Barnaby was nine years old. He was called Barnaby because his parents had honeymooned on the Isle of Old St Barnabus, whoever he may have been. Barnaby certainly did not know, since religious history was not one of his strengths at school – he could not even say where the old man’s island was, though his mother had told him often enough, and had shown him in the atlas twice. Geography, also, was not among his strong points.

The fact that the old man and his island don’t exist only became a source of sad satisfaction to him later in life. But that’s another story . . .

Barnaby lived and went to school in a little village, surrounded by woods and fields. Where the fields ended on one side lay a sprawling town, and on the other, the Great Grey Granite Mountains, as he used to call them, towered up into the sky and lost their heads amongst the clouds.

Barnaby was always daydreaming at school, and he often got into frightening embarrassments when teachers asked him awkward questions.

‘What is the capital of France, Barnaby?’ asked his particularly severe Geography mistress on one occasion.

‘Tadpoles?’ suggested Barnaby, who thought he was still in the previous lesson, which he had rightly concluded to be Nature Study. Everyone laughed, of course – they always did. The trouble was, teachers would insist on leaving his name till the end of a question, just to catch him out. Had they said ‘Barnaby!’ loudly in his ear before springing some dreadful problem on him, all would have been well. But Life is never fair on the unsuspecting, as he was constantly being reminded.

And so it was that Barnaby came to hate the sound of his own voice – every time he opened his mouth, the wrong thing came out. He grew steadily more shy and more miserable. Even when he tried really hard, he could not pay attention all morning and then all afternoon as well.

‘If only I could lose my voice,’ he thought, ‘I wouldn’t have to answer any more awkward questions, and I could think my own thoughts freely without fear of interruption.’

But losing his voice proved to be no easy task. He really tried and tried. He spent all his free time singing and shouting as loudly as he could, but he only succeeded in surprising all around him, and in making himself a little hoarse.

Then, one day, when he had almost given up trying, he went out into the fields behind the school, and stood for a long time in silence, listening to the soft blowing of a light wind that tickled his ears as it passed. He no longer felt the need to shout or sing – instead he felt a strange calm and a private peace that his recent pangs of shyness had denied him.

And, closing his eyes, Barnaby turned his face to the breeze, saying, ‘Please, Wind, take my voice and blow it far away, so that I no longer…’

And, as he spoke, the wind took his words and carried them away over the fields. No sound now came from his throat, though he was still trying to explain his sadness to the surrounding air.

Barnaby’s life changed for the better, just as he had hoped. At first, his parents and teachers thought that he was bluffing, and scolded him accordingly. But soon they realised that something very serious had happened.

They sent him to doctors, who shook their heads and could do nothing.

They sent him to specialists, who nodded their heads, but could do nothing either.

 His voice, they decided, was well and truly lost.

Meanwhile, Barnaby was enjoying himself. He daydreamed happily and without interruption, for there were no more awkward questions to be answered. His teachers were painfully patient with him, and even when he occasionally had to write things down, he was given as much time as he wanted to collect his thoughts. And his mother and father gave him endless presents and treats, to try and make up for his terrible loss.

Yes, Barnaby was happy – that is, until he met Sarah.

Sarah was a year older than Barnaby, so he had never come across her at school before. But one afternoon he was sitting outside in the sunshine, reading a book about frogs, in which, for some reason, he had lately taken a great interest, when, suddenly, there she was, standing a few feet in front of him.

She was wearing a light-blue, short-sleeved frock, and over her left shoulder lay a blue-ribboned pony tail of golden hair. Her face was soft and smiling, and she had wide, gentle eyes that now looked straight into his. Her arms fell gracefully at her sides, swinging slightly as if she wanted to sit down beside him, but needed first some sign of recognition and acceptance. ‘Hello.’ She said timidly, ‘My name’s Sarah – what’s yours?’

Barnaby was so taken aback by her fresh and delicate beauty, and so flattered that one whose whole presence reminded him of an angel should be so timid towards him, that he opened his mouth to reassure her and to ask her to sit down.

Then he remembered, and tears of frustration welled up into his eyes. For the first time in months he wanted desperately to speak, and found that he could not utter a word.

Sarah must have sensed that she was welcome, though she thought that his behaviour was rather odd, for she sat down next to him and looked at him encouragingly.

Barnaby took a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote, ‘My name is Barnaby and I have lost my voice.’ Then he folded the paper and placed it in her lap, rather awkwardly, for he was feeling shy and unsure of himself.

Sarah read what he had written and began to laugh, kindly but uncontrollably, till Barnaby went quite red. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’d better go and look for it then, hadn’t we? Or, I should say, listen for it. Where did you last hear it?’ And she laughed again. But when she saw the hurt look on his face, she stopped laughing and promised to take him seriously.

They sat together through the rest of the afternoon, and bit by bit Barnaby explained on paper how he had been so unhappy and how, in the end, he had given his voice to the wind. Sarah thought it was a very silly thing to have done, and she told him as much, but very gently and with a warm smile, so as not to hurt his feelings again.

Then she told him about herself and her family, and about the house where they lived. She described everything at home so brightly, and with such loving attention to detail, that Barnaby almost felt that he lived there himself. And when she mentioned that they had frogs in their garden, he became most excited and had to show her the book he was reading before he would let her continue.

Barnaby was feeling the special happiness of finding a new friend, but at the same time he ached inside for the return of his lost voice.

He knew that Sarah would never ask him awkward questions or try to catch him out, and this made him feel his loss all the more. She asked only real questions, out of kind and genuine interest, and his slow-pencilled answers made him angry with his own clumsiness. But she understood him and told him not to worry, for they were bound to find his voice if they tried hard enough.

The following Saturday, Barnaby got up early and went round to Sarah’s house.

As soon as she was ready, they set off towards the school and the fields where he had given his voice away. The day was calm and quiet, and Sarah thought that if there was any chance of catching the sound of Barnaby’s voice, then this was the weather for it.

When they reached the exact spot in the field where Barnaby had spoken his last words, they stopped. ‘Which way was the wind blowing that day?’ asked Sarah.

Barnaby thought for a moment and then pointed out across the fields towards the Great Grey Granite Mountains. She smiled and, taking his hand, they started out together on the search for his lost voice.

They clambered over ditches and climbed though hedges and, every so often, they would meet a farmer or a couple walking their dog. ‘This is Barnaby.’ Sarah would say to each, ‘He’s lost his voice. Have you heard it anywhere in these parts?’

But everyone they met only shook their heads and hurried on, muttering about the strange notions that children get into their heads nowadays.

And so Sarah and Barnaby continued on in the same direction, with no help from others, but still with the same determination as before. They stopped from time to time and listened, but they heard nothing but the odd cry of a bird overhead, or the rustle of a rabbit in a hedge.

At last they came to the very edge of the Great Grey Granite Mountains themselves.
 
By now it was nearly lunchtime, but they felt no hunger. Their excitement and expectation fed them with an energy that left no room for thoughts of food.

As they climbed the foothills, they kept their eyes on the steeper, rock-littered slopes above them. For the first time in their search, Sarah began to feel frightened. Barnaby felt the same fear and clung closer to her – in fact, they clung so closely to each other that climbing further became impossible, and they had to stop.

They stood still and looked around them. Barnaby could not look down, so he looked up instead. As he looked more carefully, he noticed a black space in the great greyness above them. He nudged Sarah and pointed upwards. Sarah looked up with him and soon saw what he was pointing at. ‘A cave!’ she said excitedly, ‘Barnaby, you’ve found a cave!’

An hour later they stood at the mouth of the cave which Barnaby had seen from

a few hundred feet below. Neither of them quite had the courage to lead the other into the inner darkness, but together they somehow shuffled inwards, until they came to the very heart of the hollow in the rock.

It was then that they heard a faint sound, indistinct at first, but clearly separate from the pulsing beat of their own hearts. They listened hard, and soon they could make out actual words, that went something like this, ‘…far away…no longer…so that I….away…far no longer…please…no more…’

‘Barnaby!’ whispered Sarah, ‘It’s your echo – it must be!’

Barnaby had known his own voice the moment he heard it, but he was too surprised to look at Sarah to show her that he knew.

It was indeed Barnaby’s voice that they could hear faintly bouncing to and fro in the deepest recesses of the cave. The last words he had spoken to the wind had been blown there and preserved until this moment.

Barnaby squeezed Sarah’s hand and closed his eyes. He gathered all his strength and wished harder than he had ever done before – and Sarah wished too.

And all at once the echo vanished, and a strange stillness filled the cave.

‘Barnaby?’ said Sarah, feeling a sudden need for comfort.

‘Yes?’ said Barnaby.

And that is really where this story ends. They got home somehow, with Barnaby, of course, doing most of the talking – Sarah was quite content just to listen to him, even if he did ramble on a bit.

And now Barnaby goes round to Sarah’s house as often as he can – they love each other’s company and sometimes, when she has other things to do, he will sit happily for hours, talking to the frogs in her pond.

And, because he is so happy, he actually enjoys school now and is no longer afraid of awkward questions.

But remember, if ever you meet him, that he hardly ever stops talking these days – except, of course, when he is listening to Sarah.