Doodara scrambled across the village square with his drawing stick. Wild looping swirls trailed behind him in the dust.
The baker snatched the stick away. 'Not again,' she huffed. Doodara's ears drooped as the others murmured and shuffled off.
Doodara retreated to the edge of the magical forest and started drawing on a flat stone. Swirl after swirl, zigzag after zigzag.
The leaves nearby whispered and shimmered. They were watching him draw.
A great storm rolled in. Thunder boomed and the wind howled through the village.
By morning, every signpost was splintered and every map was torn to shreds. At the crossroads, nobody knew which way home.
Doodara pressed both palms to the wet ground and started doodling furiously. Glowing swirls spiraled outward from his fingertips.
The doodled path pulsed gold, zigzagging toward cozy roofs and bright windows. The other creatures followed the glowing lines one by one.
Soon the whole village was marching in a dancing, swirling procession — following the golden line back to their doors.
Doodara walked home behind the glowing trail, still sketching little swirls in the dirt with his tail.
The baker waved from her doorway. 'Save us a path for tomorrow!' Doodara's ears perked right up.
Doodara dipped his stick back into the dust and got to work.