Hugo vom Wurzeltstock

More about Hugo vom Wurzeltstock

Tucked away among the rolling hills of the ancient wood, where the trees whisper stories and the light falls in green drops, lay a house that hardly anyone knew about. It was a hobbit house, round and warm, with a door that looked like a green leaf and windows that sparkled in the evening sun. Brambles grew over the roof, and wild violets bloomed between the stones of the low wall. In front of the house, on a gnarled wooden veranda, Hugo of the Rootstock sat in an old rocking chair. His pipe smoked softly, and the clouds rose into the air like little thoughts. Hugo's hair was gray and soft as fluff, his feet bare, curled in moss. He gazed out into the woods as if waiting for someone—or something. "It smells of change," Hugo murmured, kicking the swing with his foot. "The owls are up earlier than usual, and the mushrooms were whispering last night." He puffed on his pipe and watched as a squirrel scampered over the fence, a hazelnut twig in its mouth. Beside him stood a small table with a steaming cup of herbal tea and a book whose pages were made of bark paper. Hugo opened it and ran his finger over the writing. But today the words remained silent. Not a single sentence would appear. "Aha," Hugo nodded, "today the stories write themselves." Just as he raised the cup to his lips, he heard a faint rustling. A figure appeared among the ferns—small, with pointed ears, a coat of leaves, and eyes that shone like conkers. It was a forest gnome, one of the shy kind that rarely left their hiding places. "Hugo of the Rootstock?" chirped the figure. "In person," Hugo answered with a crooked smile. "And who do I have here?" "My name is Fidibus," said the elf, bowing deeply. "I come with a message." Hugo put his pipe aside. "Then sit down, Fidibus, and tell me." Fidibus climbed onto the edge of the rocking chair and looked at Hugo seriously. "The light vein has broken," he whispered. "The vein that feeds the forest with stories. Without it... the trees stop telling their stories. The mushrooms lose their songs. The forest becomes... silent." Hugo frowned. "Since when?" "Tonight." "And who broke it?" Fidibus shrugged. "No one knows. But they say only someone who can listen where no more talking can find it and weave it again." Hugo nodded slowly, stood up, and stretched his old bones. "Then it's up to me." He pulled a small bag from under the bench and filled it with pipeweed, a few berries, and a tiny bottle of moondew. "Tell the mushrooms to wait. I'm coming." Fidibus jumped up delighted. "You're really going?" "Of course. Who else would?