."

The turtle paused. Its brow ridges began to inflate slightly, swelling as if breathing in presence. We watched, spellbound.

Suddenly, a stray cat padded into the clearing. The turtle, to our shock, sprang onto the cat’s back. The startled feline bolted into the underbrush, the turtle clinging tightly. DH and I gave chase, stumbling after them.

They raced toward a bluff, where the cat skidded to a halt and the turtle slid off, landing beside a pebbly patch at the bluff’s base. There, basking in the dappled light, was a lizard twice the turtle’s size. Its skin was rough and thorned like a horned toad, and its beak-like mouth opened with a hiss.

We froze, afraid for our little traveler.

But the turtle did not back down. It hissed in return, and a plate—like a crown of bone—rose from the ridges around its head, shielding its face and neck. It was a gesture of calm defiance.

The lizard hesitated. Then, without another sound, it scuttled away.

The clearing fell quiet. DH and I exhaled. The turtle turned back to us and blinked again. Then, as gently as it had arrived, it retreated into the stone-shadowed den.

We stood there for a long time, not speaking, unsure of what we’d witnessed—whether a creature of flesh or symbol, miracle or message. But we knew something rare had emerged from the forest that day—not just in the world, but in ourselves.

Note: The above story is based on a vivid dream I had recently. After writing my own detailed written account, I asked ChatGPT to fashion my description of the dream into a more engaging story.